Three Pickled Herrings: Book Two

by Sally Gardner

  “No, my little ducks,” said Fidget. “I think he is trying to tell us something.”

  At that, Doughnut sprang to life and did the whole show over again, this time with an added woof as he jumped up in the air.

  “I bet it’s to do with how Sir Walter died,” said Emily. “Fidget, just how much Dog do you speak?”

  “I can say ‘go away, or I will scratch your eyes out,’ and ‘do you really want to fight a furious cat with claws?’ and ‘put a fishbone in it.’ That’s all the Dog I know, apart from having a natural caution regarding the canine race itself.”

  “That doesn’t help much,” said Emily. “But you’re right. He’s trying to tell us something. I read in one of my books that important witnesses are put into protection programs. That’s what we need to do. Doughnut knows who the murderer is.”

  “Humans,” sighed Buster. “They think they understand dogs, and they don’t.”

  Doughnut growled at him.

  Emily picked up the little chap and stroked him.

  “He seems to understand you very well indeed,” she said.

  “There is one person I know who can speak Dog,” said Fidget, putting down his knitting. “And that, Buster, is your Aunt Lettice.”

  “No!” said Buster. “Anyone but my aunt, please. I mean—isn’t there a book on the subject?”

  “I doubt it,” said Emily. “Anyway, why would we need one when your aunt speaks Dog?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Buster. “Believe me, it isn’t worth asking her. She has a fearful temper and—”

  “Twenty-two Mountview Drive, I think,” interrupted Fidget, standing up.

  “Doughnut can’t go out in the cold again,” said Emily.

  Fidget pulled one of his early fish knits from his knitting basket. It had turned out to be far too small for Emily, but it fit Doughnut perfectly. His head stuck out of the fish’s mouth.

  “Look, it’s not a good idea,” said Buster. “Can’t we leave Aunt Lettice out of this?”

  But Emily, Fidget, and Doughnut were already halfway down the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  They arrived at Mountview Drive just as the police were leaving. Fidget rang the bell. The front door was opened by Lettice Lovage, her wings well hidden by a thick knit cardigan.

  “What are you doing here, Fidget?” she asked.

  “Hello again, Lettice, my old cod,” replied Fidget. “Nice cardigan.”

  “We need help, Aunt Lettice. Do you speak Dog?” said Buster, who couldn’t bear to be left out, aunts or no aunts.

  “I don’t have time for this, deary. We have a catastrophe here.”

  “If you could just translate a bit of Dog for us,” said Buster, walking into the hall uninvited, “we would be out of your hair.”

  To Emily’s surprise, Lettice grasped him by the ear and led him to the door. “Go home, you little squirt,” she said.

  “That’s not a nice way to talk to your nephew,” said Buster, wriggling to free himself.

  “You are not a nice nephew. Never once in a hundred years did you bother to see how your Auntie Lettice was doing, and now, when I’m in the middle of a catastrophe, you ask me if I speak Dog.”

  She looked down to see Doughnut’s brown eyes staring up at her.

  “I am sorry,” said Emily. “We didn’t mean to come barging in at a bad time, but we do need your help rather urgently.”

  “Oh, buddleia,” said Lettice, letting go of Buster’s ear. “Catastrophes are like buses. There are always at least two at once. You’d better come in.”

  They were standing awkwardly in the hall, Buster nursing his injured pride and a sore ear, when a door opened. A woman poked her head out.

  “It’s not the press, is it, Lettice?” she asked.

  “No, Pauline. Don’t worry, deary. I’ll be with you in a mo, just as soon as I’ve made the tea.”

  The door closed again.

  “You will have to wait in here until I have a minute to deal with this,” said Lettice, taking them into the dining room. “Don’t touch a thing,” she added as she left.

  “See?” said Buster. “I told you. A book or some such thing would be more useful any day than my old aunt.”

  Emily took no notice. She looked around the room. It was a complete mess. There were broken plates, bits of wedding cake, flowers, and glasses strewn all over the floor, and through the French windows, she could see that in the garden a tent had been torn to ribbons.

  “Pickle me a herring,” said Fidget. “This takes some beating.”

  “Probably Aunt Lettice blew a fuse,” said Buster helpfully. “She has quite a temper. Look what she did to my ear.”

  “I wonder what happened,” said Emily.

  “I’m telling you what happened,” said Buster.

  Emily stuck her head out into the hall. She could hear someone sobbing upstairs.

  “I’m going to find out,” she said. “Something odd is going on.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” said Buster. “If Aunt Lettice can do this to a dining room and a tent, think what she will do when she finds you have gone off exploring.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Emily. “Your aunt had nothing to do with this—did she, Fidget?”

  “No, of course not,” agreed Fidget. “This looks as serious as a cat without whiskers.”

  Emily, followed by Doughnut, left the others in the wrecked dining room and crept up the stairs to where the sound of sobbing could be heard in one of the rooms. She knocked on the door.

  “Go away,” said a voice.

  Emily knocked again.

  “You don’t know me, but I’m very good at listening,” she said. “And I have a small dog.”

  Emily was banking on the dog bit being a winner. After all, nearly everyone liked animals. They had furry ears, good for listening to problems. She waited for what felt like ages before finally she heard the lock turn.

  Gingerly, Emily went in. There, sitting on the tiles next to the bath, her face all blotchy red, was a chubby young woman. In her hand she held a photo. Doughnut rushed up to her and gave her a good lick.

  “I’m Emily Vole, and this is Doughnut.”

  The young woman said nothing, but burst into tears again and buried her face in Doughnut’s fish knit coat. The photo fell to the floor.

  Emily picked it up and studied it carefully. It showed a young couple, both wearing tracksuits. On the girl’s top was the name PAN in diamanté studs. She had thick blond hair and a fit figure. The man, whose name was not on his tracksuit, was tall, suntanned, and handsome. And rather pleased with himself. To Emily’s way of thinking, there was something fake about the two of them. Pan looked more like a doll than a real, living human being.

  Emily tried to work out what this picture might have to do with the young woman weeping on the bathroom floor.

  “What’s your name?” Emily asked her.

  “Pan,” sobbed the young woman. “And that is a picture of me and my fiancé. It was taken last week. We were to be married today.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pan wiped her eyes and said, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Emily, who always thought honesty was the best policy, said, “No.”

  Pan’s wail went up the musical scale.

  “What I mean,” said Emily, above the din, “is that the woman in the photo looks like a plastic doll. Whereas you look lovely. That is, you would if your face wasn’t all red and blotchy.”

  “But look at my hair and my figure,” howled Pan. “I was beautiful. Now Kyle won’t marry me.”

  Doughnut looked dolefully up into her face.

  “Are you sure?” asked Emily.

  “Yes,” sniffed Pan. “He came ’round this morning, and the minute he saw me, he said he had been tricked.”

  “What does Kyle do?” asked Emily, certain that this was the kind of question a detective should ask.

  “He works for his father’s company. It makes false teeth.”r />
  Emily thought that must explain his dreadful smile.

  “Mummy was really pleased that I was marrying into such a posh family. Kyle’s parents own a Bentley and a Rolls-Royce. Mr. Pots said he would make Daddy a member of his golf club.”

  “Pots?” interrupted Emily. “You could never marry a man called Pots. Pan Pots sounds silly.”

  Pan started to cry all over again. Emily, being a practical girl and quite used to the high drama of her ex-adoptive-mother-slash-employer, Daisy Dashwood, found a washcloth. She told Pan no quantity of tears would solve the problem and to wipe her face and stop crying.

  To Emily’s relief, Pan did both.

  “Much better,” said Emily. “Now, please begin at the beginning so that I can write down all the facts.”

  She took out her notepad, one of the main things you needed if you were ever to be a proper detective.

  “If I tell you, you’ll think that I’m making it up,” said Pan.

  “Why would I think that?”

  “I tried to tell Mummy, but she refused to believe me. She said she knew my secret—that I’d had a face-lift, a nose job, liposuction, and a hair graft. But I hadn’t.”

  Emily suddenly remembered what James Cardwell had said about wishes and the mess they create if they are handed out willy-nilly. A light went on in her brain.

  “Did you make a wish?” she asked.

  “That’s amazing,” said Pan. “How did you know?”

  “Because I’m from Wings & Co., the fairy detective agency,” explained Emily.

  “Never!” said Pan. “Get away with you. Are you for real?”

  “Yes,” said Emily.

  “Wow. That’s impressive,” said Pan. She paused. “I made several wishes, if you must know.”

  “I must,” said Emily. “Carry on.”

  Pan had been engaged for two years to Sir Walter Cross’s gardener, Derek Lowe.

  “Sir Walter Cross?” said Emily. “That’s interesting.”

  It had all started on Derek’s birthday last year. Pan had surprised him at work with a picnic lunch and bubbles. Emily wasn’t sure what bubbles were, but as Pan was in full flow, she thought it might be a mistake to ask. They had finished lunch, and Derek had gone back to work. Pan was about to walk home when, under the willow tree by the duck pond, a small gentleman popped up. He asked her, if she could have one wish, what would it be?

  That morning she had been flicking through a hair magazine, and in one of the articles, it said that the plainest girl could be transformed by beautiful hair. Pan said the first thing that came into her head.

  The next morning, she had golden locks. Derek, on seeing his beloved, was upset. He wanted to know what she had done. Her hair looked all wrong. Pan didn’t care. She was thrilled. When the little gentleman came to see if she was pleased with her hair, she said she would be, if only she had a slim, toned figure to go with it.

  When Derek saw her new shape, he was even more distressed. Where, he wondered, had all her lovely curves gone? Was she ill? Pan asked him if he wasn’t delighted to see the new woman she had become. He said all he wanted was his sweet Pan back the way she had always been.

  Shortly after that, she met Kyle, and it was love at first sight. Kyle thought her perfect in every way. She called off her engagement to Derek Lowe and, a month later, was engaged to be married to Kyle Pots.

  The small gentleman came again, and determined to make the most of her good fortune, Pan had a list ready this time. It included perfect teeth, smaller or larger boobs—Emily couldn’t work out which way around that went—the perfect wedding dress, a tent, money forever, a car—no, three cars … Pan’s face began to crumble.

  “We were going on a golfing honeymoon.”

  “Do you like golf?” asked Emily.

  Pan stopped mid-sob.

  “No, not really,” she said. “But Mummy said that’s what people with good pensions do—play golf—and it showed Kyle would be able to look after me right into Happily-Ever-After.”

  “I suppose so,” said Emily. “As long as you stayed stick-thin, with thick blond hair and perfect teeth.”

  “You’re right,” said Pan. “I hadn’t thought of that, but then again, I did have all my wishes come true, so I believed it would just carry on.”

  “Can you give me a description of the little gentleman?” said Emily, knowing that was the kind of question a good detective should ask.

  “He was small and—oh, I don’t know…” said Pan.

  “Anything at all would help.”

  “He was … brightly colored. He looked like an exploded paint pot.”

  Chapter Ten

  Buster was in one big grump when he walked into the kitchen at Mountview Drive. Or more to the point, when he discovered the fridge. There on a shelf, all lit up in a cut-glass bowl, was a trifle. On the top the words PAN & KYLE were carefully written in icing, surrounded by tiny strawberries.

  What harm could there be, thought Buster, to have just one strawberry? No one would notice one strawberry was missing. He was rather peckish.

  There was something about the taste of that strawberry when it was snowing outside that made him think of the summer to come. Buster couldn’t resist taking another one. The trifle still looked all right. He thought it might even look better if he ate all the strawberries.

  He munched away, lost in thought, and this is what he thought: that as much as he didn’t like Emily Vole—which was quite a lot, and maybe more than a lot—there was no getting away from the fact that she was a good detective.

  “Buddleia,” said Buster, taking the trifle from the fridge and rummaging in a drawer for a spoon. If only she was terrible at the job, that would make it better. He had followed her upstairs and listened at the bathroom door. She was asking Pan Smith all the right kinds of questions.

  “Buddleia,” said Buster again, out loud. “Buddleia!”

  And without thinking about it, which later he realized was a mistake, he put his finger through the iced words so that PAN & KYLE was nothing more than a wiggly mess of custard and cream.

  That’s done it, thought Buster. But perhaps if I eat the whole thing and wash up the bowl, no one will notice it’s missing.

  He dug his spoon through the thick layers of cream, custard, cake, and jelly. Mmm. It was very good. Not too runny, all firm and delicious.

  Comforted by the taste of trifle, he went through his list of complaints. Number one was that Miss String had left Wings & Co. to Emily Vole. Two, Emily was a girl. Three, she wasn’t even a fairy. Four—well, four was four.

  It didn’t seem fair. After all, Miss String hadn’t known Emily that long. If anyone should have been left the shop, it should have been his friend James Cardwell. Buster thought back sadly to those glory days when he and Jimmy had been eleven and twelve, and master sleuths. No crime had been too big or too small for their fairy talent. Now James was all grown up and Buster was still eleven. It hurt, if he thought about it. Actually, it hurt quite a lot.

  He sighed and took another spoonful of trifle.

  But he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t Emily’s fault. Neither was the fact that Fidget was so fond of her. After all, he, Buster, hadn’t been exactly nice to anyone. He looked down at the bowl, half emptied of trifle.

  Oh, heck! Who was he trying to fool? Of course Miss String had known what she was doing. The minute the keys had chosen Emily, the shop would have to be hers. It followed as night followed day. There was no denying it. In all the ninety years he had known Miss String, the keys had never taken a shine to him. Miss String had often said how sad she was about it.

  Maybe, thought Buster, putting another huge spoonful of trifle in his mouth, maybe it was my fault. I shouldn’t have kept tying their boot laces together. Oh, I have to snap out of this. It doesn’t suit a detective of my skills. I am being a right chump. Here are two—no, three—good cases to solve, and all I can do is sulk.

  He ate another spoonful and finally admitted to him
self that he was trying to fill a hole that no amount of trifle could fill. If he was truthful, he had to admit Emily Vole was pretty amazing.

  By now there wasn’t a scrap of trifle left in the bowl. He was about to wash it up and go back and join Fidget when he nearly jumped out of his socks. Lettice was calling his name.

  He rushed to the sink but unfortunately slipped on some trifle he’d dropped on the shiny floor. It was then that the bowl and Buster parted company. The bowl went one way and smashed to the ground in a hundred tiny pieces as Buster went the other way, slipped backward, and bumped his head on the stove.

  For a moment, he saw stars, and when the stars had cleared, standing above him, hands on hips, was his Aunt Lettice, looking none too pleased. In fact, looking mighty furious.

  Behind her, Pauline Smith screamed at the top of her voice, “How could you? How could you eat the only thing that wasn’t destroyed?”

  Seeing so much rage staring down at him, Buster knew “sorry” wasn’t going to work.

  “Oh, buddleia,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the edge of the woods, not far from where Sir Walter Cross had lived, there was a large oak tree. It was agreed by the locals that the area surrounding the tree was best avoided at night. Anyone going that way was asking for trouble.

  Which was true. For this was the home of Toff the Terrible and his Band of Baddies. It was hidden deep beneath the roots of the tree. Here they slept all day and caused havoc at night. Toff the Terrible had never liked humans. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them—which was a surprisingly long way. He thought on the whole they were selfish, greedy, vain, and given to making wishes like there was no tomorrow.

  “Wishes-dishes,” said Toff, as he lay tucked up in his bed, surrounded by huge piles of chocolates and sweets. That stupid Elvis had handed out wishes to anyone who asked for them, and some who hadn’t. It wasn’t right. It had to be stopped. Humans had enough going for them as it was without having their every mealymouthed wish granted. He had enjoyed making the elf punish the tailor, that silly girl, and the greedy old man. And, even better, now he had Elvis the Elf’s umbrella. He was halfway to becoming the most powerful goblin that had ever bossed the world around. He only needed a magic lamp and, thanks to a news item he had recently read in an old copy of the magazine Fairy World International, he knew where to find one. Toff yawned. Come the dark, he would have the magic lamp too. And with that happy thought skipping across his mind, Toff the Terrible fell fast asleep.