by Holly Webb
Maybe he wouldn’t like the idea of his daughter being a detective. It was so long since she’d seen him, Maisie wasn’t sure what he would think. She remembered him mostly as a person who always had a pocket full of mint humbugs, or liquorice. And he had a beard, which was bristly and had reminded her of a nailbrush.
“Such wonderful news.” Gran sniffed again. “But he won’t be back for a long while yet, Maisie. His voyage on the Lily Belle might still take a year, or even more. We mustn’t be too excited.”
Maisie nodded. Was she excited? She wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling.
“Oh, there’s the front door. Run and answer it, Maisie dear. I’m not myself yet.”
Maisie hurried upstairs, as whoever it was kept ringing the bell, and then started hammering on the door, too.
“Whatever is it?” Maisie gasped, as she flung the door open. “Oh! Mr – er…” She had to try very hard not to call him Dinbers. “Mr Danvers.”
“I must see the professor at once! He sent me a telegram. The mask has been stolen! This is dreadful news. Absolutely dreadful. The pride of the collection!”
“Yes, sir.” Maisie glanced up the stairs. She didn’t think the professor would be particularly keen to see Mr Danvers, but the man from the museum didn’t look as though he’d be happy to wait in the hall. “Please come up, sir.”
“Have the police been called?” Mr Danvers snapped, as he followed Maisie up the stairs.
“Yes, sir,” Maisie told him, biting her lip to keep from saying that of course they had. The professor had gone round to Scotland Yard in a cab first thing that morning, and brought the police back with him. They hadn’t seemed particularly interested in the mystery, though, and the professor had been even more miserable after they left. He had told Maisie that the officer he spoke to hadn’t really followed what he was talking about – the policeman couldn’t understand how important the mask was, or how valuable. The professor had been reading his notes upside down. He was almost sure the officer had written down that a fancy-dress costume had been stolen.
“We shall have to offer a reward,” Mr Danvers was muttering. “I’ll send a notice to all the newspapers. Ah, Professor! This is a catastrophe! How could it have happened?”
The professor rolled his eyes at Maisie, and drew Mr Danvers inside. Maisie hovered on the landing, wondering if Mr Danvers was serious about the newspapers. Gran would be furious.
The newspapers wouldn’t print it though, would they? Maisie thought hopefully. She would just not mention it to Gran…
“Look at that!” Gran shrieked, almost spilling her tea down the morning paper. “Oh, my goodness gracious. Look at it! It’s practically a full page. And there’s a drawing as well. I shall give the professor notice to leave, this has always been a respectable lodgings!”
Maisie leaned over to look at the paper. “It’s not a very good drawing of the mask. I wonder if Mr Danvers did it?”
“As if it matters! Oh, Maisie, whatever are we going to do? There’s a reward offered – five pounds, would you believe, for that worm-eaten old thing!”
“We’ll have half of London turning up on our doorstep,” Sally predicted, leaning over to look, too.
“Don’t be cross with the professor, Gran,” Maisie pleaded. “This is all down to that Mr Danvers from the museum. He said something about a reward.”
“That horrible, rude man! Typical.” Gran frowned, and then nodded. “Maisie, take the professor a cup of tea and some toast. He hardly ate any of his dinner last night, and he said he didn’t want breakfast, but he must have something, poor man.”
Maisie left Gran and Sally reading the newspaper article and muttering crossly to each other as she took the tea and toast upstairs. The professor was still in his dressing gown, looking gloomy. The men from the museum had come to take away the rest of the collection the day before, as planned, and his rooms seemed dreadfully empty without all the boxes and crates.
“Tea, sir.” Maisie set the tray on a little table and glanced at the professor worriedly. His face was pale and he looked old. He had always been old, of course, but somehow he hadn’t looked it before.
“Is there anything else you’d like— Oh!” Someone was banging at the door. “If it’s that Mr Danvers again…” Maisie sighed. “I’m sorry, Professor, I’d better go and answer it.”
She dashed back down the stairs and opened the front door to a small boy, dwarfed by the huge box he was carrying. It was so big he could hardly see round it, and his voice was muffled. “Delivery,” Maisie thought he said, but that was all she caught.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the box, which wasn’t very heavy, and the boy sped off.
“He didn’t say who it was for,” Maisie murmured, balancing the box on the hall table and trying to find a label.
“Maisie!” The professor was hurrying down the stairs, his face transformed. “Someone has sent the mask back! Mr Danvers was quite right to offer a reward after all.”
“Oh!” Maisie looked doubtfully at the box. It was about the right size, she supposed. But surely if someone wanted the reward, they would bring the mask back themselves, so they could claim the money straight away.
The professor pulled out his pocket knife and slit the string fastening the box, chortling happily to himself. As he lifted the lid away, Maisie peered inside, frowning.
The mask didn’t look quite right.
There were feathers, certainly – but they were pink as well as red. And curled. And there were quite a lot of pink roses as well.
The professor reached in and hauled out a massive feathered hat, staring at it in horror.
“Oh dear…” he said. “Oh dear, Maisie, I suspect that this parcel was addressed to someone else. I just assumed…”
“It must be for Miss Lane,” Maisie said, turning the box round to look. “A costume, maybe. Oh! It’s addressed to Madame Lorimer.” She looked up at the professor, and he stared at her in surprise. The elderly French lady wasn’t the sort of person to wear an expensive, if rather horrible, feathery hat. “We’d better wrap it again, and I’ll take it up to her. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“No, no, Maisie. I shouldn’t have assumed it was the mask. It was silly of me.” He trailed slowly back up the stairs, and Maisie sighed. She slid the hat back into the box and smiled to herself as she put the lid back on. Maybe Madame Lorimer had bought it because it reminded her of those pink iced buns with the coconut topping that she liked so much. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice that the string had gone. Maisie carried the box up to her room and knocked.
“Entrez!”
Maisie was used to Madame Lorimer and knew that meant to come in. “Delivery for you, Madame.”
“Oh!” Surprisingly, Madame Lorimer flushed bright red and seized the box eagerly, pulling off the lid and beaming as she saw the hat inside.
“It’s very pretty, Madame,” Maisie told her – with her fingers crossed behind her back. Pretty if she wanted to go around looking like a walking meringue.
“Isn’t it, Maisie?” Madame Lorimer put the hat on and admired herself in the mirror over the fireplace.
Maisie nibbled the back of her hand to stop herself giggling. She’d been wrong about the meringue. It was more like a enormous, pink, feathery mushroom…
“It’s a present, Maisie,” Madame Lorimer told Maisie, rather shyly. “From an … an admirer.”
“Goodness!” Maisie stared at her.
“Yes. His name is Mr Archibald Mossley. He wants me to marry him.” She held out the little note that had been attached to the hat. “He says he can’t wait to see me wearing it on our wedding day.” She smiled. “Of course, the only sad thing is that when we are married, we shall be leaving you and your dear grandmother. I had been meaning to tell you.”
Maisie nodded slowly. “Oh. Yes… Will it be soon?” Madame Lorimer had lived at 31 Albion Street for as long as Maisie could remember. She couldn’t imagine the place without her. Maisie’s earliest attempts
at detection had been trying to work out where Madame had left her knitting.
“Oh, I won’t be leaving for a few weeks yet. I will speak to your grandmother about it. I shall miss you all!”
“Yes… Us, too, Madame.” Maisie wandered down the stairs as slowly and sadly as the professor had gone up them.
Everything was changing, it seemed. And not for the better. How could Madame Lorimer want to marry someone who bought her such a silly, horrible hat? Maisie slammed the door from the hallway as she went down towards the kitchen. Gran would tell her off, but she didn’t care. Everything was strange, and new, and she didn’t like it one bit.
And she still didn’t have the slightest idea how to find the missing mask…
“No, that isn’t the right one!” Maisie snapped. She wouldn’t usually be so grumpy with someone who came to the door, but she was running out of patience. Sally had been right – half of London had seen the newspaper article, and the small, grubby boy standing on the front doorstep was the seventeenth person to try to claim the reward that morning. Maisie hadn’t bothered the professor with any of the masks so far – she knew quite well what the real one looked like and she didn’t want to get his hopes up again.
The little boy said that he’d found this one at the Underground station, but Maisie was quite sure he had made it himself.
“That’s not the mask that’s been stolen,” she told him, through gritted teeth.
“Yes, it is!” he said stubbornly, holding out the mask for Maisie to get a better look. “Look, it’s got feathers and everything! Just like in the picture!”
“It’s made of paper! And it looks like you pulled those feathers out of a pigeon!” Maisie growled. “Or one of your mum’s pillows, probably. I hope you get in trouble. Go away!”
The little boy stomped off down the front steps, and Maisie could hear him making rude comments about her ginger hair as she stood in the doorway watching him go. It was amazing what people would do for the chance of five pounds. One man had actually turned up with a mask that was carved out of wood, just like the real one. Maisie had been taken in for a minute, until she realized that its eyes were the wrong shape. They were oval, the way that they had been drawn in the newspaper, but the real mask had eyes that were much squarer. It must have taken him hours to make, and he looked tired and hungry. She had felt bad turning him away. In fact, she had told him to go round to the back door and given him a piece of meat pie that had been left in the larder.
She was just about to shut the front door again when she saw someone familiar – a man wrapped in layers of scarves, all topped off with a bowler hat. He was lurking just over the other side of the road. Maisie frowned, trying to remember where she had seen him before, but she couldn’t quite place him. Then he turned slightly, and she saw his long, droopy, grey moustache. The image flashed into her mind at once – he had been hanging around outside the house on the day the mask was stolen.
Maisie gasped. Could he be the thief? Perhaps he had come back to see what other treasures he could steal! Maisie started down the steps, planning to race across the road and try to grab hold of him – although she had no idea what she would do if she did actually manage to catch him. But then he had the cheek to cross over the road and walk towards the house.
Maisie ground her teeth. How dare he? He was even lifting his hat to her!
“Ah, good morning!”
“You’ve got a nerve,” Maisie said furiously.
“I beg your pardon?” The elderly man froze, his hat held a little way above his bald head. He looked so surprised, and so altogether unlike a thief, that Maisie hesitated for a second.
But he had been hanging around outside the house. He had.
“You took it, didn’t you?” she hissed at him. “I’ll tell the police. The professor went to see them, you know! They’re watching the house!” That wasn’t true at all, but Maisie was too cross to care. How could he pretend to be so innocent?
“Miss, I assure you … there’s been some mistake. My name is Archibald Mossley.”
Maisie stopped, her mouth half open, and swallowed. “Oh… Oh! Madame Lorimer’s … um … gentleman friend.”
He nodded politely, and Maisie felt her cheeks burn slowly red. She had just accused Madame Lorimer’s fiancé of being a burglar.
“But – but – why were you hanging around the house the other day?” she muttered. “It was the day the professor’s mask was stolen. I thought you had been looking for a chance to steal it…”
“Ah, yes. Dear Amelie mentioned this mask.” It was his turn to go red. “It was nothing so dramatic, I’m sorry to say. I was – er…” He gave an embarrassed little cough. “I was coming to call on Madame Lorimer. I was trying to pluck up the courage to ring the doorbell. As I had – er, hmmm – something very important to ask her. That is – if she would do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
“Oh…” Maisie sighed and nodded. Of course. It made sense. He had only been hanging around outside because he was so nervous. “I’m ever so sorry,” she mumbled, her cheeks still pink with embarrassment. “And – um – congratulations, sir. It’s just that you were there on the very day the mask was stolen. And there aren’t really any other clues.”
Mr Mossley nodded sympathetically. “You were the young lady who was knocked down by the thief? Amelie told me about it. It must have been dreadful.”
Maisie sighed. “The worst thing is I can’t remember anything about it. If only I’d looked at his face! Or hers. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman,” she added, remembering the little piece of fabric.
“Most upsetting,” Mr Mossley agreed, shaking his head.
“Would you like me to take you up to see Madame Lorimer?” Maisie asked, opening the front door wider.
She escorted him up to the second floor, and then decided to go and check on the professor again. Perhaps she could tell him how she’d mistaken Mr Mossley for the thief. It was quite funny, really, and it might cheer him up.
The professor was sitting at his desk, staring at the photo of himself and Daniel and the chief. He looked as if he had been sitting there for ages, and he hadn’t eaten his toast, though he had managed the tea.
“I don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything about that night, Maisie?” he asked hopefully, as she slipped round the door.
Maisie sighed and shook her head. “I think I hit my head on the banister,” she told him apologetically. “I can’t really remember anything. Just that Eddie was barking and barking, and I thought I’d better go and see what was wrong. I wish I could remember! I’m sure I did see something, but I just can’t pin it down.”
The professor stared at her, his eyes narrowing, and Maisie looked back anxiously. Was he angry with her?
“What’s the matter?” she said, biting her lip.
“Nothing, Maisie, just a thought…” He frowned. “It hadn’t occurred to me before. Only when you mentioned pinning the memory down, it reminded me. Something we could try…”
“What?” Maisie hurried towards him and caught his hand. “Something that might help me remember? What do I have to do?”
“It’s something I was shown when I visited India,” the professor explained. “A way to clear your mind of all the clutter, so that the important things shine through.” He got up, fetching the straight-backed chair from in front of his desk. “Sit here, Maisie. Fold your hands in your lap and close your eyes. Now, count your breaths.”
Maisie opened one eye for a moment, not sure what he meant.
“Breathe in, counting to eight. Through your nose. Yes, like that. And now hold that breath for eight counts. And then breathe out through your mouth. And then the same again.”
Maisie frowned, concentrating on the counting. She didn’t feel as though she was going to remember anything, she was just worried about getting her numbers right.
“Gently. Slowly,” the professor said, in a coaxing voice. “Is it getting easier?”
It was, Mais
ie decided, nodding slightly.
“And now, still with your eyes closed, try to look upwards, to between your eyebrows. Try to feel the breath moving past that place…”
But it isn’t, Maisie wanted to say. It’s nowhere near there! But she had a feeling that she wasn’t supposed to talk. So she did try, even though it didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. And it was rather nice, just sitting still and breathing. She stopped worrying about her stupid mistake with Mr Mossley, and how infuriating it was that she couldn’t remember the night the mask was stolen.
The mask itself did keep popping into her head, though. Its odd, squarish eyes were floating around in front of the spot between her eyebrows, as though it was trying to tell her something. And then it bobbed away again, tucked under his arm.
His arm!
Maisie sat up with a screech. “I remember! Professor, I really do! It was like the mask came and told me – I saw it!”
“Ha. The information was there all the time, we just had to bring it out,” the professor said triumphantly. “Did you remember anything useful, Maisie?”
Maisie slumped back in the chair, frowning. “Well, I think so. But it seems a bit silly. It was definitely a man that I saw running off with the mask. He bumped into me by accident on the stairs, and I saw him just for a second, by candlelight. But, Professor – I think he was a giant…”
“Sausages. Joint of lamb. And the stewing steak. What does your gran want that for, Maisie? She doesn’t usually have any stewing steak in the middle of the week.” George, the butcher’s boy, handed over the wrapped meat parcels from his bicycle basket, and looked curiously at Maisie. He was a little bit of a detective in his own way, Maisie thought. He knew all the customers’ usual orders, and he always noticed if there was something different.