“Squat on a squid,” said Fidget. “Not the worst of it by a long fishing rod.” He took James to the curious cabinets, where two of the drawers had been opened and in each drawer only one wing remained. “Never,” said Fidget gravely, “have I seen a sight as fishy as this.”
It occurred to Buster that perhaps it all had something to do with the giant girl.
“Is Primrose involved?” he asked.
“Primrose?” interrupted James. “You don’t mean Billy Buckle’s daughter? What’s she doing here?”
This time it was Emily who filled James Cardwell in.
When she had finished, James asked, “Where’s Primrose now?”
“Upstairs with Doughnut,” said Emily. “Sleeping. It must be very tiring, growing so fast. In fact, we will be in quite a predicament if she keeps on growing. As it is, she has to bend double to go through the doors, and she can’t sit on the chairs, and if she waves her arms around, things fall off walls.” Emily lowered her voice. “I don’t think the shop was designed for giants’ daughters.”
“Definitely not,” said James. “And two weeks is too long—far too long. Billy Buckle is a very responsible father. He would never abandon her on purpose. Maybe it’s because of Primrose that the shop moved. But why here?”
“Can you help us?” Emily asked. “Perhaps this case is beyond us.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Buster. “I’m just as old as James and have been a detective just as long.”
“I would help if I could,” said James, “but I must go back to London. I have a robbery to deal with. I will see what I can find out from my end and let you know.”
They all trooped up to the attic and watched James fly off into the blue sky.
“It would be good if he could stay,” Emily said sadly.
“I agree, my little ducks,” said Fidget.
“When I was at the police station,” said Buster, “I had tea and gingersnaps with Sergeant Binns.”
“It’s amazing he didn’t hit you ’round the ear with a kipper,” said Fidget. “You must have caused no end of trouble if Jimmy had to fly up here to sort it out.”
“As I was saying,” said Buster, ignoring Fidget, “Sergeant Binns told me there had been a murder at the Starburst Ballroom. The victim was Johnny Carmichael, one of the Wurlitzer players. James wanted to see his picture. He was so interested that he asked for a copy to take back with him to Scotland Yard.”
“And what’s that got to do with anything?” said Emily.
“I’m just trying to be nice and explain why James can’t stay.”
“Nice?” said Emily. “Well, it would be nice if you took the disappearance of Billy Buckle more seriously, not to mention the disaster with the keys.”
“I do,” said Buster. “I do take it all seriously. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be the Keeper of the Keys?”
“All right,” said Emily. “I am. And I admit, I don’t know what to do about them.”
What she didn’t admit was that she felt a bit wobbly. She liked things to be solid. She liked it when the keys and the shop behaved themselves. The idea that the shop might wander off again worried her greatly. What if she were left behind? What if she could never find Wings & Co.? She might be returned to Cherryfield Orphanage or, worse still, to her dreadful adoptive parents, Ronald and Daisy Dashwood. The thought made her tummy feel fluttery. It was tough not having parents, but it would be even tougher if there were no Fidget to look out for her.
Chapter Seven
In the early morning light, the town of Puddliepool-on-Sea shimmered in a heat haze. The sun, a sleepy yellow balloon, rose lazily into the sky. The sand was all golden and the sea a grayish blue with gentle waves that splashed against the shore. Everything was ready and waiting for the invasion of families, deck chairs, sand castles, donkey rides, and ice cream.
This was, without a doubt, Edie Girdle’s favorite time of day—before the crowds arrived, when the morning looked washed and freshly hung out to dry. Which was more than she could say about herself.
Edie sat in Betty’s kitchen at the Mermaid Hotel, wrapped in a raincoat. It hadn’t been easy to hide her one and only wing. She had forgotten what her wings looked like; it had been such an age since she had last seen them. Now she wasn’t even certain if a bath was a good idea or not. Perhaps a shower would be better. How was she to know? Plumbing had moved on, and so had the world, and she had gotten used to being without her wings, especially after the car was invented. And now you could fly in airplanes so cheaply here and there that wings were somewhat unnecessary. Still, it had been a terrible shock to find she had only one of the things. What was she to do with just one wing? Something, she thought miserably, had gone very wrong. One minute she was on the dance floor, the next—presto!—she was inside that old shop. What did they used to call it? It was such a long time since she had left her wings there. Wings—yes, that was it. Wings & Co.
At the same time that sunny morning, Blinky Belvale, the Mermaid Hotel’s one and only guest, was sitting in the dining room, eating his breakfast: two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon, four sausages, five slices of black pudding, six fried tomatoes, seven potato cakes, ten mushrooms, and a mountain of buttered white toast.
He was a big man with eyes that looked as if they could pop out of their sockets at any minute. He was dressed in an ill-fitting checked suit of a slime-green color. On his head was perched, as always, a small pork-pie hat. As he munched away, he could hear the Mermaid’s owner talking to someone in the kitchen.
Betty finished washing the frying pan and sat down next to Edie.
“Now tell me, love, what happened to you? Are you all right? You sounded dreadful when you called me last night.” She stopped and looked at her friend. “Why are you wearing a raincoat? It’s going to be a blooming scorcher. You’ll be as hot as a boiled lobster in that.”
“Silly, I know,” said Edie. “I’m feeling a little chilly.”
“Ah, love,” said Betty, “you should go home and rest. Come to think of it, you do look a bit peaked. It must be the shock of what happened at the ballroom. Though to tell you the truth, I still don’t understand how you vanished.”
Edie smiled weakly and mumbled something into her tea. Then she picked up the newspaper and read the headline. THE MYSTERY OF THE FLYING BOY. Underneath was a photograph of a boy apparently flying to the top of the roller coaster.
“Trick photography, that’s all,” said Betty.
No, it’s not, thought Edie. I am sure I know that lad from old. That’s Buster Ignatius Spicer, the famous fairy detective, if my memory isn’t failing me. What’s he doing in Puddliepool-on-Sea?
Betty pointed to the story above: MURDER ON THE DANCE FLOOR.
“But it wasn’t,” said Betty.
“What wasn’t?” said Edie.
“The murder didn’t take place on the dance floor. Johnny Carmichael was bumped off under the stage, so I heard.”
Edie’s heart sank as she read the paper. “It says here that Morris Flipwinkle is wanted in connection with the murder.”
“Yes, a warrant has been issued for his arrest,” said Betty.
“Never,” said Edie. “Not our Morris. He came to me for a consultation, you know. He’s a real gentleman. I tell you, they have the wrong man. Morris Flipwinkle wouldn’t hurt a … MOUSE!”
Betty let out a squeal and shot to her feet. Sure enough, in the corner of the kitchen was a mouse, sitting there as bold as brass, as if listening to what was being said.
“Oh, Edie, I’ve never had a mouse in my kitchen—not in thirty years in this business!”
“Don’t worry,” said Edie. “It probably came through the cat flap.”
Betty sat down. “I feel quite faint. What’s happening? First that seagull, and now…”
Edie took a broom and chased the mouse out the back door.
“You don’t think Mr. Belvale heard that?” said Betty.
“No,” said Edie.
“Mr
s. Sutton,” shouted Blinky Belvale, making them both jump.
Betty patted down her apron and stuck her head through the hatch to the dining room.
“Yes, Mr. Belvale,” she said. “Is there anything else you would like? A pot of tea?”
“Another breakfast,” said Mr. Belvale.
“Is that wise?” said Betty. “I mean, you’ve had three full breakfasts already.”
“Is that a problem?” said Blinky Belvale, his eyes flashing.
“Not at all,” said Betty.
“No toast this time, just pancakes. And make that twenty-one of them—with a large jug of maple syrup.”
Betty withdrew her head from the hatch.
“Another breakfast?” said Edie as Betty put the frying pan back on the stove.
“I wonder,” said Betty to her friend as she poured the pancake mixture, “if you couldn’t have a look into that crystal ball of yours and see what you can find out about that murder?”
“I could,” said Edie.
“And while you’re at it, love,” whispered Betty, “would you have a little peek and see what you can find out about”—she mouthed—“Blinky Belvale.”
Chapter Eight
It was exactly ten past ten when Blinky Belvale arrived at his new office in the Starburst Amusement Park. He had bought the park less than two months before and had grand plans for it, all of which were being held up by Mr. Trickett. The owner of the Starburst Ballroom refused to sell the old place to him. No one refuses Blinky Belvale anything, thought Blinky, as Mr. Trickett will soon find out to his cost. He settled down at his shiny desk to read the local newspaper. MURDER ON THE DANCE FLOOR seemed to be the headline of the day.
“That will do it nicely,” chuckled Blinky Belvale. “I can’t see any bank lending money to Mr. Trickett now. He’ll be forced to sell to me, and there is nothing he can do about it.”
Blinky rubbed his hands together. Then an item on page two caught his eye: FORTUNE-TELLER VANISHES, REAPPEARS THREE HOURS LATER. He read on. Edie Girdle. That was the old bat who was gossiping in the kitchen with Mrs. Sutton.
“I don’t like gossip,” said Blinky Belvale to himself. “Gossip should stay firmly in the gob and not be spread about like muck. Neither do I like fortune-tellers who go looking in crystal balls and seeing what they shouldn’t.”
Last of all, he glanced at the national papers. They were still carrying on about the robbery on Bond Street. No closer to finding the culprits. There was a picture of the detective in charge of the case—Cardwell. Blinky put on his round glasses to study the article more closely. They had the effect of making his eyes look even more enormous.
“Cheryl!” he bellowed.
Cheryl Spike was his personal assistant. He had chosen her from a long list of applicants, all far more suited to the job of personal assistant than she was, but Blinky Belvale liked women with a bit of muscle on them. And Cheryl Spike certainly had muscles.
She had been the Women’s Wrestling Champion of Puddliepool-on-Sea before she was disqualified for not only biting off her opponent’s ear but also swallowing it.
She was dressed today, as always, in an ex-army uniform over which she wore an orange Day-Glo tank top. Her hair, dyed black, was white at the roots, and she had a smile that would curdle milk.
“Did you read about this murder at the Starburst Ballroom?” Blinky Belvale asked her, showing her the paper.
“Yes,” said Cheryl. Her voice was very low—so low that it dragged itself across the floor. “He got what was coming to him, that’s what I say.”
Blinky looked up. “You knew this Johnny Carmichael, then?”
“Might’ve. Might not,” said Cheryl, the end of her nose going red. She sniffed.
“Where’s the Toad?” asked Blinky. “I want him here.”
The Toad was Cheryl’s little brother, though they looked as different as fish from sheep. The Toad was stick thin, apart from a round belly. He was always chewing bubble gum, and when he blew bubbles, he looked like a toad they’d once seen in a nature program on the telly.
Cheryl wiped her nose on her arm and mumbled into her walkie-talkie.
“Spike calling Toad. Come in, Toad.” She waited. “He’s not answering,” she said to her boss.
“Then you’d better find him, hadn’t you?” said Blinky Belvale. “Before I lose my temper.”
Cheryl looked worried by that idea.
“There is work to be done,” continued Blinky. “And I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Work such as … breaking arms and bending legs, Mr. B.?” asked Cheryl.
“Sort of,” said Blinky. “First, get Trickett on the phone. And then find the Toad.”
Cheryl dialed the number and handed the receiver to her boss. She picked up the walkie-talkie again and left the room.
“Mr. Trickett. Blinky Belvale here. I would say, ‘Good morning,’ but it’s not a good morning for you, is it?”
There was a whimper at the other end of the phone.
“You could solve all your problems by selling me the Starburst Ballroom.”
“No,” came the nervous reply. “I’ve told you. The ballroom is not for sale.”
Blinky Belvale leaned back in his chair and snorted.
“And I tell you, Mr. Trickett. I tell you once; I won’t tell you twice. If I have to tell you three times, you will regret it. Take the money and scarper. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m not selling,” said Mr. Trickett. “And that’s my last word.”
“A pity,” said Blinky Belvale. “A big—and terrible—pity.”
He slammed down the phone.
“Cheryl,” he called.
Cheryl and the Toad both tried to come in through the office door at the same time—and got stuck.
“Stop the mucking about and get in here,” said Blinky Belvale.
His employees stood to attention in front of his desk.
“Now, listen to me. I need something smashed.”
Cheryl’s face lit up lumpily.
“Smashing things is just up my street, Mr. B., with door knockers on. Who? Where? What?” she asked with a snarl a pit bull terrier would be proud of.
“The Who of it is a fortune-teller named Edie Girdle. The Where of it is her booth on the South Pier. The What of it is her crystal ball.”
Chapter Nine
Emily had managed to find the library, which was no small feat considering the shop had a habit of hiding rooms or shrinking them. It had also been known to change its layout and, every now and then, even its decor.
So it was with a sense of relief that she pushed open a door to see Fidget sitting at a desk studying a huge, leather-bound book.
That summer, before Billy Buckle turned up, Emily had been helping Fidget learn to read again. He had been able to once, when he had worked for the old magician who designed the shop, but since being turned into a cat, he had somewhat lost interest. Now, along with knitting, reading was high on the list of things Fidget liked doing. Not quite as high as eating fish-paste sandwiches—but then, nothing much was.
Fluttering around him were thin, flighty books, some dancing from one shelf to another. Most of the novels were looking serious as they watched two history books about war having a fight. Emily went over to the books and sorted them out. It was just that they should never have been put next to each other.
Emily loved books, even quarrelsome ones, but especially books with pictures in them. Lots and lots, so the pages weren’t too thick with words. There were no pictures in the book that Fidget was busily studying.
“What are you doing?” asked Emily.
“Trying to work out who the owners of the half-pairs of wings are,” said Fidget.
Emily stared at the list of names.
“What do the crosses mean?” she asked.
“They belong to those fairies who can’t read or write,” said Fidget.
“Wouldn’t it be better,” said Emily, “if we put all these names in a comp
uter file? Including the crosses, of course.”
Fidget thought for a moment, then said, “Will the names fade on the screen?”
“No,” said Emily.
“Then how would we know which fairy has been back to collect his or her wings?”
“Can’t we just put a line through their names?”
“Buddleia,” said Fidget. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Do you think there might be a book here about the habits and pastimes of giants?” asked Emily.
“Shush,” said Fidget as Primrose came in carrying Doughnut. They both looked miserable—Doughnut because he had been dressed up in a tutu and a hat, Primrose because she missed her dad and wanted to go home.
“Daddy should have come back to collect me by now,” said Primrose. “I mean, he would never just leave me here—I know he wouldn’t. He promised. You can’t break a promise. Never, ever, ever.”
Oh no, thought Emily, seeing Primrose’s lower lip begin to wobble. The last time she had cried, she left puddles of tears everywhere. It had taken a pail and a mop to clean them up. There really was no end to the trouble caused by living with a growing giantess. Her bed had broken two nights ago, and yesterday she used seventeen towels to dry herself after her shower. The cereal dishes didn’t hold enough cornflakes to satisfy her appetite, so this morning Fidget had to give her a washing-up bowlful. She was eating them out of house and home.
“Let’s go downstairs,” said Emily brightly.
“I want my daddy,” said Primrose, tears welling in her eyes.
“Why don’t we call your mother?” said Emily. “Do you have her number?”
Primrose began to wail.
“Oh dear,” said Emily.
“Best not to mention Mum,” whispered Fidget. “She left for India with her lady friend. They’ve gone to find themselves.”
Emily took Primrose’s hand. “I know how you feel—sort of.”
“You do?” said Primrose.
“Yes, I think so. Because my parents left me behind in a hatbox at Stansted Airport.”
The Vanishing of Billy Buckle Page 3