The Vanishing of Billy Buckle

by Sally Gardner

  “Did anyone see the donkey leave?” asked Buster before the door slammed in his face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fidget managed to extract Primrose from the clutches of Theo Callous on the understanding that they would return tomorrow for rehearsals. By the time they reached Wings & Co., Fidget was exhausted. There was an unusual grayness about his tortoiseshell coloring.

  “Fidget, at last you’re back! I’ve been so worried about you,” said Emily, giving his paw a little squeeze. “We’ve got lots to tell you. Buster and I tried to rescue you from that awful Theo Callous, but he had the security man escort us from the building.”

  “Never mind, my little ducks. I have things to tell you too. I was curious about the rumble coming from under the dance floor … went down there … saw something … I’m not sure…” He held his tummy and looked very wobbly. “Before I can say any more,” he said wearily, “I need some fish-paste sandwiches and a nap.”

  Primrose, on the other hand, was blooming. She appeared to have grown since breakfast, which was rather alarming, for her head now was not far from touching the ceiling. Time, Emily could see, was running out.

  “I’ve had a most wonderful day,” Primrose told Edie as the kindly fortune-teller took her upstairs to bed. “It’s the best day I’ve had since Daddy’s been gone.”

  Soon Fidget was fast asleep in his favorite armchair, while Emily sat studying the notes she had taken when they interviewed Mr. Trickett earlier that day. The more she looked at the name Blinky Belvale, the weirder it seemed to be. She sucked the end of her pencil as she looked back over the notes she had made earlier in the investigation.

  The Sad Dads’ Band.

  Billy Buckle played bassoon.

  Hadn’t played with the band for ages.

  Didn’t take Primrose because he had to cross the Valley of Doom, where the Bog-Eyed Loader lived.

  B.E.L. = ogre, shape-shifter.

  Oh dear, thought Emily. I wish I knew what a shape-shifting ogre looked like. That’s the trouble with not being a fairy.

  Buster was walking back and forth like a detective in need of a deerstalker hat or a very large magnifying glass—or both.

  What he was actually thinking had nothing to do with the case. He still hadn’t quite recovered from Emily’s outburst. She had called him vain! Well, unlike certain people who were happy to wear knitted fish dresses, he cared about how he looked. He wasn’t arrogant. Well, maybe a bit—but that was only because he knew more than anyone else. And how she could call him unreasonable, he had no idea. Perhaps she was just jealous because he had wings and she didn’t. As for difficult to work with—well, that wasn’t fair. Look how patient he had been with Emily even though she wasn’t a fairy—which made her truly difficult to work with.

  “All right,” Emily said to Buster. “Stop being mysterious and wearing a path in the carpet. What do you think?”

  Buster wanted to say he wasn’t a prima donna, but his pride wouldn’t let him. So instead he said, “I think that we are dealing with a murder and an abduction.”

  “Wow. What’s that ab-duck word mean?” asked Emily.

  “Abduction,” Buster said grandly, “means to take someone away against his will.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” said Emily. “I suppose you mean Billy Buckle?”

  “Of course. We are agreed,” said Buster, still walking back and forth, “that in both the suspected abduction of Billy Buckle and the murder of Johnny Carmichael, the fairy world seems to be involved. So the question is, are the cases related? It’s a tricky one.”

  “You can say that again,” said Emily. So many bits and pieces didn’t add up or even join together no matter how hard she thought about them.

  “All right then. Here’s what we know, or what we think we know, or what we don’t know,” said Buster. “First of all, we think we know that the reason the shop brought us to Puddliepool-on-Sea is to help us find Billy Buckle. After all, if Primrose grows much more, the old beams won’t be able to take it and the shop will collapse. We know that the keys have lost their metal, but we don’t know why. We know that two fairies have had one wing each returned to them, but we don’t know why. We know that Morris Flipwinkle didn’t murder Johnny Carmichael, but we don’t know who did—though Blinky Belvale has a motive.”

  “And we don’t know,” said Emily, “if the murder has anything to do with Billy, which takes us around in a big circle back to the beginning.”

  “Not quite. We know Edie’s crystal ball was smashed by two thugs. One was wearing a Day-Glo tank top; the other, sneakers with flashing red lights in the heels. Morris saw someone under the stage wearing sneakers like those just after Johnny Carmichael was killed.”

  “Perhaps they smashed the crystal ball to stop Edie from seeing something in it,” said Emily. “Like who murdered Johnny Carmichael. Oh, I don’t know. Do you know? I don’t think we know much at all.”

  “But we do have some very important clues,” said Buster.

  “You mean the fragments of Edie’s crystal ball?”

  “Yes,” said Buster. “In one piece I saw a seagull…”

  “And that tells us…?” asked Emily.

  “Nothing except what we know already—that sea, sand, and seagulls go together. Then there was a skeleton,” said Buster. “Now, I have an idea about that. All over Puddliepool-on-Sea, there are posters advertising a new attraction in the ghost train. Skeletons and ghost trains go together. And Fidget just said he saw something suspicious down there.”

  “Or,” said Emily, “the skeleton could stand for a dead body, like Johnny Carmichael’s, and have nothing whatsoever to do with ghost trains.”

  “Last of all, there was a diamond,” said Buster. “But that doesn’t fit. The jewelry robbery happened in London, not here.”

  “Still,” said Emily, “perhaps we should tell James about it. You said he was interested in that photo of Johnny Carmichael.”

  “Buddleia,” said Buster. “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  It was later that evening, when the sun had set in a pinkish sky, that Fidget woke up, his mind as clear as a trout stream, to find that everyone had gone to bed. He peeked in on Emily, who was tucked up with a dictionary and a large notepad.

  “What are you doing, my little ducks?” asked Fidget. “You should be asleep by now.”

  Emily showed him what she had written on her notepad. It looked like a crossword puzzle, and Fidget had never understood the point of crossword puzzles.

  He sat down at the end of the bed.

  “Blinky Belvale…,” said Emily.

  “… is the king prawn who owns the amusement park,” said Fidget. “That’s one of the things I found out this afternoon. He turned up at the ballroom.”

  “Did he?” said Emily, interested. “I wonder why.… Anyway, blinky is slang for eyes. It says so in this dictionary.”

  “Sorry, you’ve caught me with a flea spray in my paw.”

  “And vale is another word for valley,” said Emily. “That made me think of the Valley of—”

  “—the piranha’s pajamas?”

  “No, no—look,” said Emily, and she showed him her notebook again. She had written:

  “Nope. Haven’t a flea of a clue.”

  Emily started to explain.

  Fidget stood up. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

  “What do you think I am saying?” said Emily.

  “That we are up a blind valley,” said Fidget.

  “No!” said Emily.

  Fidget twisted his whiskers.

  “It’s all fish paste to me. What I think is, you need a good night’s sleep. And in the morning, there’s a ghost train I want to take you on.”

  Emily yawned. “I would like that. Sweet dreams.”

  She closed her eyes, and before you could say “the cat’s jim-jams,” Emily was fast asleep.

  Fidget drew the curtains and turned out h
er bedside light. It was then that it struck him like a wet kipper on a hot day. Emily had been trying to tell him that she had made a diabolical discovery: Blinky Belvale was the Bog-Eyed Loader.

  * * *

  Early the following morning, Detective James Cardwell was sitting in his office at New Scotland Yard. He was comparing a mugshot of the renowned diamond snatcher known as the Maestro with the photo of Johnny Carmichael that Sergeant Binns had given him at the Puddliepool police station. It was a black-and-white photo, and in it, Johnny was wearing an evening suit with a white bow tie. On his nose were perched large, black, round-framed glasses that hid most of his face. A mustache hid most of his mouth.

  Taking a felt-tipped pen, James purposefully drew round-framed glasses and a mustache on the face of the Maestro.

  “Well, Maestro,” said James, “or should I call you Johnny? Who killed you? And why?”

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Yes, come in,” said James.

  The scent of roses wafted into the room, and James looked up to see Poppy.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “I think you might be interested in this. Puddliepool police have had a call from a security guard who works at the Starburst Ballroom. He reported seeing a granny who matched the description of one of the women involved in the Bond Street robbery.”

  “Granny?” said James. “How does he know she’s a granny?”

  “Puddliepool police sent the security footage,” said Poppy.

  She pulled up a chair next to him, and they both watched the screen.

  The first camera showed a little girl creeping along a passage.

  “Oh no…,” said James faintly.

  “What?” said Poppy.

  “Nothing,” said James.

  The second camera focused on the open door of a cupboard, and the girl could be seen rummaging in a black trash bag. A few minutes later, the same camera picked up a large woman in a Day-Glo tank top who was clearly searching for something inside the cupboard.

  “Who’s that?” asked James.

  “I don’t know,” said Poppy. “Sergeant Binns at Puddliepool might.”

  The third camera showed the foyer of the ballroom. A curly-haired old lady in a scarf shuffled past. To James’s utter horror, she had Doughnut tucked under one arm and was holding Emily by the hand.

  James’s stomach turned over. Emily Vole had been abducted by a dangerous criminal!

  “Poppy,” he said, “I have to go up to Puddliepool-on-Sea at once. Find out what you can about the woman in the Day-Glo tank top.”

  “Will you be needing a car?” Poppy asked.

  “No—I’ll fly,” said James absently.

  Poppy shot him a quizzical look as she left the office, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty

  One of Emily’s favorite things about Wings & Co. was the kitchen: it always stayed put. Other rooms might move around, but never the heart of the shop, as Fidget called the kitchen. It stayed tucked away in the basement, a cozy room with an old-fashioned stove perched on four iron legs. Above the stove on metal hooks hung the pots and pans, alongside strings of onions and herbs. On the wall opposite was a huge painted sideboard filled with crotchety crockery, some dating as far back as the Georgians. There was a sink and, next to it, a ladder designed especially for the magic lamp so it could reach the taps. A dog basket for Doughnut was by the fireplace, with seventeen little chairs for the keys to sit on and warm their boots on cold days. A long kitchen table took up the rest of the room, on top of which flowers were neatly arranged in jam jars.

  Emily woke that morning to the sun shining through her curtains and the cries of the seagulls outside. She was pleased to find that they were still in Puddliepool-on-Sea—and even more pleased to see James Cardwell in the kitchen, grill pan in hand and apron over his suit, making breakfast. But James’s face was very grave indeed, not full of the usual smiles and cheeriness that Emily expected. She’d never seen him looking like this before.

  “James,” said Emily. “Has something happened? What has Buster done now? Where is Buster, anyway?”

  “It’s not Buster,” said James. “It’s you that I am here to see.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Have you any idea how worried I’ve been about you?”

  “Why?” said Emily.

  “What on earth were you doing yesterday with that little old lady in the Starburst Ballroom? You told the security guard she was your grandmother. Why?”

  “Oh, that was Morris Flipwinkle. I was bringing him back here for questioning—”

  “Morris Flipwinkle?” interrupted James. “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes, he plays the Wurlitzer at the Starburst Ballroom.”

  “No—well—yes, he does, but he is wanted for the Starburst Ballroom murder. And given the security footage I saw this morning, he is also now one of the main suspects in the Bond Street diamond robbery.”

  “You’ve got it wrong—Morris isn’t a murderer or a jewel thief,” said Emily.

  “Listen,” said James. “What we know is this: Johnny Carmichael, otherwise known as the Maestro, was the mastermind behind the diamond robbery. I believe he was murdered by his accomplice, who, it appears, was Morris Flipwinkle. I suspect Morris bumped off Johnny Carmichael so he could keep the diamond for himself.”

  “He wouldn’t do any of those things,” said Emily.

  “Hear me out,” said Detective Cardwell. “The clothes Morris was wearing when he was pretending to be your granny are exactly the same as those worn by one of the jewel thieves.”

  “But that’s impossible,” said Emily, confused. “I found them in—”

  At that moment, Morris Flipwinkle came into the kitchen. His wing had been well and truly slept on, so from where James was standing at the stove, he couldn’t see it at all.

  “Is your name Morris Flipwinkle?” asked Detective Cardwell.

  “Please, James,” said Emily, “I can explain.”

  Morris let out a terrified, squeaky “yes.”

  “Morris Flipwinkle,” said Detective Cardwell, “I am arresting you on suspicion of robbery and of the murder of Johnny Carmichael. You do not have to say anything, but…”

  Morris went whiter than white. He started to sway back and forth, then fainted facedown in the dog basket. It was only then that Detective Cardwell saw Morris’s wing.

  “He’s a fairy,” said the detective.

  “Yes,” said Emily, bending down beside Morris. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. And Edie Girdle, the fortune-teller, is the other fairy with only one wing. She read Morris’s palm, and she said he couldn’t murder a wombat, much less a human.”

  Doughnut rushed down the stairs barking and, finding Morris in his basket, began to lick his face. One doesn’t want to be rude about a dog—that would never do—but it would be true to say that Doughnut had the most dreadful bad breath. Fairy dog treats had done little to sort it out. It was so bad that one whiff was enough to bring the fainting fairy to his senses. Emily was helping a wobbly Morris Flipwinkle to his feet when Fidget sauntered into the kitchen, wearing a rather becoming dressing gown and matching monogrammed slippers. The smell of grilled kippers had called him from sleep. He almost purred as he saw them waiting for him on a plate.

  “Good morning, good morning,” he said, giving Morris a pat on the back. “Sleep well, old clam? Jimmy!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I flew up to rescue Emily from the clutches of a suspected criminal.”

  “Why?” asked Fidget, taking his kippers to the table. “Emily isn’t in need of rescuing. If she was, you’d be the first person I’d have called. What’s going on, my old mackerel?”

  Everyone listened as James explained about the security footage that had brought him to Puddliepool again.

  “The footage showed Emily going into a cupboard,” he said, “and later the same camera picked up a large woman in a Day-Glo tank top—”

&
nbsp; “Oh, oh, wait,” said Emily. “One of the villains who smashed Edie’s crystal ball was wearing a Day-Glo tank top. We think they did it to stop Edie from seeing who the murderer is.”

  Fidget said, “Emily has an idea who it is.”

  “Sort of. I’m not absolutely sure about the murder or the robbery. But I think I might have figured out who kidnapped Billy Buckle.… I think it was Blinky Belvale.”

  “And I think,” said Fidget, “that I might have discovered where Billy is, though how he got there is a pilchard of a puzzle.”

  “Who’s Blinky Belvale?” asked James.

  “The king prawn,” said Fidget. “The owner of the Starburst Amusement Park.”

  “He’s trying to make Mr. Trickett sell the ballroom to him—by hook or by crook,” explained Emily.

  “Crook, I would say, and a big crook at that,” said Fidget. “Go on, my little ducks, tell Jimmy what you worked out.”

  “Blinky Belvale is better known to you as the shape-shifting Bog-Eyed Loader ogre from the Valley of Doom.”

  “No! What is he up to?” said James.

  “A good question, my old tuna,” replied Fidget. “One I may have the answer to.”

  “Well, what is it?” said James.

  “It’s big—very big,” said Fidget.

  But before he could say another word, there was a cry from upstairs, and the magic lamp ran into the kitchen.

  “Quickly!” it said. “Oh, dear mistress, come quickly. Primrose is stuck in the shop! Her head is touching the ceiling—she can’t get back up the stairs to her room or down the stairs to the kitchen. She is just TOO BIG.”

  There was another cry for help, and this one sounded as if it came from Buster.

  “Don’t panic,” said the magic lamp, jumping up and down.

  “Where’s Buster?” asked James.

  “That’s the thing,” said the magic lamp, throwing its arms into the air. “Primrose is sitting on him! DON’T PANIC! NO ONE PANIC!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Primrose had shot up in a matter of minutes, as only a giant’s daughter can. It was a mega growth spurt. She was now so tall that her entire body took up most of the shop. Her arms had nowhere to move, her head was bent, and her knees were higher than the curious cabinets. Her hands were pressing against the ceiling, which was groaning alarmingly. Every nook and cranny was stuffed full of Primrose or Primrose’s dress, so there was no room for her even to wriggle.