by Holly Webb
His uncle . . . Maisie reminded herself to write that into her little notebook. George had said that one of the assistants was the butcher’s nephew. He wouldn’t be likely to steal from family, would he? And she was sure she’d heard Gran mention Mr. Harrowby’s nephew before—she’d complained that he wasn’t polite enough for someone who was going to own the shop one day.
Maisie eyed Alfred thoughtfully. There was a shiny watch chain looping across his waistcoat, underneath his butcher’s apron. And he was growing a mustache with curly ends—it was nearly as big as his uncle’s. He didn’t look as though he was desperate enough to borrow from the cash box. Unless, of course, he’d bought the watch with stolen money . . .
“But how did he know it was George?” Maisie asked.
Alfred frowned at her. “Ever so interested, aren’t you? Because it was, all right? Certainly wasn’t me, or Frank, or Sal!”
Frank? He must be the other assistant, Maisie thought to herself. She shrugged. “But he didn’t ever seem like a thief when I knew him,” she persisted, smiling sweetly as she put the steak and kidney in her basket. And with that, she left the shop.
Both Sally and Alfred were staring after her as she untied Eddie and hurried away, the young man standing at the door of the shop and Sally peering out of the window. Is that suspicious? Maisie wondered. But it couldn’t be both of them, surely . . .
She stopped once she rounded the corner and took a deep, gulping breath. Detecting was harder than she’d thought it would be. People just didn’t want to tell you things.
Leaning against the wall, she pulled out her notebook and sucked the end of her pencil thoughtfully.
Not Alfred? she scribbled. His shop one day, so why steal? She turned back a page to her list of suspects and crossed him out. She wasn’t absolutely certain, but he just didn’t seem likely, and she had to start somewhere.
But there hadn’t been any other clues at the butcher’s, not as far as she could see. Except that everyone who worked there seemed a bit shifty.
One thing was clear. She wasn’t going to be able to go back to Harrowby’s and ask any more questions. Or not without them complaining to her gran, anyway.
“It’s difficult,” Alice agreed as they huddled together at the bottom of the second-floor stairs. Alice had Eddie in her lap, and she was running his funny ear through her fingers, which he loved so much, he was actually drooling. Alice had put her handkerchief under him to soak it up. “I wonder if I could go to the butcher’s to take a look? Miss Sidebotham is always saying that I’ll have to know how to run my own house one day. Perhaps I could get our housekeeper to take me shopping.” She sighed. “But I’m not very good at spotting things, Maisie. Not like you.”
“I don’t think either of us is much use,” Maisie sighed. “The thing is, people don’t expect girls to be asking questions in shops. I ought to be a nosy old lady, complaining about the bacon fat or something. There’s always someone moaning in Harrowby’s, and it’s usually an old lady.”
“You know what you need,” a voice came from behind them, and both Maisie and Alice jumped. Eddie slipped off Alice’s lap and started to bark like a mad thing, and the lady sitting behind them on the stairs began to giggle.
“You need a disguise.”
“Miss Lane! You scared us!”
“Sorry, Maisie. You were talking so secretively—I just crept up and sat down on the next step.” Miss Lottie Lane (otherwise known as the Darling of the Duke’s Theater, or London’s Favorite Lass, depending on where she was playing) fetched a paper bag of mint bonbons out of her skirt pocket and handed them around. “Anyway, why do you need to go spying at the butcher’s? Have they been giving your gran short weight?”
“No, it’s worse than that.” Maisie explained about George. “He was always quite nice when we were at school. And I really liked Lucy, his sister. I’m worried about her, if he doesn’t have a job anymore.” She frowned.
“Oh dear . . . Yes, I see . . .” Miss Lane nodded.
The doorbell jangled below, and Alice leaped up. “Miss Sidebotham’s back. See you next week, Maisie! I wish we bought our meat from Harrowby’s—then I could watch and see when George gets his job back. You will solve it, I know you will.” She hugged Maisie quickly and darted back into Madame Lorimer’s rooms. Maisie could hear her speaking French quite loudly, to give Madame time to wake up.
“Come on, Maisie.” Miss Lane took her hand. “Come up to my rooms. Oh, you can bring the dog—he’s a sweetheart. Then you’ll be staying out of the way of that awful governess—she doesn’t approve of me in the slightest. She won’t even say good afternoon if I pass her on the stairs. And I’ve got an idea.” She whisked back up the stairs and Maisie and Eddie followed her.
Miss Lane’s rooms smelled of expensive scent, faded flowers, and face powder. There were mirrors and framed photographs all over the walls, and clothes everywhere. Gran hardly ever sent Maisie up here to dust, as there was too much stuff on top of everything for dusting to do any good.
“Just put those on the floor, Maisie.” Miss Lane waved vaguely at a pile of clothes on a chair, and Maisie frowned.
“I’d better hold them, Miss Lane. Eddie’ll think they’re for him to sleep on. He curls up on anything you put on the floor.”
“Good point.” Miss Lane snatched the pile and tucked it onto a shelf with some silver-framed photographs. “Right. Now sit. Like I was saying, Maisie, you need a disguise! You need to go undercover!”
“Dress up as someone else?” Maisie asked slowly. She’d never thought of that. She wondered if Gilbert Carrington ever went about in disguise. “That’s a brilliant idea . . .” she murmured. “If I were dressed as a boy, perhaps, I could go and ask at Harrowby’s if there were any jobs going! I might even be able to get a job—I can’t see them keeping that Reg very long. That would be the best way to find out who was stealing the money, wouldn’t it?”
Miss Lane giggled. “Your gran might have something to say about that, though, Maisie. Aren’t you meant to help out here?”
Maisie sighed. “You’re right, I’d forgotten that. I don’t think I could do two jobs and detecting as well. But it’s still a good idea.”
“I don’t think you’re being adventurous enough,” Miss Lane said firmly, pulling out a wooden box full of strange waxy pencils wrapped in gold foil. “I can make you look like anyone you want, with greasepaint. It’s better viewed from a distance, of course, when you’re on the stage, but still.” She looked at Maisie with her head on one side. “I’ll show you. You’ll not recognize yourself. Sit still.”
She flung a sort of canvas cape around Maisie’s shoulders and bundled her curly red hair back with a ribbon. For the next ten minutes, every time Maisie tried to say anything, Miss Lane would shriek at her to keep still. At last, she wound something soft and feathery around Maisie’s neck and stood back like an artist examining her work. She chuckled to herself and looked around for a hand mirror.
Eddie, who had been sniffing around under all the furniture and found the end of a box of crystalized fruits, sneaked guiltily back to see what they were doing. He stopped short in front of Maisie’s chair and let out a horrified howl.
“No taste,” said Miss Lane disgustedly. “You look wonderful, darling.”
“It’s all right, Eddie, it’s still me. What do I look like?” Maisie asked Miss Lane anxiously. “Am I horrible?”
“Of course not!” Miss Lane finally found the mirror underneath a pile of newspapers, and handed it to Maisie.
“Oh!”
Maisie stared at the person in the mirror. She looked about twenty. And she didn’t have red hair anymore. It was black, and swept up on top of her head! She was wearing a pink feather boa, and she had matching pink cheeks, and smart pink lips.
“I thought about blond,” Miss Lane explained, “but not with your eyebrows, Maisie.”
“I don’t think I could go and ask questions at the butcher’s like this . . .” Maisie murmured.
“Perhaps not,” Miss Lane admitted. “Although it would be fun to try. It was just to show you, Maisie. I can teach you how to do it yourself, you know. Come and find me tomorrow and I’ll make you look like a boy. I’ve even got the outfit, somewhere, I think, from a comedy turn where I had to be a newspaper boy.”
“But aren’t you busy?” Maisie asked. “I don’t want to be in your way.” She had been very well trained about not bothering the lodgers.
Miss Lane shook her head. “Not in the mornings. Don’t come and wake me too early, though.” She took off the wig and the boa, and scrubbed at Maisie’s face with a cloth and some cream. “There. Back to yourself again.”
Eddie, who had been sitting at Maisie’s feet staring up at her suspiciously, let out a little whine of relief.
Maisie laughed. “Yes, it’s me.” She jumped up and kissed Miss Lane on the cheek. “Thank you! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
“If we tuck your hair up into this cap, it might work . . .” Miss Lane eyed Maisie thoughtfully. “That’s what I did for the show. We can pull some of your curls out round the sides, and it should look like a scruffy sort of boy.”
“Scruffy is right,” Maisie agreed. “All the delivery boys have hair like someone’s attacked them with a pair of blunt scissors.”
“And just a bit of greasepaint. To make you look more tanned. Or dirty—it could be either.” Miss Lane rubbed at Maisie’s face artistically. Then she frowned. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Maisie? You will be careful?”
“Course I will,” said Maisie firmly. She was feeling a little bit nervous—her stomach seemed to be turning over inside her—but at the same time she was excited. Being out in disguise seemed like being a real detective. And she was sure that hanging around Harrowby’s as a boy would be much easier than it had been as herself.
“Don’t forget to lower your voice,” Miss Lane reminded her. “You’re a bit squeaky for a boy.”
“Thanks, miss,” Maisie said gruffly.
Miss Lane snorted with laughter. “Oh, Maisie! That sounded like an ancient gravedigger with a cough! Somewhere in between.”
Maisie sighed. “Yes, miss,” she agreed, roughening her voice just a little bit.
“Much better.” Miss Lane twitched at the greasy cap. “Now be careful that your gran doesn’t catch you and think you’re a burglar.”
Maisie crept down the stairs, listening carefully for Gran and Sarah-Ann. She was pretty sure they were both in the kitchen, so she was going to make for the front door. She rolled her eyes. Most detectives would be trying to avoid master criminals, not their own grandmother. She paused on the first-floor landing, peering down over the banisters, with Eddie looking around her ankles. She was still wearing her own boots, but she needed to remember to smear some mud on them once she got outside.
“Are you bringing a message, young man?”
Maisie whirled around in horror . . . to see Professor Tobin standing in his doorway. “Oh!”
The professor peered at her. “Miss Maisie?”
“You recognized me . . .” Maisie said sadly. Her disguise hadn’t worked at all.
“No, no. I recognized the dog,” Professor Tobin assured her.
“Thank you for helping me keep him,” Maisie said shyly. She had slipped a note under Professor Tobin’s door to say thank you for the amazing wombat trick, but she hadn’t seen him since.
The professor chuckled. “You were lucky I had something the right sort of size. Maisie, why are you dressed as a boy?”
Maisie sighed. She didn’t think he’d tell on her. “I’m going detecting,” she explained. “At the butcher’s. They sacked George, the delivery boy, and I feel guilty because Eddie stole his sausages. They say George was stealing, but I’m sure it was someone else. I thought if I hung around the shop dressed as a boy, it would be easier to pick up any clues.”
“Ah!” Professor Tobin nodded thoughtfully. “One moment.” He nipped back into his rooms and returned with something in his hand, which he held out to Maisie.
“A magnifying glass!” she squeaked with delight. Her first piece of proper detecting kit—the notebook hardly counted. “Gilbert Carrington has one of these!”
“And all detectives should. You can keep it, Maisie. It’s an old one, a little scratched, but still in good working order.”
Maisie nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll take the best care of it.”
“And just a hint, my dear,” he said. “If you want to be taken for an errand boy, your nails are far too clean.”
“Thanks, Professor Tobin,” said Maisie. “I’ll dirty my nails at the same time as I get my boots muddy.” She tucked the magnifying glass in the inside pocket of her jacket—boys’ clothes had so many useful pockets!—and hurried off down the stairs.
“What do you want?” The boy loomed over Maisie, who hunched up her shoulders inside her too-big jacket.
“Just came to see about a job,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice low.
“What job?” Reg growled, and Maisie backed away a little, glancing behind her at the door that led out of the yard. She’d sneaked in through the back of the butcher’s shop, thinking that a boy after a job wouldn’t go in the front. But now it was only her and the horrible Reg here, and she wished she’d been more careful. Still, he really did think that she was a boy!
The only person Maisie had managed to see before Reg came into the yard with the bike was Sally, the girl who filled in the ledgers. She’d been leaning against the back door of the shop when Maisie first peered around into the yard. The older girl had a handkerchief up to her eyes, and she was sniffing, as though she’d been crying. Then someone had called her from inside and she’d dried her eyes and called that she was coming, in a very cheerful voice. Perhaps she’d had a fight with her young man, Maisie reckoned. Sarah-Ann had been just like that when the smart young policeman who patrolled Albion Street had been seen making eyes at someone else. They’d made up, eventually, but Sarah-Ann had cried into the washing-up for days.
Once Sally had gone, Maisie went right into the yard, hoping to get a chance to talk to her if she came out again, or one of the other assistants. She hadn’t reckoned on Reg appearing.
“Heard there might be a job going,” she said. “Heard someone got the sack.”
“Yeah, he did, and I got his job, so you can just clear off.” Reg put out one meaty hand and shoved Maisie at the door. She banged into the wooden frame, and clutched her shoulder.
Eddie barked furiously and jumped up, snapping at him. Reg tried to kick the little dog away, cursing, and Maisie screamed, “Eddie, no! Here!”
She was so scared that Reg might really hurt Eddie that she forgot about lowering her voice, and Reg glanced over at her, frowning.
“Hey . . .” he muttered, aiming one last kick at Eddie, and then stomping toward Maisie. “Who are you? I’ve seen that dog before . . .”
Maisie grabbed Eddie, sucking in her breath at how much her shoulder hurt, and ran for it.
She didn’t stop running until she was in a quiet little courtyard several streets away, and completely lost. Maisie sighed and sat down on a bit of broken wall, rubbing her bruised shoulder. “That didn’t go very well, did it?” she said to Eddie, stroking her cheek across the wiry dome of his head. “I probably shouldn’t have brought you with me. Not after the professor recognized you as well. It was stupid.” She hugged him tighter. “But I wouldn’t have wanted to go all on my own,” she admitted. “You’re my faithful assistant.”
Her faithful assistant licked her nose and jumped down from her lap, trotting along the side of the street and looking back for her to follow him.
“Oh! Do you know where we are?” Maisie got up. “I’m sure I’ve never been here . . .” She followed Eddie, watching as he sniffed here and there and padded along. Was this where he had lived, before someone had tried to drown him? Maisie shivered. He certainly seemed to know where he was going.
; At last they came to a street that Maisie was almost sure she recognized. It was much busier than the lanes Eddie had been leading her through till now. He looked up at her happily, his tail wagging just a little, as though he hoped she was pleased with him.
“Oh! You’re a very good dog,” Maisie said lovingly. “Clever, clever boy.”
Eddie’s tail speeded up so much that it almost looked blurred, and then it dropped suddenly and tucked between his legs and he skittered back against the wall.
“What is it?” Maisie crouched down beside him, her heart thumping fast again. Her boys’ clothes felt clammy and cold.
Slouching toward them was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with long, greasy gray hair. He had a battered bowler hat tipped down over his eyes, and his overcoat was torn and dirty. Beside him scurried a dog that looked remarkably like Eddie, except bigger. Even down to that strange, lopsided ear.
Eddie whined and he stretched out his head, staring hopefully at the other dog. Even their brown patches seemed to be in the same places.
The bigger dog pricked up her ears as she came closer, and let out a sharp little bark.
“Quiet, you!” snapped the man, but the dog just kept staring at Eddie.
“That’s your mother,” Maisie whispered. “It is, isn’t it? She’s so like you. And that must be the man who threw you in the canal.”
She stood up, too furious to be frightened anymore. Too furious to think, as well. She jumped out in front of the man, and he pulled up short.
“Watch it, you stupid little brat! Get out of the way!”
“Did your dog have a puppy?” Maisie demanded. “Did you drown him?”