The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery

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The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery Page 8

by Deborah Abela


  He let the moment hang in the air like a burst of fireworks.

  They watched as Mr O’Malley again dabbed his eyes.

  ‘But for now, it is with the utmost delight that I introduce your Spelling Bee director, Ms Esmerelda Stomp.’

  There was more applause as India watched the glum woman from the elevator lumber to the microphone. She sighed at the overexcited faces, gleaming with delight, as if there was no place they’d rather be.

  When she could think of plenty of places she’d rather be.

  ‘All right, quieten down or we’ll never get this over with.’

  The crowd fell silent.

  ‘Over the next few days, you spellers will compete in two knock-out rounds, which means you’ll only have one chance to spell each word correctly, and if you blow that,’ she jabbed a thumb at the air, ‘you’re gone.’

  Esmerelda smiled for the first time since taking the microphone.

  ‘The pronouncer’s decision is final. I don’t want any tears, sulking or hissy fits.’ She pointed a stubby finger at the crowd. ‘That goes for you grown-ups, too. I won’t stand for any mollycoddling nonsense – turns kids into marshmallows. What good are they then?’

  The audience shifted awkwardly in their seats, except Mrs Trifle, who thought Esmerelda was making perfect sense.

  ‘If your child fizzles out, you adults are to applaud as they clear off the stage.’ She paused and threw her glare around the room like a beam from a lighthouse, making sure her rules sunk in. ‘Round one will end when half the spellers are eliminated. Round two is the Grand Final and will continue until only the winner remains.’

  Esmerelda’s speech felt more like instructions for a hunting expedition than a children’s spelling bee.

  She leaned into the microphone, which made her voice boom even more ominously. ‘Any questions?’

  Her menacing stare unnerved the crowd enough that there were none.

  ‘Now that we understand each other, it’s time to hand over to the next speaker. He’s the only three-time winner of the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee, and he’s here for some kind of pep talk, so listen up! I give you … Harrington Hathaway the Third.’

  Esmerelda shuffled away. If she was all gloom, Harrington was all elegance and optimism, with his silver mane and perfect, sparkling teeth. His cape billowed as he swooped to the microphone, waving his diamond-encrusted cane at the adoring audience.

  ‘Bravo!’ Mr Kapoor jumped to his feet. ‘Bravo!’

  ‘My dad’s a big fan,’ Rajish whispered to India. ‘He wants me to be just like him.’

  ‘Please.’ Harrington held up his hand, which was adorned with rings. ‘Don’t expire yourselves before the Spelling Bee even begins.’

  The crowd laughed. Harrington soaked in the adoration.

  ‘It is with multitudinous gratitude that I greet you tonight. You have battled valiantly and spelled magnificently to make it here. But,’ he paused, gazing into the audience with a warning eye, ‘one small slip-up could end it all. It will be nerve-racking. It will be discomposing. It will be discountenancing, but great fortitude always triumphs over fear.’

  Harrington stood back, closed his eyes for a moment and relished the applause.

  ‘For many people, spelling may not seem important, but you and I know better. It makes us rich in mind and heart.’ He held his bejewelled fingers against his deep-green velvet jacket. ‘It has also given me a fortunate life, and tonight I would like to share that good fortune with you.’

  He smiled a Cheshire cat grin.

  ‘If you look under your seat, you will find a gift.’

  The diners bent down to find parcels taped to the bottom of their chairs. A flurry of unwrapping followed.

  ‘A book.’ Mrs Trifle’s lip turned down in disappointment. ‘I was hoping it would be something useful.’

  ‘It’s a copy of my new publication, Being Harrington Hathaway III: From Humble Beginnings to Global Spelling Guru. But that’s not all,’ Harrington said. ‘Inside, you will find a small treat.’

  A wave of gasps swept through the room. India opened her book to find a silver bookmark with a sparkling gem dangling from the end.

  ‘Is it a real diamond?’ Mrs Trifle pepped up at the prospect.

  Summer held it up against the glow of a candle. ‘It looks real.’

  ‘And yes,’ Harrington raised a silver eyebrow, ‘the diamonds are real.’

  The audience rose to their feet, wild with appreciation. If Harrington wasn’t sure that everyone in the audience loved him, he was now.

  ‘Please,’ Harrington held up a silencing hand, ‘it is merely a token of my admiration for your brilliance. And with that, I would like to declare the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee officially launched. Go forth and spell!’

  The combination of cheers and diamonds and words circling on the walls created a joyous, dizzying effect.

  Mr O’Malley clasped his hands before him and bounced on the heels of his polished shoes. He surveyed the sea of happy faces.

  The night was going perfectly. Until what happened next …

  India saw a flash of ginger fur disappear beneath their table.

  ‘Did you see that?’ she asked Rajish.

  ‘I think so. It looked like –’

  Rajish was interrupted by a series of barks and growls.

  And a full-bodied scream.

  This came from Harrington Hathaway the Third. A stampeding Great Dane had galloped into the Imperial Dining Hall, followed by a large woman in a gold sequined dress and feathery fascinator thundering closely behind.

  ‘Mergatrude!’ she wailed. ‘Come back to Mummy, darling!’

  There were loud cries as more dogs entered the room followed by their frantic owners. The floor was alive with fluffy, curly-haired canines in ribbons and bows – dachshunds, beagles and pugs. They leapt onto tables and sent glasses crashing to the floor. Plates were over turned, splashing pasta sauce onto expensive white dresses and suits, and hurling chicken Kievs into surprised faces.

  ‘Someone get that cat!’ Harrington screeched.

  Mr O’Malley joined the waiters, who tried to catch the escaping feline, which sidestepped them at every turn, darting between diners’ legs and jumping onto laps.

  ‘My dress!’ Summer lifted her skirt. ‘It’s Armani!’

  Nanna Flo and Mum held onto Boo while Dad and Grandpop Eriksson formed a circle with the other adults, shielding the kids.

  Dog owners poured into the room, hurrying after their manicured pets now drenched in gravy and tangled in strings of spaghetti and snuffling down chicken and vegetables. The stands of cupcakes were toppled, and panicked guests slipped in the slick icing mess.

  The cries of pet names added to the chaos.

  Fluffy!

  Poochikins!

  Captain Cutie-pie!

  The hall was full of tail-wagging, feasting dogs.

  The cat continued to run. ‘Mergatrude! Come back!’

  But Mergatrude didn’t come back. Instead, he bounded towards the cat, which had dashed between the legs of Harrington Hathaway the Third.

  Mr O’Malley watched in horror as the Great Dane headed directly for the three-time world champion.

  ‘Oh no,’ was all he could utter before the full force of the dog slammed into Harrington’s chest, sending him flying through the air and crashing to the ground with a great thud.

  Mr O’Malley rushed to his side. ‘Mr Hathaway! Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course I’m not okay, you fool!’ Harrington screeched and held his back. ‘Apart from being in terrible pain, I could have been killed!’

  India watched Harrington writhe on the floor. Mr O’Malley’s face was a portrait of devastation as he helped the gentleman sit up and handed him his cane, which was now broken in two.

  Harrington, it was safe to say, was more than a little peeved.

  He snatched the cane from Mr O’Malley’s grip and jabbed a threatening finger into the royal r
epresentative’s chest. His face twisted with rage as he hurled abuse.

  India saw Mr O’Malley flinch with each jab.

  The Imperial Dining Hall lay in ruins, as if a tornado had swept through the once elegant affair. Tables and chairs were scattered across the floor, curtains were in tatters, guests were smeared with food while pooches licked the now empty plates.

  It was then that India noticed something curious.

  Esmerelda Stomp stood at the side of the hall with her arms crossed, not bothering to help one bit, which in itself wasn’t surprising.

  What surprised India most was the smile on Esmerelda’s face.

  A smile that could only be called … gleeful.

  ‘Once again, I apologise profusely for last night’s dinner, which took such an unfortunate turn.’

  The next morning, Mr Elwood O’Malley addressed the spellers and their families, who assembled in the foyer of the Royal Windsor Hotel.

  His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, as if he’d barely slept.

  ‘It seems our feline friend must have fallen into the bins and become doused in gravy, which made her too tempting for our canine guests.’ He stood taller. ‘But I will do my utmost to ensure the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee runs flawlessly from this moment on, and I hope that the splendidness of today’s surprise will more than make up for any unpleasantness. Please, follow me.’

  He led them outside to a line of red double-decker buses waiting to take them to a secret destination.

  ‘Are you sure you’re feeling okay?’ It was the fifth time Mum had asked Boo that morning.

  After the dogs had run riot at the dinner, Boo had begun to wheeze and could feel his chest tighten, so the Wimples rushed him back to their room and sat with him while Mum gave him his medication.

  Just in case.

  Within minutes, Boo had felt better, but that didn’t stop Mum worrying.

  ‘I’m fine.’ He hoped his voice didn’t sound too wheezy.

  She stared at her phone. ‘The pollution reading is high, maybe Boo and I should stay here.’

  Boo’s head shot round to India, who immediately leapt to his defence. ‘But he’ll miss the big surprise.’

  ‘India can tell us all about it,’ Mum argued.

  Boo had missed out on a lot of excursions because of his asthma; he didn’t want to miss out on today. Luckily, Dad stepped in.

  ‘Team Wimple,’ he assumed the voice of an army captain, ‘do we have our inhalers?’

  Nanna Flo, India and Boo whipped inhalers from their bags.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ they chorused.

  ‘Will we be prepared in the event of an asthma flare-up?’

  ‘Yes, we will.’

  ‘Does Mum need to worry?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  ‘Good work.’ Dad nodded. ‘We’ll be here if Boo needs us.’

  ‘Okay, but I want you to stay with us at all times.’

  Dad adjusted his blue-and-red chequered jacket and matching tie – gifts from Mr Butler, who he’d rescued from an angry emu. In his pocket was his purple notebook. ‘We better hurry or we’ll miss that bus. Ready, Wimples?’

  They all wore their Sunday best and, of course, their red scarves. ‘Ready!’

  Before they could move, they heard someone cry, ‘Florence!’

  They turned to see Mr Eriksson leading Peter through the crowd, waving. He wore an ill-fitting suit and seemed in danger of being strangled by his tie.

  ‘I wanted to … I’d like to say …’ He tugged at his collar. Peter gave an encouraging nod. ‘Thank you for what you said last night at dinner. And for standing up for my grandson.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’d have done it for anyone at the mercy of those two fitness fanatics. Plus,’ Nanna Flo flashed a cheeky smile, ‘I enjoyed it.’

  Mr Eriksson seemed to relax. ‘Then it was doubly worthwhile if it made you happy too.’

  ‘Oh, it did! And thank you for the fireman’s rescue. That heavy banner could have done some damage. I’ve never been swept into someone’s arms and out of great peril before.’

  Mr Eriksson bowed. ‘All part of the service.’

  Nanna Flo giggled. The Wimples frowned.

  ‘All aboard!’ the driver called.

  Mr Eriksson held out his hand. ‘After you, Florence.’

  ‘Why thank you.’ She giggled again as she boarded the bus.

  ‘What’s wrong with Nanna Flo?’ Boo asked India. ‘Why does she keep laughing like that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ India bit her lip.

  ‘She might be coming down with something,’ Dad said. ‘We should keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Could be the jetlag,’ Mum added.

  They climbed aboard the bus and heard Nanna Flo giggle once more as she moved down the aisle.

  ‘The Houses of Parliament!’ Boo almost jumped out of his seat when the golden clock tower and regal building came into view.

  Cameras and phones clicked as the chimes of Big Ben sounded and the buses trundled across Westminster Bridge and over the River Thames.

  They drove alongside the lush trees and lawns of St James Park and turned into a large roundabout. Little by little, a stately mansion appeared before them.

  India drew in a deep breath. ‘Buckingham Palace!’

  ‘Do you think we’ll meet the Queen?’ Boo asked.

  ‘She is the patron of the Bee and a keen speller,’ Rajish said hopefully.

  Holly’s head began to spin. ‘I think I might pass out.’

  ‘But you’ll miss all the fun.’ Peter nudged her playfully.

  ‘The Queen,’ Mr Kapoor spoke with a wistful look in his eye. ‘She is a beacon of style and grace.’

  ‘If I’d known we were coming here, I’d have worn my tiara,’ Peter joked.

  They all laughed, except for Summer, who announced with a disappointed scowl, ‘Me too. Why did they have to keep it a surprise?’

  All the spellers stared, wondering if Summer was joking too.

  ‘You have a tiara?’ India asked.

  ‘Daddy bought me one for my tenth birthday.’

  ‘A real one?’ Holly still wasn’t sure if she was serious.

  ‘Is there any other kind worth having?’

  ‘I guess not.’ Rajish laughed.

  The buses came to a stop by the entrance gates. Streams of spellers and chaperones stepped from the bus in quiet awe.

  ‘She’s a beauty.’ Dad held up his camera and took photos. ‘Wait until Daryl hears about this.’

  ‘Your grandma would have loved being here,’ Grandpop said to Peter. ‘She was a big fan of the Queen – collected all the royal souvenir cups and plates.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll all get one for free,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘That’ll be worth a pretty penny.’

  Holly flinched. In her excitement, she had almost forgotten her parents were there. So far this morning they hadn’t done anything to embarrass her, and she silently pleaded that they wouldn’t. At least they’d worn a dress and jacket as requested, and not one of their signature tracksuits.

  When the last of the passengers climbed off the bus, Mr O’Malley swung his arm into the air and announced, ‘Welcome to Buckingham Palace.’ He seemed to stand taller and was much more like his old, cheerful self. ‘Home of Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, the longest reigning monarch in British history. This way, please.’

  The Wimples adjusted their red scarves and followed Mr O’Malley across the grounds to the Grand Entrance.

  As India’s feet sank into the royal red carpet of the Grand Hall, a quiet hush settled on the group. The golden leaves of the balustrade reminded India of honeycomb. She slid her hand along the bannister to make sure she didn’t miss a step but also to make sure she was really there.

  ‘Buckingham Palace has been the official London residence of Britain’s monarchs since 1837; it is simply one of the most beautiful buildings you’ll ever behold.’

  ‘It is impressive.’
Dad took out his purple notebook and began to write.

  ‘It boasts seven hundred and seventy-five rooms, including seventy-eight bathrooms.’ Mr O’Malley smiled. ‘So if you need to avail yourselves of the amenities, there are plenty to accommodate.’

  ‘As well as the Throne Room and private quarters, there’s a post office, police station, doctor’s surgery, cinema and pool.’ He continued his way through a series of drawing rooms. ‘Over eight hundred staff live here to keep the palace shipshape.’

  ‘That’s more people than Yungabilla,’ Boo said.

  ‘Every year the Queen hosts special parties at the Palace to reward public service.’ Mr O’Malley turned to face them with a look of pure delight. ‘And today she is throwing a party specially for you.’

  ‘For us?’ Holly’s eyes widened.

  ‘Does that mean we’re going to meet the Queen?’ India almost dared not ask.

  Mr O’Malley paused for the smallest of moments, savouring his reply like a delicious chocolate. ‘It most certainly does.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Peter?’ Grandpop Eriksson had a spark in his voice that Peter hadn’t heard in a very long time. ‘The Queen is coming here to meet us.’

  Mr Kapoor grabbed his chest. ‘I think my heart is in danger of exploding with joy.’

  Mr O’Malley flung open a set of doors. ‘This is the White Drawing Room – the grandest of all the staterooms.’

  The room sparkled with gold furniture, gold filigree on the walls and even a gold piano. In the centre was a long table laid with trays of perfectly portioned chocolate mousse cakes, caramel kisses and raspberry tarts.

  ‘All the gold you can see are layers of real gold, and all the cakes you see are positively splendiferous. I guarantee it.’

  He pointed at a large mirror and chest of drawers behind him. ‘And even though this furniture simply looks like part of the room, it is actually a secret door to the Queen’s private apartments.’ Mr O’Malley could barely contain his excitement. ‘And it is where Her Majesty will make her grand entrance to greet you today.’

  A murmur of delighted whispers filled the grand room.

  ‘But first, there are a few rules you’ll need to know about being in the presence of Her Royal Highness.’

 

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