Alice-Miranda to the Rescue

by Jacqueline Harvey

  ‘She’s up to something,’ Millie whispered. ‘The lunch menu’s over there on the wall. Everyone can see it.’

  ‘Unless, of course, we give you the rest of the day off,’ Miss Grimm said.

  Doreen Smith stopped in her tracks and turned around. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t think that’s possible. There’s no one else to do the cooking.’

  Miss Grimm smiled. ‘Oh, it’s possible. In fact, it’s going to happen if the person responsible doesn’t come forward right now.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Millie hissed. ‘She’s going to starve us until she finds the culprit.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Sloane griped loudly. ‘I’m always dying of hunger by lunchtime.’

  Miss Grimm shot the girl a look that would bring the most determined of toddler tantrums to an abrupt end. ‘Let’s talk about fair, Sloane. Do you think it’s fair that girls have missed their lessons and have had to spend the entire time cleaning the Science lab, which will need many more hours of attention? Do you think it’s fair that Mr Plumpton and the girls in his class now look as if they’re accident victims because that dye takes hours to scrub off? Do you think it’s fair that girls at this school behave in a manner that brings the entire student body into disrepute?’

  Sloane gulped and shook her head.

  The headmistress arched an eyebrow at her. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

  From the table closest to the servery, Caprice raised her hand in the air. A rustle of whispers ricocheted around the room.

  Sloane nudged Millie. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Miss Grimm stared at the girl. She wondered if Caprice was about to confess, although from past experience that didn’t seem likely. ‘Yes, Caprice?’

  The girl pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I know who did it,’ she said confidently as she tossed her copper tresses over her shoulder.

  ‘Do you think she’s about to own up?’ Sloane whispered.

  Millie shook her head. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘It was …’ Caprice unfurled her pointer finger and directed it across the dining room. ‘Millie.’

  The whole room gasped.

  Millie looked at the girl, her mouth gaping. ‘Me?!’ she yelled, jumping to her feet. ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘That’s a very serious allegation, Caprice. I hope you have your facts in order,’ the headmistress boomed.

  Caprice nodded. ‘Of course, Miss Grimm.’

  ‘She’s lying. I didn’t do anything,’ Millie protested, her voice quivering with rage.

  ‘I heard her telling Alice-Miranda and Sloane on the way to class that she hoped there weren’t any explosions at Science and the three of them were laughing,’ Caprice said.

  Miss Grimm eyeballed the girl. ‘That hardly proves anything. We all know that Mr Plumpton has a bit of a reputation.’

  Josiah’s cheeks burned. If it weren’t for the red dye, everyone would have seen he was blushing from head to toe.

  ‘Check her fingernails, Miss Grimm,’ Caprice said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘I think you’ll find all the proof you need.’

  Millie’s whole body was quaking. ‘You’re lying again!’ she yelled at the girl.

  ‘If you have nothing to hide, just come up and prove it,’ the headmistress urged.

  Millie gulped. She glanced down at her fingers, then clenched her fists into two tight balls.

  Alice-Miranda put a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Millie shook her head and shuffled out from the table. She walked up to the podium, her footfalls echoing around the room. Miss Grimm beckoned for Millie to come forward and looked at her expectantly. The girl took a deep breath and laid her palms flat. ‘I can explain,’ she said softly.

  A veil of disappointment dropped across Miss Grimm’s face.

  ‘Caprice tricked me when we were in Art this morning,’ the child blurted. ‘She told me Miss Tweedle needed help putting the dyes into smaller containers.’

  ‘Now who’s lying?’ Caprice said, stalking towards the podium. ‘Why would I do that?’

  Ophelia Grimm glanced around the room, searching for the Art teacher. A tiny woman, both in height and scale, Verity Tweedle had recently joined the school. Despite her diminutive size, she was already proving to be a forthright member of staff and the girls had quickly learned that she wasn’t to be messed with. Miss Grimm located Miss Tweedle, who was sitting at the back of the room with Miss Wall, the PE teacher.

  ‘Miss Tweedle, could you tell me what activity you had the girls doing in the first lesson today?’ the headmistress asked.

  ‘They were working on linocuts,’ Miss Tweedle replied. There was a murmur from the rest of the girls. ‘And no dye was involved whatsoever.’

  The students gasped again.

  Millie swallowed hard. Miss Tweedle had made her sound like a liar too. It all made sense now – Caprice had tricked her while the teacher was faffing about with Constance Biggins’s cut finger. Caprice had told Millie, who had come in late from her piano lesson, that Miss Tweedle needed assistance sorting out some dyes in the prep room for her next class. She’d wondered why there was no one else helping but she’d already finished her linocut and didn’t feel like starting another one. Caprice had just bossed her around and done none of the work.

  ‘I think you’d better come with me, Millie, and we can discuss this further in my office. You too, Caprice,’ Miss Grimm said. She turned to Cook. ‘In light of all this, Mrs Smith, you’d better get on with that pudding.’

  ‘Of course,’ the woman replied. She scuttled into the kitchen, mumbling something about running late.

  Chatter erupted as the girls began to speculate about what had really happened and whether or not Millie was guilty. Miss Grimm strode out of the dining room with Millie and Caprice in tow. Caprice turned and smiled at Alice-Miranda as she went out the door.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Sloane said, outraged.

  Alice-Miranda nodded. She wondered what Millie had done to be on the receiving end of Caprice’s wrath this time.

  But Alice-Miranda and Sloane weren’t the only ones to spot the girl’s contemptuous grin. Josiah Plumpton had witnessed it too.

  ‘Excuse me, Livinia,’ he said to his fiancée, who had just brought him a cup of tea and a slice of cake. ‘I need to speak with the headmistress right away.’

  Myrtle Parker’s feather duster danced along the skirting boards of the sitting room. As she neared the front window, she stood up and pulled aside the sheer curtain. Her eyes scanned up and down the empty street, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced around at her beloved Newton, who these days sat pride of place in the centre of the mantel-piece. He hadn’t been allowed outside once since he’d returned from his year away. Myrtle clicked her tongue. ‘There’s something going on today,’ she said to him. ‘I can feel it.’

  As always, the garden gnome declined to reply. Myrtle resumed her dusting. She was a proud housekeeper and, now that the sitting room was back to its best, minus the industrial-sized hospital bed where her husband had lain in a coma for over three years, she found the task immeasurably easier. Fortunately, Reginald Parker had woken up some months ago and proved to be in near-perfect health.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clattering diesel engine grew louder. Myrtle scurried back to the window just as a convoy of removal vans roared past. They were followed by a silver four-wheel drive towing the longest dog trailer she had ever seen.

  ‘I knew it!’ Myrtle muttered, dropping her duster to the floor. ‘Reginald!’ she called. ‘Someone’s moving into the house at the end of the road. And they’ve got dogs!’

  Her husband was, at that minute, sitting in the kitchen enjoying a quiet cup of tea. He paused as he raised the teacup to his mouth and wondered what he was supposed to say.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Myrtle screeched. ‘Reginald!’

  The old man sighed. He stood up and tipped the last of h
is tea into the sink, then ambled down the hallway. ‘Yes, dear,’ he answered. ‘What would you like me to do about it?’

  The woman let go of the curtain and turned to face her husband. ‘We need to find out about them, of course. We can’t be too careful when it comes to who’s living in the village, and you know I’m not especially partial to dogs.’ Myrtle picked up her feather duster.

  ‘I think the feeling’s mutual,’ the man replied.

  ‘What was that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing, dear.’ Reginald Parker took a deep breath. He thought he might as well tell her and get it over with, although he was surprised she hadn’t heard all about the newcomers on the village grapevine. ‘They’re breeders.’

  Myrtle frowned. ‘I didn’t see any children in the car.’

  Reginald chuckled. ‘Dog breeders, Myrtle.’

  ‘Oh, how do you know that?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I saw a sign for their kennel go up yesterday when I went for my walk.’

  ‘What sort of dogs do they have? Not those savage bull pits, I hope.’ The woman blanched at the thought. ‘Or rottweilers. We can’t have any dangerous dogs in the village. I won’t allow it.’

  Reg ignored his wife’s histrionics. As far as he knew, he lived with the only rottweiler in the village. ‘No need to worry yourself, dear. They breed Afghan hounds.’

  ‘But they’re huge!’

  ‘They’re lovely dogs,’ Reg said. ‘At least they are to look at.’

  Myrtle set aside the feather duster and picked up a can of furniture polish. ‘They’d better not be barkers,’ she blustered. She sprayed the sideboard and rubbed it vigorously with a cloth. ‘We can’t be woken at all hours by constant yapping.’

  ‘No, dear.’ Reg doubted the dogs could be any worse than his wife’s constant yapping. As for being woken in the middle of the night, Myrtle, who had been a stickler for her eight hours’ sleep prior to his accident – not a minute more or less – now woke every hour on the hour. These days they slept in separate beds in the same room. Her waking wouldn’t have worried Reg except that the woman had taken to prodding him with an old telescopic television aerial she kept by the side of her bed to make sure that he was still breathing. He supposed, after having been in a coma for the better part of three and a half years, he couldn’t really blame her, although there were some days he wondered if he mightn’t have had a more peaceful existence if he’d stayed asleep.

  ‘Here, you finish the polishing and I’ll get started on a cake,’ she said, handing her husband the cloth and can of spray.

  ‘Don’t you think you should give them a day or two to unpack and settle in?’ he asked.

  Myrtle looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t want them to think they’ve moved into a snooty village,’ she replied. ‘Everyone is welcome in Winchesterfield, even if they do breed overly large dogs. Besides, I have to make sure they will be properly contained.’

  Reg raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone’s welcome, are they? I didn’t see you rushing off to welcome the Singhs when they arrived.’

  ‘Oh, that was years ago. You know I love a curry as much as the next person,’ Myrtle said. ‘Except vindaloo – there should be a law against that.’

  The man stifled a grin as he recalled his wife’s petition to close down the new curry house in the village before it had even opened. Myrtle had argued that the smell of the curries would overpower the fresh air that their little pocket of countryside was renowned for, but Reg suspected it had as much to do with her fear of the unfamiliar as anything else. To everyone’s great surprise, Indira Singh and Myrtle Parker had bonded over a mutual love of organising. Indira went on to become head of the local garden club and often asked for Myrtle’s help with planning events. Myrtle had just invited her onto the Show Society Committee too.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Myrtle said, eye balling her husband. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  Myrtle Parker pinned a pillbox hat onto her helmet of brunette curls before wrestling into a bold floral coat that matched her dress. She applied her favourite coral-coloured lipstick and smacked her lips together, then hurried to the kitchen to pick up the cake.

  Reginald met his wife at the front door.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you wearing?’ she said, looking him up and down.

  Without a word, the man walked back down the hall and changed out of his favourite brown cardigan and into the checked sports jacket his wife had bought for him.

  Myrtle smiled her approval and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Much better. You look very handsome.’

  Reg didn’t agree. He’d always thought the jacket looked like it had been made from one of Myrtle’s tablecloths. Her own ensemble could have been sewn from the lounge-room curtains, but at this stage in life there was no point arguing. It would only upset her.

  The mismatched pair walked down the front steps and onto the driveway. Myrtle glanced over at Ambrosia Headlington-Bear’s front garden and tutted. ‘Ever since that woman got herself a job, that garden has been in sharp decline. She really should do something about it.’

  ‘I’ll pop over and mow the lawn this afternoon,’ Reg said, glad for the excuse to escape.

  ‘Good, but she’ll have to find a more permanent arrangement. We can’t have Wisteria Cottage letting the street down, can we?’ Myrtle nodded, apparently forgetting that her own weed-infested garden had blighted the landscape until Ambrosia had set to and performed nothing short of a miracle makeover.

  Rosebud Lane ended in a cul-de-sac just over the rise from the Parkers’ plain bungalow on one side and pretty Wisteria Cottage on the other. The house on the curve of the road was a rambling affair with a thick hedge shielding it from the neighbours. The previous owners had extensively remodelled and updated the house but had only ever used it as a weekend retreat. Myrtle had hoped that Mr Cutmore and his wife would become more involved in village life, but her entreaties were always met with a curled lip and protestations that Mr Cutmore was far too busy with his work commitments. The man was a barrister of some repute and Myrtle would love to have had him on the Show Society Committee. In the end, she wasn’t terribly disappointed when the ‘For Sale’ sign had gone up, although the prospect of new neighbours always set her teeth on edge.

  One large removal van was still parked in the driveway and another on the street but the four-wheel drive and trailer were nowhere to be seen. Outside the front gate was the sign Reginald had told her about. Written in swirly script were the words ‘Nobel Kennels, Breeders of Exquisite Afghan Hounds’ beside a painting of a regal-looking dog. Myrtle squinted at the name. Surely it was a spelling mistake, she thought to herself.

  A spotty young fellow in a blue singlet walked down a ramp at the back of the truck balancing a large armchair above his head. Myrtle and Reg followed him up the path to the front door.

  ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the owners of the house are?’ Myrtle asked.

  ‘Last I saw, Mr Dankworth was in the sitting room,’ the man replied. He shifted from one leg to the other, his muscles straining under the weight of the chair.

  ‘And what about the dogs?’ she asked, peering into the hallway. ‘Are there any dogs in the house?’

  ‘No, they’re in the palace up the back,’ the fellow replied, as a trickle of perspiration snaked down his left temple.

  ‘Thank you.’ Myrtle nodded at the man, wondering what on earth he was talking about. A palace – what nonsense! The fellow grunted as he repositioned the chair and continued down the hallway.

  ‘I think we should come back tomorrow,’ Reg murmured as several burly removalists barrelled towards them on their way back to the truck.

  ‘We’re here now,’ Myrtle insisted. ‘I’m sure they’ll be glad of a cup of tea and a slice of cake.’ With a look of determination, Myrtle set foot into the house. ‘Hello! Hello!’ she called in a singsong voice. ‘Are you there, Mr Dankworth?’

  She manoeuvred around a hug
e pile of boxes and walked through the door at the end of the passage. It opened into a large kitchen and dining room on the left and a sitting room to the right, with a grand central fireplace dividing the spaces. A man was up a ladder, hammering a picture hook into the wall. Standing beside him was a thin woman wearing a black velour tracksuit with the letters HH in swirly silver script across her bottom. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore a full face of make-up, including glossy pink lipstick and eyelashes that would have made a Jersey cow weep with envy. A large picture frame was resting on her leg.

  ‘Hello there, neighbours, welcome to Winchesterfield,’ Myrtle sang out just as the man swung the hammer. Startled, he missed and hit his finger.

  ‘Ow!’ The man jammed his thumb into his mouth and looked over at Myrtle and Reg.

  ‘Be careful, Barry,’ the woman chided. She leaned the picture against the wall and walked over to the visitors. ‘Oh my, we weren’t expecting anyone today. I must look an awful mess.’

  ‘You’re fine, dear,’ Myrtle said. She eyed the woman, who appeared to have applied her make-up with a trowel. ‘Are you all right, Mr Dankworth?’

  ‘Don’t mind Barry,’ the woman said. ‘It’s not the first time he’s hit his thumb this morning and I dare say it won’t be the last.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ the man mumbled and stepped down from the ladder.

  ‘My name’s Myrtle Parker and this is my husband, Reginald. We thought we’d welcome you to Winchesterfield and especially to Rosebud Lane,’ Myrtle said. ‘You must be Mr and Mrs Dankworth?’

  ‘We prefer Barry and Roberta,’ the woman replied.

  ‘I’ve brought you a hummingbird cake,’ Myrtle said, thrusting the cake box into Roberta’s hands. ‘It’s home-made. I think you’ll find we’re very good at that sort of thing around here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman smiled, revealing the whitest teeth Myrtle had ever seen. It was as if the lighting in the room had suddenly been turned up a notch.

  Reg walked over to shake Barry Dankworth’s hand. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair and warm brown eyes. ‘Sorry to land on you today,’ Reg said quietly, ‘but once Myrtle has it in her mind to do something, I’m afraid there’s no getting around it.’