Violet and the Hidden Treasure

by Harriet Whitehorn

  Only sensible Rose thought to ask Ernest who the lady was. She spotted him in the garden, one sunny Saturday, chatting with Norma. Ernest listened to all the ideas with a smile on his face and then said, ‘Any one of those ideas might be true. All I know is that she is a friend of a friend of the Countess’s and she is paying them a lot of rent for just one room. I don’t really see her; she stays in her room, doesn’t ever allow me in there, goes out when I do and always locks her door.’

  One March evening, Violet and Rose were walking across the dark garden to Rose’s house. Despite having spent the whole day together at school and having walked home together, there still seemed a huge amount to discuss. And the main thing was that ROSE HAD BEEN CHOSEN TO PLAY PRINCESS AURORA IN SLEEPING BEAUTY! Violet was delighted for her friend and Rose was so excited and nervous that she could hardly think straight.

  Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, so the two girls were walking briskly across the garden trying not to think about Stanley’s tales of flesh-eating zombies, flashing their torches from side to side, when, to their great alarm, they heard a strange noise coming from one of the bushes. They both froze, listening. It was a strange, snuffling noise, but Violet quickly decided it didn’t sound like a zombie.

  ‘Do you think one of the cats has hurt itself?’ Violet whispered.

  Rose didn’t answer. She was too busy being terrified by the pictures of strange, snuffling zombies filling her head. She would have run, except she couldn’t move.

  ‘Stay here, I’ll just go and check,’ Violet said. Rose would have objected, on the grounds it was far too dangerous, but at that moment she was too scared to speak, so instead she made a sort of mewling noise, which Violet (mistakenly) took as agreement.

  As Violet came close to the bush, her torch shining like a beacon in front of her, the noise stopped abruptly. Better still check, she thought. So she did. And imagine her surprise when she found not an injured cat, but Art – looking very embarrassed with a tear-stained face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Violet asked kindly. ‘Has something happened at school?’

  Art nodded, swallowing hard.

  Rose, who was listening, decided that zombies didn’t often go to school, and arrived just as Violet was offering round a bag of Norma’s homemade toffees that she had stowed in her pocket. They both took one gratefully and, after a moment’s steady chewing, Art began to explain.

  ‘I got into a fight with this boy and Mr Smith, the geography teacher, who hates me anyway, said it was all my fault, which it wasn’t, and he sent me to the headmaster who rang Auntie Dee Dee – and now . . .’ Art nearly started crying again, his face puckering, ‘. . . and now she’s really upset. And she’s been so kind, and I love living here – it’s like having a proper home – and I feel really guilty, but I just hate it at school.’ He wiped his nose on his jumper sleeve.

  Violet nodded, but Rose, with a wisdom beyond her years, said, ‘I know it’s a very good school, but I think it’s the wrong school for you.’

  Art shrugged. ‘But Auntie’s been so generous paying for me to go, and everyone in the family was so excited about me going. My mum said it’s a “once-in-a-lifetime” opportunity for me, going to such a good school. I can be a doctor or a lawyer, she says. But I’m just not good at anything there – it’s all really academic stuff, which I just can’t get. I’m not clever. And I’m not even good at art – the teacher tore up all my work, he said it was so bad.’

  ‘How mean!’ said Violet.

  ‘You’re really good at football,’ Rose added.

  ‘But they don’t even play football; they play rugby, which I’m useless at.’

  ‘You’re very good at imitating people,’ Violet said.

  ‘I know, and I thought it would be a way to make the other boys like me a bit. So I did imitations of all the teachers one breaktime, but then someone told on me. I got called to the staff room to show the teachers. They didn’t see the funny side at all, so I got detentions for a week.’

  Oh, dear, what to do? The girls couldn’t really see an easy solution so Violet handed round more toffees and they chewed in sympathetic silence.

  Something strange was happening that was bothering Norma in more ways than the obvious. A couple of weeks after the Maharani’s arrival, many more people than normal had started coming to the front door.

  It began on a Tuesday. At half past nine, a window cleaner rang the doorbell, offering to wash the windows at an incredibly low price. They had only been washed the week before, so Norma sent him away. At quarter past eleven, a man arrived wanting to come into the flat to interview Norma for a survey. Norma was much too busy so she politely refused. At three, just as Norma was leaving to pick up Violet from school, a woman appeared on the doorstep wanting to fill her freezer with fresh fish. And when Norma said no thank you, she walked off in a fury. The next day, Norma had just finished clearing up breakfast, when the doorbell rang and a man tried, very insistently, to come in and talk to her about insurance. She sent him away, only for the doorbell to go an hour later, with another man from the electricity board wanting to read the meter. She let him in and showed him the meter cupboard in the hall. She went back to the kitchen to do her work but then heard such a squawking from the Maharani that she came running to find the meter man in Violet’s bedroom and the Maharani flying around the ceiling. The meter man mumbled, ‘Nice parrot,’ and ran off.

  Benedict appeared out of his office. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Norma, truthfully, because at that moment she was still completely puzzled. But by the next day, when the doorbell had continued ringing practically every hour, she had a pretty good idea.

  So that evening, when Camille, Benedict and Violet were all gathered together in the sitting room, chatting away over cocktails (or apple juice, in Violet’s case), Norma went in to announce her suspicions.

  ‘I don’t wish to worry you, but I think someone is trying to steal the Maharani.’

  Violet gasped and Camille gave a horrified, ‘Mon Dieu! Are you sure?’

  Norma explained her suspicions.

  ‘Why bother to steal her? Benedict asked. ‘I will gladly give her to anyone who asks.’

  Violet and Camille both shot him dirty looks.

  ‘I was only joking,’ he said, taking a large gulp of his cocktail.

  ‘This is very serious. I must ring PC Green,’ Camille said.

  PC Green was a friend of Violet’s whom she had met when she was solving the mystery of the Pearl of the Orient. He often popped round for a chat and to get her advice on cases. He was very nice, but Violet didn’t think he was the best at solving crimes, so announced, ‘I had better go and find Rose.’

  But Rose was out at rehearsals until late that evening, and most of the following day too, so Violet left her a rather bossy note saying:

  PC Green was there when she got back, taking down the details in his notebook, while polishing off a plate of Norma’s delicious flapjacks. He listened to Norma as she told him all about her visitors.

  ‘And the strangest thing is,’ she said, ‘that they all look rather alike, even though they are all ages, and men and women. Almost as if—’

  ‘They were related!’ PC Green jumped in. ‘It’ll be a family of criminals who’ve read about the parrot and tracked her here. Could be dangerous for you. Do you want me to take the bird down the station to protect her? I could put her in one of the cells. No one would get her there.’

  ‘No! Violet said. ‘No, she would hate that – and besides, I promised Rajesh I would look after her.’

  ‘We will just have to be very careful about who we let into the flat,’ Camille said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ PC Green agreed. ‘Maybe you should have a password? I mean you just let me in.’

  ‘But we know you,’ Benedict said, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Good point,’ said PC Green. ‘I can see these criminals won’t be fooling you. Well, best of luck – and let me know if th
ere is anything else I can do.’

  The following day was Saturday, and Violet’s godfather, Johnny, was due to arrive in London to stay with them. He spent most of his time travelling around the world playing in poker championships. It was Johnny who had taught Violet to play poker one hot afternoon when they had all been on holiday together. They had both been surprised at how good she was. Johnny and Violet’s father had been best friends since they were small boys and this seemed to mean that they had to behave like small boys whenever they saw each other.

  Benedict, Violet and Camille met Johnny at his favourite Chinese restaurant for lunch.

  ‘I cannot believe you’ve got this famous parrot living with you!’ Johnny spluttered, over a mouthful of spring roll. ‘I’ve just been in Kuala Lumpur and the newspapers there have been absolutely full of stories of the Maharani’s disappearance and the Maharajah’s will. And all the time she has been living in your bedroom, Violet! Have you got her to tell you the secret of the Maharajah’s fortune yet?’

  Violet shook her head. ‘She hasn’t spoken since she’s been with us.’

  ‘I think the poor bird is very traumatised by the Maharajah’s death,’ Camille said.

  Benedict made a sort of hurrumphing noise. ‘She’s the most, spoilt, pig-headed creature I have ever come across.’

  Johnny laughed. ‘Well, I can’t wait to meet her,’ he said, and then whispered to Violet, ‘I’ve been giving some thought to your poker training. I think you should master Texas Hold ’Em.’

  Camille heard him. ‘Can’t you play chess with Violet?’ she protested. ‘She’s very good at that.’

  ‘But I’m not. Don’t worry, we’ll only be playing for matches. And besides, I’m sure Violet will grow up to be a very respectable and highly successful young lady, but there is no harm in having a little fun now and then. Besides, poker is a very good way to improve your maths and . . . communication skills.’ And he gave Violet a solemn wink and poured Camille a large glass of plum wine.

  They all arrived back home stuffed full of delicious food. While Camille and Benedict made tea, Violet took Johnny to her bedroom to meet the Maharani. But disaster had struck . . . When Violet opened the bedroom door she found the window wide open and the Maharani gone!

  Violet checked under the bed, while Johnny told Camille and Benedict. They appeared in the doorway, looking very worried, and both started talking at once.

  ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Did you leave the window open?’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t?’

  ‘Someone must have broken in!’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘You go and check in the garden, just in case, while I ring PC Green,’ said Camille.

  PC Green got very overexcited and put out a national alert to the all the airports and ferry terminals to be on the lookout for a cockatoo. He promised to come round later to examine the crime scene.

  Meanwhile in the garden, Rose and Art helped Violet search for the Maharani. But there was no trace of the cockatoo. They examined the window and the flowerbeds below it for clues, and got very excited by the discovery of some muddy footprints and a couple of squashed flowers. But, as Rose pointed out, that didn’t really tell them who had taken the Maharani.

  PC Green arrived and, after scratching his head a little, said that he was sure it was the family of criminals that had been bothering Norma. ‘They’ll be miles away by now,’ he added cheerfully. Of course, this only made Violet feel worse.

  The light was fading, so everyone made their way back inside except Violet, who lingered a little longer in the garden, sadly shaking the tin of food in the middle of the lawn, unable to bear the thought of losing the Maharani.

  ‘Bye Violet,’ Art said. ‘I hope you find her.’ And he wandered back to Dee Dee’s flat.

  ‘Come on, Violet,’ her mother called to her. ‘Don’t look so glum, chérie, I’m sure the Maharani will be found. Why doesn’t Rose stay for a sleepover?’

  After a cheering supper of spaghetti bolognese and chocolate mousse, Rose and Violet both had a bath and got into their pyjamas.

  ‘Shall we draw a crime-solving matrix?’ Rose suggested. ‘It worked for finding the Pearl of the Orient, so I’m sure it will work here,’ she added optimistically.

  Violet agreed and they began. They filled in the crime part easily, but then when it came to suspects they were stumped, apart from PC Green’s idea of a criminal family.

  Rose frowned. ‘I really feel like we are missing something.’

  ‘I agree, but what?’ Violet asked with a sigh.

  ‘Time for bed, girls,’ Benedict announced, appearing in the doorway. ‘Lights out now and no more chatting.’

  For once they did as they were told and were both quickly fast asleep.

  It was about eleven o’clock that night, when Violet woke up with a jolt. There was a noise – like heavy rain or hail hitting her window. But it wasn’t. Someone was throwing stones at it.

  She rushed over to see Art in the garden below, just visible in the pearly moonlight. She pushed up her window.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Violet hissed down to him.

  ‘I know where she is! The Maharani, I’ve found her!’

  Violet lost no time. She woke Rose and they pulled on their clothes.

  ‘Can you manage to climb down?’ Violet asked Rose. Rose looked uncertain.

  ‘I’m not very good at climbing, and especially not down drainpipes.’

  ‘You will be fine,’ Violet said, deciding for Rose. ‘Don’t worry about the drainpipe. I’ll hold on tight to your arms and you can lower yourself down. Then Art can help you at the bottom.’

  It was all rather clumsy and embarrassing but Rose reached the bottom safely.

  Violet shinned down the drainpipe in a flash.

  ‘Wow,’ Art said. ‘You are good at climbing.’

  Violet blushed a little at the compliment, as the girls followed him across the garden. He led them through Dee Dee’s flat, which was silent except for the faint sound of the old lady’s gentle snoring, and opened the door of what Violet had always assumed to be a cupboard. It was, in fact, an old flight of stairs up to the Du Plicitouses’ house which was above Dee Dee’s basement flat. The three of them crept up it until they reached the locked door at the top. Art produced a piece of wire and proceeded to ease the lock until it clicked and he could open the door.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Violet asked, genuinely impressed.

  ‘From my dad,’ Art replied simply. ‘Better not tell that policeman friend of yours,’ he added with a smirk.

  Violet thought of all the things that her father had taught her – how to bowl overarm in cricket, how to draw a straight line without a ruler – and frankly they didn’t measure up. How incredibly useful would it be to know how to open a locked door with a piece of wire? That was a proper life skill, especially for someone as curious as Violet.

  Once inside, they immediately heard a squawking sound coming from the second floor. Art put his finger to his lips, and together the three of them crept through the house, as silent as cats, towards the noise.

  As they reached the upstairs landing, Violet noticed a bedroom door that was open a little, enabling them to peak through.

  The Maharani was squawking and flapping around the ceiling, while Chiang-Mai, the Du Plicitouses’ Siamese cat stood up on his hind legs, hissing and growling furiously. Since the animals were alone, Violet, Rose and Art walked into the room. The Maharani gave a loud squawk of relief and landed on Violet’s shoulder. Rose tried to pick up Chiang-Mai to comfort him, but he hissed at her and ran under the bed.

  The bedroom looked extraordinary; like a fancy dress shop. All the walls were hung with an amazing variety of different outfits, from men’s suits to flowery dresses, anoraks to old ladies’ tweed coats, tracksuits to tuxedos. The dressing table was crowded with trays of make-up, false noses, jewellery, spectacles and mannequin heads wearing different wigs, m
oustaches and beards.

  How very strange, thought Rose. What on earth could someone be doing with all these clothes?

  But Violet was thinking about what Norma had said. All the people who came to the door were all in different clothes but somehow looked the same. An idea was forming in her head . . .

  ‘What if . . . ’ Violet began, ‘what if all the people were not a family, but the same person dressed up in different disguises?’

  Both Art and Rose looked at her with great admiration.

  ‘But who could that be?’ Rose asked.

  ‘One of the criminals who tried to kidnap the Maharani in India?’ Art suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Violet said, but somehow that didn’t feel like the right answer. She was just wondering to herself why it didn’t when they heard footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Hide!’ Art instructed and they all desperately looked around for suitable places – but it was too late. The door opened, revealing a lady with long blonde hair and huge sunglasses, carrying a large, greasy, newspaper package of what looked and smelled like fish and chips.

  Violet might not have recognised the lady, had she not whipped off her sunglasses and said furiously to her, ‘Violet! How did you get in?’

  ‘Angel,’ Violet stammered. ‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here?’ And then it dawned on her. Of course! Who would have more reason to steal the Maharani?

  ‘It was you,’ Violet cried, ‘dressing up as all those different people, trying to steal the Maharani!’