Violet and the Hidden Treasure

by Harriet Whitehorn

  Angel shrugged. ‘I am a brilliant actress, you know,’ she replied.

  ‘But how did you know that I had the Maharani?’ Violet asked, genuinely amazed.

  ‘Violet, you are not a good actress. You must think I am stupid if you thought I’d fall for your nonsense about having your own cockatoo, who happened to sound exactly like the Maharani.’

  ‘Oh,’ Violet replied, as there didn’t seem much else to say.

  ‘So now,’ Angel continued, ‘I have merely taken back what is mine. Rajesh stole the Maharani from me and—’

  But she was interrupted by Ernest popping his head around the door. ‘Very urgent phone call for you, madam,’ he announced.

  Angel hesitated. She was waiting for an important phone call from a director about an audition. ‘Don’t you dare move,’ she growled at the children. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She put down her fish and chips, stomping past Ernest and down the stairs to the telephone.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask you three what you are doing out of bed and how you got in here,’ remarked Ernest. ‘Now I’m guessing this is your missing bird? And she will come if you call her?’

  Violet nodded as the Maharani came and perched on her shoulder.

  ‘Right then,’ Ernest said briskly and pushed up one of the sash windows. ‘Put her out in the garden and then you can get her later.’

  Violet hesitated.

  ‘Trust me, Violet,’ Ernest said. ‘It’s your best chance of getting her back.’

  Reluctantly, Violet took the Maharani over to the window and flung her out.

  Just at that moment, Angel returned. ‘There was no one there,’ she complained to Ernest. And then, when she saw the open window, she screamed at all of them, ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’

  Ernest played dumb. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, it was me. I thought the parrot must have got trapped in here somehow, so I opened the window to chase it out. Chiang-Mai was very upset. I’m very sorry if that was the wrong thing, I’ll try to get it back.’ He leaned out of the window and called in a half-hearted way: ‘Here, parroty parroty . . . No, I’m sorry, it’s gone. I’m sure she’ll come back in the morning. Can I get you any tea?’

  ‘No I don’t want TEA!’ she thundered. ‘That’s an incredibly valuable bird! The Count will hear of this!’

  Ernest regarded her steadily. ‘The Count and Countess hate parrots and I’m most sure they would not want one in their house, upsetting Chiang-Mai,’ he replied coldly.

  ‘Oh, get out, all of you!’ she shouted rudely.

  ‘Good night,’ Ernest said politely, while the others dived through the door.

  In the dark, silent garden, Violet called softly for the Maharani. Seconds later, the bird swooped down on to her shoulder. The Maharani didn’t actually say thank you, but Violet could tell by the way she was nuzzling her neck that she was extremely relieved to be rescued.

  From the window above, Angel watched, seething with rage. The parcel of fish and chips was wafting delicious smells at her. I must eat, she told herself, to keep my strength up; so she sat down on her bed and began to munch her way through the contents. She was going to have to be much, much cleverer, she decided. She was an amazing actress after all, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  The following day, to celebrate the Maharani’s rescue, Violet, Rose and Art were allowed to go to the nearby sweet shop on their own as a special treat.

  As they walked past the Du Plicitouses’ old house on the way, who should burst out the front door but Angel. She was dressed in a huge squashy fur coat with sunglasses perched on her head and a suitcase in each hand. Ignoring Rose and Art, she climbed down the stairs, calling, in her best dramatic voice: ‘Violet, darling, what a coincidence! I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving for India this minute and to say how sorry I was for kidnapping the Maharani. It was truly a terrible thing to do and I can see now that I just wanted to hang on to some tiny reminder of my dear, beloved uncle.’ And here she made a funny face as if she were trying to stop herself crying. ‘I was so utterly devastated by his death.’ She produced a tissue at this point and dabbed her dry eyes. Then she took a very deep breath. ‘Anyway, I know I need to be brave and move on. So I have decided that I in order to get over my immense grief I must follow my dream. By an amazing coincidence, a top top film director rang this morning and begged me to be the leading lady in a huge, huge film. So wish me luck!’

  ‘Good luck,’ Violet muttered.

  A taxi drew up beside them but Angel hadn’t quite finished.

  ‘And I know it’s absolutely the best thing for the Maharani. She is so much safer with you. All those gangs of dangerous criminals probably won’t even think of looking here.’ Angel looked around the street, as if the gangs might be lurking behind cars, ready to pounce. She gave a little shudder. ‘Terrifying – and such a huge responsibility. Awful. So I’m so pleased you are prepared to do it. Thank you. Anyway, mustn’t keep the cab waiting. Bye bye.’

  And she loaded her suitcases into the taxi, as a mystified Violet replied, ‘Okay, bye then.’

  ‘Bye then,’ Rose and Art echoed as they watched the taxi rumble off, leaving the trio standing on the pavement. They all found themselves looking anxiously up and down the street too. But it was entirely empty so they hurried off to the sweet shop, before any scary, dangerous criminals could appear.

  February turned into March and those familiar signs of spring appeared: daffodils in the park and Easter eggs in the shops. Rose was incredibly busy rehearsing for Sleeping Beauty which was at the end of March, on Good Friday. And poor Art was still miserable at school and not doing very well, so Dee Dee (or rather Lavinia) had found him a tutor with whom he had spend a couple of hours after school every day. The only good thing was that Dee Dee was taking him to Jamaica at Easter to meet up with his mother, so he was very excited about that.

  Therefore Violet spent a lot of her spare time either trying to persuade the Maharani to talk or playing poker with Johnny. She had mastered Texas Hold ’Em, and Johnny was now teaching her all he knew about the art of bluffing, as he called it. It was crucial, he explained, for poker, to pretend to have rubbish cards when in fact you have fantastic ones, and vice versa.

  ‘It’s all about the bluff, Violet,’ he advised. ‘It’s all about the bluff.’

  Norma was busy packing, as it was the time of year that she went home to visit her mother and father. While Norma was away visiting her parents, one of her nieces was to stand in for her, keeping the house tippity-top and collecting Violet from school. Her name was Jo, and Violet liked her because she bought her sweets and crisps after school every day, and let her do whatever she wanted. Camille and Benedict were less keen.

  The day after Norma left, Violet returned home from school to find Johnny and her father drinking tea and eating walnut cake in the kitchen with Rajesh. The Maharani was sitting on Rajesh’s shoulder. He had swapped his normal outfit for a three-piece tweed suit and a tweed cap.

  ‘I have just been in the countryside visiting the Maharajah’s old school friend, Colonel Smyth-Buntington,’ Rajesh explained. ‘He lives with his son and daughter-in-law, Simon and Fiona, in the beautiful Wiltshire countryside.

  ‘And the good news is,’ Benedict said, ‘that Fiona loves birds and would be honoured to have the Maharani. She already has a large collection of budgerigars.’ At the word ‘budgerigar’ there was a sort of snorting, squawking noise from the Maharani, and with a furious look she went and perched herself on top of the fridge, with her back to them all.

  ‘I don’t think the Maharani thinks it’s good news,’ said Violet sadly. ‘She doesn’t look very happy about it.’

  ‘The birds are kept in the most beautiful aviary,’ Rajesh said, trying to placate the Maharani, who let out another snorting noise and refused to turn around. ‘And it will be safe. No one will ever think of looking there.’

  ‘So will all the Maharajah’s money go to the government?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Yes, it seems
likely,’ Rajesh sighed. ‘There are still a couple of weeks left before the end of the month, but there is no reason to think that the Maharani will suddenly start talking.’

  ‘But what will happen to the orphans?’ Violet asked anxiously.

  ‘Well,’ Rajesh said, ‘that is not known. But unless they can find some money from elsewhere, the orphanage will probably close and the children will be split up. Hari is very worried.’

  They were all silent for a moment.

  ‘It’s a great shame that the parrot won’t talk,’ Johnny said.

  ‘She’s a cockatoo,’ said Violet, but quietly, because she was thinking the same thing.

  Rajesh had to leave shortly after. He would return the next day, he explained, to collect the Maharani and take her to Wiltshire, and he thanked them all again profusely for looking after the Maharani so kindly.

  The next morning, Violet said a tearful goodbye to the Maharani before she went to school. The cockatoo regarded Violet with large, sad, accusing eyes.

  ‘Remember, Jo,’ Camille told Norma’s niece, who was being left in charge of the Maharani before Rajesh came to collect her, ‘you should only hand her over to a gentleman in a tweed suit called Rajesh.’ Jo assured her that all would be fine.

  After school, Jo picked up Violet and took her to the climbing wall and then her synchronised swimming class, so they didn’t get home until it was nearly suppertime. A delighted Pudding greeted them at the door, but the house felt very empty without the Maharani.

  She was just about to start her homework when the doorbell rang. Jo was busy cooking something called a Pot Noodle for their supper, so Violet answered the door.

  It was Rajesh.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, surprised to see him. ‘Is something wrong? Where’s the Maharani?’

  Rajesh looked puzzled. ‘I am here to collect her, as we discussed. I am sorry I am a little later than I thought, but I hope that isn’t a problem.’

  Jo came to the door, looking concerned. A man came,’ she said, ‘at about eleven, wearing a tweed suit – like your mother said he would, Violet. The parrot didn’t seem to want to go – she made a terrible racket, but I thought that was just because she liked it here . . . I’m really sorry,’ she added looking very worried.

  ‘Oh dear, that is very serious,’ Rajesh said heavily.

  ‘Angel has gone back to India, so it can’t be her this time. Do you think it’s one of the criminal gangs that threatened to take her before?’ Violet asked. She could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. But it isn’t your fault,’ Rajesh said kindly. ‘It isn’t anybody’s fault.’

  Violet nodded, knowing if she said anything she would cry.

  ‘But where would they have taken her?’ Jo asked.

  Rajesh shrugged. ‘Anywhere. They could have taken her absolutely anywhere.’ He sighed.

  Somehow the newspapers got hold of the story and over the next few days there were alleged sightings of the Maharani all over the world – but none turned out to be real. Angel made the most of the publicity, talking to the newspapers almost every day, saying what a tragedy it was and that she was doing all she could to help the police with their enquiries, but that it seemed likely to her that a criminal gang had stolen the cockatoo. She also sent Violet another very friendly postcard saying how sorry she was that the Maharani had been stolen by the criminal gang, and how nice and hot it was in India, and that she hoped Violet would have a very happy Easter.

  Violet was terribly upset and everyone tried to cheer her up.

  A few days after the Maharani’s disappearance, Dee Dee took one look at Violet’s glum face and announced, ‘I think I shall throw a little party. An Easter egg hunt and a tea before Rose’s ballet show on Friday. Artie and I fly out to Jamaica the next day, so that will be perfect. I will telephone Lavinia and have her organise it all.’

  Lavinia excelled herself. There was a magnificent Easter egg hunt in the garden and, as it was a lovely, sunny afternoon, a delicious picnic tea was laid out with piles of hot cross buns, Easter cupcakes, chocolate crispy birds’ nests, a scrumptious-looking, canary-yellow Simnel cake and, of course, piles of French Fancies. What could have been more perfect?

  But, despite it all, everyone was feeling a little lacklustre.

  Dee Dee was fretting about leaving Lullabelle (even though she was going to the most expensive, luxury cattery you could imagine, where each cat had their own butler), whether she had packed the right clothes and whether they would get to the airport on time.

  Rose was understandably very nervous about her show and was even more quiet than usual.

  And Violet? Well, she was still feeling upset about the Maharani, but she tried to make an effort to please Dee Dee.

  The high point was when Art shyly presented the girls with a present each, ‘because you’ve been so kind about school and everything,’ he explained.

  So, rather than dwelling on the rather un-partyish party, let us move on to what happened next – which was that PC Green turned up, delivering an Easter egg to Dee Dee.

  ‘Hello, Violet, Rose – any news on the parrot? We’re busy following up that lead Angel gave us.’

  Violet shook her head sadly.

  And then, Rose’s mother arrived in the most terrible fluster. Her car wouldn’t start and she didn’t know how they would get to the show on time. The colour drained from Rose’s face.

  ‘An emergency!’ PC Green exclaimed, obviously delighted. ‘Never fear, Rose, I have the squad car. We’ll put on all the sirens and get you there in just a jiffy.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea. You take the children,’ Dee Dee instructed. ‘Rose’s mother and I will follow in a taxi as soon as we can get one.’

  Outside, PC Green stood on the pavement for a moment, staring up and down the street. He had a knack of losing his car.

  ‘Look, you’ve parked it there,’ Violet said, pointing just across the street.

  ‘Oh, yes, silly me,’ PC Green sighed and they all got in the car. ‘Sirens and lights on! Buckle up! You’re in for a bumpy ride, folks!’ he said, because he thought it sounded like something a policeman might say in a film.

  Nee-nah! Nee-nah! blared the sirens as they weaved through the traffic towards the West End of London where the theatre was. Nee-nah! Nee-nah!

  Violet stared out of the window absent-mindedly. They were speeding their way down one of the backstreets near the theatre when they passed the magnificent entrance of Hardy’s, the grandest hotel in London. Violet saw a familiar figure in a fur coat.

  ‘Stop!’ Violet cried, and the others looked at her in amazement.

  ‘Why?’ the three of them chorused.

  ‘I just saw Angel, going into Hardy’s. She told us all she was going back to India, didn’t she?’ Rose and Art nodded. ‘And she just sent me a postcard. What’s she doing back in England?’

  ‘That is strange, I agree,’ said PC Green. ‘She has been incredibly helpful to us though, pointing us in the direction of the criminal gang who might have the Maharani.’

  ‘Why would Angel pretend to be in India but really be here?’ Rose asked.

  ‘And why is she being so helpful to the police?’ Art wondered.

  ‘I guess she’s changed. People do,’ PC Green said, pensively.

  ‘But perhaps she hasn’t,’ Art continued. ‘Maybe she hasn’t changed and just wants us to think she has. Perhaps she’s just—’

  ‘Bluffing!’ Violet roared, interrupting Art. ‘Like Johnny has been teaching me to do in poker. What if she’s just been pretending to have bad cards, when she’s got great ones?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Art said.

  PC Green was looking mystified.

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. And aren’t you too young to know about poker? In fact, I’m not sure that it’s legal for you to know about gambling . . .’

  ‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ Violet said hastily. ‘PC Green, what we are all trying to say is that we thi
nk that Angel has got the Maharani. That’s why she’s been pretending so hard that she hasn’t.’

  ‘Oooohhhhhh.’ PC Green nodded thoughtfully. ‘That would be very clever indeed. Rose, how are we doing for time?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be at the theatre in five minutes and I really really have to be there in ten minutes,’ Rose replied.

  ‘Okey-dokey. Well, since the theatre is just round the corner, I think there is time for a very quick investigate.’ And he slammed on the brakes and reversed at high speed into the forecourt in front of the entrance.

  They all jumped out of the car and, ignoring the doorman who tried to descend on them, they rushed up the front stairs and into the marble lobby. They dashed past the towering Easter egg display to the main desk.

  ‘Excuse me, my good man,’ – PC Green addressed the most senior-looking concierge behind the desk, flashing his police badge. ‘Do you by any chance have a lady staying here with a parrot – I mean, a cockatoo?’

  The concierge’s name was Derek. He silently regarded PC Green over the top of his half-moon spectacles for a long moment before replying, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I am not at liberty to answer that question. You must understand that our guests’ privacy is everything.’

  ‘I don’t think you can have looked at my badge properly. I am a policeman,’ PC Green replied pompously.

  ‘Yes, I did realise. And from your uniform, I see you are rather a junior one. I don’t happen to have a badge, but I can tell you that I am the chief concierge of this establishment. It is probably the finest hotel in the whole world and we pride ourselves on our ability to protect our guests’ privacy. And keeping a cockatoo in a bedroom is not, as far as I’m aware, a criminal matter. So I would kindly ask you and your friends to leave if you have no further business here.’