No, I’d have to follow it. There was no alternative. As I pedalled for all I was worth, two thoughts struck me:
1. I was glad that my suspicions about Tim had been wrong. It would have been very unpleasant to have had to reveal to Heather and her mum that there was a thief in their house after all.
2. I was going to have to search through a load of recycling to find this bloomin’ clasp! The things we detectives have to do!
I managed to keep pace with the lorry – just – until it headed for the recycling plant. I was finally able to get ahead of it, and was waiting when it rumbled to a halt outside the gates of the plant, its brakes hissing.
‘Oi!’ called the driver. ‘You’re not allowed past those gates, lad!’
I launched into my prepared speech. I told the workmen that I’d accidentally thrown away a treasured newspaper clipping about how I’d rescued a dog called Humphrey from drowning. (I didn’t want to tell them the truth, just in case one of them got greedy, sent me packing, and started looking for a valuable item of jewellery for themselves.) ‘Please, mister, please please please, oh please, I know where it is, it’s in that bin there, mister, please.’
And so on, and so on. The workmen looked at each other as if to say ‘This boy is a complete idiot’.
‘Gooo on, then,’ said the driver. ‘Empty the bin over on the grass there. And put every last bit back afterwards. Right?’
‘Right! No problem! Thank you!’ I said, beaming.
‘Leave the bin by the gate when you’ve finished. And don’t be such a complete idiot in future. I’m only letting you do this because of you being brave and saving that poor dog.’
‘Understood.’
Once the gates had been opened and the lorry had thundered through, I emptied out the contents of the green bin.
The clasp was here somewhere, underneath all that old newspaper, tattered junk mail, torn-out pages and shredded paper. I wished I’d brought some gardening gloves from my shed.
I set to work. I carefully turned over each and every piece of junk, and then set it aside, making absolutely sure that nothing was missed, and that the clasp couldn’t possibly stay undiscovered. After about half an hour, my hard work and effort were rewarded . . . with precisely nothing.
The clasp wasn’t there. It had never been in that recycling box in the first place. I had been totally wrong.
A Page From My Notebook
Fact: The clasp wasn’t lost in the recycling box. It also cannot be found anywhere else in the house.
Conclusion: It MUST have been stolen after all.
Fact: Tim is the only one on my suspect list.
Awkward questions: How do I tell Heather?
How do I get proof?
How do I get the clasp back?
What if Tim’s already sold it?
What will Mrs Pither do when she finds out?
CHAPTER FIVE
ONCE I’D FINISHED GRUMBLING, griping and putting everything back into the big green bin, I did three things:
1. I cycled back to Muddy’s, returned the bike, and washed all the newsprint stains off my hands.
2. I went back to Heather’s, told her that I’d been wrong about the recycling box, and said my investigations would continue.
3. I went to Izzy’s, to see if she had any info for me.
‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘That clasp is . . . Are you listening?’
I was distracted for a moment. Since my last visit, Izzy had hung one of those glittery mirrorball-things from her ceiling. The twinkling reflections made her room look even more colourful and girly than usual.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m listening.’
‘That clasp could well be pretty valuable,’ said Izzy. She consulted a set of print-outs and adjusted her glasses on her nose. ‘Hideous, but valuable. From my research, I’d guess it’s worth several thousand pounds. Items very similar to the one you described were made in the early twentieth century.’
‘So,’ I said, rubbing my chin in detective style, ‘it would be well worth stealing. Which is unfortunate.’
‘Why?’ said Izzy. ‘Are you thinking Heather really did steal it?’
‘Absolutely definitely not!’ I cried.
‘Ooooh,’ said Izzy, flashing her eyebrows up and down. ‘I only asked! Could the great Saxby Smart be about to get a girlfriend?’
‘Absolutely definitely not!’ I cried again. I gave her a hard stare. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a clear suspect, but I’m hoping I’m wrong on that score too. I need more proof, or a whole new theory to go on. What about the Mrs Pither insurance angle?’
‘Well,’ said Izzy, checking through her print-outs again, ‘it’s not easy to say for sure, but from various old newspaper cuttings I’d say that Mrs Pither was seriously rich.’
‘Really? And she goes around in that tatty old coat. She must make Scrooge look like a money-wasting big spender!’
‘I’m afraid it knocks your idea about an insurance scam on the head,’ said Izzy.
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘If she’s well off, she’d have no need to pretend the clasp was lost in order to get hold of insurance money. Which points even more in the direction of a simple theft.’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Izzy.
A further thought occurred to me. ‘The thief would want to get rid of it quickly. The longer he left it, the more chance of being discovered with it.’
Izzy snapped her fingers. ‘I’m one step ahead of you, as always! I’ve already checked all the internet sales and auction sites. Nothing.’
‘He might well want to sell it on the quiet,’ I said. ‘Keep an eye on those websites, I’ll check around town. Heeey, hang on, what d’you mean “as always” . . .?’
Once I got back home, I went through the phone book and made a list of all the local shops and dealers who might trade in jewellery. I spent the rest of the day trudging around the town centre, notebook in hand, asking at one place after another if they’d been offered anything like the clasp. Nobody had. I also asked if they knew of any other dealers who might be able to help me, who weren’t already on my list. Nobody did.
At each shop, I used a cover story: I said that my dotty old aunt had given the clasp to a friend to sell for her by mistake. Honestly, she’s soooo dotty, that aunt of mine! I said it was her necklace she meant to sell, and she was willing to buy the clasp back, if anyone had it. I needed to use a cover story because if any of the dealers had got the clasp, they might clam up if I started saying I was looking for something stolen. Or even if I said it was just plain lost – it could have been picked up in the street and sold by anyone.
My lack of success left me even more confused and worried than I’d been before. I retreated to my shed, and sat in my Thinking Chair, feet up on the desk, staring out of the shed window. It had started raining, yet again, and droplets were thumping against the shed’s wooden roof. I made a few notes:
Reasons for Thinking that Tim Did It:
• He had the opportunity. Mrs Pither’s coat, plus clasp, were hanging up in the hall all that time. He was at home. Nobody checked up on him during that time.
• He has the motive. He could definitely do with the money!
Evidence: He had that book with him. He was checking on prices, etc.
Reasons for Not Thinking that Tim Did It:
• The clasp hasn’t been sold. If Tim needs the money, and doesn’t want to be found out, he’d surely have sold it as soon as he could. It wouldn’t make any sense NOT to sell it.
• In theory, Heather COULD still have done it. Although, she doesn’t have the money motive for stealing the clasp that Tim does. Unless I’m missing something . . .
Whichever way I looked at it, I had a big problem. It was teatime on Saturday and Mrs Pither would be turning up at Heather’s house to cause trouble on Monday morning. In the meantime, as the old joke goes, I was like a man with no toilet. I had nothing to go on.
What could I do to prove Tim�
��s guilt? Or his innocence? If he still had the clasp – which seemed likely, since it hadn’t been sold – then the only thing to do would be to go through his room! And there was no way I could do that. I couldn’t march into Heather’s house, accuse her brother of being a thief, and ransack his bedroom. Could I?
But, if I was right, I’d have revealed the culprit, with the dreadful side effect, in doing so, of causing a great deal of heartache for Heather’s family.
But, if I accused him and was wrong, my reputation as a detective would be in tatters. And Tim wouldn’t exactly be my greatest fan, either. (Besides, Tim could have hidden that clasp in any number of locations – it wouldn’t have to be in his room. If that was the case, I’d be back to square one, and I’d have alerted him to my suspicions.)
Whether I was right or wrong, there was trouble ahead. I sat back in my Thinking Chair, wondering if there was something I’d not considered. Some little detail that would give me a few answers. Some fact about the events in Heather’s house which would settle the question of Tim’s involvement once and for all . . .
I almost leapt out of my Thinking Chair. Of course! There were three somethings which gave me the answer at last:
1. Something about the clasp itself.
2. Something about Mrs Pither’s penny-pinching habits.
3. Something about Mrs Pither herself, that I’d noticed during my visit to Heather’s house.
Tim was innocent. And so was Heather. I had the solution to the mystery!
Think back carefully . . .
CHAPTER SIX
MONDAY MORNING, NINE-THIRTY A.M. I was at Heather’s house. (Teacher Training day!)
Tim was at the college, Heather was sitting nervously on the sofa in the living room, and Heather’s mum was pacing about, from hall to kitchen to living room to hall and back again.
‘Are you sure about this, Saxby?’ she said, as she passed through the living room on her way back to the kitchen.
‘I promise you, I’m never wrong,’ I called after her. Her slippers slop-flopped up and down the hall.
‘You’d better not be,’ said Heather quietly. ‘Because if you are, I’m in dead trouble in precisely . . .’ She checked her watch. ‘ . . . twenty-eight minutes.’
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Got any more of those biccies?’
Twenty minutes later, a car drew up outside, and there was a ratt-ratt-ratt-ratt at the door. Heather pulled her legs up under her on the sofa and gulped. After a few seconds, Mrs Pither came swanning into the room and sat herself down in an armchair. I was pleased to see that she hadn’t bothered to hang her ratty old green coat up in the hall. Heather’s mum bustled in after her.
‘Now then,’ announced Mrs Pither. ‘I want my clasp returned, immediately and undamaged. I’m a very generous and understanding person, so I’m prepared to involve the authorities only to the minimum extent in this case, provided my clasp is placed in my hands right now. And before you ask, no, I will not accept a cheque for its value. It is an heirloom. Its value is immaterial.’
Her baleful gaze swept across the room, like a leopard sizing up its prey. ‘Well?’ she barked.
‘Eileen,’ said Heather’s mum, after a deep breath. ‘We’ve been patient over this, because we realise it must be distressing to —’
‘Are you claiming that you don’t have my clasp?’ cried Mrs Pither.
‘Of course not!’ cried Heather. ‘We’ve been telling you that all along!’
Heather’s mum held a hand out towards Heather, as if to say ‘It’s OK, don’t lose your temper.’
‘Saxby here says he knows what happened to your clasp,’ said Heather’s mum.
Mrs Pither looked at me. I shuddered. ‘The boy with the ridiculous name?’ she piped. ‘You stole it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I can, as you put it, place it in your hands.’
‘Then do so, you nasty little boy!’
‘But first,’ I said, being really, really calm, ‘I think it’s only fair if you apologise to Heather.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ piped Mrs Pither.
‘Surely, if I can prove that Heather had nothing to do with the disappearance of your clasp, the least she deserves is an apology?’
Mrs Pither looked as if she’d just chewed up half a dozen hot chillis and was trying not to show it. I decided it was time for a full explanation.
‘This case rests on a couple of small details. Details which might have been overlooked, if not for a third small detail. Like you, Mrs Pither, I assumed that the clasp had been stolen, because it was clearly nowhere to be found. At first, I thought the culprit was Tim, for various reasons we don’t need to go into at the moment.
‘However, once I’d worked out the truth, I could also guess what Tim was up to. He was doing exactly what I was doing, and investigating the matter. He was finding out about the clasp because he’d wondered, like I’d wondered, if Mrs Pither was trying to pull off some sort of insurance scam.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ repeated Mrs Pither.
‘But I’m only making a guess there. I guess maybe Tim reached a dead end in his enquiries,’ I continued, ‘because he hasn’t been around to notice these three details I mentioned.
‘Detail number one: the clasp itself. Heather described it to me as having a big, sharp pin-type clip at the back. In other words, it’s something that can give you a bit of a jab when it’s undone.
‘Detail number two: Mrs Pither’s coat. Now, Mrs Pither is clearly a lady who is careful with her cash. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But that coat of hers has, if you’ll pardon my saying so, seen better days.
‘Detail number three: the other day, when I was here, Mrs Pither complained about her ankle. She said it had been bothering her, and she kept rubbing it. She thought it had been bitten by insects. She even made delicate, polite enquiries about whether that sofa there had fleas.
‘There’s nothing unusual about someone getting a few insect bites, is there? Except that it’s hardly insect weather, is it? It’s been wet, cold and miserable for days. And why only bite her on one ankle?
‘Taking into account detail number one and detail number two, this third detail solved the puzzle for me. The clasp was not stolen. The clasp was not even lost, not strictly speaking. Why? Because, while the coat was hung up in the hall out there, the clasp dropped off. Perhaps Mrs Pither hadn’t done it up correctly, it’s impossible to say.
‘It didn’t fall on to the floor, or into the recycling box. It fell into the lining of Mrs Pither’s old and tatty coat. That coat is frayed at the edges, and clearly threadbare. An object with a sharp point on it could easily get hooked on to something so well-worn. It didn’t get hooked on the outside of the coat, or it would have been spotted. So it must have got hooked on the inside.
‘And the clasp was, of course, still undone. Its point was sticking out, and poking through the material of the coat. We can even, er, “pinpoint” the clasp. Mrs Pither never goes anywhere without that coat, and as she walked the point of the clasp nicked her ankle. She thought she’d been bitten. Now, if I’m right, Mrs Pither, you’ve had the clasp yourself all along. Could you stand up, please, and raise the left hem of your coat?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ piped Mrs Pither. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life! As if I would be so careless as to leave a valuable clasp undone! As if I can’t tell flea bites from the scratching of a pin!’
‘If you could just go along with Saxby, for a moment?’ said Heather’s mum. ‘We’ll soon see if he’s right or not.’
Mrs Pither snorted crossly, and stood up. She bent, took the hem of her coat between thumb and forefinger and lifted it up, so that its bottom edge was upside down.
Nothing.
‘Give it a little shake,’ I said.
She gave it a little shake.
Clunk!
The clasp hit the wooden floor, its pin wagging like a dog’s tail. It was indeed an ugly piece of jewellery. Tiny gems glittered along
the fingers of two silver hands, one gripped around the other.
Mrs Pither stood there, staring at it. Heather and her mum stifled their laughter. I cleared my throat.
‘So, umm, Mrs Pither,’ I said. ‘Was there something you were going to say to Heather?’
Mrs Pither suddenly snatched the clasp off the floor and pocketed it. She glared at the three of us, stony-faced, as if we’d just caught her washing her undies in the sink. She looked at Heather.
‘I . . .’ There was quite a long pause. ‘ . . . Owe you an apology,’ she barked at last.
She marched out of the room, and out of the house. Then she realised she’d organised her nephew to go to the post office in the car, and marched back inside while she phoned him.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Heather and her mum took it in turns to hug me. Tim returned home a little later, and Heather made him drop his sandwich in surprise when she asked him how his investigation was going.
I returned to my garden shed to make a few notes. I sat back in my Thinking Chair, my feet up on the desk, and felt pretty good about things in general.
Case closed.
Curse of the Ancient Mask Page 8