The Case of the Missing Treasure

by Robin Stevens

  ‘We are children,’ said George. ‘Technically, at least.’

  ‘We are detectives!’ I said. ‘And I know that he’s been working on this mystery. It’s simply not fair of him to keep us in the dark. It’ll serve him right if we are the ones who solve it. Oh, come on, I’ll tell you my plan over tea.’

  There was an old woman feeding the pigeons on the museum steps, her hair down around her shoulders. Alexander gave her tuppence, and Hazel glowed up at him most infuriatingly.

  ‘Really, why does everyone have to be obsessed with love? It’s a dreadful distraction,’ I muttered to George while the other two walked ahead.

  ‘I look forward to you falling in love,’ said George. ‘I only hope I shall be there to see it.’

  ‘I never shall,’ I said, and I meant it then. Love is a silly emotion, and does not help a detective do their job. I know that Hazel sometimes has wondered whether I am in love with George, but of course she is quite wrong. He’s all right as far as boys go, very tall and clean, but I have discovered that when I look at boys I cannot see what Hazel does.

  ‘So, what are we going to do?’ asked Alexander once we were all sitting around the tea-room table with our ices in front of us. The sun was shining outside, and in any other circumstances it would have been a lovely birthday treat. But I was so excited and upset that I could hardly eat mine, although I knew this went quite against the Detective Society rule of never saying no to tea.

  ‘We’re going to break into the British Museum this evening and discover who the thief is,’ I said. ‘What else could we possibly do?’

  ‘It’s awfully dangerous, though!’ said Hazel.

  ‘The only things worth doing are dangerous ones, Hazel. Don’t you know that by now?’ I asked. Anyone would think that Hazel was new to the Detective Society.

  Hazel blushed and said, ‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t do it! Only – we ought to be sure it’s worth it.’

  ‘Of course it is, and of course we should do it,’ said George. ‘It’s a brilliant adventure, and Alex and I haven’t had many of those lately. Alex, what do you say?’

  ‘Daisy’s right,’ said Alexander. ‘And – look, we don’t have to actually surprise the thief, do we? Just watch and find out who he is. So it’s not really dangerous. We can tell the police once we know his identity.’

  ‘And the identity of the person in the British Museum helping him,’ agreed Hazel. ‘A keeper could unlock the displays, and a guard would have keys and a reason to be about late at night. It must be one of them – it has to be an inside job!’

  ‘Quite right,’ I said.

  ‘Detectives, I’ve had an idea,’ said George, eyes widening. ‘I know where we can hide for the meeting – somewhere we’ll never be discovered.’

  ‘No,’ said Hazel, very forcefully for her. ‘No! I know what you’re going to say, and – absolutely not!’

  ‘Where?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Inside the mummy cases,’ said Hazel. ‘That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it, George?’

  It was an absolutely brilliant idea, and I was furious that I hadn’t thought of it first.

  ‘But they’ve got bodies in them!’ cried Alexander, looking disgusted and delighted all at once.

  ‘Hazel’s quite right. And no, most of them haven’t any more,’ said George. ‘Grave robbers took them out years before they ever arrived in London. If we get into the cases, no one will notice we’re there!’

  ‘This is the most horrid idea I have ever heard,’ I said. ‘We absolutely must do it. Well done, George!’

  Hazel looked rather ill, and so did Alexander. They are both much too tender-hearted. But George’s eyes were sparkling, and I could feel myself beaming back at him. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now, how do we go about breaking into the museum?’

  ‘There must be floorplans in the Reading Room,’ said George. ‘You girls go home—’

  ‘You are not to have adventures without us!’ I cried. ‘This is our mystery!’

  ‘You girls go home,’ continued George, ‘and see if you can have a look at your uncle’s files.’ He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘You think he’s been working on the case. Well then, see if he’s found out anything that might be useful to us. We’ll look at the plans. Then we’ll go back to my house, pretend to go to bed as normal and meet you at nine p.m. at the edge of Russell Square.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I suppose that isn’t a bad idea.’

  In fact, I could feel myself becoming enthusiastic. This sounded like a proper spy mission.

  ‘All right,’ said George, nodding. ‘Now, go home and pretend to be ordinary.’

  ‘I am never ordinary,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height. ‘But I shall be ordinarily brilliant.’

  The rest of that day was dreadfully dull, but at the same time rather lovely, like Christmas Eve, when you know you have really splendid presents waiting for you the next morning.

  Hazel distracted Bridget by asking her to make tea, and then we quickly rifled through Uncle Felix’s desk, in case he had left any interesting information about the case. We didn’t find much – but there was enough to show that he definitely was investigating. I found an official-looking letter that read:

  Dear M: London black market flooded with valuable artefacts. Most can be matched to those reported stolen, but there are additional items of such fine quality that they must come from another museum collection, perhaps several. Are the thieves able to steal without raising the alarm? Are we dealing with a larger gang than we assumed? Please investigate. Check persons of interest at the museums – we cannot rule out guards and curators as suspects.

  And there was one other thing: a scribbled note that said:

  You’ll never get your things back. Give up now!!

  It seemed to have been marked up by a handwriting expert: Over-confident Y. Aggressive G. Clearly male. There was also a note in Uncle Felix’s writing that said:

  An unpleasant adversary. This man will attempt the next robbery soon.

  ‘Look!’ said Hazel. ‘That first note – the writing matches the one we found!’

  She took her bit of paper with the copy of the message we had discovered in the British Museum out of her pocket and put it next to the one on Uncle Felix’s desk. ‘See?’

  It did indeed, and I felt jumpy all over with excitement. We really were on the right track. I remembered what Alexander had said – that it was odd to break into the British Museum for such small objects. Perhaps that was the key to solving this mystery. Had the thief been using his contact inside the museum to steal smaller items without anyone noticing? But – why had no one noticed things missing from their cases?

  Then Bridget called that the tea was ready, and we had to hurry away.

  After dinner was cleared, Hazel and I went into our room and pretended to be getting ready for bed. Really, of course, we were changing out of our day things into the dark tunics and trousers that Hazel had brought back for us from Hong Kong. Her maid, Ping, had tried to alter mine to fit me, and it almost works, although it’s still short in the arms and legs.

  We took out our pyjamas, wrapped them around the bolsters from our beds, and then hid them in the wardrobe, to be used later to imitate our sleeping forms in case anyone looked into our room while we were gone. We were lying down under our covers perfectly sweetly when Aunt Lucy came in to turn out the lights.

  ‘Goodnight, girls,’ she said as she closed the door. ‘Well done on your detecting today.’

  I knew that Hazel would be feeling rather guilty at that.

  ‘Quick,’ I said as soon as Aunt Lucy’s footsteps had died away. ‘Put your bolster in your bed and let’s go!’

  We climbed out of the bedroom window and balanced on the low balcony that runs round the building. The flats are usefully corniced and pillared, and it really was easy work to creep down the side. Of course, Hazel made heavy weather of it – but in the end we both managed it with not much more than scraped kn
ees.

  We were lucky. A lovely yellowish London fog was curling around us, smothering the street lights and muffling our breath and our footsteps. It was cold and soft where it touched my skin, just like walking through velvet.

  We hared off, and it was a good thing that I had set myself to memorize London’s streets, for the fog made everything strange. Once a blue-coated policeman came swinging by, and I had to pull Hazel into the shelter of an archway so he would not see us. Nice little girls do not go out at night. It was rather exhilarating to be free of being nice and little for a while.

  Then the black railings of Russell Square Gardens loomed up in front of us. We followed them round until we turned a corner and heard a voice say, ‘Hello? Who goes there?’

  ‘It’s us, you chump,’ I said, for I recognized Alexander’s voice at once. A moment later, he appeared. ‘And it’s no good asking Who goes there? What would you have done if it had been someone else?’

  ‘We can look after ourselves,’ said George, his figure swimming out of the fog to stand next to us. ‘We’re tall, dark strangers, after all.’

  ‘You’re boys in unsuitable clothes,’ I said, for both he and Alexander were wearing their light spring coats and hats. I could see Alexander shivering. ‘Now, shall we get on? Have you discovered how to break into the British Museum?’

  ‘Of course we have,’ said George. ‘There’s a gate on Montague Street. You’ll see.’

  ‘And what if we run into a guard?’ I asked.

  ‘We thought of that,’ said George coolly. ‘We came early so we could hang about outside the gate. There’s a guard station just inside it – we can hear someone doing their rounds. Footsteps arrive and go away again every twenty minutes, but there’s no talking, and no sound of dogs. We think he’s alone.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said reluctantly. ‘And once we’re inside?’

  ‘There’s an easy route,’ said George. ‘Alex has it mapped out.’

  ‘The place is huge!’ said Alexander. ‘I had no idea it was so big. There really are gigantic storerooms in the cellar for all the objects they can’t show upstairs. All those treasures, and nobody ever sees them! There are offices too, but I’ve worked out a way for us to the passage that leads up to the mummy room without going past very many of them. If we’re caught—’

  ‘If we’re caught, we’re the nieces and nephews of some of the keepers, and their friends,’ I said. ‘Now, lead on to the gate.’

  When we got to the Montague Street gate, I stopped short.

  ‘You didn’t research this properly!’ I cried. ‘This isn’t a gate! It’s a door!’

  It was true. The gate was tall and black, and set snugly into the side of the museum. There was no way over it, not if you were any bigger than a mouse.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ said George calmly. ‘If you get up onto the top of that wall to our left, there, we’ll show you how we can get in.’

  The house to the left of the museum had white pillars on each side of its door, and a tall brick wall to its right. By shinning up the pillars and stretching, we managed to reach the top of the wall. (Hazel had to be pushed a little by George.) I crouched low and peered into the darkness.

  ‘There,’ whispered George. ‘Look ahead. The museum may have a secure gate, but the back garden of this house shares a wall with it, and we can get over that. Beyond the wall is an alleyway, and on the other side of the alley is the museum itself. There’s a door that opens straight into it. I told you it was all right. We should have ten minutes before the guard comes back here. Come on!’

  Along the wall we moved, treading as carefully as cats over loose and missing bricks, and when we came to the end, we jumped down onto a little tarmacked path. In front of us was the great side of the museum – and in that side was a small door.

  ‘Here,’ whispered Alexander. ‘See?’

  While the others waited, I took a pin out of my hair to pick the lock (I’ve had practice). But it transpired that I didn’t need to – the door swung open under my hand.

  ‘Oh!’ whispered Alexander. ‘Of course – the accomplice! The door must have been left open for the thief!’

  The idea that the thief might be on his way gave me the most wonderful thrill of excitement, but I saw Hazel start with horror. I patted her comfortingly, and pushed her through.

  I followed – and there we were, inside the British Museum. In front of us was a long, shadowed corridor. Pipes trailed overhead, boxes were piled all the way down it and there was a smell in the air of very old dust.

  ‘It smells like a mummy,’ whispered Hazel.

  ‘How do you know what a mummy smells like?’ I asked her. But, as we crept along, stepping round boxes and crates, I privately agreed.

  At the end of the corridor we turned right, then right again, and found ourselves at the bottom of a set of stairs. Up those we went, and came out onto the museum’s ground floor.

  ‘Hey! There’s a guard!’ hissed George, and we all flattened ourselves against an overhanging wall while footsteps swung past, and cheerful whistling grew loud in our ears and then faint again.

  It was all the best fun, and made my heart race excitingly in my chest. I don’t know how anyone can bear to be ordinary, and live a dull life, when they could be creeping through dark buildings at night on crucial secret missions.

  I was quite giddy by the time we slipped into the mummy gallery, although I could tell that Hazel was having Rather a bad time of it. She kept giving little shudders and drawing close to me. I patted her on the arm to tell her to buck up, and she nodded back at me, her face set.

  Alexander whispered, ‘Creepy!’

  ‘Shh!’ George and I both said at once.

  It was true that the room was more eerie than ever now that the museum was dark and silent. The mummies loomed all around us, their painted faces just visible and looking extremely stern. I almost thought that I saw one breathing – but of course that was the most Hazel-ish nonsense. I told myself not to be silly.

  ‘Where do we hide?’ asked Alexander.

  George pointed. ‘I know that one’s empty, and that one, and that one – and, of course, the Unlucky Mummy too.’

  Hazel let out a very small noise.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll take that one,’ I said. ‘There isn’t any curse, Hazel. You know that!’

  But, as I slipped behind the mummy’s bird-painted front into the empty space behind it, I got a most unaccustomed feeling – of dread.

  Perhaps it was because it was so unpleasantly easy to do, or perhaps it was because it moved just a little as I did so, making a soft little creak that somehow sounded rather like a small scream.

  But I gritted my teeth and ignored the noise. I knew it was no good giving in to silliness. Good detectives never allow themselves to become so het up that they cannot properly observe the scene. I peeped round into the gallery, reminding myself to breathe slowly and calmly. I saw Hazel climbing into her case with a most imploring look in my direction, and George slipping into his with delight all over his face.

  The mummy gallery was absolutely silent. And then—

  ‘Daisy,’ said Hazel very clearly.

  ‘Shhhh!’ we all said.

  ‘Daisy, I don’t have the message. It’s not in my pocket. I think I left it on Uncle Felix’s desk. DAISY!’

  ‘Not now! Quiet!’ I hissed urgently. ‘Someone’s coming!’

  And they were. My heart hammered like a rabbit caught in a trap as the footsteps approached, and someone walked into the gallery.

  I looked – and for a moment I thought there had been some kind of mistake. The person who had appeared was short and very stout, wearing a pinny and a kerchief, and wheeling a mop and bucket. She was, unmistakably, a cleaning woman. I had a vision of jumping out to warn her of the peril she was in, at the probable expense of my own life (I would make a lovely corpse, and it would be for a noble cause), but I paused, and then was glad I did.

  A minute later, anot
her woman came in after her. She was thinner and taller, wearing dark clothing and carrying a rucksack on her back. She looked every inch a thief. And I wondered why on earth we had all been so sure that the person behind so many robberies was a man.

  ‘Evening,’ said the plump cleaning woman calmly. ‘How are you, my love?’

  ‘Very well, Beryl,’ said the thin woman. ‘Now, do you have the objects I asked for?’

  The cleaning woman reached into her bucket and pulled out a bundle wrapped in newspaper. ‘Here you are – all three – though I couldn’t quite match the ring. I found something near enough, I hope. Take a look.’

  The thin woman made a small annoyed noise. ‘Humph!’ she said. ‘Well, I suppose you tried. Now, hand them over, and I’ll give you your payment.’

  The case fell into place in my head. I thought of Bridget, and the way she can be clever without anyone noticing. I thought of how the list of objects had reminded me of one of Mrs Doherty’s shopping lists. We had suspected a keeper or a guard, but of course cleaners knew the museum too, and its objects. A cleaning woman could be here at night, and leave a door open for the thief – the female thief. Girls can be detectives, just as much as boys. So why shouldn’t a girl become a master criminal?

  I remembered what George and Alexander had said too: that there were huge rooms below the museum, full of objects that the galleries couldn’t display. What if the requests were not for the objects in the cases, but for objects like them from those packed away downstairs? They would never be missed.

  I knew I had the answer. But something else was happening. Beryl, the cleaning woman, had brought in an air of dust around her, and it added to the dust of the room and the corridors. And, although I am usually perfectly in control of myself, in this particular instance my nose acted independently of me in the most traitorous way.

  I hardly like to write it, but the fact is that at that moment – I sneezed.

  It was a very loud sneeze, and it echoed about the room, and Beryl yelled and dropped the packet she was holding out. It fell to the floor, clinking, and out of it rolled a golden ring and a little stone scarab, and something else that I didn’t have the chance to see before the black-clad woman rushed across the room and pulled me out from behind the mummy case – which was turning out to be very unlucky indeed.