by Lauren Child
‘No offence Ruby, and that’s a real nice offer and all, but it doesn’t really compare,’ said Clancy.
Ruby couldn’t agree with him. ‘You’re getting your head turned by looks Clance; appearances can be deceptive my friend. Take that girl at the bike store. She’s pretty, yes, but Elliot can do better.’
‘I don’t think so,’ spluttered Del.
‘She’d be lucky to date Elliot: she clearly has no brain at all,’ said Ruby.
‘She went out with Max Cunningham for a year,’ said Elliot.
‘My point exactly,’ said Ruby, gurgling down the remainder of her shake. ‘A total duh.’
The afternoon was taken up with sport – not that Ruby would be doing much. She could walk OK now she had the Bradley Baker sneakers, but the way her foot was, stitches and all, naturally she’d had to pull out of the Twinford interschool athletics. Clancy wasn’t exactly broken up about missing the chance to compete against Ruby; he couldn’t be sure that if she was running he would actually beat her, but now he didn’t have to worry about that.
Gemma Melamare was the one real threat; sure there was Dillon Flannagon and Cassius Knole, perhaps even Ronda Lewis, but to lose to any of them would be deemed OK. They were all fast, all contenders, but Gemma was nasty. She had always looked down on Clancy and Clancy was sick of it; he had had enough of being treated like some dorky bozo. He was going to win.
And he did win.
He beat Gemma by a hair’s breadth, but it was enough.
‘Way to go Clance,’ shouted Ruby from the bleachers. He glanced over at her and saw that she was genuinely happy for him, no faking. As he looked at her smiling face, he began to wonder if he really would have beaten her had she been running. She looked so easy about it, maybe she knew she could do it, could take this small victory, his win, away from him and it didn’t matter to her because she was faster than him, better than him.
And suddenly somehow this race won felt not quite a win.
When Ruby returned home, she walked into the middle of an interesting conversation. The Redforts were all attending the Melrose Dorff launch and Mrs Digby had the night off. Hitch was busy shaking martinis for Brant and Sabina who were sitting on the curved sofa in the living room. They were both dressed in their finest and all ready to go.
‘That Mrs Beesman must have really lived a life once,’ said Brant, spearing an olive with a cocktail stick.
‘You think?’ said Sabina.
He nodded as he popped the olive into his mouth. ‘Judging by the expensive jewellery she was carting around when I stepped into the office this morning.’
‘What are you talking about Brant? Mrs Beesman doesn’t have a cent! Well, she has a cent, but she couldn’t have anything much more than a cent and, if she has anything worth anything, she would surely sell it to get some dollars,’ said Sabina. ‘Have you seen her coat? It’s all holes. I left one of my winter wraps on her stoop in January, but I’ve never seen her wear it – Barbara suspects Mrs Beesman made it into a cat blanket.’
‘Well, I’m telling you, her cat looked like it was wearing a pretty pricey-looking rock around its neck,’ said Brant, ‘and I know more than a little about jewellery, my old man having been in the business and all.’
‘I can’t argue with you there honey; if you say it was top dollar, I believe you.’
‘It has to be quality costume jewellery,’ conceded Brant, ‘but still, good antique costume jewellery can fetch a buck or two.’
This was a strange conversation in light of everything that had been going on recently, and when Ruby made it up to her room to change she wrote it down in her yellow notebook number 624.
Wednesday morning: Mrs Beesman’s one-eared cat spotted somewhere near Dad’s office wearing quality costume jewellery.
She flicked back a few pages to where she had written:
Stranger tries to grab Mrs Beesman’s cat.
She then drew a red line across the pages to connect the two Beesman notes.
Is there a link?
She had no idea, of course, if there could possibly be any kind of connection between the sighting of a cat wearing a jewel on its collar and a man trying to grab the cat – for one thing, Ruby had no way of knowing if the cat had been wearing the collar at the time of the attempted cat snatch, nor did she think it was likely anyone would imagine Mrs Beesman would own anything worth stealing. But it was interesting that her father thought so.
It had been a
difficult climb. . .
. . .the ladder was unstable and rusty, but he had made it and now he was free and looking down through the broken skylight at the deserted warehouse room.
If he could just make it from the high roof, he would be OK. He could see the canal, he could see the road, the quiet suburban houses and he was going to have to take a chance. His mouth was dry; it was a long way to fall, unlikely that he would survive it.
He took a deep breath.
He must not fall.
Chapter 25.
1770
RUBY WAS TO ARRIVE WITH HER PARENTS, just like she was one of the invited guests, which indeed she was. Despite declaring that the event sounded like a total yawn, Ruby was kind of eager to go, stake-out or no stake-out – the thing was she had always been into perfume and scents. She had a sizeable collection of fragrances and those who knew her well could identify her by the perfume that lingered after she had left a room, usually a wake of wild rose and bubblegum.
Ruby had made sure the fly surveillance ring was firmly jammed on her finger before getting ready. Ruby didn’t wear a lot of jewellery, it wasn’t really her thing, but the fly ring was different. For a start, it wasn’t purely decorative, and for seconds, well, it was a little bit unexpected, edgy and dark.
She had made an effort with her appearance and had ditched her jeans and T-shirt (emblazoned with the words you’re so dull I have a headache) for a vintage red and black A-line dress with a round collar and deep pockets. Her mother was pleased even though the garment smelled strongly of mothballs.
‘You really clean up well, you know that Ruby?’ Then she caught sight of the Bradley Baker sneakers.
‘Honey, are sneakers really the best footwear with that ensemble?’
‘I think it works,’ said Ruby.
Her mother just looked at her, her hands on her hips – she meant business. Brant made a face at Ruby which suggested he was not going to back his daughter up and it was unlikely to be a fight she was going to win. So reluctantly she dragged herself upstairs to find some alternative shoes.
She chose the sparkly red clogs her mother had bought for her back in April, the same red clogs that she had used as a weapon at the museum launch; the throwing of them had preventing an important statue from being stolen by an undesirable man (this explained why a chunk of wood was missing from the sole of one shoe). The undesirable man was criminal mastermind and murderer Count von Viscount.* The main thing tonight was that the clogs looked good and Sabina was content and off Ruby’s case.
Finally, Ruby picked up the last gadget Spectrum had given her. It was a tiny earpiece, which would allow them to record her conversations and speak to her if they needed to give her instructions.
She placed it in her ear and walked downstairs.
Hitch drove the Redforts to the department store, newly restored to its former 1920s glory. It was an elegant art deco building with carved stone detail and impressive gilt and glass doors. The Italian marble floor gleamed and the huge chandeliers sparkled and all the guests looked kind of delighted with themselves as they floated round the shop, peering into the fabulous curved glass counters, sipping cocktails of all varieties.
The Lost Perfume of Marie Antoinette 1770 was displayed on a Louis XVI table, ornate and a tad vulgar. The perfume bottle was neither ornate nor vulgar, however: it was an object of simple beauty, like the fragrance it contained – at least this was what the label claimed.
All the guests oohed and aahed when they caught a d
rift of the scent: jasmine and rose petals, and several other unspecified ingredients ‘playfully tumbling together to create in fragrance form a portrait of a young Austrian woman picking up her skirts and running through a French flower garden’. Or so the label said.
Ruby thought the perfume was OK. Despite her cold, she could actually smell it, so that was something. She helped herself to a squirt and dabbed it onto her neck. OK, it was nice, but it really wasn’t worth all this fuss.
Next to the perfume table in a large glass display cabinet were Marie Antoinette’s jewels.
‘Remarkable,’ uttered Brant. ‘What my pa would give to put these jewels under the hammer.’
The security man eyed him suspiciously.
‘Auctioneer’s hammer,’ explained Brant hastily. ‘My pa was an expert in fine antique jewellery.’
‘Talking of which, aren’t those gorgeous!’ Sabina was pointing at the Katayoun & Anahita collection, antique Persian art deco jewellery designed especially for the launch of Melrose Dorff in 1927. Ruby glanced at them; no one seemed aware that any of the jewellery had mysteriously gone missing.
Like most of the guests, Sabina found herself drifting towards them, mouth open and eyes wide with wonder.
Ruby tagged along with her parents and while they talked she listened to the murmurings of the crowd, followed their enchanted gazes and watched their excited gestures.
She saw nothing suspicious at all.
Finally, the announcement came: the mayor’s wife stood on the department store grand staircase and revealed Twinford’s plans to host the Gem Festival in February. It was very much an open secret since the planning had been going on for at least a year and a half, but this didn’t stop everyone congratulating themselves for living in the city that hosted the mostest.
And then it was the turn of Madame Swann, the creator of Let Them Smell Roses: The Lost Perfume of Marie Antoinette 1770, to speak. She took to the floor with great aplomb, her heavy French accent stealing the show from the mayor’s wife, who was no speechmaker.
Madame Swann was tiny, dramatically so. The drama was mainly generated by a dead thing, a mink possibly, which crept round her neck and trailed down her tiny back so its lifeless claws almost tiptoed on the floor. On her head was a bird of some kind, again dead and attached to a perky hat. The shoes she wore were blue silk and encrusted with gems, the soles perched on precariously high heels, but still she was smaller than all the other guests, except perhaps for Ruby. Ruby was unusually small for her age – though she had every intention of growing taller than Madame Swann.
On Madame Swann’s left hand was a ring that coiled round one of her small sturdy fingers, a golden dragon with piercing blue eyes. Ruby noticed that when Madame Swann caressed its head it puffed a cloud of fragrant smoke from its nostrils.
‘Musk,’ she declared when she passed the Redforts after her brief speech. ‘I am a slave to that scent.’ Her voice – a raspy French cliché – added to her theatricality.
‘That’s some ring,’ said Brant. ‘My wife would get a big kick out of that; where did you buy it?’
‘Oh, this ring cannot be bought,’ replied Madame Swann, smiling to reveal slightly greying teeth. ‘This ring was designed by the Hatami sisters many years ago and it is one of a kind: no other ring exists like this one.’
‘Isn’t that always the way?’ said Brant. ‘The best things always are one of a kind.’ Brant turned to see Sabina now at his side. ‘Just like my beautiful wife,’ he said. ‘She’s an original. When they made her, they broke the mould.’
‘Thank you honey,’ cooed Sabina. She kissed him on the nose.
Madame Swann smiled hard – she was trying to convey a charmed delight in these rich-looking people with their fat wallets, but frankly she was struggling.
‘My wife and I adore your perfumes,’ said Brant, picking up one of the elegant Let Them Smell Roses bottles and giving it a long sniff.
Madame Swann battled to retain her distorted grin.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ said Brant, extending his hand. ‘Brant and Sabina Redfort.’
Madame Swann’s smile perked up considerably.
‘Oh là là Monsieur and Madame Redfort, what a great pleasure to meet you!’ And of course she meant it. Monsieur and Madame Redfort were, after all, two of the most influential socialites in town.
‘You must come and visit me in my hideaway. I am renting the most beautiful little maison in the middle of the pine forest on the edge of the lake. I have to be in nature – my nose cannot manage the pollution of the big city.’
Further conversation revealed that the ‘little maison’ of which she spoke was in fact Still Water, Arno Fredricksonn’s most famous private building. Designed just before he built the Redforts’ home, Green-wood House, Still Water was a triumph of modern architecture; a house suspended over a lake so it ‘fused effortlessly with the tranquil landscape’, or so the journals claimed.
Ruby couldn’t see anything particularly unusual about the evening. It was the standard meet and greet and mingle deal. Lots of influential Twinford folk, the press of course, and a few lucky hangers-on who had managed to somehow get their hands on an invitation.
If one was being entirely truthful, Madame Swann’s elegantly bottled fragrance was somewhat outdone by the staggering blue of the Katayoun & Anahita jewels artistically displayed on disembodied velvet hands and slender velvet necks. Every mirror in the store seemed to reflect back these dazzling blue gems and it was impossible for the guests not to be lured away from the lost perfume of Marie Antoinette and gape in awe at the Persian collection.
However, though there was much interest in these stunning pieces, no one seemed ‘suspiciously’ interested and nothing happened to cause any of the security team any sleepless nights.
The stake-out was fun up to a point, but, as the evening wore on, the time began to drag a little. Ruby had taken as many furtive photographs as it seemed worth taking and was by now a little weary from both flu and foot-ache, so sat down on an overstuffed velvet stool. She idly picked up a feather that had no doubt fluttered off some lady’s expensive blue boa and started stroking her face with it. She had almost sent herself off into a trance-like state when she heard a loud hiss in her ear.
‘Little girl! Will you get with the programme!’
The shock of the voice in her ear caused her to topple from the plump purple seat and land in a slightly undignified sprawl on the marble floor.
‘Jeepers Redfort, you’re acting like you’re about thirteen years old. . . oh, my mistake, you’re just acting your age.’
The voice was Agent Froghorn’s, often referred to as the Silent G because the G in his name was not pronounced, making the sound Fro instead of Frog. Ruby rarely bothered herself with this detail. Ruby’s mispronunciation of his name was one of the reasons the Silent G disliked her so much – there were many others.
Not that Ruby cared one little bit: she considered Froghorn a potato head and, though he might have scored high on the Spectrum test and though they regarded him as a highly intelligent agent, to Ruby he would always be a dummy, and she really couldn’t see that changing; once a potato head, always a potato head. As far as she was concerned, Froghorn was one of the stupidest clever people she had ever met and if she never heard his voice again it would be too soon.
So of course it had to be him at the other end of the earpiece.
‘What’s that you have in your hand and why are you rubbing it on your face?’
Ruby stuffed the feather into her pocket – she didn’t need him to see that, it would make his day. By the time she had got to her feet, it was a little late for a smart reply. She was pretty mad at herself. Nice going Ruby.
One thing of interest did occur. The evening had a surprise ending when, just as Madame Swann took to the floor to thank everyone for coming to her ‘little soirée’, she turned white as a ghost, uttered a shrill ‘Non!‘ and suddenly and quite unexpectedly collapsed.
; Ruby, little camera clicking away, scanned the faces of the guests and checked the display counters to see what could have caused such a reaction. No explanation was given by Madame Swann, and the guests left in a muddle of uneasy chatter.
So a Frenchwoman had fainted – big deal. Nothing of any importance had been uncovered so it was hardly going to convince LB that Ruby Redfort was some kind of crack Spectrum agent.
Lorelei
unlocked the door
to the warehouse. . .
. . .and her eyes immediately fell on the vacant chair. She stepped in a circle around it as if she expected the man to magically reappear. But the words abracadabra would not suffice to bring him back.
She called out and Eduardo came running. ‘What is it?’ he shouted.
‘He’s gone,’ she said, her voice steady and hushed, not betraying the panic she felt. But her heels tip-tapped and Lorelei reached for her bottle of perfume, wafting Turkish delight into the air to calm her nerves.
Chapter 26.
Outshone
RUBY’S MOTHER WAS ALREADY ON THE TELEPHONE by the time Ruby walked in to grab some breakfast. It was evidently not her first phone call of the day.
‘As I was just saying to Grace, it was quite an evening what with Madame Swann hitting the deck and all. . . The fragrance was divine of course, but rather old school if you know what I’m saying. I guess very 1770s. . .’ She laughed. ‘For my money, I prefer the Scent Lab counter, you know where they mix all the perfumes for you there and then, so much fresher, more you know, pure. . . modern yet traditional, yet sort of now.’ She nodded. ‘I agree. . . I agree Barbara. . .’ She began to laugh. ‘You just keep on spraying yourself with room freshener. . .’ she could barely catch her breath ‘. . .I agree, who’s to know the difference! Uh huh, uh huh, well, the Katayoun & Anahita jewels really stole the night. . . I know, I know, I’m telling you Barbara, you should get Ed to buy you a pair of those earrings. . . well, tell him to sell the car!’ She doubled up laughing again. ‘Well, the house then!’