Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison Read Free

modicum of quiet and so, with his small apprentice jumping at his feet, Theodore sighed, retired to his study, and very gently locked the door.
    â€œNow you’ve done it,” said Mrs. Speckle, shoving up her double-knitted cardigan sleeves. “Too many questions, young lady! Why don’t you stop bothering poor Mr. Goodman and get on with your chores? There’s plenty to be done! Less guessing and more doing! That’s what I say!”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Speckle,” answered Wilma, pulling a long twig out from behind her ear.
    â€œWhat the blue blazes!” screamed Mrs. Speckle suddenly as she paused at the back door. “The old pear tree’s down! Hang on a minute,” she added, twisting on her knitted Wellington boots, “this wasn’t your doing, was it, Tenderfoot?”
    But for once Wilma had nothing to say. Nothing to say at all.

2
    S ometimes, it’s difficult for small and determined girls to stop their minds whirring, but Wilma knew she would have to contain her excitement. So far, during her short apprenticeship, all Wilma had been allowed to do was write out the labels for a few Clue Bags, which, despite being essential to the everyday requirements of a detective, were still just plain paper bags with no clues in them yet. In short, it was a chore that was neither dangerous nor daring. Perhaps, Wilma thought, as she sat with a heap of small bags in front of her, when she was enrolled in the Academy she might progress to mightier tasks, like chalking outlines for dead bodies or even deducting in an official capacity. But that was all a long way off yet.
    Before becoming Theodore’s apprentice, Wilma had followed his every exploit by collecting newspaper and magazine clippings that she had found in Madam Skratch’s wastepaper basket at the Institute. Through them she had learned about the detective’s top tips, ten essential things that a budding detective should always do if he wants to solve any crime. There was eavesdropping, being circuitous, and Wilma’s personal favorite—the use of disguises for cunning moments. Wilma had tried to emulate all of them as she chased after Theodore, trying to become his apprentice. She had done well, but now that she was a proper apprentice, her mentor had impressed upon her that scampering around in an unofficial role had to stop. It was time for her to behave seriously at all times (top tip number nine), to watch and learn and wait for instructions.
    Having had a substantial breakfast (top tip number ten—never go detecting on an empty stomach), Wilma was ready for her big day. If she wanted to be a proper detective, it was all very well knowing about the top tips, but unless she got in to the Academy, all her dreams would be dashed. So later that morning she stood before the immense building, with the biscuits in her pocket and a paper bag that smelled of pear candies in hand, ready to give it her best shot.
    Standing with her, as always, was her faithful beagle Pickle, who was so nervous on Wilma’s behalf he’d been making involuntary smells for half an hour. Her mentor, Theodore P. Goodman, had also accompanied her. He had put her name forward for the Academy and, as such, his presence was the right and proper thing to have. “Eight twenty-seven,” he said, looking at his pocket watch. “I should leave you to it. Do your best. And if you get stuck, clear your mind and think logically.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Goodman,” answered Wilma, conjuring up her most serious face.
    â€œThere is always a simple answer to everything, Wilma,” said Theodore, twiddling the end of his mighty mustache. “Don’t forget that. Well, good-bye. And good luck.” The great detective took Wilma’s hand, shook it, and walked away.
    Wilma took the letter from her pinafore pocket. “Eight thirty a.m. sharpish,” she whispered. “I expect that’s about now, Pickle. I suppose