crocodiles, because a person would have to be crazy to try to get back a soap-on-a-ropefrom a ten-foot reptile. And that’s the point! On Cooper, the joy is in the hiding. And if the present is retrieved, well, the day has been ruined. Thankfully, Wilma’s parcel was not a present. It came from her headmistress, Kite Lambard.
As an apprentice, Wilma had been enrolled at the Academy of Detection and Espionage, a venerable if slightly bizarre institution where she was the only pupil and her headmistress, Kite Lambard, the only teacher. The headmistress, however, had recently gone off on an adventure, leaving Wilma to her own devices. Many children might leap for joy at the prospect of going to a school with no teachers or lessons, but not Wilma. Not only did she want to learn the mysteries of detection, she also had some mysteries of her own, namely her family origins, to come to grips with, and without Kite’s help she might as well be stuck in glue.
She had already unearthed some crucial evidence, and with a little guidance from her mentor, Theodore P. Goodman, had made a Clue Board for what she was calling the Case of the MissingRelative. A Clue Board, Wilma had learned, was a vital tool for any detective: It was a quick visual summary of every piece of evidence gathered so far—a bit like a fridge door, but only covered in very serious things.
On her Clue Board Wilma had pinned the following:
The small tag that had been tied around her neck when she was left at the Institute, with the words “Because they gone” scrawled on it.
A scrap of muslin with a crest of crossed lamb chops on it that had been wrapped around her baby body. Penbert, the island’s assistant forensic scientist, had also identified a stain on the material as being pig’s blood.
One of the many notes given to Wilma by the revolting matron of the Institute for Woeful Children, Madam Skratch, listing monthly payments for Wilma’s upkeep and referring to her as “Child 427.” Now Wilma knew there was still someone alive who was either related to her or felt responsible for her, but WHO?And why had they let her remain at the dreadful Institute for so long?
A page from an anonymous handwritten note to Madam Skratch asking about an abandoned baby, and
Wilma’s most exciting clue—a note by Kite Lambard that appeared to be in the same hand-writing as the anonymous note to Madam Skratch.
These were the beacons in the fog, the clues that would help Wilma piece together her past, discover who her parents were, and at last give her the sense of belonging that she had always longed for. However, until she saw her headmistress and asked her about that mysterious letter, she would be none the wiser. Wilma would have to be patient.
“There’s a card stuck on the parcel, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, blinking with excitement. “Look at the handwriting. It’s definitely the same as that letter I found. Do you think Miss Lambard could be my missing relative?”
Theodore turned and reached for his pipe onthe mantelpiece. Slowly packing it with rosemary tobacco from the leather pouch in his waistcoat pocket, he frowned a little and pondered. “Remember, a good detective doesn’t jump to conclusions, Wilma. Until you have spoken to Miss Lambard, there is no point in speculating.”
“Does speckle-eating mean feeling fizzy in your tummy? Like when you’ve drunk too many Sugarcane Swizzles?” asked Wilma, twiddling the hem of her pinafore. “So that you can’t concentrate and you think you might be a bit sick?”
“Not really,” answered Theodore, sitting at his desk. “It means to guess or make your mind up about something when you don’t have the full facts before you. Speculating is the very last thing an apprentice detective should do. It can cause a lot of bother.”
“I see.” Wilma nodded wisely, steering Pickle from behind the armchair. “Though it’s quite hard not to.” Having established that the parcel was not a Brackle Day
As an apprentice, Wilma had been enrolled at the Academy of Detection and Espionage, a venerable if slightly bizarre institution where she was the only pupil and her headmistress, Kite Lambard, the only teacher. The headmistress, however, had recently gone off on an adventure, leaving Wilma to her own devices. Many children might leap for joy at the prospect of going to a school with no teachers or lessons, but not Wilma. Not only did she want to learn the mysteries of detection, she also had some mysteries of her own, namely her family origins, to come to grips with, and without Kite’s help she might as well be stuck in glue.
She had already unearthed some crucial evidence, and with a little guidance from her mentor, Theodore P. Goodman, had made a Clue Board for what she was calling the Case of the MissingRelative. A Clue Board, Wilma had learned, was a vital tool for any detective: It was a quick visual summary of every piece of evidence gathered so far—a bit like a fridge door, but only covered in very serious things.
On her Clue Board Wilma had pinned the following:
The small tag that had been tied around her neck when she was left at the Institute, with the words “Because they gone” scrawled on it.
A scrap of muslin with a crest of crossed lamb chops on it that had been wrapped around her baby body. Penbert, the island’s assistant forensic scientist, had also identified a stain on the material as being pig’s blood.
One of the many notes given to Wilma by the revolting matron of the Institute for Woeful Children, Madam Skratch, listing monthly payments for Wilma’s upkeep and referring to her as “Child 427.” Now Wilma knew there was still someone alive who was either related to her or felt responsible for her, but WHO?And why had they let her remain at the dreadful Institute for so long?
A page from an anonymous handwritten note to Madam Skratch asking about an abandoned baby, and
Wilma’s most exciting clue—a note by Kite Lambard that appeared to be in the same hand-writing as the anonymous note to Madam Skratch.
These were the beacons in the fog, the clues that would help Wilma piece together her past, discover who her parents were, and at last give her the sense of belonging that she had always longed for. However, until she saw her headmistress and asked her about that mysterious letter, she would be none the wiser. Wilma would have to be patient.
“There’s a card stuck on the parcel, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, blinking with excitement. “Look at the handwriting. It’s definitely the same as that letter I found. Do you think Miss Lambard could be my missing relative?”
Theodore turned and reached for his pipe onthe mantelpiece. Slowly packing it with rosemary tobacco from the leather pouch in his waistcoat pocket, he frowned a little and pondered. “Remember, a good detective doesn’t jump to conclusions, Wilma. Until you have spoken to Miss Lambard, there is no point in speculating.”
“Does speckle-eating mean feeling fizzy in your tummy? Like when you’ve drunk too many Sugarcane Swizzles?” asked Wilma, twiddling the hem of her pinafore. “So that you can’t concentrate and you think you might be a bit sick?”
“Not really,” answered Theodore, sitting at his desk. “It means to guess or make your mind up about something when you don’t have the full facts before you. Speculating is the very last thing an apprentice detective should do. It can cause a lot of bother.”
“I see.” Wilma nodded wisely, steering Pickle from behind the armchair. “Though it’s quite hard not to.” Having established that the parcel was not a Brackle Day
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