Three Pickled Herrings: Book Two Page 5

  “Very good, my little ducks,” said Fidget. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Not bad,” agreed Buster. “Go on.”

  Emily was almost speechless. Could it be that Buster was taking her seriously?

  “We know…,” said Emily, waiting for Buster to make fun of her, “we know Sir Walter had good luck on the horses and that it lasted for some time.” Emily stopped, still waiting for a snide comment from Buster.

  Instead, he said again, “Go on.”

  “Is it possible that Sir Walter had some sort of hold over the fairy?”

  “A good point, my little ducks,” said Fidget. “Because a fairy is only allowed to hand out three wishes to any one human, and this fairy was handing out wishes like they were nets full of fish, which is very Un-FF.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Emily.

  “Un-Fairy-Friendly,” said Buster. “There is also the matter of Doughnut. Why didn’t he die in the fall? Why was he saved, only to be snatched away this morning?”

  The three of them thought for a long time.

  “It’s all my fault that we didn’t hear what Doughnut had to say,” said Buster. He paused, then added in a whisper that a mouse might have had trouble hearing, “I’m sorry. Nothing like that will happen again.”

  Fidget and Emily glanced at each other. Fidget cleared his throat. “Pickled Herring Number Two,” he said, dusting cake crumbs from his whiskers.

  “Mr. Rollo was a tailor who ran a successful business in the high street. He worked for the theater, had a long waiting list of customers, and had just bought his dream house. In fact, as he told me, all his wishes had come true. Then, like an exploding salmon, everything went to fish paste. His business, fish paste; his house, fish paste. In other words, gone.”

  “But he is still alive,” said Emily. “If it was the same fairy who granted his wishes, why was Sir Walter Cross bumped off and not the tailor?”

  “Maybe,” said Buster, eating the red icing off a cupcake, “because the fairy hasn’t got ’round to it yet.”

  “Oh dear,” said Emily.

  “Yes,” said Buster. “Now to Case Number Three. Emily, over to you.”

  “There’s an interesting link here to Sir Walter Cross,” said Emily. “Pan Smith’s ex-boyfriend was his gardener.”

  “Aha!” said Buster. “You’re right—these cases are connected.”

  “Pan had all her wishes granted,” continued Emily, looking at her notes. “The list includes beautiful hair, a new body, a new boyfriend, a perfect wedding dress, money, cars—it’s a very long list indeed. Then, on the night before her wedding, everything was ruined.” Emily stopped. “I’ve had a thought,” she said.

  “What?” said Buster and Fidget together.

  “I don’t think it’s possible for someone who is generous enough to hand out all those wishes in the first place to be so destructive and cruel. I think there might be other fairies involved.”

  “I think you’re right, my little ducks,” said Fidget.

  “So, to sum up,” said Buster, “we are agreed that all three cases are related to one another?”

  “Spot on the fishcake,” said Fidget.

  “What do you think, Emily?” asked Buster.

  Emily found to her surprise that she was rather pleased that Buster wanted to know what she was thinking.

  As if it didn’t matter a jot, she said, “There are a lot of unanswered questions. Two of them are: Who was it we saw on the stairs, and why did they take Doughnut and the magic lamp?”

  The phone rang, and Fidget answered it.

  “Wings & Co.,” he said. “Fairy Detective Agency.”

  At last, Emily thought, we are real detectives.

  “That sounds like more fairy meddling, my old mackerel. Keep us in the net.” Fidget put down the phone. “That was Jimmy Cardwell. Mr. Rollo the tailor has been arrested.”

  “Why?” said Emily.

  “He was discovered on Podgy Bottom High Street in possession of five bags of gold.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elvis the Elf was feeling very pleased with himself indeed. He’d had a brilliant idea and had righted one wrong. It was nothing short of fairy wizardry to give Mr. Rollo five large sacks of gold coins. They would solve all the tailor’s problems. The man deserved to have his luck back again. After all, he had been kind. He had even said Elvis could stay at his house if he didn’t mind soggy carpets. Which Elvis did. They had parted the best of friends.

  It had made Elvis feel very bad indeed to see the havoc he had caused Mr. Rollo. It was clear the tailor had intended to thank him, unlike Sir Walter Cross, who never once had said “How are you?” let alone “Thank you.”

  “It was all his fault,” said Elvis out loud. “But I never meant him to be murdered.”

  He was standing at the time in Podgy Bottom High Street. Already he’d had some funny looks from passersby. One woman with a buggy the size of a tank had asked him if he was starring in the local pantomime.

  “No,” said Elvis, appalled. “I am not.”

  “No need to be so rude,” said the woman, and she walked away.

  “Rude? Me? Rude?” said Elvis under his breath. “It’s human beings like Sir Walter Cross and Pan Smith who have no manners. No manners at all.”

  It was so unfair. He had come to visit the human world out of the goodness of his heart, to make wishes come true. The only trouble was that human beings were never happy with one wish. They always wanted more—and then some. Elvis, being a well-brought-up elf, didn’t like to refuse. And he enjoyed seeing the amazed looks on their faces when the impossible came true. All he wanted in return was one simple thank-you. Was it so very much to ask?

  “I shouldn’t have gone to Toff the Terrible,” said Elvis to himself. “And I wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for the umbrella. I shouldn’t have told Toff about all the other wishes I granted, either. Oh dear, what a mess.” He brightened a little. “I will make everything better as far as I can.”

  Next on the list of things to be put right was Pan Smith.

  Elvis tried to think about all she had wished for, but it was such a long list that it was impossible to remember. Hair? That was it. Hair. Elvis couldn’t recall whether she had wanted blond, red, black, pink, or blue hair. He saw it as being bright pink. Or was that another lady? Elvis had to admit to being in a muddle. He had handed out so many wishes that it had all become a rather big blur. He was certain that Pan had wished to have a different figure, but was it thin, fat, or chubby? Again he was confused.

  It was then that he saw a newsstand, and as it had started to snow, he went inside to warm up and study the women’s magazines.

  He could only reach the bottom two shelves. First of all, he took down a magazine with pretty ladies on the front cover and flicked through the pictures. There was one that took his fancy. It was of a rather curvy lady, and next to her was a photo of a very trim lady. The captions read “Before” and “After.”

  Before what and after what? Elvis wasn’t sure, but there was no doubt in his mind that the before lady looked far prettier than the after lady. Who wanted to cuddle up to a bag of bones? So now he knew exactly what Pan Smith needed—long, thick, pink hair and a body as round as an apple.

  Next was to put the house back in order. This part would be simple. He found a wedding magazine and again flicked through the pictures. There were so many dull, white wedding dresses. No color, thought Elvis.

  Who would want to be married without an explosion of color? He found a wedding dress in the magazine he thought would suit the new Pan Smith if he added his own touches. He had always seen himself as an artist, and interior design was just up his street, with bells on. He had a wonderful plan for the dining room and the tent. With these happy thoughts in his mind, he made his way to Mountview Drive. If he could put two rights together, it might make up for the one terrible wrong.

  It was much later that day that his eye was caught by the headline of the even
ing paper.

  TAILOR ARRESTED

  WITH FIVE BAGS OF GOLD

  “Oh no!” said Elvis. “I must do something—but what?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the whirlwind of kidnapping the magic lamp, Toff the Terrible had accidentally taken the dog as well.

  He had never been that keen on dogs. This one barked loudly and, worse still, nipped the ankle of any passing goblin. If the magic lamp hadn’t been so crucial to his plan, he would have kicked it out by now. How anyone put up with the thing, Toff had no idea. It bossed everyone about—and the dog snapped at any goblins who didn’t do what the lamp ordered.

  The lamp had the goblins cleaning up. So far, the carpets had been vacuumed—Toff hadn’t known they even owned a vacuum—the table and floor had been scrubbed, the beds changed, the sheets washed, and the clothes neatly folded away. As for the kitchen, it looked completely different. They did have a sink after all and, even more surprisingly, an oven and fridge.

  “We are warriors!” said Toff the Terrible, and beat his chest to prove it.

  But all the magic lamp said was “I hope your room’s tidy. There will be no supper for goblins with untidy rooms.”

  “Now, look here, shiny belly, I am Toff the Terrible. Do you know what I do to lamps like you? Scrap metal!”

  The magic lamp chuckled.

  And this was the part Toff the Terrible couldn’t understand. Whether they liked it or not, the goblins did whatever the magic lamp told them to.

  At breakfast time that evening, they all sat down to eat. The table was laid with a checked tablecloth and a posy of flowers. All the goblins had brushed their hair and beards. It was enough to make Toff the Terrible feel like giving up, especially when one of his gang asked him politely if he wouldn’t mind please passing the pepper.

  This had to stop. Had they forgotten why they had kidnapped the lamp in the first place? He would put an end to all this namby-pamby preschool activity. As for the dog, it was dead meat.

  That night, when the lamp and Doughnut had gone to bed, Toff the Terrible locked them in their room and called an emergency meeting.

  “What are you waiting for? Make that piece of scrap metal open its lid. Take it down to the dungeon and see if it comes to its senses.”

  None of his gang of goblins seemed that keen on the plan anymore.

  “What’s wrong with you all?” he asked.

  “The lamp said it would make all our beards fall out if we hurt it,” said one goblin.

  “It can’t,” said Toff, none too certain if that was correct or not.

  “Yes, it can,” said all the goblins together.

  “No, it can’t. We have until bedtime tomorrow morning to make that lamp open its lid.”

  In the guest room with Doughnut, the magic lamp was trying to think up a plan for their escape. It didn’t know why they had been kidnapped, but it was certain that it had nothing to do with housekeeping. Now, in the quiet of the night, everything felt a lot more scary. Outside an owl hooted.

  “They could kill us while we sleep,” said the magic lamp. “Who would ever know?”

  Doughnut started barking the second he heard the sound of goblins outside the guest room door. As quickly as they could, they scrambled under the bed from where they could see the hairy toes of the goblins as they stormed into the room, each holding a baseball bat.

  “No, no, don’t,” squeaked the lamp, as it was pulled from its hiding place by two goblins. “You’re making a terrible mistake!”

  Doughnut followed them, growling and nipping the goblins’ ankles.

  In the dungeon, Toff the Terrible stood waiting.

  “What are you going to do to me?” said the lamp, its little knees knocking together.

  A gruesome smile spread across Toff the Terrible’s face.

  “We can do this the friendly way or the unfriendly way.”

  “What’s the friendly way?” asked the magic lamp.

  “You just open that lid of yours.”

  “No, never!” said the lamp bravely. “I made that mistake once before. Never again, I tell you. Never again!”

  “Listen here, you tin-pot piece of junk, if you don’t open that lid, it’s the Vaseline treatment for you. Failing that, WD-40. And if that doesn’t work, then it will come down to the good old-fashioned twist. It always worked on the lids of my mum’s gooseberry jam.”

  “Oh, woe is me,” cried the magic lamp.

  The Band of Baddies giggled, pleased to find their beards hadn’t fallen out. As they turned the key in the lock, the lamp could be heard wailing.

  “Don’t leave me here all alone! Oh, sweet mistress, where are you? Help me, someone, help me.”

  Doughnut howled in reply.

  “What do we do with the dog, boss?” asked one of the Band of Baddies.

  “Tie him up,” ordered Toff. “We’ll deal with him later.”

  Doughnut had other plans. No goblin was going to tie him up. He charged past the Band of Baddies, tripping up two of them and nipping a third.

  “Catch that dog, you fools,” roared Toff the Terrible.

  Ears flapping, Doughnut ran at tremendous speed up the stone spiral staircase and along a winding passageway to the Great Hall, where more goblins were waiting to pounce on him.

  But Doughnut was too fast for the stout goblins. He dived through their legs and out into the snow. All that was on Doughnut’s mind was to find his way back to Wings & Co. He had only gone a few yards when he realized his troubles were just beginning. The snow was as deep as he was tall.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You are a cat,” said Sergeant Litton of the Podgy Bottom Police. Fidget had asked him if the tailor would soon be released. “I can’t go talking to cats.”

  “I have a medical condition,” said Fidget. “Would you please tell me if Mr. Rollo has been charged?”

  “Not precisely,” replied the sergeant. “We believe he has robbed a bank.”

  “Which bank, precisely, did he rob?” asked Fidget.

  “That’s the thing,” said Sergeant Litton. “We are not precisely sure which bank it is. But it has to be a bank.”

  “Why?” asked Emily, who had gone to the police station with Fidget to see if she could be of help.

  “Because,” said Sergeant Litton, a little puffed up with his own importance, “no one has five sacks of gold coins fall out of the sky and land at his feet.”

  “Maybe he won the lottery,” suggested Emily helpfully.

  Sergeant Litton huffed.

  “In gold coins? I don’t think so,” he said.

  After a wait of half an hour or so, the bedraggled tailor was brought up from the cells.

  “Oh, Mr. Fidget,” said Mr. Rollo. “Well, here you are. What a pleasant sight. So comforting to see such a well-made cat costume.”

  “Come along,” said Fidget kindly, putting a paw on the tailor’s shoulder.

  “What a day. Well, one of the worst, that’s all, one of the worst. Am I free to go?” the tailor asked Sergeant Litton.

  Emily could tell that Sergeant Litton much preferred locking people up to letting them out.

  “No charges will be pressed at the present time,” he said.

  “What about the five sacks of gold coins?” asked Emily. “What will happen to them?”

  “They will stay with us until the investigation has been completed,” said the sergeant.

  “Well, if Rosalind knew about this, I hate to think what she’d say,” said Mr. Rollo. “And her mother—well, that would be the end of it all, and no mistake.”

  Fidget and Emily, seeing how upset the tailor was, thought it best to take him back to Wings & Co.

  * * *

  Buster had stayed in the shop. He was busy studying back copies of Fairy World International, looking for any similar mischief.

  He hoped to find a report of someone in the fairy world who had been overgenerous in granting wishes. Instead, Buster had come across an ad for information leadi
ng to the whereabouts of Elvis the Elf. The ad had been put in by the missing elf’s parents. They described him as a happy, generous elf who loved his mum and dad. He had gone out one day with his new umbrella and had never come home. His disappearance was a mystery. Buster found three more such notices, and there was even a picture of Elvis as a young lad. He beamed at the camera through a fistful of freckles.

  Buster knew elves were, on the whole, home-loving creatures, neat and tidy. They lived in forests and found towns confusing, so why, he wondered, had this elf not returned to his family? He whirled around in the office chair while he pondered the problem. Maybe the clue to the elf’s disappearance lay in the umbrella. An elf umbrella was a very powerful piece of equipment and had all sorts of magic properties.

  If he had lost it, he would be stuck, unable to return home. But no elf, as far as Buster knew, ever willingly gave up an umbrella to anyone, and the idea that he would have lost it was just plain daft. Without their umbrellas, elves couldn’t fly. It was then that it struck him. If an elf’s umbrella fell into the wrong hands, its magic could be used to …

  “Buddleia,” said Buster out loud. “And buddleia again. The sooner that umbrella’s found, the better.”

  He whizzed faster and faster in the swivel chair, his thoughts a merry-go-round of ideas. Then he saw on the pavement outside the blurry figures of Fidget, Emily, and someone who he thought must be Mr. Rollo. Buster sprang up and opened the shop door.

  “Welcome,” he said, greeting the tailor. “I am Buster Ignatius Spicer. Here to help you.”

  “That is most kind,” said Mr. Rollo. “Most kind, well, indeed.”

  They took the poor man upstairs and sat him down near the fire to get warm. Fidget went to make tea.

  Mr. Rollo cheered up at the sight of the green and red cupcakes.

  “Tell me what happened,” said Buster, when Mr. Rollo looked more himself.

  The tailor told them.

  “One minute I was walking along, minding my own ruin, and the next minute, in my hands were two heavy bags. Well, I nearly fell over, for at my feet were three more bags. They all contained gold coins. I didn’t know what to do. They each had a label on which my name was written. Well, I hailed a taxi, and to my surprise, the taxi driver, well, he took me to the police station. The driver said he was certain I was a burglar. Me. Well. Well, I never.”