Three Pickled Herrings Page 6

  “What happened before the gold coins fell from the sky?” asked Emily, handing the tailor a cupcake.

  Mr. Rollo told them about Mr. Elvis Elf and about the vest and the reason he had made it for him in the first place.

  “Good,” said Buster. “Very good.”

  “Well, not really,” said Mr. Rollo.

  Buster showed him the picture he had found of the elf.

  “Why,” cried Mr. Rollo, “that is Mr. Elvis Elf.”

  Emily and Fidget leaned over to look.

  “It’s hard to imagine,” said Emily, “that this sweet-looking elf could be responsible for the murder of Sir Walter Cross.”

  “Murder?” said the tailor. “Well, that’s impossible. He’s such a well-brought-up young man.”

  “I think you might be right,” said Fidget.

  “Then who did bump him off?” asked Emily.

  “That,” said Buster, “is what we are here to find out.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pan Smith felt as if she had woken from a bad dream. What had she been thinking of when she had agreed to marry Kyle Pots? And more to the point, how could she ever have been so stupid as to lose Derek, the best man in the world? Pan looked in the mirror as she put on her lipstick. She was about to say, “I wish…” when she stopped herself. She knew this much: If she wanted Derek, she would have to win him back herself. No amount of wishing would be able to do it.

  Her mother, Pauline, was in the kitchen making another trifle in the hope that the wedding might be on again.

  “Where are you going?” she called.

  “To see Derek, Mum,” said Pan. “I need to talk to him.”

  “But what about Kyle Pots?” asked her mother.

  “He never loved me, not like Derek did,” said Pan. “I’m borrowing your coat—the one with the hood—okay?”

  She put on her mum’s coat and opened the front door.

  “Wait,” said her mother. “Pan, Kyle is rich and a member of the golf club.”

  “Derek is rich in love, Mum,” said Pan. And with that, she left.

  Life, thought Pauline Smith, could not get any worse.

  * * *

  By the time Elvis made his next big mistake, it was starting to snow once more. He had arrived at Twenty-two Mountview Drive and hidden in the garden behind a myrtle bush. Elvis wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought it was Mrs. Smith who had driven off in the car. Mr. Smith would be at work. He waited a little longer, then tiptoed to the window and, standing on a flowerpot, peeked into the living room. The falling snow and the net curtains made it hard to see in, but he could just make out the blurred shape of a lady fast asleep in an armchair. That must be Pan Smith, thought Elvis, who by now was very cold indeed. What with all the waiting around, his fingers were numb and so were his toes. It was hard to think when you were in a freezer. The sooner he cast his spell, the better.

  He gave the sleeping lady the hair and figure she had always wanted—or so he thought—then crept around to the dining room and peered through the French windows. He would have it all in order in no time. He cast another of his spells, leaving the box containing the wedding dress on the table, all tied up with a big bow. He turned his attention successfully to the tent and sighed with relief. Once he had sorted out Mr. Rollo, his heart would be lighter, knowing that there had been a happy ending for all. All except Sir Walter Cross, of course, but Elvis tried not to think about him.

  He was just about to leave when two things happened at roughly the same time. Mr. Smith, who had not gone to work, went into the living room with a tea tray just as the car pulled up and Pan and Derek got out.

  “Pauline!” came a cry from the lounge. “Pauline!”

  Elvis inched along the wall, back to the living room window.

  Mr. Smith had switched on a lamp, and Elvis could see a teapot and cups lying broken on the floor. Pauline Smith was staring at herself in the mirror over the fireplace. Pan and Derek rushed in.

  “Mum!” shrieked Pan. “Oh, Mum, what’s happened?”

  “Well, blow me down,” said Harry Smith. “You look…”

  “Yes?” said his wife, turning to him. “Terrible?” she suggested.

  “No,” said Harry. “You look … magical.”

  Elvis couldn’t hear what they’d said to each other; all he knew was that once again he had made a right pickle of the whole business. It was a mess, and no mistake.

  Miserable, Elvis the Elf wandered into the woods at the end of Mountview Drive. Maybe he would never get his umbrella back, never be able to go home, never see his mum and dad again.

  The snow lay thick on the ground. Elvis had been walking for some time, and the light was beginning to fade when he heard a muffled growl and then a muffled yap. Doughnut, he thought. It’s Doughnut. I would know that yap anywhere. But where is he? All Elvis could see was glittering snow. He followed the sound to what looked like a small snowdrift beneath a tree. Elvis crouched, scraped away the snow, and there he found the little dog. He carefully lifted Doughnut up and brushed the ice from his fish knit coat.

  Once out of the woods, Elvis put Doughnut down on the pavement, uncertain where to go. He decided that the best plan was to follow the dog. After all, he seemed to know his way home, which was more than Elvis did.

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time Doughnut and Elvis reached Wings & Co., the moon hung above the shop like a huge silver balloon tied by a silken thread to one of the shop’s crooked chimney pots.

  The moonlight spilled down the alleyway toward them.

  Emily was locking up when she spotted the woebegone pair. She rushed outside to greet them.

  “Thank goodness you’re safe,” she said to Doughnut, picking him up. “I’ve been so worried. Where’s the lamp?” She turned to Elvis. “And you—are you okay?”

  Elvis shyly took off his bright green hat and bowed. “I am rather lost,” he said.

  “Come into the warm,” said Emily, and Elvis followed her into the shop and up the stairs.

  Buster was sprawled on the sofa, engrossed in Fairy World International, while Fidget sat in the armchair, knitting fishes. The tailor had gone to bed with a hot water bottle and a cup of cocoa. He was exhausted by all that had happened to him and was very grateful to have such a comfortable place to sleep.

  Emily opened the living room door, and Doughnut rushed in and leapt upon Fidget, frantically licking his face.

  “I think he missed you,” said Buster.

  “Seems he is trying to say something,” said Fidget.

  “It’s such a pity none of us speak Dog,” said Emily.

  Meanwhile, Elvis, hat in hand, was hiding in the shadows on the landing. Emily gently pulled him into the room.

  “Elvis Elf,” said Buster.

  “You know my name?” said Elvis, impressed.

  “Yes,” said Buster. “Of course I do. You are the prime suspect in the murder of Sir Walter Cross.”

  “No!” said Elvis. “No, no, I didn’t … oh, what a mess. It was Toff the Terrible, I only—”

  “Toff the Terrible?” interrupted Buster, sitting up.

  “Yes,” said Elvis.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” asked Buster.

  “Quite sure,” said Elvis. “He lives beneath the big oak tree in the woods. He’s a goblin.”

  “I know,” said Buster, and muttered something under his breath. “How in all the meddling muddles did you become involved with that Band of Baddies? I bet you all the toffee in the trees that it’s Toff the Terrible who kidnapped the magic lamp.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” said Elvis. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  He twisted the brim of his hat and looked more and more wretched. Emily could see he was about to burst into tears.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked him.

  “No,” said Elvis. “Not for ages.”

  “Why don’t you sit down by the fire,” she said kindly, “and we will make tea.”

  “Fishcakes?
” said Fidget.

  Elvis nodded.

  “Spot on,” said Fidget as he left the room.

  “Oh, what a mess,” said Elvis. “I never murdered anyone, never. I couldn’t, I have a sensitive throat.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Buster.

  “Quiet, Buster,” said Emily. “Mr. Elf—Elvis—why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “All right,” said Elvis. “The once-upon-a-time beginning or my beginning?”

  “Yours,” said Buster.

  Elvis took a deep breath.

  “Mum and Dad had just given me my first umbrella,” said the elf. “It was supercharged, and they thought it might be a bit advanced for me. I was so excited. I had heard about humans and how they liked to wish for things. In fact, Mum thought that humans did nothing but wish. I wanted to see for myself, just for a morning, and as I had my umbrella, I could. From the air, I saw this lovely garden with a duck pond and decided that was the place to land. I was just noticing that the grass was green, the sky was blue, and so far all was the same as where we lived, when someone grabbed me. He demanded to know what I was doing on his private property. I said I was an elf and had come to see the human world and grant a few wishes. Then he asked why I had an umbrella on such a hot day.”

  The mention of the umbrella caused a tear to roll down Elvis’s cheek. He was about to go on with his tale when Fidget arrived with a plate piled high with fishcakes and french fries. Emily went to help with the tea.

  They sat by the fire, eating and staring at the logs as they hissed and crackled.

  “Better?” asked Emily, after Elvis had wiped his mouth and neatly put his knife and fork together.

  “Much, thank you.”

  “Good,” said Buster. “The umbrella?”

  “Yes. I explained to the man—Sir Walter Cross—that was how I’d arrived there. He asked me what would happen if I didn’t have my umbrella, and like the biggest chump ever, I told him.”

  “He took the umbrella away, didn’t he?” said Buster.

  “Yes,” sobbed Elvis. “And without it, I couldn’t go home to Mum and Dad. He promised he would give it back if I granted his wish, which was to know the name of the winner of a horse race. I kept my word, but he kept my umbrella.”

  “That was horrid of him,” said Emily.

  “Yes,” said Elvis, blowing his nose on a purple-spotted handkerchief. “Every day he would wave my umbrella in front of me, then, when I gave him another winner, put it back in his coat pocket. I didn’t know what to do. Then I met Toff the Terrible, and he said he would help me.”

  “And did he help you?” asked Emily.

  “No, he just made everything worse. Worse than worse. He did dreadful things, and now he has my umbrella.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The following morning, Emily woke to find her bedroom door had shrunk to dollhouse size. She lay flat on her tummy and opened the door with her finger. Doughnut ran past, then back again.

  “Hello,” she called.

  Doughnut stopped and lay down, his head to one side, puzzled that he couldn’t go into the room for a cuddle.

  Then he ran away.

  Emily was alarmed. Something was terribly wrong. But there was little she could do about it other than wait patiently until the old shop sorted itself out, which Emily knew would happen sooner or later. The sooner the better, she thought, and went back to bed and snuggled under the covers. It was deliciously warm. She lay staring at the ceiling. She was certain Buster knew more than he was letting on—he seemed convinced that the magic lamp had been kidnapped by goblins. Perhaps he was working on a hunch like all detectives do. But what was it? And why was he keeping it to himself? Bored with bed and unanswerable questions, Emily decided she had better dress and be ready for action.

  It was well past lunchtime when the door decided to grow back to its old size again. She opened it, and there stood Fidget holding a plate of buttered toast and a mug of tea for her.

  “What’s going on?” asked Emily. She was now rather hungry, and buttered toast seemed just the ticket.

  “A moldy kipper of a mess, that’s for sure,” said Fidget. “Elvis Elf was kidnapped last night.”

  Emily felt her knees go weak. It was a disaster.

  “Who … why … when? I mean, that shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Spot on the fishcake, my little ducks. It seems the shop went into lockdown. It must have become confused, what with the tailor and Elvis Elf sleeping here. It looks like it let in Toff the Terrible by mistake.”

  “Oh, Fidget, that’s dreadful,” said Emily. “You don’t think that Elvis has gone…” She stopped. It was too awful a thought. “… The same way as Sir Walter Cross?”

  “I hope not,” said Fidget. “But there are drops of blood in the shop.”

  Emily gasped. “What are we going to do?”

  “Search my catnip, I don’t know,” said Fidget.

  “Where’s Mr. Rollo?” said Emily, as she put on her boots.

  “That’s the one good thing. He’s still fast asleep, snoring like a trouper. The longer he stays that way, the better. His door is only halibut high at the moment, and if he were to wake, it would take some explaining.”

  “Quite. Where’s Buster?” asked Emily.

  “Upstairs in the library.”

  “Library?” said Emily. “I didn’t know we had one.”

  “To tell you the truth,” said Fidget, “I, too, had forgotten about it. It’s up in the attic. Or it was half an hour ago.”

  Sure enough, there it was. The whole of the attic was lined with books. Some were flying through the air like brightly colored birds, flapping their pages, while others rested in piles on a long table. Buster was sitting at a desk with a huge book before him. He didn’t even look up when Emily came in.

  “Are you ready?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” said Emily, uncertain what exactly she should be ready for.

  “We are going to rescue Elvis and bring back the lamp,” said Buster, still engrossed in his book.

  Fidget came puffing up the stairs.

  “Buddleia,” he said under his breath. “Too many stairs. I think they keep multiplying on purpose.” In his paws he held a sword.

  “This is for you, Buster. A treasure from Miss String’s painted oak chest.”

  “Wow,” said Emily. “Do you really think Buster will need it?”

  “Yes, my little ducks,” said Fidget. “Toff the Terrible is a very dangerous goblin.”

  Buster took the sword from its scabbard. It was as light as a magic wand.

  “Anything special about it?” Buster asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” said Fidget. “But the trouble is, my dear old shrimp, I can’t remember what.”

  “Try,” said Buster. “A clue would help. Like, who did it belong to?”

  “A knight who wore green socks,” replied Fidget.

  “That’s all? Green socks?” said Buster.

  “Yep. There was also something about justice and honor.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Nope,” said Fidget. “That’s all that has stayed glued to the fishing hooks of my memory.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Emily. “Why would a goblin want the magic lamp in the first place? I mean, it’s useless—it doesn’t have a genie or anything like that.”

  “Of course!” said Buster, furiously flicking the pages of the book. “How could I have been so stupid? That’s it.”

  “That’s what, my old haddock?” asked Fidget.

  Buster slammed the book shut. Dust rose from the pages. He put the sword back in its scabbard and strapped it around him.

  “I’ll explain later. Come on, Emily, we have an elf and a magic lamp to rescue before it’s too late.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By the time the shop had returned to normal, it was teatime, and Mr. Rollo had woken up feeling as fresh as a daisy. The sun was setting on the thick snow, and he fel
t better than he had done for weeks. Fortunately he knew nothing about the drama that had gone on all around him.

  He told Fidget he was going to see Rosalind and ask her to come home—soggy carpets or no soggy carpets.

  “An excellent idea,” said Fidget, much relieved. This was not a good day to be at Wings & Co.

  As the tailor left, Lettice Lovage arrived. Unlike Mr. Rollo, she was not in the best of moods.

  “I thought you were supposed to be detectives. Why haven’t you found that elf yet?” she said to Fidget. “Pan’s told me all about that wicked little creature, and I want a word with him.”

  “Now wait a mo, my old mackerel,” said Fidget. “Elvis was here, but last night he was kidnapped—by Toff the Terrible, we believe.”

  “You mean you caught that elf, and now he’s gone?”

  “Yes,” said Fidget. “But—”

  “Do you know what mischief he’s made at Mountview Drive?”

  “No,” said Fidget. “But—”

  “He only gave my friend Pauline Smith bright pink hair and the body shape of an apple. Not to mention what he did to the dining room, the tent, and the wedding dress. I’ll tell you this, deary—”

  “Listen to me, my old mackerel,” said Fidget. “Buster and Emily have gone to rescue Elvis the Elf.”

  “Rescue?” said Lettice. “What’s going on?”

  “Elvis came here for help,” said Fidget. “And last night he was kidnapped by Toff the Terrible, who, by the way, also has the magic lamp.”

  “Why didn’t you say so straightaway?” said Lettice.

  “I did,” said Fidget.

  “You mean that no-good, murderous goblin has the elf?”

  “Spot on the fishcake,” said Fidget.

  “I don’t mind what happens to that lamp, deary, but I want first pop at Elvis the Elf.”