First published in Great Britain 2016

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Emily and the Detectives © 2016 Susie Day

Rain on My Parade © 2016 Elen Caldecott. Characters first appeared in the Marsh Road Mysteries series, published by Bloombury 2015

The Mystery of the Green Room © 2016 Clementine Beauvais

The Mystery of Diablo Canyon Circle © 2016 Roman Mysteries Ltd

Mel Foster and the Hound of the Baskervilles © 2016 Julia Golding

Dazzle, Dog Biscuits and Disaster © 2016 Kate Pankhurst

God’s Eye © 2016 Frances Hardinge

The Mystery of the Pineapple Plot © 2016 Helen Moss

The Murder of Monsieur Pierre © 2016 Harriet Whitehorn

Safe-Keeping © 2016 Sally Nicholls

The Mystery of the Purloined Pearls © 2016 Katherine Woodfine

The Mystery of Room 12 © 2016 Robin Stevens

Cover and inside illustraions © 2016 David Wardle

The moral rights of the authors and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 8264 2

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1746 5

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction by Katherine Woodfine

IMPOSSIBLE MYSTERIES

Emily and the Detectives by Susie Day

Rain on My Parade by Elen Caldecott

The Mystery of the Green Room by Clementine Beauvais

CANINE CAPERS

The Mystery of Diablo Canyon Circle by Caroline Lawrence

Mel Foster and the Hound of the Baskervilles by Julia Golding

Dazzle, Dog Biscuits and Disaster by Kate Pankhurst

POISON PLOTS

God’s Eye by Frances Hardinge

The Mystery of the Pineapple Plot by Helen Moss

The Murder of Monsieur Pierre by Harriet Whitehorn

CLOSED-SYSTEM CRIMES

Safe-Keeping by Sally Nicholls

The Mystery of the Purloined Pearls by Katherine Woodfine

The Mystery of Room 12 by Robin Stevens

Back series promotional page

INTRODUCTION

The very word ‘mystery’ is exciting. It instantly conjures up visions of ruined castles, secret passageways, lost treasures, brave detectives and dastardly villains. Most of all though, it suggests an enigma – a puzzle to solve, a question that characters as well as readers are trying to answer.

From Hercule Poirot to the Hardy Boys, the Secret Seven to Sherlock Holmes, mystery stories have long been favourites on our bookshelves. Whether it’s the Famous Five or Nancy Drew, it’s hard to resist the fun of an old-fashioned mystery tale. But over the last few years we’ve seen an explosion of brand new mysteries appearing in our bookshops and libraries. With page-turning plots, puzzling clues to follow and plenty of heart-pounding action and adventure, these books nod to the much-loved mysteries of the past, but also bring detective fiction bang up to date.

If you want to get a taste of this new generation of crime fiction, the twelve original stories in this collection are the perfect place to start. Showing just how varied and diverse today’s mysteries can be, this anthology takes us from an elegant Georgian country house in Helen Moss’s The Mystery of the Pineapple Plot to the buzzy streets of present-day Marsh Road in Elen Caldecott’s Rain on My Parade. We visit the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Frances Hardinge’s intriguing God’s Eye and explore the streets of 1780s Soho in Harriet Whitehorn’s The Murder of Monsieur Pierre.

These are stories that have plenty of fun with the traditions of crime fiction. Robin Stevens and Clementine Beauvais offer us brain-boggling, Agatha-Christie-style puzzles that even Miss Marple might struggle to solve; while Sally Nicholls’ Safe-Keeping is a tribute to ‘Boy’s Own’ style adventures. Caroline Lawrence’s modern-day mystery has a hint of the American Wild West and Julia Golding’s Mel Foster and the Hound of the Baskervilles even features an appearance from the great detective Sherlock Holmes himself.

The young sleuths in these stories can be anyone, from Kate Pankhurst’s quick-thinking dog-walker Sid to my own Edwardian chorus-girl-turned-detective Lil. But what unites them all is that they are the ones smart enough to unravel the mystery, rather than the adults around them. Sharp-eyed and even sharper-witted, these young heroes are courageous, cool-headed and clever, able to follow the clues and come up with the solution even when no one else can. Susie Day’s Emily and the Detectives illustrates this perfectly: the world believes that clueless Lord Copperbole and scientist Mr Black are brilliant detectives, but in fact it’s Mr Black’s daughter, the capable Emily, who’s really responsible for discovering whodunnit every time.

Perhaps one of the reasons that mystery stories like these are so enjoyable is that they allow us to share the challenge of solving the puzzle. We too can experience the satisfaction of pitting our wits against the mystery, piecing together the clues and unravelling the evidence to work out what happened and why. The stories in this collection offer exactly this challenge: can you solve the crimes alongside the daring young detectives? But whether or not you manage to crack the cases, there’s a huge amount of fun to be had along the way.

Happy sleuthing!

Katherine Woodfine

IMPOSSIBLE MYSTERIES

Sometimes crimes seem simply impossible. But intrepid detectives know that this is never really true. As Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’

These three locked-room mysteries seem unbelievable, but each case can be cracked – and as soon as they are, each of them make perfect sense.

EMILY AND THE DETECTIVES

By Susie Day

‘No, but . . .’ said Emily.

‘Hush, dearest,’ said Mr Black – or Father, as she more usually called him. ‘We are on the brink! Of a discovery! We are mere instants from revealing all – are we not, Lord Copperbole?’

Lord Copperbole – or Irritating Moustachioed Weasel, as she more usually called him – leapt back from the laboratory bench, as it erupted in blue flames.

‘The clue!’ moaned Mr Black.

‘The clue!’ howled Lord Copperbole, nursing a burnt thumb.

‘The bucket?’ suggested Emily, tugging a pail full of sand from beneath the bench, and dumping it unceremoniously on to the fire.

A shame. The blue flame indicated atacamite, as she had expected from the sugary crystals gathered in the corner of the clue: an envelope addressed to Lady Tanqueray, greasy from travel, and impressed with the shape of a scarab beetle. It could not have been more obvious.

It was lucky, really, that Mary the housemaid neglected to refill the bucket with sand.

The Chinese puzzlebox Lord Copperbole brought to the house was a rare and beautiful thing: jet black, inlaid with a complex pattern of abalone shell.

‘My dear friend Lady Tanqueray has again entrusted me with unlocking a mystery,’ he explained, purring as he stroked his new-grown goatee. ‘A gift to her eldest daughter, from an admirer. We must be discreet, Charles.’

‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ said Mr Black, turning it this way and that. ‘But if your intellect cannot unlock it, I scarce presume to hope I might.’

This was silly, Emily thought, since her father was a very clever – if amateur – scientist, and Lord Copperbole was just a person who happened to live in a large house full of expensive things. But Mr Black was indeed outfoxed – until Emily slid the abalone-shell catch up, left, down, left and up, mirroring the castellation pattern on the lid until it clicked.

She smiled as the box sprang open.

The secret within was a large furred spider (poisonous, clearly: anyone could identify those red markings), which scuttled out of its prison and on to the floor.

‘Oh!’ said her father.

‘Help!’ yelped Lord Copperbole.

Emily reached under the table, placed the empty bucket over the spider, and stood on top in her black buttoned boots until an eminent zoologist could be located.

The eminent zoologist revisited Mr Black’s house in Richmond three weeks later, accompanied by his weeping wife.

He recounted the tragic tale of his wife’s mother – an elderly seamstress, formerly of the royal household – and her purloined silver spoons. All but one had been mysteriously stolen from her private collection.

‘The police are baffled, sir!’ declared the eminent zoologist. ‘Her eyesight failed many years ago; she only discovered the theft when she came, alas, to sell them. And she is quite distraught, the poor lady, for they were gifts given to her by her daughter, my dear Agatha: one for each Christmas since our marriage. And now there is but one left.’

His weeping wife dabbed at her eyes.

‘I enjoy a mystery, sir,’ said Mr Black with a frown, ‘but I don’t know that we are quite the right people to –’

‘Nonsense!’ declared Lord Copperbole, snatching up a paisley velvet scarf and knotting it with a confident flounce. ‘I half see the solution already! What puzzles me is why the thief would take every other spoon, and leave only one.’

‘Or,’ said Emily, looking up from her book, ‘perhaps there only ever was one spoon, and the daughter gave her the same one every year?’

The weeping wife stopped weeping, and attempted to leap through the window.

Mr Black gripped her by the ankle, hauled her back inside, and Emily sat on her legs until the constable arrived.

The police were not pleased to have been bested.

The newspapers, however, became terribly keen on the exploits of Copperbole & Black.

The Mystery of the Eminent Zoologist’s Wife’s Mother’s Spoons was reported in the Daily Telegraph.

The Case of One-Legged Jack (who was, Emily discovered, actually Two-Legged Jill) was featured on the front page of the Illustrated London News.

After the Adventure of the Magician’s Hatbox, their appeal extended into the society pages.

Lord Copperbole is quite the fashionable gentleman, lately seen sporting a spotted cravat tied in a manner some have dubbed ‘The Detective’s Twist’. Meanwhile, in spite of his unfortunate dusky appearance, Mr Black cuts a more traditional figure, yet his habit of tucking a crocus into his lapel is also gaining regard.

There was no mention of young Miss Emily Black’s contribution.

‘Or the way she wears her stockings all wrinkly about the ankle and her hair in knots,’ Mary the housemaid said, finding Emily gloomily scouring the back pages. ‘Fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be, miss. Fame brings trouble. You’re better off out of it.’

Emily supposed so. Though it seemed to bring a lot of other things too.

Lady Tanqueray’s favourite Parisian tailor made Lord Copperbole a new green brocade coat – ‘At no charge!’ said her father. ‘Can you imagine? And you know Basil; he is fond of a tailor.’

Mr Black found himself invited to the Royal Society – not to join, of course, but to dine, once.

But after the Case of the Lost Prince (who happily really was lost, not dead, and thanks to Emily soon found again, in a coal cellar) mere fame changed into true regard.

Lord Copperbole and Mr Black were summoned to the palace, and each anointed with a new title: DBE, Detective of the British Empire.

There is no crime they cannot solve, the papers declared. LONDON IS SAFE.

Emily felt torn in two. One portion of her blazed with envy. Her second self glowed with secret pride.

Until one day, everything changed.

‘Dearest Emily,’ said her father, ‘we are quite preoccupied, Lord Basil and I, with our work for Her Majesty. I know you have always enjoyed playing our little chaperone, and since your poor mother – rest her soul – was lost to us, I have adored having you by my side. But the scene of the crime is no place for a child.’

‘And the daughter of the Queen’s Detective should be an accomplished young lady,’ added Lord Copperbole, lingering at the looking glass to tweak the pointy collar of his new green coat. ‘A young lady’s most becoming delicate qualities are not to be acquired in a laboratory, my dear.’

‘But, Father,’ protested Emily, ‘we have work to do! Mysteries to solve! Legs to sit on, puzzle boxes to unpuzzle . . .’

You need me, she meant.

And – she had plenty of qualities already. She had learnt to read at four and a half from Darwin’s Origin of Species (she liked the part about tortoises) and ever since had consumed a new book daily, sitting on the kitchen stove to ensure a warm bottom and a ready supply of toast. She knew an Erlenmeyer flask from a retort. She was a bit good at solving crimes, even if no one else noticed.

Mr Black took her hands in his. ‘The former Lord Copperbole – Basil’s father – was good enough to provide me my education. Now my dear friend has offered to provide for you. You are to go to Lord Basil’s house in the country. He has appointed a governess for you. You’ll hardly have time to miss me, I promise!’

Lord Copperbole’s house was in Sussex, surrounded by rolling green hills and a lingering unmentionable smell relating to cows. It was very grand and only slightly damp. Emily had her own room and schoolroom, the run of the library (which was happily stuffed with every modern work relating to science and its principles, and a less interesting selection of magazines about hair), a stable of horses should she wish to ride, a cook to prepare all her meals, and a dog, who she called Wilfrid, because Pashmina was a silly name for a spaniel. None of which helped her heart from squeezing tight in her chest at the thought of her father, hurrying after Lord Weasel, or alone in his laboratory. Mary was bound to have forgotten to fill up the fire bucket again.

Emily resolved to make the best of it.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said to the governess, with her very warmest smile. ‘I love learning. Especially chemistry, and botany, and mathematics.’

‘We will study the pianoforte, conversational French and watercolour painting,’ said Miss Hethersmith, who wore a bun, and spectacles, and a mouse-like expression.

‘Of course we will,’ said Emily brightly.

And she proceeded to spend her time at the piano, or the easel, or with her French text on her knee.

‘Oh yes, sir, she has been a most attentive student,’ Miss Hethersmith assured Mr Black, when he and Lord Copperbole visited on Friday evening.

It was not a lie. She had indeed been attentive: to the pamphlet on poisons tucked into her French vocabulary; to the careful detail in her watercolour portrait of the human anatomy and its vulnerabilities to violent attack; to the composition of a baroque piano solo, using a substitution code to spell out I AM BORED AND WOULD LIKE TO DO SOME DETECTING. And, of course, to the newspapers, which had begun to report what they were calling the Case of The Deadly Bedchamber, a mystery so bewildering that there was no question who must be called upon; a case so baffling that the police were ‘probably, like, not even going to bother’, according to a source. Copperbole & Black had been summoned at once, and were now investigating the most mysterious murder of Viscountess Lucetta von Fromentin.

The facts of the case were plain.

The Queen received Viscountess Fromentin, a widow from Austria, for tea on September 12th. The Viscountess had taken a liking to London on a previous visit, and that day had moved into a small but well-appointed house in Marylebone, which had been decorated to her very exacting instructions: carpeting from Constantinople; blown-glass vases from Venice; an extensive range of Austrian cheeses in the larder.

She was noted by her lady’s maid, Bertha, to seem especially pleased by the appearance of her bedroom: a comfortable reading chair, an antique grandfather clock, and all decorated in wallpapers, curtains and bedlinens from Paris, in the latest fashionable green.

(‘I am always rather ahead of the tide,’ said Lord Copperbole, swishing his striped green coat-tails in case they were not noticeable enough.)

After leaving the palace, the Viscountess dined in a hotel in Kensington on soup and stewed guinea fowl, and consumed a single glass of Medoc which she insisted came from a bottle which no one else would drink; the sommelier recalled pouring it away (with a tragic sigh; it was a very good year) in front of her, to be certain.

(‘Most curious,’ noted Mr Black. ‘Though the contents are lost I should very much like the bottle, for testing.’)

Bertha took her a small bottle of soda water as was her habit shortly before ten that night, and noticed the Viscountess looked pale and dishevelled. She later recalled hearing a terrible noise in the night, like the thumping footfalls of some monster. The lady’s maid also swore she had heard the bedroom’s grandfather clock strike thirteen. And then she had gone back to bed, because that was scary.

The following morning, Bertha found herself unable to enter her mistress’s room: the Viscountess had locked the door from inside, and the golden key was still wedged into the keyhole. Her knock received no answer. The windows, their green Parisian curtains still drawn, were bolted shut on the inside.

Fearing her mistress had been taken ill – or worse – the lady’s maid roused the cook, who roused the underbutler, and they hurled themselves at the locked door until it gave way.

What they saw then was quite impossible.

On the bare floorboards beneath the grandfather clock was written, in ominous blood-red letters, the word ‘hare’.

The green linens of the bed had been rent and torn, as if by claws.

The soda bottle was smashed.

And on the bed lay the still, white body of the Viscountess in her Parisian nightgown, quite dead.

(‘A tragedy,’ pronounced Lord Copperbole, wiping his brow with exaggerated sorrow. ‘Such exquisite taste in decor, and she had barely one night in which to appreciate it.’)

All this was recounted to Emily over limande sole au beurre (buttered lemon sole; Emily was learning all her poissons alongside her poisons) at Lord Copperbole’s dining table on Friday.

‘I feel we have barely scratched the surface of this most enticing case, dearest Emily!’ said her father, eagerly squeezing a lemon over his fish. ‘One week into our investigations and so many clues still to unravel! So many theories present themselves . . .’

‘I maintain the Lady’s maid is prime suspect,’ sniffed Lord Copperbole. ‘Sole witness. First to find the body. One should never be too trusting of a servant, Miss Emily,’ he added meaningfully, as a footman held out a platter of potatoes. Somehow the footman did not tip them all upon his head.

‘Ah, now, I have my eye on the sommelier still, sir!’ said Mr Black. ‘The wine was surely poisoned. Although how he would have profited from the murder, I have yet to draw together. And that does not explain the significance of the hare.’

‘Then there is the matter of the torn bedlinen . . .’

‘And the clock which struck thirteen . . .’

Mr Black drank deeply, and smacked his lips. ‘Indeed! It is a remarkable case. One for the history books, if we can but solve it! Tell me, dearest Emily, what do you make of it?’

Emily dropped her fish knife (into all her other knives – there were at least six) in surprise. He was smiling benevolently at her, sincerely curious as to her mind. She felt suddenly aglow. Perhaps, at last, he saw her.

She stole a glance at Lord Copperbole, waiting for his lip to curl ready with dismissal – but he was staring listlessly at his plate, pushing his limande sole about. He had not touched either of the soups, nor the kickshaws of pickled herring (hareng mariné, she remembered) and horrid oysters (les huîtres horrible) he typically pounced upon.

She recognised the expression; her father often sank into similar despondency mid-case. Unless Lord Copperbole was realising he was shortly to be replaced at her father’s side . . . by herself ?

‘Well,’ she said eagerly, pushing her plate away. ‘I think – that is to say, what I make of it is –’

Her voice faded to a croak.

Emily, for the first time in her life, had no idea how the crime had been committed.

Usually she was able to see each clue, each suspect, each moment of importance in her mind as if they were chessmen on a board – and played a swift and confident game until the only piece remaining was the solution. For the first time, for every pawn she took, there was another jostling for attention. For the first time, it seemed the murderer had left too many clues to his identity, not too few. And all while seemingly committing the crime from inside a locked room – and vanishing.

Her shoulders drooped. Perhaps she was not worthy of royal patronage after all.

‘Oh dearest, in my excitement I’ve overtired you with this unpleasantness,’ said her father. ‘We shall not speak of it again.’

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but it stretched itself into an unbidden yawn. She was sent up to bed at once, and the next morning her father and Lord Copperbole returned to London to pursue the case.

‘Today, we shall paint this vase of lovely flowers,’ said Miss Hethersmith.

Emily was so dejected, she obeyed without argument.

The rest of the week was spent pressing flowers, reciting poetry, and improving her deportment.

On Friday evening, the Queen’s Detectives returned to Sussex, aflow with new theories.

At least, her father was.

‘The Viscountess’s Venetian glass was purchased from an antiquities dealer in Amsterdam,’ he explained in an excitable gabble. ‘However! It is a fake. I surmise that the Viscountess had discovered the lie, revealed it in conversation with Her Majesty, and in doing so inadvertently revealed that the royal house too had fallen prey to such fakery. She was murdered to prevent a scandal!’

‘It is a bit more of a scandal now, though, isn’t it?’ said Emily, thinking of the stack of newspaper cuttings in the library, and shifting one chessman across the board.

Mr Black tapped his chin. ‘True. Perhaps instead it was the antiquities dealer himself, fearing exposure, who killed her!’

‘He’d need to enter the room, though,’ said Emily, ‘and come out again, and to come all the way from Amsterdam to do it with no one noticing, and to kill her with a weapon no one has yet found.’

Another pawn was discarded.

Mr Black nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I propose the key clue is the word “hare” and that it is a bookmaker that we must pursue! Perhaps the Viscountess was prone to gambling on hare-coursing, and the murderer wished to . . . er . . . send a clear message to all other hare-gambling enthusiasts who had not paid their debts, by writing the word in blood!’

‘Do you really think so?’ said Emily.

Mr Black sighed. ‘No. The Viscountess had no unpaid debts. And the bookmaker too would need to enter the room and get out again: the police are adamant the bolts inside the windows were quite secure, and the door locked. Then there is the clock striking thirteen. Unless . . . was there a bee, perhaps? A killer bee, which stung the poor woman? Or, or – Basil?’

Emily had almost forgotten Lord Copperbole was present.

He was still moustachioed, and as weaselly as ever – but there was no flounce or flourish to the wilting knot of his cravat. Even his famous coat hung loose from his narrowed shoulders. And the food that whirled around the table – truite aux amandes (trout with almonds) and cucumber salad – seemed to interest him not at all.

‘Lord Copperbole is taking the challenge of this case to heart,’ confided Mr Black to Emily, in a kind low voice. ‘We are working so terribly hard, you see.’

Emily did see.

Unfortunately, the newspapers saw too.

QUEEN’S DETECTIVES OUTFOXED?

NOT SO CLEVER NOW, SIR! COPPERBOLE AND FRIEND REMAIN PERPLEXED

MURDERER ROAMS STREETS AS QUEEN’S TOP ’TEC TURNS PEAKY

Emily redoubled her efforts.

While Miss Hethersmith urged her to paint a bunch of violets, she traced the letters of ‘hare’ in her paintbox in Cadmium Red, over and over.

She spent hours in the library, poring over Lord Copperbole’s books.

She stared out at the green cow-smelling downs, as a spider crawled across the windowpane and began to spin its web.

At that, the final chessman shifted into place.

Now the queen was in play, and the game was on.

‘I shall need to send a telegram to London,’ she announced, in the large empty hall, as Wilfrid skittered across its tiles leaving small muddy prints. ‘Hello?’

But no footman or housemaid appeared.

She hurried to the schoolroom, but Miss Hethersmith was not there. All she found was a copy of the London Times.

COPPERBOLE & BLACK TO FACE THE DEADLY BEDCHAMBER!

These pages have remained firm in the conviction that the Queen’s own Detectives are to be offered every courtesy and respect while they unravel this notorious mystery – now entering its fourth week. It is with much hope that we report that Lord Copperbole – despite his recent ill health – and his dusky companion intend to stay one entire night in the Deadly Bedchamber itself, to expose its secret at last.

Emily’s heart pounded.

It was yesterday’s edition.

The time was now past three. Her father and his colleague were to lock themselves into the Deadly Bedchamber at nine that very evening – and she knew, now, with terrible certainty that if they did, she would never see either one alive again.

Lord Copperbole might be a weasel and a peacock with a curly lip, but she did not wish him dead.

And her father . . .

Her dear papa . . .

There was no time to waste.

Emily dashed to the library to collect one slim volume. Then she made for the stables, rode headlong for Brighton, and boarded a steam train.

She was alone, and rather muddy, and, as the darting eyes and whispers were quick to note, also unfortunately dusky. But she kept her head high and her chin firm, and made sure to find a compartment filled with people reading newspapers, so they would not stare.

After an agonisingly slow journey, the train pulled in at London Victoria.

For a moment she quailed: would a carriage driver take a small muddy brown girl, all alone? But all it took was a confident jingle of her purse, and the driver cracked his whip for Marylebone.

It was not hard to find the correct house. A crowd had gathered, all eager to see the famous detectives. A ring of bobbies was attempting to hold them clear of the front steps, and Emily found herself crushed against warm smelly bodies and hairy coats as she tried to press through the throng.

‘Stand back, ladies and gents, no pushin’!’ bellowed a policeman.

‘How are we to know they’ll stay all night long, eh?’ yelled one voice.

‘And who’s going to solve it if they both pop off ?’ called another, to a ripple of laughter.

‘I will!’ shouted Emily, finding herself pressed against a red pillar box at the edge of the pavement, and scaling it at once. ‘I have solved the mystery of the Deadly Bedchamber!’

She stood awkwardly on the domed top of the pillar box, slipping in her muddy boots, and waved the pamphlet from Lord Copperbole’s library excitedly above her head – but the crowd jeered and booed.

Emily looked imploringly at the line of policemen, but they only had eyes for the crowd.

She tried calling out: ‘Father! Papa, I am here, come out at once!’ but her voice could not carry.

She could not draw him out alone. But she was not alone.

Thinking fast, Emily crouched down on her pillar box perch.

‘I don’t think they’re even in there,’ she said, to no one in particular.

‘Darlin’, I saw them go in myself,’ said a woman hotly.

‘They could’ve slipped out of a back entrance,’ said Emily casually.

‘Ere, that’s a point.’

‘How do we know they’re still in there?’

‘Oi! Show yourselves, Lord La-di-dah and Wotsisface!’

The crowd took up the cry. ‘Show yourselves! Show yourselves!’

To Emily’s joy, a pair of curtains on the first floor were thrown back, and a sash window lifted.

Mr Black leant out, looking rather irritable. ‘Sirs, ladies, it is rather a challenge to solve a locked-room mystery; more so if you will not allow us to keep it locked.’

‘Papa! Father, over here! It’s Emily, I’m here!’

This time Emily’s voice was heard. Mr Black almost fell out of the window in surprise at finding his daughter, in London, alone, standing on a postbox, but she shook off all his demands for an explanation.

‘No time, Papa! You must get out of there at once, both of you! The room is deadly!’

‘We know that, dearest,’ said her father, gently.

‘No – the room itself is deadly.’ She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Father – Lord Copperbole has been unwell. Has he taken a turn for the worse since entering the room?’

Mr Black looked furtive, as a gaspy choking sound issued from behind him. ‘Er. Possibly?’

‘I know why. And it is what killed the Viscountess Fromentin!’

The crowd, which had fallen silent, began to mutter.

Emily brandished the pamphlet triumphantly above her head, almost slipping from her perch.

‘Why are you waving a fashion catalogue from Paris about, dearest?’

‘Paris Green!’ she called back. ‘The Viscountess was not murdered by a vanishing monster, or an invisible bee. She was poisoned.’

‘By the wine, I knew it!’ yelled someone.

‘Nah, son, it was that guinea fowl.’

Emily shook her head. ‘No! What poisoned her was the wallpaper, the curtains, her bedlinens – all handmade in Paris, to the popular shade, exactly like Lord Copperbole’s coat. Paris Green. Also known as copper acetoarsenite.’

‘Eh?’ said the crowd.

‘But . . . that’s toxic . . .’ said her father, his face falling as he glanced at the curtain by his side.

‘Oooh,’ said the crowd.

‘Ordinary exposure will result in a slower reaction,’ Emily continued. ‘That’s why Lord Copperbole has been unwell! His coat has been very slowly poisoning him. But – the room, the furnishings: I think they must have been super-impregnated with the compound. Sleeping in that room, in a bed, coated in the same poison – that takes only one night to kill.’

There was stillness for a moment.

‘Wait. What about the torn bedlinen?’

‘It was a new bed, new linens. I believe the sheets were torn before she slept, to give the impression of an assailant in the room. The maid either did not notice when she made up the bed, or feared blame if it were mentioned.’

The crowd grumbled.

‘Why did the clock strike thirteen?’

‘I believe the mechanism was tampered with, to add confusion.’

‘What about the wine that got poured away?’

‘Oh! That was just wine. And a viscountess being mean.’

‘All right, all right, I buy it all so far,’ yelled one of the policemen. ‘But who or what is that hare all about?’

Emily’s throat was beginning to hurt from shouting, and her boots really were slippery, but to be called upon by an officer of the law urged her on to reveal her proudest deduction.

‘That,’ she said loudly, ‘holds the vital clue to why this crime occurred in this way. After all, if you want to kill a viscountess, there are quicker ways than selling her curtains super-impregnated with poison. The word “hare” does not mean hare as in furry rabbity creature, but the beginning of another word. Hareng. It is the French word for “herring”, written in blood. A red herring. I think it was written on the floorboards before the Viscountess moved into the room, and covered up with a rug. The missing letters were wiped away by footfalls – or perhaps missed out all along, to prolong the mystery. For this is why the Viscountess died: to preoccupy the Queen’s Detectives with an impossible case. To give them too many clues to solve. To humiliate them with failure – and to draw them into the same trap. The Deadly Room – which is killing them both while I’m talking! Father? Papa? Please, please come down?’

The crowd’s faces turned up to the window, to the forgotten Mr Black above.

Emily met his bright eyes, and saw her father’s chest swell with pride at last.

‘Oh! Yes, at once,’ he said, coming back to himself. ‘I mean to say – oh – Lord Copperbole will need a doctor! And no one is to come into this room!’

Lord Basil Copperbole made a full recovery, and acquired a new coat (demure grey, though the lining was pink and yellow stripes) in time to accompany Miss Emily Black and her father to the palace, where she received a gallantry award for services in the prevention of crime.

‘Perhaps some time back in the country, until all this fuss has died down, hmm?’ said Mr Black, peering anxiously from their carriage as they drew up to the old Richmond house and laboratory, to find the usual crowd gathered to catch a glimpse of the Queen’s Detectives and their young protégée.

‘A little Sussex air . . . some shopping, of course,’ said Lord Copperbole, clapping his hands.

‘Indeed, sir, indeed!’ said Mr Black.

‘Aren’t we going to finish the case first?’ asked Emily.

‘But you solved it, dearest Emily!’ said her father, squeezing her hands. ‘All those clues . . . solved the lot. Even the ones that weren’t really clues.’

‘Yes. Very clever,’ said Lord Copperbole, his cheek twitching with the effort.

‘Um. Well, we know how the Viscountess died, Papa. But we haven’t caught who arranged for her to furnish her home with super-impregnated poisonous bedlinen then laid a false trail of clues, all in order to entrap the two of you in the same room and kill you,’ said Emily, quite slowly, to be sure it went in.

‘Oh. Oh dear,’ said her father.

‘Good heavens,’ said Lord Copperbole. ‘And now we have no clues to go on at all!’

‘Apart from the tailor you visited in Paris who made you your coat,’ said Emily. ‘And whoever recommended him.’

She looked Lord Copperbole in the eye.

Lord Copperbole clutched his lace handkerchief to his lips. ‘But – you can’t be suggesting . . .’

‘She did give you a puzzlebox containing a poisonous tarantula. And I think a cursed scarab beetle before that. I don’t think she intended for it all to help you become a famous detective. Is it possible she doesn’t like you very much?’

Lord Copperbole’s moustache wilted.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Emily. ‘Mary knows Lady Tanqueray’s second footman. If she’s fled the country, he’ll know where her cases have been sent. Shall we go?’

Her father smiled at her with great warmth.

‘My dearest Emily,’ he said. ‘You are becoming quite the detective!’

RAIN ON MY PARADE

By Elen Caldecott

It felt just like mini sparklers were fizzing in Minnie Adesina’s arms and legs and elbows and knees. She couldn’t stay in her flat above Mum’s salon on Marsh Road, not with fireworks exploding from her fingers to her feet! Today was Carnival! Car-ni-val. She drawled the word slowly, the way Bernice, one of Mum’s assistants, did in her Kingston accent. Those three syllables turned the road upside-down and left-side-right every year. The regular market was swept away by a swell of sound and colour. She rushed downstairs, ready to see it all.

It was still early, the summer sun hardly heating the ground, but already the street was full. People in high-vis jackets swung barriers like giant paddles; food vans’ fried onions and spices made her mouth water. At the end of the road, a camera crew and technicians swarmed a temporary stage, tweaking the spotlights on the lighting rig, adjusting the legs of tripods and moving monitors. That would be where the bands played into the evening. But already there was music. From speaker stacks the size of cars, from tiny portable radios, from everywhere, rhythms that made her shoulders leap and roll throbbed and thrummed. Marsh Road was alive with it all.

‘Minnie!’

Flora, one of Minnie’s very best friends, hurtled down the street towards her and grabbed her elbows. Minnie and Flora were part of an investigating team who’d solved more than one mystery on Marsh Road, and seeing her always meant fun and excitement. Then Minnie noticed Flora’s twin, Sylvie, strolling behind. Minnie sighed. Sunny days came with shadows. She smiled at one half of the twins.

‘Isn’t this exciting?’ Flora asked, her red hair bouncing as she leapt up and down. ‘I can’t believe Bernice wants us to help her get ready! We’re going to be right at the heart of Carnival this year, with one of its very best costume makers.’

Minnie glanced at Sylvie. She hadn’t been part of the plan.

Flora noticed the look, but Sylvie was too busy smiling at the camera crew.

‘Is it all right if Sylvie comes too?’ Flora ground the tip of her trainer into the pavement. ‘She didn’t want to be left out.’

Sylvie never wanted to be left out. And she was often loud and pushy enough that it was impossible to ignore her. Sylvie even helped with the Marsh Road Investigators’ cases, when it suited her.

But today was too nice a day to make trouble. Minnie sighed. ‘You can both come. More hands make light work, Mum always says.’

‘Girls!’ The word was yelled so loud that it made a man carrying a barrier drop it on his foot and swear. ‘Girls!’ Bernice waved with both hands. She looked amazing – she must have been up before the sun to do her hair; it was teased into a huge pile on her head, streaked red, yellow and green with extensions. Her gold nails sparkled as she waved. She pulled Minnie into a tight hug. ‘I’ve got an extra helper, have I? Good. My costume is the best yet, like a parrot fought a glitter factory and won. Today you three are my right-hand girls. Come on, the dress is waiting at the lock-up.’

The lock-ups were down a narrow footpath behind Marsh Road, under the railway tracks. A span of arches had doors set into them, creating workshops and storage spaces, vaults of red brick. As they walked, Bernice kept up an excited commentary. ‘Mind your step, this part is a bit overgrown. Careful of the nettles. I’ve been working on this costume for a month now, every spare minute I get. It’s going to knock the shoes and socks off everyone! Ooh, wasp. I don’t like this path, but the lock-up is so cheap, and it’s dark and cool, perfect for storing costumes. No one can even peek inside. Watch out, this bit’s muddy.’

Finally they were in front of Bernice’s lock-up. The smartly painted blue door, with a polished letter box, was padlocked shut.

Bernice took out a key.

She turned it in the lock.

The door swung inward. Minnie caught a scent like charring before Bernice flicked on the light.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Oh no!’

Minnie ducked through the small doorway, the twins clambering after her. ‘Bernice? What is it?’

With one look it was obvious what was wrong.

Standing on a dressmaker’s dummy in the middle of the space was the ruin of Bernice’s costume. The base layer of Lycra was in place, but the tatter of feathers surrounding it was hideous. The spines were bald without their fluff, the broken quills ugly as road kill. Whatever had happened to the costume had taken all its grace and beauty and left behind a horror.

‘My costume,’ Bernice whispered. She stepped forward robotically. As she reached to touch the few remaining feathers, they crumbled to dust under the pads of her fingers. Brittle pieces flaked to the ground.

Minnie stepped further into the room, with the twins close behind her. They moved slowly, the way hospital visitors might walk into an intensive care ward.

But it was too late for the costume. It was already dead.

‘What happened to it?’ Sylvie asked. ‘It’s awful.’

‘I . . . I . . . don’t . . .’

Minnie glared at Sylvie. ‘Bernice, I think you need to sit down. Here.’ Minnie grabbed a wheeled chair from beside the desk and pushed it towards Bernice.

‘Wait!’ Flora said suddenly. ‘We shouldn’t move anything.’

Minnie froze. Her hands tightened on the back of the chair. Was Flora suggesting what she thought she was suggesting? ‘You think this is a crime scene?’ Minnie whispered. Could this be a case for the Marsh Road Investigators?

Flora gave a firm nod. ‘Bernice, the costume didn’t look this way when you last saw it?’

Bernice shook her head, whipping her extensions back and forth. ‘No – no way. It was fine last night.’

‘And could this have happened by accident?’

Again, Bernice shook her head. ‘No, child. The temperature is just right. The place is kept dark. There are no insects, or mice, no chemicals or anything that could do this damage. This is no accident.’ Her eyes widened as she realised what she was saying. ‘Someone did this on purpose! Someone doesn’t want me to walk in Carnival!’

‘Who?’ said Sylvie.

‘How ?’ said Flora.

Minnie saw exactly what Flora meant. There were no windows in the lock-up at all. The door was the only way in, and it had definitely been locked.

‘Bernice, who else has a key to the padlock?’ Flora asked.

‘No one. There’s only one key and I’ve had it safe in my purse all night.’

Minnie watched as Flora did what she always thought was one of the most exciting things in the world. She opened her ever-present backpack and took out a pen and a notebook. It was the signal that they were about to begin a new case. They had investigated several crimes before now, and each time the details went into Flora’s notebook – every clue, every witness statement, everything – until there was enough information to help them catch the culprit. They had to do the same for Bernice. No one was going to hurt their friend and get away with it.

‘Bernice,’ Flora asked, ‘does anything look unusual? I mean, apart from the costume?’

Bernice glanced around, taking in the dummy, the clean workbench, the perfectly arranged shelves of bright material. ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘nothing.’ Her voice shook as she spoke. Minnie was horrified to see tears glistening in her eyes.

Bernice turned away and faced the wall. ‘I’m just . . . going to call . . . I have to let people know . . . officials, maybe . . .’

Minnie felt a hand on her arm. It was Flora. ‘She needs a minute,’ Flora said. ‘She’s probably in shock. Let’s help the best way we can, by finding out what happened.’

Minnie knew Flora was right.

Minnie left Bernice to make her calls. She had to concentrate on the clues. Clues could be anything: anything that disrupted the pattern, anything that looked out of place.

Who or what could have ruined a costume inside a vault-like room?

Minnie examined the walls, while Flora looked at the costume on the dummy. Sylvie wandered outside. Had she lost interest already? Typical.

Right. Ignore Sylvie too. Clues.

The walls of the lock-up were filled to the rafters with carefully arranged colour and texture: silks and sequins, taffeta and tulle, in reds and greens and blues and purples. There were ribbons, glitter, tissue paper, craft paper, crepe paper and tracing paper – if it was paper, then Bernice had some, as well as jars of feathers and lace and fringe, arranged according to the colours of the rainbow. Minnie let her eyes wander over it all. Was any of this technicolor craft equipment a clue? It all looked like it belonged.

Flora had moved away from the dummy to look for entrances and exits. She scanned the ceiling, looking for vents, she clattered the letter box to see if she could fit more than her hand through (she couldn’t) and she searched the floor for a trapdoor. ‘The door is definitely the only way in,’ she said finally.

‘What about the costume? Any clues there?’ Minnie asked.

‘I’m not sure. Only the feathers have been affected. But then, the costume is ninety per cent feathers. Bernice has already given us a good idea of the things that damage feathers – insects, mice, chemicals, heat and light.’ She scribbled something in her notebook. ‘Let’s see what Sylvie’s got.’

Sylvie was outside, crouched with her back against the lock-up doors, staring at the ground.

She glanced their way as they climbed out of the doorway. ‘There you are. Have either of you found a clue?’

Flora shook her head.

‘Well, it’s a good job I came along today then. Look at this.’ Sylvie spread her arms to point at the ground at her feet. ‘Careful – don’t stand on them.’

All Minnie could see was dirt. She bent lower.

‘There!’

Minnie could see them now. Tiny square-ish dimples in the dirt. Heel prints? She counted six of them, in a pattern, as though someone in high-heeled shoes had stood still, but changed position a few times.

Rats.

Sylvie had found the first clue.

And her smug smile was infuriating.

Sylvie pulled out her phone and snapped photos.

Just then a huge man with arms and legs like logs lumbered past. He paused, noticing Sylvie taking snapshots of mud. He stopped. Minnie knew him – it was Big Phil. He had a lock-up a few doors down. She managed a smile, but she felt a bit embarrassed. She still remembered the time they’d had him down as a suspect in one of their cases. It had been understandable – after all, he sold fake designer perfumes that smelt of hamster wee, and diet pills that did absolutely nothing, and he wore a leather jacket and an air of menace. But they’d found out that underneath his macho exterior, Big Phil was a teddy bear.

‘Morning,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Bernice all ready for Carnival, is she?’

‘Not really,’ Sylvie said. ‘Her costume looks like a toddler made it in the middle of a tantrum.’

‘But her costumes are always great,’ Big Phil said, confused. ‘Best in the whole parade. She’s the best designer in town.’

‘Not this time. Something happened to her costume and now it’s ruined. I don’t suppose you know anything about it? Were you here last night?’ Sylvie asked.

Big Phil raised one end of his monobrow. ‘Ruined? Oh, poor Bernice. Is she all right? Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Yes,’ Sylvie snapped. ‘You can answer the question. Were you here last night? Did you see anything suspicious?’

Big Phil’s face reddened. ‘I was here, as it happens. In my lock-up. I can be there any time I like – there’s no law against it.’

‘Did you see anything? Or hear anything strange?’ Flora asked.

‘Nothing suspicious. But there was something a bit strange. I was bothered by three of the biggest moths you’ve ever seen. No idea how they got in.’ He gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Horrible things. You know they get stuck in your hair?’

Big Phil was entirely bald.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. ‘Moths? Is that it? You didn’t hear any strange sounds? Or notice any unusual visitors?’

Big Phil shrugged. ‘No. Sorry. I had the radio on – I couldn’t hear anything over Soft Rock Classics. Love that show, I do.’ His eyes went a little misty. Then he seemed to remember himself. He squared his shoulders. ‘Well. I can’t stand here talking about sparkly frocks. Tell Bernice I say hello.’ He wandered off in the general direction of his lock-up.

Sylvie put her phone away. ‘Might he be involved? He had the opportunity – he was here last night.’

Flora shrugged. ‘What’s his motive, though? Why would he want to hurt Bernice or her costume? I don’t think he can be a suspect really.’

‘And there are these marks,’ Minnie added. ‘It was probably a woman, don’t you think? Was she standing here in high heels trying to pick the padlock?’

‘Maybe,’ Flora said. ‘But she didn’t succeed.’ Flora tilted the padlock that hung clipped to the door frame and examined it. ‘You can’t pick a lock without scratching the metal, and this lock is clean.’

They went back inside and shut the door behind them. Bernice was off the phone and had made herself a mug of tea. They watched as she spooned in three sugars.

‘It’s not for the shock,’ Minnie whispered. ‘She just likes three sugars.’ Then, a little louder, ‘Do you want me to call my mum, Bernice? She might know what to do about your costume.’

‘There’s nothing that can be done. Someone has ruined it. I won’t walk in the parade. The saboteur has got what they wanted.’ Bernice had stopped looking upset and was looking angry instead.

‘We found some footprints outside,’ Flora said.

‘I found some footprints,’ Sylvie corrected.

‘Yes, Sylvie found them,’ Flora continued. ‘They look like someone in high heels stood outside the door. Do you wear high heels? Or have you had a visitor who does?’

Bernice shook her head. ‘I come here to build. Sensible shoes only until parade day. And no one has visited either – I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for the people watching the parade.’

Minnie caught Flora’s eye. Who was it who’d been standing outside in heels, if it wasn’t Bernice?

‘Do you have any enemies, Bernice?’ Sylvie asked abruptly.

Bernice stirred her tea, clinking the teaspoon hard against the sides of the china. ‘Enemies? Why would I have enemies? I’m not James Bond, I’m a hairdresser and costume maker! I’d been hoping this would be the year I could finally go full-time as a designer. But I guess that won’t happen now.’

Just then, there was a knock on the door. It opened without waiting for a reply. ‘Bernice! Bernice, sweetie, is it true? Carol heard from Ash, who heard from Billie. Your costume? Gone?’ A tall woman with straight-as-a-die black hair and soft brown skin skipped inside. Her hands gestured wildly as she spoke.

Bernice sighed. ‘Yes, Jasleen, it’s true.’

Jasleen gasped. Then she saw the costume and gasped again. ‘It’s hideous!’ she said.

Jasleen sounded like she was the same sort of friend as Sylvie.

‘Thanks, Jasleen,’ Bernice said softly.

‘You can’t walk the parade in that!’

‘I know.’

Jasleen circled towards the dummy, her lip curled softly. ‘Carol wondered what you’re going to do. She said I should take your place at the front of the line, but I couldn’t do it without seeing you first.’ Jasleen looked down and took a few paces, as though she was thinking carefully about what to say next. She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Listen, I still have the costume I made for myself last year, if you’d like to wear it? I know I’m not such a well-known costume maker as you, but lots of people admired it.’

‘Your costume? I can’t wear someone else’s work, you know that. A designer who’s wearing someone else’s design? No one would ever employ me again. I would ruin my career. I’d rather not walk than wear a costume I didn’t make.’

Jasleen prickled. ‘Suit yourself. I was only trying to help.’ She dusted some imaginary flecks off her blouse. ‘Right, I can’t stay. My boyfriend is filming the parade for television and if I’m going to be at the front, I want to look my best. Oh, sorry. That was very insensitive. Give me a call if you change your mind about the spare costume.’

Before she walked out of the door, Flora held out her hand to stop her. ‘Jasleen, do you ever wear high heels?’

Jasleen gave a little laugh. ‘Honey pie, I’m six foot two. Of course I never wear high heels.’ Then she was gone.

Flora laid her notebook on the workbench. The details of the crime were written down: Bernice left the lock-up securely padlocked last night. Sometime between then and eight o’clock this morning, someone had broken in, somehow, and ruined the costume. Someone in high heels.

‘What about the moths?’ Minnie asked. ‘The moths that frightened Big Phil.’

‘What about them?’

‘Bernice, didn’t you say that insects damage costumes?’ Minnie asked.

Bernice nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes, moths can do terrible damage to clothes. Especially silk and wool and feathers. They eat them!’

‘But,’ Sylvie said, ‘someone would have to get a whole load of moths in here, and then get them back out again without leaving a trace. Bernice, I don’t suppose you were sent a mysterious package yesterday that you left in here unopened, did you?’

‘No,’ Bernice said. ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary.’

Flora wrote: ‘MOTHS??’ in big letters. Then, in smaller letters, ‘Trained moths?’ Then, in even smaller letters, ‘Trained clothes moths???’ Then, with a sigh, she scribbled it all out. ‘Clothes moths are tiny, not like the ones Phil saw. You definitely couldn’t train them. And my pen’s running out,’ she said in a very despondent voice.

Sylvie bent down and handed Flora a stray stick of charcoal. ‘Here.’

Three sharp raps came from the doorway. All four heads inside the lock-up turned to look. An anxious-looking white woman poked her head inside.

‘Amber?’ Bernice said. ‘What are you doing here? Come in. Girls, Amber works for the council. She’s their Community Liaison Officer. Amber, these girls were supposed to be my wardrobe assistants – Minnie, Flora and Sylvie.’

Amber squeaked a hello. ‘I had to come as soon as I heard,’ she said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘It’s no problem. Are you all right?’

Bernice gave a tight shrug and gestured towards the ruined costume.

‘I see,’ Amber said, suddenly sounding brighter. ‘I wondered whether you wanted to lodge an official complaint?’

‘Against who?’

Amber opened her briefcase and pulled out a blue sheet of paper. ‘Against the Carnival. Any disturbances associated with the Carnival have to be recorded. They are used to determine whether it should be allowed to continue.’

‘Well, of course it should be allowed to continue!’ Bernice said indignantly.

‘Of course!’ Minnie agreed. She was getting a bad feeling about Amber.

Amber slid the blue form along the workbench. ‘I agree, if the Carnival runs smoothly. But if there are unpleasantnesses, like the terrible vandalism that happened during last year’s parade, then it should be reduced in scale, or stopped altogether.’

‘That wasn’t vandalism! Those trees were yarn bombed with knitted bunting!’

‘Fabric dyes can be very toxic to plants,’ Amber said. ‘It’s getting more and more difficult to control that sort of thing. If there were enough complaints, then the council would have to take my concerns seriously.’

Minnie glanced down at Amber’s feet. She was wearing sensible black shoes, with the laces tied in a double-knot. ‘Do you ever wear high heels?’ Minnie asked.

Amber frowned. ‘No. I don’t know how anyone can walk in them. I wear these, or my vegan boots. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Minnie replied.

Amber tapped the blue form that lay on the workbench. ‘Can I count on your support?’

Bernice didn’t pick it up.

‘I’ll be reporting this incident anyway,’ Amber said. ‘Even without your testimony the council will have to realise that the Carnival brings out the worst in people.’

Bernice glared at Amber. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

Amber shrugged and tucked the form back in her briefcase. ‘You know where I am if you change your mind.’

They watched her leave in silence.

Well, all except Sylvie. ‘That woman is a witch!’ she said loudly. ‘She turns up here looking all sweet and shy but really she wants to stop Carnival just because she thinks people are having too much fun! Oh! You don’t think she would have ruined your costume, do you? To give Carnival a bad reputation?’

They all looked at the dummy.

‘She is vegan,’ Minnie said. ‘Maybe she hates feathers. When they’re not on birds, I mean.’

‘And she’s always going on about the litter and the noise pollution,’ Bernice said softly.

Flora wrote Amber’s name in her notebook. As she pressed, the charcoal stick snapped in two. A dark line scored its way across the page. ‘Rats!’

Then Flora tilted her head. ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ She held one half of the charcoal and tilted it so that the others could see. The very centre of the charcoal stick was pale wood. It wasn’t singed all the way through, the way that charcoal was supposed to be.

‘It isn’t real charcoal!’ Minnie said. ‘Otherwise it would be burnt all the way through.’

Flora tapped her notebook a few times and watched the dark flakes fall. Then she grinned.

‘I think I know how the costume was ruined,’ she said.

‘How?’ Bernice asked.

‘Sylvie, where did you find this charcoal?’

Sylvie waved vaguely towards the ground. ‘Just there.’

‘Under the letter box?’

‘I guess so, yes.’

‘Is it yours?’ Flora asked Bernice.

Bernice shook her head.

Of course! Minnie saw at once what Flora was getting at. Everything in Bernice’s workshop was neatly ordered! Each object had its place. Even though it was a riot of colour, the riot was organised. It was the same at the salon. Bernice was always tidying, sweeping up locks of hair. There was no way she would leave charcoal lying around. Especially not fake charcoal. The charcoal was the thing that didn’t belong! Which meant it had to be a clue.

Flora moved over to the letter box and pulled up the flap. ‘Imagine you wanted to make the letter box stay open. You might use a stick wedged up like a clothes prop. And, if that stick spent a long time, hours, being heated, then it might get scorched and start to look like charcoal.’

Minnie stepped closer to the letter box too and peered through the rectangle of light. She could see the dirt road and the footpath outside the lock-ups.

‘But what would make a stick that hot?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Burning!’ Minnie said suddenly. ‘That’s what I smelt when you first opened the door. It was burnt feathers! They smell as bad as burnt hair. Bernice, if someone directed a heater into the space, and left it on all night long, what would happen to your outfit?’

Bernice turned to look at the manky creation on the dummy. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that would happen.’

‘So,’ Sylvie said, ‘someone in high heels stood outside the letter box with a heater?’

Flora shook her head. ‘Not exactly. A really powerful lamp would generate lots of heat, and if you positioned it properly you could focus an intense, boiling-hot spotlight on one place.’

‘And,’ Minnie said with a grin, ‘a really powerful lamp left on overnight would attract some really big moths too! That’s why there were moths in Big Phil’s lock-up!’

‘But who?’ Sylvie said. ‘Who was the lamp-holder in heels? Do you know?’

‘Yes! Because the marks on the ground weren’t high heels at all,’ Flora said. She marched back to the table. Minnie joined her. With half of the fake-charcoal Flora drew six dots on her pad, just like the marks they’d seen outside. She joined three of the dots to form a triangle, then joined the remaining three to form a second triangle.

‘A tripod!’ Minnie said. ‘Like the ones we saw by the stage on Marsh Road! Someone with a strong light on a tripod did this! Someone set it up, but wasn’t happy, so they moved it to get just the right angle. They could have left it there for hours without having to do anything else.’

‘It was Jasleen,’ Flora said. ‘Her and her boyfriend. He works with the filming crew. They use spotlights all the time.’ Flora rolled the charcoal piece along the workbench. ‘This must have dropped inside the letter box, instead of outside, when the crime was done. Jasleen hoped we wouldn’t notice. I think she came back here to try to get it. Remember her looking at the ground? She was hunting for this!’

‘But why did she do it?’ Sylvie asked.

‘She’s a costume maker too,’ Bernice said. ‘She isn’t as good as me, but she’s not bad. If she walks at the front of the parade and I’m nowhere to be seen, then everyone will order their costumes from her next year.’ Bernice caught sight of her own sad, sorry costume and gulped back a sob. ‘My reputation will be as ruined as these feathers.’

‘But how can we prove it?’ Minnie asked. ‘There won’t be any prints on the charcoal now we’ve touched it. And finding any witnesses will be difficult, if not impossible. Big Phil was worse than useless.’

‘Hey!’ a bass voice said. ‘I heard that.’ Big Phil stepped into the room, carrying a huge suitcase.

‘Sorry,’ Minnie said, feeling her cheeks redden.

‘I heard everything. And I don’t think you need to prove she did it,’ Big Phil said, ‘you just need to prove that it doesn’t matter that she did it. You need to show her that you won’t let anything stop you.’

‘But I can’t take part in the parade dressed in that!’ Bernice said, pointing to the wreck on its stand.

Big Phil smiled shyly. ‘I bought this a little while ago.’ He gestured with the suitcase. ‘I was going to say it belonged to Marilyn Monroe and sell it on at a profit, but I thought it might fit you.’ He opened the case and pulled out a red sequined dress, with a huge spray of ostrich feathers at the shoulder. ‘You can alter it, if you want. I don’t mind.’ Big Phil hugged the dress in his huge hands. ‘You can have it. I think you’ll look beautiful in it.’

Bernice took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to rain on my parade. I’ll show Jasleen that she can’t stop me, whatever she does. Pass me the frock. Minnie, fetch my scissors. Twins, we’ll need all the lace you can find. I’ve got three hours to make a showstopper. Thank you, Philip!’

As she took the dress from his hands, she dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Big Phil blushed redder than the fake Marilyn gown.

At noon precisely, the steel drums launched into their first tune: crackling bass notes first, then trilling top notes and a surging rhythm that made everyone who could hear it start to bob. Minnie grabbed Flora’s hand and lifted it up and down in time to the beat. ‘It’s starting!’

Then the parade swung into view. Dancers led the way, stepping forward and to the side, forward and back, repeating the pattern in time to the music. Like butterflies, like flowers, like birds of paradise, the colour and sound moved closer.

There was Bernice! Looking wonderful in red ostrich feathers reaching to the sky, gold paint on her neck and arms, and a smile spread like warm butter from ear to ear.

And keeping pace with her in the crowd was Big Phil, looking pleased as punch.

But where was Jasleen?

Minnie raised herself on tiptoe.

There!

Right at the back of the line. With no one looking at her, or smiling, or dancing at her side.

‘I guess everyone has heard what she did,’ Flora said. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will be ordering their costume from Jasleen again.’

‘And moany Amber has nothing she can complain about,’ Sylvie said.

Minnie forced the shadow that Jasleen had tried to create from her mind. ‘Doesn’t Bernice look wonderful?’ she asked.

‘Big Phil certainly thinks so,’ Sylvie replied.

As the drums gave way to a brass ensemble, the pace of the bobbing grew more insistent. Minnie found her feet moving whether she wanted them to or not, her hands clapping. She was dancing in the street, like a proper performer! Other hands joined in. Flora, Sylvie, the people beyond them, all dancing in time.

And it seemed to Minnie that in that moment everyone in the parade, in the audience, everyone in the whole world maybe, was full of fireworks.

*

Read more about Minnie, Flora and Sylvie in the Marsh Road Mysteries series! Available from Bloomsbury now.

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