Detective Nosegoode and the Music Box Mystery

by Marian Orton

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  AMBROSIUS NOSEGOODE, CODY AND BLACKBEARD

  THE MYSTERIOUS THEFT

  MR NOSEGOODE BEGINS TO INVESTIGATE

  THE STORY OF THE MUSIC BOX

  A TOUGH BONE TO CRACK

  MR NOSEGOODE BEHAVES STRANGELY

  CODY IN DANGER

  WHO IS BLACKBEARD?

  CODY CAN’T BELIEVE HIS EARS

  THE TREASURE

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  COPYRIGHT

  AMBROSIUS NOSEGOODE, CODY AND BLACKBEARD

  The clock on the tower struck six times, and Lower Limewood awoke from its slumber. The smell of fresh baking filled the air, milk churns jangled and vegetable carts rolled out onto the streets. Caretakers opened doors and set about their morning cleaning. Sleepy faces appeared in the windows. A new day had begun.

  A few minutes after six o’clock, the inhabitants of a little house in Skylark Lane, Mr Ambrosius Nosegoode and his friend Cody, woke up as well.

  Ambrosius was a retired detective, the author of an outstanding book called How to Unmask a Thief and, once upon a time, the bane of criminals everywhere. Now he was a considerate, kind-hearted elderly gentleman.

  Indeed, it was hard to believe that this chubby figure could once have caused such panic in the criminal world. Or that his grey, balding head could once have solved the toughest of cases. Or that the name of Ambrosius Nosegoode had been well known not just in the big city where he had lived and worked, but far and wide beyond its borders. Yet it was all true. Those were wonderful times! Still, they were gone. Old age came, and Ambrosius felt the need for peace. He returned to his native Lower Limewood, bought a little house and settled in it with Cody. He spent his time relaxing, growing radishes and playing his flute in the evenings. He didn’t in the least suspect that it would be here, in quiet Lower Limewood, that he would have another adventure.

  Cody was a dog. He was an ordinary, shaggy mutt, but Ambrosius would never consider swapping him for another dog of a more noble breed, even if such a dog came with a gold collar studded with jewels. Cody, in addition to all his virtues (and a few minor flaws), possessed one extraordinary skill: he could converse with his master! He had learnt this art from Ambrosius, and it happened very naturally. Like many people who live alone, Ambrosius enjoyed talking to himself. Or rather, to himself and to his dog. He spoke about his adventures, about hard times and about a hundred other things. Cody listened. Listened and nothing more. Then, one day, when Ambrosius asked him how he was, Cody replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I’m very well, thank you, except the fleas are bothering me.”

  It’s not hard to imagine what a shock Ambrosius must have experienced when he heard these words. He almost became ill. But after that, his conversations with his dog were no longer one-sided.

  And now, this morning, Ambrosius had jumped out of bed first and was pulling on Cody’s ear.

  “Wakey-wakey, you sleepy head! Mrs Cracker’s cockerel is hoarse from crowing and you still haven’t budged. Time to wake up!”

  Cody blinked a few times and yawned.

  “I had a beautiful dream,” he said sleepily. “I dreamt I was a butcher. I was standing behind the counter, surrounded by sausages, hams and bones… What a sight it was! The smells alone were making me dizzy… I was just about to take a bite out of the tastiest-looking ham when I heard your voice.”

  He yawned again and asked, “Ambrosius, don’t dreams come true sometimes?”

  Ambrosius looked thoughtful. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been told. My aunt once dreamt that she had broken her leg. And imagine: the very next day, something did break. Only it wasn’t anything of my aunt’s, and it wasn’t a leg – it was her neighbour’s ladder. Even so, my aunt insisted that her dream had come true. Maybe yours will too.”

  “Maybe. But before it does, could you make us something to eat? That dream really gave me an appetite.”

  “In less than ten minutes, we’ll have a breakfast fit for a king!”

  “Well, all I need is one that’s fit for a dog,” Cody replied humbly.

  After breakfast, the two friends started getting ready to go out. Every morning, they would walk together to the nearby newsagent’s to buy newspapers. As usual, the detective picked up his small briefcase, which he always carried with him everywhere, called Cody over, and the two of them went out into the street.

  Skylark Lane was undoubtedly the quietest street in Lower Limewood. Single-storey houses with green gardens lined the pavements and cats slept peacefully next to flowering geraniums in the windows.

  But not in all windows. As they passed Mrs Hardtack’s house, Cody pulled on Ambrosius’s trouser leg and whispered, “Look in that window! Blackbeard is at his post!”

  Ambrosius glanced discreetly to his right and noticed a silhouette behind the net curtain. He had no doubt that it was Blackbeard. He also had no doubt that a couple of watchful eyes were following him and Cody from behind the curtain.

  The two friends had been intrigued by Blackbeard since the previous day. That’s when the big sign that had been hanging on Mrs Hardtack’s front gate – “Room for rent, full board and laundry services” – had been taken down, and a mysterious man with a bushy beard had moved in.

  There would have been nothing extraordinary about this if it hadn’t been for the fact that the stranger seemed excessively interested in Mr Nosegoode and his dog. Soon after his arrival, he had questioned Mrs Hardtack about them and then, over the course of the day, Ambrosius and Cody had bumped into him three times. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. And here he was again…

  “I’m liking this less and less,” said Cody. “And anyway, my left ear has been itchy for the past three days, which is a sure sign that something unusual is going to happen. I’m convinced that there’s a connection between this itch and that bearded man. Listen, maybe he’s a criminal, someone you had sent to prison? Maybe he got out and now he’s looking for revenge?”

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t look like a criminal to me.”

  “Doesn’t look like a criminal? What do you mean?”

  “Have you looked closely at his beard?” Ambrosius asked.

  “Of course. It’s black and thick.”

  “You haven’t noticed anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ve missed the most important thing: it’s fake! And not only that: it’s badly attached.”

  “Fake?” Cody repeated, surprised. He recovered a moment later. “You see! It’s clear proof of his bad intentions. If he didn’t have bad intentions, he wouldn’t put on a fake beard.”

  “But maybe this beard is precisely what proves his innocence?” Ambrosius replied mysteriously.

  “You can’t mean that!” Cody said with indignation. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not joking. I’m completely serious.”

  Cody looked at his master doubtfully, as if to check that he really wasn’t joking, and then decided to let it go. No, it was clear that they wouldn’t see eye to eye on this matter. It was a good thing that he, Cody, didn’t allow himself to be deceived by Blackbeard. After all, someone had to remain vigilant, he thought, as he felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.

  Just at that moment, they reached the newsagent’s stand and their conversation came to an end, since nobody except Ambrosius knew about Cody’s ability to speak.

  “Good morning, Mr Loop!” Mr Nosegoode greeted the newsagent. “Do you have anything for us today?”

  “Of course, of course!” Mr Loop replied, passing Ambrosius the latest editions of The Morni
ng News and A Dog’s Friend, the two papers that the retired detective liked to read regularly.

  Accompanied by his dog, Mr Nosegoode headed for a bench in the nearby square and opened the first newspaper. He started reading aloud in a lowered voice, since Cody was also interested in politics – not to mention the fact that he eagerly devoured all news from canine circles. But Cody couldn’t concentrate on what was being read. His thoughts were occupied with Blackbeard.

  THE MYSTERIOUS THEFT

  Around the same time, the local clockmaker, Mr Ignatius Blossom, was heading down Barrel-Organ Street to his workshop. He was walking briskly, swinging his bamboo cane and enjoying the bright May morning. Apart from the weather, he had another reason to be pleased: the day before, he had managed to repair a very complicated old music box.

  A few days earlier, Mr Swallowtail, the town chemist, had put the box on his counter and said, “I’ve come to see you with this little curiosity, even though I doubt you’ll be able to fix it. This toy is almost a hundred years old and is fiendishly intricate, but I would be very obliged if you could repair it. It’s a family keepsake, which has recently gained in importance for us. Would you be able to spend some time on it?”

  Mr Blossom picked up the toy and examined it carefully. It was a small metal box with a porcelain dancer on top. Inside was a mechanism that played a melody and made the figurine spin round. Mr Blossom inspected the mechanism, poked at a few wheels, pressed a few springs and replied, “I think I can manage it. Please come back in a week.”

  And he did manage it. Admittedly, he spent many hours working on the toy, but not in vain. Only the previous afternoon, a lively melody had filled the workshop, and the dancer had turned gracefully. Mr Blossom had proved once again that he had a magic touch. So it was no wonder that he was in such a splendid mood that May morning.

  The town-hall clock struck half past seven. Mr Blossom took out his thick pocket watch and with a glance determined – to his annoyance – that the clock on the tower was running two minutes early yet again. He didn’t like unpunctual people or unpunctual clocks. It will need to be adjusted, he thought.

  His workshop wasn’t far now. At the sight of the familiar sign, “Ignatius Blossom, Clockmaker”, with a large clock face above it, Mr Blossom quickened his pace. He climbed the little steps up to his workshop, took out his key and was about to put it in the lock, when all of a sudden he froze: the door was open! The first, utterly ridiculous thought that crossed his mind was that he had forgotten to lock it the night before. But at that very moment he noticed a fresh splinter sticking out of the wooden frame, and he understood: there had been a break-in!

  For a few seconds, Mr Blossom stood petrified. Then, with a sense of foreboding, he pushed the door open and looked inside. He went no further for fear of destroying any clues that the burglar might have left behind.

  The first thing he noticed was that the workshop was tidy. He had expected to see upturned furniture, open drawers, the large display case broken… But everything was in its place. The drawers were closed, pocket watches lay undisturbed under glass in the case, the large clocks on the wall ticked solemnly… Mr Blossom couldn’t believe his eyes. Did the burglar not take anything?

  He surveyed the room once again and only then noticed what was missing. “The music box…” he whispered. “The music box has been stolen!”

  He stared in astonishment at the spot where the chemist’s family keepsake had stood only the day before.

  Is that really what the thief came for? he wondered to himself. Why not something else? Why would somebody steal that specific music box but leave two gold watches behind?

  Mr Blossom couldn’t think of answers to these questions. He stood on the threshold, helpless and worried, not sure what to do next. Of course, the easiest thing would be to report the theft to the police, but Mr Blossom didn’t want the incident to attract a lot of attention. That could be damaging to the excellent reputation of his business.

  What should I do? he kept asking himself, agitated. Then a bright idea came into his head. Nosegoode! He’s my great hope! He’s the only one who can help!

  Mr Blossom quickly revived. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the old detective leading the captured thief by the hand; he could see himself reclaiming the stolen music box. He was about to hurry off to get Mr Nosegoode when he realized that he couldn’t leave the workshop unlocked.

  “Oh, that Joey. He’s late again…” he sighed.

  Joey was Mr Blossom’s apprentice. For the past three months he had been learning the difficult art of repairing clocks. Alas, he wasn’t making much progress. Mr Blossom tried to explain this by the fact that Joey didn’t have a heart for clocks. You have to love clocks, he’d say to himself. A person who doesn’t love clocks can never become a good clockmaker.

  On the other hand, Joey had a few flaws that genuinely worried Mr Blossom. First, as demonstrated that morning, he wasn’t punctual and, according to Mr Blossom, an unpunctual clockmaker was as good as a tone-deaf organist. The master craftsman was trying to teach his pupil to be on time, but without much success.

  Second, Joey had a habit of telling lies.

  “Sir, could I be excused a little early this afternoon?” Joey had asked him one day. “My grandmother is ill, so I’d like to chop some wood for her and bring her fresh water…”

  Moved by Joey’s thoughtfulness, Mr Blossom had let him go without a moment’s hesitation. Later on, he found out that Joey’s grandmother had been at a wedding that day and that Joey had spent his free time fishing by the river with his friends.

  Finally, Joey had once stolen something, and this upset the clockmaker most of all.

  For all these reasons, Mr Blossom couldn’t talk about his apprentice without feeling rather bitter.

  Thinking of him now, he furrowed his brow. A suspicious thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it straight away.

  “Good morning, sir!” A cheerful voice broke into his thoughts. “I see you’re not hurrying to start work this morning either! No wonder, such great weather…”

  The clockmaker snapped out of his musings and looked at his apprentice. Joey had a long nose and a thick mop of impossibly red hair. He was gazing up at the master craftsman with a wide smile, but he grew serious as soon as he noticed the worried look on his face.

  “Mr Blossom, has something bad happened?” Joey asked anxiously.

  “I’m afraid it has,” the clockmaker answered in a downcast voice. “A thief has broken into the workshop.”

  “A thief?! But that’s impossible…”

  “Unfortunately, it’s very possible.”

  “Did the thief steal anything?”

  “Yes. Thieves always steal things.”

  “So… what’s missing, Mr Blossom?”

  The clockmaker cast a quick but searching glance at Joey and said, “The chemist’s music box.”

  “The music box?” Joey repeated, incredulous. “Why would a thief want a music box?”

  “Well, that’s a question you’d need to ask the thief!” Mr Blossom smiled sourly.

  Joey tugged nervously at his unruly hair. He couldn’t understand the thief’s odd choice.

  “Sir, this theft is very mysterious,” he said at last. “Are you going to report it to the police?”

  Mr Blossom looked at him carefully again.

  “Not just now. First I’m going to talk to someone who can be of more help to us than the police. That’s where I’m heading now. In the meantime, you’re going to guard the workshop. Make sure you don’t let anyone in, and don’t go inside yourself. If anyone passes by, just pretend that nothing’s happened and that you’re simply waiting for me. You’re going to do a good job, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir, you can rest assured!” Joey promised. He was glad that the old master had given him such an important task.

  Mr Blossom left Joey at his post and hurried off towards the square, where he hoped to find Mr Nosegoode. He knew the detective’s hab
its and expected to see him sitting on a bench, flipping through the morning papers.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  Mr Nosegoode was just finishing reading the last page of A Dog’s Friend when the clockmaker appeared.

  “Mr Nosegoode!” Mr Blossom said breathlessly. “I need your help! I’ve been robbed!”

  He recounted what had happened.

  It was incredible just how much the old detective seemed to change as he listened to this short tale. He straightened up, his cheeks became flushed, his eyes lit up. It was as if a full ten years had fallen away from him. Cody also became strangely possessed. He wanted to shout, “Didn’t I say that something unusual would happen?”

  “Mr Nosegoode…” the clockmaker said, coming to the end of his story. “I have to get that music box back! You’re my only hope! Please, say you will help.”

  Ambrosius got up from the bench.

  “We’ll catch the thief, I promise you!” he said decisively. “Now, let’s go to your workshop.”

  The clockmaker breathed a sigh of relief. Feeling hopeful, he set off down Barrel-Organ Street with Mr Nosegoode and his dog.

  MR NOSEGOODE BEGINS TO INVESTIGATE

  There was no doubt that Joey was doing a great job at his assigned post. He was standing casually in the doorway, staring at three sparrows hopping in the road. Nobody would have suspected that he was guarding a spot where a crime had been committed.

  “And over there is Joey,” Mr Blossom explained in a hushed voice when they got near.

  “Hmm, an interesting boy,” Mr Nosegoode declared, observing Joey carefully.

  He had clearly been intrigued by Joey a few minutes earlier, when the clockmaker mentioned that he had an apprentice. The detective had even asked for a brief description of the boy’s character. After hearing what Mr Blossom had to say, he posed an awkward question: “Has it occurred to you that Joey…? Well, you understand what I’m getting at.”