Curse of the Ancient Mask

by Simon Cheshire

  Normally, people like Harry Lovecraft and people like Jeremy Sweetly just didn’t bother with each other. The two of them didn’t even live in the same part of town. What possible connection could there be?

  I needed Izzy’s help again. I needed information. There had to be some kind of link I was missing.

  ‘What kind of link?’ asked Izzy, puzzled.

  ‘Some kind,’ I said, looking all narrow-eyed and mysterious.

  ‘And what if you’re wrong?’ said Izzy, doing a silly, goggle-eyed impression of my mysterious look.

  ‘I’m never wrong,’ I said.

  But, I had to admit to myself, I could have been on a track that was more wrong than a London Underground train on the Trans-Siberian line!

  However, during the course of that day I had two useful pieces of luck. Two pieces of luck which, it turned out, would solve the entire riddle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PIECE OF LUCK NUMBER ONE: a remark made by Harry Lovecraft as we were all coming back into the classroom after lunch time. Jeremy Sweetly had stepped through a puddle outside with those battered brown shoes of his. Harry Lovecraft, noticing Jeremy giving his foot a shake to help it dry out, smarmed past his desk saying, ‘Hmmm, Sweetly’s in need of new shoes again. Why don’t you get Humphrey under control, Sweetly? Stop him chewing up the family footwear all the time. Hmmm?’

  The deduction to be made from this remark didn’t hit me at first. But then, as we all sat down and shuffled with our science folders ready for the lesson, it smacked me between the eyes like a cartoon anvil dropped off a cliff . . .

  Even if Harry Lovecraft knew that Jeremy HAD a dog (and why would he even know that?), how would he know this dog’s name, and that he kept ‘chewing up the family footwear all the time’? Those were strangely precise snippets of information for Harry to have. You don’t generally get to know a dog’s bad habits unless you also happen to know the owner, do you? Or unless you’ve at least visited the owner.

  Good grief, I thought to myself, Harry Lovecraft has been to Jeremy’s house! (That low-down rat’s visited my street, and I never realised! Eurgh!)

  At first, this deepened the mystery even more. What in the name of Sherlock Holmes would Harry Lovecraft be doing at Jeremy Sweetly’s house? But then came piece of luck number two.

  Shortly after school Izzy emailed me. Here’s a piece of luck, she wrote. I had a quick read-through of Jeremy’s winning essay from last year – The Life Story of My Dad, remember? It turned up some interesting background info. But that wasn’t the piece of luck. The luck was that I did a search on the internet and came across something very similar which, I think you’ll find, establishes a clear link between Harry and Jeremy.

  The ‘something very similar’ was a web page headed Our Sales Team, devoted to half a dozen shiny-looking people who all sold spare parts for cars for a living.

  Can you spot the connection?

  Rachel Verinder

  Matthew Bruff

  Donald Lovecraft

  Franklin Blake

  Rosanna Spearman

  Andrew Sweetly

  ‘That’s it!’ I cried. ‘That’s it!’

  I didn’t even need to retreat to my Thinking Chair for this one. I had all the answers.

  The next day was essay-handing-in day. Everyone had their work ready and waiting at nine a.m. (Well, everyone except the victims of The Purple Avenger.)

  Mrs Penzler marched in. ‘I hope everyone’s remembered their essay,’ she announced, scanning the class with her pebble glasses. ‘“I left it on the bus” and “My baby sister ate it” are not acceptable excuses. Yes? Saxby?’

  I’d raised my hand. ‘Could I have a word with the whole class, before we go any further?’

  ‘Is this an excuse for not handing in your essay, Saxby?’ sighed Mrs Penzler.

  ‘Umm . . . well, sort of . . . in a way,’ I said.

  ‘Then, sorry, no,’ said Mrs Penzler.

  ‘But what if I could reveal the real identity of The Purple Avenger?’ I said. ‘I can show that there’s been cheating.’

  The class all leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘Well, all right then,’ said Mrs Penzler. ‘But you’d better be right.’

  I stood at the front, underneath the interactive board. Everyone stared at me. Harry Lovecraft looked smug and confident. Jeremy Sweetly looked terrified.

  I tried to give Jeremy a look which said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t get you into trouble.’ But I really wasn’t sure how to do that, so I think I ended up giving him a look which said, ‘Just you wait and see.’ Which I don’t think reassured him very much.

  ‘The identity of The Purple Avenger is . . .’

  I paused for dramatic effect. The whole class leaned forward even more, eyes even wider. I couldn’t pause for long, or eyes would start falling out.

  ‘. . . going to have to remain a secret.’

  The whole class groaned. Harry Lovecraft looked more smug and confident than ever. Jeremy Sweetly looked relieved.

  ‘But!’ I cried, one finger in the air. Everyone shut up. ‘The person responsible for The Purple Avenger attacks was forced to do what he did. Er, or she did. Umm, look, I’ll call this person Person X, OK?

  ‘Right. Person X purpled the work of Jeremy Sweetly, Isobel Moustique and me. But Person X did not do these things voluntarily. Person X was being threatened. You see, Person X has a dog. A big, slobbery hound, which Person X loves beyond all reason. However, this dog is always wandering around the neighbourhood. No matter what Person X does to keep him at home, the dog keeps escaping and getting himself into trouble. Now here’s where Harry Lovecraft enters the scene . . .’

  Everyone turned and stared at Harry Lovecraft. Mrs Penzler said, ‘Saxby, you’d better be careful!’ Harry Lovecraft didn’t so much as twitch. He just gazed at me.

  ‘Harry Lovecraft would normally have nothing whatsoever to do with Person X. But it just so happens that there is a connection. Not so much a connection between them, but a connection between their parents.

  ‘It’s a matter of public record – umm, I can’t quite say how in Person X’s case, ‘cos that’ll give away who Person X is – anyway, it’s a matter of public record that Person X’s dad, and Harry Lovecraft’s dad work at the same company, a company which makes and sells spare parts for cars.

  ‘These dads both work in the Sales Team. One day they got together outside work. Harry Lovecraft’s family went over to Person X’s house. Harry Lovecraft and Person X, two people who would never, ever normally go anywhere near each other, were suddenly in the same social circle.

  ‘So Harry Lovecraft gets to meet this slobbery great dog. And he realises that this dog is Person X’s weakness. If he wanted to get Person X to do something, he wouldn’t have to thump him or anything. Oh, no. All he’d have to do is drop nasty little hints about the dog getting out all the time, and about the dog maybe getting lost, maybe getting lost for ever. You see what I’m getting at?

  ‘So along comes the essay competition. Harry Lovecraft spots an opportunity. Person X is the favourite to win, and . . . Oh dear.’

  I’d blown it. Everyone stared at Jeremy Sweetly. Jeremy Sweetly went redder than a sunburnt tomato.

  ‘Oh, bum,’ I said. ‘Yeah, OK, it’s Jeremy Sweetly. Let’s move on. Sorry, Jeremy. Harry Lovecraft sees he can remove Jeremy from the competition, by simply making threats about poor Jeremy’s beloved dog.

  ‘Now, this is where I went wrong. I assumed, as we all did, that The Purple Avenger was out to nobble the front-runners in the essay competition. But that wasn’t it at all. The competition had nothing to do with it. The competition was just a convenient opportunity. It was a matter of revenge.

  ‘Last term, you’ll recall, Jeremy found Harry Lovecraft stealing someone else’s PE kit. Naturally, Harry got into big trouble for it. The essay competition was Harry’s chance to get even, as he saw it. Jeremy was the favourite to win. What better revenge, thinks Harry to himself, than to spoil Jeremy’s c
hance at winning.

  ‘But Harry Lovecraft, being Harry Lovecraft, can’t just make Jeremy drop out of the competition, and leave it at that. Oh no. He wants his revenge to be a little more painful, a little more public. He’s been to Jeremy’s house, and he’s seen that Jeremy reads The Purple Avenger comics. So Harry nicks some sealant stuff from the school caretaker, and he makes poor Jeremy destroy his own work, do it in the name of his favourite superhero, and show the world the results.

  ‘You see, that was Harry’s first mistake. The first of two. If he’d quietly made Jeremy miss out on the essay competition, we might never have known what was going on. Without the ruined disc, and the message, even I might not have suspected foul play. Harry might have continued making Jeremy’s life miserable for ages. But no. Harry had to be Harry. He had to be cruel. In a way, he set up his own downfall.

  ‘But at first, he got away with it. Nothing pointed to Harry Lovecraft as being the guilty party. If anyone was going to get into trouble this time, it was Jeremy. So Harry gets greedy. Who else do I want revenge on, he thinks? Who reported him for his nasty little “School Dinner Tax” scheme? Time for The Purple Avenger to strike Isobel’s work, and mine. And if Jeremy gets found out, so what? If Jeremy starts pointing the finger at Harry, then all Harry has to do is make his threats all over again. Harry thinks he’s in the clear.’

  Slowly, everyone turned to look at Harry Lovecraft. Now, Harry Lovecraft was looking extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Penzler quietly, ‘what was Harry’s second mistake?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ I said, even more quietly. ‘He didn’t reckon on Saxby Smart.’

  For a moment or two there was total silence. Then Mrs Penzler adjusted her glasses and barked, ‘Harry Lovecraft, Jeremy Sweetly, is this true?’

  Harry had nowhere to hide. Now that his threats were in the open, Jeremy had no reason to cover up for him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeremy, bravely.

  ‘Yes,’ croaked Harry Lovecraft, through gritted teeth.

  There was uproar in the classroom. Once it had all died down, two things happened. First, Harry Lovecraft was sent to the head’s office. Second, Mrs Penzler talked to the head about postponing the handing-in of essays until The Purple Avenger’s victims could have a chance to re-do their work.

  ‘Thanks, Saxby,’ said Jeremy at lunch time.

  He gave me a soppy smile, and I think I spotted a tear in his eye so I quickly said, ‘All in a day’s work,’ and hurried off to talk to Muddy.

  For the rest of the day, I felt pretty good about things. I’d solved a puzzling mystery, and everyone thought I was pretty cool. When I got home, I headed straight for my shed. I wanted to jot down some notes on the case while they were fresh in my mind.

  Humphrey was flopped out in his favourite spot, right in front of the shed door. I spoke sharply. I spoke nicely. I whistled. I growled. I tried to tempt the drooling mutt away with a choccie biccie. Nothing.

  ‘Jeremmmmyyyyyy!’ I yelled across the road.

  Case closed.

  CASE FILE THREE:

  THE CLASP OF DOOM

  CHAPTER ONE

  THERE ARE SOME PEOPLE you meet who simply make you smile. The sort of people who light up a room just by walking into it. The sort of people who make everyone around them feel happy.

  Mrs Eileen Pither was not one of them.

  Legend had it that she’d spent thirty-five years working for the local council, turning orphans out into the street and counting stacks of coins in deep, dark dungeons. But all that was years ago. At the time of the case of The Clasp of Doom she spent all her time organising her fellow old ladies, and writing to the papers about the terrible state of the roads, and how young people today had no manners.

  Everyone in town knew Mrs Eileen Pither. And Mrs Eileen Pither knew everyone.

  It was a wet, miserably grey day in the Easter holidays. A girl from the Year below me at school, Heather Gardens, called on me in my garden shed. She knocked, and the Saxby Smart – Private Detective: KEEP OUT sign dropped off the door, as usual. I made a mental note to get that thing nailed up properly once and for all, and sat Heather down on my desk. I flopped into my Thinking Chair and took up a steeple-fingered pose, in order to look intelligent and detectivey.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I said. ‘Apart from doing your homework on plants, that is. But I’ll leave that to you.’

  She blinked at me. ‘How on earth did you know I’ve been doing homework on plants?’ she said.

  ‘There are spots of green paint on your fingers, and the fresh sticking plaster on your left thumb shows you’ve got a slight cut there. Painting and cutting suggests making something. You’re in the Year below me at school, which means you’re very likely to have been given the same homework these holidays that I was, this time last year. Which involved making a model plant. Bit of a guess, but I see I was right. Now, how can I help?’

  Heather was a dark-haired girl with a slight build and a face dotted with freckles. At the time, her face was also dotted with worry.

  ‘I’m related to Mrs Eileen Pither,’ she said with a shudder.

  Thunder rumbled overhead.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no idea.’

  She shook her head, her eyes screwed up. ‘It’s OK, really. I just don’t talk about it, that’s all. She’s my mum’s aunt.’

  ‘And she’s caused some sort of problem, I presume? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard what a sour-tempered person she is?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ I muttered.

  ‘She’s accused me of stealing her jewellery. She’s threatening to go to the police.’

  The thunder rumbled all over again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘GIVE ME THE WHOLE STORY, start to finish,’ I said. I leaned forward in my Thinking Chair. Rain spattered down the shed window.

  ‘Mrs Pither comes to our house every now and again. She keeps getting my mum to join organising committees for various charities. Anyway, Mrs Pither turned up to organise Mum last Saturday, and as she was leaving, she suddenly turned around, in the doorway, and pointed at me. “Where is my antique clasp?” she demanded. I hadn’t the faintest idea. She started getting angry, and said I must have stolen it.’

  ‘What does this clasp look like?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a hideous thing,’ said Heather, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s in the form of two hands, sort of curled around each other. They’re made of silver, with little diamonds set into the fingers. There’s a big, sharp pin-type clip at the back. She uses it to hold the sides of her coat together, a ratty old thing.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard she is,’ I mumbled.

  ‘No, the coat is a ratty old thing! It’s green, and it stinks of mothballs. She’s never without it. I think she’s too mean to put new buttons on it, which is why she uses that clasp.’

  ‘She had it when she arrived?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Heather. ‘I saw it. Right there, clipped on at chest level. She thought I was admiring it! I kept myself busy in my room while she and Mum were talking, and I happened to come downstairs just as she was leaving.’

  ‘I presume the coat, with the clasp, was hanging up somewhere while she was with your mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Heather. ‘In the hall. She put the coat back on, stepped out of the front door, and then must have noticed the clasp was missing.’

  ‘And how long was the coat hanging in the hall?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘And could anyone have stolen it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose someone could have taken it during that time. But apart from Mrs Pither and Mum, there were only me and my elder brother in the house.’

  ‘Nobody could have sneaked in?’

  ‘Mum would have seen anybody coming to the front of the house from where she was sitting. And I would have seen anybody at the back because my room overlooks the garden.’

  �
��And I assume the clasp has been searched for?’ I said.

  ‘Everywhere!’ cried Heather. ‘My mum and I scoured the house. There’s no sign of it.’

  ‘You’re sure she didn’t lose it somewhere outside the house?’

  ‘No. She definitely had it on when she arrived. It definitely wasn’t there when she left. We even searched in her nephew’s car! She makes him drive her wherever she wants to go, because she can’t drive herself. She burdens him with guilt by playing the I’m-a-poor-feeble-old-lady card. He’s softer than melted butter.’

  ‘He didn’t come into the house?’

  ‘No, he was off doing her shopping for her the whole time. He’d just arrived to pick her up.’

  I sat back in my Thinking Chair. ‘Very odd,’ I muttered. ‘I wonder why Mrs Pither would assume it had been stolen? And stolen by you?’

  Heather shrugged. ‘Because she’s mean?’

  ‘Hmm, yes, could be,’ I agreed.

  ‘I think it’s because she thought I was admiring it when she arrived. She’s never liked me,’ said Heather. ‘Mind you, she doesn’t like anybody under the age of about a hundred and fifty. And now she’s convinced I’ve taken this clasp of hers.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Heather. ‘It didn’t look valuable. It looked ugly. I can’t imagine anyone paying so much as a penny for the horrible thing.’

  ‘And you say Mrs Pither is threatening to go to the police?’ I asked. ‘Surely she has no evidence?’

  ‘I think she’s more interested in making a public fuss than anything else. Causing maximum embarrassment. It’ll all kick off first thing Monday morning, if the clasp isn’t returned to her. She said to my mum, “I’ll give that girl until then to come to her senses and confess”.’