‘And she’ll really do it?’
‘Without a shadow of a doubt,’ said Heather sadly. ‘She bursts kids’ footballs if they land on her lawn, and she tried to sue her neighbours for having a barbecue. She’s not going to think twice about getting me into trouble. She’s already started gossiping to her committees about me! It’s not fair! I’m really worried!’
‘Never fear,’ I said. ‘Saxby Smart is on the case!’
A Page From My Notebook
Fact: The clasp definitely came INTO Heather’s house.
Fact: It was gone before Mrs Pither LEFT the house.
Fact: It’s been searched for INSIDE the house.
Possibility 1: It’s vanished into thin air. Hmm, not very likely.
Possibility 2: Heather really did steal it. Hmm, also not very likely. Why would she involve me, if she was guilty?
Possibility 3: Mrs Pither could be attempting an insurance scam! She could be pretending it’s been stolen, to get money out of an insurance company.
Possibility 4: The clasp got dropped through a hole in the floorboards.
Possibility 5: Heather’s elder brother is involved; he’s the only other person in the frame, but as yet I know nothing about him.
Plan
I need to find out more about Mrs Pither, about this clasp and about Heather’s brother. I also need to examine the scene of the crime . . .
CHAPTER THREE
I EMAILED MY SUPER-INTELLIGENT FRIEND, Izzy, gave a detailed description of the clasp along with a rough sketch done by Heather, and asked her to track down whatever useful information she could. I also made arrangements with Heather to visit her house the following day, to examine the scene of the crime.
The next day was the wettest and dreariest for ages; the sort of day when the clouds look like wet tissues, and the rain makes an endless roaring noise against the roof.
Heather lived in a very ordinary-looking house, in a very ordinary-looking street. Rain drummed on the lids of the recycling bins, put out all along the street for collection.
When I arrived, I thought that the look of misery on her mum’s face might be either dismay at the theft of the clasp, or else dismay at the horrible weather. But I was wrong on both counts.
‘Mrs Pither’s on her way over,’ said Heather with a shudder.
‘Excellent!’ I cried.
Heather’s mum looked at me as if I was slightly mad. ‘Why, Saxby?’ she gasped.
‘Because I’d like to ask her some questions,’ I said. ‘If I’m going to investigate a —’
‘Here!’ interrupted Heather’s mum, thrusting a duster into my hands. ‘Polish the stair rail. She’ll run her finger along it. If there’s any dust, she’ll make a sarcastic comment.’
Heather whispered to me, ‘Mrs Pither’s got more committee stuff for Mum to do. My mum’s too nice. If only she’d stop doing charity work around here then we’d only ever see that woman at major family events.’
I polished the stair rail. Heather swept the floors. Her mum tidied the living room and made sure there were the right number of cushions on the sofa for Mrs Pither to sit comfortably.
While I polished, I took a close look at the hallway. Beside the front door was a set of hooks, holding a couple of coats, a scarf and a woolly hat. Opposite the coat hooks was a small table, scattered with assorted keys, a couple of items of mail, and reminders scribbled on scraps of paper. There was a little jar containing loose change, and a small pile of money-off vouchers for the local shops. Above the table was a mirror in a broad wooden frame.
The floors were made of that tough, wooden-looking stuff (so no holes in floorboards for clasps to get dropped into). The floor showed, as you’d expect, a faint pattern of scuff marks around the busy areas (with, I noticed with a smile, neatly rectangular untouched patches where nobody had walked, one beneath the table and a larger one under the coat hooks). The stairs, where I was busy polishing, began near the hall table, and a short corridor led to the living room and kitchen. Along the corridor hung three abstract paintings (a bit ugly, I thought) marked TG in the bottom right corners.
All very ordinary-looking. And not a single clue to be had from any of it. Or was there? I could tell that something was missing! How did I know?
I pointed to the coat hooks. ‘Something normally sits under those hooks, a box of some kind. There wouldn’t be a big untouched patch of floor there otherwise. Not a neat, rectangular patch, anyway.’
‘Just the recycling box,’ said Heather. ‘It’s out on the kerb at the moment – it’s collection day.’
‘Ah!’ I said. ‘Yes. I saw it on my way in. And . . .?’
‘Yeeees, it was searched,’ said Heather. ‘Mum searched it. Everywhere was searched.’
Through the ripple-glassed panels in the front door, I could see a car pull up outside. Heather’s mum bustled out of the living room. ‘Here we go,’ she mumbled. She took a deep breath and swung the door open.
Mrs Pither was busy organising her nephew. He was to go and collect her new wardrobe from the furniture shop, then take it back to her house, then put it together, and then come back to collect her. The car pulled away quickly.
‘Hello, Eileen,’ said Heather’s mum.
Mrs Pither was wearing the tatty old green coat that Heather had described to me, all threadbare and frayed at the edges. It flapped down to the level of her ankles, not because it was particularly long, but because she was particularly short. She clacked along in low-heeled shoes, her big feet duck-waddling at the end of stick-like legs. Her white hair appeared to have been gruesomely attacked with hairspray, and her face had the permanent look of having just drunk a glass of lemon juice.
‘Morning,’ she barked, as if the word was rude. She spoke to Heather’s mum, ignoring Heather and me completely. ‘Have you made enough people volunteer for next week yet?’
‘Yes, four,’ said Heather’s mum.
‘That’s not enough,’ argued Mrs Pither. ‘Here, hang my coat up, would you? Of course, I’ve been freezing in it, because I can’t do it up, not since my clasp was stolen. Have you taken the collection tins to the building society yet?’
‘Yes, of course I have, Eileen, now about —’
‘Glad to hear it. You can’t be too careful, with thieves lurking around every corner. What’s wrong with your heating? It’s like ice in here.’
She waddled along the hall to the living room, running a finger along the stair rail and finding no dust. She made no comment. Heather’s mum shut her eyes for a moment. ‘It’s for charity,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s all for charity . . .’
She whispered to us to go and put the kettle on, then followed Mrs Pither. Heather and I scurried to the kitchen.
‘Hmm,’ I said, fetching the biscuits. ‘I’m surprised I’m not investigating a murder.’
‘Oh, she’s in a good mood today,’ said Heather. ‘You should see her when she’s being a misery.’
The front door bumped, and a few moments later Heather’s older brother came rumbling along the hall and into the kitchen. It turned out that he was eighteen years old, that his name was Tim, and that he was a student at the nearby college.
‘H’lo,’ he said to me, with a nod, dumping a handful of library books on to the worktop. He clunked about the kitchen making a sandwich. He was obviously one of those people who can’t do anything without making a noise and leaving a mess. Even his shoes, and the bottom half of his jeans, were covered with multi-coloured spots that had clearly been there for ages.
‘Did you hear about Mrs Pither’s clasp?’ I asked him.
‘Y’h,’ he said. ‘She’s prob’ly left it under her cat or somethin’.’
As I picked up the tray of tea and biscuits, I took a quick look at Tim’s library books. Only one was turned so that I could see the title: Costume Jewellery: Current Price Lists and Valuations.
That was odd. Jewellery? Why would he want to find out about the value of jewellery?
Unle
ss he had the clasp, and wanted to discover what it was worth? Could he have stolen it?
He gathered up his stuff and set off upstairs, chewing his sandwich. He dropped breadcrumbs and little splats of jam as he went. As soon as he was out of earshot, I said to Heather, ‘Was Tim in his room when the clasp was stolen?’
‘Yes, that whole afternoon,’ Heather replied.
Why? Why would Tim want to steal the clasp? Or, more to the point, need the money, since he was apparently trying to find out its value? An idea struck me. Suddenly, I realised why he might be in particular need of money.
‘Tim spends a lot of money on stuff for his college course, doesn’t he? Stuff that gets used up?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Heather. ‘He owes Mum a small fortune. How on earth did you know that? I’ve not even told you what he’s studying.’
Heather didn’t need to tell me anything about what subject Tim was studying at college. I’d worked that one out already. Have you?
‘He’s studying art,’ I said. ‘There are abstract paintings hanging in the hall signed TG. That could be someone other than Tim Gardens, but the multi-coloured dots all over his shoes and jeans are probably paint. What else would come in lots of colours? So he’s an art student. And paint, canvas, brushes and so on don’t come cheap.’
Heather smiled and shook her head. ‘Jasmine Winchester said you were always one step ahead. Anyway, why do you need to know what he spends on art stuff?’
I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Heather about my suspicions. Not yet. After all, suspicions weren’t proof.
‘Oh, nothing, just interested,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s take this tea in!’
In the living room, Mrs Pither was organising Heather’s mum like a Reception teacher organising a finger-painting session. Heather’s mum kept scribbling notes in a thick jotter pad.
I set the tea tray down on the coffee table in front of them. Heather’s mum gave me a big grin which said ‘Thank you’ and also ‘Help me, someone, she’s driving me mad.’ Heather quickly put the biscuits on the tray and hurried out to escape Mrs Pither. Mrs Pither looked at the tray as if she’d ordered something expensive in a posh restaurant and been served poo and tap water. I made myself comfy. I wasn’t going anywhere, I still had questions to ask.
‘Is this tea freshly brewed?’ snapped Mrs Pither. ‘I’m a very delicate person. My innards can’t take tea that’s been allowed to stew in the pot.’
‘It’s as fresh as a daisy that’s just this minute popped out of the lawn,’ I said.
For the first time, Mrs Pither looked directly at me. I flinched. It was like being stared at by a cobra.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘This is Saxby, a friend of Heather’s,’ said Heather’s mum. ‘He’s come to help find this lost clasp of yours.’
‘Ah! Has that girl come to her senses yet? Has she confessed?’
‘Eileen,’ said Heather’s mum, pulling back her chin in a now-just-a-minute expression, ‘I’ve told you, Heather does not have your clasp. We’re all very sorry it’s missing, but—’
‘I’m a very forgiving person,’ snapped Mrs Pither. ‘If she returns the item to me, with her express apologies, then I’ll only ask the police to caution her. But, as I have told you, if I don’t get my clasp back by ten o’clock Monday morning, things will get a lot more serious!’
A bleeping sound was thankfully drowning her out a bit – a lorry was backing up, collecting everyone’s recycling bin out in the street.
‘Mrs Pither,’ I said. ‘Could I ask you a few questions about that clasp?’
‘No you may not,’ she barked. ‘Who are you again?’
‘Saxby.’
‘What a ridiculous name,’ she muttered.
I did my own bit of chin-pulling-in. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of your clasp.’
‘Are you indeed?’ she piped. ‘This isn’t a silly game, you know. Run along home with you!’ She started rubbing her ankle. It certainly looked rather sore. ‘It’s been bitten raw by insects for days! Does this sofa have fleas?’
‘What?’ cried Heather’s mum. ‘Of course not!’
There was a distant bumping of plastic boxes from further down the street, as the recycling bins were emptied. Heather’s mum gulped down her tea to stop herself from saying something that would make her as rude as her guest.
‘If I could just ask about this clasp?’ I enquired politely. ‘Did you have a handbag with you the other day? One the clasp could have been put into by mistake?’
‘A handbag?’ cried Mrs Pither, her eyes stretching free of the wrinkles around them. ‘No I did not! Do you take me for a fool, boy? My clasp was stolen by that girl!’
‘I’m telling you, Eileen,’ said Heather’s mum, ‘nobody in this house would steal anything!’
I said nothing.
‘Well someone in this house did,’ said Mrs Pither.
‘Mrs Pither,’ I said, ‘did you go to the loo while you were here? Or out into the garden? I’m just trying to establish your movements.’
Her eyes were on the point of dropping out and plopping into her tea.
‘Honestly, Saxby,’ said Heather’s mum, ‘we’ve covered all that. Heather and I searched the entire house, wherever Mrs Pither had been or not.’
‘You did it between you?’
‘Yes, I looked on the stairs, the front drive, in the kitchen, and the hall. Heather did in here, the hall cupboard, the recycling box, the coats and shoes, out the back, in the —’
I leapt to my feet!
There had been a mix-up. Something had been missed!
‘Oh no!’ I yelled. I took a jump towards the window, realised I was wasting precious time, jumped towards the door instead and dashed out of the house. Heather, who was coming down the stairs, quickly followed me.
‘What is it?’ she called.
A rubbish collector was, at that moment, emptying the recycling box from the hall into one of the big green bins that filled the back of the lorry. My yell of ‘Stoooooppp!’ was drowned out by the revving of the lorry’s engine. It rumbled away faster than I could run.
‘But we searched the recycling box!’ said Heather.
‘Who searched it?’ I cried.
‘I told you before. Mum did.’
‘Exactly! She just said you did. That box was right under where Mrs Pither’s coat was hanging up.’ I pointed madly at the rapidly departing lorry. ‘The clasp must be on that truck!’
CHAPTER FOUR
I HAD TO THINK QUICKLY! There was no way I could go back inside the house and say, ‘Oops, sorry, Mrs P, your antique jewellery is on its way to be recycled.’
Luckily, I’d spotted which of the green bins the recycling box had been emptied into. The only hope was to intercept that bin before it got emptied out again.
I kind of skipped about for a second or two, not knowing what to do, looking like a complete twit and making little ‘argh’ noises. But then I had an idea.
‘Muddy!’ I cried at last. ‘Muddy lives in the next street!’
Leaving Heather looking bemused, I dashed to Muddy’s house. He was in his garage (otherwise known as his Development Laboratory), taking a broken DVD player apart.
‘Muddy!’ I gasped, almost tumbling over as I skidded to a halt.
‘Hi Saxby,’ he said, not looking up from his work. ‘Sorry, delicate operation, whatever you do, don’t jog my elbow.’
‘I need that bike you adapted, quick!’ I wheezed. I added to myself: ‘And I’ve got to get more exercise.’
‘The Whitehouse Speedy 4000?’ said Muddy, keeping his eyes firmly on what he was doing. ‘Over in the corner. Why do you need it?’
‘I’m on a case,’ I cried, grabbing the bike and the helmet that dangled from its handlebars. ‘I have to follow a lorry.’
Muddy suddenly looked up with a big grin on his face. The delicate piece of electronics he’d been examining toppled over on to the floor. ‘Ooh,’ he said.
‘You might want the Whitehouse Super-View Zoom-Glasses, too? They’re made from binoculars and a pair of my dad’s specs.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Or some Whitehouse Ultra-Headlamps?’
‘It’s broad daylight! How long do you think I’m going to be chasing this lorry? Sorry, GOT to go! I’ll bring the bike back later!’
I sped away at top speed, before he could start going on about spy gear. The Whitehouse Speedy 4000 had specially-adapted gears: once you’d got it going (and that took an effort, because of the bigger cog-wheel-thingummy beside the pedals), it flew along on its extra-chunky tyres like lightning. Plus it had rather cool flame graphics painted on it!
The recycling lorry was way out of sight. For a big truck, it was a fast mover; I’d seen it plenty of times in the past, rumbling along from street to street, hardly ever stopping, with workmen dashing about collecting bins all around it. It was like worker ants feeding a giant, lumbering queen with old newspapers and tin cans.
The trouble was, I didn’t know what route it took. The roads in this area were a winding criss-cross of streets. It would be very easy to lose track of it completely. As I cycled along, I strained to hear the echo of its engine. But the noise from the nearby main road made it impossible to pick out a specific vehicle.
I looked around me for clues. Of course! There was one very simple method of working out where the lorry had (or hadn’t) been . . .
I could track it by looking at which streets’ bins had been emptied, and which hadn’t. Using this method, I caught up with the lorry after about a kilometre or so. Even then, I had to cycle like mad to keep up.
It occurred to me that I could cut across town, go straight to the local recycling plant, and meet the lorry there. However, there was a serious flaw in that plan: I’d need to distinguish this lorry from all the others there. Even if I took a note of its number plate, I could easily miss it.
Curse of the Ancient Mask Page 7
