Mystery & Mayhem. Julia Golding

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ