Mystery & Mayhem. Julia Golding

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      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.

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