Free Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison by Emma Kennedy

ourselves with the backstage areas of the theatre, and I think that chat with young Scraps might be something you could concentrate on. But I want you to tread carefully. Let’s practice. We’ll pretend I’m Scraps and you’re going to ask me some questions. Off you go.”
    Wilma blinked, frowned, then, scrunching her nose up, said, “Hello, Scraps. Did Cecily Lovely kill Sabbatica?”
    â€œNow,” the great detective corrected gently, “you see, that’s what I would call a little heavyhanded. Subtlety is the key, Wilma. Start informally. Find out how long she’s been working for Cecily. What her chores are. This way you will establish trust. Once you have her trust, you can ask more probing questions. Questions about Cecily, her personality, her likes and dislikes.”
    â€œAnd whether she killed Sabbatica,” added Wilma, nodding.
    Theodore looked down at his very young apprentice. “Hmmm,” he mumbled. “Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea. Let’s put you on backstage duties instead. The midday show is due to start soon. Stay in the wings, Wilma. Get a sense for the lay of the land.”
    Wilma looked blank. Pickle looked blanker. “You do understand what ‘lay of the land’ means, don’t you?”
    â€œNot really, Mr. Goodman,” replied Wilma, rubbing her cheek. “Is it one of those special detective phrases, like thinking wonkily out of boxes?”
    â€œSort of,” answered Theodore patiently. “It means to assess the area you’re in. Get to know it. Become familiar with exits and passageways. That sort of thing. Do you think you can do that?”
    Wilma nodded. Being a detective’s apprentice was proving to be quite hard work. And involved lots of strange phrases. But even though she was small, Wilma was very determined, so she would try her best, follow orders like she was supposed to, and hope that she didn’t muck things up too spectacularly.
    â€œGood. You and Pickle head off there then, and the Inspector and I will go and make inquiries as to whether Sabbatica had eaten anything she shouldn’t. Then I need to see the Baron. I want to find out more about the financial difficulties the theatre is in. May not be connected to what happened, but we can never be too careful.”
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    The backstage area of the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre was buzzing with activity. As Wilma made her way into the wings, she could hear the audience coming into the auditorium on the other side of the safety curtain. There was an air of excitement. Ushers were shouting at people to sit in the right seats, people were calling out for rotten apple-core cones, and somewhere, over it all, there was one lone child wailing.
    Onstage, Malcolm Poppledore was ticking things off his props list and running around yelling every time he couldn’t find something. A small, red-faced woman was carrying great piles of costumes and hanging them in dressing areas in the wings lit with tiny lanterns.
    â€œMrs. Grumbletubs!” shouted Malcolm, spotting her. “You haven’t seen Eric Ohio’s cowboy hat, have you?”
    The costume mistress shouted back over her shoulder, “Laundry room. Wringer. On top.”
    â€œEric Ohio?” asked Wilma, casting a look down at Pickle. “Who’s that? His name’s not on our suspect list.”
    â€œAnd neither should it be,” rattled Malcolm as he ran past. “He’s Mrs. Wanderlip’s ventriloquist dummy. Geoffrey!” he shouted to a sullen-looking boy watering a small potted plant in the wings. “Move that scenery for me, would you? Excuse me, please! House opens in five! In five, everyone!”
    Wilma looked over at Geoffrey. He was slightly tubby and was wearing a threadbare sweater that was tucked into a pair of trousers that were slightly too short for him. He had a belt around his waist from which hung a variety of hooks and