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

wrenches and a pair of battered leather gloves. He was also wearing one red shoe and one blue shoe, which struck Wilma as being a little odd. “He doesn’t look very happy, does he, Pickle? Perhaps I’d better write that down. I should also write down where all the exits are, like Mr. Goodman told me. Mind you, it’s quite hard to work it out. It’s dark back here. Be careful, Pickle, there are ropes everywhere. So Malcolm just walked off over there,” she added, pointing with the end of her pencil. “That’s to the right of the stage.”
    â€œNo, that’s stage left,” mumbled Geoffrey, who was dragging a large piece of painted canvas toward them.
    Wilma, readying her pencil, followed Geoffrey’s eye line. “But it’s over there.” Wilma pointed again, toward the door. “That’s the right.”
    â€œYes.” Geoffrey nodded. “But right is stage left. And left is stage right.”
    â€œHang on a minute,” said Wilma, putting one hand on her hip. “Is this some sort of hocus-pocus? How can left be right and right be left? Which one is which?”
    â€œWell, to the right is left,” said Geoffrey. “And to the left is right. And upstage is the downstage. And downstage is the upstage. It’s easy when you know how,” he added, before wandering off.
    â€œWell, this complicates everything,” said Wilma, looking both left and right. “Upstage, downstage, stage left—I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. What’s wrong with just saying over there and leaving it at that? And I tell you something else, Pickle. That boy wanted to confuse me. You know what that means . . .”
    Pickle snorted.
    â€œThat he may be sneaky. I’ll make a note. And contemplate that later. Oh! This lay-of-the-land business is harder than it looks. It’s making my head spin.” Wilma heaved a small sigh and chewed her lip. “Maybe we should go and see Scraps,” she wondered, standing back to avoid a large sandbag that was being lowered from a rope above her. “I expect Mr. Goodman would be very pleased if I managed to solve this case in one probing. What do you think, Pickle?”
    The beagle, sensing that this was one of those moments where the less he had to do with something, the better, lay on his back and waved his legs in the air.
    â€œSnooping about?” said a voice behind them. Wilma spun around.
    â€œNot snooping, thank you, Janty,” she replied with a sniff. “I am conducting official detective business.”
    The boy kicked at a rope with the end of his foot, his dark mop of hair falling forward into his eyes. “But you’re not an official detective, are you? In fact, from where I’m standing, you’re nothing at all.”
    Wilma’s lips tightened. Having been at the Institute for Woeful Children for ten years, she knew full well when someone was trying to annoy her. Standing a little taller and straighter, she matched him head-on. “I’m an apprentice. I’m learning how to be a detective. Rather like how you’re learning to be rotten to the core. One of us is going to achieve something in life. One of us is not.”
    Janty glared at Wilma through his heavy bangs. “My master owns this theatre. Soon he’ll own everything. And, when he does, I shall have everything and you’ll achieve nothing. I shall see to it.”
    â€œStealing and double dealing is no achievement, Janty. If that’s the way you do things, then I’d rather have nothing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
    Janty, sensing that he had been outplayed, grunted and disappeared behind a large painted canvas. Wilma shook her head. “In my experience,” she explained to Pickle, “when boys make a fuss, it’s because they want attention. We must try to make him see sense.”
    Pickle snorted again. He understood