The Case of the Stolen Sixpence Page 5

“What?” The old man stared at her. “Get lost.”

  “I won’t!” Maisie snapped. “You tried to drown him! My Eddie! I rescued him out of a sack by the canal. You did, didn’t you? Look at them!”

  Until now, the bigger dog had been pressed tight against the man’s side, her head hanging low, and her tail neatly tucked away. But now that Eddie was dancing and yapping in front of her, the older dog’s tail was swinging from side to side. She was too worn out and sad-looking to wag it properly, but it was as close as she could get. She and Eddie were sniffing at each other, and Eddie’s tail was wagging so fast, it was hitting against his mother’s legs.

  “What’re you saying?” the man snapped. “Not against the law to drown a puppy. What’s your game, nosy?”

  “You’re cruel!” Maisie shouted, remembering just in time that she was meant to be a boy and not to let her voice go high.

  People were starting to watch them now, their heads turning as they passed by, and the old man snarled. He didn’t want anyone noticing him, Maisie thought. “Shut up,” he snapped. And almost before Maisie saw what he was going to do, he swiped at her, aiming to cuff her around the head.

  She dodged, jumping away into the road, and the old man growled something and hurried off.

  His dog lingered, licking Eddie’s ears, until the man turned back, farther up the road, and yelled at her. “Get here, now!”

  Maisie hoped the poor dog wouldn’t go. She wasn’t quite sure what she would do about another dog—Gran would go into convulsions if Maisie brought her home—but she’d manage somehow.

  “Stay with us . . .” she whispered hopefully. “We’ll run . . . He wouldn’t catch us.”

  But the dog nuzzled Eddie one last time and then scuttled away, following the horrible old man around the corner of the street.

  Maisie let out a shaky sigh, realizing she’d been holding her breath all this time.

  Eddie stood in the gutter and whimpered, and Maisie rubbed his ears, then picked him up and cuddled him. “I solved my first mystery,” she whispered. “Or you solved it yourself, Eddie. But it’s the saddest mystery ever. I’m not sure I’ll even tell Alice—it would make her cry.” She rubbed her cheek against his wiry little head. “I’m glad he tried to drown you, though, so I found you and you didn’t have to live with him. I wish I could have stolen your mum, too, but she was his dog. She wanted to follow him even though he was awful. Eddie, we should go home.”

  Eddie looked around at her as he heard the word, and then wriggled out of her arms and shook his odd ears firmly. Then he set off determinedly down the street and Maisie went after him.

  The next morning, Maisie sat on the stairs, which she was supposed to be sweeping, and looked at the list in her notebook. Only one name crossed off. It wasn’t very good. She needed to go out detecting again, but this time in a different disguise. Being a boy had proved to be just a little too dangerous. She slipped the notebook back into the pocket of her apron and lovingly patted her magnifying glass. She still hadn’t used it properly. Oh, she’d examined footprints in the yard, and she’d worked out that Madame Lorimer had eaten a cream puff and an Eccles cake from Norton’s Fine Bakery, just by careful examination of the washing-up. But it wasn’t the same as using the magnifying glass for an actual case.

  She wished she could see the coins that the butcher had marked and laid as a trap in the cash box. Then the magnifying glass would really come in useful. She had read an article in Gran’s paper about the new science of fingerprints. Amazingly, it seemed that every person in the world had prints that were different. Gilbert Carrington had spoken to the newspaper and said that prints were extremely useful to a detective. Maisie had tried to compare her own prints and Sarah-Ann’s, made on a water glass, but they were very difficult to see. She needed more practice, of course, but it would be easier now that she had the magnifying glass. There might well have been prints on those coins, if only she could have examined them.

  There was no use in brooding over it now, though. Gilbert Carrington did most of his detecting just by looking at people, and Maisie knew she was good at that too. She would have to solve the case with her own eyes, not by any newfangled inventions. Hopefully, she could slip out later on . . .

  Later that day, Maisie peered into the little mirror that Miss Lane had lent her, and then back down at the drawing. It was very clever—it was all about shadows, and using them to make one’s face look completely different. Miss Lane had given her a few of the little sticks to use as well, and she had made Maisie promise to come back and tell her exactly what happened. She had an audition to go to or she would have insisted on doing the makeup herself.

  Maisie had borrowed a dress and bonnet and shawl from Gran that morning, after she’d finished sweeping the stairs. They were old ones that Gran kept in a chest in the little attic room, so hopefully no one would notice they had gone. The bonnet had a sort of veil across the front, which would help with the disguise as well, and Miss Lane had told her that she must remember to walk as though her feet hurt.

  Maisie had decided that it would be easier to hobble realistically if her feet did actually hurt, so she’d put some stones from the yard into her boots. That way she couldn’t forget.

  She smeared a bit more of the yellowish color underneath her eyes, and decided it worked. She looked like herself still, but her face was hollowed and sunken, as though she’d lost some of her teeth. She looked familiar somehow. Maisie frowned at herself for a while, and then gave a gasp of laughter. She looked like Gran!

  Then she peeped out into the passage and hurried past the kitchen, out through the yard to the street. She had left Eddie in her room with a new bone. Sarah-Ann was so grateful to him for scaring away all the enormous rats, which she was sure were just waiting to jump out at her, that she kept finding him little treats. Maisie had hidden the bone away until today—she couldn’t possibly take Eddie with her, in case he was recognized again.

  Sarah-Ann was upstairs cleaning, and Gran had gone out to Miss Mason’s Household Agency to see about a new maid. The young policeman had been made a sergeant, and he’d come around to tell Sarah-Ann the day before. He’d asked her to marry him, and so she wanted to leave as soon as she could. She was going to go and keep house for the young policeman, and he wouldn’t want her to work as a maid once she was married. Gran was very cross about it. She said she’d only just got Sarah-Ann trained up, and now she had to start again.

  “Ow!” Maisie muttered, as soon as she was outside the yard. Her stone-filled boots really hurt. By the time she got to Harrowby’s, she was going to have blisters. Still, it worked. She was tottering along like a little old lady.

  “Are you all right, miss?” someone asked, and Maisie swung around guiltily.

  “You looked a bit faint for a minute,” the boy said, staring at her. “A bit wobbly.”

  Maisie peered through her dark veil, and stifled a laugh. It was George himself, looking down at her worriedly.

  “I’m quite well, thank you,” she said in a quavery sort of voice. Then she straightened up and stared back at him. “George, it’s me. Maisie. You know, from school. The one with the dog.”

  George squinted at her under the veil for a minute, looking bothered, and then frowned. “What are you dressed up like that for?”

  “I’m investigating!” Maisie said, feeling slightly hurt. She was going to all this effort for him, and he was being grumpy about it. Then again, he didn’t know that it was his case she was investigating. “I’m trying to prove it wasn’t you that took the money. So you can get your job back. Unless you’ve got another job, of course.”

  George said nothing for a minute. Then he shrugged. “I haven’t. No one wants a thief, do they? I do the odd errand here and there. But that’s all. My mother’s pawned all her good clothes to get money for food,” he muttered miserably.

  “There you are, then,” Maisie said firmly. “We have to do something. I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea who it was who to
ok the money, now that you’ve had time to think about it?” she asked hopefully.

  George shook his head. “Nope. Except . . . it had to be somebody who was there in the shop all the time. And that means one of the assistants. Alfred or Frank.”

  “Or Sally,” Maisie reminded him. “Hmm, Alfred’s Mr. Harrowby’s nephew, though. I don’t think he’d steal from the cash box when the shop’s all going to be his one day. But we definitely need to watch Frank. What about Sally?”

  “It could be her, I s’pose,” George said. “But she wouldn’t. She’s Miss Perfect, she is. Got manners like a princess. She was always complaining that my nails were dirty. Or I was sniffing. I just had to stand there and she’d find something wrong with me.”

  Maisie could see her point, actually. George did sniff all the time, and his nails looked like he could grow potatoes under them. But she decided it wasn’t tactful to say so. “Mmm. Well, I’ll see anyway. Just because she’s pernickety doesn’t mean she couldn’t be stealing.”

  “Thanks,” George said gruffly. “Not that it’ll work. But it’s good of you to try.”

  Maisie wasn’t actually planning to buy anything at Harrowby’s. She didn’t have any money, for a start. But she knew that Reg would almost certainly be out on his bicycle doing the deliveries, so she had come up with an idea so sneaky that it made her smile even to think of it.

  She tottered into the butcher’s shop, looking as frail and ancient as she possibly could, and practically collapsed over the counter.

  “Oh dear . . .” Sally hurried around to her and caught her elbow. “Are you ill, madam?”

  “I’ve had a shock . . .” Maisie quavered, glancing around and noting that one of the assistants—Frank, not Alfred—was leaning over the counter, looking at her worriedly. Good. Her two main suspects were there.

  “Fetch her a chair,” suggested one of the other customers. Frank brought Sally’s stool while Sally went out to the pump to fetch a cup of water.

  “Ohhhh,” Maisie sighed loudly. “I’m bruised all over. That dratted boy!”

  “Which boy?” Mr. Harrowby leaned over the counter to ask.

  “On one of those newfangled bicycles,” Maisie said, eyeing him under her veil. “Just over on Portland Avenue. He knocked me right over and didn’t even stop!”

  Mr. Harrowby frowned anxiously. “Er, a delivery boy?”

  “Oh dear, yes, didn’t I say?” Maisie explained feebly. “Your delivery boy. I saw the name, Harrowby’s, painted on the dreadful machine. I thought I should tell you, you see . . .” She flopped back against the counter.

  Mr. Harrowby groaned. “That Reg! I’ll scrag him! I’ll mince him up! This is the third time!”

  Maisie blinked. This was even better than she had expected! It also made her feel a bit less mean. George needed his job back, but that would be hard on Reg. But if he had actually been knocking other people down, not just nearly running her and Eddie over, then he deserved to go! And he’d really hurt her the day before, when he shoved her in the yard. She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know why you got rid of the other one . . .” she said. “He was a dear boy. He helped me across the road once. And only last week I saw him chasing an awful dog that had stolen some sausages. A nasty, fierce brute! Your boy made such an effort to catch him.”

  “George did come back with a tale about a dog,” Mr. Harrowby admitted. “But that was the day I let him go.” He looked uncomfortably at Maisie. “Not because of the sausages. He’d been stealing . . .”

  Maisie shook her head. “Surely not. Such a good boy.”

  “I think she’s right,” Sally put in. “I don’t think it was George. He said he found that coin in the yard, and I think he was telling the truth. I don’t see how he could have got at the money—he hardly ever came in the front of the shop.”

  She was twisting her fingers together anxiously, Maisie noticed, and looking down at the floor, as though she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye. How odd that she should stick up for George when she had always complained about him, Maisie thought.

  She looked carefully at Sally, trying to think like a detective. It really had to be her or Frank. So could Sally be involved? But why? Surely it would be stupid for her to steal from Harrowby’s? She was bound to be suspected when she was the one who handled most of the money. She would have had to be desperate.

  Sally’s boots were pretty, Maisie thought. A dark leather, with a pattern of little holes stamped around the toes. They must have been quite expensive, but now the leather was cracking, and the heels were worn down—as though she didn’t have the money to get them mended.

  Maisie felt her breath catch in her chest. It was a clue! A real clue! She just wasn’t quite sure what it meant. She needed to go home first and think it all through. Maisie blundered up from the stool. “Thank you for the water, dear . . .” she murmured. “I’ll be off now.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Harrowby muttered anxiously. He was obviously worried she was going to keel over on the way.

  “Quite sure.” Maisie limped out of the shop, trying hard to look old and feeble. She felt quite feeble, actually. This disguise thing was very hard work.

  “I don’t think it can be Alfred,” Maisie muttered to herself as she swept the hallway floor. “But Sally does seem suspicious. It does look like she’s short of money . . .” She whipped her notebook out of her apron pocket to look at her list of suspects. “What about Frank, though? I didn’t even have a chance to talk to him.”

  Eddie peered at her between the banisters, his eyes wide and solemn.

  “How am I supposed to find out if he’s honest?” Maisie asked the dog. “I can hardly ask him. And I’d rather not go to Harrowby’s again, even in disguise. People are going to get suspicious.” She frowned, leaning on the broom. “I need a test . . . Like old Mr. Harrowby’s coin test, but one that actually works . . .” She smiled thoughtfully to herself, and suddenly started sweeping much faster. If she could get this floor done, Gran might not mind if she popped out. It was about the time that Harrowby’s would be shutting up shop and Frank would be on his way home . . .

  Twenty minutes later, Maisie was hurrying up Albion Street toward the shops, with Eddie at her heels and a big wicker basket over her arm. As she reached Harrowby’s, she strolled past, glancing sideways to try to see in without being too obvious. Ah! Alfred, Mr. Harrowby’s nephew, was just putting out the gaslights, and Frank was winding a muffler around his neck, ready to set out into the chilly evening. Maisie darted around to the little alleyway and lurked there with Eddie. She was pretty sure that Alfred and Frank had already locked the front door of the shop and they’d be going out the back, through the alley. She just had to make certain that she was a little way in front of Frank as he set off down the road.

  Maisie could hear the two young men talking as they came out of the back of the shop. They were discussing the stolen money, and her ears pricked up.

  “Uncle’s determined to get to the bottom of it. He was convinced it was that dratted boy George, but Sal and that old lady set him doubting again.”

  Maisie grinned to herself.

  “He’s right! What if whoever it was starts again? And I don’t like the way we’re all so suspicious of each other. If it wasn’t that boy George, your uncle’s right to want to find the real culprit.”

  Maisie nodded thoughtfully. That was Frank talking. He certainly didn’t sound like a thief, lying low. He wanted the mystery solved too. She slipped her hand into her pocket and patted her magnifying glass. She might not have used it to look for real clues yet, but just having it made her feel like a proper detective. It gave her confidence.

  As Frank and Alfred came out of the yard and headed up the alley toward Maisie, she slid out of the shadows and back onto the main street. She had to guess which way Frank would be going home. If she got it wrong, she’d have to double back and try to get in front of him again, which would be difficult. She hovered hopefully in the doorway of the draper’
s shop, which already had its shutters down, watching the yellowish light from the gas lamp in front of the butcher’s. The two young men nodded to each other as they came out of the alley.

  “See you tomorrow then, Frank!” Alfred called, heading away down the street. Maisie gave a triumphant little hop and hurried out of the doorway in front of Frank, balancing the heavy basket she’d brought.

  She could hear him trudging along a little way behind her, whistling to himself. Just as she reached the next gas lamp, Maisie pretended to trip over Eddie’s string lead, and tipped out the contents of her basket. Her one solitary shilling, her wages from Professor Tobin, went bowling down the flagstones toward Frank, while Maisie muttered crossly to herself and picked up the bits and pieces she’d borrowed from the kitchen—a tin of sardines, some laundry, and a few new-looking cloths.

  If Frank did turn out to be less than honest, then this was going to be an expensive bit of detecting. Leaving the shilling waiting for Frank to spot in the lamplight, Maisie pattered on down the street.

  “Miss! Miss!”

  “Me?” Maisie turned and stared back at him hopefully.

  “You dropped this!” He came hurrying up to her, smiling and wiping her shilling on the hem of his shabby jacket before he handed it to her.

  “Oh! Thank you! My gran would have been ever so cross if I’d lost her money.” Maisie bobbed him a little curtsey and darted off, smiling to herself at the success of her investigations.

  So Frank wasn’t a thief. He could easily have pocketed that money, and the poor girl who’d “dropped” it would never have known. So, if he hadn’t taken the money, and Alfred wouldn’t have wanted to, and George was innocent . . . there was only one person left.