CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was all so clear to me now. I had solved the case. I basked in the glory of being a true detective for a moment before shaking myself out of a daydream in which Inspector Hartley was calling me a hero and offering me a shining medal, and realized that a heated argument was taking place between Maxwell and Pym.

“How can we possibly continue?” Maxwell cried. “Another near-fatal accident! Another leading character has just pulled out! This play is truly cursed. How can we possibly be ready in two days, and with all the local press coming. . .” He drifted off, a haunted look in his eyes.

“The play will go on,” said Pym firmly. “And it will be a great success.” When Pym uses that tone of voice it is impossible to argue with her – she just sounds so utterly certain.

“OK, OK, you have twisted my arms.” Fanella rose to her feet. “I shall do it.”

There was a pause. “Do what, dear?” asked Doris.

“I will play the lady star character,” Fanella answered majestically.

Luigi let out a great guffaw, but when Fanella turned her furious face towards him he tried to turn it into a coughing fit.

“But my dear,” said Maxwell anxiously, “do you know the part? This is one of the most difficult and complex roles in the whole of Shakespeare.”

“Of course,” Fanella answered immediately with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Is easy. This Shakespeare, he is quite OK, I think. He does lots of killings in his plays. Is hilarious.”

Maxwell looked more worried than ever at this answer.

Fanella stomped on to the stage and stood across from him. “Unfirm porpoises!” she shouted, clasping her hands in front of her. “Give me all your knives.” She grabbed at the air. “Sleeping people and dead people are in the pictures,” she cried, sinking to the ground.

I was flicking through the script trying to work out where Fanella was, when Doris whispered in my ear. “She means, ‘Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.’ Act Two, Scene Two.”

I looked at Doris in surprise, but she just picked up her knitting and clacked the needles.

“It is those creepy children with the eyeholes who are afraid of paintings and also devils,” Fanella screeched, throwing herself on the ground.

“’Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil,” whispered Doris between stitches.

There was a long moment of uncertain silence and then Maxwell started clapping slowly. “Brava!” he cried. “Spectacular! Such passion!”

“Bah,” said Fanella, but a pleased smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“My dear, you are a triumph!” he said, staring moonily at her face.

Fanella shrugged. “I know. This what I keep telling you,” she sighed.

“With us in the leads the play will be an enormous success!” Maxwell shook his fist and everyone cheered.

The rehearsal continued for another hour and it really did seem as though things were going better. I know people always think Macbeth is a big tragedy but I don’t think they can really be understanding all those funny words Shakespeare uses because, let me tell you, Fanella was right. It was hilarious. And when Inspector Hartley slipped into a seat at the back of the room, he appeared to think so as well. At least, his shoulders kept shaking and he seemed to be trying pretty hard not to laugh the whole time, probably so as not to distract the actors.

Anyway, Kip, Ingrid and I were kept busy for the rest of the rehearsal, making sure that the props were all in order and that everything was on stage at the right time. For the first time, just like Letty’s crew, we were running like a well-oiled machine. And all that time I was itching to tell them what I had deduced.

When Pym finally called the run-through to an end, everyone seemed relieved to have got through the whole play without any more incidents. We were certainly all a bit jumpy and Kip’s enthusiastic drum banging had caused a minor kafuffle when Miss Marigold had dropped her prop sword in fright.

“Inspector,” Pym said with a smile, spotting Inspector Hartley, “perhaps you would like to join us for dinner?”

The inspector looked pleased and then his face fell. “I would love to, Madame Pym,” he said, “but I’m afraid I must get back to the station – reports to file, you know.” He sounded tired and a bit fed up, and who could blame him? I decided that when I was a grown-up detective I wouldn’t bother with any boring reports – it would just be all action, all the time.

“And Poppy,” said Pym, “Miss Baxter said you and your friends can have dinner with us if you like?”

“YES!” crowed Kip, visions of candyfloss clearly dancing before his eyes.

“Sounds brilliant,” I agreed.

“Thank you,” beamed Ingrid, her big eyes shining.

As we wandered down to the circus camp Pym pulled my arm through hers. “And then maybe you can fill us in on this big mystery!” she said.

Once we were back at the circus camp we found that Marvin had set up an excellent campfire, and Boris was busy barbequing dozens of sausages and burgers, which smelled amazing. We all huddled around the fire, snuggled up in our coats and ate sausages and beans off paper plates as the first stars began to peek out. When Boris pulled out a bag of marshmallows almost the size of me, Kip groaned with happiness.

“This is how to live,” he murmured, leaning back and rubbing his full belly.

Kip was right, and it was easy to forget, sitting here laughing and joking with my family, that we had a case to solve. But I had a theory, and I needed to talk to them all about it. I cleared my throat and then began by filling everyone in on all the details of the fire at the town hall, our suspicions about Derek Dweebles and his alibi.

“But if the Dweebles did not do it, Tomato, then who is the criminal?” Fanella asked.

“Someone else who had something to gain,” I said.

“Was it this cat lady?” asked Luigi, rubbing Buttercup’s tummy. “She sounds a bit dotty in the brain box to me. Fancy being so obsessed with a cat.” He snorted.

“No, I don’t think it was Penny,” I said.

“Was it a ghost?” asked Boris, looking a bit scared. “Oh, no, Poppy,” squeaked BoBo, “I hate ghosts.”

“You no need be afraid,” said Fanella. “For keep away ghosts you must only have garlics.”

“That’s for—” Tawna began.

“—Werewolves,” finished Tina.

“Of course it’s not for ghosts or werewolves,” cried an exasperated Marvin. “Everyone knows garlic is for keeping away vampires.”

“No,” said Fanella. “Is ghosts. They say ‘Yuk, we no like these garlics’ and then they fly away. Is old Italian folktale,” she finished.

Everyone groaned. “Well, now we know it’s not for ghosts,” said Sharp-Eye Sheila. “You only ever say it’s an ‘old Italian folktale’ when you’ve made something up.”

“How DARE YOU insult my ancestors! I curse you with the old Italian ways!” Fanella leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing, and she began speaking in very fast, very angry, Italian and waving her hands around in a lot of not-very-polite gestures.

“It wasn’t a ghost!” I yelled. “Or a werewolf, or a vampire.”

“Well, then who was it?” Sharp-Eye Sheila asked.

I took a deep breath. “Well, actually, I suppose it was a vampire, of sorts.”

“A vampire!” screamed Kip, jumping to his feet.

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING SPOOKY GOING ON!”

“No,” I said impatiently, “not a real vampire. A love vampire,” I looked around at the puzzled faces, as all except Ingrid looked completely confused. “As in Love Vampire: A Vampire in Love.” Still nothing. Finally I gave up. “The fire,” I said slowly, “was started by Lucas Quest.”