The Secret Detectives by Ella Risbridger

Author:Ella Risbridger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nosy Crow
Published: 2021-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

“After lunch,” Sam said, “let’s meet back here. We’ll pick a suspect each. And we’ll trail them.”

“Trail them?”

“It means to sort of follow them about. See if they do anything.”

Somewhere across the deck, Mrs Colonel Hartington-Davis was calling for the girls.

“No grown-up detective would ever realise how difficult it is to run an investigation when people keep bothering you,” said Sam. “We could just live up here on condensed milk.”

“Ugh,” said Lettie. “You and your condensed milk.”

“Eating just takes up so much time,” said Isobel.

“Always having to stop and eat a bowl of kedgeree just as things are starting to get interesting. But then, that’s mothers!” said Lettie cheerfully. “Always wanting you to do things.”

Sam and Isobel exchanged motherless glances.

“That’s mothers,” said Sam, grimly. “I suppose we’d better go.”

So they went.

At the dining-room door they split: Sam to his father, who was working as usual. He nodded to Sam when he sat down, and put his hand quickly and tenderly on his son’s head. Sam ducked, but even across the room, Isobel could see he was pleased. People were so funny, she thought. Parents were so funny, and all of them different.

When Isobel and Lettie got to their table, Mrs Colonel Hartington-Davis made the usual fuss about them washing. “Go back downstairs at once,” she said. She looked brighter than she had that morning. “Lord Trimlingham is going to eat lunch with us and I won’t have you little girls showing me up. Especially not you, Lettie, precious. You have always been such a pretty little girl.” She looked Lettie up and down in a troubled sort of way. “Get a pressed ribbon from the drawer.”

Then she looked Isobel over and sighed. “Well, there isn’t much to be done with you, Isobel, dear. Just wash your hands and face and do your best.”

Sam was watching from his table with amusement.

“For someone who’s supposed to care about hygiene,” Isobel said crossly to Lettie on the way down, “Dr Khan doesn’t seem to care much about whether Sam washes his hands and face before lunch.”

“It’s nice to wash,” said Lettie. “I like being clean.”

“Of course you do,” said Isobel. “Grown-ups like it. That’s why you like it.”

“I just like to be tidy,” Lettie said, primly.

“I just like to be tidy,” Isobel said, in a feeble imitation. She bit her lip, looked down at her own stockings with the hole in them, and sighed.

“Isobel!” There was a note of alarm in Lettie’s voice. She looked up.

There was something white tucked into the thin space between the doorknob and the door.

A scrap of paper with a torn edge, folded in two.

“Is it … another one?”

“Another one,” said Isobel. She moved forward and stopped herself.

“Sam will want to know if there are fingerprints,” she said. “Not that we can see them. But we should be careful. Give me your hair ribbon.”

“What?” said Lettie, and then she understood. She pulled out the crumpled ribbon from her hair and handed it to Isobel, who folded it between her finger and thumb.

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