Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts by Emma Kennedy Page A

doing any such thing . . .

8
    I nspector Lemone was a stodgy fellow whose cheeks looked like buns. He was a bit out of breath because Clarissa Cottage was a good forty-minute walk from the police station, and the Inspector, who had no interest in physical exercise, was very out of shape. Normally an inspector would have a sergeant or a constable who could drive him around on the back of a bicycle or in a fancy carriage, but Cooper only had one police officer and Inspector Lemone was it. He was on his own and at the mercy of sharp inclines.
    As Mrs. Speckle returned to the front hallway, Inspector Lemone was feeling in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead, which was damp with sweat, but as he heard her coming he abandoned his search and quickly wiped his brow with the sleeve of his raincoat instead. After all, he didn’t want Mrs. Speckle to know he couldn’t walk for forty minutes without breaking into a sticky mess. The fact that Mrs. Speckle was a widow and that the Inspector had had a soft spot for her for over ten years is nothing to concern us here. This isn’t a story about sappy romance, it’s a story about murder and stealing, so don’t give that piece of information a second thought.
    â€œMr. Goodman says you can go in now, Inspector,” said Mrs. Speckle, picking up the basket of just-washed laundry that she had left on the side table.
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Speckle,” said the Inspector, who watched as she picked up the basket. “Can I help you with that?” he added, removing his hat and holding it in his hands.
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Mrs. Speckle, oblivious to the Inspector’s attentions. Inspector Lemone tried a small smile but Mrs. Speckle wasn’t even looking. Oh, what was the point?
    Â 
    The Inspector had been at Clarissa Cottage many times over the years and so knew his way to Theodore’s study. As he turned and walked up the long corridor from the hallway he heard a small noise. Because it was so small, he couldn’t be quite sure what it was or if he had even heard it at all. “Hello?” he called out, peering into the darkness. “Is anyone there?” He stood very still for a few moments, which he enjoyed because it was so physically undemanding, but he heard nothing further. The Inspector shrugged his shoulders and opened the door to Theodore’s study.
    Theodore P. Goodman’s study was a treasure trove of criminal matters. One wall was so covered in awards and certificates and diplomas that diplomas were hanging on certificates and certificates were hanging on awards. There were bookshelves and glass display cases and photos everywhere. By the fireplace were two brown leather armchairs and a small table laid out with a marble Lantha board. Theodore was sitting in one of the armchairs, saucer in one hand and a cup of peppermint tea in the other. As the Inspector sat down, Theodore anxiously noted that Mrs. Speckle had only brought in two corn crumbles, so, with his mouth full of hot peppermint tea, there was little he could do but watch as Inspector Lemone picked up both biscuits and popped them into his mouth. Theodore gulped. “Hmmm,” he said, staring at the empty plate. “Perhaps I’ll just ask Mrs. Speckle if we might have a few more corn crumbles.”
    â€œShe’s hanging up laundry, Goodman,” said the Inspector, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shame. They are awfully good, aren’t they?”
    Theodore managed a weak smile and put down his cup and saucer. “So, Inspector . . . to business. The Katzin Stone?”
    â€œHere’s the thing, Goodman,” began Inspector Lemone, flipping open a small notebook that he had pulled from the inside breast pocket of his raincoat. “The Katzin Stone, the most valuable jewel ever found, was stolen from places unknown somewhere between the Office of the Receiver of Burrowed Things and platform 3B of