The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace Read online

  “I have a hunch they can,” Mart said confidently. “And I can see it all now in The Sleepyside Sun: ‘The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency took off on a private jet today for the British Isles, where they will function as genealogical shamuses in an attempt to discover the origin of a splendiferous bauble. Also under investigation will be the extraction of Miss Madeleine Wheeler’s materfamilial roots.’ ”

  “Oh, Mart, you make it sound like we’re going to the dentist,” said Honey, giggling.

  Trixie shivered with excitement. To England! Would she really get to go? Well, even if I don't, she thought stubbornly, the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency is still going to solve the mystery of Honey's inheritance... somehow.

  Yankee, Go Home ● 2

  IT WAS THE BOB-WHITES’ first day in London, and already they were hopelessly lost.

  After getting the young people settled in a small bed-and-breakfast hotel on the previous night, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler had gone on to Paris. Trixie felt she’d be eternally grateful to them for talking her parents into allowing her and Mart to accompany Honey and Jim. Once they were convinced that Trixie and Mart would be a genuine help on the trip, Mr. and Mrs. Belden had revised their verdict and decided that it would be wonderfully educational. Trixie still had to pinch herself from time to time to make sure she really was on the opposite side of the Atlantic, and not just in some unusually pleasant dream!

  Miss Trask was spending the first day doing preliminary research on the Hart family at the English Birth Registry, which meant that the Bob-Whites were beginning their sight-seeing adventures on their own.

  By the middle of the morning, they had covered a lot of territory—mostly underground territory. The tube, as the Londoners called their honeycomb of subways, was jammed with English commuters and foreign sightseers. Trains roared in all directions through the dimly lighted tunnels, and it seemed that nobody could tell the Americans which train they should take.

  “Everything is so much fun in London, even being lost,” said Trixie. “But, gleeps, I don’t think the English people like us very much.”

  “What makes you say that?” Honey demanded. “Didn’t you hear what that man called us?” Trixie asked. “The one who pushed us onto this train when we didn’t know if it was the right one or not?”

  “Bloody tourists,” recalled Mart.

  “I’m sure that doesn’t mean that they don’t like us,” Honey said. “They’re probably just in a hurry to get to their jobs.”

  “Honey, you’d defend a snake if it bit you,” chuckled Jim. Before Honey could protest, he went on, “Well, I don’t care where we are. I think we. should get off at the next station. I’m getting homesick for daylight. I’m not used to traveling underground.”

  The next station, according to the sign on the gleaming white tile wall, turned out to be Baker Street. The other Bob-Whites gladly agreed to troop up the steps to the bright summer sunshine.

  “The air in this part of London seems cleaner than it was where we started out this morning,” said Honey as they strolled down the street.

  “London is a pretty gritty city,” Trixie agreed. “Grit’s nothing more than a few infinitesimal, barely palpable particles of unknown substances,” said Mart, well-known for his love of words.

  Trixie snorted inelegantly.

  “I like Trixie’s version better,” Jim decided. “Not only does she get right down to the nitty-gritty, but she also rhymes.”

  They still hadn’t figured out where they were. It was a fairly quiet street, and there wasn’t much traffic, so they paused on a corner.

  “This has got to be the biggest city in the whole world,” Trixie groaned. “My feet are killing me.”

  “Sixth largest,” Mart said smugly. “Shanghai is number one, with eleven million people. I’d say that’s just a tad bigger than Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson.”

  “Mart Belden, you’re a human almanac!” exclaimed Honey. “I suppose you know the population of London, too?”

  “I believe it’s over seven million—that’s if you’re talking about Greater London. You have to understand that London is a city within a city,” Mart explained earnestly. Not only had he found more time to read up on the trip than the others had, but he also had a phenomenal memory, much as Trixie hated to admit it sometimes.

  “The oldest section in the central part is called the City of London, and it’s only one square mile in area,” Mart went on. “In the Middle Ages, it was walled in, like a fortress. The central part of the city, which is about ten square miles, is still the busiest section. It’s surrounded by Greater London, which is around seven hundred square miles in area, including all the suburbs. But most of the sights we want to see are in the central part, on or near the banks of the Thames River: the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral—even Scotland Yard!”

  “If you know so much about London,” Jim teased, “then tell us where we are at the moment!”

  “We’re on Mary-le-bone Road,” Trixie said, reading haltingly off a street sign.

  “That’s pronounced Mar-li-bone,” Jim said. “I’ve figured out how to pronounce all those long English words, like Worcestershire—that’s Woost'rshr—and Leicester is Lest’r. You just come on strong with the first syllable, and swallow the rest.”

  Marylebone Road seemed to stretch a long way across the city map Honey was poring over. The map didn’t help that much, except to confirm their gloomy suspicions that they were not headed for the Tower of London, which they had planned to see that morning.

  “You must be sure to go to the Tower and see the crown jewels,” Miss Trask had told them. “That will give you a place to start in tracing the necklace.”

  Trixie was beginning to wish that Miss Trask was spending the day with them instead of doing research. Always efficient, always a good sport, she was the Bob-Whites’ favorite person to travel with. She had previously been Honey’s governess but was presently the manager of the entire Wheeler estate, in which capacity she could do anything from arranging banquets to starting stalled station wagons. Besides herself, she supported her invalid sister with the salary she earned at the Wheelers’.

  No one knew how old Miss Trask was. She never let on. She was attractive in a brisk, trim way, with her bright blue eyes and short, silver-gray hair. She always dressed sensibly but well, in tailored suits and sturdy shoes. Sometimes the Bob-Whites liked to tease her about a romantic interest. For example, Mr. Lytell, who ran a general store near Manor House, often seemed to feel more than just a high regard for Miss Trask. Her response to such teasing was always a calm smile that revealed absolutely nothing, and the Bob-Whites usually assumed that her busy life left no room for romance. Their private opinion was that Mr. Lytell wasn’t anywhere near good enough for her. But then, who could possibly be?

  Trixie had long ago decided that one of the best things about Miss Trask was that, as capable as she was, she seldom interfered with the Bob-Whites’ plans or told them what to do. She seemed to give them credit for being intelligent, practical young people who could manage their own lives. Yet she was always there when they needed her. And I think this might be a day when we’ll need her, Trixie thought to herself.

  By this time, there were quite a few passersby on Marylebone Road. But the Bob-Whites were just about to give up asking directions from them.

  “Misdirections is more like it,” Trixie said plaintively. “Everything is ‘just around the corner.’ I really think they’re all making fun of us.”

  “ ‘Pulling your leg’ is the British expression, I think,” Jim said.

  “Just down at the bottom of the road, old chap,” Mart said in cheery English accents. “Turn left, and keep going till you see a stytioner’s shop. It’s right next to the ironmonger’s—just keep going, and there it is. You cahn’t miss it.”

  Trixie wriggled her toes in the stout walking shoes that Miss Trask had recommended. Back home, they never wore anything o
n their feet for walking but sneakers—unless it was boots. This was a lot of walking, even for the active Bob-Whites, but as tired as she was, Trixie wasn’t about to admit she’d had enough.

  Honey caught Trixie’s eye and smiled sympathetically. “Why don’t we go in one of these little cafés and sit down a minute?” she asked the boys.

  “You aren’t by any chance intimating that the female pedal extremities are inferior to those of the male, are you?” Mart inquired with an infuriating grin.

  “Not at all,” Trixie retorted. “I notice you’ve been slowing down a bit yourself, Mr. Walking Dictionary.”

  “Or you could say Mr. Limping Dictionary.” Jim’s green eyes twinkled as he winked at Trixie, and her blue eyes sparkled back at him. She always felt so good when Jim was on her side. Of course, you couldn’t expect your brother to be all that gallant. Jim was quieter than her brother, Trixie thought, but he knew a lot.

  “Touché,” Mart admitted with a grin. “ ‘A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse,’ as the Bard would put it.” The Bard, as they all knew by now, was another name for Shakespeare.

  “How about a cuppa tea?” Honey persisted.

  “And some of those luscious gatewks we’ve been seeing in the bakery windows,” Trixie chimed in enthusiastically. During the previous hour, she’d been eyeing those gooey little cakes that had various kinds of icing—lemon, chocolate, fruit, butterscotch, whipped cream. They’d looked enticing.

  “Gatewks?” Honey asked doubtfully.

  Mart roared with laughter. “That’s ga-toe, old girl,” he informed his sister. “French for cakes. It’s spelled g-a-t-o-u-x.”

  Trixie turned pink.

  “You should have quit when you were ahead,” Jim told Mart, with another wink at Trixie. “The correct spelling is g-a-t-e-a-u-x.”

  It was Mart’s turn to blush. Spelling wasn’t his strongest point. “My vocabulary is a mite better than my orthography”, was all he would say. He grinned weakly and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “Anyway, how come it’s French?” Trixie asked. “I thought we were in England.”

  “Hey, here’s Baker Street,” Jim said as they came to an intersection. “And look, there’s the house that’s supposed to be 221-B!”

  Mart unslung his camera and moved back for a better picture.

  “What do you want to take a picture of that old building for?” Trixie asked. “It’s just like all the others in the row.”

  “You claim to be a detective, and you don’t know about 221-B?” her brother asked. “Let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes, only the most famous detective ever, and that’s the famous Victorian flat he and Dr. Watson are supposed to have rented. Only they didn’t, of course, because they’re really just fictitious characters.”

  “Oh, now I remember!” Trixie said excitedly.

  “Look! That must be the bow window Holmes was sitting in when he got shot by his archenemy what’s-his-name—” She paused, searching her memory.

  “Moriarty,” Honey said.

  “Only Holmes didn’t get killed,” Trixie went on, “because he wasn’t there at all! He’d left a wax dummy in the window to foil the villain.”

  Unfortunately, the famous flat wasn’t open to tourists, as the Bob-Whites were told by a cross older woman who came to the door.

  “There! You see?” Trixie said, disappointed. “They don’t like us. You’d think she could at least have given us a peek.”

  “She didn’t seem very friendly,” Honey had to admit. She sighed.

  “It’s just the well-known British reserve,” Mart said.

  “Never mind, Trix,” Jim told her. “We can go see Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum instead. Look—it’s right around the corner.”

  “Gleeps,” she said, cheering up in a hurry. “Let’s go!”

  “First we’d better fortify ourselves with a cuppa tea and some of those luscious gatewks,” Jim said.

  “Let’s hurry up, though,” Trixie said impatiently. “We still have to see Westminster Abbey and the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace—”

  “And take the cruise down the Thames,” Honey added as they trooped into a small café and sat down at one of the gleaming wooden tables. “And see London Bridge—”

  “You can’t see London Bridge,” Mart said. “It’s in Arizona.”

  “Arizona!” Trixie exclaimed. “You’re kidding!”

  “That’s right,” Jim said. “Some rich guy bought it and carted it over to Lake Havasu City in Arizona. The funny thing is—”

  The funny thing about London Bridge was forgotten when a tall man in a white apron came out of the kitchen to take their orders. With his bushy moustache, he looked more than a little stern.

  “Mart, you’ll spoil your appetite,” Honey said. “You look about ready to gobble up your menu!”

  “I’m all for the British custom of eating five times a day,” said Mart.

  Everybody laughed—not that it was all that funny, but just because they were having a good time. They giggled even more over some of the strange-sounding foods—things like kippers and crumpets. Everything sounded so tempting.

  The waiter glared down at them, and Trixie squirmed. After they’d finally made up their minds and the man had disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, she asked, “Why do I keep having that strange feeling that they hate us?”

  “Because you’re a shamus,” teased Mart, “and you always have strange feelings about people you meet.”

  “Oh, Trix, they don’t hate us,” Honey said quickly.

  “We do act sort of silly, you know—the way we make jokes about their money and the way they talk and all. And we take up so much room on their subways and buses. You can’t blame someone for getting mad when he gets a subway door shut in his face.”

  “Honey’s right,” Jim said soberly.

  Trixie flushed. She was born friendly. She enjoyed making new friends, and it bothered her when people weren’t friendly back to her. I guess I’m just too impulsive, she thought to herself. I'll probably never be as tactful and considerate of other people’s feelings as Honey is. Still, I wish Jim wouldn’t be so quick to side with Honey!

  “I read somewhere,” Jim went on, “that there was resentment of Americans after the Second World War. The English were still on strict rations, while the American tourists could have everything they wanted and were sometimes pretty rude about getting it.”

  “On the other hand,” Mart said, “the tourist industry is very important to their economy.”

  “Maybe they wish it wasn’t,” Honey commented wisely, just as the waiter entered with their orders.

  Trixie had ordered a trifle, which was a conglomeration of pound cake, jelly, custard, fruit, and whipped cream, flavored with wine. As heavenly as it tasted, Trixie forced herself to eat a little faster than normal.

  “We don’t have much time,” she kept reminding the others. “Miss Trask says we’ll only be in London for two or three days, and we’ve just barely started on sight-seeing, much less on solving our case.”

  She grew even more impatient when they had all finished and the waiter didn’t appear with their bill. They could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen, but nobody came through the swinging doors. They were the only patrons in the small café.

  “Couldn’t we just leave the money on the table?” she said at last.

  “We could if it was dollars,” Jim agreed, “but I still haven’t got the hang of this English money.” He took out his wallet and riffled through the pound notes, which somehow didn’t look as “real” as American dollars. “These don’t seem to be worth the same amount for two days in a row,” he said.

  Trixie fidgeted restlessly. “Could that man be keeping us waiting intentionally?” she wondered aloud.

  “Ssshhh,” Honey whispered as the doors finally swung open and the waiter came over to plunk their bill down on the table.

  “As Winnie-the-Pooh might say, what do we owe in pounds, shillings, and o
unces?” Mart asked lightly.

  Pooh was a favorite of Bobby, their little brother, and Trixie felt a twinge of homesickness. Back home, everybody liked the Bob-Whites!

  “Mine comes to roughly a pound, with the tip,” Jim figured.

  Honey unhitched the leather handbag that hung from her shoulder and stared at its contents, totally baffled by the unfamiliar money.

  “Mine is ninety-five pennies,” Trixie said with a sigh, rummaging around in her change purse. “Oh, woe! How am I going to come up with that many pennies?”

  “That’s pence,” Mart told her. “Pence aren’t the same thing as cents. They’re worth about twice as much, and there’s a hundred pence to the pound, which fluctuates around two dollars. So give the man a quid, and let him keep the change. Here, Honey, I’ll pay the rest, and we can figure out how much you owe me when we get back to the hotel.”

  Trixie was all mixed-up, and she didn’t like it. “What’s a quid?” she asked.

  “A quid is British slang for a pound,” Mart explained patiently.

  All this time, the waiter was standing there, waiting to take their money. To Trixie’s mind, the face behind that moustache was scowling. Well, she didn’t want to tip him too much. But maybe it wasn’t enough—was that why he was glaring at her? It seemed she couldn’t do anything right here.

  Trixie placed her money on the table and stormed out the door, every blond curl bristling. The only possible reason that waiter could have for not liking them was that they were Americans! They hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure.

  She hadn’t gone far when she found Jim walking beside her. “I get that Yankee-go-home feeling, too,”

  he admitted with a sympathetic sigh.

  Trixie felt better, with Jim at her side. Maybe things would be different at the Wax Museum. Maybe they’d even start finding clues to the whole reason they were in England—the origin of Honey’s necklace.

  In the Chamber of Horrors • 3