The Crims Page 10

  Typical, thought Imogen. Even without the children to watch, Freddie couldn’t seem to stay in one place for more than five minutes. Where did he keep disappearing? “Of course,” she said, and showed Mrs. Teakettle to the door.

  The Horrible Children lined up on the doorstep, smiling, and waved neatly to their babysitter as she departed. Imogen shivered. She almost preferred it when they were hitting one another and swearing.

  Imogen collapsed into an armchair and closed her eyes, trying to get just a few seconds of peace and quiet to process what had happened that day—but that was impossible, of course. Because in no time at all, the Horrible Children started to do their usual horrible things. Sam picked up his voice distorter and tried to make himself sound less squeaky, Henry grabbed his lighter and held it to the bottom of Nick’s and Nate’s feet to see which of them had the higher pain threshold, and Delia laid her head on the ironing board and started straightening her hair with the iron.

  “So how was your day?” Delia asked.

  Imogen hesitated. Should she tell Delia what she’d done and how badly wrong it had gone? “Not great,” she said finally. “I tricked my way into Jack Wooster’s mansion pretending to be a reporter and ended up getting chased out of the house by his very nasty dogs.”

  “Whoa!” said Henry, holding out his hand to give Imogen a high five. Imogen’s heart lifted a little. It hadn’t occurred to her that her cousins would actually think what she’d done was cool. She high-fived him and noticed that he’d tried to tattoo “HATE” on his knuckles, but he’d spelled it wrong, so it read “HEAT.”

  Even Delia was impressed with her. “Seriously?” she said. “You lied to get into his house? You do know that’s illegal, right?”

  “I do,” Imogen said as casually as she could.

  “I didn’t know you still had it in you,” Delia said.

  “Thank you,” said Imogen, looking at her cousin in surprise. There had been a time when she and Delia had been inseparable in their criminal activities. They wrote in their journals together, and each would offer suggestions to improve the other’s plan. When Imogen was eight and Delia ten, they’d successfully stolen a huge balloon in the shape of an octopus that had (inexplicably) sat atop a local ice cream shop. That morning, Imogen was sure she’d spotted a deflated tentacle still poking out of the back of Delia’s closet.

  Now she glanced down at her lap. It felt strange to remember her pre-Lilyworth life. It felt particularly strange to remember that the good times weren’t all connected to Big Nana.

  “Sorry if this is an obvious question,” said the twin who wasn’t in the middle of having his feet scorched, “but why did you want to get into Wooster Mansion?”

  Imogen sat up. “Because I think Jack Wooster is the one who framed our family. He’s the one who really pulled off The Heist.”

  “WHAT?” said Sam, dropping his voice distorter.

  “What are you talking about?” said Delia, straightening up. “Are you trying to say we didn’t steal the lunch box? Because we totally did. Didn’t we?” She made eyes at Henry.

  “Oh . . . yeah,” Henry said when he’d cottoned on. “We totally pulled off The Heist. I rode a unicycle into Jack Wooster’s garden, carrying brownies—”

  “That was me, you idiot,” hissed Delia. “And I was carrying cupcakes. Ugh. Whatever.” She turned back to Imogen. “Are you calling us liars?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” said Imogen, which was quite a brave thing to say, because Delia was still brandishing the iron. “Delia, we both know The Heist would never have worked. If we’d written it up in our crime journals, Big Nana would have torn it apart. That’s why Clyde never attempted it when she was alive.” Delia frowned and looked away. “Anyway, the adults have already admitted they didn’t do it,” Imogen said quickly. “You might as well come clean.”

  Nick and Nate looked at each other and shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right,” they said. “It’s true. We had nothing to do with it.”

  “Fine,” said Delia, slamming the iron onto the ironing board. “But Big Nana or no—we could have done it if we’d really wanted to.”

  “Of course you could,” said Imogen, in her most soothingly insincere voice.

  “Whatever,” said Delia, throwing herself into an armchair in a huff.

  But Delia’s bad moods never lasted long. It was one of the things Imogen had always admired about her cousin. Midway through the Octopus Balloon Heist, she’d gotten furious at Imogen for insulting the Jonas Brothers and climbed down off the roof, stranding Imogen with a half-deflated octopus balloon about the size of two large SUVs. Just as Imogen had started to despair, she’d heard footsteps on the ladder, and then her cousin was next to her again. “I suppose their last album wasn’t their best.”

  And only a few minutes after her huff, Delia was sitting on the arm of Imogen’s chair, saying, “So, do you really think Jack Wooster stole his own lunch box?”

  “I do. Who else could it have been?” asked Imogen. “He’s always had it in for Uncle Clyde. Trouble is, he figured out who I was before I could get any information out of him.”

  Delia shook her head, disappointed. “I did wonder who would bother to re-create Uncle Clyde’s heist—the bouncy castle rental by itself must have been a pain, not to mention finding the pig.” She sighed. “Wooster seems like a good bet. But you played it too straight,” she said. “You should have tricked him into leaving the house somehow, so you could look around.”

  Imogen’s lips twitched. It was irritating to hear lessons from Delia on how to be a criminal when she’d always been the more accomplished one. Except . . . she had the sinking sensation Delia was right, just as she’d always been when she found a flaw in Imogen’s journal. “How should I have tricked him into leaving the house?” she asked.

  “By using the Ratcatcher Swindle!” said Sam.

  Imogen looked at her cousins thoughtfully. She had no idea what a Ratcatcher Swindle was—some kind of swindle involving rats, she assumed. Anyway, Imogen wasn’t sure she wanted her cousins’ help; it could backfire in roughly a thousand different ways. But then, Jack Wooster did deserve to be swindled, didn’t he? And Imogen was out of ideas.

  Also, she realized, the idea of pulling off a crime with her cousins after all this time was sort of . . . exciting.

  “Okay,” said Imogen. “So if I wanted to pull off the Ratcatcher Swindle, how would that work, exactly?”

  The next day, after Imogen sent Mrs. Teakettle away with the news that the entire Crim family had contracted norovirus, she and the Horrible Children arrived at the gates to Wooster Mansion. Freddie was AWOL, but Imogen suspected he wouldn’t be of much help, anyway. They were all wearing blue overalls and carrying buckets (except Isabella, who was in Henry’s bucket, disguised as a sponge). Imogen buzzed the intercom, and the same deep, crackly voice from the other day said, “Wooster residence. How may I help you?”

  Imogen felt more confident this time around. Having the Horrible Children there with her made her feel safer. Which was mad, really, when she thought about it, so she didn’t. She took a deep breath, and in her best Scottish accent, she said, “Hello therrrre!”

  “Hello,” said the crackly voice on the other end.

  “We’re frrrrrrrom A-1 Creaturrrrre Management,” continued Imogen. “We’rrrrre herrrrre to take carrrrrre of your wee rrrrrat problem.” Imogen looked at Delia, who gave her a thumbs-up. Imogen nodded, pleased.

  “THANK GOD,” said the voice, buzzing them in. By the time they reached the front door, the butler was on the doorstep waiting for them. He ushered them inside, practically bowing with gratitude. “I assume Mr. Wooster contacted you?”

  “That is corrrrrect,” said Imogen.

  Delia gave her a look. Maybe she was overdoing the accent a bit now.

  “Not a moment too soon,” said the butler. “I have no idea what happened, but it seems as though an entire family of rats moved in overnight! It’s no reflection on the cleanliness of this house, of
course.”

  “Of course not,” said Sam, smiling. “Rat colonies can be very fast-moving—and they are actually much pickier than people give them credit for. Who can blame them for wanting to live in such a spotless house as this?” He ran his finger along a mahogany side table and held it up. “See? Clean as a whistle!”

  “Well,” said the butler, blushing, “thank you.” Then he looked at the Horrible Children properly for the first time and did a double take. “My! You’re very small for exterminators,” he said.

  Oh no, thought Imogen. I am not being caught again.

  “Yes,” Delia said quickly—before Imogen could think of a lie. “It’s very sad, really—the rat poison stunted our growth.”

  Imogen felt a wave of relief wash over her.

  “That’s right,” said Sam. “I was six foot tall when I was a boy—on the basketball team and everything. Now that I’m forty-five, I have to get other people to get things down from high shelves for me.”

  “But we love our work!” said Delia. “A-1 Creature Management is a family business. Rat poison runs in our veins!”

  The butler took a step backward, clearly a little alarmed.

  “Not literally,” Delia said. “Anyway, you mustn’t worry—we’ll get rid of the rats in no time. We just need everyone to leave the mansion while we’re working.”

  “Very well,” said the butler, giving a slight bow. “It’s just me and Mrs. Pigmore here today; she’s the cook. Mr. Wooster is away on business. I’ll go and tell her to collect her things.” With that, he walked away, nose in the air, to fetch the cook.

  Imogen grinned at Delia. He’d bought it!

  Ten minutes later, the butler and Mrs. Pigmore left the house. Imogen locked the door behind them. She couldn’t believe that Sam’s ridiculous plan had actually worked! Maybe her relatives weren’t completely hopeless after all. Her heart was thumping, but in a good way. She felt really alive for the first time in ages.

  “Right,” said Sam. “I’ll collect my rats.” He put two fingers to his lips and whistled to them. “Where are you, Cyanide? Anthrax, come to daddy!”

  As Sam wandered off, calling to his terrifyingly named pets, Imogen gathered the other Horrible Children around her. She pulled the detailed blueprints of Wooster Mansion that Uncle Clyde had given them out of her pocket. “Right,” she said. “The rest of us need to split up and search the mansion for clues. Delia, you start in the servants’ kitchen. Nick and Nate, you go to the present-wrapping room and the cuff links display room. Henry and Isabella, have a look around the golf-wear wardrobe. I’ll start in the guest living room.”

  Imogen took her time walking through the mansion. She’d brought a copy of the illustrated abridged version of Uncle Clyde’s Heist plan for reference. As she wandered through the rooms, she felt a grudging respect for whoever had actually stolen the lunch box. The real criminal had staged the entire Wooster Mansion to make it look as though the Crims had pulled off The Heist. Whoever did this, Imogen thought, they’re good.

  But not perfect. Whoever had staged the mansion had made a few little mistakes. The real criminals had cut the glass on the window to break in without making a noise. The Crims didn’t do clever things like that; they always carried a brick with them for window-breaking purposes. And the real criminal had messed up the Crims’ “signature”: the crudely stenciled picture of Captain Crook that they left behind at each of their crime scenes. The mystery criminals had sprayed Captain Crook in green, whereas the Crims’ signature spray-paint color was an embarrassing shade of pink that they’d bought on sale, thinking it was red, but were too proud to take back to the shop.

  Imogen didn’t find anything particularly interesting in the guest living room or the indoor swimming pool. The library, which was mostly full of books about toilets, seemed to be a dead end too—at first. She picked up a few of the books and flicked through them, just in case someone had hidden any evidence inside. But when she tried to pick up one of the books from the shelf nearest the fireplace, it wouldn’t come out. It seemed to be glued down. Imogen tried another book, and another, but they were all stuck firmly in place. She took a few steps back and looked at the bookshelf properly and saw that there was a telltale gap around the edge of the shelves and down the wall. It wasn’t a bookshelf at all: it was a door.

  So, thought Imogen, Jack Wooster is more like Uncle Clyde than he cares to admit. Uncle Clyde had built five hidden doors in Crim House over the years. None of them led anywhere particularly interesting, but they drove the other Crims crazy. You’d be in the kitchen, trying to cook some pasta, when you’d press the wrong button on the cooker, and suddenly, the whole thing would swing around and you’d be standing outside in the garden in your bare feet. But when Imogen pressed on a book called Open If you Dare, she discovered that Jack Wooster’s door did lead somewhere useful—Jack’s study.

  Imogen stood there, her hands on the back of the uncomfortable armchair, looking around the study. Jack’s desk filled half the room, and a trophy cabinet took up most of the other half. Jack appeared to have won Tuxedo Wearer of the Month, Blandington Wrestler of the Year, and the Amateur Dangerous Dog Breeder Prize. Shuddering slightly, Imogen moved over to the desk. She opened one of the drawers and gasped.

  How very odd! There, among the paper clips and pen caps and gold-toilet-embossed stationery, was a letter addressed to Jack from Charm Ltd.: the creators of Captain Crook.

  Why would Charm Ltd. be writing to Jack? Imogen supposed it could have something to do with the Captain Crook website Jack ran. But since Charm Ltd. had essentially dropped Captain Crook after parents complained that he promoted crime, it didn’t seem likely.

  Imogen sat down on Jack’s (toilet-shaped) desk chair and began to read:

  Dear Mr. Wooster,

  I am writing to you with a proposal that I believe will benefit us both. Charm Ltd. would like to buy your Captain Crook lunch box for £1,000,000 (one million pounds sterling).

  Imogen’s mouth dropped open. That explains why the valuation of the lunch box suddenly tripled, she thought. But why would Charm Ltd. pay that much money for a ratty old lunch box? She carried on reading:

  If you accept this sum, you will, in return, hand the lunch box over to a representative of Charm Ltd. under cover of night, in a secure location; you will take down your Captain Crook fan website immediately; and you will deny any knowledge of the lunch box or the Captain Crook character forthwith.

  Imogen was even more confused. Why did Charm Ltd. want Jack to deny he’d ever heard of Captain Crook? And why did they care about Jack Wooster’s incredibly unpopular fan site? Only about three people used it, mainly because Jack moderated the forums ruthlessly, throwing out anyone who used “LOL.” He had always refused to give Uncle Clyde a username for the message boards, forcing him to comment as “guest.” Imogen had the sense that Jack enjoyed the sense of power that moderating a terribly unpopular message board gave him. Would he be willing to give it up in return for a million pounds?

  Imogen was struck by a sudden memory: When PC Phillips had tried to show her the value of the lunch box on a website, the site had been mysteriously down. Coincidence? Or had Charm Ltd. offered that site’s owner money to take it down too?

  She frowned and read the letter again. If Jack Wooster had refused to sell the lunch box to Charm Ltd., maybe they were the ones who stole it and set up the robbery to frame her uncle?

  But something still didn’t add up. Even if Charm Ltd. did steal the lunch box, how would they have known about The Heist?

  “Imogen?”

  Imogen was shaken out of her thoughts by Delia’s voice, coming from somewhere downstairs. She looked at her watch—they’d been in the house for half an hour already. “Coming!” she called. She walked back through the hidden door to the library and ran down the portrait gallery (which only contained portraits of Jack Wooster) to the staff kitchens, where she found the Horrible Children playing with Sam’s pet rats. “So,” she said, trying t
o catch her breath, “what did you find?”

  “Nothing good,” Delia said morosely.

  “I found something good,” said Henry, holding up a tiepin. “Apparently, you use this to clip your tie to your shirt, so you always look professional!”

  “You don’t own a shirt or a tie,” Imogen pointed out. “And you never look professional.”

  “Until now!” said Henry.

  Imogen opened her mouth to reply—but then she froze. She had heard a very unwelcome sound: the sound of a key turning in the front door.

  “It must be the butler,” whispered Delia.

  But then the unmistakable voice of Jack Wooster came floating toward them, like an ominous balloon. “Hello? Mrs. Pigmore? Mr. Waits?”

  And then they heard his tread on the stairs. Luckily, he’d decided to go upstairs first.

  “Quick!” whispered Imogen. “Let’s get out before he sees us!”

  “I’ll have a cup of tea, Mrs. Pigmore,” Jack said from upstairs. “But instead of tea, I’ll have champagne, and instead of milk, I’ll have . . . a little more champagne.” And then he laughed his wealthy laugh.

  “Let’s go! Before he comes down again!” hissed Imogen, picking up Isabella, who was trying to grab one of the rats from Sam’s pockets, and ushering the Horrible Children out of the kitchen ahead of her.

  They tiptoed down the hall. Delia got to the front door first. She turned the handle silently and held the door open for the others. The twins left first, followed by Henry, followed by Sam—but just as Sam stepped outside, Isabella lurched forward and grabbed one of his rats by the tail, and the rat, which didn’t seem to like having its tail grabbed, turned and bit her, and Isabella shrieked, “BAD RAT!” at the top of her surprisingly powerful and piercing voice, and all the rats jumped out of Sam’s pockets, and Sam swore and scrabbled to pick them up, and the whole thing was generally a bit of an extremely loud disaster.