The Case of the Missing Treasure Read online

  Contents

  The Case of the Missing Treasure

  Hazel’s Guide to the British Museum

  Hieroglyphic Alphabet

  Life and Death in Ancient Egypt!

  Write Like An Egyptian!

  Codebreakers!

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  “I, the Honourable Daisy Wells, have decided to give an account of another mystery the Detective Society has faced in recent weeks. It was very exciting, and very heroic, and I was very brilliant and brave…”

  A daring thief has been robbing London’s most famous museums. When Daisy’s birthday treasure hunt leads them into the path of the culprit, Daisy and Hazel realize where they’ll strike next – the British Museum!

  With help from their friends (and rivals), the Junior Pinkertons, the girls must crack codes, unravel clues and race against time to solve the mystery.

  About the Author

  Robin was born in California and grew up in an Oxford college, across the road from the house where Alice in Wonderland lived. She has been making up stories all her life.

  When she was twelve, her father handed her a copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and she realised that she wanted to be either Hercule Poirot or Agatha Christie when she grew up.

  She spent her teenage years at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, reading a lot of murder mysteries and hoping that she’d get the chance to do some detecting herself (she didn’t). She went to university, where she studied crime fiction, and then she worked at a children’s publisher.

  Robin is now a full-time author, and her books, The Murder Most Unladylike Mysteries and The Guggenheim Mystery, are both award-winning and bestselling. She lives in Oxford.

  Also available by Robin Stevens:

  MURDER MOST UNLADYLIKE

  ARSENIC FOR TEA

  FIRST CLASS MURDER

  JOLLY FOUL PLAY

  MISTLETOE AND MURDER

  CREAM BUNS AND CRIME

  A SPOONFUL OF MURDER

  DEATH IN THE SPOTLIGHT

  Based on an idea and characters by Siobhan Dowd:

  THE GUGGENHEIM MYSTERY

  To booksellers. You’re absolute heroes.

  Being an account of

  The Case of the Cursed Mummy.

  Written by Daisy Wells,

  Detective Society President, aged 15.

  Begun 30th May 1936, concerning

  exciting events that took place on

  Saturday 9th May 1936.

  My Secretary and Vice-President Hazel is busy writing the story of our seventh murder case. It is taking her a long time, because it was such an excellent mystery. We have faced plenty of dastardly murderers in our careers to date, but I believe we have seldom come up against such a cunning crime.

  Hazel tells me that I always say that. Perhaps I do. Or perhaps the criminals we meet are becoming cleverer. Nevertheless, we are better detectives with every new case. It is now almost impossible to outwit us – or at least no one has managed it yet.

  So, while Hazel is writing away, I, the Honourable Daisy Wells, have decided to give an account of another mystery we faced in recent weeks. It was very exciting, and very heroic, and I was very brilliant and brave (Hazel and our friends George and Alexander helped too). We caught criminals, and recovered treasure, and really everyone in England should be grateful to us.

  Although I do not think I need any more introduction, Hazel insists upon it. So: I am Daisy Wells, and my best friend Hazel Wong and I are the two most important members of the Detective Society, an organization which is famous on at least two continents. One day we will own the world’s finest consulting detective agency, although at the moment we are still forced to struggle through our schooldays as though we were ordinary children.

  We are currently on our way back to Deepdean School for Girls, although (very pleasingly) we have not been there much this year. For reasons that I shall let Hazel’s other casebooks tell you about, we have spent this spring first in Hong Kong, and then in London. In London we were staying with my Uncle Felix and his new wife, whom we have been told to call Aunt Lucy.

  Because of his utterly secret and extremely important job, Uncle Felix is not exactly a usual sort of uncle, nor is Aunt Lucy an ordinary aunt, and so living in their flat is fascinating. There are mysteries everywhere, and we encountered our first only a few days after our arrival in London.

  We were sitting round the breakfast table on Wednesday morning, and Bridget had just brought in the morning papers. Bridget is supposed to be Aunt Lucy and Uncle Felix’s maid, but, like every other part of Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy’s life, she is rather unusual. She can read coded messages as quickly as I can read English, and when she answers the telephone I have heard her speak at least six different languages. I suppose it is clever of Uncle Felix to use her for other purposes, for who really pays attention to a maid?

  ‘There’s been another one, Mr M,’ Bridget said to Uncle Felix, dropping the pile of newspapers on the table next to the butter dish. ‘Sir John Soane’s Museum this time!’

  ‘Another what?’ I asked, on the alert. I could see that Hazel was sitting up too. I peered at the paper on the top of the pile:

  Sneak Thief Strikes Again

  Yesterday morning the curators at Sir John Soane’s Museum were horrified to discover the theft of several of their most precious Greek and Roman artefacts. A window was smashed, the cases themselves lay open and the items, including a small bust and a gold necklace, were missing. This is the tenth such theft in the last month, but only the second to leave behind such destruction. In many of the others, the thief arrived and left without disturbing anything. To date, many of London’s most prestigious museums have been the targets of this puzzling night-time terror. The police admit to being stumped.

  How long will these attacks last? And who can stop them?

  Next to the article was a small and blurry picture of the outside of a building, its window smashed, and glass scattered all over the pavement below its railings.

  ‘Golly!’ I said. ‘How exciting! Someone ought to look into it.’

  ‘Someone certainly ought,’ said Uncle Felix, scraping butter onto his toast.

  ‘Most certainly,’ agreed Aunt Lucy, sipping her tea. ‘Felix dear, pass the crossword.’

  By which I understood that Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy knew far more about the thefts than they were telling us. In fact, I suspected that they were probably engaged in investigating them. I felt rather annoyed, and very jealous.

  But my detective mind was at work, and it had noticed that there was something distinctly fishy about the article’s picture. I looked over at Hazel to signal this to her with my eyes. But Hazel didn’t look at me. She was staring at something poking out beneath the newspaper – a rather grubby-looking white envelope with some familiar writing on it.

  ‘Alexander’s written!’ said Hazel, and glowed.

  Alexander Arcady is a boy that Hazel and I met during the course of one of our investigations. He and his best friend, George Mukherjee, are members of the Junior Pinkertons, a rival detective society. They are not as good at solving crimes as us, but I suppose they’re not bad.

  But that is my opinion of Alexander, not Hazel’s. I will never understand why a boy who is awkward and far too friendly and can never dress himself properly should always make Hazel look as if she has swallowed a light bulb. He only makes me feel annoyed.

  ‘It’s the Exeat this weekend, and so he’s coming up to London with George. They’re staying with George’s parents,’ said Hazel, reading through the letter and blushing furiously all the way down her neck.

  I saw Uncle Felix and Aunt
Lucy look up from the crossword they had begun to work on together and exchange a glance – a very married one. Then Uncle Felix said, ‘I suppose they’re coming to visit us?’

  ‘No,’ said Hazel, redder than ever. ‘Well—’

  As I have said, I think Hazel’s obsession perfectly foolish. But she is my best friend, and so I said, ‘Yes please, Uncle Felix.’

  ‘Well then, write to the boys and invite them for Saturday,’ said Uncle Felix, his monocle glinting as he screwed it into place over his eye. ‘I shall have to think up some entertainment. You haven’t had a birthday party yet, have you, Daisy?’

  I ignored him. After what happened when I turned fourteen, I am quite cured of birthday parties. I am surprised that Uncle Felix isn’t as well. And besides, I am fifteen years old, only five years away from twenty – far too old for birthday parties. I was more interested in what was wrong with that picture in the newspaper.

  Whenever I wasn’t busy with lessons that week, I drew up a list of all the museums that had been stolen from, and what had been taken. Meanwhile, Hazel spent several days practically beside herself at the thought of Alexander coming to visit, and pretending she was not. She was making a very bad job of it, as Hazel always does with her emotions.

  ‘Come now, Hazel,’ I said to her on Saturday morning, to distract her. ‘Let us consider these robberies. The things the thief has stolen so far have all been jewellery and small figurines and so on. No paintings, and nothing that’s difficult to carry. All the museums were attacked at night, and all were broken into with hardly any fuss. And look at the ones that have been stolen from! Practically the only one that hasn’t reported a theft yet is the British Mus—’

  Just then we heard a car draw up and pull away again, and then the doorbell rang. Bridget hurried to answer it. Hazel leaped up as though she had been electrified.

  ‘I do wish you’d get over this obsession with him,’ I said, scrumpling up my page of notes crossly.

  ‘I have! I don’t think of Alexander like that any more,’ said Hazel thickly. ‘We’re only friends.’

  ‘Rot,’ I said, and pinched her in a friendly way. ‘Don’t be too dreadful about it today, will you? It’s bad enough that Uncle Felix keeps going on about this birthday party idea!’

  Bridget came back in then, leading George and Alexander. Alexander glanced at me and turned a silly shade of red, and then looked anywhere but at me. I ignored him. George simply winked at me. I do like George.

  We all said hello, and then we had that idiotic polite moment where no one is sure whether they should say what they truly want to or simply order tea. Luckily, at that point Uncle Felix poked his head round the door.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you again. Do you know, I thought I’d never meet children capable of giving Daisy a run for her money, but I think the two of you – and Hazel – almost manage it. Now, I promised my niece that I would give her a birthday party.’

  ‘No thank you!’ I said. ‘Why can’t you leave it alone? I told you, I’m not a child any more!’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ said Uncle Felix. ‘This isn’t an ordinary birthday party. I know the four of you love clues and puzzles. So, how would you like to solve a mystery?’

  ‘Yes please!’ said Alexander.

  My heart jumped. Could he possibly mean … what if Uncle Felix was letting us in on what he knew about the museum thefts? I am fifteen now, after all. Perhaps he had finally realized that I was a brilliant detective who had solved six murder mysteries (with help from Hazel), and could be trusted.

  ‘What’s the mystery?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a treasure hunt,’ said Uncle Felix. ‘A series of clues that should lead you to one answer: the present I have for you. Are you game?’

  I felt sick. A treasure hunt. I had been wrong. Uncle Felix did still think that I was just a child. Hazel put her hand on mine, and I realized I was clenching my fists.

  ‘Yes please, sir,’ said George politely – but I could tell that he was rather unimpressed. George is almost as clever as I am, and nothing but proper mysteries will do for him.

  ‘All right,’ I said, for there was nothing else to say. Uncle Felix was dreadful, I thought.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,’ said Uncle Felix cheerfully. ‘I have the first clue all ready for you. And now for the exciting part: Lucy and I have spoken, and we have agreed that you four are to be allowed to go out on your own today, to wherever the clues take you. You are fifteen now, after all.’

  He put a folded bit of paper into my hand, winked at me and ducked out of the room like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Well!’ I said. ‘Well!’

  I couldn’t say anything else. I was so furious that I was almost speechless, which is unusual for me.

  ‘We’re allowed out on our own!’ said Hazel encouragingly. ‘And perhaps the treasure hunt will be more exciting than you think?’

  ‘You’re a good person, Hazel Wong,’ said George, and I knew then that he was feeling sorry for me. I was deeply ashamed of my uncle.

  ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ said Alexander. ‘Like Hazel says, this might be fun …’

  I looked at last at what I had been given. It was a handwritten note in Uncle Felix’s dreadful scrawl.

  The world’s knowledge under Britannia’s rule

  Visit Clio or you’ll look a fool

  . _ . . / . . /_ _ _ / _ . / . . .

  And on the back of it was a single letter: V.

  ‘What dreadful doggerel,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Really, Uncle Felix could have done better.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ asked Alexander. ‘Who’s Clio? Did he spell Cleopatra wrong?’

  At Deepdean I would have sighed and looked at my nails and pretended to have no idea at all, but ‘out of the corner of my eye I could see that George was about to open his mouth, and no matter how much I like him, I refuse to be beaten by George Mukherjee.

  ‘She’s the Muse of History,’ I said, a fraction of a second before George. ‘And Britannia is the woman on all our coins, on the opposite side to the King. Her name is just a silly way of saying Britain.’

  ‘So Britain and History,’ said Alexander. ‘Which means—’

  ‘The British Museum!’ I cried, once again just a fraction ahead of George, who nodded at me, grinning. ‘That was easy. Honestly, Uncle Felix had better make the next clues harder. All right, I suppose we might as well get this over with. Let’s go!’

  I whirled out of the room to fetch our coats and hats. I do find that other people are usually so slow. It makes me want to grind my teeth and bite my tongue. I thrust Hazel’s coat at her (the days were still blustery and fresh, and it would never do to go out in London incorrectly dressed), but she seemed half in a dream.

  ‘Daisy,’ she said, frowning. ‘What about the Morse code part of the clue?’

  ‘It hardly matters, Hazel,’ I said to her. ‘Come on! We already know what the clue means – we must get to the British Museum!’

  We all four galloped out of Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy’s flat – they live in a lovely red-brick building in Bloomsbury – and rushed through the streets of London. The wind dashed after us, and pigeons scattered through the air, and a red motor car swished past and nearly blew off my hat. London moves almost as quickly as I do, and I love it. When I am grown-up, I will always live in London, and wear the very latest fashions, and there will be a brass plaque on the door of our detective agency that says: HERE LIVES THE HONOURABLE DAISY WELLS, GENIUS OF DETECTION (AND HAZEL WONG TOO).

  We ran through Russell Square, the leaves on all the trees new. Up ahead was the British Museum. I made to turn left, towards Museum Street, but Hazel stopped short.

  ‘No, not that way,’ she said.

  ‘Of course that way!’ I cried. ‘Britannia! She’s on that triangle on the museum roof!’

  ‘No,’ said Hazel insistently. She really has become so bold since our Hong Kong adventure. I scarcely know
what to do with her sometimes.

  ‘Hear her out,’ said Alexander. Hazel went pink and I could have stamped my foot.

  ‘The Morse code part of the clue,’ said Hazel. ‘I worked it out, and it spells LIONS. Uncle Felix wants us to go round to the other entrance, where the lions are.’

  The most bothersome thing about Hazel is that when she is right, she is right.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, rather wishing that I had been the one to work it out, even though I can never sit still long enough for codebreaking. ‘Off we go then.’

  And there, at the Montague Street entrance, flanked by two enormous lions, was Aunt Lucy.

  ‘Bravo!’ she said when she saw us. ‘You cracked the first code.’

  ‘Hazel cracked the code,’ said George, and smiled at her.

  ‘It was easy,’ I said to Aunt Lucy, giving her a chilly glare to show that I was not to be babied.

  ‘They do become more difficult,’ said Aunt Lucy. ‘Now, are you ready for your second clue?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Please,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Doesn’t Hazel have lovely manners?’ said Aunt Lucy. She handed Hazel another folded piece of paper. ‘Felix will be waiting for you at the end of the clues, in one hour,’ she said. ‘Hurry along.’

  We all crowded round Hazel as she unfolded the piece of paper. The clue was in Uncle Felix’s handwriting again, and was (I rolled my eyes) another one of his dreadful poems.

  Seek ye first the ancient key

  A Frenchman was the first to see

  Three in one or one in three

  . . . / _ / _ _ _ / _ . / .

  And on the other side we found another bold single letter: C.

  We stepped back and stared at one another.

  ‘Well,’ said Alexander. ‘Um. Are we looking for a … Continental lock? Something religious? God is supposed to be three people in one, isn’t he?’

  ‘Your god is ridiculous,’ said George. ‘But no, I don’t think that’s right. Since we’re at the British Museum, it must be one of the objects.’