Violet and the Pearl of the Orient Read online

  FOR CLARA – HW

  FOR MUM – BM

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN GREAT BRITAIN IN 2014

  BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER UK LTD,

  A CBS COMPANY.

  TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2014 HARRIET WHITEHORN

  COVER AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT © 2014 BECKA MOOR

  THIS BOOK IS COPYRIGHT UNDER THE BERNE CONVENTION.

  NO REPRODUCTION WITHOUT PERMISSION.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  THE RIGHT OF HARRIET WHITEHORN AND BECKA MOOR TO BE IDENTIFIED AS THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR OF THIS WORK RESPECTIVELY HAS BEEN ASSERTED BY THEM IN ACCORDANCE WITH SECTIONS 77 AND 78 OF THE COPYRIGHT, DESIGN AND PATENTS ACT, 1988.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER UK LTD

  1ST FLOOR, 222 GRAY’S INN ROAD, LONDON WC1X 8HB

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PEOPLE LIVING OR DEAD, EVENTS OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  A CIP CATALOGUE RECORD FOR THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE FROM THE BRITISH LIBRARY.

  HB ISBN 978-1-4711-2261-3

  EBOOK ISBN 978-1-4711-1896-8

  PRINTED IN CHINA

  WWW.SIMONANDSCHUSTER.CO.UK

  Contents

  1

  WHERE IT ALL BEGINS

  2

  COCKTAILS AND CONVERSATION

  3

  A BUNCH OF YELLOW ROSES

  4

  THE PEARL OF THE ORIENT

  5

  WHAT VIOLET SAW

  6

  THE CRIME SOLVING MATRIX

  7

  ESCAPE FROM ST CATHERINE’S

  8

  GODMOTHER CELESTE AND OTHER SUMMER TREATS

  9

  FRENCH FANCIES AND FAKES

  10

  VILENESS, WHATYA DOING??

  11

  THE PARTY: PART 1 – DRESS SPOOKY

  13

  THE PARTY: PART 2 – UNLUCKY FOR SOME

  14

  THE PARTY: PART 3 – TRICK OR TREAT?

  This is a story about Violet Remy-Robinson.

  Violet lives with a cat named Pudding (short for Sticky Toffee Pudding), her mother, Camille Remy, who is a jewellery designer, and her father, Benedict Robinson, who is an architect.

  They live in a very stylish and incredibly tidy flat and there is a large garden at the back of Violet’s flat that she shares with all the other children and grown-ups who live around it.

  Violet’s best friend is Rose, whose family live in the same street and who goes to the same school as Violet.

  Violet does a great many activities after school. In fact, she’s so busy that she has a special calendar in her room to make sure she knows where she has to be every day.

  Climbing is Violet’s favourite thing to do which is why she goes twice a week. Violet is an only child, and so spends a lot of time with grown-ups. This is sometimes a bit boring, but it also means that she’s learnt some very useful things, such as how to read a menu in French, mix a perfect cocktail and play poker. While her parents are at work, Violet is looked after by Norma the housekeeper, who does not say much, but when she does say something it is well worth listening to.

  Norma also makes the most delicious food. A wise person once told Violet that you can tell a lot about a person by their favourite food, so to introduce you properly to all the people in this story, I thought I would tell you about their very favourite things to eat.

  But come, enough talk about food (which is making me very hungry indeed), let us get on with the story . . .

  It all Begins with a Fox at a Window.

  First, you must picture a tall oak tree in a beautiful garden.

  It is late spring when the story begins so the tree should be covered in fluttery green leaves. And now you must imagine a girl of around ten, small for her age and slim, with dark brown hair, straight as a ruler, olive skin and precise brown eyes. And then turn that girl upside down, set her swinging to and fro from a high branch of the tree, holding on only by her knees, shamelessly showing off to a crowd of children gathered at the bottom. And there you have Violet Remy-Robinson at the start of the story.

  The names of the children watching were Lydia, Charlotte, Ben, Stanley and Stella, and they were known as the ‘midders’. The children who lived in the houses around the garden were all different ages; the midders were seven to eleven years old, and anyone younger than them was a ‘littilee’ and anyone older was a ‘twelver’. But at that moment it was only the midders who were watching Violet, because the littlies had been gathered up for tea and baths and the twelvers were loafing around by the swings, showing off to each other and chatting about whatever twelvers chat about.

  Anyway, back to Violet, whose tree-climbing antics were being watched with open mouths, and a tense mixture of fear and excitement. Six months before, when she had climbed up that particular tree (showing off as she was now) Violet had fallen. Fallen badly. And then there had been the fantastic excitement of blood, broken bones and an ambulance.

  The person I haven’t mentioned, because she was sitting apart from the others, is Rose Trelawney, Violet’s best friend. Rose was slight like Violet, but had long hair and large, nervous blue eyes. Unlike the others, Rose was definitely not watching Violet, no thank you! It was far too anxious-making and scary, and Rose was as timid as Violet was bold. So instead of watching, Rose was playing with her cat, The Major, and Violet’s cat, Pudding. As she tickled their tummies, she wished silently that Violet would hurry up and get safely down from the tree before a grown-up caught her and there was a huge telling-off. Because Rose hated being told off.

  So why had Violet ignored the strict warnings by her parents and numerous doctors forbidding her to climb trees? Well, the answer was that her arch enemy, Stanley – who also happened to be Rose’s older brother – had dared her, taunting that girls were too stupid and cowardly to climb trees. And impulsive Violet, her cheeks flaming red with fury at his insults, couldn’t just walk away like a sensible person might. Oh no, she had to prove him wrong.

  The dare had been to reach the top of the tree and Violet was still a little way off, so she finished swinging, put herself back the right way round and steadied her head against the trunk’s cool bark until the world stopped spinning.

  ‘Come on, get a move on! Or are you too scared?’ Stanley mocked from the ground.

  Violet didn’t bother to reply; she was far too busy concentrating on not falling. And her previously broken arm was aching terribly from all the effort. The top of the tree was near and the branches were becoming twiggy. She stepped onto one that gave way with an almighty . . .

  Violet lurched forward, grabbing wildly at branches. Her audience let out enormous gasps as they watched her only just save herself by a whisker. Rose winced. Tom, one of the older boys, appeared at the bottom of the tree and called up to check Violet was okay. Stanley, meanwhile, looked delighted.

  ‘I’m fine, Tom,’ Violet called back with more confidence that she felt. She glared at Stanley. ‘Don’t panic, nearly there, you can do it,’ she told herself strictly, while gingerly testing another branch with her foot. It was reassuringly solid so she hauled herself up, right to the top of the tree, and poked her head out of the leafy ceiling to survey the view. The garden spread out beneath her like a grassy picnic blanket. She gazed around, delighting as ever in the feeling of being at the top of something very tall.

  Then two things happened at the same time. The alarm bleeped on her watch, telling her that it was six-fifteen and she needed to go home or she would be late (again), and someone called her name. It was a man’s voice, stern and w
ith a foreign accent.

  ‘Violet!’ the voice reprimanded. She looked around to see Marek, one of the builders who worked with her father, leaning out of the window of the top floor of the Thomsons’ old house. ‘You know you are not supposed to be climbing that tree! Get down before I tell your father!’ he shouted, but with a wink, so that Violet knew he was not really cross.

  Violet smiled at him and was about to hurry back down the tree, when her attention was caught by a man standing next to Marek. He was middle-aged, with a pointed face, slicked-back wavy red hair and an intense gaze that was fixed upon her. Violet was struck by how much he looked like a fox.

  The alarm on her watch bleeped again. She really had to go home otherwise she would be in big trouble. She lowered herself onto the branch and carefully picked her way down the tree, trying not to rush. Everyone clapped and high-fived her as she jumped nimbly down to the grass. Rose breathed a large sigh of relief.

  ‘Violet showed you, Stanley, didn’t she?’ Tom laughed.

  Stanley was furious that he had been made to look foolish by a girl. ‘You had better run, Vileness, or you’ll be late for Mummy and Daddy,’ he mocked.

  Stanley was right, Violet thought as she ran off with a wave and a quick ‘see you at school’ to Rose. She did her last, very necessary piece of climbing for the evening; up the drainpipe on the back of her house, and through the open window into the bathroom, where Norma was waiting with Violet’s bath already run.

  ‘Very, very late,’ Norma said, with a disapproving shake of her head.

  ‘I know – I’m really really sorry,’ Violet apologised, before plunging into the warm water.

  Half-past six was a magical hour in the Remy-Robinson household.

  As Camille, Violet’s elegant and clever mama, was stepping daintily out of a taxi, heels clacking delicately on the pavement, Benedict, Violet’s learned and successful papa, was softly closing his study door. They were both making their way to their immaculate white sitting room, where Norma would serve them a delicious cocktail and they would discuss their day with their darling daughter, Violet, before eating a scrumptious supper.

  The transformation that Norma had managed to make to Violet’s appearance in just seven minutes was miraculous. When she stepped into the sitting room, Violet was perfectly clean and smelling of fig soap. Her hair had been combed to shiny smoothness and the old T-shirt, shorts and trainers that she had been wearing had been replaced with a sparkling white and purple dress and shiny lilac ballet pumps.

  ‘Cherie!’ Camille cried. ‘A little late, but I can forgive you, as you look so beautiful.’ She kissed Violet warmly on the cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of perfume. ‘Come and meet our guests.’

  Standing by the window, chatting to her father and with a cocktail in his hand, was the man who had been with Marek.

  Oh no! Violet panicked. He is going to tell my parents that he saw me up the tree and get me into loads of trouble!

  Violet was in such a dither that she hardly noticed a girl of around her own age and a tall, thin lady, standing next to the man. The lady was dressed in a tight leopard skin dress with a good deal of shiny gold jewellery, and her blonde hair was piled up on top of her head like a meringue. The girl had a pale, haughty face and long red hair, and wore a matching leopard skin dress.

  Violet’s father took his daughter’s hand proudly. ‘This is our daughter, Violet. Violet, this is Renard and Coraline, the Count and Countess Du Plicitous, and their daughter Isabella. They have bought the house just across the garden and have kindly asked me to re-design it for them.’

  Isabella and her mother gave Violet quick, tight smiles that never quite reached their eyes. But the Count swept over to her and kissed her hand.

  ‘Enchanté, my dear!’ he said. Violet had to force herself not to snatch her hand away, for he had the most peculiar orangey-brown eyes she had ever seen, like an animal’s. He wore a pale purple jacket, with a crisp yellow rose in the buttonhole. He smiled broadly at Violet, showing his small, pointed teeth. The whole effect was really rather scary.

  Violet smiled back as politely as she could, praying that the Count would not say anything about seeing her earlier in the garden.

  To her relief, her father announced, ‘Now, Count, shall we discuss some ideas? It’s such a beautiful house, I am so excited.’ He drew the Count aside for a lengthy discussion about room layouts and kitchen fittings.

  The Countess began to chat to Camille.

  ‘Renard tells me you are a jewellery designer for Smartier. I am so jealous! As you can see,’ she said, jangling the bracelets on her wrist, ‘I adore jewellery with a passion. I obviously don’t need to work; Renard earns more than I could ever spend and besides, I’m far too busy looking after myself. But if I did work, I would do just what you do.’

  ‘Merci, for the compliment,’ Camille said with a smile. ‘That is a magnificent ruby in your necklace. Really exquisite.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed the Countess smugly. ‘Renard does spoil me and I do so love real jewellery. I could never wear anything fake. But I do happen to know of this amazing little man who is a genius at copying jewellery. He would be perfect for someone like you who probably can’t afford the real thing. I think I have his card.’ She started to rummage around in her pink snakeskin handbag.

  Violet was impressed that her mother managed to keep a polite smile on her face, because she thought the Countess was being incredibly rude. Poor Isabella, she thought, imagine having a mother like that! So, trying to be nice, she turned to the girl.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re moving in. It’ll be great to have another girl in the garden. The boys are always ganging up on us. I’ll have to introduce you to my best friend Rose and to—’

  Isabella interrupted her. ‘I go to boarding school actually and I stay there most weekends to do extra activities and play in matches – I’m captain of all the teams,’ she boasted. ‘And then in the holidays we either go skiing or stay on our yacht. Besides, I don’t think my mother would want me playing with garden children.’ She crinkled her nose as if she could smell something awful.

  Oh no! thought Violet. Isabella is worse than the Countess. She was about to invent some very urgent homework that she had to go and finish, but Camille, who had been half-listening to their conversation, shot her a look that said, I know they seem awful, but please make an effort. So Violet took a deep breath and tried to think of something else to say.

  Just at that moment Pudding jumped through the window. Isabella looked at him with distaste as he weaved around her legs.‘We have a Siamese cat called Chiang-Mai, he is exceptionally handsome and incredibly intelligent, with the finest pedigree that money can buy. What breed of cat is that?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not a pedigree. He’s just a moggy. We found him abandoned in the garden when he was a kitten,’ Violet replied.

  ‘Hmmm, I’m not surprised he was left there. He’s a very ugly cat!’ Isabella laughed for the first time. ‘Mummy,’ she said, interrupting her mother’s conversation with Camille. ‘Do look at their hideous cat!’

  The Countess looked at Pudding and burst into a hee-haw hee-haw laugh, sounding rather like a donkey.

  Violet wanted to say something very rude back, but before she could think of something suitable the Countess turned to her. ‘So, Violet, what are you good at? Do you play sport?’ She looked at Violet quizzically. ‘Clearly not netball; you are much too short!’ And she laughed her donkey laugh again.

  Violet had had enough. ‘I am of course much too short to do any sport at all, so I spend all my time playing poker, Countess.’ Then she watched with amusement as the Countess’s face became a picture of horror, mixed with disbelief.

  ‘Violet!’ Camille reprimanded gently. ‘She is only joking, Countess. Chess is Violet’s game and you are very good at climbing too, aren’t you? We joke that Violet is part monkey.’

  ‘Oh, what a coincidence! Isabella is an excellent climber! In fact she has represented Engl
and at a junior level,’ the Countess purred.

  ‘How impressive,’ Camille replied, elbowing Violet before her daughter could roll her eyes. ‘Poor Violet broke her arm very badly a couple of months ago, falling out of the tree in the garden by your new house. She is forbidden to climb up trees by the doctors for two more weeks and by me, ever again. She’s now only allowed to climb on the wall at the sports centre, where she can wear a harness.’

  Overhearing, the Count raised an eyebrow at Violet, who blushed deeply. But Camille didn’t notice.

  ‘Violet is great friends with Dee Dee Derota, your new neighbour,’ she said to the Countess.

  ‘What, that weird old lady in the basement flat?’ the Countess exclaimed, her face wrinkling up in disgust. ‘How peculiar. She’s a dreadfully selfish woman. She wouldn’t let us have her flat and we are desperate to put a swimming pool down there. It’s so important for Isabella to practise her diving.’

  Violet flushed bright red again, this time with fury. How dare the Countess refer to Dee Dee as weird! Rather eccentric maybe, but not weird.

  ‘I thought Isabella was never at home?’ Violet snapped. ‘She was telling me she’s always on your yacht. Can’t she practise her diving off that?’

  The Countess waved Violet away as if she were an annoying fly. ‘Although, I have to say that what’s-her-name, Doo Doo, does have one of the most spectacular pieces of jewellery I have ever seen. But of course, you must know this already, Camille?’

  Violet’s mother looked surprised and shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  The Countess looked amazed, and continued conspiratorially. ‘Well, you won’t believe this, but she has one of the most valuable—’