Violet and the Hidden Treasure

  FOR POPPY – HW

  FOR CALLUM – BM

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN GREAT BRITAIN IN 2015

  BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER UK LTD,

  A CBS COMPANY.

  TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2015 HARRIET WHITEHORN

  COVER AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT © 2015 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 978-1-4711-2262-0

  EBOOK ISBN 978-1-4711-1898-2

  PRINTED IN CHINA

  WWW.SIMONANDSCHUSTER.CO.UK

  Contents

  Introduction

  1

  MONKEYS AND A MAHARAJAH

  2

  INTRODUCING ART

  3

  IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT . . .

  4

  A CAN OF COKE

  5

  FLESH – EATING ZOMBIES

  6

  CRIME-SOLVING NEEDED

  7

  AN OPEN WINDOW

  8

  PARROTTY PARROTTY

  9

  A VERY SHORT CHAPTER

  10

  THE IMPORTANCE OF A TWEED SUIT

  11

  THE ART OF BLUFFING

  12

  A VERY BAD IDEA

  13

  A MUCH BETTER IDEA

  14

  LUCRE’S

  This is a story about Violet Remy-Robinson.

  Violet lives with her mother, Camille, who is a jewellery designer, and her father, Benedict, who is an architect, and her cat, Pudding. When her parents are working she is looked after by a housekeeper called Norma. She also has a godmother, Celeste and a godfather, Johnny. You should know that Violet is a brilliant at two things – climbing trees and poker – both of which she is mostly forbidden from doing by her mother.

  She lives in a flat that backs onto a large communal garden, because all the people who live in the houses around the garden share it.

  In the garden, there are lots of other children and they are divided into three groups – the littilees who are under seven, the midders who are seven to eleven years old (Violet and most of her friends are midders) and the twelvers, who are older. Violet’s special friends who live on the garden are Rose, her best friend with whom she also goes to school, and an eccentric lady called Dee Dee Derota.

  Violet is always on the lookout for adventure and, a few months before this story begins, Violet and Rose solved the case of the Pearl of the Orient. A family called the Du Plicitouses had moved into the house above Dee Dee, bringing their cat, Chiang-Mai, and their butler, Ernest (who is now a great friend of Norma’s), with them. A little while after they moved in, Dee Dee’s valuable brooch was stolen and Violet – with a lot of help from Rose and a little help from a policeman called PC Green (very little, Violet would say, although PC Green may say differently) – solved the mystery of its disappearance.

  I think that you can tell a good deal about someone by their favourite things, so to introduce you to all the people in this adventure, I thought I’d tell you about their most-loved possessions . . .

  But I know you must be impatient for me to start the story, so come with me to a faraway place . . .

  This story begins on New Year’s Eve in a palace in India. Violet is busy helping herself to a large plate of chicken curry, rice, dhal, samosas and anything else she can cram onto it, from a long table groaning under the weight of umpteen dishes of deliciousness.

  What on earth was Violet doing there? You may well ask. Well, let me tell you – Violet was at the end of a week’s adventure in India with her godmother, Celeste. Violet had had the most marvellous time trekking through the jungle, photographing tigers, and riding on elephants. She had spent her last few days of the holiday helping at a girls’ orphanage run by a friend of Celeste’s named Hari.

  That afternoon, Violet had been teaching the girls how to play rounders when a pink Rolls Royce had pulled up in front of the orphanage. An elaborately dressed servant had stepped out of the car, with an invitation for Hari, Celeste and Violet to a New Year’s Eve party at the Maharajah’s palace that night.

  ‘The Maharajah is the orphanage’s benefactor,’ Hari explained. ‘He visits us often and the children love him. You will like him; he is an elderly man but has a young spirit, and he loves to meet new people.’

  ‘What a treat for our last night!’ Celeste exclaimed. ‘Quick, Violet. We must run and pack our things, as we leave very early in the morning. And you had better wash the last of the jungle out of your hair and wear that beautiful dress your mother insisted you bring – how lucky we didn’t use it to make a sling for that poor baby elephant like I suggested.’

  The Maharajah’s palace was made of pink stone and situated right in the middle of the city of Bochir. It was full of loud, chattering guests who reminded Violet of exotic birds in their brightly coloured silk clothes. The air was thick with the smell of delicious food, making Violet’s tummy rumble, so she left Celeste and Hari chatting with a group of people and made her way to the table of scrumptious food.

  ‘I do so love food, don’t you?’ a voice said behind her, just as Violet was trying to ease a little more coconut curry on to her plate. She turned around to find an elderly gentleman in a very smart pink suit beaming at her. ‘I used to adore jam roly-poly and custard when I was your age,’ the elderly man continued. ‘I was sent away to boarding school in England, which was a terrible experience I have to say, except for every Wednesday evening when we would have jam roly-poly and custard and I would be in heaven for a few minutes. And the Shakespeare – I loved that too. But apart from those two things, it was awful – cold showers, Latin verbs and other horrors.’ He shivered slightly at the memory. ‘But, I am being rude, I must introduce myself properly, I am the Maharajah of Bochir.’

  Violet didn’t know whether she was supposed to curtsey but she decided to give him a big grin instead, and that seemed just fine. She was about to introduce herself when a young man, wearing a splendid Indian outfit and carrying a pale pink cockatoo, walked over to them.

  ‘This is my manservant, Rajesh,’ the Maharajah said. Rajesh bowed deeply to Violet and, not wanting to be rude, she bowed in return. The cockatoo flew onto the Maharajah’s shoulder with a loud squawk.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the Maharajah went on. ‘And this delightful creature is my Maharani. You see, Maharani is the name of a Maharajah’s wife, and as I have never found a lady I could love as much as my darling bird, I call her my Maharani.’ With that, the cockatoo walked down his arm and sat on his wrist.

  ‘How-d’ya-do? How-d’ya-do? How-d’ya-do?’ she squawked at Violet.

  Violet burst out laughing and replied, ‘Very well, thank you. My name is Violet Remy-Robinson and I am delighted to meet you all.’

  ‘I am delighted to meet you too,’ the Maharajah said. ‘I have heard all about you and your godmother from Hari. Hari is a good friend of mine and does such important work at the orphanage. Have you enjoyed your
time in India, Violet?’

  ‘It’s all been amazing,’ she replied, her eyes shining with pleasure, but then images of her parents and her cat, Pudding, floated through her mind, making her add quickly, ‘but I’ll be pleased to get home.’ Violet felt something touching her and found the Maharani was gently nudging her.

  ‘Oh, look, she likes you!’ the Maharajah exclaimed with delight. ‘Would you like to hold her? Put your wrist next to mine and see if she will come to you.’

  Violet did so, and the parrot walked across.

  ‘You are very honoured,’ the Maharajah laughed. ‘She will hardly go to anyone other than me. And certainly not this person,’ he said, indicating towards a small, chubby lady, wearing a pair of tight white jeans, a bright, frilly blouse, and a good deal of make-up and jewellery, who was teetering towards them on very high heels.

  ‘Angel, my dear.’ The Maharajah greeted the lady kindly, but a little wearily. ‘Come and meet my new young friend, Violet.’ He turned to Violet. ‘Angel is my late brother’s daughter. We are each other’s only family, so Angel lives here with me. She’s hoping to become an actress, aren’t you, Angel, my dear?’

  The Maharani, still perched on Violet’s wrist, began to squawk, ‘She’s no angel, she’s no angel, she’s no angel.’ Violet noticed Rajesh trying to hide a smirk.

  Angel glanced with obvious disinterest at Violet, before narrowing her eyes at the Maharani. ‘Stupid bird!’ she hissed.

  ‘Now, now, ladies,’ the Maharajah soothed. ‘Please, no fighting. Not on New Year’s Eve. Now I just have to try some of this delicious food.’ And, as if by magic, Rajesh appeared by his side with a plate piled high with the various dishes. The Maharajah turned to Violet and Angel again. ‘Come, let us go and eat. Shall we find your godmother, Violet? I am such a fan of hers that I am worried I may get starstruck.’

  Angel’s ears pricked up. ‘Is your godmother famous, Violet? Is she a celebrity?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Violet explained, as they made their way over to Celeste, who was sat at one of the tables that had been placed in the garden for the party. ‘She’s just a photographer.’

  ‘Just a photographer!’ the Maharajah exclaimed. ‘She is one of the finest photographers in the world.’

  They sat down next to Celeste, who greeted them all with her usual wide smile.

  ‘My uncle says you are a photographer. Do you take photos of famous people?’ Angel asked her excitedly.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Celeste explained with a laugh. ‘I’m a wildlife photographer.’

  Angel’s face fell. ‘What, like, animals?’ she asked, her voice suggesting that she thought this was a deeply boring thing to do.

  ‘Did you take some wonderful photos of the tigers?’ the Maharajah asked Celeste. ‘I am so pleased that you are going to bring some attention to their troubles. Please, will you tell me all about your trip?’

  Later, when the sun had set and everyone had finished eating and drinking, the Maharajah announced that he would be honoured to show everyone his art collection.

  ‘We can then gather back here to see the New Year in. But, Violet,’ he said, ‘you might find my art rather boring. Since the Maharani has taken such a shine to you, why don’t you go with her and explore my garden? Rajesh will join you.’

  The garden was a magical place, full of splashing fountains and dark pools filled with water lilies and fat, gliding goldfish. Fireflies darted around and the thrum of crickets filled the air, punctuated by shouts and laughter from the streets beyond the high walls.

  The garden had been brightly lit for the party with torches stuck in the ground like spears. In the corner, next to one of the high walls, there was a particularly ancient and gnarled banyan tree that was full of chattering monkeys, and it was towards this tree that Rajesh and Violet found themselves slowly walking, as they chatted away, the Maharani still perched on Violet’s shoulder. They were not far from the tree when the peace in the garden was shattered by a fire cracker soaring over the walls and landing right at their feet with a bang like a gunshot. Startled, the Maharani let out a terrified squeal and flew off Violet’s shoulder, circling around the sky squawking and screeching, before settling at the very top of the tree.

  ‘Oh, no! Oh, dear!’ Rajesh exclaimed. ‘That is very bad. We must get her down before the Maharajah comes back, otherwise he will be very worried and upset – and that is not good for his heart. Here, Your Majesty! Here Your Ladyship! Please come here!’ he called desperately. But the Maharani just gave him a withering look and turned away.

  ‘Goodness me, what a disaster!’ Rajesh fretted. ‘Please, Violet, will you wait here and watch her in case she flies somewhere else, while I go and fetch some of her food?’

  ‘I could climb up and get her if you like,’ Violet offered.

  ‘No, no please do not do such a thing. The monkeys can be very vicious and I wouldn’t want you to fall from the tree. Please just stay here and watch her – I will be back in a minute.’

  With that, Rajesh hurried off, leaving Violet suddenly feeling very alone in the large, night-time garden. She had seen plenty of monkeys since she’d been in India and hadn’t thought them scary. But now, as they all sat staring at her from the tree with their round eyes, Violet found herself feeling nervous. She tried not to look at them, but that was easier said than done, as she was supposed to be keeping an eye on the Maharani. Then one monkey jumped down from the tree and moved towards her, followed by another, and then another, and before she knew what was happening, she was surrounded. With panic rising in her tummy, Violet looked desperately towards the palace to see if Rajesh was returning – but there was no sign of him.

  Maybe I should run, she thought. But if she ran, it might startle the monkeys and they might attack her . . . Then, just as Violet was wondering what to do, the monkeys began to shriek at her. The noise was deafening and Violet was terrified. She was about to scream for help when there was a flurry of feathers and squawking and the Maharani swooped down, brave as a golden eagle, sending the monkeys scattering.

  ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!’ Violet cried to the cockatoo, as she came and landed gently on Violet’s wrist.

  ‘Bad monkey,’ the bird replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  A moment later, Rajesh appeared, a green tin of food in his hand.

  ‘Oh!’ he cried. ‘She has come down to you. How amazing!’

  ‘She’s an amazing bird,’ Violet replied, gently stroking the cockatoo’s head, while the Maharani cooed with pleasure.

  As she walked through the arrivals gate at the airport, Violet saw her parents waiting eagerly for her, clutching huge Happy New Year and Welcome Home banners. They couldn’t wait to hear all about Violet and Celeste’s Indian adventure and asked her lots and lots of questions the whole way home.

  Pudding the cat, was sitting anxiously by the front door of their flat, waiting for Violet’s safe return, and Norma had made her favourite meal of cheese and tomato pizza, followed by a banana split.

  But all too soon India seemed like a fantastically exciting, delightfully warm dream. A couple of days later, the Christmas holidays were over and Violet was being woken early one dark morning to get ready for school. Even the smell of Norma’s freshly baked banana muffins didn’t make getting up any easier. But, as so often happens with school, once Violet got there and saw her best friend Rose and all her other friends, it wasn’t so bad.

  Rose had spent Christmas and New Year staying with her family in Ireland, which she said she had loved, even if it wasn’t quite as exciting as India. The girls hadn’t seen each other since Violet got back, and Rose’s eyes grew wide and her breath ragged at Violet’s (rather exaggerated) tales of charging elephants, vicious sharp-toothed tigers that padded around their tent at night, and of course her narrow escape from the monkeys.

  When Violet arrived home after school she found a note from her friend and neighbour, Dee Dee Derota, waiting for her.

  Violet was curiou
s. To whom could Dee Dee want to introduce her? Perhaps she had got a new cat? Lullabelle, her existing, extremely spoilt Persian cat would be furious.

  She wandered out into the chilly garden to look for Rose, so they could go straight to Dee Dee’s house and solve the mystery. She found her friend practising her ballet pliés on the lawn, using the back of a bench as a barre.

  ‘Look, Violet, there’s a new boy in the garden. He’s over there, playing football – and he’s really good. Stanley’s furious,’ Rose said.

  Violet looked and saw a scraggy-looking boy with spiky red hair and pale freckly skin, perfectly heading a ball to one of the other boys. Stanley, Rose’s older brother, was looking on enviously. The boy looked like he was the same age as Rose and Violet, and was wearing a red-and-white football shirt over a pair of purple shorts, which Violet recognised as the school colours of Fetherington’s School for Young Gentlemen, an extremely grand school nearby. At that moment, the other team scored a goal and the red-headed boy let out a groan. Violet chuckled to herself before telling Rose about Dee Dee’s invitation for tea, and they walked over to the old lady’s flat.

  Since Dee Dee had sold the Pearl of the Orient she had been on a Caribbean cruise, and her flat had been transformed by a very bossy lady called Lavinia, who had a blonde ponytail and pointy glasses. She was a de-clutterer, or a Dee-Dee-clutterer, as Dee Dee had joked. Lavinia had hit the flat like a hurricane of tidiness and organisation and, after a week, all was transformed. Dee Dee’s cupboards were a work of colour coordination, all her shoes had been neatly stacked in pairs, her make-up and nail varnishes were beautifully arranged on glass shelves in the bathroom, and her jewellery was no longer kept in a biscuit tin but a smart purple leather box with lots of drawers. And Lavinia didn’t stop at tidying the flat. Oh no, she organised an endless stream of manicurists, cupcake deliveries, hairdressers, cat groomers, dry cleaners, yoga teachers and anybody else she could think of to come to the flat to ensure that Dee Dee’s life ran entirely smoothly. And it did, so Dee Dee was delighted.