The Complete Ruby Redfort Collection. Lauren Child

got a fin,’ said Clancy, folding his arms. ‘They make themselves look like sharks.’

      ‘The fin shape is totally different,’ said Ruby. ‘Look in any encyclopedia and you’ll see.’

      ‘Oh yeah, I’ll remember to do that next time I’m swimming along.’

      ‘Well, you know what Clance? It’s never gonna be a mistake you get to make because you’re never gonna be swimming along; you never go anywhere near what might or might not be a shark. You never even paddle!’

      Mrs Digby emerged from the pantry where she had been lining up canned food in alphabetical order. The Redfort housekeeper liked to run a tight ship (as she put it) and keep an A–Z larder.

      ‘Hi Mrs Digby,’ said Clancy.

      Mrs Digby put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, howdy, and what can I do for you? Since I don’t imagine either of you have come in here to volunteer for potato peeling. Am I right or am I right?’

      ‘Just wondering if you might have some kinda snacky type of a thing up your sleeve?’ said Ruby, her eyes all big and innocent.

      The old lady clucked her tongue, pretending to disapprove, but actually loving nothing better than preparing food for Ruby and her friends – they were always so appreciative.

      Mrs Digby had known Ruby since Ruby was a minute old and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her. Not that she was any kind of pushover – she was most definitely not. One tough old bird in fact. Only a month ago she had been accidentally kidnapped during a robbery, but it was like water off a duck’s back to Mrs Digby.

      ‘Been through a whole lot worse during my long and mainly miserable life,’ was all she had said about the incident. Mrs Digby always described her life as miserable though in fact this was not the case, certainly not for the past fifty years anyway.

      The housekeeper set about making what she called ‘a Digby Club’, which was actually just a regular club sandwich, but with her own home-made mustard mayonnaise, and topped off with a gherkin. For some reason it tasted a whole lot better than any other club sandwich that you might ever have tasted and anybody who ate one never forgot it.

      ‘By the way,’ she said, pulling something from her apron pocket, ‘I found that watch of yours on the front stoop; you oughta be more careful with your possessions child, or you’ll have nothing left to call your own.’

      ‘Darn it!’ said Ruby. ‘The clasp is all bent so it keeps coming loose. I told them to fix it.’

      ‘Told who?’ asked the housekeeper.

      ‘Um… the fixers,’ said Ruby. She was being cagey because this watch was no ordinary watch; it was a Spectrum-issue Escape watch (also known to agents as the Rescue watch) and had once belonged to the wonder kid, Bradley Baker. It was a clever piece of kit: it looked like nothing more than a child’s watch, but this timepiece, though old and not the latest in terms of spy gear, was still a gadget to be reckoned with. It had saved more than a few lives in its time. It had a brightly striped strap and an interesting clasp. The second hand was a fly and the watch face itself was coloured enamel, painted with cartoon eyes. The eyes followed the hands as they ticked tirelessly round. Spectrum had repaired the malfunctioning rescue features, but had neglected to fix the faulty clasp so it was always coming loose.

      Ruby took the watch and fastened it round her wrist, making sure that the clasp clicked home.

      ‘Well,’ said Mrs Digby, ‘mind you fix it or you’ll be sorry. A stitch in time saves nine is what I always say.’

      The housekeeper popped the sandwiches on plates and slid them across the countertop like she was a short-order chef.

      Ruby and Clancy were sitting at high stools still chatting about dolphins and sharks. They paused their conversation only to convey their appreciation, picked up their plates and made their way to the living room. Mrs Digby nodded and started chopping up vegetables ready for the evening meal.

      Both kids flopped down on the floor and, propping themselves on their elbows, tackled their snacks. Ruby reached for the remote and flicked on the TV set. Clancy gave directions through mouthfuls of Digby Club.

      ‘Try channel three,’ he urged. ‘No, wait a minute, seven. Nah, maybe try nine.’

      Ruby looked at him. ‘You wanna stop barking orders and do it yourself?’

      ‘Nah, you’re doing great. What’s on eleven?’

      They finally settled on some lame show about a seal who solved crimes with his seal’s sixth sense. The seal narrated at the beginning and the end of each episode which made it all the more unbelievable. It was pretty bad, but Clancy and Ruby didn’t mind that. They kind of liked bad shows, almost as much as they relished good ones – there was nothing as enjoyable as ripping a truly terrible show to shreds.

      ‘Oh, like that would ever happen!’ Clancy would say whenever anything super stupid occurred in the plot. And Ruby was very fond of exclaiming, ‘Yeah, right, I totally would go out in the dark alone if there was a psychopath on the loose.’

      Watching this ‘seal’ show was providing them with ample opportunity to make a whole lot of wise remarks. Splasher – the seal of the show’s title – was busy listening to a conversation that some villainous-looking types were having on the harbour wall, and he was getting pretty distressed by what he heard.

      Clancy was killing himself laughing. ‘Can you believe this show!’ he squealed.

      Bug, hearing the commotion, bounded into the room, stepping on the remote, changing the channel to the local news station.

      The words BREAKING NEWS flashed up on the screen and a wind-blown reporter was standing on Twinford beach talking into the camera.

      ‘IT HAS JUST COME TO LIGHT THAT THE BODY OF A DIVER HAS WASHED UP ON TWINFORD BAY BEACH.’

      Ruby and Clancy sat up.

      ‘IT IS NOT YET KNOWN HOW THE VICTIM DIED, BUT IT WOULD APPEAR THAT HE WAS JUST AN UNFORTUNATE CASUALTY OF THE SEA’S UNPREDICTABILITY. ALL WE CAN TELL YOU IS THAT THE DECEASED IS MALE AND OF AVERAGE BUILD.’

      ‘Like I was saying,’ said Clancy, letting out a long breath, ‘the ocean is a dan-ger-ous place.’

      Meanwhile,

      somewhere off the

      coast of Twinford…

      It was a glittering day, and it seemed that most of Twinford’s glitteringly wealthy were on-board Freddie and Marjorie Humbert’s sixty-foot yacht, the Golden Albatross.

      ‘Isn’t this just one hundred per cent perfect?’ said Sabina Redfort, smiling.

      ‘More than that,’ said Brant Redfort. ‘It’s at least two hundred per cent perfect!’

      ‘Perfect is perfect,’ said Ambassador Crew. ‘No more, no less.’

      ‘Exactly,’ agreed Sabina. ‘It’s double perfect.’

      Ambassador Crew rolled his eyes heavenwards. He found the Redforts very agreeable company, but frustratingly dim. Just how Brant Redfort had ever got into Stanton University he could not imagine.

      It was the invitation of the season: a mini cruise around the Twinford coast, sailing the passengers as far as the Sibling Islands, taking in sights most Twinfordites rarely if ever got to see. It had been set up by the Twinford Historical Society, which for the first time in twenty years had had to turn away applicants – its membership having swelled threefold as soon as it was discovered that the trip involved ten days on-board the Humberts’ luxury vessel.

      ‘Isn’t it wonderful to see just how many people are actually interested in history?’ said Sabina.

      ‘Might have something to do with this million-dollar yacht we’re on,’ replied Ambassador Crew. He was a very cynical person.

      ‘Why,