Blink and You Die. Lauren Child

and the venom might also be of interest to toxicologists.

      Coincidentally, one of the unusual things about the snake was that it feasted on mushrooms. Why the snakes were of interest to the Count, or indeed the Count’s boss, was still an unknown.

      Ruby checked her watch: it was getting late and probably time to head home. She thanked Ray, who merely raised his hand in a lazy ‘bye-bye’, and Ruby pushed her way out into the cold night air.

      

      IT WAS ANOTHER COINCIDENCE that when Ruby returned home that evening it was fungus that was the main topic of conversation.

      Mrs Digby was staring hard at a very ancient-looking recipe book and appeared unusually flustered.

      ‘So what are you looking to cook?’ asked Ruby, peering over the housekeeper’s shoulder.

      ‘Your mother wants me to rustle up this particular stew – she’s got her mind set on it, but I’ll be darned if I will ever find the ingredients.’

      ‘Maitake,’ Ruby read. ‘What are maitake?’

      ‘Hen of the woods,’ said Mrs Digby.

      ‘Chicken?’ said Ruby.

      ‘Mushrooms,’ said the housekeeper.

      ‘What’s the big deal with mushrooms all of a sudden?’ said Ruby. ‘They seem to be popping up everywhere.’

      ‘Everyone’s gone mushroom crazy, including your mother, and I can’t get my hands on a single one of these rarer breeds.’

      ‘Breeds?’ said Ruby. ‘Do mushrooms breed?’

      ‘My point is, there’s been a run on them, and it’s all to do with those darned vipers.’

      ‘What vipers?’ asked Ruby.

      ‘Those ones that were on the TV.’

      ‘You mean the yellow snakes?’ said Ruby. ‘The ones that were exhibited at the Geographic Explorer awards?’

      ‘Those are the critters,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘There’s been nothing but chatter about them, all the while you’ve been away – on the radio, on the television networks, in the newspapers.’ Mrs Digby reached for the Twinford Hound and slid it across the counter. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I wish those slitherers had never been discovered.’

      ‘I expect Amarjargel Oidov feels the same,’ said Ruby, thinking back to the conservationist’s almost-murder. Oidov had made a full recovery, but it had been a close call. Now Ruby could see, as she scanned the evening paper, that the prize-winning conservationist Oidov was working alongside the scientific institute, and they were together:

       ‘STUDYING THE YELLOW SNAKES, THEIR DIET AND THEIR ENVIRONMENT, WHICH REMAIN A CLOSELY GUARDED SECRET.’

      It was their diet, which included a rare and unnamed mushroom with rumoured life-enhancing powers, that had sparked this fad for unusual fungi.

      Ruby read on.

       ‘THE RESEARCH PROGRAMME IS BEING CONDUCTED IN SECRECY. THE SCIENTISTS ARE WORKING WITH A HIGHLY QUALIFIED DIETARY EXPERT FROM SEVILLE, SPAIN.’

      Ruby had a pretty good idea who this dietician might be.

      Mrs Digby continued to burble on about the snakes. ‘They say those reptiles hold a secret, but if you ask me the only secret they hold is how to get you dead lickety split – one bite and you’re a goner.’

      ‘Plenty of snakes will get you dead,’ said Ruby. ‘Though you’re right about the venom; it is unusual. The skins are kinda spectacular too. I mean there are plenty of people who might want to bump off Oidov and turn her yellow snakes into handbags.’

      ‘Just the thought of it makes me queasy,’ Mrs Digby shivered. ‘What I would kill for is a half-pound of these hen of the woods.’

      ‘Have you tried the grocers on Green Street?’

      Mrs Digby rolled her eyes. ‘You think I was born this morning?’ she said. ‘If Green’s stocked such a thing then I would go to Green’s, but these are no ordinary mushrooms.’

      ‘So maybe the farmers’ market would have them?’ suggested Ruby. ‘They have pretty exotic vegetables.’

      ‘These are exoticker,’ said Mrs Digby.

      ‘Exoticker?’ repeated Ruby.

      ‘More exotic,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘More exotic than what the farmers’ market sell. These you have to forage for and even then you gotta be lucky, and I don’t have the time to be lucky nor the inclination to go roaming through the forests of Minnesota trying to spot a hen of the woods.’

      Ruby shrugged. ‘So substitute.’

      ‘What with, might I ask?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby. ‘How about button mushrooms?’

      Mrs Digby shook her head. ‘What you don’t know about cooking is a lot.’

      Which was true.

      The phone rang and Ruby picked up.

      ‘Pest control, we spray you pay.’

      ‘Hey Ruby, it’s us! We’re in Paris!’

      ‘Mom?’

      ‘Oui, but of course.’

      ‘Ciao ciao Ruby!’

      ‘Dad?’

      ‘Yes, it’s me.’

      ‘How are you?’

      ‘Well, the weather here is très froid you know, and there’s neige.’

      ‘What? You mean snow?’

      ‘Uh huh, lots and lots of neige, the airport is still closed.’

      ‘So when are you likely to make it home?’

      ‘Ooh la la – heaven only knows.’

      ‘Would you like to talk to Mrs Digby?’

      ‘Oui, yes, if you please s’il vous plait.’

      Ruby handed the phone to the housekeeper and left them to it.

      Maybe she’d have a go at solving Mrs Digby’s fungus problem.

      Ruby might not know a lot about how to get her hands on a hen of the woods, but she knew someone who probably did.

      

      IT WOULD BE BETTER NOT TO LET MRS DIGBY know who Ruby was planning to call; it would almost certainly put the housekeeper in a very sour mood.

      Ruby climbed the stairs to her room at the top of the house and there used her private telephone line to make the call. She had quite a collection of phones in all shapes and designs. From lobster to squirrel, donut to clam shell.

      She picked up the squirrel and dialled.

      ‘Hola,’ said the voice at the end of the line.

      ‘Hey there, Consuela, it’s Ruby as in Redfort,’ said Ruby.

      ‘Don’t tell me, you’re sick because you’re eating all that garbage food. I bet you have pimples.’

      ‘No,’