Chapter Four
I had the whole of Sunday to work out how to tackle Mr Sandilands about what he’d done in the art room. It made sense. He had to be the one who destroyed the horse, then put the blame on me. Oh yes. I could see him doing the crime.
What I needed was a bunch of cunning questions to ask him. So I started work and wrote them on palm cards in case I forgot, or in case I got flustered. You never know with teachers. Some of them are very flustering people.
The first question I prepared was: Mr Sandilands, were you in the art room the day before I got the blame for ruining Tim Wong-Smith’s horse?
What if he answered — no? Or worse still, what if he told me to get on with my work and what business was it of mine anyway? Would I like another visit to the principal?
Question 2: Mr Sandilands, did you turn the art room fans to position five?
And he might say — no, you did that, and if I have any more cheek from you, young man, you’ll spend the rest of your primary school days in detention or get a third letter home in a week, take your pick.
Sadly, I decided it wouldn’t work. Mr Sandilands would have more answers than I could invent things to ask him. I didn’t bother writing a third question, so it was a waste of two good palm cards plus a lot of brain work.
Life sucked. And it rained all day.
On Monday, Mum still hadn’t got the blue stain out of my jeans from where the Year One finger painting stuck to my leg on Friday. The result is I had to go to school with one limb a deeper blue than the other. So I trudged along with feelings low.
Blind Freddy the Lollipop Man at the crossing still raved on about me destroying Tim’s beautiful sculpture. ‘It was a work of art, that horse,’ he wheezed as I waited for him to wave me across.
‘Yeah, lovely,’ I agreed.
‘Real shame,’ he went on as I raced past him with my school bag over my head in case he took a swipe at me with his lollipop. But they’re not allowed to do that.
Inside the school gates, the first person I saw was Isobel Simms. She smiled at me and said, ‘Hi, Charlie.’
‘Yeah, hi, Isobel,’ I answered, then walked past her like some kind of Super Sad Zombie from the Black Lagoon of Self Pity. At that moment I didn’t really have time for Isobel.
Then I saw Tim! He was over at the water bubbler, getting a drink. Bold as brass and twice as shiny!
Tim, I snorted to myself, the guy who left me to face the music in the art room on Friday, the one who chickened out and headed for the hills. Tim the cowardly custard, who took to his heels. Tim the weakling who didn’t put up a fight. Neither did I if it came to it, but that’s not the point.
Sticking out my lower jaw, I marched up to him and said in a really serious, you’re-in-dead-trouble sort of voice, ‘So?’
‘Just the man I’m looking for,’ Tim answered straight away. ‘Gee, Charlie, I worried about you on Friday, but then I thought, if anyone can talk his way out of that situation, it’s good old Charlie Thomson.’
‘Oh,’ I relaxed a bit and changed to my getting friendlier voice. ‘Do you think so, Tim?’
‘Think so? Charlie, you are renowned for it. You are one famous dude! A legend!’
‘Yeah, okay, Tim. I accept your apology,’ I said, ‘but why did you nick off like that?’
‘Charlie,’ he explained, ‘it was part of my crafty strategy. ‘See, I knew you’d handle Ms Carter and have her eating out of your hand in no time, so there was no need for both of us to get caught, was there?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Specially not when we’re working together as a detective team.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘That makes sense.’ Especially the detective team bit.
‘I knew you’d understand,’ Tim went on. ‘Now, what’s our next move?’
‘I’ve lined us up with another suspect,’ I said, then told Tim my latest theory, that Mr Sandilands had done it to improve his chances of winning the art prize. And blame me into the bargain.
‘Okay, Sherlock Thomson,’ Tim said. ‘I’m listening. My door is always open. Shoot.’
‘Right,’ I began, ‘so old Sandilands waits till everyone’s gone home in the afternoon, then he sneaks along to the art room and does the deed. Next morning, he sends me to open the door —’
‘Hang on, Charlie,’ Tim interrupted. ‘Mr Sandilands usually sends Sean to open the art room door. Why would he want Sean to get the blame? He likes Sean.’
‘I thought about that too.’ I nodded my head wisely.
‘I can see why he’d want you to get the blame, but not Sean.’
‘Yeah, not gold star Sean Dingwall.’ I thought a bit more. ‘Besides, how do you ask the teacher searching questions like: “Where were you on the night of fifth January?”’
‘Or third of June,’ Tim added.
‘This is a deep problem, Tim,’ I said. ‘Very, very deep.’
‘Bottomless,’ Tim agreed. Just then, the bell rang for the start of our day of classroom drudgery and vulgar fractions. ‘Charlie,’ Tim went on, ‘you’re going at this case the wrong way.’
‘What happened to “we”?’ I asked.
‘See you at morning break,’ Tim responded, and off he went. But it was good to be part of a detective team. We were getting somewhere.
In the classroom, everyone waited for Mr Sandilands to come in. But there was an unusual buzz going around the room. Some kids giggled, others snorted, but when I looked at them, they turned away, stuck their faces in a book or opened the desk and became very busy inside.
My suspicions arose. Especially when I saw one kid who had his head in a paper bag with two eyeholes cut in it. They were all laughing at someone and it could be me. I thought, maybe it was my jeans with one deep indigo leg, so I announced loudly, ‘So what if I want to be different?’
‘Different?’ Sean Dingwall howled. ‘You’re not even from the same planet as us.’
Rosa Thurwell laughed her stupid gold star laugh.
Huh, I thought and dived into my desk. But what was this? Someone had put a large carrot in there. I took it out and held it up with a puzzled look on my face. Immediately everyone exploded with even louder laughter.
Then I saw it. High on the whiteboard, far higher than I could reach, someone had written: Charlie Thomson, The Rabbit Boy.
Above the words was a picture of me with long front teeth and very tall ears. My Year Three secret was out. I always knew that librarian had a very loose tongue! Spill the beans as quick as look at you.
At that moment of mirth, Mr Sandilands walked in. It didn’t take him long to work out that something amusing was taking place in the classroom. When he finally looked at the words and picture on the whiteboard, he put on a pretend frown and said, ‘Oh, dear. How silly.’
He reached for a cloth and started rubbing the words off, but with his back to the class, I saw his shoulders shake with secret glee.
Isobel Simms in the desk across the aisle from me, gave a comforting look, then a small smile and whispered, ‘Don’t let them bother you, Charlie.’
‘Me? Bothered?’ I lied, then put on my couldn’t-care-less face. The one that I don’t use very often.
When the classroom giggles, cackles, snuffles and splutters died down, I had a deep think about what had just happened. Then my new detective skills started to pay off in a big way. Since those words were up high on the whiteboard, it meant they’d been put there by somebody very tall. Or someone who stood on a chair.
For every question, there’s an answer.
Stars Page 4
