Sleuth on Skates
Page 7
“They’re definitely a nice product, even though sometimes they can get a little invasive,” replied Stacy coolly.
“That’s the kind of high-quality stuff you can buy when you have enough money,” Edwin commented.
“Anyway,” said Stacy, “I have to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, children. I’m sorry things don’t always compute, if you see what I mean.”
I was starting to wonder why Stacy was talking to us in italics, and apparently Edwin felt a little threatened by it too. “Right, time to go, kids,” he said, hurrying us out of the door. “Will you come and see the show?”
“I’m in it,” said Gemma. “Playing cello.”
“Oh yes,” said Edwin, and he winced.
Product. Invasive. Compute.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew we had to talk to Jeremy Hopkins about it.
But as we left Trinity College, Gemma got a call on her mobile from her mum who was parked on a double yellow line outside the shopping center and could Gemma please hurry up and meet her there or else!
“See you tomorrow,” said Gemma mournfully. “Let me know how the investigation goes.”
“So it’s just you and me, Toby,” I said. “We’ll solve this mystery together! Toby?”
But Toby was pulling at his hair, staring at what I first thought was nothing at all on a nearby railing, until I got closer and realized it was a cleanly sawn open bike lock.
“Can you believe it? My bike got stolen again!”
“Isn’t it the third time this year?”
“It’s the fourth! I’ve got to go home, Sesame. I’m not allowed to walk back after five o’clock.”
“But cycling is fine?”
“Yes, because I go too fast to get kidnapped.”
Parents have weird rules.
“OK,” I said, “I’ll be brave and continue to investigate on my own. Sorry about your bike, Toby.”
“I’d called it Victor,” he snivelled.
“You shouldn’t have bothered. It’s a fact of life that you can’t get attached to bikes in Cambridge. They always get nicked.”
Upon which I bid farewell to poor Toby and skated off.
“Knock knock!”
Fiona was in her room, reading an enormous book in bed.
“Hi, Sesame. How did last night’s expedition go?”
“Bizarrely. And now I need to find Jeremy Hopkins. And for that I’m going to need the great web of knowledge.”
“An encyclopedia?”
“No, Facebook, of course. Could you look up his college for me, please?”
“Sure.” She switched on her computer and waited for it to load. “But what’s left to investigate? Jenna’s reappeared.”
“Mysteriously reappeared,” I politely corrected her.
“Nothing mysterious about it. Don’t look so dejected—I’m sure one day you’ll find a nice juicy sleuthing case with murders in it.”
“This one might still have murders in it! Jenna Jenkins might not be safe!”
Fiona laughed. “She’s just up the river, in Grantchester. No one gets murdered there.”
Now this was news to me, as I’d thought the evasive ballerina was a Londoner. “What’s she doing in Grantchester?”
“Her grandma lives there, in a little pink cottage on the river. Jenna’s staying with her. I guess after her breakdown, she needed some peace and quiet.” She clicked the Internet icon. “She must have been more fragile than she looked.”
“But Jeremy Hopkins told me Jenna Jenkins wasn’t fragile, that she wasn’t the kind of person who would—Wait! What’s that on the screen? What is that thing?”
“What? Calm down, that’s just the new Internet start page for the college.”
“But that C! That green and white C in the circle! What is it?”
Fiona looked a bit bemused. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it before.”
“Are you joking, I’ve seen it way too much recently! What is it?”
“God, Sesame, you live a shielded life, don’t you? It’s the Cooperture logo, of course.”
VIII
Ten minutes later, I was inside Gonville & Caius College. The trees shattered sunlight on the ground, and I got distracted for a while by the sprinklers on the lawn. How can you not stand in their sprinkling range? I don’t understand how adults resist the urge. It’s not even as if I had a choice. I have to stand under the sprinkler. Maybe I’m actually a plant? Looking at the Porter on duty, he seemed to think I was more some kind of weed.
“Knock knock!”
I don’t think I’d ever knocked on so many student doors in a single day.
“Who’s there?”
“Sesame Seade, at your service.”
The door opened slightly and an eye belonging to Jeremy Hopkins became visible. This eye eyed me, and then the door opened completely to allow the second eye in the pair to look at me too.
“Sesame, what a good surprise! I hope your father knows you’re here.”
“Of course,” I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie because he’s always in touch with Someone Who Knows Everything. “Can I come in?”
The funny thing about Jeremy’s room was that I never came in direct contact with the floor. Not because the room had zero gravity but because the floor was covered in clothes and books and papers and strange objects. I closed my eyes politely to avoid noticing a very big pile of dirty laundry with a fly buzzing lazily around it.
“OK,” said Jeremy. “How far are you in your investigation, young sleuth? Have you found any odd buttons or sweet wrappers?”
“Let’s start at the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start. You know Jenna’s reappeared, right?”
“Yes. She won’t answer my calls, though.”
“Do you believe in the breakdown theory?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I think Jenna was kidnapped and then released. And that it has everything to do with Cooperture Ltd.”
“What?” laughed Jeremy as if I’d said it had everything to do with the President of the United States of America.
“Don’t laugh! The Cooperture people have given hundreds of thousands of pounds to lots of different colleges, and it was Professor Ian Philips who put the College Heads in touch with them. Oh, yes, and while we’re on this subject, you might also be interested to know that Ian Philips kidnapped Jenna Jenkins.”
And I told him everything I knew, watching with curiosity as his jaw dropped and eyes widened in the amusing manner of a cartoon character. Since I was doing so well at captivating my audience, I ended my revelation with a flourish: “Additionally, Edwin also sends my sleuthing radar beeping—why, in his presence, does Stacy behave like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming heavyweight? Does he know that she knows? And even if he does, why would he care?”
“If Cooperture’s really involved in this affair from start to finish, that’s easily explained,” said Jeremy.
“Why?”
“Edwin Franklin’s the son of Rudolph Franklin, the President of Cooperture. That’s why the C is all over the brochure for Swan Lake. Cooperture are sponsoring the show.”
“Mr. Franklin! Yes, Mum introduced him to me in Auntie’s Tea Shop! That’s why Edwin’s face seemed familiar. And that’s why he had a promotional postcard of Cooperture on his door. And that’s where he got the money to put on such a big show. . . .”
“And there’s something else. The show’s brochure said that Edwin Franklin is a Classicist.”
“He’s not classy at all. He dresses like my great-grandfather would if he was color-blind.”
“Not classy, you loony—a Classicist. Someone who studies Greek and Latin.”
“Greek and Latin? Just like . . .”
“That’s right, just like your dear Professor Ian Philips. And in the same college.”
“Wow. Coincidence! Edwin and Mr. Franklin, Ian Philips and Archie Philips. Seems like these four people might know one another pretty well.”
“Blimey,” sighed Jeremy, crossing his hands under his head. “Sesame, you’re a star. Can’t believe you found all that on your own.”
“Oh please, don’t praise me. Couldn’t have done it without my brain.”
“There’s just one problem.”
“What is it?”
“We simply have no idea what it is that the Professors Philips and Cooperture are doing that’s illegal. If Stacy and Jenna won’t talk, how are we going to find out?”
“I suggest we go for a walk,” I said. “It helps me to see things clearly. Dogs do it all the time.”
In fact I was looking forward to going outside because of the sprinkler, of course. But as we walked out of the building, three nasty surprises were awaiting us. Firstly, the sprinkler had been turned off and was sitting there like an upturned steel spider. Secondly, my dad was standing next to it, looking wet. Thirdly, my dad was standing next to it, looking furious.
“Sophie Margaret Catriona Seade!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Jeremy Hopkins!”
Jeremy Hopkins turned a pale shade of gray.
“That sprinkler!”
A gardener raking some leaves on the side coughed a bit awkwardly.
“Hello, Reverend Seade!”
I said warmly, because I sensed that the atmosphere was a little tense. Dad crossed the lawn, his cassock dripping, and stopped right in front of us, clearly struggling to decide which of the many annoying things in his life he should deal with first.
He finally settled on the following order: 1) sprinkler; 2) Jeremy Hopkins; 3) me.
“That sprinkler!” he shouted. “It looked like it was off! It wasn’t sprinkling a molecule of water until I happened to walk past it!”
“I think, Daddy, that we can all learn something from this experience, and that is . . .”
“Jeremy Hopkins! What are you doing here, Jeremy Hopkins?”
“This is my college,” replied Jeremy Hopkins.
“What are you doing with my daughter again?”
“Well, she came to my room, and we were about to take a walk outside to clear our minds.”
“She came to your room?” Dad repeated.
I put a calming hand on his wet shoulder. “No need to worry, perfectly protective Papa,” I said soothingly. “Jeremy and I are friends.”
“Come on, Reverend,” said Jeremy Hopkins, “I’m nineteen years old. Sesame’s just a kid. She probably sees me as a very old man.”
“Not to mention that his clothes are filthy!” I commented, a bit more loudly than I’d planned (making six tourists, two Porters and the gardener glance at us weirdly). Jeremy, I think, seemed a tad uncomfortable. On the plus side, Dad was getting drier, since the water on his cassock was evaporating quickly in the heat of his anger.
“Sophie,” he said, “your mother and I had no idea where you were. We had to watch the CCTV recordings in College that showed us that you’d been to Fiona Lumley’s room, who then told us you’d gone to Gonville & Caius. Do you have any idea how worried we were?”
“No, Daddy.”
“You are an impossible, incontrollable, incomprehensible little . . . little . . . little . . .”
“Girl?” said the gardener.
“No,” said Dad, “a little . . .”
“Sweetheart?” said a tourist.
“No,” said Dad, “a little . . .”
“Angel?” said a student.
“Certainly not!” said Dad. “You’re a little demon, Sophie! A little juvenile delinquent! A little domestic tyrant!”
“She doesn’t look it,” said a woman who started patting my head.
“I’m really not, Madam,” I whined. “It all comes from a big problem in my life.”
“What is it, my dear?” asked the woman and all the other people who had gathered around.
“I don’t have a mobile phone,” I said. “If I had a mobile phone, like Toby and Gemma and Lucas and Eugenie, I’d be able to call my parents and tell them what I’m up to. But they don’t want me to have one!”
“Oh!” everyone exclaimed.
“For goodness sake!” cried Dad. “What is this, some kind of public trial? Come, Sophie.”
“Bye, Jeremy!”
“Bye, Sesame!”
“Bye, everyone!”
“Bye, Sesame!”
And I was dragged out of Gonville & Caius.
I was given a slap on the bum, even though that’s forbidden by the European Union, and sent to my room with fifty pages of the Bible to read, and not even fun ones with murders. Thankfully, Peter Mortimer was around to interrupt my reading by collapsing unexpectedly on the Book to get stroked.
At half past nine, the door opened, and Mum came in with a plate of sandwiches. Behind her was Dad, who was carrying a cup of tea.
“Dinner,” grumbled Mum.
“I am most obliged,” I said trying to be nice.
They both sat down on my bed. “You know, it’s not fun for us to punish you,” Dad stated.
“Please don’t feel like you have to,” I said benevolently.
“Listen, Sophie. We’ve thought long and hard about that mobile phone thing.”
“Oh, Daddy! Please don’t mention it.”
“We do think that it would be less stressful for us if we knew that you were carrying a phone.”
“I don’t care about the phone. Just say you’ve forgiven me.”
“We have forgiven you. But about the phone . . .”
“No, dearest parents, I don’t want to talk about the phone. I’ve been very naughty.”
“You have,” confirmed Mum. “However, having thought about the phone, we think it would be better if you did have one . . .”
“I don’t think so, Mummy. It’s very bad for a child as young as me to have a phone.”
“Hush! We’re not asking you if you want a phone, we’re telling you that you shall have a phone!” interrupted Dad. “Whether you like it or not!”
“Oh, all right then.”
“In fact,” Mum added, “I was thinking about it only yesterday, and looked for phones online. We’ll go to the shops tomorrow.”
“You will have the simplest phone with no Internet access,” declared Dad, “and no camera.”
“Does that still exist?”
Mum looked at Dad, who looked at Mum. “I’m sure it does,” said Mum, sounding unsure. “Anyway, we’ll go tomorrow. Say yes, Mummy.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Good night, then.”
“The problem with Sophie is that she’s a reluctant little Aliboron,” said Dad as they closed the door.
As soon as their footsteps had faded away down the staircase, I leapt out of the window and on to the little terrace, slid down my tree, and roller-skated till the city was just a brown blur of gargoyles, bikes and railings under the sandy streetlamps.
There was one person in the world I absolutely wanted to meet.
Well, two people. J.K. Rowling first, always. And then Jenna Jenkins. Whose address I knew by heart:
Jenna Jenkins
Little pink cottage on the river
Grantchester
Only she could detangle the big knot of Cs and swans and money and explain the mysterious not-kidnapping and release. If I could get her to speak, I’d understand everything.
There are four ways to get to Grantchester. Firstly, you can drive there. But I haven’t got my driving licence yet. Secondly, you can skate there. But I didn’t have my wrist protections on so it would have been dangerous. Thirdly, you can fly there in the manner of Superman. But as mentioned before, I never asked for such superpowers when I decided to become Cambridge’s number one supersleuth.
Fourthly, you can sail there. And for that, you need a ship. And I knew exactly where to find a ship.
So there I was, in the middle of the night, carrying a canary-yellow canoe on my back in the manner of the armadillo.
“Water, water everywhere!” I chanted as I droppe
d the canoe in the river. I then lowered myself into the wobbly vessel, put on a life jacket and grabbed the paddle.
The Greek-statue-man had been right. It was the easiest craft to steer in marine history. You just plunged one side of the paddle in the water on the right of the canoe, like this—and then on the other side, like that—and it raced upstream in the manner of wild salmon.
“Grantchester, here I come! I shall discover your heretofore undiscovered lands, and name them Sesamia!”
The night was a black bell splattered with stars. On the banks of the river, the grass grew thick and tangled, and croaked “ribbit ribbit” when the glistening ripples of water reached it. Sometimes the black water plopped at me, and as I reached the heretofore undiscovered banks of Grantchester an immense white owl descended like a ghost on the river and snatched a fish that no one else had noticed. It was a wild world.
But gradually I started seeing houses again, and the night became lighter. I’d reached the village. Sitting quietly at the bottom of their little gardens, the cottages of Grantchester appeared, some of them still broken by squares of yellow light or the stormy bluish glow of a television.
One problem with the night is that everything looks gray in it. Yellow looks gray; red looks gray; try blue, it also looks gray; gray looks very gray; even white looks gray; and pink, unfortunately, also looks gray.
I had no way of telling a pink cottage from a neon-yellow one.
“Another very disorganized mission,” I scolded myself as I stopped paddling to scratch my chin. “I’m not a very good sleuth.”
“Quack.”
“Why, I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m a quack, thank you very much.”
“Quack.”
“This is getting insulting!”
“Quack.”
I looked around to face my detractor.
And ended up nose to beak with the pregnant duck.
Now, that’s the part when most people will say I’m lying or wrong, that it wasn’t the same pregnant duck as the one I’d saved and shared strawberry sweets with. Let me get this straight. I have no scientific evidence that it actually was my pregnant duck. I didn’t do a DNA test or take her fingerprints. But look at it this way. I can’t see any valid reason why any other duck than the one I saved from the claws of Peter Mortimer would have helped me on my mission. If you can think of a valid reason, let me know at this address: