by Adam Stower
His heart sank. Nothing seemed any fun at all.
He was just about to give up, shut his eyes and pick one at random when he remembered what Professor Pickering had said in assembly. He decided that History Club had to be better than ‘Basket-weaving-with-drinking-straws Club’. After all, his mum had been raving about how amazing the museum was, and that was packed with historical things. So with his mind made up, Ben headed to Mr Travis’s classroom.
When he got there, he could hear voices and see shadows moving about through the pane of frosted glass in the door.
He knocked gingerly.
The voices stopped talking.
The door opened and a small girl with curly blonde hair and a big nose looked up at Ben from under her straw hat.
‘Hello?’ she squeaked.
‘Er, is this the History Club?’ asked Ben, glancing past her. ‘I want to sign up. Professor Pickering said—’
‘We’re full up,’ said the girl curtly and she slammed the door shut.
Ben stood there for a moment and then knocked once more.
There was a murmur of whispered conversation beyond the door and then it opened again.
Professor Pickering looked at Ben with his good eye.
‘I’m frightfully sorry about that. My girls are a little … shy. So, who are you, dear boy?’ he said with a kind smile.
‘Er, I’m Ben Pole,’ said Ben peering past the professor. All four of the academy girls were sitting at a table taking their pink notebooks from their yellow satchels and arranging them neatly beside their glittery felt-tip pens. ‘I was, um, hoping to join your history club.’
‘Oh. Ah, yes.’ Professor Pickering sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Well, it’s only a small club and as you can see—’
‘It’s just that my mum works at the museum,’ said Ben. ‘As a security guard.’
‘Does she really?’ interrupted the professor. ‘How marvellous! We were just now planning a field trip to the museum, weren’t we, girls?’
‘Yes, Professor Pickering,’ said the girls eagerly.
Professor Pickering put a friendly arm around Ben’s shoulder and drew him into the classroom.
‘You know, perhaps your mum might help us arrange our little field trip?’
‘Ooh,’ squeaked a girl with ginger braids that bounced as she bobbed up and down with excitement,
‘Now then, girls, calm down,’ said Pickering, turning to Ben. ‘Let the boy speak.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ben smiled. ‘I’ll ask Mum. She’ll be happy to help.’
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ said Pickering, patting Ben on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure we can make room in our little club for one more. Come and meet the girls.’
The girls clapped their hands and made space for Ben at the table.
‘Your timing is perfect,’ said Pickering. ‘We were just about to open a packet of chocolate biscuits and chat about the invention of explosives by the Chinese back in the tenth century.’
The History Club was fun. Not as fun as mucking about in the woods, but it wasn’t a bad way to spend the afternoons.
Yes, it might have had something to do with Professor Pickering’s habit of handing out chocolate biscuits willy-nilly, but he was full of exciting stories too, about pirates, thieves and scallywags throughout history.
Coo would enjoy these, thought Ben, chomping into a Double-Chocolate Crumblie, especially the one about Fizz-Bang Fitzwilliam the Inventor Thief, whose clockwork gang terrorized Victorian London.
What’s more, there was never a dull moment with the professor and his wonky eye. Up close Ben could see that it was a fake. It wasn’t even glass. It was a ping-pong ball with a black dot drawn on it. Most of the time you wouldn’t notice, but now and then it would dry out and get stuck at a funny angle so he would be looking at Ben with one eye and staring at the ceiling with the other.
Then Professor Pickering would lick the tip of his pinky, poke it in his eye and swivel it back into position with a wet sqrweek sound. It was hilarious! Revolting, but hilarious!
The girls were friendly too. They fussed around Ben, offering to paint his nails glitter pink and spritz him with puffs of Princess Pony perfume. It was a bit much, but Ben didn’t mind. Even Petal, the shy girl in the group, warmed to him, offering him a sniff of her strawberry-scented pencil-topper.
As promised, Ben’s mum arranged a tour of the City Museum and on Wednesday afternoon Ben gave his club mates the good news.
‘It’s all set for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The trip!’
The professor was delighted. The girls squealed with excitement.
‘Excellent!’ said Professor Pickering. ‘I’ll arrange for a bus to pick us up. Don’t be late! It’s going to be marvellous!’
CHAPTER SIX
On a bright Thursday afternoon, the school minibus shuddered to a halt in front of the museum.
‘Yoo-hoo! Ben!’ Mrs Pole waved from the entrance at the top of the steps.
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Ben, trotting up to meet her. ‘This is Professor Pickering.’
‘Mrs Pole, my dear lady,’ said Professor Pickering, stepping forward and shaking Mrs Pole’s hand. ‘Thank you so very much for arranging this field trip for our little club. We are awfully grateful, aren’t we?’ he added, shoving the girls forward.
‘Yes, professor, thank you, madam,’ they said all at once, curtsying awkwardly and fluttering their eyelashes.
‘Oh, er, that’s quite all right. I’m happy to help,’ said Mrs Pole, giving Ben a sideways smile and raising an eyebrow.
Mrs Pole led them on a tour of the museum, pointing out her favourite exhibits. They walked through galleries filled with huge skeletons and stuffed creatures from all over the world, along corridors lined with glass cabinets gleaming with polished suits of armour and swords, and into crypts where dazzling butterflies and green-gold beetles the size of dinner plates glittered and flashed under the spotlights.
Horrible shrunken heads dangled from hooks and shrivelled hands lay in silk-lined boxes. Paintings and tapestries covered the walls and mannequins wearing silver crowns and velvet gowns stood in every corner.
They wandered the length and breadth of the museum, and just as Ben began to feel that it must be time for a rest, a glass of lemonade and a bun, Mrs Pole stopped beside a pair of enormous doors and turned to the little group.
‘I’ve saved the best until last,’ she said, smiling with anticipation. ‘This weekend our latest and greatest exhibition opens to the public here in the Treasure Chamber. As a special treat, you get to have a sneaky peek before anyone else. It’s still being set up, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll like it. Here it is,’ she said, opening the doors.
The enormous chamber was being prepared for the exhibition. Fake jungle creepers clung to the pillars, and in the centre of it all were piles of packing cases stuffed with riches.
‘I say!’ gasped Pickering. ‘How wonderful!’
‘The Mummy’s Gold belongs to the tribe of the Blue-foots, so-called on account of their blue feet,’ explained Mrs Pole as the little group looked around.
‘What an extraordinary story,’ said Professor Pickering as he circled the room with Ben and the girls, gazing at the wonderful treasures they could see poking out from the crates.
Gold cups and plates glinted in the light. Jewelled bracelets, necklaces and rings flashed with colour. Golden statues peeped out from their wrappings. And in the centre of it all, in a padded box, they even glimpsed a golden skull.
The gleaming gold bathed their faces in shimmering yellow light.
‘So all that gold is REAL?’ asked Ben, his eyes as wide as saucers.
‘Oh yes, love,’ said his mum. ‘Pure gold.’
‘Twenty-four carat,’ said Lovely Susan.
‘Yes, and look at those perfect sapphires, emeralds and rubies,’ added Daisy, her big nose inches from the crates. ‘They’re flawless.’
‘Gosh!’ said Mrs Pole, impressed. ‘You are cle
ver girls, aren’t you? Just wait until you see the Mummy’s Crown! It is the star of the show! It will take your breath away, but it’s still packed up just now. You’ll have to come back to see it in the exhibition. You’re quite right though, Daisy. The gems are perfect. The treasure must be worth—’
‘Three hundred and sixty-nine million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand, four hundred and sixty-nine pounds and twenty-seven pence,’ said Professor Pickering. ‘Give or take,’ he added, sidling up to Mrs Pole.
‘A treasure so valuable must be awfully well protected,’ he said casually, slipping a camera from his pocket and taking a few snaps.
‘Oh crikey, absolutely!’ said Mrs Pole.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Daisy, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It’s so pretty.’
‘Don’t worry, love. It’s safe and sound. Let’s see, firstly, all the doors and windows are locked up tight at night. Then there are all the cameras to spot any burglars, and there are alarms too. The doors to the Treasure Chamber are made of three-inch-thick steel and have auto-lock timers. And, of course,’ said Mrs Pole, puffing out her chest, ‘there’s me. I’m more than a match for any pesky burglar.’
‘No one’s going to get past you, Mum,’ said Ben proudly.
‘Thanks, love,’ said Mrs Pole. ‘I’m not worried. I mean, who’d want to steal the treasure anyway? Apparently it’s cursed.’
‘So they say. Now THAT would make a good project for your club,’ said Mrs Pole. ‘You can look it up in one of your books. Ben is fascinated by curses, ghosts and all that stuff.’ She smiled at Professor Pickering, rolling her eyes. ‘Boys will be boys.’
‘That’s a smashing idea,’ said Professor Pickering. ‘Something to think about for next term, eh girls? Right! Come along then,’ he said briskly, clapping his hands together. ‘Time to go, I think. Ben will want to be off home for his tea and I’m sure Mrs Pole has plenty to be getting on with. So, girls, what do you say to the dear lady?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pole,’ they said all together, bobbing with wobbly curtsies.
‘You’re welcome.’ Mrs Pole beamed. ‘And please come again, won’t you?’
‘Oh, we will, Mrs Pole,’ oozed Professor Pickering as they waved goodbye. ‘We will. Cheerio, Ben, my boy, see you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ben snapped awake.
‘NOW what?’ he groaned, dragging himself out of bed. He pulled on his dressing gown and plodded downstairs.
Ben’s nose twitched with the now familiar smell of burnt breakfast wafting from the kitchen.
‘DAD? IS THAT YOU?’ he shouted, pressing his fingers into his ears to block out the noise.
Mr Pole was standing on a stool and whacking the shrieking smoke alarm with a broom.
‘JUST PRESS THE RED BUTTON,’ yelled Ben, wafting the back door open and closed to clear the smoke, ‘TO TURN IT OFF!’
‘WHAT D’YOU SAY?’ boomed Mr Pole, giving up on the broom and wrenching the smoke alarm down from the ceiling. It warbled weakly in his hands and sputtered into silence.
‘Never mind,’ said Ben.
‘Mum made me put in fresh batteries,’ said Mr Pole, holding up the alarm.
‘On breakfast duty again then?’ said Ben, peering cautiously at the blackened pan on the stove. The green smoke didn’t fill him with confidence.
‘Yup!’ grinned his dad proudly. ‘It’s PORRIDGE this morning!’
Mr Pole’s porridge was the kind of porridge that would be perfect if you needed something to dam up a river, or stick heavy tiles to a roof on a windy day, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a boy ought to be eating for breakfast. It was so gluey that Ben spent the first half of the school day with his jaws firmly stuck together. He couldn’t utter a sound. In his chemistry lesson, he even got a gold star from Mrs Haversack for sitting quietly because he was the only boy to not make loud farty noises during her slideshow about gases.
Ben couldn’t even manage lunch, and spent the afternoon picking the last globs of porridge from between his back teeth with the tip of a pencil.
But Ben was happy.
The weekend was just around the corner and that morning his dad had cheerfully agreed to let him skip History Club and sleep over at Coo’s place, so he’d soon be back in the woods tucking into some delicious grub beside a roaring fire. Ben’s stomach gurgled joyfully at the thought of it.
After his last lesson of the day, Ben trotted over to Mr Travis’s classroom to see Professor Pickering and excuse himself from History Club.
When he got there the room was empty, so Ben let himself in and scrawled a quick note to leave on the professor’s desk.
His empty stomach burbled loudly, and suddenly all Ben could think of was Professor Pickering’s chocolate biscuits.
The professor was so generous, thought Ben, he wouldn’t mind if Ben took just one, would he? Ben’s eyes were drawn to the storeroom door in the back wall. He probably kept them in there, he thought, his stomach gurgling again.
Before he knew it, he had slipped through the door and was searching the little room. He had just grabbed a packet of Double-Chocolate Crumblies from a top shelf when he heard the classroom door creak open and several feet shuffle in.
Ben froze. He suddenly felt terribly guilty. What would the professor think if he caught Ben stealing? He put the biscuits back and crouched behind the door to hide until the coast was clear.
He expected to hear the chatter and squeals of the academy girls, but it was eerily quiet. Ben strained his ears to listen. A cold shiver ran down his spine when the silence was broken by the low, gruff whispers of men.
Ben froze in horror as something white, wet and round rolled to a standstill just inside the storeroom door and stared up at him.
Ben sat glued to the spot not daring to move a muscle until he heard the men shuffle back out of the classroom. Then he waited in the shadows some more until he was sure he was alone.
Ben felt dizzy. What was Pickering up to? Who were those men? He couldn’t think. It had all happened so fast.
One thing was certain.
He needed help.
He needed a genius.
He needed King Coo.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ben stood at the edge of the wood and shouted into the trees.
This was an emergency!
‘You made me jump!’ Ben yelped. ‘HOW do you get around SO fast?’
‘I can hear you coming a mile off.’ Coo grinned. ‘You’re about as stealthy as a moose on stilts. Wearing clogs. And a hat with bells on. Are you OK? You look frazzled,’ she added. ‘Let’s get you a drink, and you can tell me what’s going on.’
All the way to the tree house, Ben gabbled about everything that had happened. He barely stopped to take a breath as it all spilled out. Coo grabbed his elbow, sat him by the fire and put a mug of ginger beer in his hand, and all the while Ben chattered on. He told Coo everything, from the first time he saw Pickering at assembly, right up to the horrible moment of the eye staring up at him in the storeroom.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ she said when Ben had finished talking and was sitting breathless on the edge of his seat. ‘You think this Pickering is the boss of the Midnight Mob?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Ben. ‘It was definitely Pickering, and the men definitely sounded dodgy. They’re planning something, for tonight! And, blimey, what about the girls? They might be in danger! We have to do something!’
‘Have you got any proof?’ said Coo, leaning forward, twiddling her beard thoughtfully.
‘No, nothing,’ sighed Ben. ‘But I saw the gold coin! I’m sure I did. It must have been stolen from the Viking Museum that was in the news. It was big and old-looking.’
‘Hmmmm.’ Coo frowned, deep in thought. ‘That reminds me of something … Hold on!’ she said.
She crossed to Herbert’s beanbag, where he lay snoozing, and heaved him to one side.
She rummaged through a small pile of bottle caps, foil sweet wrappers and o
ther bits and bobs.
‘I KNEW it!’ she said triumphantly, standing up and flicking something across the room to Ben.
It flashed in the light and landed with a heavy thump on Ben’s lap – it was a FAT GOLD COIN.
‘What … wait … how …?’ Ben spluttered. The coin gleamed as he turned it over in his hands.
‘It’s Herbert,’ said Coo. ‘He loves shiny things. He finds all sorts when he’s out digging. He came back this morning looking especially pleased with himself.’
Herbert trotted over and bumped against Coo’s legs affectionately.
‘I only got a glimpse of it, but I should have guessed you’d found something good, eh fella?’ she said, giving his smiling chops a loving scratch.
Coo grinned and clapped her hands together. ‘This is going to be so much fun!’ she said, grabbing a spear and hoisting her bag on to her shoulder.
