The Plot Thickens

by R. A. Spratt

‘Yes, I do,’ said Friday. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re wonderful …’

  ‘Aha!’ cried Melanie. ‘Finally she admits it.’

  ‘But your father is a classic narcissist,’ said Friday. ‘He is entirely self-interested. He only cares about what you can do for him.’

  ‘What would that be? Other than be his son?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Friday. ‘What does your father have a track record for doing? He hides assets. There was a diamond in his shoe. Then diamonds in Rocky’s dog collar.’

  ‘Are you saying my father has hidden something on me?’ asked Ian.

  ‘What, like a surgical implant?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Friday. ‘But it would be easier for him to give Ian something that he would always wear and carry with him. Like a watch.’

  Ian looked at the watch on his wrist.

  ‘Who gave it to you?’ asked Friday.

  Ian looked up at his father. ‘Dad did, for my eleventh birthday. It’s the best present he ever gave me. He had it engraved.’

  ‘So is it a Rolex or something?’ asked Melanie. ‘Or a turn-of-the-century watch worn by a Russian tsar?’

  ‘It’s just an ordinary watch,’ said Mr Wainscott. ‘Solid Japanese craftsmanship, but nothing to make a fuss about.’

  Ian took off his watch and looked it over.

  ‘May I see?’ Friday took the watch and held it in her hand. She turned it over. The watch was engraved on the back. It said, To my son, Ian. Wear this always. Dad.

  ‘A strange inscription,’ said Friday. ‘No terms of endearment. No emotional message. Just “wear this”.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I haven’t got a turn for the sappy phrase,’ said Mr Wainscott.

  ‘So it can’t be the watch,’ said Friday.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Wainscott. ‘We’ll be on our way, then.’

  ‘It must be something inside the watch,’ said Friday, with which she took a tiny screwdriver out of her pocket and deftly levered open the back.

  ‘Hey, you’ll ruin the waterproof seal!’ exclaimed Ian.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m sure your father will be able to buy you another with whatever jewels he’s got stashed inside,’ said Friday as she removed the back, exposing the internal workings. She stared at them for several seconds. Everyone else stared at Friday and the watch for several seconds.

  There was nothing to see. Just the simple electronic mechanism of the watch.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Friday.

  ‘What a disgrace,’ said Mr Wainscott. ‘Hand me that right now so I can have it repaired immediately.’

  ‘I can’t believe you broke my watch,’ said Ian forlornly.

  Friday held out the watch to return it to Mr Wainscott.

  ‘And the backing,’ said Mr Wainscott.

  Friday looked down and realised she had the backing in her other hand. She turned her hand over and looked at it.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Friday. ‘Look!’

  Inside the back of the watch was a small reddish piece of paper with a black smudge on it.

  ‘Give it to me!’ snapped Mr Wainscott, lunging for the watch.

  Friday stepped away, and the Headmaster stepped between them. ‘I know she’s irritating,’ said the Headmaster, ‘but you can’t assault a student.’

  ‘It’s just the maker’s label,’ said Mr Wainscott.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Friday. She had her jeweller’s eyepiece out now so she could inspect it closely.

  ‘Then what is it?’ asked Ian.

  ‘The most valuable commodity by weight in the world,’ said Friday.

  Ian rolled his eyes. ‘Great, now she’s talking in riddles again.’

  ‘It’s a Penny Red,’ said Friday. ‘A postage stamp.’

  ‘Big deal!’ said Ian.

  ‘It is a big deal,’ said Friday. ‘This is the Holy Grail of stamp collecting.’

  ‘But who cares?’ said Ian. ‘Stamp collecting is just a hobby for nerds.’

  ‘It is not,’ said Friday. ‘Okay, well, actually it is. But it is also the single most transportable form of wealth. Stamp collecting is huge in China. The market for collectable stamps has never been stronger. Look at it.’ She held up the Penny Red. ‘It weighs less than a gram. It looks innocuous. You could hide it anywhere on your person. You could stick it on an envelope and post it to yourself.’

  ‘So what’s it worth?’ asked Ian.

  Friday peered at the stamp again with her jeweller’s eyepiece. ‘A Penny Red is rare and valuable. But this isn’t an ordinary one. It’s a plate 77 Penny Red. The plate it was printed with was defective, so after testing, it was destroyed. But one of the test sheets accidentally made it into circulation. There are only nine of these stamps in the world. And the last one to come up for auction sold for £550,000 British sterling.’

  ‘What?!’ exclaimed Ian. ‘But that’s equal to over a million dollars. And I’ve been wearing it around my wrist all this time.’

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ said Friday. ‘Your watch is waterproof. No harm came to it.’

  ‘But I was wearing a million dollars on my wrist!’ said Ian.

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘There’s no point,’ said Friday. ‘Mr Wainscott hasn’t committed a crime. He just came to get his property back.’

  ‘Being a bad parent isn’t a crime,’ said Melanie, ‘which is lucky for you, Headmaster, because if it was, most of the students here would have their parents in jail, and then there would be no one to pay the school fees.’

  ‘Unless … Mr Wainscott stole the Penny Red. After all, he did get a degree from Barnum and Bailey’s Circus Skills University with a minor in sleight of hand. So did you?’ asked Friday, turning to Mr Wainscott. ‘It would be easy enough to find out. So few of these exist.’

  ‘I acquired it perfectly legally,’ said Mr Wainscott.

  ‘Let me guess, not by paying market value at a reputable auction?’ as Friday.

  ‘I won it in a high stakes mahjong game at a Macau casino,’ said Mr Wainscott. He couldn’t stop himself from smirking with pride.

  Friday handed the watch to Mr Wainscott. ‘Here, this is what you want, isn’t it?’

  Mr Wainscott took the watch. ‘I would say “thank you”, but I can’t think of any earthly reason why I should be polite to you.’ He opened the door of the car. Mr Archer got in on the passenger side.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Ian.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Mr Wainscott.

  ‘Don’t you want me … to come with you?’ asked Ian.

  Mr Wainscott sighed. ‘Of course I do, but things are going to be very busy for a while. I’ve got to get the business up and running again. I need to spend some time in the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘I’d love to visit the Cayman Islands,’ said Ian.

  ‘You’ll be better off here,’ said Mr Wainscott. ‘When I’m back on top, I’ll come for you.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Three months, at most,’ said Mr Wainscott. He shut the door of his car and pulled away.

  Ian watched his father drive off. Everyone was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. Eventually Friday stepped forward and touched Ian’s arm.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’m not!’ yelled Ian, swivelling to turn his fury on Friday. ‘How could you? You just had to grind in every last grain of humiliation, didn’t you? My father doesn’t want me. My own father tricks me into hiding his money, the same way he hid his money on his dog. Well, thank you, thank you very much for totally humiliating me and ruining my life.’

  Friday was sure Ian was about to cry. She was pretty sure she was about to cry herself. But Ian stormed off before either one of them could start the waterworks.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘No,’ said Friday, then she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst into tears.

  Chapt
er 3

  A New Teacher

  The following weeks were not a fun time at Highcrest Academy. Ian had apparently, in his mind at least, declared war on Friday. Every couple of days she was met with a new and original prank. Like the fire sprinklers going off, but only above her desk in the biology lab. Or all her clothes coming back from the laundry dyed brown, so now everything she wore matched her brown cardigans. Or the lock on her dorm room changing so that she couldn’t get out and had to climb through the second-storey window, only to discover that an all-school fire drill had been called on the lawn directly outside.

  ‘I’m thinking of applying to university again,’ said Friday, as she and Melanie walked towards the school hall. It was time for the weekly assembly.

  ‘I thought you said they wouldn’t take you because you were too young?’ said Melanie.

  ‘They did say that,’ agreed Friday, ‘but I suspect that was just the excuse they used because the Vice Chancellor found me annoying during my interview when I told him that the statistical analysis in his PhD thesis was based on a false premise.’

  ‘Yes, that can’t have helped.’ Melanie nodded.

  They started shuffling into the hall with the other students, trying to find seats behind someone tall so that the teachers on stage couldn’t see them.

  ‘But maybe if I try another university,’ said Friday. ‘And I only say nice, positive things like … well, I can’t think of any, but you could write up a list for me to memorise.’

  ‘Like, “That’s a nice tie you’re wearing”?’ said Melanie.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Friday. ‘It would never occur to me to say that.’

  ‘But why is it you want to leave?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘The pranks,’ said Friday. ‘Ian’s wearing me down. Being drenched or locked out is bad enough, but the waves of hate I can feel emanating from him every time we’re in the same room are exhausting.’

  ‘You’re so in tune with his emotions,’ said Melanie. ‘Why don’t you prank him back? I believe that is what high-spirited teenagers are meant to do.’

  ‘I’m only twelve,’ said Friday. ‘Besides, I kind of deserve all the pranking. I was insensitive. And I have ruined his relationship with his father.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll move on eventually,’ said Melanie. ‘Although literature does not back up my theory. You are the love of his life, so it may take a while.’

  The music began to play and the students fell silent as the Headmaster led the parade of teachers into the hall. The heads of department always had to don their academic robes for this ritual.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Friday.

  At the back of the group was a man wearing normal clothes: a blue-collared shirt and tan chinos. But he stood out because his clothes were amazingly creased.

  ‘How do you even get clothes that scrumpled?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Friday.

  ‘Really? Because the only other person I’ve ever seen looking that scrumpled is you,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I just don’t iron them,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t actively go out of my way to scrunch them up.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Melanie. ‘Because I’ve seen you put on a pair of jeans you found screwed up in a ball behind your mattress.’

  Friday noticed there was a covered easel up on the stage. ‘I wonder what that is?’ she said.

  The teachers were now finding their seats on the stage and the music stopped. The Headmaster walked over to the microphone. ‘Good morning,’ he said with a jolly smile.

  ‘He’s in a fine mood,’ said Melanie. ‘Usually he yells at someone before he gets started.’

  ‘It has recently been drawn to my attention that there is a morale problem here at Highcrest,’ said the Headmaster.

  Melanie nudged Friday. ‘He’s talking about you.’

  Friday scowled. She wasn’t in a fine mood.

  ‘So I cast my mind to the idea of what could energise this school academically,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Chocolate pudding!’ called Patel.

  ‘Patel, detention!’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘One week, an hour a day.’

  Patel visibly deflated. His joke had not been funny enough to warrant this level of backlash.

  ‘Where was I?’ said the Headmaster. ‘I have decided to inspire you with an eight-week intensive art program. Creative thinking is, I’m told, important in any number of professions. It certainly is in insider trading, which is what so many of the students at this school seem to go on to do. But aside from that, an exploration of the arts should open your minds to a world of creative possibilities, which will hopefully improve your education and cheer you all up so I don’t get so many notes whining about what Mrs Marigold has been cooking for dinner. Luckily for you, I have been able to hire the finest talent in this field.’

  The Headmaster gestured towards the crumpled man as he slouched in his chair. If body language had volume, his was shouting how bored he was with the whole proceeding.

  Now that Friday looked at him front on, her eyes were not drawn to his clothes. They were drawn to his face. He was very, very handsome. He had a strong jaw, straight nose and faded auburn hair that looked like he had forgotten to have it cut for three months. His face was extremely freckled, so much so that it almost looked like a deep suntan, and he was more wrinkled than a man his age would usually be. But somehow his wrinkles made him seem rugged and handsome.

  ‘It’s wrong to objectify a teacher,’ whispered Melanie.

  ‘What?’ asked Friday.

  ‘You’re thinking about how handsome he is, aren’t you?’ said Melanie.

  ‘I was only making empirical observations,’ said Friday.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Melanie. ‘Just so long as the empirical observations don’t get out of hand.’

  ‘Let me introduce you to …’ said the Headmaster ‘… Mr Lysander Brecht.’

  There was a cacophony of gasps from the student body. Mr Brecht inspected his fingernails as if they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.

  ‘Who?’ asked Friday.

  ‘He’s one of the most famous contemporary artists in the world,’ said Melanie. ‘He won the Armstead Portrait Prize for his picture of himself as a nineteenth-century Russian peasant woman.’

  Friday looked at Mr Brecht. He was the embodiment of masculinity. ‘Surely it wasn’t a self-portrait, then?’

  ‘Oh no, he looked very good ankle-deep in mud, wearing a blue dress and headscarf,’ said Melanie. ‘You could really see into his soul.’

  ‘But if he is such a great artist, why on earth would he come and teach here?’ said Friday. She watched Mr Brecht. He looked lethargic, but Friday suspected it was a deceptive lethargy, like that of an African lion right before it leaps up and rips a zebra’s head off.

  ‘That is a mystery,’ said Melanie.

  Friday smiled. That’s just what she needed – a good mystery to dust off the cobwebs. Her neurons were already starting to fire up in anticipation. Her headache was clearing. It seemed that in her case, at least, the Headmaster’s plan to cheer up the student body was working.

  ‘Of course, it might have something to do with the massive fine he got from the tax department for tax evasion,’ added Melanie.

  ‘I didn’t read about that in the paper,’ said Friday.

  ‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘It was in all the gossip magazines.’

  ‘It is also our great honour,’ continued the Headmaster, ‘to have Mr Brecht’s most famous masterpiece, “The Red Princess”, on display here for the duration of the visit.’ The Headmaster turned to the curtain-covered easel. ‘Mr Brecht, if you’ll do the honours.’

  Mr Brecht rolled his eyes. He begrudgingly stood up, grabbed the corner of the curtain and whipped it off the easel.

  The entire school gasped. There was no painting. Just a timber frame.

  ‘Is it meant to be an empty frame?’ Friday whispered to Melanie.

  ‘No, it’s me
ant to be a famous picture of a baby with red hair nestled in a reed basket,’ whispered Melanie.

  ‘Where’s my picture?’ bellowed Mr Brecht, turning on the Headmaster. He might’ve looked scruffy but he had a very posh voice. And a very loud one too.

  ‘It was right there, just before assembly,’ spluttered the Headmaster.

  ‘That painting is worth millions of dollars!’ exclaimed Mr Brecht.

  ‘Who did this?’ demanded the Headmaster, turning on the student body.

  All the students sat incredibly still, knowing that with the Headmaster this angry, the slightest body movement could be taken as an admission of guilt.

  ‘I will get to the bottom of this,’ declared the Headmaster. ‘And when I do, the perpetrator will be expelled!’

  ‘They’ll go to jail!’ added Mr Brecht.

  ‘That too,’ agreed the Headmaster.

  Chapter 4

  Too Far

  All day long the school was abuzz with gossip and speculation about the missing ‘Red Princess’. Friday was very intrigued by the mystery herself. But she didn’t get a chance to have a good hard think about it because every five minutes someone was coming up and asking her opinion. She needed somewhere nice and quiet. So she decided to spend the afternoon in study hall.

  Highcrest Academy had a large study hall, where students could go and work quietly at any time. It was full of tables and chairs and reading lights. And there were usually very few people in it, especially on a sunny day.

  Melanie went with Friday because she had found that if she pushed two armchairs over to a window they made a lovely sunny bed, so she could enjoy all the benefits of taking a nap in the sunshine without any of the risk of being hit by a stray football.

  But on this day they were to be thwarted. When Friday and Melanie walked over to study hall after lunch, there was a large sign stuck to the door:

  Closed for renovation

  For quiet study, use the picnic tables by the swamp

  ‘Urgh,’ said Melanie. ‘We’ve got to walk all the way down there.’

  ‘I do hope that by “renovation” they don’t mean they’re turning the study hall into a computer lab,’ said Friday.