by R. A. Spratt
‘Do you think The Pimpernel is a kleptomaniac?’ asked Melanie.
‘“Kleptomaniac” is just a fancy psychiatrist word for nasty thief,’ said Mrs Marigold.
‘It’s a medical condition,’ said Friday.
‘Being a low-down good-for-nothing is not a medical condition. It’s a character flaw,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to search here. It’s your father’s rooms you should be going through.’
Mrs Marigold looked at the blade she was sharpening. The edge evidently met with her satisfaction because she tested it by running the knife along the back of her arm, shaving off some hair.
‘Is that how you always test the sharpness of a knife?’ asked Friday.
‘Why?’ asked Mrs Marigold. ‘Is there something else you think I should be cutting?’
Friday decided it was best to change the subject. ‘What makes you suspect my dad?’
‘Those loonies in the science department are always after my microwave,’ said Mrs Marigold.
‘They are?’ asked Friday.
‘Just last week, Mr Davies wanted it,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘Said he need to demonstrate crystallisation to his year 7 class.’
‘Did you let him have it?’ asked Friday.
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘I know what scientists are like. Always experimenting. It would start off with a crystal demonstration and, before you know it, he’d be making lava or microwaving dissected frogs.’
‘So why don’t you suspect Mr Davies?’ asked Friday.
‘Because Mr Davies is comparatively normal,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘He is properly cowed when I yell and threaten him with a soup ladle. He won’t try messing with me again. Your father is a different kettle of fish.’
‘In what way?’ asked Friday.
‘He’s always hanging round here,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘Complimenting me on my cooking and how lovely I look.’
‘Really?’ asked Friday.
‘He’s not very good at it, mind you,’ continued Mrs Marigold. ‘But he’s always saying these awkward, flowery things, like “your raspberry cheesecake explodes with taste like a type-two star disintegrating in a supernova”.’
‘That does sound like him,’ said Friday.
‘And how my meat pie “fills him with the –”’
‘Okay,’ interrupted Friday, ‘I think we’ve heard enough. I’ll go and talk to him.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘And get my microwave back while you’re there.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Friday. ‘Has anything else gone missing recently?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘Except …’
‘What?’ asked Friday.
‘Well, I did lose an extra-large jar of peanut butter.’
‘I thought you weren’t allowed to have peanut butter in the school in case a student is allergic,’ said Friday.
‘I like it,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘I’m allowed to have peanut butter on toast when I start work in the morning. I’m a grown-up.’
‘Perhaps that’s why The Pimpernel stole it,’ said Melanie, as she finished her bowl of pudding. ‘Because it’s forbidden fruit.’
‘Have you found any calling cards with a picture of a blue flower on them?’ asked Friday.
‘Aquamarine flower,’ Melanie corrected her.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Marigold, taking a handful of cards out of her pocket. ‘They’re everywhere.’
‘Really?!’ said Friday.
‘The kids think it’s so funny,’ said Mrs Marigold. ‘They’ve all got them made up. If they want seconds of pudding, they put a card on their tray and say The Pimpernel stole it.’
‘That would be the perfect cover for the real Pimpernel,’ said Melanie.
‘Or perhaps your nutty father took that as well for some crazy reason of his own,’ said Mrs Marigold.
‘The Headmaster likes peanut butter,’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps it was him.’
‘No, he could just confiscate it if he wanted some,’ said Friday. ‘Something strange is going on here.’
Chapter 17
Microwave Not Safe
Friday and Melanie went to confront Dr Barnes. Friday had never visited her father’s apartment before, because she had been avoiding him. He hadn’t visited her either but that wasn’t because he was avoiding his daughter – it just never would have occurred to him to visit her.
The teachers’ accommodation wasn’t that different to the students’ dorms. Except that teachers got two small rooms, one for a study/sitting room and the other for a bedroom, and unlike the students the teachers didn’t have to share, which was a good thing because teachers can be more childish than children when it comes to who gets the bed by the window.
Dr Barnes was sitting at his desk, jotting down equations. He had run out of paper and was writing straight onto the desk top.
‘Dad,’ said Friday.’
Hmm,’ said Dr Barnes, not even looking up.’
Did you steal Mrs Marigold’s microwave?’ asked Friday.
‘Whatever you want to do is fine with me,’ replied Dr Barnes.
‘I don’t think he’s listening,’ said Melanie.
Dr Barnes glanced up. ‘Do you need me to sign a permission note or something?’
‘No, I need you to tell me whether or not you stole Mrs Marigold’s microwave,’ said Friday.
‘Mrs who?’ asked Dr Barnes.
‘Marigold,’ said Friday. ‘The school cook. She says you hang about in her kitchen all the time.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dr Barnes.
‘Are you in love with her?’ asked Melanie.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Barnes.
‘You are?!’ exclaimed Friday.
‘Her desserts are extremely good,’ said Dr Barnes. ‘Her practical application of the principals of carbon chemistry and thermal dynamics, as it pertains to food stuffs, is truly impressive.’
‘But what about Mum?’ asked Friday.
‘Her?’ said Dr Barnes. ‘She can’t cook at all.’
‘But you’re still married,’ said Friday.
‘So?’ said Dr Barnes. ‘I’m allowed to eat another woman’s puddings.’
‘But you just said you were in love with her,’ said Friday.
‘Did I?’ said Dr Barnes. ‘Well, it only makes sense. Food consumption is a more rational basis for affection than most.’
‘Then why did you steal her microwave?’ asked Friday.
‘Her microwave?!’ said Dr Barnes. ‘But a microwave is regular fluctuation in the light spectrum. I didn’t know the technology existed to steal one.’
‘A microwave is also a kitchen appliance,’ said Friday.
‘Really?’ said Dr Barnes. ‘How extraordinary!’
‘Did you steal an appliance from Mrs Marigold’s kitchen?’ demanded Friday.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dr Barnes. ‘But it is impossible to prove a negative.’
‘I’m going to search your rooms,’ said Friday.
‘Go ahead,’ said Dr Barnes. ‘Can I get back to my equations now?’
‘Sure,’ said Friday.
She and Melanie searched the apartment. It only took one minute. Dr Barnes had very little stuff, and there were very few places in the small rooms that you could hide anything as large as a microwave.
‘Did you steal it and hide it anywhere else?’ asked Friday, going back to where her father was working.
‘What?’ asked Dr Barnes.
‘I don’t think there’s any point asking him,’ said Melanie. ‘He doesn’t seem to know much about anything.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m one of the world’s leading thinkers on M-theory,’ said Dr Barnes.
‘Exactly,’ said Melanie. ‘He doesn’t know much.’
‘So if Dad didn’t do it,’ said Friday as she and Melanie walked back across the quadrangle, ‘who else could have a possible motive for stealing a microwave and a huge jar of peanut butter?’
‘Someone who likes hot peanut butter sandwiches?’ said Melanie.
‘Microwaving doesn’t improve bread,’ said Friday.
A boy ran over to them. ‘The Headmaster wants to see you in the stationery cupboard,’ said the boy, panting to regain his breath.
‘That sounds ominous,’ said Friday.
‘Maybe he’s just tired of yelling at you in his office,’ said Melanie. ‘And he wants to branch out and try doing it somewhere else.’
When Friday and Melanie found the Headmaster he was standing amidst a pile of splintered wood.
‘Look!’ exclaimed the Headmaster. ‘Do you know anything about this?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Friday, crouching down to get a closer look at the wood splinters.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the Headmaster. ‘Either you know or you don’t.’
Friday picked up a splinter. It was raw wood on one side and had red and black stripes on the other. ‘They’re pencils,’ said Friday.
‘I’m glad I called for you,’ said the Headmaster sarcastically. ‘Thank goodness I have my own Sherlock Holmes on hand to tell me the extremely obvious.’
‘But without the lead,’ continued Friday. She sifted through the pile of splinters. ‘Someone has destroyed these pencils and taken all the lead.’
‘Yes, weird isn’t it?’ said the Headmaster. ‘That’s why I sent for you. Weird seems to be your area of expertise. So do you have any idea why we have a lead thief on our hands?’
‘Pencil lead doesn’t actually contain lead,’ said Friday. ‘It’s made of graphite.’
‘Thank you for the lesson on pedantic detail,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I can understand someone stealing my watch, or Jacinta Holbrooke’s earrings last week, or Bruce Viswanathan’s collection of Heming-way first editions yesterday, but can you please explain to me why on earth anyone would want to steal the graphite out of a pencil?!’
‘Because they’re the elusive Pimpernel?’ suggested Melanie.
‘No, I know exactly why,’ said Friday. ‘Because they’re an idiot with a get-rich-quick scheme.’
‘And where shall we find this idiot?’ asked the Headmaster.
‘Mr Davies’ year 7 science class,’ said Friday, checking her watch. ‘Their lesson should start in five minutes.’
When Friday burst into Mr Davies’ classroom six minutes later, with Melanie and the Headmaster in her wake, Mr Davies was in the middle of an explanation of why water expands when it freezes.
‘Aha!’ cried Friday. ‘You’re still teaching crystallisation, I see!’
‘It’s in the curriculum,’ said Mr Davies. ‘I’d get in trouble if I didn’t.’
‘And so all the facts fall into place,’ said Friday. ‘We know what was stolen and now I know why.’
‘Why is all very well,’ said the Headmaster, glaring at the class, ‘but I’d like to know who.’
‘All we need to do is find out which of these students has damaged cuticles,’ said Friday.
Mirabella Peterson hastily sat on her hands.
‘You! Mirabella! You are hiding evidence beneath your bottom,’ accused Friday.
‘You can’t search me without a search warrant!’ declared Mirabella.
‘We don’t want to search you, we just want to see your fingers,’ said Friday.
‘I’m not moving,’ said Mirabella defiantly.
The Headmaster sighed. ‘You know, there are some days when I hate dealing with children.’
‘I thought that was every day,’ said Melanie.
‘Am I going to be allowed to continue my lesson?’ asked Mr Davies.
‘That depends on how long it takes us to locate the microwave Mirabella stole,’ said Friday.
‘You’ll never find it!’ cried Mirabella. ‘I mean, it wasn’t me, you can’t prove anything!’ she corrected herself hastily.
‘Could you just explain your theory?’ the Headmaster asked Friday. ‘So I can decide whether to suspend Mirabella for being a thief or you for wasting my time.’
‘Mr Davies has been teaching his class about crystallisation,’ explained Friday. ‘Diamonds are crystals. Given Mirabella’s character –’
‘She’s superficial and mean,’ said Melanie.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Friday. ‘I doubt she has much interest in science, generally. But talk of diamonds would have caught her attention. Did you by any chance discuss how diamonds can be man-made?’
‘Yes, we did,’ said Mr Davies.
Friday nodded. ‘And one of the ways you can synthesise a diamond is “Ultrasonic Cavitation”.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Mr Davies. ‘It’s the latest experimental method.’
‘To create a diamond with ultrasonic cavitation you need a source of carbon and a carbon seed crystal then you bombard them with microwaves,’ said Friday.
‘Like Mrs Marigold’s missing microwave?’ said Melanie.
‘Precisely,’ said Friday. ‘Once you have a microwave plus peanut butter, which is a source of carbon and graphite, which is a form of crystallised carbon, you have all the ingredients to make your own diamonds.’
‘You do?’ asked the Headmaster.
‘Or rather, you think you do,’ said Friday. ‘If you don’t realise that you can’t achieve the right kind of microwaves with a domestic kitchen appliance, you don’t realise that pencil graphite includes large amounts of impurities, and you’re deluded enough to believe peanut butter could ever be transformed into a clear quality diamond.’
‘But he said it was possible,’ accused Mirabella, pointing at Mr Davies and revealing her scraped and bloodied fingertips. ‘All I got was a sticky mess of burnt charcoal!’
‘Where is the microwave now?’ demanded Friday.
Mirabella looked sheepish. ‘You know how the lacrosse shed burned down last night … and how one of the firemen got an allergic reaction …?’
‘Yes?’ said the Headmaster quietly. He didn’t want to frighten Mirabella with his welling rage before she made a full confession.
‘Well, I’ve got a key to the shed because I’m captain of the under-thirteen’s lacrosse team,’ said Mirabella. ‘So I put the jar of peanut butter in the microwave with the pencil lead jammed in the middle, then set the microwave on high for six hours. When I got back the shed was on fire.’
‘That was you?’ said Mr Davies.
‘I wasn’t worried because I knew diamonds could withstand extreme heat,’ said Mirabella, ‘but after Mr Pilcher put the fire out, the fireman recovered from his anaphylactic shock and everyone left, I looked through the charcoal remains and found the shell of the microwave. When I looked inside, there were no diamonds just burnt, sticky peanut butter.’
‘But ultrasonic cavitation only produces industrial diamonds,’ said Mr Davies.
‘That’s what I wanted,’ said Mirabella. ‘An industrial-sized diamond.’
‘No, industrial diamonds are microscopic grey diamond dust,’ said Friday. ‘They’re used for making sandpaper, not jewellery.’
‘You mean …’ said Mirabella, horrified, ‘I damaged my cuticles for nothing?!’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Friday.
‘Pooh, I knew I should have dropped science and taken geography instead,’ said Mirabella. ‘At least with Mr Maclean you can cheat and he’ll never notice.’
‘Mrs Marigold is going to be upset that she’s not getting her microwave back,’ said Melanie.
‘At least it wasn’t Dad,’ said Friday.
‘Or The Pimpernel,’ said Melanie.
‘Unless Mirabella is The Pimpernel,’ said Friday.
They both looked at Mirabella. Her bottom lip was stuck out in a pout as she inspected her damaged cuticles. There clearly wasn’t a trace of remorse in her brain for destroying the lacrosse shed or nearly killing a firefighter.
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘She’s too convincing as a dimwit. There’s no way she could be faking it.’
Chapter 18
; The Case of the Voice in the Night
‘Friday, I want to hire your services,’ said Pauline.
Friday and Melanie were sitting in the quietest corner of the common room, where all the nerds liked to sit. Friday was doing her homework and Melanie was taking a nap, face down, on her homework. An A4 workbook could be very comfortable.
Friday had never spoken to Pauline before. Not that Pauline was unfriendly, she just didn’t speak much. She was usually working. She was the top maths student in year 11. In the senior year, the top students got to study calculus. Friday looked forward to the day when she could move on from algebra and dive into the deep end of calculus. She already thoroughly understood the subject better than most professors of mathematics. But it was more fun than algebra because you got to spend a lot of time drawing graphs.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Friday.
‘There’s someone in terrible trouble,’ said Pauline.
‘Who?’ asked Friday.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pauline.
‘Then how do you know they’re in terrible trouble?’ asked Friday.
‘Because I hear them calling for help,’ said Pauline.
‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘We’re going to have to swap to narrative discourse. The Socratic method is clearly not telling me what I need to know here.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Pauline. ‘I’m a maths genius. I don’t understand your linguistic references.’
‘Tell me your story then,’ said Friday. ‘My questions aren’t helping me understand.’
‘The last three nights I’ve been woken up by a voice,’ said Pauline.
‘In your head?’ asked Melanie, stirring from her nap. ‘I hate it when they get noisy.’
‘No, in the roof,’ said Pauline.
‘Okay, that’s even stranger,’ said Friday. ‘Are you sure it’s not just a possum, or a rat? People often tell themselves the noise on their roof is a possum, but that’s only because they don’t want to think it’s a large rat.’
