by R. A. Spratt
‘Serves you right, you nasty animal basher,’ said Ian.
‘Poor sportsmanship!’ wailed the Pontworth Prep coach. ‘He did that on purpose.’
‘Ian didn’t do anything,’ said Melanie. ‘It was the pony who did it on purpose.’
The Vice Principal rushed forward to help the Pontworth Prep coach get José to his feet. The other players trotted over.
‘He’s fine,’ said the Vice Principal. ‘Just winded. You’ll be able to keep playing, won’t you, boy?’
José nodded his head. ‘Sí, sí.’
As the Vice Principal let him go, Friday noticed a mark on José’s upper arm. ‘Is that a smallpox vaccination scar?’ she asked.
‘Of course, so what?’ said José as he dusted horse muck from the seat of his trousers.
‘Barnes! It’s not good manners to draw attention to our visitor’s scar,’ snapped the Vice Principal.
‘I didn’t point it out to be rude,’ said Friday. ‘I pointed it out to accuse him of cheating.’
‘What?!’ exploded the Vice Principal.
‘This is an outrage!’ declared Pontworth Prep’s polo coach. ‘How dare my player be insulted in the middle of a match! This is all just a ploy to psyche him out, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘I couldn’t care less who won the match.’
‘What about school pride?’ demanded the Vice Principal.
‘I don’t think the school should be proud of the results of four of their students riding round on horses whacking a ball,’ said Friday.
‘They’re called ponies,’ said Melanie.
‘Which I totally don’t understand,’ said Friday. ‘The vast majority of them are over fourteen hands high at the withers, which is the distinction between a pony and a horse.’
‘It’s traditional to call them ponies,’ said Ian.
‘It’s irrational,’ said Friday.
‘Are you going to make this girl apologise?’ demanded the Pontworth Prep polo coach to the Vice Principal. ‘Or will I have to write an official letter of complaint to your headmaster and the International High School Polo Association?’
‘I’m not going to apologise because he confirmed that it is a smallpox vaccination scar, and the World Health Organisation certified smallpox as being eradicated in 1979, which means that José can’t be a high school student,’ said Friday. ‘He must be well over thirty.’
‘Perhaps he got held back for poor academic results?’ said Melanie.
‘No school holds a student back that long,’ said Friday.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Binky. ‘Otherwise I’d be here into my fifties.’
‘José, I’m appalled that you would deceive the school about your true age,’ said the coach.
‘Stow it, Roger,’ said the Vice Principal. ‘No-one believes this crackpot scheme wasn’t your idea. You tried using a rodeo bronco last year, and a racing thoroughbred the year before that. You’re always coming up with new and stupid ways to cheat. Tonight there will be an angry letter written to the International High School Polo Association, but it’s going to be about you.’
‘Sirs,’ interrupted Ian, ‘this is all very shocking and a terrible blight on the game, but can we just get on with the match? We’ve got a good chance of winning anyway, even with José being a flagrant cheat. Let’s finish the game and have some fun.’
The crowd cheered. The riders remounted. Except for José. He was replaced by their substitute player, a pimply, lanky, gangly boy.
‘That one’s definitely a teenager,’ said Friday.
‘Either that or he’s suffering a terrible vitamin deficiency,’ said Melanie.
Play resumed and Pontworth Prep was clearly cowed. Princess Ingrid could smell blood – she showed no mercy. With Binky setting her up and Ian running interference for her, she was easily able to slam home three more goals, much to the delight of the roaring crowd. When the final siren sounded the Highcrest students ran onto the field cheering. Then they stood back while the sweaty horses were led back to their grooms. Then they rushed forward again to pick up the four players and carried them on their shoulders to the podium, where the Vice Principal was standing with the Trumpley Cup.
Ian, Princess Ingrid, Nigel and Binky climbed up on the stage. The Vice Principal leaned in to give his speech. Friday and Melanie wiggled their way to the front of the crowd.
‘Here we go,’ said Friday. ‘I bet this takes a while.’
But it didn’t, because at that moment the Vice Principal was interrupted.
‘Excuse me, Vice Principal,’ said the Headmaster, moving between him and the microphone. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ The Headmaster reached out and took the cup from the Vice Principal’s hands. The Vice Principal looked like he wanted to cry.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Headmaster, ‘we are honoured to have a very special guest pay a visit to us today. It is only fitting that we ask him to present this trophy, given that his daughter is part of the victorious team.’
Princess Ingrid went from looking triumphant to ghostly pale.
‘Please make welcome His Royal Highness – the King of Norway!’ The Headmaster stood back and a very elegant but slightly overweight man in a perfectly cut navy blue suit stepped forward.
‘Your Majesty,’ continued the Headmaster, handing the trophy to him, ‘if you will be so kind. The Trumpley Cup has been won by your daughter and her team.’
The king took the trophy, beamed proudly and turned to face the victors. Then his face fell. ‘Hva pokker er det som skjer?’ he demanded.
No-one knew what this meant, but from his tone of voice he was clearly very angry.
‘I’m sorry, sir, is there a problem?’ asked the Headmaster.
‘Who is this?’ demanded the king. ‘She is not my daughter. Where is my daughter? What have you done with her?’
Chapter 25
The King’s Daughter
‘What?! Nothing! But she told me she was the princess!’ protested the Headmaster.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Friday, stepping forward so she was right in front of the podium. ‘I think I can help.’
The Headmaster dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Please do. Losing a royal princess is not going to look good on my resume. And I’ll need a good resume because I’ll almost certainly be fired if I’ve lost a royal princess.’
‘The real Princess Ingrid is perfectly safe and holding Binky’s hand,’ said Friday.
Everyone looked around at Binky. He was standing next to Debbie holding her hand.
‘I’m here, Papa,’ said Debbie.
‘Ingrid!’ The king rushed forward to crush her in a hug.
‘Ingrid?’ exclaimed Binky. ‘Oh no, I’m totally confused.’
‘It’s true,’ said Debbie, which was difficult because her father was hugging her so hard he was crushing her chest. ‘I’m sorry to deceive you, but I am the real Princess Ingrid of Norway.’
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ said Binky, looking stunned.
‘How did you know?’ Debbie asked Friday. ‘I’ve worked so hard to keep my identity a secret.’
‘That’s why I didn’t say anything earlier. I may listen at walls, but I have some respect for the notion of privacy,’ said Friday. ‘I realised that the princess wasn’t a real princess when she first arrived and my father’s car exploded.’
‘You did?’ asked Debbie.
‘Rasmus didn’t rush to her,’ said Friday. ‘He rushed at Ian. We thought he suspected Ian of being responsible. But Ian was standing in front of you. Rasmus rushed to knock you down to protect you from danger. Once I suspected that Ingrid wasn’t the real princess, there were lots more clues. There was your hostility towards the princess. The plain lenses in your glasses – which Melanie noticed. And most significantly, there was Ingrid’s distaste for fish. With Norway’s long coastline and proud fishing heritage, there is no way a Norwegian princess would ever denounce the taste of fish. And finally there was the ti
me you yelled at Rasmus in Norwegian in the middle of the night.’
‘I suppose that was pretty suspicious,’ admitted Debbie. ‘I’m sorry. I hired an actress to pretend to be me so that for the first time in my life I could really be … me.’ She turned to Binky. ‘I hope you can forgive me. I just wanted to experience high school as a normal student.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll forgive you,’ said Binky. ‘No need to worry about that. You’ll just have to wait until the blood stops rushing in my ears and I stop hyperventilating.’
‘But no normal student would ever want to go to high school,’ said Melanie. ‘Not if they could lounge around a European castle instead.’
‘Rasmus,’ said the King of Norway, turning on the bodyguard, who was standing at the back of the stage. ‘Did you support this debacle?’
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ said Rasmus, staring at his shoes.
‘Your job is to take care of the princess, the real princess!’ yelled the King of Norway.
‘I thought she would be safer with a decoy,’ said Rasmus. ‘And she left me no choice. Your daughter can be very forceful when she wants to be.’
‘You can?’ asked Binky.
‘My time here at Highcrest has been the happiest of my life,’ said Debbie.
‘Really?’ said the Headmaster, who was pleased but secretly suspicious he must be doing something wrong if a child was enjoying going to school that much.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Melanie, ‘but why is Princess Ingrid the impostor galloping away on her pony?’
Princess Ingrid was indeed galloping at full speed across the polo field, heading towards the swamp. She had something bright and shiny tucked under her arm.
‘She’s stolen the cup!’ said Friday. ‘She’s The Pimpernel!’
Friday instinctively started running after her, although goodness knew why. She never could have caught Princess Ingrid if she was chasing her on foot, but to chase the princess when she was galloping away on horseback was positively ridiculous.
Then suddenly Friday found herself grabbed under her arms and hoisted upwards. Ian had pulled her onto the back of his pony. ‘Hang on tight,’ he warned. Ian urged his mount forward and they took off in pursuit. Friday clung to Ian like a scared limpet grasping a rock in a storm. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder blade and her arms were wrapped tightly around his disgustingly sweaty polo shirt. The pony was throwing up great clods of dirt behind them as they powered across the field and lunged into the swamp, following the sound of Princess Ingrid’s hoof beats.
‘She’s heading for Mr Pilcher’s motorboat,’ said Friday.
‘Duck,’ said Ian.
‘You think she’s heading for a duck?’ asked Friday.
‘No, duck!’ said Ian.
Friday looked up to see a low hanging branch inches from her face. She ducked.
‘There! Up ahead,’ said Ian.
In front of them Ingrid was climbing into the boat. She turned the engine on and started guiding the boat out into open water.
‘We’ve got to stop her!’ yelled Ian.
‘No, just let her go,’ said Friday.
‘No way,’ said Ian. ‘She’s got the cup.’ He urged his pony into the water.
‘Stop!’ said Friday. ‘It’s just a cup!’
‘That’s worth $100,000!’ said Ian.
At that moment the decision was made for them, because it turns out that Ian’s pony did not care to take a bath. When Butterfly Buttons found herself shin-deep in mud and water she decided she’d had enough, reared up and threw Friday and Ian off before cantering back to her nice warm stable at the school.
Friday and Ian landed ingloriously in the thick, stinky swamp mud.
‘Fantastic,’ said Ian. ‘We’re covered in mud, the school lost a $100,000 trophy and Princess Ingrid has got away.’
‘Only one of those three facts is correct,’ said Friday.
‘What are you talking about?’ Ian struggled to stand as the viscous mud fought his efforts.
‘The cup is not worth $100,000,’ said Friday. ‘I made Parker say that to draw out the thief. It’s really just gold-plated. It cost the school $18 to have it made back in 1938.’
‘Which other fact is incorrect?’ asked Ian.
‘Princess Ingrid has not got away,’ said Friday, pointing to the boat.
Ian turned to see the boat slowly cruise to a halt.
‘I siphoned most of the petrol out last night,’ said Friday. ‘I wasn’t sure who The Pimpernel was, but I didn’t want to leave an escape route open before I found out.’
‘What if she makes a swim for it?’ asked Ian.
‘I doubt she will,’ said Friday. ‘Most Northern Europeans are only moderately good at swimming. Besides she’s phobic of fish. So she’d never even dip her toe in the water.’
They could hear a siren in the distance.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ian.
‘While you were playing polo, I borrowed Mrs Cannon’s phone to alert the coastguard that an act of smuggling would be taking place here, at precisely this time,’ said Friday, checking her watch. ‘They’re actually a couple of minutes tardy. I’ll have to have a word with their chief about that.’
Chapter 26
The Truth Revealed
Later that afternoon Friday sat on the rostrum alongside the polo pitch reviewing the day’s events with the Headmaster, Ian, Debbie, Melanie and Dr Barnes. He had been released when Princess Ingrid, whose real name was Karin Jonas, had confessed to the entire litany of theft that had taken place at the school over the previous six weeks. Although he was still so confused Dr Barnes sat with his head in his hands not saying very much.
The Headmaster was pretty flustered. ‘So I have been bending over backwards to accommodate every whim of some unknown Norwegian child actress?’ he asked.
‘She’s actually very well-known in Norway,’ said Debbie. ‘She’s a soap opera actress. In hindsight, I suppose I should have taken that as a warning sign. Actors are so morally bankrupt.’
‘But why didn’t anybody notice when that photo was in the magazine?’ asked Binky, turning to Debbie. ‘You don’t look anything like that other Ingrid. Surely someone Norwegian would have been able to tell.’
‘Actually,’ said Debbie, ‘I do look a lot like that other Ingrid. This isn’t my natural hair colour and I’m wearing brown contacts. I’m really blonde with blue eyes.’
‘No way!’ exclaimed Binky.
‘Are you angry?’ asked Debbie.
‘I’m very, very confused,’ said Binky.
‘But he usually is,’ said Melanie.
‘I hate to sound superficial,’ said Binky, ‘it’s just that … I fell for a short, dowdy brunette in an ugly blue cardigan.’
‘I’m still short,’ said Debbie. ‘And my cardigan is still ugly.’
‘True,’ said Binky. ‘I know I shouldn’t be shallow. It’s poor form. I’m sure I can overcome it.’
Debbie gave Binky an affectionate squeeze. And he distractedly kissed the nearest part of her. The top of her head. He was still very muddled.
‘Why don’t you have a Norwegian accent?’ asked Melanie.
‘It can be surprisingly dull living in a castle. There are so many priceless historical artefacts that you can’t ever touch,’ explained Debbie. ‘So I tend to spend a lot of time watching English-language TV.’
‘Me too!’ said Binky, brightening up. ‘That’s good. We do have things in common.’
‘But I don’t understand why Ingrid wanted to steal all those things,’ said Ian.
‘She was an addict,’ said Debbie. ‘She was addicted to shoe shopping. I didn’t realise when I hired her. But when we were sharing a room I soon realised she was unbalanced. She was driven by an irrational desire to own more and more shoes. She stole all those things so she could sell them and buy more shoes. My father will arrange for her to be sent home to Norway and get treatment there.’
‘How long have you known she was
The Pimpernel?’ asked Friday.
‘I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected,’ said Debbie. ‘I have been looking for her stash, hoping that I could return the stolen property. It was clever of her to hide it all in your father’s broken-down car. I never thought of looking there.’
‘So how long have you known?’ Ian asked Friday.
‘Since you told me,’ said Friday.
‘Me?!’ said Ian. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When her necklace got caught on your shirt,’ said Friday. ‘You said she had a pair of diamond encrusted scissors in her pocket that were so sharp they easily sliced through your heavy cotton shirt. That’s how she sliced off the Headmaster’s watch and your lanyard. But it was only a suspicion. I needed proof before I could say anything.’
‘I see,’ said Ian.
‘And of course you did your best to put me off the right track,’ said Friday.
Ian smiled.
‘He did?’ asked Melanie.
‘Ingrid may be the thief,’ said Friday, ‘but I suspect that Ian is the elusive Aquamarine Pimpernel.’
‘You can’t prove that,’ said Ian.
‘No,’ agreed Friday, ‘but if the calling cards weren’t left lying around by the thief, they must have been made up as a joke by someone with a devious sense of humour. Someone who enjoys creating a stir.’
‘That does sound like Ian,’ said Melanie.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said the Headmaster. ‘The Pimpernel is just a joke. And you –’ he turned to Debbie ‘– a girl I’ve hardly noticed, are in fact heir to the throne of Norway!’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Debbie. ‘I wear these thick glasses and drab clothes so the paparazzi won’t want to take my picture.’
‘I think your thick glasses and drab clothes are beautiful,’ said Binky.
Debbie smiled. ‘That’s what I like about you. Your simplicity.’
‘And the Haakon Stone is safe,’ said the Headmaster, taking the pink diamond necklace from his pocket. ‘We were able to get it back from the fake princess before the police took her away. I am pleased to be able to return it to you, Your Highness.’ He handed the necklace to Debbie.
