And then, since I was in Mum’s study, which doesn’t happen that often, I thought I might as well have a little look around.
“Best Mummy in the world, queen of all mummies, endlessly beautiful model of mummyhood?”
“What have you done again?”
“Well, you see, admirable Maman, it all happened very accidentally. A treacherously slippery floor sent me flying into your study, and then my tie tied itself around the handle of the middle drawer of your desk, and it slid open, and suddenly a massive gust of wind hooked out a single piece of paper . . .”
“For goodness’ sake, Sophie! You’ve been looking through my desk?”
“I can’t have done, Mother, it’s made of solid wood.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
“Yes, that’s why I made sure Peter Mortimer was out of the room. Anyway,” I stated before she could retort, “this single small rectangular piece of paper somehow landed in my hand, and try as I may, I couldn’t help but notice . . .“
“Cut it, Sophie. You found the cheque. What of it?”
“Six hundred thousand pounds, Mum! Six hundred thousand pounds! How many bags of sea-salted caramel fudge is that? I can’t even represent it in my head! If I close my eyes and scrunch up my face like this—see how scrunched up it gets—like this—even if I do that, I can’t imagine it in my brain . . .”
“Good, because it’s not the kind of money I want my eleven-year-old to be able to imagine. Why do you only have one sock?”
“Who in the universe could possibly have given you all that money?”
Mum rolled her eyes and dropped a few extra sugar lumps in her tea. “It’s not mine, you featherbrain. It’s for Christ’s. For the College. To buy new books for the library and help a few students pay for their university fees. It’s a donation from Cooperture.”
“A donation? Why?”
“I’ll have you know, my dear, that it is extremely frequent for colleges to receive donations from sponsors. When you barged into Auntie’s Tea Shop yesterday, you interrupted a very important meeting I was having with the President and the Vice-President of Cooperture, and with Professor Philips who put us all in touch. Luckily, they mustn’t have been too appalled by your shockingly disgusting socks, because they made very generous donations to ten different colleges, including Christ’s. There might be more in the future. It is a very large sum of money, but there’s no reason to be so shocked.”
“But why give all this money away? Do they have too much?”
Mum rearranged her eyebrows in a way that made it clear she was explaining difficult things to a small child, took my hand, and said slowly, “No, darling. It’s in return for exposure. That’s what companies do. Cooperture gave us all that money in exchange for the installation of a piece of software on the college’s Internet system. Now every time students open the Internet in college, they see the word ‘Cooperture’ written at the top of the page. And that is all.”
“So they might buy things from them?”
“No, Cooperture is a marketing agency, they don’t make things. They just work for companies that do. They tell these companies how to get people to buy more of their products, and they help them sell them by making adverts. Anyway, it’s too complicated for you to understand.”
“What’s the point of advertising themselves then?”
“The point is . . . Well, the point is that students might then want to apply for a job at Cooperture.”
“But then they’ll have to pay them again for the salaries!”
“Yes, but over several years the students might make them money.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense! Giving all that money just because in ten years’ time a student from Christ’s might earn it back for them?”
Mum let go of my hand and laughed, looking at the ceiling. “Oh, Sophie! Why do you even care? Don’t worry about Cooperture, they have enough calculators and people who know how to use them to make absolutely sure that their investment will be worth it.”
“But Mum, don’t you find it weird . . .”
“Why do you only have one sock? We’re leaving in five minutes!”
“No news from the police about Jenna Jenkins?”
“No! Will you ever start minding your own business? Get ready, or else!”
So I got ready, because else isn’t pleasant when Mum’s involved.
I met up with Toby and Gemma in front of the chalky white columns of the Fitzwilliam Museum.
Mr. Halitosis decided three weeks ago that we were to spend a whole morning there in retribution for Stephanie Paulson telling him that art was only good for dusty old people like him. It wasn’t very fair of Stephie: it isn’t even dust, it’s dandruff. And he’s certainly not as old as his suits.
“Sorry I couldn’t say bye yesterday,” I said to Gemma. “My dad forcefully removed me from the place.”
“No problem, we had to stay there for ages anyway, to meet Edwin’s dad.”
“Edwin’s dad?”
“Yeah, he’s given Edwin money to help pay for the show, apparently, so I guess he wanted to check that we hadn’t all bought ourselves diamond tiaras and supercars. Did you find anything interesting?”
“Lots! But nothing links together. Or to Jenna Jenkins. It’s like life is sending me on ten paths at the same time!”
“It’s a problem we all have to face,” whispered Mr. Halitosis, and his whisper poisoned an unlucky fly who breathed its last buzz and fell to the floor.
“Come on, children, hush, we’re going into the museum. Solal, do not stick your bogey to that sculpture. Emerald, why are you crying? What do you mean, she stole your hair? It’s still there, my dear. Oh, I see, apart from that patch here—Dani, that wasn’t nice of you. Look, children! This is an authentic Greek statue. Why are you chuckling, Benjamin? Yes, it is very small, but at the time it was quite rightly perceived to be a sign of manliness.”
As the others gathered around the sugary-looking marble statues, Gemma, Toby and I were still conspiring on the side.
“I found something on the Internet,” said Toby. “An interview with Jenna Jenkins for The Cambridge Student, in which she talks about her little brother who’s disabled. She said she wants to be successful to be able to pay for better care for him.”
“Interesting,” I said, “but not linked to her mysterious disappearance.”
“Psychologically notable,” concluded Gemma. “But we have to find out what she’d discovered. It’s the only way to understand what happened next.”
“Are you enjoying Greek art, children?” said a soft voice above our heads. “Why, I think we’ve met before, Miss Seade.”
Black moustache and rimless glasses. My brain generally sends my parents’ pals’ faces to the recycling-bin of my memory pretty fast, but since I’d met that one only the day before in Auntie’s tea room, I remembered he was Professor Philips.
“Kalimera, respectable Greek Professor,” I said affably (that is to say, trying to sound like Gemma). “What are you up to on this sunny day? These are my friends Toby and Gemma, by the way.”
Unfortunately, Toby was just demonstrating a karate move which he was planning to use on Jenna Jenkins’s kidnapper when we’d finally cornered the bandit. Professor Philips twirled around and met Toby’s foot before being properly introduced to Toby himself. The encounter took place right in the middle of his belly.
“Humph!” humphed Professor Philips.
“Uh-oh, I’m going to be in trouble,” prophesized Toby.
And then we realized it was snowing envelopes in the manner of the legendary scene at the beginning of Harry Potter, except that the envelopes were emanating not from a fireplace but from Professor Philips’s leather briefcase.
“I’m so sorry,” said Toby, “my foot decided you were a kidnapper.”
The professor spat a few words which I assume were Greek and sounded threatening. Then he dusted off his shirt, on which th
e pattern of Toby’s sole was now neatly printed. Gathering his letters on the floor, he groaned, “A kidnapper indeed! I was simply on my way to the post office.”
“And you decided to do a detour via the museum?” said Gemma in a dubious voice.
“No, I work here. My office is downstairs,” replied Professor Philips icily.
As he was attempting to justify his suspicious conduct, I bent my neck to a painful 90° angle and read the address on the top envelope:
“Oh! That’s my mother!” I exclaimed.
“It is indeed,” commented Professor Philips. “Now, let me go through, you dangerous gang of terrorists.”
“Wait,’ I said, “give it to me and I’ll deliver it myself! I’ll put it in a little bag and then, tonight, I’ll put on an orange visibility jacket and get my bike out and say ‘Postman! Postman!’ and drop the letter into the letter box with lots of junk mail, and then run away from the dog! (Though we don’t actually have one, as it would infuriate Peter Mortimer.)”
“Thank you very much, but no,” said Professor Philips rudely. “This is a matter between your mother and me.”
“I really think you should consider Sesame’s offer, it’d save you a stamp,” said Toby.
“Will you leave me alone?” moaned the erudite man. And he was gone.
“Who was that?” questioned Gemma. ‘He didn’t look like the kind of person you’d usually hang out with.”
“He’s not,” I said, “he’s just pals with my mum.”
“Oh, I see. Why is he all weird about it? Do you think it’s a love letter he’s sending to her?”
“Are you insane? What kind of deranged lunatic would be in love with my mum? No, it must be about all that money she’s getting from some marketing company. He’s been helping her rake it in like Scrooge McDuck.”
“He looks like a right bore,” said Toby. “Did you see how mental he went when my foot connected with his stomach? Oh, no, we’ve lost the rest of the class! Run, or we’ll get pulped to death by Halitosis.’
As Toby and Gemma sped up to the next room, an alien body crunched under my shoe. I looked down with half-open eyes, dreading to see the corpse of a very small mouse, which was what it felt like. But it was, in fact, just a tiny grey key tied to a fluffy pompom, which Professor Philips must have dropped along with the letters.
A part of me said “Finders keepers.” Another part said “Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s,” which is one of those things that Jesus said in funny English. Normally I would have followed Jesus’s advice, since my dad works for his dad, but this time I had reason to believe that Caesar was actually not involved in this affair at all. So I pocketed the key and joined Toby and Gemma and the rest of the class and Mr. Halitosis, who was showing profound ecstasy in the presence of a decorated pot.
The rest of the visit went smoothly, until Mr. Halitosis handed out the packed lunches which Mr. Appleyard had prepared for us. Mr. Appleyard believes that children must eat more milk-based products per day than a cow can make in a year. Consequently, our sandwiches were composed of butter, cream cheese, and a slice of Red Leicester. Following this was yoghurt, and two Babybels per person. For drinks, we got Chocomilk.
Gemma was the first person to be sick, and chose to be so at the top of the marble staircase. Ben, who always copies everyone, was sick six seconds later. Soon the staircase looked like the Niagara Falls, Mr. Halitosis began to tear off what little hair was left on his head, and the museum staff discovered that there was only one mop in the whole building.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Mr. Halitosis, “my stomach is as stable as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I’ll just run next door to the Anchor and ask for extra mops.”
I don’t know if he heard me, but I ran to the pub before he could say no. I know the Anchor very well—my cool godfather Liam takes me there when he comes to Cambridge. The boss is called Sam, and his son, Peter, manages the punt-renting company right next to it.
“Peter!” I screamed, tumbling into the pub. “You must run at once to the Fitzwilliam Museum with at least twenty mops! You will find the entrance flooded by white-looking sick, my teacher moping on the side, and museum staff overwhelmed by the event.”
This didn’t seem to spur Peter into action. “The thing is, Sesame, well, I’d love to help, but I’m waiting for a delivery of mini-canoes. It could be here any minute . . .”
“I’ll wait here,” I said, “and take the delivery. I’ll stay outside the burrow like a watchful meerkat, and tell the delivery people where to store the ships.”
Peter had no choice but to go, and he’d only been gone a minute when a big white van backed into the parking space and an athletic-looking man—not unlike the Greek statue we saw before the great sick epidemic—jumped out.
“Heya,” he said, “you’re the manager’s daughter?”
“Sadly not,” I said. “My parents’ jobs are completely not as cool. I’m just helping him out while he’s on a mission.”
“Where do I put this?” asked the moving-Greek-statue man, lifting half a dozen canary-yellow canoes from inside the van.
I took him to the hangar behind the pub and he dropped the boats and six small paddles in there, alongside a bunch of inflatable jackets.
“They look like valiant vessels,” I said. “Are they difficult to steer?”
The Greek laughed. “Not sure you can even talk about steering, love. You just sit in there and splash around with the paddle and it moves. My two-year-old could do it.”
“I’m not sure Health and Safety would like that,” I remarked.
“Right. Well,” said the irresponsible father, “I’ll just go. Tell Peter we’ll settle up later.”
I wanted to leave him a tip, but I only had a tube of Mentos, so I just waved goodbye. Peter came back two minutes later, reeking of sick, with his nostrils squeezed together.
“Dammit, Sesame, what I wouldn’t do for you.”
“You’ve been heroic. Your canoes are inside the hangar.”
I shook his hand, which was sticky, and walked back to the Fitz, where Mr. Halitosis was in fits. Parents were waiting outside to take their pale and shaky children home, and though most of them complained loudly at being disturbed at work they all seemed pretty pleased about it. Toby, of course, wasn’t sick—he’s had to get through eleven years of Mr. Appleyard’s food, after all.
“Success!” I rejoiced aloud to him. “I haven’t been sick, which means that for once in a lifetime, my parents won’t be around!”
“Wrong,” replied Toby, “your dad’s over there.”
Shock horror, he was tragically right. It was Reverend Seade, no doubt about it, chatting with someone in a suit on the other side of the entrance hall.
“Father,” I declared, planting myself in front of him, “leave at once. I am in perfect health and do not require parental assistance.”
“What?” said Dad.
“I am so not sick that I even took a delivery of six canoes and an equal number of paddles and life jackets.”
“Are you crazy? Where will we put them?”
“No, I mean at the pub.”
“Heavens! What were you doing in a pub?”
“The museum staircase was in urgent need of spring-cleaning, so I went to ask for extra mops.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” stammered Dad. “I’m not here for you. The problem with Sophie,” he sighed to his mate, “is that she’s a self-centred little Omphalos.” And turning back to me, ‘Sophie, this is Professor Philips, a computer scientist at Trinity College. We’re here to have lunch in the museum café.”
“Professor Philips?”I repeated. “But Professor Philips left the museum hours ago. And he certainly didn’t look like that!”
“There is no need to point an accusing finger at Professor Archie Philips for not looking like his brother, Professor Ian Philips,” said Dad.
“Not a problem,” said Professor Ian Philips’s brother Professor Archie
Philips, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you, young lady. Your father and I have known each other since we were young men.”
“Nice to meet you, old gentleman,” I replied obligingly. “My father and I have known each other since I was born.”
“Sophie, can you please leave us?” implored Dad, looking a little weary.
I was happy to oblige.
There were eight survivors from the intoxication and we all congratulated each other on our stainless steel stomachs before heading back to school, dragging a comatose Mr. Halitosis by the hand. As we reached the school gate, I said to him, “Isn’t it amazing, Mr. Barnes? All these torrents of milk-scented vomit and we didn’t even feel slightly queasy! Even with those little bits of undigested bread floating around in it! I call it a victory.”
But then I realized Mr. Halitosis wasn’t listening any more: he was too busy being copiously sick into a bush, and the radioactive whiffs were spreading at lightspeed with every retch.
Since it would have been unfair to make us do maths and history while the others were at home being granted all their dearest wishes by their parents, the Head asked Mrs. Appleyard, who has a passion for animals, to come and tell us exciting facts about them. We saw the cruel python swallowing an entire bulldog, and the fearless cheetah running after an antelope, and the incredible gliding squirrel falling from branch to branch with just a square of skin stretched between its arms and legs!
And then we were allowed to go and do cartwheels on the school field, and inside the classrooms the other kids were pretty jealous of our super stomachs.
“Look!” said Toby, dropping a paper boat in the river Cam which runs along the bottom of the school grounds. “It’ll end up in Grantchester!”
“No it won’t. The river flows the wrong way.”
Rivers are very contrary. We waved goodbye to the scintillating ship on its long journey, and hoped it would discover unexplored lands in the manner of Christopher Columbus.
Sleuth on Skates Page 4