As she dug down to the bottom of the trunk, she started. Without her knowledge or permission, her mother had hidden several of the books she’d written in her luggage. Amanda was so furious that she picked up the top one and threw it across the room, where it hit a wall and fell down behind a dresser. How could she? She had no right, no right to invade her privacy and try to propagandize her with that detective junk. She threw the other two books under the bed and practically ripped the rest of her clothes out of the trunk.
Her roommates had yet to make an appearance. She had visions of mean girls with svelte figures and porcelain complexions. She supposed they’d be blonde too. It would figure. She’d be the dark, fat, short one with the flyaway hair, stubby hands, and baby face, and they’d be the beauty queens. What else was new?
Suddenly a tiny girl wearing sunglasses entered the room with the most beautiful golden retriever Amanda had ever seen. Amanda was so startled she almost said something she would have regretted. Her roommate was blind! Whoever had heard of a blind detective? At least she wasn’t blonde. Her hair was so coppery that it lent a reddish sheen to the entire room, or at least Amanda imagined it that way. The girl would be perfect in a sixties-era film surrounded by psychedelic pinks, reds, and oranges. Or against a verdant outdoor setting in a period piece, perhaps in Ireland or even here in the UK. In fact—
“Hello. I’m Ivy,” said the tiny girl. “Ivy Halpin.”
“Amanda Lester,” said Amanda, rushing to shake her hand.
“And this is Nigel,” said Ivy, presenting her dog.
“Why hello, Nigel,” said Amanda. “He’s beautiful!” The dog’s yellow coat gleamed. It was as if the two of them, girl and dog, had been polished, they were so luminous. Amanda envisioned lighting them from various angles and settled on a backlight that would outline them in gold.
“Yes, he is,” beamed Ivy. “I’m afraid he does shed a bit, but he’s very tame and frightfully intelligent. Do you like dogs?”
“Oh, yes,” said Amanda. “My parents would never let me have one, but I do adore them.” What was this? She’d been in the country for two days and she was starting to sound like an English person already. She’d have to watch that. Sometimes her natural ability to mimic got her into trouble, and she had enough of that on her hands.
“What is that?” came a harsh voice from the doorway. “A dog?”
“Yes, this is Nigel,” said Ivy proudly.
“Get it out of here,” said the tall, plump, dark-skinned girl in the doorway. “You can’t have a dog in here. It’s a school.”
“She’s blind,” said Amanda. “Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Hey, you’re the one who threw up,” said the nasty girl, eyeing Amanda.
Amanda thought she would just about die. “What’s it to you?” The best defense was a good offense. The girl glared at her.
“Well, of course I’m blind,” grinned Ivy, ignoring the incipient argument. “It’s nothing to be sensitive about. I’m blind, you’re a short brunette with a nice nose and small feet,” she said facing Amanda, “and you,” she said turning to the girl in the doorway, “are tall, wearing earrings, and a bit red-faced at the moment. You also have long black hair. And yes, Amanda threw up. So what? I throw up all the time. Don’t you?”
“Hey,” said the tall girl. “How did you—am I red-faced? Really? And how do you know about my hair?”
“I may be blind but I’m not dumb,” said Ivy, grinning so wide that Amanda thought her face would split in two. “First, you’re embarrassed, and second, I can hear in your voice that you’re of Indian descent.”
“But I’m English,” the girl protested.
“So am I, but our families aren’t from here, are they? Can you tell about me?” She grasped her hair on both sides and pulled it out from her head as if to offer a hint.
“No.”
“Well then,” said Ivy in such a nice way that no one could possibly be offended “you’ve got a project to work on, haven’t you?” She turned to Amanda. “You’re from Southern California. I’d say Los Angeles. Not the Valley, but close to it.”
“You are kidding!” said Amanda. “You’re right. Calabasas.”
“Cala-who?” said the tall girl.
“Calabasas,” said Amanda. “It’s in the Santa Monica Mountains. It’s just past the San Fernando Valley. Lots of horses. That was amazing. You’re really talented.” She suddenly wondered what it was about the way she spoke that had given her away. Was there a Calabasas accent? She was sure there wasn’t.
“Thank you,” said Ivy. She turned to the tall girl. “And of course you’re from East Anglia, definitely Cambridge, but with a touch of central London, and I’m from Dorset, although as you will be able to tell once you’ve done your project, my family is from Dublin. Oops, I gave it away.” She clapped her hand over her mouth as if she were divulging the secret of the Holy Grail, then laughed.
“But how did you do that?” said the doorway girl, softening.
“I hear things,” said Ivy.
“You can’t hear what someone is wearing, or how tall they are, or what color their hair is,” said the girl.
“Yes, you can,” said Ivy. “You have to work at it, but you can.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” said the girl. “By the way, I’m Amphora. Amphora Kapoor.”
“Hello, Amphora,” said Ivy and Amanda in unison.
“And I’m sorry about what I said. He’s a lovely dog. Sheds a bit, though, doesn’t he? Is he going to be staying in this room with us?” Amphora seemed to be accepting him but she made no move to pet him and was still eyeing him with suspicion.
“Yes, indeed,” said Ivy.
“Yes, of course he would,” said Amphora. “How silly of me. He’s your guide dog. How else could you get to the loo in the middle of the night?”
“I have my ways,” said Ivy, still beaming.
“Um, I’m Amanda,” said Amanda. “I make movies.”
“We know,” said Ivy.
“Yes,” said Amphora. “It’s obvious.”
What was that supposed to mean? Amanda hoped it was a compliment. Oh well. If she had to be insulted, better that it be for her filmmaking than her genes.
The first class the next morning was History of Detectives. The classroom was huge and paneled in dark wood. Amanda thought it was beautiful but was thankful she didn’t have to polish it. It would take so long that as soon as she’d finished she’d have to start all over. The room felt old-fashioned but it was a lot nicer than the classrooms at Ysidro Middle School, which were so depressing that she was always mentally redecorating them.
“Bienvenido!” said the teacher, Professor Also, an athletic-looking, curly-haired woman with a kind face and a wavery voice. The students, some of whom appeared bright and eager and others of whom seemed not to have slept the night before, looked around blankly.
“Oh, sorry. Forgive me,” the teacher said. “I just got back from Costa Rica and I haven’t got my land legs yet. That means ‘Welcome.’ May I have a volunteer, please? How about you, Mr. Binkle?”
The goofy-looking boy with the glasses, late of the vomit incident, pointed to himself. “Me, your honor?”
“Yes, you, Mr. Binkle, and I am not your honor. Professor Also will do.”
“Yes, sir, er, your ladyship,” said the boy, every bit as awkward as Amanda thought he was.
Professor Also sighed. “Now would be a good time.”
“Right,” said the boy, and raced to the front, tripping over nothing twice on his way to the spot where Professor Also was pointing. Amanda felt sorry for him.
“Now, Mr. Simon Binkle,” said the teacher. “I want you to select from these items and give yourself a semblance of a detective’s mystique.”
“A what, ma’am?” said the boy.
“A detective’s mystique. Go on. Let’s see what you can put together.”
Mr. Simon Binkle had turned rather red. “I’m sorry. I don’t und
erstand, ma’am.”
“This, class, is exactly the problem for those of us who are new to the detective’s world. In order to be a great sleuth, you must develop a mystique. All the classic detectives have one and we will study them. A mystique sets you apart, and may I say, gives you a certain, I don’t know. Let’s say cachet.”
“Sorry, Professor. What’s cachet?”
“Cachet, Mr. Binkle, is that special something, an almost magical quality, that makes you fascinating.” The idea of the gangly Mr. Binkle being fascinating made Amanda want to laugh.
“Do you mean that we all have to be fascinating?” said Simon Binkle.
“Eventually,” said the teacher, at which the boy’s face went completely white.
“I see I’ve thrown you. Let me reassure you that developing a mystique isn’t nearly as intimidating a procedure as it sounds. This will occur naturally over the course of your time here at Legatum. Let’s talk about it a bit. Yes, Mr. Wiffle.” She pointed toward a pale, redheaded boy who was raising his hand excitedly.
“First, Professor, let me say that I’m very impressed that you already know all of our names. I think I’m going to enjoy your class. Second, can you tell us whether mystiques will be on the tests?”
Amanda looked over at Amphora, who was making a gagging face. When she saw Amanda looking at her she mouthed, “Do you believe this?” Amanda rolled her eyes, then grinned and shook her head. When she caught sight of Nick, who was sitting at the end of her row, she could see that he was laughing silently.
“I’m tempted not to answer that, Mr. Wiffle. A detective should be ready for anything. However, as this is your first day I will make an exception. No. Mystiques will not be on the tests but they will be part of your grade. Let me say right now that I will know if you’re faking a mystique. It’s perfectly acceptable to experiment, and in fact we expect you to do so. However do not try to impress us. A mystique evolves naturally. Trying to be something you’re not will get you nowhere and could actually backfire. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Professor,” said Mr. Wiffle. Amanda, Amphora, Nick, and Ivy were all stifling laughs. Simon, who was still standing in front of the class, seemed completely lost.
“Now, let’s talk about mystiques, shall we?” said Professor Also. “A mystique is much more than appearance, although that plays a large part because it’s what we see. It also has to do with the way the detective thinks and what he or she is most interested in. In other words, it’s what makes the detective different from other detectives.
“For example, we’re all familiar with Sherlock Holmes’s recognizable clothing and accoutrements, but what really defined his mystique was his keen ability to observe small details and draw conclusions from them.” Amanda winced. Who cared what Sherlock Holmes did or didn’t do? “But his observational skills didn’t operate in a vacuum. They depended on his arcane knowledge. As you know, he could deduce an astounding amount about a person just by observing his or her clothes, but in order to do that he had to familiarize himself with everything from buttons to types of wool. So his mystique depended on his knowing a great deal about obscure subjects. Yes, Mr. Wiffle.”
Not him again. Amanda was beginning to get the measure of this kid. She decided that staying away from him would be a good idea.
“Professor, will we be expected to study buttons and things like that?”
“Yes, Mr. Wiffle. Professor Sidebotham will be at your side for these six years, and by the time you graduate you will know more about buttons, fountain pens, and motor oil than 99.999% of the people on the planet.”
The kid’s mouth dropped. He obviously wasn’t happy. Amanda didn’t want to learn about buttons either, but she thought she could put up with it if it meant she got to watch him squirm.
“Mr. Wiffle,” said the teacher. “Do I infer correctly that you’re not interested in buttons and motor oil?”
The class laughed and the kid went as red as his hair.
“No, Professor Also,” he said, catching himself. “I’m quite looking forward to learning about motor oil. It sounds fascinating.”
The teacher gave the kid a look and said, “Indeed. Now, let’s continue with our discussion of mystiques. As I was saying, when you matriculate you will have developed a mystique that is unique to you. A unique mystique, if you will.”
There were giggles around the room until Professor Also fixed the class with a stony stare.
“A mystique is no laughing matter. It is your calling card. Your signature. Your, er, excuse me, Miss Lester, for putting it this way, your brand, as they say in America. No detective can practice effectively without one. Your mystique is your power. It throws people off, impresses them, stirs them to action. All these things are needed if you are to stay ahead of your suspects, witnesses, informants, and even at times your colleagues. So today, and during other lessons, we will discuss what a mystique is, why it’s necessary, and how to create one. Mr. Binkle, let’s see if you have good instincts.”
By now the boy was practically in hysterics. He seemed so self-conscious and flummoxed that he looked like he was going to melt into the floor. His eyes darted around the room like a mosquito that had lost its radar. Slowly he turned around to look at the shelves containing all manner of props: hats, coats, cigars, glasses, hairpieces, flowers, umbrellas, bags, shoes, musical instruments, writing implements, perfumes, wax fruit, books, and costume jewelry. He picked up a fedora and stared at it for a moment, then broke into a huge grin and stuck it on his head. It was too big for him and covered his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from turning back to the shelves and rummaging. After examining what must have been forty different items, he held up a red sweater vest and the class responded with an approving chorus of yeses. Emboldened, he turned back and presented a cigarette in a holder. “Uh uh,” said the class.
Getting into it now, the boy selected item after item, sometimes acceding to the class’s wishes and sometimes overriding them, until he had finished. When he was through, he was wearing a tweed jacket and holding a leather notebook. He looked like a cross between Inspector Thomas Lynley and Sam Spade, and he was ecstatic. The formerly shy boy had been transformed into a ham in front of the class’s eyes. Amanda couldn’t believe the change in him. Except she could, because she knew what acting could do to a person. Anyone could become anything. It was magical and she loved it. But there was another side to acting: it allowed you to mislead. She’d remember that later, to her dismay. But for now she was beginning to feel just the teensiest bit at home.
She was still on edge though. Although intensely grateful that no one had asked her who she was descended from, she had studiously avoided asking the same of the others for fear that she’d have to reciprocate. She was quite amazed, actually, because she’d expected the snobbery and the jockeying for status to be intense, and it wasn’t. Not yet anyway. But the other shoe always dropped. It was just a matter of time.
And then it happened—in Professor Scribbish’s evidence class, which followed History of Detectives. Amanda was sitting next to the kid who had asked whether mystiques would be on the tests. He whispered to her while the teacher was talking.
“Who are you descended from?”
Amanda froze.
“I say, who are you descended from? How did you get into the school?”
“Sssssh,” she said, not looking at him.
“Don’t shush me,” said the boy. He leaned closer. “What are you hiding?”
“What are you hiding,” hissed Amanda, still refusing to look.
“I’m not hiding anything, you cow. I’m descended from Sir Bailiwick Wiffle. You?”
Now she turned and met his gaze, which was smarmy and smug. She wanted to deck him. “What difference does it make?”
“What difference does it make? I’ll tell you what difference it makes. Who you’re descended from is everything. Do you really think the point of going to this school is to recite detective history and analyze fingerprints? Anyone can do t
hat. What matters is who you’re related to, and you’re obviously not related to anyone important.” He crossed his arms and gave her a challenging look.
“I’ll have you know I’m descended from Inspector G. Lestrade,” said Amanda without thinking.
OMG, it was out! Realizing what she’d done, she gasped so hard she almost cut off her wind. Now everyone would know. She’d never measure up to this aristocratic boy, for Sir Bailiwick Wiffle was an aristocrat, even if the kid was rude and a huge twit. Not that she wanted to be here—she still didn’t—but now everyone would know she didn’t belong. Even Ivy, who seemed to be the least judgmental person in the world, would be horrified.
She had to think. She couldn’t leave the school. Her parents would never let her. She couldn’t run away because she was twelve and where would she go? She couldn’t persuade her parents to let her transfer to a regular school where no one would care who her ancestors were. Think, think, Amanda. Act. Yes, that was it. Act.
“I’m sorry, but you’re obviously misinformed,” she said, her heart pounding. The whole class and the teacher were now staring at her. “Inspector Lestrade was a first-rate detective. I’m proud to be part of his family.”
“You’re joking,” said Wiffle’s alleged descendant.
“Certainly not,” said Amanda. “I never joke. Let me tell you some of the things my great ancestor did.”
“That will be enough,” interrupted Professor Scribbish, who along with the rest of the class was listening intently now. He was a bit of a dish, with dark curly hair and an affable manner, which had disappeared in a flash. It occurred to Amanda that he’d make a great actor, he so easily shifted his personality. “We do not disparage other people’s ancestors here at Legatum. If I see you failing to respect your classmates you will do two weeks’ detention. Mr. Wiffle, you will go to detention this afternoon after your classes are finished and you will return every day for the rest of the week. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Professor Scribbish,” said the boy, giving Amanda a piercing look.
Of course that was the answer. Whatever happened, she could act her way through it. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of that before. What kind of a filmmaker was she anyway?
Amanda Lester, Detective Box Set Page 4