by R. A. Spratt
‘Nobody will be consulting their lawyers,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘This whole thing is ridiculous and there is no evidence to support your wild accusation at all.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Friday. ‘I have three pieces of evidence, and I am sure when I investigate I shall find more.’
‘You’re going to be finished at this school after this,’ said Judith. ‘No-one will ever talk to you again.
‘Nobody much talks to her now,’ said Melanie.
‘You do,’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ said Melanie, ‘but I’m your best friend. Besides, no-one talks to me either. If I didn’t talk to you I’d have to go back to talking to the wall, which is always a very one-sided conversation.’
‘Just tell us your evidence and get on with it,’ snapped Mrs Piccone.
‘I draw your attention to Judith’s hair,’ said Friday. ‘You will see there is flour all through it.’
‘So? The girls made the crusts from scratch,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘They had to use flour.’
‘Not all of us are clean freaks like Rebecca,’ said Judith.
The other girls sniggered.
‘I can see how an unfastidious person could get flour on their apron, and even on their face and the hair around their face during the cooking process,’ agreed Friday. ‘But I cannot see how you would get flour on the top of your head and the middle of your back, unless you or someone else deliberately put it there.’
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Mrs Piccone.
‘To make it look like she had been cooking,’ said Friday, ‘when she had not been. She had merely reheated a quiche she had brought from home.’
‘That’s absurd,’ said Judith.
‘Then there are her dishes,’ said Friday. ‘If you look to the backbench where Judith works, you will see that her dishes are clean, whereas everyone else’s dishes still have congealing egg mixture or pastry dough crusting on.’
‘So I did my dishes,’ said Judith. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘You can’t have done your dishes because your hands are still covered in flour,’ said Friday. ‘Even if you wore rubber gloves, the flour would have rubbed off. Your dishes are clean because they were never dirty in the first place.’
‘It’s all just circumstantial evidence,’ said Stacey. She was Judith’s best friend and her father was doing five to ten for insurance fraud, so she was able to use big words like ‘circumstantial evidence’ accurately in a sentence.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ agreed Friday. ‘But there is no explanation for Judith’s lie.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Judith.
‘You said you picked the vegetables for your quiche by hand this morning,’ said Friday. ‘But there is asparagus in your quiche and asparagus is a spring vegetable. It won’t be ready in the garden for another eight months.’
‘That’s not true,’ protested Judith.
‘It can be easily checked,’ said Friday. ‘If you all look out the window you will see the asparagus patch down the far end of the garden. It is the big patch of dirt with nothing growing in it.’
‘So I used canned asparagus,’ said Judith.
Friday shook her head. ‘You are digging yourself into a deeper hole, revealing how little you really know about cooking. For asparagus to be canned it is cooked and stored in brine, which has a significant effect on its texture and colouration.’
‘Canned asparagus doesn’t look like fresh asparagus,’ said Rebecca. ‘It is soft and smaller and a greyish yellow tinge in colour.’
‘This is a terrible allegation,’ said Mrs Piccone.
‘Yes, we shall need some supporting evidence,’ agreed Friday, ‘but now that we have a working theory, let us extrapolate. Mrs Piccone, what is the next cooking assignment for this class?’
‘We are going to make apple pie next week,’ said Mrs Piccone.
‘And your students are aware of the assignment schedule ahead of time, I presume?’ asked Friday.
‘Why, yes,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘I give them a list before the holidays so they can practise.’
‘So if Judith brought a stash of pre-made baked goods from home at the beginning of term, where would she have hidden them?’ asked Friday.
‘They’d have to be frozen,’ said Melanie. ‘So I guess, in a freezer?’
‘Good deductive reasoning, Melanie,’ said Friday. ‘You’re improving.’
‘Thank you,’ said Melanie. She so rarely listened to conversations, it was nice to have the extra effort pay off.
‘Shall we check the deep freezer?’ Friday asked Mrs Piccone.
‘It’s over here,’ said Mrs Piccone, leading Friday to the corner of the classroom.
Friday opened the lid of the enormous chest freezer and saw that it was full of plastic bags containing vegetables, stocks of various flavours, sauces and cuts of meat. She took the packages out, one by one, and laid them on the floor.
‘She’s letting the food ruin, miss,’ complained Stacey.
‘Stop complaining,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘If you absorbed any of the information I taught you about home economics, you’d know it would take a leg of lamb more than a few seconds to thaw.’
Friday kept digging. ‘A-ha!’ She had bent over so far she practically tumbled headfirst into the freezer. Friday grabbed something from the bottom and pulled herself upright. She was holding a large white cardboard box. The box had a handwritten message on the lid.
Purrcy
(Dead Cat)
‘Don’t open that,’ warned Mrs Piccone. ‘That’s Purrcy the school cat. We’re storing him here until the end of term, when Mrs Henderson is taking him back to her home to bury him in her sandpit. Purrcy loved a sandpit.’
‘Really?’ said Friday. ‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Mrs Piccone?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Piccone.
‘Then how do you explain Purrcy’s transformation into an apple pie?’ Friday opened the box and revealed a perfect-looking apple pie.
Mrs Piccone gasped. All the girls looked guilty except for Rebecca, who looked angry and smug all at the same time.
‘I think if you ring Judith’s home you will soon discover a maid, a cook or some other member of the domestic staff who will confess to making this dessert,’ said Friday.
‘Girls, I don’t understand,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘How could you? Why would you?’
‘We were so sick of Rebecca’s smirking superiority,’ said Judith. ‘We just did it as a joke, really.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ agreed Stacey. The other girls nodded as well. ‘It’s a joke. Just like Rebecca is a joke.’ The girls sniggered. Rebecca looked hurt.
‘You should make sure you enjoy every last moment of high school then,’ said Friday. ‘It is the last place you’ll find where a person is scorned for caring about what they do and working hard to be good at it. Rebecca may well be an obsessive freak but in the real world she has all the makings of a top-class gourmet chef, once she learns to swear like a sailor, that is.’
‘Home economics has always been a subject rife with vitriolic rivalries,’ said Mrs Piccone. ‘But bringing a dead cat into it? That is a new low. You are all going to have to go and see the Headmaster.’
‘Poor Headmaster,’ said Melanie. ‘He’s going to need a bigger bench.’
‘There’s one more mystery that needs to be settled first,’ said Friday. ‘What did you do with Purrcy’s body?’
‘We buried him in the rose garden outside the Headmaster’s office,’ said Judith.
‘At least that’s a suitable, respectful resting place,’ said Friday, unexpectedly impressed by the thoughtfulness of the girls.
‘We found a hole there so we thought that would do the job,’ said Stacey. ‘Save us having to dig one up ourselves.’
Rebecca shook her head sadly. ‘You see, it is this slipshod mentality that will prevent them from ever becoming good cooks.’
Chapter 13
A Secret in th
e Woods
It was mandatory for students at Highcrest Academy to join at least one extracurricular club. Friday had pointed out to the Headmaster that by making an activity compulsory, it therefore was no longer extracurricular but, rather, curricular. The Headmaster simply told her to ‘be quiet and go back to class’.
Naturally the first club Friday joined was the science club. It was run by one of Friday’s favourite teachers, Mr Davies. There was very little he could teach Friday that she didn’t already know. But what she liked about Mr Davies was his enthusiasm. The delight he took in explaining the process of osmosis, the genuine wonder with which he held the periodic table and the excitement he felt for Newtonian physics was contagious. For Mr Davies, every day spent exploring science was as fun as a day at Disney land, something Mr Davies also highly recommended, because there is no better place to study gravity, momentum and centrifugal force than in the loop-da-loop of a rollercoaster.
The science club had spent the previous two weeks observing oral bacteria, by spitting into petri dishes then watching what grew. It was a disgusting but educational exercise. This week’s meeting was promising to be even more exciting. They were going to explore aeronautical physics by building rockets. The student whose rocket flew the highest would get a bar of chocolate.
Friday was pouring all her knowledge of physics into building the most aerodynamically pure and chemically potent rocket she possibly could.
Melanie helped, of course. It was her job to sit at the desk so that she blocked Ian’s view of what Friday was doing.
‘Are we all ready?’ asked Mr Davies. He was holding his own bright red rocket, which was about the size of a postal tube and had flickering flames painted on the side. He was practically dancing from foot to foot with excitement. ‘Then let’s go.’
The students got up from their desks and made their way with their rockets to the door. The rockets were going to be fired from the school cricket pitch. A vertical measure had been erected, and a high-speed camera was being used so that the flights could be accurately gauged.
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering, Barnes,’ said Ian as the bottleneck of the doorway drew him and Friday together. ‘This is a real practical experiment, not a hypothetical mind game like you usually play.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of transferring my intellectual knowledge to real-world scenarios,’ said Friday.
‘Really?’ said Ian. ‘But you apparently can’t manage the simple real-world task of tying your shoelaces.’
Friday looked down. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked. ‘They’re tied.’
‘Yes, but you doubted yourself enough that you had to check, didn’t you?’ said Ian. ‘Let’s see if you have the same faith in your rocket.’
‘Oooh,’ said Melanie. ‘You should write down some of this witty byplay so you can read the transcripts to your grandchildren one day.’
‘I didn’t know Barnes and Wainscott were planning to start a family,’ said Christopher.
Friday blushed. She didn’t realise that Christopher was standing close by.
‘Oh yes,’ said Melanie, ‘it’s inevitable. They’re just in denial because neither of them is terribly in touch with their emotions.’
‘Melanie,’ said Friday.
‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,’ said Christopher with a wink.
‘I’m not marrying anyone,’ protested Friday.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ said Melanie. ‘Sure, you are a trifle odd, but you’re quite pretty when you’re not wearing your green hat and brown cardigan. Ian won’t be able to resist you forever.’
Mercifully, thoughts of romance were soon forgotten when the students found themselves standing in the middle of a cold damp field, waiting for their turn to fire their rockets. Mr Davies had lined them up in a row and was personally supervising each launch. It was actually not quite as exciting as you might imagine because there is a lot that can go wrong with a rocket: electrical faults, design failures, damp in the connectors. The first two rockets didn’t fire at all, which made the girls who built them giggle. They’d only joined the science club because word had got out that Christopher, the dreamy new boy, had put his name down.
The third rocket did fire but then it spun in tight circles, never making it more than two metres off the ground before embedding itself nose-first in the cricket pitch.
‘Oh dear, Mr Pilcher isn’t going to be happy about that,’ worried Mr Davies. ‘He’s already got enough holes to deal with.’
Then it was Ian’s turn. Friday and Melanie took a couple of steps back, just in case Ian had packed his rocket with chocolate pudding or some other prank. Ian nonchalantly held the launch button in his hand.
‘When you’re ready, Mr Wainscott,’ said Mr Davies.
Ian smiled his smug smile, which made the girls giggle again. ‘Can I have a countdown, ladies?’ he asked.
The girls giggled some more. Friday rolled her eyes. ‘This will be interesting. I wonder if they can count backwards from ten.’
Evidently the girls did not like to stretch themselves, because they started from five. ‘Five … four … three … two … one … Blast off!’
Ian pressed the launch button and … nothing happened. His face fell. He started to walk towards the rocket to see what the problem was.
Friday instinctively did the same. Ian might be her nemesis but she never enjoyed seeing an experiment fail. They both arrived at the rocket at the same moment when suddenly WHOOOSH!, the rocket shot up in the air. Friday stumbled backwards and landed on her bottom. She looked up to see the rocket high in the sky.
‘Eighty metres, eighty-five, ninety!’ came a crackly voice over Mr Davies’ walkie-talkie. There was an observer standing on the roof of the administration building.
‘Well done, Wainscott!’ said Mr Davies, applauding enthusiastically.
Ian smiled down at Friday. ‘Do you think you can beat that?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Friday.
‘Mr Gianos, you’re up next,’ said Mr Davies.
Christopher stepped forward, made a couple of last-minute adjustments to his rocket, then stood back. He looked a little nervous.
‘Would you like us to count down for you too?’ tittered Mirabella.
‘No, thank you, I prefer to create dramatic tension in my own way,’ said Christopher. He turned and looked at Ian. ‘By saying kiss … my …’
WHOOOSH!
Christopher’s rocket took off. Straight away it was evident his rocket was going at a greater speed than Ian’s.
‘Seventy metres … eighty metres …’ said the voice over the walkie-talkie.
‘Well done, Gianos!’ exclaimed Mr Davies. ‘Ninety metres … one hundred!’ continued the voice on the radio.
Christopher smiled and cocked his head at Ian, who glowered. The rocket was still going.
‘One hundred and twenty, one fifty … one eighty-five!’ concluded the voice on the walkie-talkie.
‘That’s a new school record!’ exclaimed Mr Davies. ‘I’ve never got it above one hundred and thirty myself. You’ll have to take me through your exact construction process.’ Mr Davies slapped Christopher on the back and shook his hand.
‘There’s still one more to go,’ said Ian.
‘What?’ asked Mr Davies.
‘Friday,’ said Ian.
‘Oh yes, Barnes,’ said Mr Davies. ‘Of course, didn’t see you there. Must be that brown cardigan. Go ahead, you have your turn then.’
Friday picked up her launch button.
‘I’m sure Mirabella will do a count down for you if you ask her nicely,’ said Ian.
‘I wouldn’t want to strain her mathematical skills,’ said Friday. ‘Melanie, will you do the honours?’
‘Sorry, what?’ said Melanie. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘Never mind,’ said Friday. ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your daydream.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Melanie,
staring off into the middle distance again.
‘I’ll do it myself,’ said Friday. ‘Ready … aim … fire!’
Friday pressed her button and the whole launch pad exploded in a BOOM! The rocket shot upwards, but it sounded different to Christopher’s and Ian’s, more of a roar than a whoosh.
‘Fifty metres … seventy … eighty …’ said the voice over the walkie-talkie, but then Friday’s rocket seemed to slow. ‘Eighty-five …
‘Hard luck, Barnes,’ said Ian, smug once more.
‘Wait for it,’ said Friday.
BOOM! The rocket exploded mid-air, or rather the tail section did, and the nose section took off again even faster.
‘What was that?!’ asked Mr Davies.
‘The secondary booster,’ explained Friday.
‘Genius!’ exclaimed Mr Davies, watching the rocket through his binoculars.
‘I know,’ agreed Friday.
‘Two hundred metres …’ said the voice over the walkie-talkie. ‘Three hundred … four hundred … it’s too high, I can’t measure it anymore.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Friday, ‘I can.’ She reached into her backpack and pulled out a handheld electronic device.’
‘That’s cheating!’ exclaimed Ian. ‘Electronics are against school rules.’
‘Not all electronics,’ said Friday. ‘The school rules specifically state which electronic devices are not allowed and there is no mention of three-dimensional GPS trackers. Eight hundred metres.’
‘No way!’ exclaimed Christopher.
‘NASA satellites don’t lie,’ said Friday.
‘Bravo, Miss Barnes,’ said Mr Davies.
‘Twelve hundred metres … fifteen hundred metres … eighteen hundred metres … eighteen hundred and seventy-nine metres!’ declared Friday. ‘That’s the zenith, it’s coming down.’
High above them they could see a parachute pop out from the tail section. The rocket slowed to a gentle downwards drift.
‘Congratulations, Miss Barnes!’ said Mr Davies, shaking Friday by the hand.
‘It must be windy up there,’ said Melanie, shading her eyes as she kept watching the rocket. ‘It’s being blown sideways.’