The Poisoned Arrow

by Simon Cheshire

  The play ended with a mighty cry from Tom: ‘Our dead king be avenged! Knowest thou that justice be upheld! To glory!’ There was so much clapping and cheering I thought it would never end. The cast took their bows from the middle of the muddy patch that the battle had stirred up. Sir Gilbert got the biggest cheer of all.

  The audience gradually dispersed, amid mutterings of ‘Best play I’ve seen in years’, and ‘Clever idea, that’, and ‘Oh dear, I think I’ve stood in horse poo.’ The cast regrouped in the backstage area of the theatre. I trotted over to where Tom was busy scraping some of the mud-splats off his costume.

  ‘I told you I had radical and very exciting ideas for the battle scene,’ he declared. ‘And they worked brilliantly.’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘Yes, they did. But what if it had been tipping down with rain?’

  ‘We’d have got wet! You can’t let the weather spoil great art! Although,’ he added, ‘I still don’t know why Morag said yes to my ideas.’

  ‘Oh, I think I might now have the answer to that one,’ I said. ‘Excuse me, I must go and have a chat with Morag.’

  I found her sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the stage. The auditorium was now deserted. You’d never have guessed what had happened. I sat down beside her and quietly let her know what I’d seen.

  ‘Tom told me you’re a great detective,’ she said. ‘So I assume you’ve worked out what’s been going on?’

  ‘I have,’ I said. ‘At long last. How much did Dreasdale offer you, to co-operate with his plan?’

  ‘Oh, a lot,’ said Morag, rolling her eyes slightly. ‘A lot. And for a little while, I have to admit I was tempted. I really was.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘You know, I think it was the play,’ said Morag. ‘The Poisoned Arrow is all about doing the right thing and making sure the bad guys don’t have their way. It reminded me that I had a duty not to let Dreasdale get away with it, no matter what. Besides, this building is important to a lot of people. Some things are far more valuable than money.’

  ‘So you pretended to go along with Dreasdale’s plan?’

  ‘Yes. I went to the police a couple of weeks ago. They’ve been after Dreasdale for a while, but they’ve never had enough evidence to make a serious charge stick. They needed to catch him red-handed, so they came up with the idea of tonight’s ambush. Now they’ve got the whole gang, and they’ve got his phone, along with the text he sent telling them to attack the building.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘All this week I’ve completely misinterpreted your actions.’

  ‘How?’ she said.

  ‘Well, for a start,’ I said, ‘you reduced the number of people in the cast. The real reason you did that was because you knew those pumpkin-heads would go backstage and flush out anyone there before they could escape through the back doors. You were trying to keep as many people as possible out of harm’s way, just in case.

  ‘And you kept all the house lights on during the performance. The real reason you did that was to make sure that the pumpkin-heads would be seen the instant they turned up, giving the audience the best possible chance of keeping away from them.

  ‘And you seated the special guests all over the auditorium. The real reason you did that was to make it as hard as possible for the pumpkin-heads to get to them. They’d have to run all over the place to reach all their targets.’

  She grinned at me. ‘Correct, correct and correct. But then Tom came up with the brilliant idea of having the big battle scene in the field outside.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘He didn’t know it but his idea fitted in perfectly with the police ambush. It got the entire audience out of the way at just the right time. He’s still amazed you said yes.’

  ‘Well, let’s let him think it was down to his magnetic personality,’ said Morag. ‘I’m relieved it wasn’t tipping down with rain, or we’d have had to abandon the idea. The quieter we can keep the ambush, the better. I don’t want anything to upset what’s been an unexpectedly successful evening.’

  ‘Maybe you could have pretended that the ambush was part of the play?’ I said brightly. Morag stared at me wearily. ‘Or, maybe not, rubbish idea,’ I muttered.

  Only one difficulty remained. Dreasdale was rich and powerful and he now knew that Morag had led him into a trap. What if he sent someone after her, for revenge?

  ‘The police did warn me about that,’ said Morag when I mentioned it to her. ‘But they’re helping me take care of it. There’s no way I’m going to be bullied by the likes of Jason Dreasdale. He doesn’t scare me.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘But if you ever need help, Tom knows where to find me. Talking of Tom, I’m going to see if I can cadge a lift home off his parents. See ya!’

  I arrived back home mulling over what a strange and eventful evening it had been. I hurried out to my shed, determined to get some notes down on paper while the whole thing was still fresh in my mind.

  It was only then that I remembered something Izzy had said. I looked at my watch. 9.38 p.m. I still hadn’t done my science homework. Hmmm.

  Everyone agreed that the play had been a triumph, and Tom got all the credit for the battle-in-the-field idea. He boasted about it for days. No, weeks. No, come to think of it, he was still boring the whole school with it for the rest of that term. Some things never change.

  Sir Gilbert Smudge got rave reviews for his performance in The Poisoned Arrow. The following week he was offered a leading role on Broadway in New York. He was back on the A-list. He insisted on having Morag hired as director.

  And as for Jason Dreasdale, well he, plus his gang, plus half a dozen crooked accountants and lawyers he employed, all got prison sentences a few months later. The police had a field day unravelling the web of corruption and shady deals that spread through his entire organisation. I had a good laugh every time the media revealed another major crime he was being charged with.

  Case closed.

  CASE FILE TWENTY:

  THE NIGHTMARE OF ROOM 9B

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  IF YOU HAPPEN TO TURN up at St Egbert’s School one lunchtime, and it happens to be a day when I’m not in the middle of an investigation, ask me to tell you all about the Three Most Important Elements of Crime Detection. I can’t really go into details now, otherwise I’ll use up the rest of this book. I’ll simply say that these Important Elements are: 1) Motive, 2) Method, and 3) Opportunity. In other words: why they did it, how they did it and when they did it.

  I’m sure you’ve heard me mention these things plenty of times before. The point is, when you’ve investigated as many strange and mysterious happenings as I have, you start to take things like this for granted.

  And you shouldn’t.

  Mind you, not everyone would agree with me about these Important Elements in the first place. I recently read a huge book about street crime in big cities and the cops in that book definitely rate the Important Elements as: 1) Evidence (weapons, DNA, etc), 2) Witnesses (anyone who saw it happen, or saw the bad guy running away), and 3) Confessions (getting the bad guy to own up). Mostly, they don’t need to worry about a crime’s motive.

  But they’re tough cops, doing a tough job in tough places. I’m not. They have loads of people and special laboratories at their disposal. I don’t. They are the Law, they have authority on their side. I’m a schoolboy, for goodness’ sake! Detectives like me have to rely on brainpower alone.

  Anyway, sorry, I seem to be drifting off the point here . . .

  What I’m saying is, never make assumptions about these Important Elements. Motive especially. Because sometimes, just sometimes, they can turn out to be really weird.

  Detectives have to be rational. Logical. Detached from the situation. ‘Dispassionate’ is another word my thesaurus suggests. You mustn’t let personal feelings interfere with your thinking. Do you ever see great fictional detectives like Hercule Poirot or Philip Marlowe running off in tears because
things are getting a bit much? No, you bloomin’ well don’t!

  And it’s this need for logic and being dispassionate that can make the occasional weirdness in the Important Elements very hard to untangle.

  Here’s a perfect example of how motive-madness can throw a spanner in the works: a case I’ve called The Nightmare of Room 9B.

  It started on one of those very rare mornings when the weather is in the Goldilocks zone – not too hot, not too cold. Just right.

  Even better, it was a school day but the whole of St Egbert’s was closed! There had been an accident involving the electricity supply and a jug of school gravy. St Egbert’s wouldn’t be open again for the rest of the week. The Head was furious. The rest of us were delighted. I was double-delighted because I still hadn’t done my science homework and now I had a few extra days to get it finished.

  I was in my Crime HQ, flopped into my battered old leather armchair – my Thinking Chair – and I was weighing up two alternatives. Should I do my science homework or sort through some of the case notes in my filing cabinet? Hmmm . . .

  I’d just got a pile of case notes out on my desk when there was a tap at the shed door. ‘Come in!’ I cried.

  It was Mrs Hardyman, one of our school dinner ladies. I’d always thought of her as slightly scary. She reminded me of something plastic left in a hot oven: everything about her seemed melty and elongated. Even at the best of times her face was thin-lipped and sour, but now it appeared to have been soaked in vinegar for a couple of days. She stepped into the shed as if walking on broken glass.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘H’lo Saxby,’ she said in a quiet, doleful voice. ‘I asked a couple of teachers and they said you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, smiling. I offered her my Thinking Chair and I made a space for myself amongst the case files on the desk.

  Her eyes flickered around the shed, taking in the piles of gardening and DIY stuff I’m forced to share my Crime HQ with. ‘I’ve only come here because the police don’t want to know and I can’t afford a proper detective.’

  ‘Er, OK,’ I said, still smiling.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally ask some kid I hardly know for help,’ she said. ‘Especially one of that St Egbert’s mob.’

  ‘Er, OK,’ I said, still smiling.

  ‘I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here. I’ve come to the end of my tether.’ Tears began to well up in her eyes. Suddenly, I felt very sorry for her.

  I don’t like it when people start crying in my shed. I guess it’s something to do with that stay-logical-and-detached business I mentioned.

  Quickly, I tugged the hanky from my pocket and handed it to her, hoping she wouldn’t notice the bits I’d already sneezed on. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back. As she glanced at me, there was genuine sorrow on her face and I felt sorry for her all over again. She sniffed and straightened herself up.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I’ve hardly slept the last couple of nights. I’ve been so worried.’

  ‘What about?’ I asked. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s my boy, Nat,’ she said. ‘He’s a student over at the university. He’s been home for the past couple of days and he’s hardly left his room. He won’t eat and he just sits there looking unhappy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was arrested by the police on Tuesday. They’ve let him out on bail, but they’re charging him with theft. The university have suspended him and he’ll be expelled if he’s found guilty. They’re saying he stole a laptop computer from his tutor, Dr Shroeder.’

  ‘And, umm . . . did he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ cried Mrs Hardyman. ‘He’s never been in trouble in his life. He’s a good boy. Someone has set him up! He’s innocent!’

  ‘And who’s accusing him of this theft?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s accusing himself,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘And his three best friends are backing him up.’

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  I FROWNED SLIGHTLY, AND MY mouth squidged into the shape of a comma. ‘Soooo,’ I said, ‘your son Nat has admitted that he stole a computer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hardyman, ‘but he didn’t do it.’

  I paused. I was trying to think of exactly the right way to express what I was thinking.

  ‘A computer has been stolen,’ I said, slowly, ‘and Nat says he stole it. And, you say, his three best friends also say he stole it.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Hardyman.

  ‘But he didn’t really steal it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because he’s a good boy,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘He wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s never been in trouble in his life.’

  ‘So why would he and his friends lie about something like that?’ I asked. ‘It’s a pretty serious thing to admit to if you didn’t do it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Someone’s forced him to take the blame,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘Someone’s bullying him or blackmailing him or something like that. He’s a good boy.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Umm, Mrs Hardyman, I, er, don’t want to appear, umm . . . unkind . . . but, if Nat and three other people all say he’s guilty, isn’t it just possible that he’s, er, guilty?’

  ‘Then where is this stolen computer?’ Mrs Hardyman pointed out. ‘He’s said to the police that he’s hidden it. What’s the point of that? Steal a computer, then hide it so nobody can use it, then own up to stealing it in the first place? It’s crackers!’

  I had to admit, when you looked at it that way, it did seem odd. ‘Tell me all the details,’ I said. ‘Let’s get a clear picture of what’s happened.’

  ‘My Nat is twenty years old,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘He’s been studying advanced maths at the university for over a year. And he’s been doing very well at it, too. He’s top of his class. Dr Shroeder says his demonstrations of equation-solving in class are the best he’s ever seen.’

  ‘And does he have a lot of friends at uni?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, no, just the three, really. He’s shy and sensitive, very dedicated to his studies. He’s not one of these students you see on telly going to parties all the time and making a lot of noise at three in the morning. He lives at home with me, he eats sensibly and he does his share of the chores.’

  ‘And does he use computers much?’ I said. ‘I suppose he must do if he’s studying maths.’

  ‘Yes, he’s got two of them,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘A laptop he’s had for years, which he takes to classes with him every day, and a large one on the desk in his room which he bought with money from his part-time job. He works in SuperSave at the weekends. I’m telling you, he’d have no need to steal another one!’

  ‘So what exactly happened?’ I said. ‘You said he was arrested on Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘The computer was stolen on Monday morning. Dr Shroeder had his laptop in his study at the university. He went for a wee and when he came back the laptop was gone. He was only out of the room for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘When it was clear that the laptop had been stolen, Dr Shroeder went to the head of department’s office to report the theft, and they called the police. A couple of officers were asking questions around the campus most of the day. A number of students had seen Nat but none had seen the computer. They dusted for fingerprints in Dr Shroeder’s office, but didn’t find anything useful. It got to about four o’clock and they hadn’t come up with any clues. They were about to go back to the police station when Dr Shroeder came over to them and told them that Nat had just confessed to the theft. And then they took him in for questioning.’

  I jotted down a couple of lines in my notebook. ‘Was there anything special about this stolen computer?’ I asked. ‘Was there any particular reason why someone would want to steal it?’

  ‘It was almost brand new
, apparently,’ said Mrs Hardyman. ‘One of those flashy white and silver things you see in adverts, very trendy, can’t remember what they’re called. Very expensive, too.’

  ‘So the police think it was stolen because it’s a really smart piece of high-tech gear?’

  ‘No. When they were questioning Nat, he told them he took it because he thought next week’s exam questions might be on it.’

  ‘There’s an exam next week?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, an extremely important one. All the maths students are taking it. This exam counts as a quarter of the total marks for their final qualification. I should think any of them would love to get their hands on those exam questions in advance.’

  I’m not exactly Mr Brainbox when it comes to maths, but even I could see that something here didn’t add up. I could tell at once that Nat had almost certainly lied to the police. Something Mrs Hardyman had told me pretty much ruled out any idea of Nat wanting to get his hands on that exam.

  Have you spotted the oddity in what Nat said?

  Nat was top of the class. Someone like him would be least likely to want to steal exam questions. If that was what he’d told the police, it was highly unlikely to be the truth. (Unless, of course, he always cheated in tests . . .? No, Dr Shroeder said his in-class work was the best he’s ever seen – you couldn’t cheat at that!)

  There was more going on here than I’d first thought. If Nat had owned up to taking that computer, why would he then lie about his reasons for doing it?

  ‘What about these three friends of Nat’s?’ I said. ‘How do they fit into the picture?’

  ‘Matt, Jack and Anil have been his best friends for years.’

  ‘Did they all go to St Egbert’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no, they went to a nice school that was much less rough. Matt and Jack are doing English literature and Anil is doing engineering. They’re also shy and sensitive. I thought they were such good boys until they started lying about Nat!’