Scam on the Cam (6 page)

In short, that day was a huge failure.

“In short, today is a huge failure,” I informed Peter Mortimer in the living room. “We lost a key that wasn't ours, didn't learn anything new about the virus, some more rowers fell ill and Gemma's lost all her brainpower due to
l'amour
.”

Peter Mortimer seemed quite sympathetic: he tried to pat my shoulder, but forgot to retract his claws. When I'd finished blotting the blood with the ivory tablecloth, Dad and Mum walked into the living room carrying plates and cutlery for my dinner (and theirs).

“I'm completely and utterly fed up with Sophie,” said Mum. “I just wish our paths would never cross again. I certainly don't want to help her anymore; I've given her all the time and effort I can.”

“You're absolutely right, my dear,” said Dad. “She's tried your patience enough. It's not your responsibility. Just tell her to go away.”

I thought that was a bit cheeky of them. “It
is
your responsibility!” I claimed. “At least
until I'm eighteen. We still have to endure one another for another six and a half years, I'm afraid. And I won't go away—at least not until I've had my dinner, and only if Peter Mortimer can come with me.”

“We're not talking about
you
, Sophie,” sighed Mum. “We're talking about another Sophie.”

“Oh, I see. I did think it was a bit silly of you to go trumpeting it around the house that you were going to get rid of me. If I conspired with my husband to abandon my daughter, I'd talk about it very quietly and probably in a secret code of my invention.”

“The problem with Sophie is that she's a paranoid little Mithridates,” sighed Dad.

“Which Sophie are we talking about now?” I inquired.

“You,” said Dad.

“Calling me Sesame would make it immediately clearer. What's the deal with the other Sophie?”

They sat down in silence and started to eat their chicory and walnut salad like they do
when they don't want to reply to my questions. So I resorted to singing my question to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” which ended up sounding like this:

What's the deal, what's the deal
,

with the other Soph?

What's the deal, oh what's the deal
,

with the o-o-other Soph?

OH! What's the deal, what's the deal
,

with the other Soph?

What's the deal, oh what's the deal
,

with the O-O-Other Soph?

This was a good day, as I only had to sing it four and a half times, increasing the volume every time, until Mum gave in.

“Hush! You're giving everyone a migraine! The deal, as you distastefully put it, is something absolutely uninteresting to you. Sophie Quentin is a doctor at Addenbrookes Hospital. She wants me to look at a certain virus that is affecting some people. They don't know what it is and want my pharmacological expertise. But I don't have the time to look at it closely. Satisfied?”

“Who's ill?” I asked.

They didn't reply, so I started to sing again—“
Who is ill, who is ill
”—but immediately Mum said, “I'm not allowed to tell you; it's a secret. Eat your chicory.”

“I hate chicory. Anyway, it's okay,
maman adorée
, I know it's the rowers. It's not norovirus then?” I asked.

Mum's eyes widened so much I worried her eyelids might swallow up her glasses. “I don't know how you know that,” she said, “but no, it's not norovirus. Finish your chicory.”

“I hate chicory.”

“Finish it.”

“If I finish my chicory, can I ask what you think it is?”

She nodded, so I wolfed down the rest of the chicory in five seconds. (I actually adore chicory with an ardent passion; I just pretend I don't so I can have a conveniently pleasant way of pressuring parents. It is a strategy I warmly recommend.)

“That was revolting,” I said. “Never give me chicory again. So, what do you think it is?”

“I think,” said Mum pensively, “that it's a man-made virus. And I don't think it's in the river. I think . . . I think someone is poisoning those poor rowers. Yes, poisoning them.”

“I don't know,” said Gemma, “how it's possible that I'm both immensely happy and completely unhappy.”

“It happens to me when I eat After Eights,” said Toby, “because I'm like, Wow! Chocolate! and then Yuck! Mint! and it's really confusing.”

“Right. That's not quite what I'm talking about,” said Gemma. “I'm devastated, because I can't find my earrings. They weren't anywhere at home yesterday, I looked everywhere. I must have lost them sometime the day before yesterday. They must have fallen off. Maybe here, at school.”

“Maybe they've fallen inside your ears!” suggested Toby. “They might be trapped in all
the earwax that we saw you had.”

“Earwax!” exclaimed Gemma. “Toby, do you still have those pictures from the other day?'

“Sure,” he said, “I downloaded them all onto my phone.”

He got his phone out and swished through a hundred pictures of his frog that he'd taken the evening before, until he got to the shots from the university boathouse. “Here's the earwax one,” he said.

“Unmistakably earringed,” I said. “You must have lost them sometime after then.” Toby slid his finger on the screen. In the next picture—Gemma talking to Will—she was still wearing them. The next few pictures were a bit of staircase, Rob's foot, and Gwen's office. And then Gemma again, talking to me. He zoomed in.

“No earrings!” he said. “You lost them on the staircase.”

“It must have been when I was looking up at Rob,” she murmured. “Okay, well, at least I know where they are. I'll go this evening after
school and try to see if I can find them. Want to come along?”

Toby nodded, but I replied sadly, “Unfortunately, my parents are forcing me to come along with them to some extravaganza at St. Catharine's College. They don't want to leave me home alone as they don't trust me to keep it an animal-free zone. Let me know how it goes, though!”

“St. Catharine's!” exclaimed Gemma. “That reminds me why I'm unbelievably happy. I saw Julius this morning! We met up on the way to school.”

We let her stare into the sky for a few minutes, until the bell rang and we had to walk upstairs to our classroom.

“What's the link between Julius and St. Catharine's, anyway?” I asked, shaking her out of her reverie.

“Oh yes,” she said. “He told me that Gwendoline is a student at St. Catharine's, so he goes there to visit her all the time. Oh, and Rob Dawes is also a student there. Do
you know, apparently everyone
hates
Rob Dawes. And Julius doesn't trust him either. The other day, Julius saw Rob mixing weird stuff into the rowers' food when he thought no one was looking. Being in the reserve crew, it would make sense for Rob to poison people to get into the first crew, so Julius thinks Rob is poisoning the rowers. Anyway, that's the link.”

“Wait—WHAT?” I shouted, and then realized everyone else had gone silent, waiting for Mr. Halitosis to start telling us about the Tudors.

“Sophie Seade!” he groaned. “
Primo
, one doesn't say ‘what?' when one is polite; one says ‘I beg your pardon?.'
Secundo
, I've had enough of your mumbling, bumbling, rumbling little clique. Tobias, go sit next to Victoria. Gemma, stay where you are. Sophie, you're coming to the front row—right in front of me, so I can keep an eye on you. Not a word!”

Everyone crossed themselves and looked down respectfully as I gloomily made my way to the front of the classroom, where
chances of survival are low due to the rarity of breathable air.

I sat down wondering if it was possible for a human being with no known mermaid ancestry to hold her breath for fifty-five minutes. I tried anyway. After all, as Mum told me (when Dad wasn't around to contest her version with a Bible in hand), everyone is descended from fish-like things. Maybe if the situation was perilous enough I could summon some gills from the dawn of time.

“Ah, Sophie, by the way,” said Mr. Halitosis, turning around from the smartboard.

“Hmm?” I said, letting some of my precious air escape my nostrils.

“‘Hmm' is not an appropriate way of acknowledging that someone is talking to you,” he grumbled. “Anyway—after you told me that you, Toby and Gemma were writing an article on the university team for the
Goodall Days
, I got in touch with their cox and was extremely surprised to hear that this was not, in fact, another one of your lies.”

I nodded vigorously. I really couldn't afford to waste anymore air.

“I'm very pleased about this,” said Mr. Halitosis. “I look forward to reading your article. And to make it even better, I've arranged with their cox for you three to accompany them to Ely on their daily outing tomorrow afternoon.”

I managed a big smile and a double thumbs-up.

“That is definitely not an acceptable response either!” whined Mr Halitosis. “You
are incomprehensible. One minute you're screaming your head off, the next you've gone as mute as the Little Mermaid. Anyway, back to the Tudors.”

And as he turned back to the smartboard, I discreetly dived down under the desk to breathe in some less contaminated air.