Sleuth on Skates (8 page)

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 the 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.”