Sleuth on Skates (10 page)

I went to my bedroom pretty quickly and thought about my actions. And as I thought about them I realized how atrociously naughty I'd been, and cried bitter tears of remorse unto my pillow, whimpering: “Ah! Wouldst that I had never picked up this key! Wouldst that I had taken it to the Lost Property office! My parents are right—I should be thrown into gaol and given only breadcrumbs to peck on!”

(Gaol is pronounced jail.)

Oh! What could I possibly do to set things right? What had Mum said? If I hadn't taken that key back to where it belonged by tomorrow, I would be in serious trouble. Now what did she mean by
by tomorrow
? It was already seven o'clock. Maybe she meant tomorrow evening. But surely it was wrong to keep a lost object for that long. Maybe she meant tomorrow lunchtime. But Professor Philips might need his key in the morning! Which meant Mum must have wanted me to return it by 12:01 tonight, which was effectively tomorrow.

That was the only possible interpretation.

She wanted me to leave the house after dinner and take the key back to where it belonged before the clock struck midnight.

Between you and me, it surprised me a little, as I wouldn't have expected Mum to allow me to go to the Fitzwilliam Museum on my own after dark, but then parents' moods are as changeable as the Cambridge wind.

“Are you going to bed already?”

“Yes, it's getting a bit late.”

“It's only eight forty-five. Are you ill?”

“No, I'm just particularly tired. Look! AAahhhh.”

“I don't think I absolutely need to witness your yawns. Good night, then.”

“Good night, Mummy! Good night, Daddy! Good night, wisteria! Good night, chandelier! Good night, moon!”

“Go to bed!”

I went to my bedroom and quickly put on my supersleuth uniform, which is, for want
of sewing abilities, my school uniform and my roller skates. I threw the roller skates out of the window and slid down the tree to the garden. I escaped through the small green door and crossed Third Court, praying I wouldn't bump into any obnoxious Fellow who'd tell my parents everything about my escapade. “Fellow” is the official name for university teachers, but let me tell you, “jolly good” is never guaranteed to go with it. Like my parents, most of them seem to think I shouldn't be roaming the premises on eight wheels. Or any number of wheels, actually, as one Fellow duly informed me one day when I crashed into her office window on a unicycle.

Having successfully not bumped into any of these unfunny people, I left College through the back door,
put on my roller skates, and the dangerous Cambridge night swallowed me up.

To be fair, it was actually quite well lit, and it didn't seem as dangerous as my parents had always told me. Instead of muggers and child-snatchers, I whizzed past old ladies and students carrying orange Sainsbury's bags. One of them I recognized. . . .

“Hi, Fiona!”

“Sesame! Your braking technique is terrifying. What are you up to?”

“I'm on a sleuthing mission. You mustn't tell my parents.”

“It's not as if I had coffee with them every day. Nothing dangerous, I hope?”

“What do you mean by dangerous? Crocodiles, vampires, arsenic?”

“You don't have to answer,” said Fiona. “Okay, I'll see you around.”

“Yes! Oh, what's that T-shirt? It's well cool!” She was wearing a hoodie with a drawing of a stethoscope around the collar, and medical instruments scattered all around in pockets.

“It is, isn't it? I got it free in the post this afternoon. It's some promotional thing from a T-shirt company. Fun coincidence, since I'm studying medicine!”

She left, waving goodbye, and as I watched her go, I noticed on the back of the T-shirt a C in a circle that looked vaguely familiar.

I picked up speed again and whooshed past the market place and Great Saint Mary's church, which chimed nine o'clock. Big and low in the dark brown sky, the full moon dusted the top of King's College chapel with whitish light.

Finally I got to the Fitzwilliam Museum, its slim columns turned silver in the night.
The large iron bars were all locked, so I threw my roller skates above the stone railing and climbed over. I landed on the grass and walked to the side door.

It was locked, of course. What had I expected? I twisted my wrists, looking at the sky. I was gravely unprepared! But then I noticed the code-lock keyboard on the side of the door, and I keyed in 3901. The door clicked open and I walked in.

I don't know if you've ever walked on a museum floor with just socks on, but it's the most amazing thing ever. It's like ice-skating. I couldn't stop myself. I slid through the Greek antiquities, did a triple axel in the ceramics room, fell down and almost broke my crown next to an Egyptian stone. Then I remembered I was on a mission. What reminded me was a white door with a simple business card inside a clear rectangular plastic holder:

“Ha!” I said. “It's the door.”

So I slipped the key inside the keyhole, and turned it to the right.

Nothing happened.

I turned it to the left.

Nothing happened.

I left it in there and said: “
Alohomora
!”

Nothing happened.

I left it in there and said: “Open, sesame!”

Nothing happened.

I was a little stunned. And then something added to my stunned mood.

That something was the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor, accompanied by two voices:

“We already have results. It's working.”

“Good. Money well spent.”

“And well earned.”

“Mainly thanks to you.”

“Couldn't have done it without your art of persuasion.”

Not only did the conversation make no sense, but I was trapped. Trapped in a corner where
there was only one door that wouldn't open, and . . .

And a broom cupboard! Which I tried. Which was locked. Locked! Who locks a broom cupboard? No wonder there weren't any mops available earlier!

The footsteps and voices were getting closer.

“Is she OK now, by the way?”

“She's fine. We negotiated.”

“How much?”

“Doesn't matter. I'm more concerned about that Tsarina person.”

Tsarina. Part of my brain recorded that, whilst the other part was trying to figure out how to open the broom cupboard. That's the kind of thing you can do when the number of connections in your brain is equal to the number of stars in the universe.

Use the key, said a little brain cell.

I was inside the broom cupboard before I even realized I'd unlocked it.

Outside, the footsteps had stopped.

It was the Philips brothers, no doubt about
it. I recognized their voices—Ian's smooth and deep, Archie's higher-pitched and merry.

Fumbling noises were heard.

“Don't tell me you've lost your office key as well,” said Archie.

“Ah, no, here it is. Still no idea where the other key is, though. Thank goodness I lost it after she'd gone.”

“Can you imagine?” whispered Archie. “Can you imagine if she'd still been in there?”

“Yes, well, it didn't happen, did it? No need to worry about it.”

Professor Philips's office door opened, and I heard the noise of a light switch being flicked on. From a vent at the top of the broom-cupboard wall, three bars of light shone through from the office.

That's when I realized that the broom cupboard was deeper than I'd thought. Furthermore, it had no brooms in it. Unusually for a broom cupboard, it contained an air bed (deflated), a sleeping bag (rolled up), a pile of
Tintin
books and an empty box of McVitie's biscuits.

And then my head formed a thought which had been waiting patiently in the back of my nose for a little while. That thought was that the cupboard kind of smelt like my mum had been in there.

This surprised me a little bit, as my mum isn't the kind of person who'd snuggle up into a museum cupboard to munch on hobnobs and chuckle her way through a pile of comics. So there had to be another explanation for the waft of perfume which was unmistakably the same.

And suddenly the explanation exploded out of nowhere. The birthday picture Jeremy had shown me. Jenna Jenkins surrounded with gifts. A blue teddy bear. A pair of ballerina shoes. And a bottle of perfume. The same as my mum's.

Jenna Jenkins had been here.

And Toby's foot had been right. Ian Philips was the kidnapper.

If Mum had known, I don't think she'd have sent me on this mission.