Sleuth on Skates (3 page)

Sophying me around is the best way of getting me to disobey. I was outside in no time at all. My bedroom window is just above a little terrace where the big tree leans on its elbow. I slid down the trunk and landed on a bunch of tulips. The pregnant duck was still there.

“Are you nuts? You shouldn't stay here. Peter Mortimer's going to bazooka you to the grave and munch on each little bone of each of your little ducklings.”

The duck shrugged and jumped into the stream, which is not wise. The fish in there are enormous; I hate them all, with their moustaches. Even Peter Mortimer can't catch them, and they laugh at him.

“Now, to business.”

The Porters' Lodge was quiet when I reached it on tiptoe. Don, the Porter on duty, was drinking tea and looking at his computer screen. In the stealthy manner of the leopard, I crept up to the desk, and then did a forward roll, because that's the done thing for a supersleuth.
It was so astonishingly perfect that a “Wow!” escaped my mouth. Thankfully, at the very same time the phone rang and Don picked it up.

This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I broke into another three forward rolls. They weren't as good as the first one and I sort of ended up head first in a cardboard box, but I finally reached the pigeonholes with only a few paper cuts on my forehead.

Now if you think that pigeonholes are actually full of happy pigeons, you are sadly deluded: this word is a wildly deceptive lie. Pigeonholes are students' mailboxes. They are barely big enough to fit two letters, let alone a pigeon (I've tried, and been punished).

I skimmed through the names on the stickers.

Jameson, K.

Jameson, M.

Jared, M.

Jeng, W.

Jenkins, J.

Jenna Jenkins's pigeonhole.

With nothing in it.

Of course, the police must have cleared it all. That was not an encouraging start to my sleuthing career.

I stood there scratching my head and looking at the disappointing nothingness, until something appetizingly colorful caught the corner of my eye and I got distracted. You would have got distracted too, for that something was a medium-sized box of Quality Street sweets, standing there unopened on the floor!

A little bit of yellow paper was taped to it, which said:

For Jenna J.

I lifted it, and the following note appeared in full pencilled glory:

I congratulated myself for being so much better than the police at spotting essential pieces of evidence and grabbed the box of Quality Street. Then I had to flatten myself like plaice against the wall when Don hung up the phone and stood up to take his empty tea cup back to the kitchenette.

That's when I noticed the copy of
UniGossip
on the Porters' desk. As soon as Don had whistled his way to the next room I stretched out my free hand, bagged the magazine, and legged it into the dark and stormy night.

That had been a fantastically successful first mission, I thought, hopping back into
the garden. To celebrate I sat down in a bush and ate just a few sweets until there was hardly anything left in the box apart from a nice little pile of multicolored wrappers. The pregnant duck looked like she was craving the strawberry-flavored one, so I let her nibble on it and she quacked enthusiastically.

Then I realized I'd eaten up the evidence and felt a little bit guilty. But at least I hadn't eaten up the yellow message.

Jeremy.

There was a Jeremy in this story. I didn't exactly know when he'd delivered that box of sweets to Jenna, but at that time she'd already disappeared, and he was already worried.

I still don't know what you want me to do for UG
.

I picked up the copy of
UniGossip
. Blood-red headlines and blurry photographs stared out at me:

LAW PROFESSOR CAUGHT
SHOPLIFTING AT ASDA!

University Team Rower
Secret Father of Twins!

WHO'S THAT WITH YOU,
VICE-CHANCELLOR? CERTAINLY
NOT YOUR WIFE!

It didn't sound like the kind of magazine I'd be reading in my spare time, as it didn't come with a free gadget and didn't have any comics in it, but I shuffled through it and found the Credits page. Jenna Jenkins's name was
mentioned on top, as Editor-in-Chief, and right underneath it, another name:

Jeremy Hopkins—Chief Investigator.

The pregnant duck looked at me with one of those puzzled looks that ducks have.

So I whispered to her: “What sizzling-hot scandal could Jenna Jenkins have discovered that made her mysteriously disappear before she could ask her Chief Investigator to investigate the case?”

Cambridge is the windiest place in the universe. As I fell asleep I could hear the gale howling and screaming and whistling as it rushed through the stone flames of the towers.

But Sesame Seade isn't scared of the dark or the wind.

“The problem with Sophie is that she's a self-obsessed little Narcissus.”

“Mummy, my tie has absolutely got to be tied in the right way, or else I might catch Mr. Halitosis's virus when he tells me off.”

“Mr. What?”

“Mr. Halitosis. You know, my teacher?”

“Mr. Barnes, you mean?”

“Mother, you are five centuries late. That used to be his name, as in, on the very first day of school, before we noticed what was wrong with him. We called him Mr. Deathbreath for a while, but then Gemma's mum told her bad breath was actually a medical condition called halitosis. So to be more respectful and accurate,
we now call him Mr. Halitosis.”

“You've been in front of that mirror for eighteen minutes.”

“And it's worked wonders. The tie is perfectly tied. You may call for my carriage.”

“No need, the carriage is already calling for you.”

Indeed, I could hear yonder our little blue Twingo hooting and honking like we'd won the World Cup.

“Oh, Dad's in command of the Smurfmobile today?” I asked. “Why not you?”

“Because—hurry up, for goodness' sake—because in exactly one minute and forty-eight seconds, some very important people will be knocking on the door to discuss very important matters with me.”

“About Jenna Jenkins?”

Mum sighed one of her legendary sighs. “No, not about Jenna Jenkins. We still have no idea what happened to her.”

“Who is it then?”

“Jesus Christ, Sophie Margaret Catriona!”

“Is that his full name?”

“You are such a pest. You're not even going to be interested. They're from Cooperture Ltd, the largest marketing agency in the country. Happy?”

“No. Atrociously disappointed.”

“Go!”

I went.

“Have a nice day at school!”

I did.