The Case of the Exploding Brains (14 page)

His eyes are bloodshot and his beard contains a collection of breakfast items. At a quick glance I spot a baked bean, a Coco Pop, several raisins, and – wait – is that the tail of a
sardine?

“What?” I ask him. “What don’t you know?”

“The Grimm Weeper,” the gnome wails. “I don’t know where she is.”

“Impossible! How did you know . . . ?” I grab Porter by the shoulders. “Did I ask where your mother was out loud?”

“Owww!” Porter rubs his arms. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sure I didn’t.” I release Porter and prod Museum Curator Gnome. “How do you know we’re looking for her?”

“For whom?”

“The Grimm Reaper. You said you didn’t know where she was.”

“I don’t.”

“But you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know we’re looking for her?”

“You told me.”

“No I didn’t.”

Museum Curator Gnome clutches his head. “Then it appears I am losing my rather fine mind. What’s happening to me? Must be sleep deprivation. Such long hours. So many voices.”
His eyes roll and he starts shouting. “IT’S THE VOICES! STOP THE VOICES!”

I remember the weird conversations I overheard last time we were at the Science Museum and something clicks.

I touch his arm to try and calm him down. “I think you’re reading our minds,” I say. “I think it’s a side effect of the pressure the Space Rock is creating in your
brain.

“STOP THE . . . ! What?” He pauses mid-rant and stares at me, his eyes clearing slightly. “Mind-reading? That’s ridiculous. Impossible . . . And what’s a Stealth
Blanket?”

Holly rolls her eyes “Mind-reading? Get real! And don’t start again with the Stealth Blankets.”

“He’s the one who mentioned the Stealth Blankets.” I point at Museum Curator Gnome. “You can’t have it both ways. If mind-reading is impossible then he came up with
the phrase on his own and I had nothing to do with it.”

“You probably hissed it at him,” Holly says. “You did say you thought the brain ray and Space Rock were stolen by the Invisible Man.”

“That was a joke! I don’t think Ms Grimm was invisible. We could see her, but we couldn’t see
her
. I think she was the woman under the blanket.”

That grabs Holly’s attention.

“Remember the woman under the blanket?” I ask. “She was here, beside the Mars lander. She was here, near the Space Rock.” I’m screeching in my excitement, so I try
to talk more slowly. “What if Remarkable Student Alexander was standing in front of the camera to hide her from view. What if she smuggled the brain ray out of ‘Exploring Space’
under a blanket? What if she took the Space Rock out the same way?”

Porter shakes his head. “They shut the museum down the minute it disappeared and searched everyone straight away. They’re hardly going to let somebody leave the building with a
blanket over their head and a suspicious-looking bulge beneath it.”

Hmm. Good point.

“She wouldn’t need the blanket once she was outside the room,” I realise. “If she’s a volunteer she’d be a familiar face. Have you got a picture of your
mother?”

Holly snorts. “Of course he doesn’t. She’s as good as disowne— Oh.”

Holly chews her lip as Porter’s face turns Ruby Starlet and he pulls a photograph out of his pocket. I tell Porter to show the picture to the Museum Curator Gnome.

He recognises her immediately. “That’s Mallory Trimm. But her hair’s all wrong.”

Mallory Trimm, Mallory Grimm. Makes sense. Easier to fake your ID if you only change one letter of your surname.

“Do you remember seeing her leave the museum on the day of the Space Rock’s disappearance?”

“No, but I remember she had to go early. To pick up her son from school.”

Porter stiffens. Hard to be used as an excuse when your mother won’t even open the front door to you.

“I don’t suppose the guards were told to search employees as they left?” I ask.

Museum Curator Gnome eyes me sharply. “Are you suggesting I am unaware how to do my own job?”

I think hard about the vital and valuable role Museum Curators play across the globe. The gnome’s shoulders relax and he stops twitching.

“Actually, my dear,” he says, sounding more like his old self, “I insisted the fine officers of the London Metropolitan search our employees twice as carefully. I didn’t
want people suggesting it could have been an inside job.”

So Ms Grimm couldn’t have been carrying the Space Rock. Unless the security guards weren’t paying proper attention to . . . Oops. Forgot to block my thoughts.

Museum Curator Gnome glares at me over his glasses and I lift my hands in mock-surrender.

“What about a strange-looking thing wrapped in silver foil? Did you ever see Mallory Trimm with something that looked like a brain ray?” I try to picture it in my mind.

Museum Curator Gnome grabs his head with a groan. “There was something,” he says slowly. “But it was days later. I discovered Mrs Trimm carrying a rather peculiar-looking
turquoise machine. I told her I would have to write the incident up, but she explained she’d just found it and was on her way to hand it in to Lost Property.”

“Clever,” I say, as a piece of the puzzle drops into place.

The suspicious look returns to the gnome’s face and he stares closely at Holly, who’s clearly not thinking positive thoughts about Museum Curators. “Of course I checked
she’d handed it in. I do know how to conduct an investigation, whatever you may think, young lady.” His eyes do that strange rolling thing and he looks like he’s about to start
yelling again.

“O-kay. Time to go.” Holly moves quickly, rooting around in her bag for her mobile to call Uncle Max. “This place is too weird.”

We push through a crowd of cameramen, all obviously hoping to catch exclusive footage of an exploding brain. I hear one ask if it’s worth buying animal offal to smear over a few exhibits.
(The general consensus is that it would be hard to find anything grey and wrinkly enough to be convincing.) Another suggests using pre-existing exploding-brain images. Because they all seem so
miserable, I pull a page out of my notebook and make a few helpful notes:

None of the cameramen seem particularly grateful. “No wonder nobody likes the press,” I mutter.

“Forget them,” Porter says. “I’m more worried about the Museum Curator.”

“I fear he may be experiencing the lethal effects of the Space Rock,” I say slowly.

“Mind-reading?” Porter scoffs. “Hardly lethal. Are you suggesting people’s heads fill up with so much psychic information they just explode like a bomb?”

“Hardly.” I laugh along with him, deciding not to admit that I googled the possibility yesterday after watching
Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull
.

“Forget the mind-reading.” Holly says. “The lethal part is that the Space Rock makes people crazy-angry.”

The enraged roar that follows us out of the Science Museum supports her point.

“I think the two are connected,” I tell them. “Imagine that the pressure in your brain has you hyped up and ‘crazy-angry’ and then you start to hear all the
horrible things people are thinking about you.”

“Yikes,” says Porter.

“Double yikes,” agrees Holly. “We need to find that Space Rock, whatever it takes. And while we’re on the subject of crazy-angry . . .” She turns to Porter.
“We need to talk to your mother.”

7 Albion Road looks different in the daylight. Brighter. Less ominous. But still a bit ominous. I mean, the Grimm Reaper is in there.

At least the skip smells better. Someone must have emptied it. Ms Grimm probably called the council and insisted on it. She always was a neat freak. Wait! Something tells me that’s a clue.
An image of a moonlit kitchen pops into my head. I don’t know how the two are connected, but I’ve learned to trust feelings like this.

We walk towards the front door. It’s a competition of who-can-walk-the-slowest as we all try not to be the person who rings the doorbell.

“She’s
your
mum.” Holly shoves Porter forward.

“Yeah, but she’s already told me to go away.” Porter drops back. “She hasn’t told
you
to go away yet.”

Holly rolls her eyes and presses the bell, but the minute we hear footsteps in the hall, she pushes me in front of her.

“Hey!” I fold my fingers into my palm to stop them shaking as I wait for the door to open. The wait goes on. I chew my knuckles. There’s a peephole in the door, just above eye
level, and I
know
Ms Grimm is looking at me.

“Hello?” I say.

Nothing.

“You try,” I hiss at Porter.

He shakes his head. Fair enough. He’s standing in full view of the peephole. He shouldn’t have to ask his own mother to open the door.

“We need to talk to you about the Space Rock,” Holly says. “People’s lives are at risk.”

We hear footsteps moving away from the door. I could have told Holly Ms Grimm wouldn’t care about other people’s lives.

“Wait!” I call. “We can tell you about the special brain powers the Space Rock gives people.”

The footsteps stop. There’s a sigh. And a shuffle. And back they come. The door creaks open an inch. “What special powers?”

“I’m not telling you anything while we’re stuck out here on the doorstep,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t wobble.

“Looks like you’ll have to come in then,” Ms Grimm mutters. “Quickly. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

“Why?” Holly asks. “I thought the police had decided there was ‘insufficient evidence to prosecute’.”

“I don’t know if it’s the police,” Ms Grimm says. “But
someone
is spying on me and I can’t afford to be distracted.”

Holly and I exchange guilty ‘spy’ glances. Fortunately Ms Grimm doesn’t notice.

“What can’t you afford to be distracted from?” I ask. “The Space Rock? The brain ray? Both?”

“I don’t know what you’re talki—” Ms Grimm breaks off mid-sentence and eyes me speculatively. “You helped design the brain ray. You must know how to fix
it.”

I wince. I don’t like to be reminded of my role in inventing the brain ray. I had no idea at the time how badly it would be used and abused. But I’ve learned my lesson now. Maybe I
could
fix it, but there’s no way I
would
. Still, no need to tell Ms Grimm that. I try to pull an ‘inscrutable’ face, but I realise I’m not one hundred
percent sure what inscrutable looks like. So I add a shrug and ask innocently, “Are you saying the brain ray’s not working?”

“Was it damaged in the post?” Holly giggles. “Was your super-evil brainwashing machine defeated by the Royal Mail?”

Ms Grimm gives her a look that would kill a lesser mortal. “What were you saying about special powers?”

“Nothing.” Holly steps forward. “Know-All’s saying nothing until you tell us what you did with the Space Rock.”

“Is that so?” Quick as the flashiest flash Ms Grimm seizes Holly’s wrist and twists it behind her back until Holly screeches in pain.

“Mother!” Porter yells. “What are you doing?”

“Be grateful it’s not
your
arm, traitor boy,” Ms Grimm snaps.

“Top parenting skills,” Holly squeaks as Ms Grimm hoists her hand higher.

“Stop it!” Porter yells.

“It will all be over as soon as you tell me about the Space Rock’s special powers.”

“I will,” Holly squeals, “when you let go of my arm.”

Ms Grimm twists harder.

“Okay, okay . . .” Holly grits her teeth. “What the Space Rock does is . . . Owww!”

Ms Grimm gives her arm another wrench.

“The Space Rock helps you read minds,” Porter yells. “It helps you read minds and it makes you crazy-angry. NOW LET HER GO!”

Porter runs towards Holly as his mother releases her, but stops when he sees Holly’s face. “What? What did I do?”

“You told her about the Space Rock.”

“But you were about to tell her yourself.”

Holly shakes her head and cradles her arm.

“She wasn’t going to tell me the truth, you silly boy.” Ms Grimm laughs harshly. “Some children weren’t brought up as well as you were.” She reaches out to
touch her son, then leaves her hand dangling awkwardly as she gazes at him with wistful pride. I realise for the first time that it can’t have been easy for her to send him away.

“You were going to lie?” Porter asks Holly, oblivious to his mother’s dangly hand.

Holly shrugs.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Holly glares at him.

“Well this has been fun,” Ms Grimm trills, pointing to the door. “What a shame you have to leave.”

“But you haven’t told us about the Space Rock,” Porter protests.

“Well spotted.” Ms Grimm holds the front door open for us. “You always were an observant child.”

“Why don’t you tell Know-All what’s wrong with the brain ray?” Holly suggests, a little too desperately. “Maybe she can help fix it.”