Sleuth on Skates (14 page)

Ten minutes later, I was inside Gonville & Caius College. The trees shattered sunlight on the ground, and I got distracted for a while by the sprinklers on the lawn. How can you not stand in their sprinkling range? I don't understand how adults resist the urge. It's not even as if I had a choice. I have to stand under the sprinkler. Maybe I'm actually a plant? Looking at the Porter on duty, he seemed to think I was more some kind of weed.

“Knock knock!”

I don't think I'd ever knocked on so many student doors in a single day.

“Who's there?”

“Sesame Seade, at your service.”

The door opened slightly and an eye belonging to Jeremy Hopkins became visible. This eye eyed me, and then the door opened completely to allow the second eye in the pair to look at me too.

“Sesame, what a good surprise! I hope your father knows you're here.”

“Of course,” I said, which wasn't exactly a lie because he's always in touch with Someone Who Knows Everything. “Can I come in?”

The funny thing about Jeremy's room was that I never came in direct contact with the floor. Not because the room had zero gravity but because the floor was covered in clothes and books and papers and strange objects. I closed my eyes politely to avoid
noticing a very big pile of dirty laundry with a fly buzzing lazily around it.

“OK,” said Jeremy. “How far are you in your investigation, young sleuth? Have you found any odd buttons or sweet wrappers?”

“Let's start at the very beginning. It's a very good place to start. You know Jenna's reappeared, right?”

“Yes. She won't answer my calls, though.”

“Do you believe in the breakdown theory?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I think Jenna was kidnapped and then released. And that it has everything to do with Cooperture Ltd.”

“What?” laughed Jeremy as if I'd said it had everything to do with the President of the United States of America.

“Don't laugh! The Cooperture people have given hundreds of thousands of pounds to lots of different colleges, and it was Professor Ian Philips who put the College Heads in touch with them. Oh, yes, and while we're on this subject, you might also be interested to know that Ian
Philips kidnapped Jenna Jenkins.”

And I told him everything I knew, watching with curiosity as his jaw dropped and eyes widened in the amusing manner of a cartoon character. Since I was doing so well at captivating my audience, I ended my revelation with a flourish: “Additionally, Edwin also sends my sleuthing radar beeping—why, in his presence, does Stacy behave like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming heavyweight? Does he know that she knows? And even if he does, why would he care?”

“If Cooperture's really involved in this affair from start to finish, that's easily explained,” said Jeremy.

“Why?”

“Edwin Franklin's the son of Rudolph Franklin, the President of Cooperture. That's why the C is all over the brochure for
Swan Lake
. Cooperture are sponsoring the show.”

“Mr. Franklin! Yes, Mum introduced him to me in Auntie's Tea Shop! That's why Edwin's face seemed familiar. And that's why he had
a promotional postcard of Cooperture on his door. And that's where he got the money to put on such a big show. . . .”

“And there's something else. The show's brochure said that Edwin Franklin is a Classicist.”

“He's not classy at all. He dresses like my great-grandfather would if he was color-blind.”

“Not classy, you loony—a Classicist. Someone who studies Greek and Latin.”

“Greek and Latin? Just like . . .”

“That's right, just like your dear Professor Ian Philips. And in the same college.”

“Wow. Coincidence! Edwin and Mr. Franklin, Ian Philips and Archie Philips. Seems like these four people might know one another pretty well.”

“Blimey,” sighed Jeremy, crossing his hands under his head. “Sesame, you're a star. Can't believe you found all that on your own.”

“Oh please, don't praise me. Couldn't have done it without my brain.”

“There's just one problem.”

“What is it?”

“We simply have no idea what it is that the
Professors Philips and Cooperture are doing that's illegal. If Stacy and Jenna won't talk, how are we going to find out?”

“I suggest we go for a walk,” I said. “It helps me to see things clearly. Dogs do it all the time.”

In fact I was looking forward to going outside because of the sprinkler, of course. But as we walked out of the building, three nasty surprises were awaiting us. Firstly, the sprinkler had been turned off and was sitting there like an upturned steel spider. Secondly, my dad was standing next to it, looking wet. Thirdly, my dad was standing next to it, looking furious.

“Sophie Margaret Catriona Seade!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Jeremy Hopkins!”

Jeremy Hopkins turned a pale shade of gray.

“That sprinkler!”

A gardener raking some leaves on the side coughed a bit awkwardly.

“Hello, Reverend Seade!”

I said warmly, because I sensed that the
atmosphere was a little tense. Dad crossed the lawn, his cassock dripping, and stopped right in front of us, clearly struggling to decide which of the many annoying things in his life he should deal with first.

He finally settled on the following order: 1) sprinkler; 2) Jeremy Hopkins; 3) me.

“That sprinkler!” he shouted. “It looked like it was off! It wasn't sprinkling a molecule of water until I happened to walk past it!”

“I think, Daddy, that we can all learn something from this experience, and
that is . . .”

“Jeremy Hopkins! What are you doing here, Jeremy Hopkins?”

“This is my college,” replied Jeremy Hopkins.

“What are you doing with my daughter again?”

“Well, she came to my room, and we were about to take a walk outside to clear our minds.”

“She came to your room?” Dad repeated.

I put a calming hand on his wet shoulder. “No need to worry, perfectly protective Papa,” I said soothingly. “Jeremy and I are friends.”

“Come on, Reverend,” said Jeremy Hopkins, “I'm nineteen years old. Sesame's just a kid. She probably sees me as a very old man.”

“Not to mention that his clothes are filthy!” I commented, a bit more loudly than I'd planned (making six tourists, two Porters and the gardener glance at us weirdly). Jeremy, I think, seemed a tad uncomfortable. On the plus side, Dad was getting drier, since the water on his cassock was evaporating quickly in the heat of his anger.

“Sophie,” he said, “your mother and I had no
idea where you were. We had to watch the CCTV recordings in College that showed us that you'd been to Fiona Lumley's room, who then told us you'd gone to Gonville & Caius. Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

“No, Daddy.”

“You are an impossible, incontrollable, incomprehensible little . . . little . . . little . . .”

“Girl?” said the gardener.

“No,” said Dad, “a little . . .”

“Sweetheart?” said a tourist.

“No,” said Dad, “a little . . .”

“Angel?” said a student.

“Certainly not!” said Dad. “You're a little demon, Sophie! A little juvenile delinquent! A little domestic tyrant!”

“She doesn't look it,” said a woman who started patting my head.

“I'm really not, Madam,” I whined. “It all comes from a big problem in my life.”

“What is it, my dear?” asked the woman and all the other people who had gathered around.

“I don't have a mobile phone,” I said. “If I had
a mobile phone, like Toby and Gemma and Lucas and Eugenie, I'd be able to call my parents and tell them what I'm up to. But they don't want me to have one!”

“Oh!” everyone exclaimed.

“For goodness sake!” cried Dad. “What is this, some kind of public trial? Come, Sophie.”

“Bye, Jeremy!”

“Bye, Sesame!”

“Bye, everyone!”

“Bye, Sesame!”

And I was dragged out of Gonville & Caius.

I was given a slap on the bum, even though that's forbidden by the European Union, and sent to my room with fifty pages of the Bible to read, and not even fun ones with murders. Thankfully, Peter Mortimer was around to interrupt my reading by collapsing unexpectedly on the Book to get stroked.

At half past nine, the door opened, and Mum came in with a plate of sandwiches. Behind her
was Dad, who was carrying a cup of tea.

“Dinner,” grumbled Mum.

“I am most obliged,” I said trying to be nice.

They both sat down on my bed. “You know, it's not fun for us to punish you,” Dad stated.

“Please don't feel like you have to,” I said benevolently.

“Listen, Sophie. We've thought long and hard about that mobile phone thing.”

“Oh, Daddy! Please don't mention it.”

“We do think that it would be less stressful for us if we knew that you were carrying a phone.”

“I don't care about the phone. Just say you've forgiven me.”

“We have forgiven you. But about the phone . . .”

“No, dearest parents, I don't want to talk about the phone. I've been very naughty.”

“You have,” confirmed Mum. “However, having thought about the phone, we think it would be better if you did have one . . .”

“I don't think so, Mummy. It's very bad for a child as young as me to have a phone.”

“Hush! We're not asking you if you want a phone, we're telling you that you
shall
have a phone!” interrupted Dad. “Whether you like it or not!”

“Oh, all right then.”

“In fact,” Mum added, “I was thinking about it only yesterday, and looked for phones online. We'll go to the shops tomorrow.”

“You will have the simplest phone with no Internet access,” declared Dad, “and no camera.”

“Does that still exist?”