Alice-Miranda Takes the Lead (18 page)

September Sykes put the telephone down and cupped her face in her hands. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. She dialled the number for the common room at Grimthorpe House.

‘Hello, it's September Sykes. I must talk to my daughter, Sloane, immediately. It's an emergency,' she informed Mrs Howard.

‘May I ask what type of emergency, Mrs Sykes? I don't want to alarm your daughter,' said Mrs Howard.

‘No, you may not ask, you nosey old parker,' September growled.

Howie had a mind to hang the phone up immediately, but thought better of it. September Sykes was the rudest, most vacuous mother she had ever come across in all her years in the boarding house. At times, that had been a hotly contested title, but this woman was the clear winner.

‘Sloane.' Mrs Howard rapped on the door. ‘Your mother would like a word. She says that it's important.'

Howie entered the dorm. Sloane was lying on her bed, admiring her nails.

‘Can I take it in here?' Sloane noticed that Howie had the cordless telephone in her hand. Usually, it was strictly forbidden for the girls to take calls in their rooms but, this time, Howie relented and handed over the phone.

‘Just don't be long,' Howie instructed. ‘There are other girls who like to speak to their parents too.'

Sloane turned her back to the housemistress and waited until she had left the room.

‘Hello Mummy,' she said.

‘Are you a complete idiot?' September began.

‘What are you talking about?' Sloane snapped back.

‘I've just got off the phone from your brother and apparently he's been doing so well, he got one hundred per cent in his Maths test this week,' September informed her daughter.

‘That's not possible,' Sloane griped. ‘I changed all the papers.'

‘Yes, and whose paper did you copy from?' her mother asked.

‘Septimus's of course. Everyone knows he's as dumb as a rock,' Sloane snarled.

‘Well, I'm afraid that's not true. You see, everyone in the class scored one hundred per cent!' September yelled. ‘And what were you thinking, changing all the answers to the same thing? I'm sure they wouldn't be very suspicious about that, now would they?'

‘How was I to know Sep's some kind of mathematical genius? I think he's an idiot!' Sloane roared back.

‘Clearly you're wrong.' September could hardly believe they were so close to their fortune and Sloane had made a complete mess of everything. ‘You have to do it again. And this time, don't use your brother's paper to copy from.'

‘Well, whose paper should I use then?' Sloane demanded. ‘I don't know who's smart and who's not.'

‘As it happens, your brother commented that some kid called Figgy almost never passes Mathematics tests but got one hundred per cent this time. So use his – but make sure that you mix them up a bit. For goodness sake, do I have to do everything for this family?' September growled.

‘Where's Daddy?' Sloane changed the subject. ‘I want to talk to him.'

‘Your idiot father is overseas checking on the development. But I have a feeling that it's not going to plan either. Sloane – I don't have to tell you again what this will mean to our family. Now, can I rely on you this time?' Her mother's voice softened slightly.

‘Of course, mother.' Sloane rolled her eyes. ‘But I can't do anything until next week.'

‘Why not?' September demanded.

‘Because they only have their stupid test on Tuesday and it's the weekend. Duh!'

‘There's no need to get smart with me, young lady. You'd better think about who you're talking to.'

‘And you'd better remember who's in the driver's seat here, Mother,' Sloane snapped.

And with that, she terminated the call.

As it turned out, two more weeks passed before Sloane had her chance. Professor Pluss was so anxious about the boys not replicating their one hundred per cent result that he didn't prepare a test for the coming week and the week after that they had a sports carnival. But by the time they had their regular weekly quiz again, Pluss was confident the lads would not let him down.

Professor Pluss stood outside the headmaster's study trembling. He couldn't believe that in a career spanning more than thirty years, this is what he would be remembered for.

The campus was abuzz. Pluss had asked two of his colleagues to re-mark the papers. They had both come back to him, faces solemn, heads bowed.

Someone must have leaked the news to Professor Winterbottom, who had summoned Pluss for an urgent meeting first thing this morning. Even old
Hedges, the gardener, had sneered as Herman Pluss took his walk of shame to the headmaster's study.

Miss Quigley, the headmaster's personal assistant, shuddered as he entered the room. She was poring over a large document and had just retrieved a gigantic magnifying glass from the bottom desk drawer.

A woman renowned for her confidential manner, she had been with Professor Winterbottom as long as he'd been in charge. ‘How could you?' she murmured under her breath.

Herman thought his knees would buckle any moment.

‘He'll see you now.'

For a moment, Herman wondered how she knew that the headmaster was ready for him, but he suspected that after almost forty years together, they likely shared some sort of telepathic messaging system.

The door opened and Professor Winterbottom asked Professor Pluss inside.

‘Take a seat. There.' The headmaster pointed. Professor Winterbottom's dog Parsley, who spent his days curled up in a basket in the headmaster's study, growled as Professor Pluss sat down.

‘I hear you have something to tell me?'

But Professor Winterbottom didn't have to ask. He already knew. The whole school knew. Something as monumental as this would never remain a secret. It had never happened before and it would certainly never happen again.

‘I … don't know what to tell you, sir … my class … eighty per cent of them …' Herman gulped.

‘Yes, eighty per cent of them have what?' Professor Winterbottom had so far managed to keep calm.

‘Eighty per cent of them have …' Herman clutched his face in his hands, hardly daring to say the word. ‘They've failed. There it is. I've said it.'

‘How can a class go from one hundred per cent success two weeks ago to … this?' Professor Winterbottom held one of the off ending papers aloft. ‘Yes, I know all about it. Your colleagues would hardly keep something like this a secret. In fact, they all know – the boys, the teachers. Do
you
know what this means, Pluss?'

Herman Pluss looked up and nodded.

‘You, you and your vanity, have brought this great school to its knees. Do you know what it says in that charter out there?' Wallace pointed at the wall where the Fayle School Charter hung in all its
ancient glory. ‘It says that if more than twenty-five per cent of students fail
any
test, the school must be closed within twenty-eight days.'

‘But sir,' Herman shuddered. ‘Surely, that can't really be true. Can it?'

‘It most certainly is. I warned you, Pluss, about all those weekly quizzes. I told you they weren't necessary and that one day you might come unstuck. But you assured me. Your teaching methods were inscrutable. You were the best teacher this place had ever seen. Well, look what you've done.' Professor Winterbottom's head looked like a pressure cooker about to explode.

There was a knock on the door. It opened and Miss Quigley entered.

‘Sir, may I interrupt?' she asked. ‘I've found something.'

‘Well, unless it will save the school …' Professor Winterbottom sighed so deeply it felt like a draught in the room.

‘Well, sir, I think you will be very happy to see this.' Miss Quigley unfolded the original copy of the Fayle School Charter onto her boss's football-pitch-sized desk. She produced the magnifying glass from her skirt pocket and pointed her manicured finger at the very bottom of the page.

‘There, sir.' Wallace Winterbottom and Herman Pluss leaned in closely to look.

‘I can't see a thing. It looks like a squiggly line,' the headmaster complained.

‘That's what I thought too. But sir, if you look closely –' She held the magnifying glass over the end of the line and read aloud. ‘Clause thirty of the Fayle School Charter can be revoked at any time, at the discretion of the heir to the Fayle estate. In the event that there is no living heir, the school must close and be sold, with the proceeds going to the Queen's Trust for Children.'

‘Heavens, that's it!' Professor Winterbottom grabbed Miss Quigley in a bear-like embrace. ‘Woman, you're a genius!' He then quickly let her go, embarrassed by his uncharacteristic outburst of affection. ‘But how did we miss this?'

‘Well, sir, it's not on the charter in the foyer. I suspect that the edge of the page was cut off to fit in the frame,' Miss Quigley remarked. ‘From the looks of this dusty old thing, it hasn't been out of the safe in many years.'

‘But who is the heir?' Wallace Winterbottom paced the floor. Not that it was an easy thing to do in his office, which was crammed full of furniture,
books and other paraphernalia, including a rather large cabinet containing a bizarre collection of taxidermic birds. He began to think out loud. ‘Fayle was founded by Frederick Fayle and then the next headmaster was his only son George and then I think the next head was George's son Erasmus.'

‘Sir, if I may say something?' Professor Pluss asked.

The headmaster was terse. ‘What?'

‘Didn't Erasmus, his wife and his daughter perish in some terrible accident? I seem to recall when I was a boy and lived in Downsfordvale, there was a story about the headmaster of Fayle and his family passing in tragic circumstances. I can't remember much else.'

‘Yes, I've read about that somewhere too. There was another man who came in then. The headmaster after Erasmus was Rigby Lloyd. You'd remember him. He employed me. And that's how I became head master so early on. Rigby was working in here one night when the poor fellow dropped dead of a heart attack.'

‘So are there any Fayles left, sir?' Miss Quigley asked.

‘I think there was another daughter who survived. But she'd be very old – if she's still alive,
that is.' Professor Pluss tapped his right forefinger to his lip.

‘We'd better hope she's alive and well, and find her quick smart,' Professor Winterbottom announced.

‘Helloooo?' a voice drifted in from the office outside. ‘Is anyone home?'

Miss Quigley opened the study door.

‘Oh, there you are. I need to see the headmaster.' September Sykes stood towering in the doorway on her six-inch red heels.

‘Can I help you?' The professor had not yet had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Sykes, as it was Sep's father who had taken the boy for his entrance test and interview. September had been busy that morning at the nail salon.

‘I'm September,' she cooed.

Professor Winterbottom had no idea what that meant at all, and responded with a blank look and a shake of his head.

‘September Sykes. Septimus's mother,' she smiled.

‘Oh, of course, Mrs Sykes,' said Professor Winterbottom apologetically. ‘I'm afraid we're a little bit busy at the moment, Mrs Sykes. Is it an urgent matter you've come about?'

‘You might think so,' September nodded. ‘You see, I've really come to find out how much this is all worth.' She waved her arms around.

The headmaster looked confused. ‘Worth? Do you mean the school fees?'

‘No, no, no, silly headmaster.' September was enjoying this. ‘I mean the school. Fayle. The whole place.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about.' Professor Winterbottom was growing very uncomfortable.

‘It's just that, well, I know what happens when more than twenty-five per cent of boys at this school fail a test. And I've heard that's just happened. So I want to know what it's worth?'

‘I can't for a moment imagine that's any of your business, Mrs Sykes.' The headmaster was appalled.

September Sykes entered the study. She walked over to the antique globe that stood under the window and gave it a spin. ‘Oh, isn't that fun?' she giggled.

Professors Winterbottom and Pluss and Miss Quigley could not take their eyes off this woman with her long blonde curls and garish red dress which hugged every curve.

‘Mrs Sykes, I think it might be best if you left,' the headmaster suggested.

‘Now, why would I do that?' September walked towards the group, reached forward and grabbed Professor Winterbottom's tie, pulling him closer. Her sickly perfume clouded his head and he soon felt quite faint. She let go and walked around the desk, where she sat in his green leather chair. ‘What do you think?' She placed the professor's reading glasses on the end of her nose. ‘Does the school look suit me? No, no. Not my thing at all, teaching. Really just for dull old bores, education.'

‘Mrs Sykes,' Professor Winterbottom regained use of his vocal chords. ‘You need to leave immediately.'

‘No.' September shook her head. ‘You need to sit down and have a look at this.' She rummaged around in her oversized pewter-coloured handbag and produced what appeared to be a legal document. ‘You see, I heard you before, when I was out in the other room there. You can stop looking for the heir to the Fayle family. Because you've found her. And this –' she waved the power of attorney under the professor's nose – ‘is all the proof you need. Granny Henrietta Sykes – she's the one you were talking about – well, she married my darling husband's father just a few years back. She was a Fayle, you know. But
she's not well, and she's very old, and she insisted I look after things for her. So there you are.'

‘Oh, thank heavens, Mrs Sykes. We were worried that we'd never find the heir in time and then the school would have no choice other than to close at the end of the term. But now …'

‘But now
what
?' September sneered. ‘You'll be closing all right. I've arranged for the estate agent to meet me here this morning. I can't imagine how many millions this place is worth, but I'm going to have lots of fun spending them.'

Professor Pluss burst into tears. Miss Quigley had to suppress the urge to strangle September on the spot. The headmaster gulped.

‘Professor Pluss – you need to go to class. Miss Quigley – some tea.' He indicated towards the door. ‘Mrs Sykes and I have a lot to talk about.'

‘No, we don't, unless you want to tell me how wonderful Septimus is. But if you think I'll change my mind, you're wrong, old man.' September folded her arms in front of her.