Sleuth on Skates (17 page)

And then I shook my fist at the Fitzwilliam Museum, inside which the two brothers were probably drinking champagne to their success.

I was going to tell Toby and Gemma everything about my stupendous findings, but unexpectedly, I had to deal with two other problems.

Firstly, Gemma: “I'm completely stressed out about tomorrow's performance. What if I get it all wrong? What if I forget how to play, how to speak, how to
breathe, what if I throw up all over my cello? What if someone falls into the pit right on to my head?”

Secondly, Toby: “Guess what! My dad's been asked to prepare the buffet for the party after the show! It's going to be awesome! Oh, I'm still not coming to the show, though. I'd rather eat a purée of my own bowels with chopped tarragon.”

“OK, first things first: Gemz, everything's going to be all right. You're the Picasso of cello-playing. Everyone will give you a standing ovation at the end. In fact they'll ask you to sign their bare chests after the show. Second things second: Toby, what's that about? What after-party?”

“Well, after tomorrow's performance people will be heading to the art gallery at the corner of Jesus Lane and Sidney Street.”

“I don't know street names.”

“The art gallery that had a painting of a naked man in the window last month.”

“Oh, yes, that one!” (Mum and Dad kept
finding excuses to go another route while that naked man was still in the window.)

“Anyway, there'll be a party there to celebrate the first night of the show! Dad's been asked to organize the buffet. He's being paid a lot for it!”

“I bet,” I said somberly. I thought I could guess who was paying him.

“You can come as my guest, Sesame,” said Gemma. “It'll be fun! And you know what? Professor Philips will be there! I saw his name on the list. He's a guest of Edwin's dad.”

“Yes, I'll come along. I'll definitely come along. Right. Will you listen to me now?”

They listened intently, and I told them the whole story. Twice, since Toby didn't get the idea the first time, but even then he said, “I can't see what's wrong with getting adverts for things you actually like, as opposed to adverts for snow tires or stair lifts,” and Gemma had to say, “Toby. Trust us. It's not good.”

“Anyway, keep it quiet,” I warned them. “Don't go and trumpet it around the galaxy like it's public knowledge. If the Professors learn
that we've found them out, they'll escape to the South American jungle and will never be found again! I've written to Jeremy to tell him to go to the police. I know he's only a student, but he's eight years older than us, so they'll believe him eight times more.”

Toby and Gemma promised to keep quiet, and the school bell drilled nicely through our ears.

In French class the most incredible and unexpected thing happened.

There was a knock on the door. (That wasn't the incredible bit.)

“Entrez!”
said the French teaching assistant, Mademoiselle Corentin.

The door opened, and Mrs. Appleyard
entra
.

“Hello,” said Mrs. Appleyard, looking a bit bemused. “I . . . er . . . have a letter for Sesame Seade.”

“
Une lettre?
” repeated Mademoiselle Corentin. “
Pour mademoiselle Seade?
”

“Er . . . 
oui
,” Mrs. Appleyard assumed. “A young man just dropped by to give it to her.”

“
Un jeune homme vient de passer pour vous la lui donner?
” said Mademoiselle Corentin.

“Right,” Mrs. Appleyard guessed. “Apparently it's urgent.”

“
Apparemment c'est urgent?
” said Mademoiselle Corentin.

“Here it is, anyway,” retorted Mrs. Appleyard who was visibly getting tired of the conversation.

“
La voilà donc
,” Mademoiselle Corentin translated. “
Mademoiselle Seade! Une lettre pour vous
.”

“
Merci
very much!” I replied, grabbing the envelope.

The whole class was gaping at me as if I'd just received a letter from Hogwarts. It was addressed to Sesame Seade, Goodall School. I walked back to my seat and ripped the envelope open under the disapproving eye of Mademoiselle Corentin, who went back to telling us about the word for “camembert.”

Inside was a phone number and a short note:

This was huge news. Not only had I received a secret message in the middle of French class, but it was from a boy and had an x at the end. I could have swooned if I'd been a bit of a ninny. I showed it to Toby and Gemma and they did thumbs-up like maniacs.

Right. Do you want to come over to my house after school?
Toby wrote in the margin
of his exercise book.

Can't,
I replied in felt-tip on my eraser,
my parents are coming to pick me up to
(there I ran out of space and wrote the rest on my hand)
buy a mobile phone.

At last!
exclaimed Gemma on last week's French test.
Which one are you getting?

A disastrously disgusting one,
I pencilled on the desk, wiping it with my left hand as I went along as Mademoiselle Corentin would bulldoze me to absolute flatness if she saw me.
One of the Phone4Kidz range!

HAHAHA!
Toby and Gemma wrote.

Don't be too sad,
Gemma added.
They have cool alphabet games!

I collapsed on the desk in profound misery.

At four o'clock, to add to the intensely humiliating life I was already living, Mum and Dad were waiting outside the school gates with open arms and exclamations of “Yoo-hoo! Sophie!”

“Good afternoon, parents. No need to hold my hand. I trust you've had a nice day.”

“What's that on your hand?” chimed Dad. “Buy a mobile phone—isn't she sweet! As if it was her responsibility!”

“Look, here we are!” exclaimed Mum. “The Carphone Warehouse! Super cool!”

“Please, Mum, no ‘super cools'.”

“Hello-o-o!” Dad sang to a salesman who looked like he was only a few weeks older than me. “We're looking for a mobile phone for our little girl.”

“Less of the little, please,” I implored.

“Our range of phones is there, we have this new smartphone with 3D video calls . . .”

“Tut-tut,” Mum tut-tutted. “We know what we want.” And she produced the Phone4Kidz catalogue. I retreated into a corner in the manner of a hibernating hamster and covered my red face with my hands.

“Are you sure?” the salesman asked. “They're really bare, these phones—no applications, no time-fillers . . .”

“Time-fillers!” Dad snorted. “That is the problem with your generation, young man—instead of using time productively, you just fill it!”

“This is torture,” I informed a baby in a pram right next to me.

“Right,” said the salesman, throwing a sad glance at me, “here's the Phone4Kidz range.”

Mum and Dad browsed through the accursed collection, marvelling at their complete lack of functions, except for . . .

“Isn't this clever! A timer for tooth-brushing!”

“And this, look! An alphabet game!”

“You can also record a three-minute message on the phone,” said the salesman, “stating your address and phone number for instance, which your daughter can play to adults if she gets lost.”

“Wow!”

I started to hope for a nuclear bomb to be dropped on Cambridge by a rival university. Before it could happen, though, Mum and Dad decided this was their absolute favorite phone, ensured that I liked it by asking me to confirm that I liked it, and parted with £25 plus a £10 top-up to be able to leave the shop with their new treasure.