CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We met Kip in the dining hall for breakfast the next morning. I have to admit I still found it tough to hide my disappointment at the bowls of soggy cornflakes on offer after a lifetime spent chomping popcorn and marshmallow sprinkles for breakfast. (Ingrid says I’m a medical miracle and that one day dentists will line up to study me and work out why all my teeth haven’t fallen out.) After I had gulped down a few mushy spoonfuls it was time for the three of us to push off to lessons. That’s the trouble with school, you know. There always seem to be lessons to get to, even when you have got a mystery to solve.

First up we had a history lesson with Professor Tweep, who had us in tears as he enacted the final moments of Marie Antoinette before she was led to the guillotine. For a man who looks a bit like a bespectacled walrus he made a surprisingly convincing French queen.

“You should join the Brimwell players, sir,” I said admiringly.

Professor Tweep puffed up a bit at that. “Very kind, Miss Pym,” he said. “Might have to look in on a rehearsal, eh? Now, back to Marie Antoinette—”

Kip’s arm shot up in the air so fast I thought he was going to dislocate his shoulder.

“She’s the one that said, ‘Let them eat cake,’” he said, squirming in his seat. “I think that shows top royal skills, making sure everyone had a nice piece of cake. I wish more people made cake a priority. If I were the king I’d say, ‘Let them eat cake, AND biscuits, AND donuts, AND—’”

Professor Tweep cleared his throat. “Well, that’s not precisely what it means. . .” he began, when Ingrid, who had been staring absently at the ceiling, broke in, dreamy and half-asleep.

“And actually, it’s extremely unlikely Marie Antoinette ever said that at all. The quote is popularly attributed to Rousseau who wrote it years earlier.”

“Quite right, Miss Blammel,” Professor Tweep wheezed, a smile spreading across his face like butter across a scone.

Kip’s face fell. “No . . . cake?” he asked.

“No cake,” the professor confirmed.

Kip sighed, muttered, “Another moment in cake history utterly ruined,” and sank his head into his hands.

“Now. Imagine Marie Antoinette’s anguish in 1793 when spending her final three months in a prison cell, separated from her children,” Professor Tweep continued. “And how frightened and alone they must have been! Can you imagine being separated from your own mother in such a way? Her daughter was only fifteen at the time . . . not much older than you are now. Imagine how you would feel – not being able to see or talk to your mother, not even knowing whether she was dead or alive.”

The room was quiet, but my heart was not. In fact, I was surprised that no one was turning around to see who it was that had swallowed a massive, noisy drum as it hammered away in my chest.

Of course this wasn’t the first time that someone had mentioned mothers in front of me. Until you don’t have one I don’t suppose you notice how much they come up in everyday life. Still, it felt like something in Professor Tweep’s words touched on a problem that was really bothering me, and as he continued with the lesson I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had been separated from my mother for eleven years. Who was she? Where was she? And was SHE thinking about ME?

After lessons had finished I knew I had to finally turn my attention to Miss Baxter’s school history assignment. (I bet you had forgotten about that. That’s the trouble with being a top class detective when you’re eleven. There’s always homework getting in the way.) Between our investigation into the fire and the play I hadn’t even had time to think about it, but now I quite liked the idea of some time to myself to mull everything over in between learning facts about Saint Smithens. “I’ll meet you in the dining hall for dinner,” I told Kip and Ingrid, slipping out into the cool, clear evening air and making my way towards the reassuring calm of the library.

Mr Fipps the librarian was asleep when I got there. I coughed gently and he awoke with a loud spluttering and peered at me over the top of his round spectacles.

“History of the school, eh?” he muttered, when I had repeated my assignment three times. “Better follow me.”

He led the way, winding through the library stacks in a determined march. “Ahh. Here we are.” He paused in front of a bookcase. “Local history, sub-section: Saint Smithen’s. Some crackers in here.” He began tugging books off the shelf and piling them up in my arms until I was swaying beneath their weight. “That should be enough to get you started, but if you have any questions, or if you need more help, make sure you come back and see me.” His eyes were sparkling now and he seemed wide awake. It was obvious how much he loved the library, and I gave him a big blazing smile, hoping that he would recognize a kindred spirit.

I spent some time flipping through a couple of books but found it difficult to focus. I couldn’t stop thinking about Marie Antoinette and her daughter being separated and neither one knowing if the other was all right. I wondered if somewhere out there was a lady who looked a bit like me, worrying about her daughter. With a sigh I gave up trying to read and gathered everything together into my backpack. I staggered back to the dining hall, bending under the weight, just in time to join Kip and Ingrid at the dining table.

Kip pointed to my bulging backpack as I dropped it down beside my chair. “What’s in there? Rocks?”

“Feels like it. I’ve just broken my back lugging all of those over from the library. I’m not exactly strongman material yet. It’s books.”

These were the magic words as far as Ingrid was concerned, and she tore into my school bag as if it were a fat, shining present on Christmas morning. “Oh yes, The Complete History of Saint Smithen’s by Letitia Blackstone is absolutely KEY; such a great book,” she said with a nod as she carefully unpacked the books on to the table. “And Saint Smithen: The Man Behind the Miracles is a classic. She paused as she pulled out a slim paperback with a faded green cover. “What’s this?” she said, gently fluttering the pages. “I’ve never seen it before.” She looked closely at the faint writing on the cover. “The Secret History of Phineas Scrimshaw,” she read.

“Phineas Scrimshaw?” repeated Kip, taking a break from shovelling his dinner into his mouth. “What sort of a name is that?”

“Who is he?” I asked.

Ingrid was leafing through the pages. “He was the last owner of Saint Smithen’s before it became a school, over a hundred and fifty years ago. I thought everyone knew that!”

Kip and I exchanged a look. “Oh yeah,” said Kip sarcastically. “EVERYONE knows that.”

Ingrid nodded eagerly, her eyes rapidly scanning the pages in front of her. “But I didn’t know any of this. This is fascinating,” she added.

“Yeah, I bet,” I mumbled. Ingrid and I often have quite different ideas about what is fascinating and what is not.

“Listen to this!” Ingrid exclaimed, ignoring us. “Phineas Scrimshaw was a notorious miser and his vast fortune has never been recovered.”

“Miser?” I frowned. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“Fortune?” said Kip through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Yes. A miser is someone who hoards all their money and never likes to spend any of it,” Ingrid said thoughtfully. “And, according to this book, Phineas Scrimshaw hid all of his gold and it was never found.”

“Never found?” I echoed, my voice sounding like it was coming from somewhere far away.

Kip swallowed his potatoes. “You mean like . . . buried treasure?!” Excitement fizzed up in his voice like the bubbles in a can of cherry cola.

“Yes,” said Ingrid briskly. “Exactly like buried treasure. Millions of pounds worth of gold to be precise.”

I could hear my heart beating in my ears. The man who used to live in this school, in the very building we were sitting in, had buried a hidden fortune somewhere. Was it possible that we had just stumbled on to our next mystery? Another mystery? A mystery that came complete with a hoard of buried gold?! Were my dreams of becoming a top detective coming true once more? My stomach rumbled with excitement. (And possibly a bit of hunger.)

“So you’re saying,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice steady, “that no one ever found Phineas Scrimshaw’s treasure? This book says it is still out there somewhere, just waiting to be discovered?”

“No. Not out there,” Ingrid said, her eyes meeting mine. “Right here. His treasure is buried somewhere at Saint Smithen’s.”