Half past meeting-up-with-Clara
‘Do chooks have a list?’ I ask casually.
We’re down by the river, which is a good place to think. We flew here – or rather, I flew and Clara hopped and fluttered and bumbled and took three times as long.
But I didn’t laugh at her. Because she liked the poem that was written by a duck. And she read it to me. Twice.
‘What sort of list?’ she asks, without looking up from Delphine’s letter. ‘A list of things we like to eat? Of course.’
‘No, a list of things you can and can’t do.’
‘You mean the rules of the chookyard?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘What are these rules?’
‘1. Get up Early So You Don’t Miss Out,’ recites Clara. ‘2. Keep A Clean House So As Not To Attract Rats. 3. A Varied Diet Is A Healthy Diet.’
That’s not a list. That’s just sensible advice. Even Great-Aunt Myrtle could not disagree with it.
‘So you don’t have a list like—’ I try to imagine what sort of things might be on a chook’s list. ‘Clucking, panicking, running away from ducks, being a detective?’
Clara looks up at last. ‘If there was such a list, “being a detective” wouldn’t be on it. I’m the first chook to ever do such a thing.’
She goes back to studying the letter. But all I can think of is the fact that she is the first chook to be a detective. Ever.
Just as I’m the first duck to be a poet.
Except I’m not. Emily Duckinson waddled this path before me. And she has been published. In a book!
Perhaps Great-Aunt Myrtle was wrong …
‘I’m sure this is in code,’ says Clara. ‘And ED7 is the key. But what does it mean?’
I want to tell her that there is no code. And that if she keeps going with this investigation, she will make an even greater fool of herself than I had intended.
Because according to Tracy, Delphine is not a journalist after all.
She’s a police officer.
Except – that’s what I want, isn’t it? I want Clara to make a fool of herself, so that everyone will laugh at her instead of ducks. And Great-Aunt Myrtle will welcome me back to the pond with great honour.
But Great-Aunt Myrtle won’t read poems to me. She won’t say that a poem is nice.
‘Clara,’ I begin.
She interrupts me. ‘The book of poems. The poet’s initials were ED! And wasn’t the nice poem on page 7? Rita, can you remember that page?’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ I tell her. ‘“Hope is the thing with feathers.” But Clara—’
‘Was there anything strange about the page?’
‘No, it was a beautiful page. But Clara—’
‘Then perhaps I’m wrong,’ says Clara, ‘and it’s not a code at all. If it was a code, one of the letters on page 7 would be marked, just as it was in Episode 6 of Amelia X, Girl Detective.’
‘You mean like the dot above the H?’
‘There was a dot above the H? But you said there was nothing strange.’
‘A dot is not strange, Clara. The world is full of dots, many of them edible.’
But she’s no longer listening to me. She’s poring over Delphine’s letter and muttering to herself. ‘H is the eighth letter in the alphabet. So perhaps if I read every eighth word … And now it makes sense!’
I’m confused. It seems there is a code. Could it be a police code?
‘Clara—’
She pokes the letter with her claw. ‘The writer wants Delphine to steal something valuable and sell it. But he doesn’t say what the valuable thing is. If Constable Dad was here, I would show him our evidence. But he’s away on a training course. So we will do more investigation while we wait for him to return.’
‘But Clara, Delphine is a police officer!’
Home-from-school o’clock
Clara has gone to find Olive, to tell her about Delphine. I have promised to tell Tracy about the secret code.
‘Between us, we will solve this mystery,’ said Clara.
Tracy doesn’t yet know that we are going to solve a mystery. She is staring at a bit of paper.
I arrange my fridge letters on her pillow.
I nip Tracy’s elbow, and point towards my message.
She wrinkles her face. ‘You want fish for dinner? I think we’re having sausages.’
I try again.
‘You’re cold?’ says Tracy.
‘You want a coat? You’re a duck, Rita, you don’t need a coat.’
Why are humans so bad at spelling? How can I tell her about the mystery if she doesn’t understand my writing?
I am trying to puzzle it out when she mutters, ‘I still haven’t done this poem.’
I raise my head and stare at her.
She points at the bit of paper. ‘It’s homework. And it’s due next week. We have to write an acrostic poem.’
I poke my head under her arm.
‘See?’ she says. ‘We’ve got the first letter of each line, and we have to fill in the rest.’
I inspect the paper carefully.
Words come to me.
I glance around the room to make sure Great-Aunt Myrtle hasn’t sneaked in.
Then I arrange my fridge letters on the paper.
My army reads it.
She reads it again.
A tear rolls down her face.
‘That’s beautiful, Rita,’ she whispers. ‘“I will support you, even through the storm.”’
She sniffs and wipes the tear away. She bites her lip. She sits up straight. ‘I know I promised I wouldn’t say anything. But Olive and I used to be really good friends. I have to tell her about Delphine.’
On-the-bike o’clock
I am in the basket and Tracy is pedalling hard. We whizz down the main street of Little Dismal—
And there are Olive and Digby, riding towards us. Clara is perched in the basket at the front of Olive’s bike.
My basket is nicer than hers. But hers isn’t bad.
We stop. So do they.
The humans look at the ground. Then they look at the sky. Then they look at the other side of the street, as if something interesting is happening over there.
‘Why are they not talking to each other?’ I ask Clara.
‘Olive does not like Tracy,’ she says. ‘But they must talk to each other. It is important.’
So I bite Tracy’s hand.
She jumps. ‘OW!’
Then she and Olive speak at the same time, ‘It’s about Delphine.’
Tracy’s face goes red. She stares at the ground again. ‘I was just coming to tell you,’ she mumbles.
‘Is she really a police officer?’ asks Digby.
Tracy nods, but doesn’t look up. ‘Federal police. She’s – she’s investigating Olive’s dad.’
Now it’s Olive’s turn to go red. ‘Why would she be investigating Dad? He hasn’t done anything wrong. And what about the letter?’
Tracy looks up at last. ‘What letter?’
Digby takes it out of his pocket and hands it to her. ‘The code that Clara worked out. You have to read every eighth word.’
‘Didn’t you tell her about the code?’ asks Clara.
I don’t want Clara to think that Tracy is bad at spelling. And besides, I tried to tell her.
‘That’s why we are here,’ I say. ‘Because of the code.’ Which is almost true.
Tracy is puzzling over the letter. ‘Why would a federal police officer steal something?’
‘Are you sure she’s federal police?’ asks Olive. ‘Did she show you her badge?’
‘No, she just told me,’ says Tracy.
‘And you believed her?’
Tracy bites her lip. ‘I – yes. She said that Uncle Dylan was innocent.’
Digby snorts. ‘Your uncle Dylan was selling drugs, Tracy. Everyone in Little Dismal knew about it.’
‘I’m going to call Dad,’ says Olive, taking a phone from her pocket.
‘But—’ says Tracy.
Olive glares at her. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Okay,’ whispers Tracy.
Dad o’clock
Olive is talking to her phone. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘All right … Yes, Dad … I don’t know … It’s in code, but Clara and Rita worked it out … Tracy’s duck … Yeah, I think so.’
‘Why is she telling her phone about me?’ I ask Clara.
‘She is not telling the phone. She is telling Constable Dad.’
Before I can ask my next question, she adds, ‘He is not in the phone. He is in Melbourne. The phone is a long-distance squawk.’
I knew that.
Olive puts her long-distance squawk in her pocket and says, ‘Dad’s coming back tomorrow lunchtime. He’ll sort it out then. And in the meantime he wants us to stay away from Delphine. I think he’s worried that she might be dangerous.’
‘She could not be as dangerous as a duck,’ I murmur to Clara.
‘Couldn’t we at least follow her?’ says Digby. ‘If we were careful, she wouldn’t see us. And we might find out what she’s trying to steal.’
Olive shakes her head. ‘He said we’re not to go near her. He doesn’t think she’s federal police at all. He said that if he was being investigated, it’d be the Anti-Corruption Commission. But he’s going to make some phone calls, just to check.’
Clara leans closer to my basket and murmurs, ‘I will meet you at the compost heap tomorrow morning, Rita.’
‘You will? But—’
‘This is our investigation,’ she says. ‘And we are not going to stop just because Constable Dad tells us to. We are going to find out what Delphine is up to.’