Professor Pluss stood outside the headmaster’s study trembling. He couldn’t believe that in a career spanning more than thirty years, this was 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 percent of them …” Herman gulped.

“Yes, eighty percent of them have what?” Professor Winterbottom had so far managed to keep calm.

“Eighty percent 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 percent success two weeks ago to … this?” Professor Winterbottom held one of the offending 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 percent 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 draft 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-field-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 bearlike 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 it 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 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 headmaster 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 percent 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 blond 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 toward 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 cords. “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-colored 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 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.