No Rules Page 5

  The music stopped as the teaching staff found their seats on stage.

  ‘Good morning,’ began the Headmaster. ‘As you know, we have had chaos here at the school for the past few days.’

  ‘Hurray!’ cheered the more high-spirited members of the school community.

  ‘No, “hurray” is not the correct response,’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘The appalling behaviour of Ian Wainscott specifically and the rest of you generally has seriously jeopardised the standing of this school.’

  The students were listening now.

  ‘Several of the teachers are threatening to sue,’ continued the Headmaster. ‘Two students got sprained ankles while trying to break into the kitchen, the local pizzeria has taken an apprehended violence order against all the fifth form girls, and Vice Principal Dean has been hospitalised because of the strain.’

  Several students sniggered.

  ‘This is not good!’ yelled the Headmaster. ‘We are now under immense scrutiny. The school council and the police will be watching everything that goes on at this school closely. Highcrest Academy has long had a tradition of mediocre academic standards, but if we degenerate into anarchy again, these official bodies will take action and close us down. Sebastian Dowell was the school’s founder, and according to the terms of his will, the school can be disbanded if the student body are decided to be dangerously undisciplined.’

  There was muttering in the assembly hall. Just because the students didn’t try hard in their lessons did not mean they didn’t have great affection for the school.

  ‘In fact, they have already taken action,’ said the Headmaster. ‘They have appointed a new interim vice principal. I have been told things need to change here at Highcrest. The new vice principal will be over seeing that change.’

  The Headmaster turned and went back to his seat.

  VP Pete stepped up to the lectern. ‘It’s wonderful to be here, boys and girls. My name is Peter Dawlish, but you can call me VP Pete,’ said VP Pete. ‘I can’t wait to get to know you all. I want you to know that I care about this school, but more importantly I care about caring, and I care about you.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ observed Melanie.

  ‘Shh,’ said Friday. If she had to blend in, the least her best friend could do was to stop making outrageously accurate statements.

  ‘This has always been a very traditional school,’ continued the vice principal, ‘but that clearly isn’t working anymore. So things are going to change. You young people are obviously crying out for freedom. So that is what you are going to get. From now on, this school will be run on democratic principles. Every decision will be decided by vote. Students will get equal vote with teachers and senior staff.’ There was muttering amongst the teachers now. ‘There will be no more detention. If a student commits a transgression they will have to write a self-analysis, exploring ways in which they positively seek alternative behaviour.’

  ‘I think I’d rather do a detention,’ said Melanie.

  ‘If you miss a class,’ continued VP Pete, ‘you won’t have to write lines. You won’t even be told off. Your punishment will be ignorance. Ignorance because you missed the fascinating lesson that your classmates enjoyed – which, in the long run, is a much greater punishment.’

  ‘If ignorance is a punishment, then someone had better call Amnesty International,’ said Friday. ‘The entire student body has been brutally punished.’

  ‘Did you have something to say, Miss Barnes?’ asked VP Pete.

  Everyone turned in their seats to look at Friday.

  Friday was embarrassed. Her ears turned red. ‘No,’ said Friday.

  ‘It’s rude to talk when others are talking,’ said VP Pete. ‘Write me a self-analysis and have it on my desk by 9 pm tonight.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Friday.

  ‘And make it thorough,’ said VP Pete. ‘I want 5000 words of really exhaustive self-examination.’

  Friday decided to give up wearing normal clothes. They clearly weren’t working.

  Chapter 9

  The Case of the Missing Maths Textbooks

  Later that afternoon, Friday was with Melanie in study hall writing her self-analysis. She had actually written well over 7000 words because she found the subject of herself so compelling. She was just beginning an analysis of her id, when she was interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me, Friday dear, I was wondering if you could give me some help?’

  Friday turned to see Miss Franelli, a mousy woman who looked 55 but was really only 29. Miss Franelli was a maths teacher. She loved the subject herself, but she was a kind, shy woman, so she felt dreadful for forcing children to study something that the vast majority of them loathed.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Friday.

  ‘My fifth form class,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘All their textbooks have gone missing.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘I think the students have hidden them, but I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find them.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Friday. ‘They’ve hidden every single textbook?’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Melanie. ‘I wish I’d thought of that.’

  ‘They were never very enthusiastic students before,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘But VP Pete’s talk of freedom seems to have gone to their heads.’

  ‘Can’t you report them to him?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I did,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘He told me that I needed to befriend the students and speak to them on their level, and if I didn’t do that I’d have to look for a position at a less progressive school.’

  ‘He can’t fire you,’ said Friday. ‘You’re the only teacher in the maths department who has a grasp of fourth-dimensional geometry.’

  ‘I did mention that I was very qualified and that I had a master’s degree in pure mathematics,’ said Miss Franelli, ‘but he just shook his head and said that it was this sort of patriarchal thinking that was holding back my career.’

  ‘But what do they do in class if they’re refusing to study?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘They just sit around reading romance novels,’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘The boys as well?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘I confronted Tristan Fanshaw about it and he told me that human relationships were the backbone of civilised society, and therefore romance novels were much more educational than anything I’ve taught him.’

  ‘He probably just enjoys the kissing bits,’ said Melanie.

  ‘So what exactly happened?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Well, I had them for a double period but it was split by recess,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘Before recess, they all had their textbooks. After recess, the books were gone. The students won’t tell me where. I searched the classroom, the staffroom and the book closet. They weren’t there. Not in any of the nearby classrooms. Not in the grounds or the gardens, or the bushes just outside the windows. I couldn’t find them anywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps they took them back to their rooms?’ said Melanie.

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ said Miss Franelli. ‘Recess is only fifteen minutes. The senior dormitory is on the far side of the school. Besides, it was raining yesterday. They would’ve been soaked if they’d tried the walk. And they weren’t. They were dry when they got back to class.’

  ‘Hmm, I think I know where the textbooks are,’ said Friday.

  ‘You do?’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘But you haven’t even searched the scene of the crime,’ said Melanie. ‘You always search the scene of the crime, preferably with a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers, examining every minute detail.’

  ‘This time I just need to check the geography,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s go and see your classroom.’

  Friday, Miss Franelli and Melanie left the study hall and walked across to the school quadrangle.

  ‘That’s your classroom up there, isn’t it?’ asked Friday, pointing to the second-floor classr
oom at the end, closest to the maths staffroom.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘Then it all fits,’ said Friday. ‘Come on.’

  When they climbed the stairs and arrived at the classroom, Miss Franelli’s fifth form class were lounging around reading their novels.

  ‘Class,’ said Miss Franelli, ‘Friday Barnes has come to help find your textbooks.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Tristan Fanshaw. ‘We were all so worried.’

  The class sniggered at his sarcasm.

  Friday scanned the room. The apathy of the senior students was palpable. They were clearly a group who spent more time styling their perfectly dishevelled hair than they did on their coursework.

  ‘Are you going to cross-examine them?’ asked Miss Franelli.

  ‘There’s not much point,’ said Friday. ‘They’ll just enjoy taunting me and I’d rather not give them the pleasure.’ She turned and walked back to the doorway. ‘Let’s fetch the books.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ called Tristan Fanshaw as Friday started walking down the corridor with Melanie and Miss Franelli.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘You said they were all entirely dry when they returned from recess,’ said Friday. ‘If they had stepped foot out into the rain, they would have ruined their self-consciously dishevelled hair. So, wherever they took the books, they got there by walking under-cover.’

  Friday reached the end of the corridor and walked down the large staircase to the ground floor. She looked about. They were standing with the downstairs corridor on one side, and the doorway to the quadrangle on the other. ‘Now, where could they go without getting wet?’

  ‘Along the corridor,’ said Melanie.

  ‘But then they’d be walking back towards their classroom,’ said Friday. ‘I think instinct would make them walk further away.’

  ‘But it was raining outside,’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘There is one covered walkway,’ said Friday, as she stepped out into the quadrangle.

  ‘The walkway to the library,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Friday. ‘A library full of books.’

  ‘You think the textbooks are there?’ asked Miss Franelli.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Friday. ‘What better place to hide twenty books than in a building full of tens of thousands of books.’

  ‘We’ll never find them,’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s go and see.’ She walked directly across the quadrangle to the library on the far side.

  Two minutes later they were standing in the romance section of the school library.

  ‘These are all romance books,’ said Miss Franelli.

  ‘No, they just look like romance books,’ said Friday. She took one down from the shelf and opened it up. ‘Okay, this one actually is a romance book, but the textbooks will be here somewhere.’

  Friday started taking stacks of romance novels down from the shelves.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded the librarian, striding over to the section.

  Friday and the librarian did not get along. Given Friday’s love of books you would think she would be a librarian’s favourite. But the librarian at Highcrest Academy was a woman of strong views. She did not like children. She especially didn’t like children who touched her books. Most of all, she didn’t like impertinent children who criticised the purchases she made for the science section, which is exactly what Friday had done when they first met. Ever since, the librarian had hated Friday with the intense repressed rage only someone who works in an environment where yelling is forbidden can possess.

  ‘We’re looking for maths textbooks,’ said Friday.

  ‘You’re not going to find them here,’ said the librarian.

  ‘I think I will,’ said Friday. ‘Miss Franelli’s class left the first half of their lesson with their textbooks. When they returned they had romance novels.’

  ‘These are not maths textbooks,’ said the librarian, snatching the books away from Friday and stacking them back on the shelf. ‘They are not the right size. These are standard B4 hardbacks. Textbooks are quarto size.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Friday. ‘You’re right. But I don’t understand. All the evidence leads to here. The textbooks must be here somewhere.’

  ‘Do you have any quarto romance novels?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Romance novels aren’t printed in quarto,’ said Friday.

  ‘Actually,’ said the librarian, ‘they are when they are published in large print for the visually challenged.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘People with bad eyesight,’ said Friday. ‘But there aren’t any students here who are visually impaired.’

  ‘No,’ said the librarian, ‘but we did get a large collection of books donated to us by Lady Cutler. She had an excellent ornithology collection and first edition travel memoirs. But her eyesight failed in her later years and she mainly read large-print romance novels.’

  ‘Where are they kept?’ asked Friday.

  ‘In their own section,’ said the librarian. She led them to the far end of the library where two entire bookshelves were jam-packed with oversized romance novels. ‘Lady Cutler was an avid reader.’

  ‘We can see,’ said Friday. She reached out and took a book from the centre shelf, then took off the dust jacket. The dust jacket read The Sheikh’s Ambitious Bride, but when she removed it the title on the spine of the book read Senior Mathematics, 17th edition.

  ‘Those little ingrates,’ said the librarian, snatching down books and discovering one textbook after another. ‘I let them come in here to get out of the rain, because goodness knows only meteorological intervention could possibly inspire them to read, and this is how they repay me!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Friday, ‘Miss Franelli knows where your novels are.’

  ‘The hard part will be getting them to give them back,’ worried Miss Franelli.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ said the librarian with ominous menace.

  ‘You will?’ said Miss Franelli hopefully.

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ said the librarian as she strode off with Miss Franelli back towards the maths classroom.

  The yelling could be heard from as far away as the school swamp.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Friday. ‘I haven’t had a good mystery to solve in ages.’

  ‘Since Ian left,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Since I promised not to cause trouble,’ said Friday. ‘I can’t wait for the Headmaster to get off probation so I can be a stickybeak again.’

  Chapter 10

  The Case of the Wet Boy

  Several days later, Friday and Melanie were emerging from their history lesson where they had been studying the history of the bikini (that was what the class had democratically decided they were most interested in), when Nigel, a third form boy, came running towards them.

  ‘Barnes, Barnes!’ panted Nigel. ‘Please, you’ve got to come with me. He needs your help again.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Friday. Although she suspected she knew the answer. Nigel had a particularly dim-witted roommate who Friday had assisted before.

  ‘It’s Parker,’ said Nigel. ‘He’s in trouble.’

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ asked Friday.

  ‘He fell asleep on the polo pitch last night,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Really?’ said Friday. ‘I find polo boring, but I don’t find it that boring.’

  ‘It sounds like the type of thing I would do,’ said Melanie.

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Nigel. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Didn’t it rain last night?’ said Friday. ‘There was definitely rumbling of thunder in the distance.’

  ‘It must have rained hard,’ said Nigel, ‘because Parker was soaked to the skin when they found him.’

  ‘Who found him?’ asked Friday.

  ‘The polo team,’ said Nigel. ‘They have a 6 am practice session
.’

  ‘That sounds very early,’ said Friday.

  ‘They have to practise harder because Ian has been expelled,’ said Melanie. ‘He was the best player on the team.’

  ‘So where is Parker now?’ asked Friday, ignoring Melanie’s reference to Ian.

  ‘He’s in sick bay, being treated for hypothermia,’ said Nigel.

  ‘I would have thought he’d be happy about that,’ said Friday. ‘He likes lying around doing nothing.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s got an assignment due today,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Not with Mr Spencer?’ asked Friday.

  ‘It is with Mr Spencer,’ said Nigel. ‘And you know how much he hates Parker.’

  Friday nodded. The answer was a lot. ‘But I thought all marks were determined by VP Pete’s self-assessment scheme now?’ said Friday.

  ‘Mr Spencer did give Parker a chance to do a self-assessment,’ said Nigel.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Friday.

  ‘He failed himself,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Why?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Honesty,’ said Nigel. ‘Parker said he knew better than anyone that he had no idea about chemistry.’

  ‘So not only is Parker seriously ill,’ said Friday, ‘there’s a good chance he will have to repeat chemistry.’

  ‘That would make him seriously ill just to consider,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Please, Barnes, you’ve got to help him,’ said Nigel. ‘I think Parker has been the victim of some sort of mischief. There must be a reason he was out on the pitch in the pouring rain. I know he’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.’

  ‘It does sound like a prank gone wrong,’ said Friday.

  ‘If you do help,’ said Nigel, ‘I’m sure Parker will pay you. In fact, I’ll pay you. I’ll let you steal anything you like that belongs to him from our room.’

  ‘Has he got anything I’d want?’ asked Friday.

  ‘He’s got a lot of Batman comics,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Not interested,’ said Friday.

  ‘A genuine limited-edition double-ended light sabre,’ said Nigel.