Only joking. This is Jasper Grant we’re talking about, let loose among French schoolgirls. You lucky girls in Beauvais, cheer up. Beauvais may be a dump in the usual way, but it’s going to be a load of fun from now on.
However, it’s not as if nothing was going on here at the moment—even without Jasper, I have one or two items of news for you. First: Ever since Mrs. Lawrence got back from Lanzarote, she’s been throwing up every morning. And she’s been seen buying folic acid supplements at the pharmacy—so let’s congratulate her on her pregnancy, and we can assume that Mrs. Lawrence will soon be Mrs. Vanhagen. Well, as soon as Mr. Vanhagen is divorced from the present Mrs. Vanhagen.
Secondly—and if you ask me, this is much more of a scandal—vandals chopped down the big box-tree peacock in Elms Walk last night. I’m sure many of you knew it. It even had a name, Mr. Snuggles. Dear old Mr. Snuggles stands—sorry, stood—in Grayson and Florence Spencer’s grandmother’s front garden, and he’d won several prizes for topiary. I’ll give you links below to a couple of articles about him in gardening magazines. Wasn’t he a magnificent sight? But now he’s only a sad little heap of leaves and twigs. Rest in peace, Mr. Snuggles. And may whoever did that to you burn in Hell.
Right, now I must run or I’ll be late for lessons. And no, I’m not telling you what my next lesson is! ?
See you soon!
Secrecy
10
WHEN MIA AND I appeared in the kitchen at seven the next morning, still sleepy, all the others were there already, and they seemed to be in a state of great agitation. Ernest was on the phone in the dining room next door, talking frantically, and Florence was sitting at the table in tears. Mom was patting her shoulder.
“What’s happened?” I asked in alarm. Maybe a much-loved family member had died. Or a nuclear power plant had blown up? Even Grayson was looking kind of upset.
Lottie was squeezing grapefruit juice as she did every morning, but she, too, had cheeks red with emotion. “Guess what?” she said to us. “Someone chopped down a tree in Mrs. Spencer’s garden last night.”
I stared at her incredulously for a moment. Not a much-loved family member, then, not a nuclear power plant. My eyes went to Florence’s face, which was wet with tears. Was she really crying over Mr. Snuggles?
Unobtrusively, I slipped past Lottie and over to the coffee machine, put the biggest cup I could find under it, and pressed the cappuccino button. Twice.
“A tree? But why?” asked Mia with a perfectly judged mixture of curiosity and mild surprise.
“No one knows,” said Lottie. “But Mrs. Spencer has already called in Scotland Yard. It was a very valuable tree.”
I almost laughed out loud. Yes, sure. I bet they had a special gardening squad to investigate such cases. Scotland Front Yard. Good day, my name is Inspector Griffin and I’m looking into the murder of Mr. Snuggles.
“Why is Florence crying?”
“She’s crying because she loved the tree so much,” said Mom.
For goodness’ sake—it hadn’t even been a proper tree, more of a bush. A bush forced into an unnatural shape.
“It wasn’t just any old tree. I’ve known Mr. Snuggles since I was a little girl.” Florence sniffed. Her eyes were red with crying. “We practically grew up together.”
Mia and I exchanged a quick glance. Oh God. I needed coffee, and fast! Was the machine really going slower than usual today?
“It really was a beautiful … er … example of topiary,” said Mom, stroking Florence’s hair. “I really do wonder what kind of people would do a thing like that.”
Well, people like you and me, I’d say.
“Horrible, nasty people who are envious of everything beautiful!” Florence gave a loud sob.
What? No, we weren’t envious. And we’d have turned Mr. Snuggles into a beautiful skunk if he hadn’t been so darned awkward about it. I quickly looked past Mia at the kitchen scissors hanging on their hook on the wall. Had all that butchery blunted them? Maybe they even had notches in the blades. I glanced surreptitiously at the palms of my hands for welts and blisters. Yes, that sore place on my forefinger was new.
My double cappuccino was ready at last. I gulped it so greedily that I burned my tongue.
“It was probably some young louts on their way home from a party,” said Ernest, coming in from the next room with the telephone. “Although Mother suspects an envious neighbor.”
“Has she really called in Scotland Yard?” asked Mia.
Ernest smiled. “A friend of hers used to work there—you met him yesterday, the man with the big beard.”
“The Admiral?”