.”
“My journalistic contacts,” she continued determinedly, “mean that I’m a really useful person to know.”
“Go away,” said Stuart.
“And I’m a fast runner,” she added. “And I always win at dares, and my report card said that I never take no for an answer.”
Stuart started to close the window.
“And I’m bored !” April shouted. “I’m really, really, really bored . I can’t find any crime to report, and my sisters aren’t interested in investigative journalism. All they want to do is copy stuff out of the paper. Anyway,” she added, “I bet you need help.”
He hesitated, his hand on the window latch.
He did need help. Without it he’d never get back into the museum, and he’d never find the safe combination, and he couldn’t give up now, he just couldn’t.
He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the yard in two minutes.”
When he got outside, Stuart wished he’d chosen somewhere else to meet. He’d forgotten that April was tall enough to rest her chin on the top of the fence, whereas he could only see over into the yard next door if he stood on tiptoe.
“So,” said April, looking down at him, “what’s going on?”
Stuart thought hard. He didn’t really trust her, so it would be best, he decided, to give her as little information as possible, and not to mention the coins or the machines, or even Great-Uncle Tony. He would have to be very, very clever about it.
“All right,” he said. “If you needed to spend twenty minutes in one of the rooms in Beeton Museum without being disturbed by anyone, how would you do it?”
“What’s this, a quiz?” asked April, frowning.
“In a way,” he replied mysteriously.
“Well, what do you need to do for those twenty minutes?” she asked. “Do you want to borrow something?”
“No.”
“Steal something?”
“ No .”
“Have a go on one of those old-fashioned slot machines in the back room?”
His jaw dropped. “How do you know?”
“Everyone wants a go on those. They lock them up when school trips come around. They’ll only work with old threepenny bits. Have you got some?”
“Er …”
“I bet you have. Where did you find them?”
“Er …”
“Did they belong to your great-uncle Tony who had the house? Did they?”
Stuart nodded dumbly. It was hopeless. She was just too clever for him.
“You might as well tell me everything,” said April. “Go on. Please. Please .”
In a way, it was a relief to be able to tell someone the whole story. April listened carefully, her expression serious, the sunlight bouncing off her spectacles. When he’d finished speaking, she was silent for a very long time, and then she cleared her throat.
“I don’t believe in magic,” she said.
“Nor me,” said Stuart. “But then neither did Great-Uncle Tony until the night of the fire.”
She nodded slowly. “And as a crime reporter,” she said, “I’ve developed an uncanny ability to spot when someone is telling the truth. And I know you’re telling the truth.” She closed her eyes for about three seconds and then opened them again. “Right,” she said. “I’ve got a plan.”
“What, already?”
“Yup.” She grinned. “Told you I was good.”
“I haven’t heard the plan yet,” said Stuart coldly.
“It’s quite simple,” she declared, “and we can do it tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now, listen …”
CHAPTER 21
The next morning Stuart woke quite late. He lay in bed for a while, idly listening to a pigeon cooing outside his window, and then a sudden thought struck him. He scrambled out of bed, and pulled open the curtain. What he saw wasn’t a pigeon, but a white dove—Clifford’s white dove—and it fluttered up from the windowsill and flew in a wide circle above the road, settling at last on the top of a hedge. A hand appeared above the hedge and made a grab for the bird. The dove flew off, leaving a single white tail feather behind.
Stuart closed the
“My journalistic contacts,” she continued determinedly, “mean that I’m a really useful person to know.”
“Go away,” said Stuart.
“And I’m a fast runner,” she added. “And I always win at dares, and my report card said that I never take no for an answer.”
Stuart started to close the window.
“And I’m bored !” April shouted. “I’m really, really, really bored . I can’t find any crime to report, and my sisters aren’t interested in investigative journalism. All they want to do is copy stuff out of the paper. Anyway,” she added, “I bet you need help.”
He hesitated, his hand on the window latch.
He did need help. Without it he’d never get back into the museum, and he’d never find the safe combination, and he couldn’t give up now, he just couldn’t.
He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the yard in two minutes.”
When he got outside, Stuart wished he’d chosen somewhere else to meet. He’d forgotten that April was tall enough to rest her chin on the top of the fence, whereas he could only see over into the yard next door if he stood on tiptoe.
“So,” said April, looking down at him, “what’s going on?”
Stuart thought hard. He didn’t really trust her, so it would be best, he decided, to give her as little information as possible, and not to mention the coins or the machines, or even Great-Uncle Tony. He would have to be very, very clever about it.
“All right,” he said. “If you needed to spend twenty minutes in one of the rooms in Beeton Museum without being disturbed by anyone, how would you do it?”
“What’s this, a quiz?” asked April, frowning.
“In a way,” he replied mysteriously.
“Well, what do you need to do for those twenty minutes?” she asked. “Do you want to borrow something?”
“No.”
“Steal something?”
“ No .”
“Have a go on one of those old-fashioned slot machines in the back room?”
His jaw dropped. “How do you know?”
“Everyone wants a go on those. They lock them up when school trips come around. They’ll only work with old threepenny bits. Have you got some?”
“Er …”
“I bet you have. Where did you find them?”
“Er …”
“Did they belong to your great-uncle Tony who had the house? Did they?”
Stuart nodded dumbly. It was hopeless. She was just too clever for him.
“You might as well tell me everything,” said April. “Go on. Please. Please .”
In a way, it was a relief to be able to tell someone the whole story. April listened carefully, her expression serious, the sunlight bouncing off her spectacles. When he’d finished speaking, she was silent for a very long time, and then she cleared her throat.
“I don’t believe in magic,” she said.
“Nor me,” said Stuart. “But then neither did Great-Uncle Tony until the night of the fire.”
She nodded slowly. “And as a crime reporter,” she said, “I’ve developed an uncanny ability to spot when someone is telling the truth. And I know you’re telling the truth.” She closed her eyes for about three seconds and then opened them again. “Right,” she said. “I’ve got a plan.”
“What, already?”
“Yup.” She grinned. “Told you I was good.”
“I haven’t heard the plan yet,” said Stuart coldly.
“It’s quite simple,” she declared, “and we can do it tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now, listen …”
CHAPTER 21
The next morning Stuart woke quite late. He lay in bed for a while, idly listening to a pigeon cooing outside his window, and then a sudden thought struck him. He scrambled out of bed, and pulled open the curtain. What he saw wasn’t a pigeon, but a white dove—Clifford’s white dove—and it fluttered up from the windowsill and flew in a wide circle above the road, settling at last on the top of a hedge. A hand appeared above the hedge and made a grab for the bird. The dove flew off, leaving a single white tail feather behind.
Stuart closed the
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