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CHAPTER 1
Wrongly Accused
Friday Barnes and her roommate, Melanie Pelly, were sitting in the dining hall at Highcrest Academy, enjoying second helpings of chocolate cake. For two people who had absolutely nothing in common, except their mutual dislike of all sports, Friday and Melanie could not be better friends. They were more than just BFFs; they had formed a symbiotic relationship. Melanie was very vague, so she relied on Friday for basic information like what day of the week it was, what class they were sitting in, and how to do quadratic equations. Whereas Friday was socially clueless, so she relied on Melanie for intuitive knowledge, like telling her when she was being so irritating that her teacher was about to have a brain aneurysm.
Friday had never expected to attend a fancy private boarding school. That was until she received a $50,000 reward for helping her uncle solve a bank robbery. Coming from a highly academic family (both her parents and all four of her siblings had PhDs in physics), Friday decided to invest the money in her education, which was how she came to be at Highcrest.
Since arriving at the elite preparatory school, Friday had gone from being a scruffy eleven-year-old social outcast to being a brilliant eleven-year-old private detective. She'd had to because Friday didn't come from a wealthy family like the other students, so working as a private detective was her way of earning an allowance. Friday was still scruffy and socially outcast, but people were prepared to overlook that when they desperately needed her help.
And Friday didn't just help her fellow students. Even the Headmaster called on Friday when he had a problem he couldn't, or didn't want to, handle himself.
On this particular occasion, Friday and Melanie were at the end of a long week of searching for a swamp yeti, capturing bird smugglers, and saving the school's reputation, so Mrs. Marigold, the cook, felt they had earned an extra serving of dessert. But their calorie-induced bliss was about to be interrupted.
"Barnes," snapped a voice from behind them.
Friday and Melanie turned around. The Headmaster was standing next to a uniformed police sergeant.
"What's this?" asked Friday. "Am I getting some sort of citizenship award for everything I've done for the school?"
"No," said the Headmaster soberly. "I'm afraid not."
"Friday Barnes," said the police sergeant, "I have to ask you to come with me."
"Why?" asked Friday.
"Because I'm arresting you," said the police sergeant. "You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?"
"Not really," said Friday. "Not the situation anyway. But I do have a large vocabulary and as such have no trouble understanding the meaning of your words."
The police sergeant had dealt with people much more intimidating than Friday resisting arrest, so he simply took the matter in hand. He pulled Friday's chair back for her while she was still sitting on it, took her by the elbow, and guided her to her feet.
Friday was mortified. She didn't have to look up to know that everyone in the room was staring at her. This would be yet another reason for all her rich classmates to snigger and laugh at her. There was nothing she could do. She was the most exciting spectacle in the dining room since Mrs. Marigold lost her temper with a vegetarian student-teacher and dumped a pudding on his head.
"If you'll come with me," said the police sergeant, although Friday could barely hear him through the rushing sound in her ears. People always marvel that holding a seashell to your ear replicates the sound of the sea, but in the seconds before you faint the movement of blood rushing out of your brain replicates the sound of the sea, too.
Friday saw Melanie's concerned expression, and then something made her look across the room. Ian Wainscott, the most handsome boy in school (also the most infuriatingly smug boy in school), was entering through the back door. He was Friday's nemesis/love-interest, no one was entirely sure which. In the past, she'd put his father in prison for a case of insurance fraud involving a stolen diamond, and Ian had dressed up as a swamp yeti and tried to scare her to death. Yet they seemed to be magnetically drawn to each other, if for no other reason than to bicker.
Friday watched Ian's face as he took in the scene. He seemed surprised for a moment; then he caught Friday's eye, and his face returned to its normal apathetic mask.
The police sergeant started pulling at Friday's arm and the world seemed to return to normal speed. Her ears started to process sound again, just in time to hear the first murmurs of malicious gossip.
It was at times like this when Friday wished she didn't have a brain like a supercomputer. Having a photographic memory meant that the words, and the associated hurt, would be accessible in the long-term storage of her brain's neural matrix forever.
"Typical scholarship kid, probably been stealing," whispered Mirabella Peterson.
"Maybe she's being arrested for wearing those brown cardigans," said Trea Babcock. "She should get five to ten years for crimes against fashion."
"Plus another ten for the green hat," said Judith Wilton.
Now dozens of people sniggered. That was the last Friday heard as the dining room door flapped closed behind her.
A squad car with lights flashing was parked at the top of the school's driveway.
"The Headmaster is going to hate that," said Friday. "It's a bad look for the school."
"The Headmaster will be grateful I'm taking you off his hands after what y — Wagh!" said the police sergeant, who was interrupted midlecture because he had fallen into a hole about one foot round and one foot deep. "Ow, that hurt," he said, rubbing his knees.
"I wonder who put that there?" said Friday. She inspected the hole. It looked like it had been dug out by hand.
"This crazy school," muttered the police sergeant. "There's always something going on. Rich kids with their weird pranks or bitter teachers with their revenge plots. The sooner we get out of here, the better."
Friday looked back at the main building. She had a lump in her throat and her eyes started to itch. She knew she wasn't suffering from pollen allergies because it wouldn't be spring for another six months.
Friday wasn't terribly in touch with her emotions, but she was able to deduce that she was upset. Being forced from Highcrest Academy was affecting her more than she would have imagined. The police sergeant was entirely right. Highcrest Academy was full of obnoxious children and strange teachers, but it had also become her home. She had friends — well, one friend. And she received three warm meals a day. So despite the Gothic architecture and the even more Gothic attitudes of the staff, this place had made her feel safe and needed — in a way her family home never had. As the squad car started to pull down the driveway, Friday hoped this would not be the last time she saw her school.
*
The police car wound its way through the rolling countryside to the nearest town. A female police officer was driving. They were heading for Twittingsworth, a fashionable and well-to-do rural area where the weekend homes of city bankers and lawyers were nestled among local farms.
"So what crime am I being accused of committing?" asked Friday.
"We'll discuss all that in the formal interview," said the police sergeant.
"Why, is it some sort of surprise?" asked Friday.
"It's a very serious offense," said the police sergeant. "We don't want to jeopardize the case by deviating from correct procedure. We're going to do this by the book. There will be a lot of scrutiny. The National Counterterrorism Center has been alerted."
"Counterterrorism!" exclaimed Friday. "But I haven't done anything."
The police sergeant snorted. "Save it for the interview."
*
The police station was an old stone building, built back in the day when people had taken pride in the appearance of official institutions.
Friday had not been handcuffed. No doubt there were rules about handcuffing children. She also thought it unlikely that her own thin, spindly wrists could be contained by the same handcuffs that would be needed to restrain a fully grown man.
It was the policewoman who led Friday into the building, taking her through to an open-plan area where there were half a dozen desks cluttered with mountains of paperwork. There was one separate office partitioned off at the end of the room, no doubt for the sergeant. There were two doorways on the side. They looked like they led to cells, but they were marked "Interview Room 1" and "Interview Room 2." A wooden bench sat between them.
Everything inside the police station was gray-green except for the cheerful posters on the wall, featuring famous athletes urging citizens to be respectful of women's rights.
Friday was underwhelmed. She had imagined the inside of a police station to be a more exciting place, but she supposed they could not put up gruesome crime-scene photos on the wall. As a result the police station looked like an average boring office.
Friday sat down on a wooden bench outside the interview rooms. The bench reminded Friday of the one outside the Headmaster's office, although on the whole it was more comfortable. Plus, the police station had less of a feel of impending doom than the Headmaster's office.
On the far end of the bench sat a man who looked like a vagrant, though a strangely large and athletic vagrant. He had been handcuffed to the seat. It was hard to gauge his height because he was sitting down, but he must have been well over six feet tall. He had thinning blond hair and a rough beard. His clothes were old, worn, and crumpled. And Friday noticed that he smelled quite distinctly of mold, even though she was trying her very best not to breathe through her nose. Friday felt like she had been put next to the lion enclosure at the zoo.
The policewoman bent down to speak to Friday in what she clearly hoped was a comforting fashion. "We've left a message for your mom and dad," she said, "so they should be here soon."
"I doubt it," said Friday. "They never check their messages. They only have an answering machine because they find it less irritating than letting their phone ring."
"How do you get in touch with them, then?" asked the policewoman.
"I don't," said Friday. "I suppose I could send an e-mail to one of my mother's PhD students and ask them to speak to her in person. That's what I did the time I broke my ankle on a geology excursion."
"You did?" asked the policewoman.
"Yes," said Friday. "I needed to let Mom know I wouldn't be home because the rescue helicopter couldn't pick me up from the cliff face until daylight. But I haven't done that for ages, because we're not allowed to have e-mail access at Highcrest Academy. They have a strict anti-technology policy. They're frightened that students will use handheld electronic devices against the staff."
"Really?" said the policewoman.
"Yes," said Friday. "But students find ways around it. I know a girl who only took art so she could sketch incriminating drawings of her history teacher and mail them to her lawyer."
"This is a problem," said the policewoman. "We can't interview you until a family member is present."
"By 'interview' you mean browbeat me into confessing, don't you?" asked Friday.
"Well, um ..." began the policewoman.
"It's all right," Friday assured her. "As a fledgling detective, I'd enjoy seeing professionals at work. Will you do 'good cop, bad cop,' or are you doing it already and that's why you're being nice to me?"
"Well, er —" said the policewoman, blushing a little at having been caught out by an eleven-year-old.
"This is exciting," interrupted Friday. "Call my Uncle Bernie. He's an insurance investigator. I'll write his number down for you. He'll come right away. I can't wait to get started."
CHAPTER 2
The Vagrant
Friday knew it would take some time for her uncle to get to the police station. His office was two hours away, and if he was cross-examining a hostile insurance claimant he might not be able to leave work immediately. So Friday reasoned that she had between two and a half and four hours to fill.
She took out a lollipop and stuck it in her mouth, then looked around the room. She thought of asking for a crossword puzzle, but since she was very good at those it would probably only fill up five or six minutes.
Friday considered asking if she could read the police files, but she suspected there'd be some privacy law preventing the officers from showing them to a child. Also, it'd probably rub the police the wrong way if she read through their files and solved all their cold cases for them.
Friday glanced at the vagrant at the far end of the bench. He didn't look like the chatty type. He looked more the "hit you over the head with a rusty iron bar" type. Friday decided to leave him alone. She pulled a paperback from her pocket and started to read. She'd only been reading for a few minutes when she realized the vagrant was watching her. He hadn't turned and stared, but he was definitely watching her out of the corner of his eye. Friday looked up at him.
"Good book?" asked the vagrant.
Friday hadn't expected the vagrant to engage her in a literary discussion.
"It is, actually," said Friday. "It's E. M. Dowell's The Curse of the Pirate King, the story of a privileged boy who defies his family's expectations and runs away to be a pirate, then becomes enormously successful sailing the high seas and winning sword fights with people who are even more dubious than himself. We have to read it for English."
"They let you read that at school?" he asked. "In my day it was all Shakespeare and Dickens."
"The school is particularly proud of this book because it was written by the great-great-grandson of the school's founder, Sebastian Dowell," explained Friday. "E. M. Dowell is one of the few ex-students to become rich and famous without violating insider trading laws."
"Okay," said the vagrant. He didn't have an expressive face, but he seemed bemused.
"It's very exciting. We're all dying to know how it ends," continued Friday. "There's one more book to go in the series. Legend has it that E. M. Dowell came up with the idea for the whole series while he was at our school and that he wrote the last chapter first, then hid it. Like it was pirate treasure."
"Sounds like a weirdo," said the vagrant.
"Yes," agreed Friday. "Although the literary biographies phrase it differently. Their euphemism is 'eccentric recluse.'"
The vagrant snorted a laugh and went back to staring into the middle distance.
Now that she knew he wasn't terrifyingly dangerous, Friday was curious. "What have they busted you for?" she asked.
"What's it to you?" asked the vagrant.
"I'm up on terrorism charges," said Friday.
The vagrant raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't do it," said Friday. "I'm wrongly accused."
The vagrant snorted again.
"Look, I know I look like a child, mainly because I am only eleven years old," said Friday, "but I am actually a successful private investigator. I've solved a bank robbery and thwarted a bird-smuggling ring, as well as lots of smaller cases. Why don't you tell me your story? Perhaps I can help."
The vagrant didn't look at Friday, but he didn't look away either. He was clearly thinking about it.
"I'm waiting for my uncle to get here so I can be interviewed," volunteered Friday. "What are you waiting for?"
"Their computer to identify my fingerprints," said the vagrant.
"So you're refusing to tell them who you are?" asked Friday.
The vagrant shrugged. "I didn't do anything wrong, so why should I help them?"
"Interesting tactic," said Friday, admiringly. "But aren't you worried that you'll make them angry by being unnecessarily uncooperative?"
"Cops are always angry whatever you do," said the vagrant. "They have an awful job dealing with horrible people all day long. Time-wasting is the least of their worries. In fact, they quite like it because it increases their chances of getting overtime."
"All right, then," said Friday. "Since we're both stuck here for the next couple of hours, give me something to do. Tell me the details of your case."
The vagrant sighed. He was obviously weighing his options. He seemed to be the type of man who preferred to remain silent when possible.
"They say I stole a blue sapphire bracelet," said the vagrant.
"Did you?" asked Friday.
"No," said the vagrant.
"So why do they think you did?" she asked.
The vagrant shrugged. Then he looked down at his clothes. "Look at me, I'm a bum."
Friday nodded. She sucked her lollipop as she thought about it. Truth be told, she wasn't dressed much better herself. But it is a fact of life that some people can wear un-ironed earth tones and look like eccentric academics, and some people look like hobos who have been sleeping under a bush for a week.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Under Suspicion"
by .
Copyright © 2014 R. A. Spratt.
Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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