The Case of the Wayward Professor (5 page)

Mrs Klingerflim switched on the radio and some old crackly music came on.

‘Oh, I like this one,' said the old lady, moving strangely to the music. ‘It reminds me of my Ivor. He used to take me out dancing to tunes like this all night long. They don't write them like they used to.'

It sounded awful to Dirk but then he hated all music. For dragons, music was not something you listened to for fun. Dragonsong was a powerful and deadly weapon.

He heard the phone in his office start ringing, so he thanked Mrs Klingerflim for the use of the computer and went upstairs. He shut the door with his tail and answered the phone.

‘Hi,' he said, scooping up Willow and stroking her.

‘Mr Dilly? Is that you?' said an anxious female voice.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Rosenfield?' he asked.

‘I was wondering if you'd found anything yet …' Her voice wavered. ‘It feels so underhand hiring you. I love my husband, Mr Dilly, but I'm scared.'

‘Why? What's happened?' asked Dirk.

‘He says that he's got one of his conferences this weekend, that he forgot to tell me about it, but he's lying.'

‘Why do you think he's lying?'

‘Someone called last night. I listened in on the other phone. The man told Karl to get the 8.59 train from Euston to Glasgow, but Karl told me he was going from King's Cross.'

‘What did the voice sound like?' asked Dirk.

‘Deep,' she replied. ‘Like a soul singer.'

‘What else did it say?'

‘I only caught the end of the conversation. He said that Karl wasn't actually going to Glasgow, but that he would receive a phone call telling him when he should
get off the train and that someone would be there to meet him. We've been married … for …' She began to cry. ‘For … twenty-three years.'

Dirk hated the sound of humans crying.

‘Mrs Rosenfield,' he said gently, ‘people lie for lots of reasons. Don't jump to any conclusions. I'll find out what he's doing. Don't worry.'

‘Thank you, Mr Dilly,' she sniffed.

‘What sort of conference did he say it was?'

‘He said it was one of his nonsense cryptozoological conferences.'

‘Cryptozoological?'

‘It's stupid, really, just his hobby, mythical creatures, he loves anything like that … unicorns, sea monsters and, you know …'

‘Dragons?' said Dirk.

‘Yes, they're his favourite. That's why I chose your detective agency. In a funny sort of way I thought he'd approve of the name …' Her voice trailed away.

‘Why didn't you mention this before?' asked Dirk.

‘I didn't think it was relevant. It's just a stupid hobby, isn't it? Those things don't really exist, do they?'

‘Of course they don't. It just helps to know these things sometimes,' said Dirk. ‘I'll call when I have news.'

He put down the receiver and looked up at the
clock. The big hand was pointing left. The smaller hand was below it. He scratched his head.

Come on, Dirk, you can do this
, he thought. Big hand was minutes. Yes. That meant it was a quarter to something. The small hand was hours and that was just below the nine. That was it. A quarter to nine.

A quarter to nine
? He had less than fifteen minutes to get to Euston Station. Dirk was quick but even he couldn't get across London's roofs at that speed, particularly not in daylight on a busy Saturday morning.

He pulled open the window, checked the street below and leapt out. It was a bright day, but overcast, like a grey blanket was spread over the sky. Usually Dirk travelled over roofs because they provided good cover. If he was seen he could stop and blend in an instant, disappearing from sight. He could become a figment of your imagination quicker than you could say, ‘Oh, look, a dragon sitting on top of Tesco's.' However, Dirk had a good pair of wings and was perfectly capable of flying. He just had to take precautions in a big city like London.

He shut his mouth and snorted through his nostrils, standing upright on his hind legs and spinning round. White smoke billowed out of his nose. He flapped his
wings as he turned, sending the smoke into a cloud that swirled around his body. He flapped a little harder, lifting himself off the roof, twisting and snorting as he flew upwards, to keep the smoke around him.

Having reached a good height, Dirk allowed the smoke to thin out to see where he was going. The view was spectacular, his beloved city of London at his feet. He found Euston and headed, feet first, towards it. Seeing an aeroplane flying above, Dirk snorted hard to thicken the smoke screen.

Inside the aeroplane, one of the passengers, also admiring the view of London, noticed the strange clump of smoke floating across the city.

‘Take a look at this,' she said, tapping her boyfriend, who was pretending to be asleep. ‘This cloud is acting very oddly.'

‘Is it really? How very interesting, dear,' said the boyfriend, patting her hand, not bothering to open his eyes.

Wondering whether she should break up with her sarcastic boyfriend and instead go out with the nice chap she had met down the laundrette, the girlfriend forgot all about the peculiar cloud drifting across London.

Dirk landed on the corrugated roof above the station
platforms and the smoke wafted away.

Above the sound of the train engines starting up, whistles blowing and doors shutting, an announcement said, ‘The train about to depart from platform seven is the 8.59 to Glasgow. Please stand clear of the platform's edge …'

The train rumbled forward.

There was no time to think.

Dirk sprang into the air, spread his wings and glided down, landing safely on top of the moving train, holding on tight and blending with the carriage roof.

Holly had been learning the trumpet for two years but had never stayed long enough at any one school to have proper lessons, so had taken to teaching herself from a book, on her own, in her room. She wasn't very good but it was noisy and she liked to play when she felt lonely because it filled the room with sound. But if she was going to persuade the music teacher, Miss Gilfeather, to let her join the band so late, she would have to play her very best.

Trumpet case in hand, she entered the small room labelled MUSIC ROOMS. It was Saturday morning when pupils had one-to-one music lessons, so Holly had decided to wait until Miss Gilfeather had a spare
moment then ask if she could join the band. She could hear a flute and a piano playing a piece of classical music behind another door. Or rather, the piano was playing. The flute was desperately trying and failing to keep up.

She looked for somewhere to sit and saw that she wasn't alone. By the side of an upright piano was a skinny boy, sitting so still that she hadn't noticed him at first. Greasy black hair was flattened against his forehead. He didn't look at her but she saw his grip tighten round the handle of his curved instrument case, as though afraid she might steal it.

‘Hi, I'm Holly,' she said, sitting down next to the boy. ‘Is that a French horn?'

His dark eyes flickered nervously to look at her.

She tried again, offering her hand and saying, ‘I play the trumpet. I want to join the band. Are you in the band?'

The strange boy made a noise somewhere between a giggle and a squeak and brought a hand up to his face, compulsively smoothing down his already very smooth hair.

Holly decided to give it one more try. ‘I've never played in front of anyone before. I taught myself. What about you?'

When the boy answered he spoke quickly without pausing for breath. ‘I have lessons, but the teachers get scared, everyone gets scared. They don't like being in a room with Callum, they think Callum is weird, but I still play because music blocks out the other noises. I never wanted to join the stupid band because other people aren't as good and spoil it and I hate it when people play wrong notes, like that flute in there, but Father thinks the concert will show people that Callum isn't a nutcase and so I have to be in the stupid band.'

The boy took a sharp intake of breath and smoothed down his hair.

Before Holly could respond, the door was flung open by a severe-looking woman, immaculately dressed in a trouser suit, holding a flute at arm's length, as though it was the most repulsive object she had ever touched.

She walked to the bin and dropped in the instrument.

Petal Moses darted out of the room and dived to the flute's rescue. ‘How dare you?' she demanded. ‘My mother bought that for me. It's an antique. It's worth more than you earn in a year.'

‘That's probably true, Miss Moses,' the teacher admitted. ‘And yet in your hands it may as well be a penny whistle. I told you last week that if you didn't practise
that this would be your last lesson.'

‘If you're so good at music, why aren't you a proper musician like my mum, rather than just a music teacher?' Petal snarled.

Miss Gilfeather emitted a very precise laugh in a 2/4 rhythm. ‘My dear, your mother is a pop star, not a musician.'

‘My mother has won awards,' Petal screamed, ‘and I'm gong to call Mum and get a record contract and then you'll see.'

‘I'm sure you will,' said Miss Gilfeather, maintaining her composure. ‘The pop charts are full of talentless chimpanzees. Now, kindly leave. You have wasted enough of my time.'

Petal swung round and saw Holly. ‘What are you staring at?' she demanded.

‘I think you'd better give your psychiatrist a call too,' replied Holly.

‘Hermann is a therapist,' replied Petal. ‘It's Callum that needs a psychiatrist, a whole team of them, I heard.' Petal pointed at the dark-haired boy. ‘Crazy Callum, the Prime Minister's son.'

‘Children, please don't argue in my rehearsal rooms,' said Miss Gilfeather. ‘The acoustics are far too good to waste on shouting. If you wish to tear each other limb
from limb, we have a perfectly good playground.'

Petal stormed out of the room, slamming the door as she left.

Holly had known that the Prime Minister's son was in the year above her, but she had expected him to be one of the super-confident, horse-riding rich kids that she hated so much.

‘What a very highly strung young lady. Reminds me of a violin I once had,' said Miss Gilfeather, turning to look at Holly. ‘Who are you?' she demanded. ‘You are not scheduled for a lesson.'

‘I'm Holly Bigsby. I'm new and I want to join the band.'

‘Impossible,' replied the teacher. ‘The concert is in five days' time.'

‘I'm a quick learner. I only started the school recently and I was hoping the band would help me make friends.'

‘It's not about making friends. It's about making music.'

‘Please, at least give me an audition.'

Miss Gilfeather gave Holly a sustained stare and then spoke. ‘Very well. I will give you an audition after Mr Thackley's lesson. Wait here.'

The boy followed her into the room and the door
shut behind them. The piano started again and the French horn joined in, hitting every note perfectly and playing with feeling and precision. It sounded beautiful. Holly was stunned.

After half an hour the door opened and the boy walked out, his instrument case clasped in his sweaty hands.

‘Excellent, Mr Thackley, as usual. See you on Monday for band rehearsals,' said Miss Gilfeather. ‘Now, Miss Bigsby, let's see what you can do.'

Holly got up nervously and went into the room. As she passed Callum he whispered, ‘Good luck.'

‘Close the door,' said Miss Gilfeather. ‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Holly Bigsby, miss.'

‘Ah, yes, the terrible tearaway. Mr Palmer has mentioned you. Well, I don't care for rebellion in my band. Music is unique in being both a science and an art. It should be studied with the brain and played with the heart. I see you play trumpet. I will accompany you on this piece.'

She handed Holly a sheet of music.

‘I brought my own piece to play,' replied Holly.

‘If you are hoping to play in the concert you will have to demonstrate the ability to sight-read. Given
enough time you can teach a monkey to play Mozart, but they'll never be able to sight-read.'

‘You can teach a monkey to play Mozart?'

‘Please familiarise yourself with the key and we'll begin.'

The music looked difficult, with three flats by the stave, plus a few more thrown in during the piece. Holly took her trumpet from her case and held it up to her lips. She got the first few notes in her head, working out the fingering, then nodded to Miss Gilfeather, who sat down at the piano and began to play.

At the end of the piece, Miss Gilfeather said, ‘Well, Holly Bigsby, your embouchure is appalling, you hold the trumpet at the wrong angle, your timing is off and you seem determined to turn every first quaver into a semi-quaver.'