Sleuth on Skates by Clementine Beauvais Read Free Book Online

visibility jacket and get my bike out and say ‘Postman! Postman!’ and drop the letter into the letter box with lots of junk mail, and then run away from the dog! (Though we don’t actually have one, as it would infuriate Peter Mortimer.)”
    â€œThank you very much, but no,” said Professor Philips rudely. “This is a matter between your mother and me.”
    â€œI really think you should consider Sesame’s offer, it’d save you a stamp,” said Toby.
    â€œWill you leave me alone?” moaned the erudite man. And he was gone.
    â€œWho was that?” questioned Gemma. ‘He didn’t look like the kind of person you’d usually hang out with.”
    â€œHe’s not,” I said, “he’s just pals with my mum.”
    â€œOh, I see. Why is he all weird about it? Do you think it’s a love letter he’s sending to her?”
    â€œAre you insane? What kind of deranged lunatic would be in love with my mum? No, it must be about all that money she’s getting from some marketing company. He’s been helping her rake it in like Scrooge McDuck.”
    â€œHe looks like a right bore,” said Toby. “Did you see how mental he went when my foot connected with his stomach? Oh, no, we’ve lost the rest of the class! Run, or we’ll get pulped to death by Halitosis.’
    As Toby and Gemma sped up to the next room, an alien body crunched under my shoe. I looked down with half-open eyes, dreading to see the corpse of a very small mouse, whichwas what it felt like. But it was, in fact, just a tiny grey key tied to a fluffy pompom, which Professor Philips must have dropped along with the letters.

    A part of me said “Finders keepers.” Another part said “Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s,” which is one of those things that Jesus said in funny English. Normally I would have followed Jesus’s advice, since my dad works for his dad, but this time I had reason to believe that Caesar was actually not involved in this affair at all. So I pocketed the key and joined Toby and Gemma and the rest of the class and Mr. Halitosis, who was showing profound ecstasy in the presence of a decorated pot.
    The rest of the visit went smoothly, until Mr. Halitosis handed out the packed lunches which Mr. Appleyard had prepared for us. Mr. Appleyard believes that children must eat more milk-based products per day than a cow can make in a year. Consequently, oursandwiches were composed of butter, cream cheese, and a slice of Red Leicester. Following this was yoghurt, and two Babybels per person. For drinks, we got Chocomilk.
    Gemma was the first person to be sick, and chose to be so at the top of the marble staircase. Ben, who always copies everyone, was sick six seconds later. Soon the staircase looked like the Niagara Falls, Mr. Halitosis began to tear off what little hair was left on his head, and the museum staff discovered that there was only one mop in the whole building.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said to Mr. Halitosis, “my stomach is as stable as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I’ll just run next door to the Anchor and ask for extra mops.”
    I don’t know if he heard me, but I ran to the pub before he could say no. I know the Anchor very well—my cool godfather Liam takes me there when he comes to Cambridge. The boss is called Sam, and his son, Peter, manages the punt-renting company right next to it.
    â€œPeter!” I screamed, tumbling into the pub.“You must run at once to the Fitzwilliam Museum with at least twenty mops! You will find the entrance flooded by white-looking sick, my teacher moping on the side, and museum staff overwhelmed by the event.”
    This didn’t seem to spur Peter into action. “The thing is, Sesame, well, I’d love to help, but I’m waiting for a delivery of mini-canoes. It could be here any minute . . .”
    â€œI’ll wait