Detective Stories by Philip Pullman

Author:Philip Pullman [Pullman, Philip]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Nigel Kilby was the last to enter the classroom when they reassembled just before half-past four. He was carrying a brown cardboard box which he quickly slipped into his desk.

“What did you get?” Marsden asked.

Kilby removed the lid of the box and they all craned forward to have a look. What they saw were some mysterious pale berries, a root resembling a parsnip and a number of different leaves.

“Are they all poisonous?” Webster asked eagerly.

Kilby nodded gravely and one or two boys pulled back from the deadly contents. Yarrow even held his breath in case any fumes were being given off.

“But you can’t sprinkle that lot on his porridge,” Marsden remarked.

“Of course not. The poison’s got to be made. The leaves have to be boiled and then the grated root and the crushed berries must be added. It’s what’s left at the end that’s the poison.” Kilby cast a quick glance toward the door before going on. “I’ve got a tin and I’ll boil the leaves on the gas ring outside Matron’s room when she’s down at staff dinner tonight. But someone’ll have to keep watch at the end of the corridor in case she comes back early.”

“I’ll do that,” Marsden volunteered.

“It’ll be better if Perry does it. He’s smaller and can hide under the table.”

“What’ll the poison look like?” Wace asked.

Nigel Kilby blinked behind his spectacles. The truth was that he had no idea, but no leader could possibly make such an admission.

“It’ll be a sort of nondescript powder,” he said. “We’ll put it on his porridge at breakfast tomorrow. You know the way he goes and talks to Mr. Saunders after serving us, I’ll do it then.”

“Suppose he doesn’t have any porridge tomorrow?” Webster asked.

“Then we’ll have to wait until the next day. But he always has porridge.”

“He didn’t one day last week. I remember noticing.”

“That was because he’d been out drinking the night before. He’s only like that on Mondays.” Kilby glanced around at his eleven fellow jurors. “Don’t forget we’re in this together. We must take an oath of silence and swear never to tell a single soul whatever happens. If we stick together, nobody’ll ever find out.”

“Not even the top Scotland Yard detective,” Wace added in a burst of confidence.

“So, are we all agreed, Cheesepot must die?” Kilby said, looking from face to face.

Everyone nodded, though some a trifle apprehensively.

Shortly afterward the object of their death sentence strode into the classroom. But for once he seemed preoccupied. It was supposed to be an English lesson, but all he did was to give them an essay subject and then, while they wrote, stare with a glowering expression out of the window. He didn’t even shout or attempt to cuff Wace when he dropped his pen.

It was almost as if he realized he hadn’t much longer for this life.

Nigel Kilby was already awake when the school bell rang at half-past seven the next morning. He jumped out of bed, put on his spectacles and ran over to the radiator on top of which he had left his lethal mixture to mature.

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