‘Ah, yes,’ he said gravely. ‘Well, I wouldn’t fret about that.’

  ‘He’s been missing for two days! Of course I’m worried.’

  ‘I’m certain that I am on the cusp of finding him. That’s what I came here to tell you, in fact.’

  ‘You are?’ said Mrs Stewart. She had looked cautious at first, but quickly became excited. ‘Well, that’s good news, isn’t it, kids?’

  ‘Ah, hello,’ said Mr Stewart from the stairs. ‘I thought I heard voices.’

  ‘James, Bill says he’s nearly found Einstein and Isaac. Isn’t that good?’

  Mr Stewart paused. ‘You have?’ he said stiffly. ‘I’ve been on the phone about it all day. Got a few decent theories myself.’

  He shuffled over to the kettle to make the tea.

  ‘So where are they?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Bill Hunter. ‘I haven’t found them yet.’

  ‘But if you think you’ve nearly found them then you must have some ideas about it.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘So what are they?’

  Bill Hunter considered this. ‘Well, the thing is to examine the evidence closely and then apply it to the bigger picture.’

  The Stewarts all looked at him expectantly. Imogen slurped her hot chocolate and narrowed her eyes.

  ‘The truth is I have several theories,’ Bill Hunter declared, in a fit of inspiration. ‘You see, the first … the first is that they ran away!’

  ‘Einstein didn’t run away!’ cried Arthur.

  ‘Troubled penguins can surprise you.’

  ‘How would he have opened the door by himself?’ asked Imogen. ‘He doesn’t have opposable thumbs. Or hands.’

  Bill Hunter frowned. ‘Well, as I said, that one is my least favourite theory.’

  ‘You didn’t say that.’

  ‘The second theory,’ he went on, bending and unbending his thumbs experimentally under the table, ‘is that they were kidnapped.’

  ‘We already know that,’ Imogen said. ‘We’re trying to work out who by.’

  ‘All right, let’s not be rude,’ warned Mrs Stewart.

  ‘After all, the note said I am holding the penguins hostage, which suggests that somebody has the penguins, and is holding them—’

  ‘I have the penguins. I am holding them hostage,’ Imogen found herself mumbling aloud. Mrs Stewart usually told her off for correcting people, but in this case she couldn’t help it.

  ‘What?’ said Bill Hunter.

  ‘That’s what the note said. It was two sentences, not one.’

  Bill Hunter smiled at this. He reached into his pocket and smugly slapped the note down on to the table in front of her. Imogen picked it up and looked at it. I am holding the penguins hostage, it said, in shaky black handwriting.

  ‘Not so smart now, are we?’

  Imogen blinked. That couldn’t be right … She could have sworn …

  ‘How do you like your tea?’ asked Mr Stewart, placing several mugs down on the table.

  ‘Milk and sugar, please.’

  ‘I’ll let you do it.’

  Bill Hunter tipped the sugar in his mug, then attempted to hand the pot back to Mr Stewart.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Mr Stewart pointedly. ‘I prefer mine strong.’

  ‘I don’t think you have any ideas about any of it at all,’ said Imogen decidedly.

  ‘I have a good deal more than you do,’ Bill Hunter snapped. ‘I don’t want to compromise the mission by revealing my secrets.’

  ‘Then why did you come here?’

  ‘Imogen,’ Mrs Stewart said crossly, though Mr Stewart looked a little proud.

  ‘Well,’ said Bill Hunter after a few sips of tea, ‘I suppose I’d better leave. I can tell I’m not wanted. But I just came to share the good news.’

  ‘Oh, Bill. Finish your tea first,’ said Mrs Stewart sympathetically. She wasn’t very good at not feeling sorry for people when she needed to.

  ‘When do you think you’ll have found them by?’ asked Arthur.

  He wasn’t quite sure whether he was interrogating the man, like Imogen was, or asking the question hopefully. It seemed to come out forcefully and then turn genuine halfway through.

  ‘Oh – by Friday evening, I should think.’

  Imogen watched Bill Hunter as he finished his tea, and she was still watching him when he walked into the hallway to find his coat. She even stood up to follow him.

  ‘What’s that on your hand?’ she asked suddenly.

  Bill Hunter looked surprised and quickly tucked his hand into his pocket, but Imogen had already seen it: the nasty red stripe across his fingers. In the shape of a penguin’s beak.

  ‘What’s what on my hand?’ asked Bill innocently.

  ‘It’s in your pocket now.’

  He took his left hand out of his pocket and waved it around in the light.

  ‘Your other hand.’

  ‘Oh, that?’

  Even Mr and Mrs Stewart, peering through from the kitchen, were looking interested now.

  ‘That’s where Einstein bit me the other day at the airport.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Mrs Stewart, ‘and it’s still red? You should put some ice on that.’

  When Imogen went to bed that night, her mind was racing. Little bits of evidence were spinning round her head, and now that it was quiet she could almost feel them slotting together, making sense of things that hadn’t made sense before.

  That mark on Bill Hunter’s hand … It was raw, like it hadn’t been there long. And, although she couldn’t remember perfectly, Imogen didn’t think it had been there at the studio film set on Monday.

  And, as for the note, she knew she hadn’t been wrong. She had written down exactly what Bill Hunter had read out on Monday in her notebook, word for word. Which suggested, Imogen thought to herself, frowning, that he had read the note out incorrectly at the time. It seemed strange that he would read it out so carelessly when it was so important and he’d never seen it before …

  Or perhaps he had seen it before. Perhaps his carelessness came from overconfidence that he didn’t need to reread it. And did that – could that – mean that he had actually written it? If only she had her notebook to confirm her suspicions!

  After all, he was acting so sure of himself! How could he be so confident about things if he didn’t know more than he was giving away? Friday evening was a very specific deadline, and how could he be so certain …?

  ‘Don’t worry, Einstein,’ Imogen whispered, frowning determinedly at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. ‘I’ll prove that it was him.’

  What she didn’t understand, of course, was why. Why would he want to kidnap Einstein and Isaac when he needed them for his work? It would make sense if he was planning on keeping them, or selling them, but he’d been talking as if he was actually planning on giving them back.

  Slowly she pulled the note out of her pocket. Bill Hunter had forgotten to pick it up off the kitchen table. She read the word hostage. Wasn’t the point of having a hostage that you asked for something to secure their safe return? But no one had asked for anything. There was still something missing, something that didn’t make sense yet.

  Imogen wandered back into her bedroom and sat behind the curtains on the windowsill. The sky all around her was the dark, deep colour of ink – more blue than black – and glowing at the edges. She wondered whether Einstein was still underneath it, whether perhaps he was looking up at it now too.

  There were never any stars in London, although the moon was bright enough, and the streetlights did a good job of holding back the darkness. Once or twice Imogen thought she saw a star peeking out from among the clouds and smog, but they always disappeared too quickly, swallowed back into the waters of the London night.

  The flickering light of an aeroplane went sliding by, and Imogen, pretending to herself that it was a shooting star, after all, made a small wish under her breath.

  Not so far across the same city Einstein rolled over in his sleep. He could almost hear her.

  Imogen had already explained the plan three times by the time they reached the school gates.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do it?’ she asked, putting a nervous hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

  Arthur shrugged her off irritatedly. ‘You need me to do it,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Make sure no one sees you,’ she said. ‘But, if they do, you can tell them that you were looking for your new computer class, and you got lost.’

  ‘We know,’ said Arthur, barely hiding his exasperation.

  She had even made him sign up for the breaktime computer course: the computer room was in the same building as the history classroom her notebook was being kept in, and it would make a good excuse if he was questioned. Arthur didn’t much like the idea of being caught and having to spend half an hour pretending to be interested in spreadsheets, but he supposed that it was for the greater good.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ added Theo, who had already volunteered to help. ‘How hard can it be?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Imogen. ‘Well, let me know how it goes.’

  She watched gloomily as Arthur and Theo walked away across the playground. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate, leaving something up to her brother like that. What if he lost the notebook forever? What if he got caught? She’d have done it herself, but if Mr Daunt found her sneaking around in his classroom he’d know exactly what she was up to. At least the boys were in with a chance of pulling it off.

  ‘Hi!’

  It was Gracie, greeting Imogen as she walked past.

  To Gracie’s left, Amy pursed her lips and gave Imogen a brief glare, then quickly looked away again.

  Imogen blinked after them in surprise. ‘Hi,’ she said, largely to their backs, then went over to join some of the other girls on their way into the classroom.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ asked Theo.

  Arthur had gone quiet over lunch, which wasn’t exactly abnormal, but he had been even quieter than usual. At first it had been out of sadness: he was worrying about Einstein as he pushed his baked beans in circles round the edge of his plate. But, shortly after the beans had turned to mush and disappeared underneath his uneaten broccoli, his sadness had turned into a sort of silent determination – a feeling Arthur wasn’t entirely used to.

  Arthur nodded to show that he was fine. They were nearly at the right building now – the one Imogen had directed them to. It was the oldest part of the school, with big, looming red walls and a roof that made it look like it was frowning.

  Arthur had only been inside it once or twice before. Most of the time those classrooms were for the older children, like Imogen, and Arthur didn’t often like going into new places. But today he didn’t think he felt nervous at all.

  Occasionally a nerve would rear its head and try drifting up to the surface, but he would ignore it.

  ‘Let’s get that notebook back,’ said Arthur, pushing open the door.

  It was quiet inside, and as the door slammed shut the voices of the other children in the playground outside faded to a distant babble. Arthur could hear his feet echoing loudly on the stairs.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tiptoe?’ whispered Theo.

  Arthur shook his head. ‘We don’t want to look suspicious.’

  Just then a teacher rounded the corner of the stairs ahead of them. It wasn’t a teacher Arthur knew, but one he recognised from assembly: he looked tall and old and serious, with big eyes and a large, sensible nose.

  Arthur held his breath.

  ‘Afternoon, boys,’ said the teacher nonchalantly. He was swinging a keyring around between his fingers.

  Arthur and Theo mumbled awkwardly back at him, and the teacher carried on walking, disappearing down into the same stairwell they had emerged from.

  ‘I think that was him,’ whispered Arthur.

  ‘Who? Mr Daunt?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Arthur excitedly. ‘That means his classroom will be empty!’

  They hurried up to the very top of the building. Arthur couldn’t believe how easy this was turning out to be.

  He put his face up to the window in the classroom door and peered inside. Yes, it was empty. Rows of desks sat waiting with no one beside them, and Arthur pushed the door.

  Nothing happened.

  Arthur frowned, then pushed the door again. He could feel it move slightly, but all he heard was the muffled thud of the door’s lock against its frame as it refused to open.

  ‘Oh, no,’ whispered Theo. ‘It’s locked.’

  Arthur’s eyes widened as he rushed to the window. ‘He has the keys in his hands!’

  Mr Daunt had left the building and was strolling in the direction of the staffroom, his keyring still swinging between his fingers. Arthur watched him through the dirty glass like he was watching a character on a TV screen.

  After a few moments, Arthur turned and looked at his friend. He felt like running back to the playground and telling Imogen, letting her deal with it, or at least putting it off until tomorrow. But then he thought about Einstein, and about Isaac, and it almost seemed to Arthur as if it was them who were locked up and confiscated in Mr Daunt’s classroom – so close, but just out of reach. All of a sudden, the idea of waiting any longer seemed impossible.

  Arthur took a deep breath. ‘Let’s follow him.’

  ‘Mr Daunt!’ cried Theo.

  The tall teacher turned round and glanced down at them. He was most of the way across the playground now, nearly at the staffroom, and he looked a little taken aback at being disturbed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were looking for you.’

  Mr Daunt frowned. ‘Weren’t you just on the way up to my classroom?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur. ‘But we weren’t sure whether it was really you.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, in a voice that didn’t suggest he was very interested in helping.

  Theo looked at Arthur in a panic. ‘Well … er …’ he mumbled, searching for words.

  ‘We’ve heard about you, and we wanted to ask you some questions,’ said Arthur, glancing back at Theo significantly.

  ‘Questions about what?’

  ‘About history!’ said Arthur. ‘We were told you know more about history than anyone else in the school.’

  ‘Than anyone else in London,’ Theo added.

  Mr Daunt gave them a satisfied, thoughtful sort of look. ‘Yes, well, I do know quite a bit …’

  ‘And we’re very interested in doing a project on the history of the school,’ said Arthur. ‘Just for fun. We were wondering if you could help us?’

  By now, Mr Daunt was positively glowing. He jangled his keys and absent-mindedly dropped them into his jacket pocket. ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Arthur hurriedly. He half turned to Theo and tried to indicate Mr Daunt’s pocket with his eyes, then asked the first question he could think of. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Me? Well, I’ve been here for thirty years. It looked very different when I started, of course. There weren’t as many buildings, and this playground didn’t exist yet …’

  Arthur tried his best to look interested, only occasionally allowing his eyes to drift towards Theo, who was sidling closer to Mr Daunt’s jacket as he droned dreamily on.

  ‘The school lunches were particularly bad back then. There’s some information on that in the archives. I could print it out for you if you like?’

  Theo was almost there, but Mr Daunt’s arm was in the way.

  ‘Which building was the oldest?’ asked Arthur suddenly.

  ‘The one behind you.’

  ‘Which one?’ said Arthur. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘What do you mean you can’t see it? It’s right behind you.’

  ‘Can you point it out for me?’

  Mr Daunt pointed, and in the brief moment that his arm was in the air

  Theo shoved his hand inside the jacket pocket and lifted out the keys.

  ‘Oh,’ said Arthur. ‘I didn’t realise you meant that building. I think I’ll go and have a look at it. Thank you for everything!’

  Mr Daunt looked puzzled and, in a daze, turned round to continue on his way to the staffroom.

  As they hurried back up the stairs to Mr Daunt’s classroom, Arthur didn’t think he had ever felt his heart beat so quickly. At first it alarmed him, but after a moment he realised that it wasn’t a bad sort of fast. He actually felt excited doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He’d have broken all the rules in the world to rescue Einstein.

  ‘Do you think he noticed?’ he panted.

  ‘No, he was too busy going on about history,’ said Theo. ‘And anyway he kept walking towards the staffroom.’

  Theo reached into his pocket and pulled out the bunch of keys. The third one they tried slipped neatly into the lock, and the door clicked open.

  Arthur almost had to stop himself from doing a victory dance as he stepped inside. Focus, he told himself. You might still get caught, though he was feeling much too pleased with himself to be particularly bothered by the idea.

  Theo kept watch at the door while Arthur rifled through the drawers of Mr Daunt’s desk. Most of them were full of old whiteboard pens, or books that were peeling apart at the spine and looked like they might crumble into dust if somebody touched them. Then Arthur spotted the bottom drawer labelled Confiscations.

  ‘Got it!’ Arthur cried.

  Imogen’s notebook was sitting at the very top, along with several old toys, a bag of sweets and a pack of cards. Arthur picked up the notebook and shoved it into his pocket, paused for a moment, then picked the sweets up too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Theo a short while later, when they were safely sitting down in their French lesson.

  Arthur had pulled the notebook out of his backpack and was flicking through it beneath the desk.

  ‘You’re going to get it confiscated again,’ said Theo.

  Arthur hissed at him to be quiet, then offered him a sweet from the bag he had stolen by way of apology. But he couldn’t put the notebook down.

  Imogen really had written everything. Arthur didn’t think there was a detail she had missed, from the timings of the events to where the doors had been positioned in the studio. She had even made a note of the colour of the policeman’s shoes. And her writing had become so neat over the last year too that it really was something to look at.

 

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