LITMIR.BIZ

      ‘This is the twelfth –’ the headmaster glances up from his notes – ‘no, let me correct that – the thirteenth time you’ve been in trouble this term, Agatha.’

      We’re sitting in his office, the air sticky, and that’s not just because of the heatwave outside.

      I look down at the floor. It’s true, and I don’t know what to say.

      Dr Hargrave (Ronald Hargrave OBE, BPhil, MEd) likes to fill silences. He’s very good at that, and it’s best to wait until he’s done. He isn’t a doctor, as you and I think of them, but he likes to be called one. He has five liver spots in the shape of the constellation Cassiopeia on his forehead, and a steely glare, which I would say is a 4B on the eye-colour chart I have hanging in my bedroom.

      He reads from his list:

      ‘One – you were found hiding in the ceiling space above the chemistry labs, because you believed Mr Stamp was stealing sulphuric acid to sell on eBay.’

      This really happened – he was – but without evidence I had to drop my investigation. Plus, Dad grounded me.

      ‘Two – you tried to miss lessons by convincing the groundskeeper that you were an apprentice tree surgeon who needed to scale a tree near the boundary wall … and just so you could get out of school …’

      I zone out. I’ve always found this easy – like switching channels on TV. If I want to watch something more interesting, I just imagine it. I call it my ‘Change Channel’ mechanism.

      The headmaster’s desk is very shiny and if I look down I can see my own reflection in the caramel-coloured wood. I’m wearing my red beret – Dr Hargrave hasn’t even started lecturing me on this breach of uniform rules yet. My bob-cut hair frames my face, and my eyebrows are knitted together as though concentrating on his lecture. And, just like that, my reflection shimmers, shifts and becomes someone else. A small man in a hat and a bow tie looks back up at me. Smoothing out his moustache, he steps out of the desk, hops neatly to the floor and stands behind the headmaster.

      ‘How long do you think le docteur Hargrave will go on this time?’ he asks in a soft Belgian accent.

      I zone back in to hear what my headmaster is saying now …

      ‘Four – you installed a listening device in the wall of the staffroom …’ – and then I glance back to where Hercule Poirot, famous detective, is looking at the clock.

      ‘Your headmaster has already been talking for twenty-two minutes.’ Poirot raises an eyebrow, as though daring me to do something about it. ‘He might break his record of twenty-seven, no?’

      Actually, I reckon the headmaster is almost done – his stomach just rumbled, and it’s long after lunchtime. My eyes flicker around the room, details lighting up my mind like a pinball machine.