The Case of the Wayward Professor

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dragonlore: A Scientific Study of Dragons

By the Same Author

To Lesley and Leslie

(AKA Mum and Dad)
– G.J
.

Holly stopped by the door and, for a fleeting moment, considered making a run for it there and then. The electronic whirring of a security camera brought her to her senses, its automated sensor detecting her movement. This was not the time.
Remember the plan
. Holly looked up at the lens, stuck her tongue out at it and continued down the corridor to the principal's office.

The escape would be tonight, but it wasn't going to be easy. William Scrivener School prided itself on being as inescapable as it was impenetrable. Every corridor was watched by state-of-the-art CCTV cameras, monitored round the clock by a private security
service. The best time for an escape was at night when there were two guards on duty rather than three and it was easier to hide from the cameras. The problem with a night escape was the external doors which were opened using coded electronic wristbands. All pupils were issued with non-removable green wristbands but these were programmed only to open the doors during the day, unlike the teachers' red wristbands that worked round the clock.

But even if you got past the cameras, avoided being seen by the teachers who patrolled the corridors, and somehow got through the door, you still had to make it across the school grounds, without being picked up by security or smelt by the guard dogs, and find a way over, under or through the high wire fence that surrounded the school.

Then you were free to begin the ten-mile walk through the large forest to the nearest village, the aptly named Little Hope.

As the school of choice for the ridiculously rich and phenomenally famous, William Scrivener's security was the most intense Holly had ever encountered, but getting out of school was what Holly did best.

She arrived at the principal's office and approached the desk where a large woman with carrot-red hair and
blue eyeliner was painting her nails purple. Without looking up, she pressed a half-painted nail on the intercom button. ‘Holly Bigsby is here for your daily meeting, Principal Palmer,' she said, her voice rich with sarcasm.

‘Send her in, Angie,' replied the principal.

Holly entered the dark wood office. In the twenty-seven days she had been at the school this was her twenty-eighth visit to the principal's office, but it was the first time she had got herself sent there on purpose.

‘Morning, Holly,' said the principal, adjusting his tie in the reflection of one of the many shiny awards that stood on the mantelpiece.

‘Hello, sir,' replied Holly, glancing at the desk where his red wristband lay. On her previous visits she had noticed that, unlike her wristband, the principal's was removable and that he took it off on Fridays so that it didn't clash with his navy blue suit.

‘What is it today, disruptive behaviour or insolence?' he asked, a tanned hand neatening his hair.

‘Speaking out of turn, sir.'

‘Ah.' Principal Palmer nodded understandingly. ‘What happened?'

‘Miss Whittaker told us about
When Petals Blossom
being on the syllabus.'

‘Yes. Terrific news, isn't it? Our stock has gone up three points.'

Holly said nothing.

‘It's had a lot of press coverage.' The principal grabbed a newspaper off a pile on his desk and read it out. ‘Having already written her autobiography at the tender age of eleven, now pop's most famous offspring, Petal Moses will be studying it at school …'

Holly edged nearer to the desk, keeping her eyes fixed on the principal.

‘… after it was selected for the English curriculum.'

Holly reached out towards the wristband.

‘Described by one critic as “a deeply insightful account of what it means to grow up in the full glare of the harsh media spotlight,” the book will be studied by year seven students across the country, including Petal herself.'

The principal chuckled at this and looked up. Holly quickly lowered her hand.

He smiled and continued. ‘“Petal Moses is one of our most talented students, and that's saying something,” said Larry Palmer, the self-titled Principal of William Scrivener School.”' He beamed at Holly, and placed the paper back on his desk.

Holly needed that wristband.

‘Could you read me another one?' she asked.

Principal Palmer raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Yes, of course,' he said, picking up another paper and reading: ‘“Studying her own autobiography won't be an unfair advantage for precocious Petal Moses …”'

Holly's hand neared the wristband.

‘“… because most critics agree that spoilt pop brat Petal didn't actually write it …”'

The principal slammed the paper down and Holly whipped her hand away again.

‘Yes, well, there's always some degree of negativity from the cynics,' he said. ‘Petal's your room-mate, isn't she? Aren't you pleased for her?'

Holly scowled. Petal Moses was pleased enough for herself. To say that Petal had got everything she had ever wanted was an understatement. She had got much more than that. If she wanted a new party dress, she was flown out by private helicopter to an exclusive department store, where a personal shopper awaited. If she liked a new pop band, they would be brought to the school for a private performance, which only she and her friends could attend. Even some of the teachers pandered to her. Miss Whittaker, their English teacher, had been beside herself when she announced that they would be studying her book, and Petal's fawning
friends had burst into applause.

‘What happened when Miss Whittaker told you?' asked the principal.

‘I said that I thought the title was stupid because petals don't blossom. I said that flowers blossom. Petals just fall off and die.'

‘I see, and you said this in front of the whole class, did you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, Holly, you really must try to make an effort to fit in. William Scrivener is the finest school in the country. Your parents were very lucky to get you in at all. And you should feel honoured to be sharing a room with a student as special as Petal.'

‘Special?' said Holly. ‘There's nothing special about her?'

Principal Palmer sighed. ‘I know that your father is important, too. MPs are important people, even backbenchers.'

‘He's not a backbencher. Dad works in the Ministry of Defence,' Holly interrupted. ‘He might make the Cabinet this year.'

‘Very impressive, I'm sure,' he replied. ‘But Petal's mother is known all round the world.' The principal clapped his hands together and, as though it was the
highest compliment anyone could ever be paid, added, ‘And she's American.'

‘Well, I hate her, and I hate this stupid school,' Holly shouted, lashing out and knocking the pile of newspapers to the floor.

‘Holly Bigsby!' barked the principal, diving to pick them up.

Holly seized the opportunity, snatched the wristband and thrust it into her pocket.

The principal placed the papers back on to the table, careful not to crease them.

‘I don't know what's wrong with you,' he said sternly, ‘but if you think you can get expelled from this school, you can think again. Your parents have paid a lot of money to keep you here.'

This was Holly's sixth school. She was taken out of her last one after only one term when her dad's big-haired wife had decided to send her away. The general election had been called and she didn't want Holly's bad behaviour attracting any negative press attention. Dad hadn't phoned since she had been there, but she guessed he was busy with the campaign.

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,' said Holly, her voice full of fake remorse.

He smiled kindly and tilted his head. ‘You know, this
school can open many doors in life, but only if you let it. Why don't you make some friends?'

Holly didn't want any of these people as friends. They were all the same, spoilt rich kids who rode their ponies on Saturdays and argued over who lived in the biggest house, or whose parents were the most famous.

The only real friend she had made was Little Willow, but she didn't admit to this because Little Willow was a mouse and she didn't want Principal Palmer to think she was a nutcase. She had found her under the bed when she first arrived in her dorm and named her after her cat, Willow, whom she had left behind with a private detective she knew, called Dirk Dilly.

She missed Willow.

She missed Dirk too. She had written to him twice a week since being at the school, but he hadn't replied. She would have phoned but Petal had told her that all outgoing calls were recorded because of the school's paranoia that students might sell stories about each other to the press. Holly couldn't risk them finding out about Dirk. He wasn't just a friend. He wasn't just a private detective. Dirk Dilly was a real genuine, fire-breathing dragon.

If the commuters had taken a moment to stop, they might have seen two yellow lights flicker on the sloping roof of the bank opposite the station. If they had looked up they might have noticed that the lights were actually two eyes, and that the flicker was, in fact, a blink. If they had peered very carefully, they would have realised that the eyes belonged to the dragon-shaped lump perfectly camouflaged against the rooftop.