Doctor Illuminatus Read Free

likely to be wearing boots or pick-axing a new run through the wall cavity, Pip reckoned it was caused by the central heating pipes warming up. When she looked at her alarm clock, she saw dawn was less than half an hour off and she knew her parents always liked to get up to a warm house.
    The knocking soon became an irregular tapping and then, after about ten minutes, it stopped altogether. Pip gave it no further thought, pulled the cover up to her chin, turned over and went back to sleep.
    The school secretary, a prim woman bearing her name — Mrs. Rigg — upon a label pinned to her substantial bosom, her hair scraped severely back into a bun, opened the door.
    “Headmaster? I have Mr. and Mrs. Ledger here, with Philippa and Timothy.”
    Pip inwardly winced to hear her full name. Tim grinned at her and nudged her with his elbow.
    As they were ushered in, the headmaster stepped from behind a large leather-topped desk, cluttered with papers and report forms, a telephone and a notebook computer.
    “I’m Dr. Singall,” the headmaster introduced himself. “Come in and, please, do sit down.” He indicated a semicircle of comfortable chairs before him, perching himself informally on the corner of his desk.
    Pip and Tim exchanged glances and looked around the room. One wall was covered with annual photographs of the staff and pupils, various triumphant sports teams and a portrait of a man in a gray suit shaking hands with the headmaster, the flourish of a signature in one corner. Printed on the picture mounting was
HRH Prince of Wales visits Bourne End Comprehensive School
—
July 2000
. Beside it was a map of the town and surrounding countryside, red felt-tip marker delineating the different areas served by the school buses, the routes picked out and numbered in blue. Another wall bore shelves of books and file boxes, and a glass-fronted cabinet.
    “I understand from Mr. Bradley,” the headmaster began, “who is in charge of admissions, that you have been given a tour of the school and our introductory folder, and that you have completed the relevant paperwork. There is nothing more for me to do but welcome you.” He smiled expansively. “As we discussed on the phone, Mr. Ledger, I think there’s little point in Philippa and Timothy joining us with only ten days to go to the summer holidays. Far better,” he continued, looking from Pip to Tim and back again, “you start fresh in September.” He scanned the admission forms on the desk beside him briefly. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I see you are the new owners of Rawne Barton.”
    “We moved in yesterday,” Mr. Ledger confirmed. “Do you know the place?”
    “Indeed, I do,” the headmaster replied. “Old Mr. Rawne was most kind to us at the school. He had, I recall, a great interest in the education of young people and invited the year nine history class to visit the house every year. Just prior to his death, he let us conduct an archaeological dig in one of the fields. Nothing terribly ambitious, you understand, but it brought history alive for the students. The resulting coursework folders were exceptional and we had our best-ever history examination results. The science department was also given access to the Garden of Eden for their natural-history project.”
    “The Garden of Eden?” Pip echoed.
    “All fields and many woodlands in the countryside, Philippa, have a government registration number,” the headmaster explained, “but many of them also have names that go back hundreds of years. Our school is called Bourne End Comprehensive because it was built on a field of that name in which a bourne, or stream, once ran. At Rawne Barton, the Garden of Eden is a small clump of trees on a hillock down by the river. It never floods, no matter how high the water might come. Miss Hall, our head of biology, says that in the center of the trees there is a circular clearing where some very exotic plants grow.”
    “When did Mr. Rawne die?” Pip’s mother