Mystery at Silver Spires Read Free Page A

time I got to the bottom of it, I realized I hadn’t taken in a single word. In the end I knew I had to do something, so I jumped up.
    â€œWhat’s up, Bry?” asked Nicole, squinting at me and trying to shield her eyes from the sun.
    â€œI’m going for a walk.”
    â€œYou’re not going in the direction of Forest Ash, by any chance, are you?” asked Izzy, smiling at me pleadingly.
    â€œWant me to get something for you, Iz?”
    â€œYes please, my ballet magazine. It’s on my bed.”
    I didn’t go straight to Forest Ash, because I’d decided to see if I could find Mr. Monk – even though he hardly ever seems to be around at weekends. It would be such a relief if he could somehow clear up the mystery. I knew Mrs. Pridham had gone away for the weekend, so I hadn’t been able to talk to her, and I wasn’t sure where to start looking for Mr. Monk.
    In the end, I just wandered around, keeping my eyes open and hoping for the best. I’ve always enjoyed walking. It kind of helps me sort out the muddled mass of thoughts going on in my head. My friends say I’m the complete opposite of a chatterbox and that I never waste words, and I suppose that’s true. It’s because I’m so used to keeping my thoughts inside my head.
    I think it started seven years ago, just after my mum died. I was only five, so my memory of that time is pretty muddled. I don’t remember a point when Mum suddenly wasn’t there. I just remember being surrounded by people all the time, and having tea parties and picnics and playing games and going to the shops. Everyone must have tried so hard to look after me. I’ve got one clear memory of playing in a room full of brightly coloured toys, spongy mats and squidgy tunnels and slides, and having such fun, and then sitting down with an enormous cake in front of me, while kind, smiling people talked to me. That was the only thing that spoiled the day for me – all the talking. I preferred having conversations inside my head. On my own. It was easier.
    Now I’m older I realize that people were probably just trying to take my mind off the sadness of what had happened. But I must have been too young to take it in because, to tell the truth, I really can’t remember feeling sad. I don’t even have any recollection of Dad crying, and sometimes now I think how immensely brave and strong he must have been to shield me from his grief.
    But it’s odd how, when you’re so young, everything gets mixed up and distorted, because the thing I can remember feeling sad about when I was little is our lovely grey cat, Lana, dying. I can clearly recall Dad burying her in our garden, then holding my hand tight as I whispered, “Bye bye, lovely Lana” over and over again, with a sadness that felt like a stone sitting in my stomach.
    Apparently Lana died just after Mum. Dad was upset too, as he’d had Lana ever since he’d known Mum, long before they’d got married or had me. They’d got her from a rescue centre when she was already quite elderly for a cat. So she just died naturally, of old age. It’s strange, but every so often I get a really strong memory of sitting beside Mum on the sofa watching TV, leaning right into her, my head resting against her shoulder, while Lana sat on her lap very still, like a lovely, floppy old cushion. But I try not to dwell on that too much as it makes me so sad.
    I clearly remember asking Dad if we could have another cat, and him saying, “We’ll see. One day.” But even though I’ve asked him loads of times since, he’s always refused. I so wish he’d change his mind, because there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a cat of my very own. In a strange way I think it might stop me feeling so sad when I think back to the Lana days.
    I realized I’d drifted off in my head again – what was I supposed to be doing? Oh yes,