Best Kept Secret

said Harry.
    ‘Quite so,’ said Dr Hedley.
    ‘Do they ever make exceptions to the rules?’ asked Emma.
    ‘I can only recall one case in my tenure,’ said the headmaster, ‘and that was for a boy who had scored a century every Saturday during the summer term.’
    Harry laughed, having sat on the grass and watched Giles score every one of them. ‘So we’ll just have to make sure he realizes the consequences of dropping below the pass mark in two
of the compulsory subjects.’
    ‘It’s not that he isn’t bright enough,’ said the headmaster, ‘but if a subject doesn’t appeal to him, he quickly becomes bored. The irony is, with his talent
for languages, I predict he’ll sail into Oxford. But we still have to make sure he paddles into BGS.’

    After a little coaxing from his father, and some considerable bribery from his grandmother, Sebastian managed to climb a few places off the bottom in two of the three compulsory
subjects. He’d worked out that he was permitted to fail one, and chose natural sciences.
    By the end of Sebastian’s second year, the headmaster felt confident that with a little more effort the boy would obtain the necessary pass mark in five of the six exam subjects. He too
had given up on natural sciences. Harry and Emma were beginning to feel more hopeful, but still tried to keep Sebastian up to the mark. And indeed, the headmaster might have proved right in his
optimistic assessment, had it not been for two incidents that occurred during Sebastian’s final year.

8
    ‘I S THAT YOUR father’s book?’
    Sebastian looked at a pile of novels stacked neatly in the window of the bookshop. A sign above them read,
Nothing Gained by Harry Clifton, 3s 6d. The latest adventure of William
Warwick.
    ‘Yes,’ said Sebastian proudly. ‘Would you like one?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ said Lu Yang.
    Sebastian strolled into the shop, followed by his friend. A table near the front was piled high with his father’s latest hardback, surrounded by paperbacks of
The Case of the Blind
Witness
and
Nothing Ventured
, the first two novels in the William Warwick series.
    Sebastian handed Lu Yang a copy of each of the three books. They were quickly joined by several of his classmates, and he gave each of them a copy of the latest book, and in some cases the other
two as well. The pile was rapidly diminishing when a middle-aged man charged out from behind the counter, grabbed Sebastian by the collar and dragged him away.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.
    ‘It’s all right,’ said Sebastian, ‘they’re my father’s books!’
    ‘Now I’ve heard everything,’ said the manager as he marched Sebastian, who was protesting with every stride, towards the back of the shop. He turned to an assistant and said,
‘Call the police. I caught this thief red-handed. Then see if you can retrieve the books his friends ran off with.’
    The manager shoved Sebastian into his office and dumped him firmly on to an old horsehair sofa.
    ‘Don’t even think about moving,’ he said as he left the office, closing the door firmly behind him.
    Sebastian heard a key turning in the lock. He stood up, walked across to the manager’s desk and picked up a book, then sat back down and began reading. He’d reached page nine, and
was getting to quite like Richard Hannay, when the door opened and the manager returned with a triumphant smirk on his face.
    ‘There he is, chief inspector, I caught the lad red-handed.’
    Chief Inspector Blakemore tried to keep a straight face when the manager added, ‘Had the gall to tell me the books belonged to his father.’
    ‘He wasn’t lying,’ said Blakemore. ‘That’s Harry Clifton’s boy.’ Looking sternly at Sebastian, he added, ‘But that’s no excuse for what you
did, young man.’
    ‘Even if his father is Harry Clifton, I’m still short one pound and eighteen shillings,’ said the manager. ‘So what do you intend to do about that?’ he added,
pointing an accusing finger at Sebastian.
    ‘I’ve already contacted Mr Clifton,’ said Blakemore, ‘so I don’t think it will be long before that question is answered. While we wait for him, I suggest you
explain the economics of bookselling to his son.’
    The manager, looking a little chastened, sat down on the corner of his desk.
    ‘When your father writes a book,’ he said, ‘his publishers pay him an advance, and then a percentage of the cover price for each copy sold. In your dad’s case,