Читать книгу The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection: The Secret Key, Murder at the Museum and The Silver Serpent - Lena Jones - Страница 13

Darkness.

There is a tiny light, far off and I move towards it, but moving hurts. I’m not sure what is hurting – I don’t have a body yet. Slowly the light grows, white in the darkness. I remember my body – legs and torso, arms and head. Ah yes, my head – that’s where it hurts. I must have fallen. I can hear voices. Where is the man who attacked me?

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Mum, is she going to die?’

‘Has anybody called an ambulance?’

I lie there, breathing deeply for a while, wishing for silence so that I can think straight. Another voice, gentle but firm, cuts through the rest.

‘Excuse me, please. I’m a doctor.’

Then something soft is placed under my head. The white light fades and turns into a face – the face of a man.

‘Hello. Are you all right?’

‘Mmf,’ I say.

‘Let me help you up.’

The man takes my arm gently and helps me into a sitting position against the wall. The crowd moves away. As my vision clears, I look at the man who is crouching to help me. His hair is white, though he can’t be much older than Dad. He has high cheekbones and very pale blue eyes. One hand grips a black malacca cane. His suit is white linen, with a silver watch chain between waistcoat pockets. His face is angelic.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks again.

‘Yes.’ I frown. ‘I, uh … I’m fine. I just slipped,’ I lie. My voice is hoarse – I haven’t had a drink in ages, and my throat is dry and gritty. I look round, trying to pick out anyone who might have been my attacker. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask the man.

‘Not practising. In my youth, I studied medicine at La Sorbonne.’

‘Oh … Paris.’ I say rather dumbly. My brain is full of fog.

He smiles indulgently. ‘Now, do you feel up to standing?’ He stands carefully, using the cane as support, and offers his hand. I take it, and manage to get to my feet, though my legs still feel wobbly. He’s wearing cologne, but this time I don’t recognise the brand. He’s so elegant, so very well dressed, that I can hardly believe I’m awake at all. I feel so foolish standing in front of him – with a torn skirt and messed-up hair – that I can’t think of anything to say.

‘Are you all right?’ He asks again.

‘Oh, yes … thank you.’

‘Not at all. Now, it’s a hot day – I think you should get yourself a cold drink.’ He takes a coin from his pocket and presses it into my palm. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

Smiling, he bows his head once and sets off down the street, malacca cane tapping the pavement. I feel a pang as he goes – as if an old friend has visited, but can’t stay.

Dazed, I find my way across the street to the nearest pub, the Sawyers Arms. At least I’m not far from home. The inside of the pub is cool and dark, though the barman looks less than pleased to see me. Children aren’t usually allowed in London pubs unaccompanied, but I’m desperate. I want to look for evidence outside the RGS, to track my attacker down. But I’m too tired, too thirsty.

‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’

‘We don’t serve kids,’ he says.

‘Actually, under article three of the Mandatory Licensing Act, you’re obliged to ensure that free tap water is provided on request to customers where it is reasonably available.’

A man sitting by the bar chuckles, but the barman only scowls more.

‘On request to customers,’ he says.

‘Oh, let her have a drink, Stan.’ The man on the stool says. ‘It’s as hot as brimstone out there.’

The barman grunts.

‘Only if she buys something.’

‘I’ll have a packet of peanuts then,’ I chip in.

The barman slouches to reach a pack and throws it in my direction. He gets a glass and picks up the nozzle, which dispenses fizzy drinks and water. But, when he presses the button, nothing comes out. He shakes the nozzle and tries again, but only a dribble appears.

‘Damn thing … you’ll have to have bottled.’

I sigh and hand over the money, too tired to question the charade.

I leave the pub, blinking in the sun’s glare off the pavement. The road is so hot that the tar is melting – I can smell it. The air shimmers. My legs still feel shaky, but I have no money left to get a bus. I tell myself that I’m nearly home – all I have to do is get through Hyde Park without Dad spotting me.

It’s weirdly quiet as I walk past the townhouses on Kensington Road. The air is thick with car fumes, and no breeze stirs. Far off, I can hear the siren of a fire engine. There is the usual row of tourist coaches opposite the park, engines idling to keep their air-conditioning going. At Soapy Suds, the carwash that cleans the Jags and Bentleys of Kensington, a man in a suit is arguing loudly with the attendant.

‘Whaddya mean, you’re not washing cars? Can’t you read your own sign?’

Hyde Park is looking lush, even after weeks of heat – the lawns are emerald green, the flowerbeds blooming. Still, it seems too quiet for a summer’s day in central London – just the occasional dog walker idling their way along a path. Have I missed something while making my investigations? Is everyone indoors, watching a major sporting event, perhaps? An ice-cream van drives past, blinds pulled on the serving window, chimes switched off.

I try to make sense of it, to shift my brain into puzzle-solving mode, but the same two words keep repeating in front of me, like a flashing warning sign –