Читать книгу The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection: The Secret Key, Murder at the Museum and The Silver Serpent - Lena Jones - Страница 15

Night has fallen and I’m in my room, sitting on the bed with the skylight open. I’m mending the rip in my school skirt by torchlight while listening to the radio. I’m supposed to be asleep, so the volume is turned right down, the speaker close to my ear. Every couple of minutes I change station, but they’re all saying the same thing.

‘Red algae have spread through …’

‘The water supply of London has been infected by …’

‘The slime, described by Richard in Islington as “like something out of a horror movie” …’

I listen to it all. When the skirt is mended, I set it to one side and look up through the skylight to the hazy stars. On the breeze I can hear sirens, ringing around London like a headache. Every so often a helicopter passes, but whether they’re police or television crews, filming the city from above, I can’t tell. All around me, London is in crisis.

And me?

I’m grounded.

As I lie perfectly still, there is a battle raging in my head. On one hand, I’m terrified by the threat – the threat that someone will come for Dad. On the other hand (I’m not too proud to admit it) I’m excited! The incident with Professor D’Oliveira is a real case, a big case – why else would someone threaten me? I remember the sheet of newspaper that I had found on the professor. I take it out and unfold it. There is a small story – barely two paragraphs – about London water pollution.

… Scientists confirmed today that the quality of London’s water had declined in the last week, but refused to speculate about the origin of the pollution. While current levels of pollution are not dangerous for human consumption …

Well, it’s definitely dangerous for human consumption now. And this story was written yesterday – before the crisis hit. Had Professor D’Oliveira known something about this beforehand? Now there was talk of quarantining London to stop the algae from spreading to the rest of the country, even the rest of the world.

I have my notebook in my hand, and I flip back between the two pages I’d written on that day – HIT-AND-RUN and LONDON POISONED. The more I think about it, the more I feel the two have to be connected. I can’t see how yet; it’s just an intuition, a hunch. I put the notebook down, but the words are still there, flashing in the stars above my skylight, back and forth until they get jumbled up –

HIT-AND-RUN LONDON POISONED

HIT-AND-RUN LONDON POISONED

HIT AND POISONED LONDON RUN

So could the hit-and-run have something to do with the crisis? I take out the professor’s card and read it again. Then I take down my dictionary and look up ‘hydrology’ – The branch of science concerned with the properties of the earth’s water.

Finally, I take out my pen and write –

The polluted water seems to be coming from underground, not from the reservoirs north of London. Who would know more about the workings of underground London than a professor from the Royal Geographical Society, who specialises in hydrology, the study of water?

It’s a flimsy connection, I have to admit – but doesn’t Poirot often act on a suspicion, a hunch, an unproven fancy? I need to know more.

And there is my dilemma. If I want to know more, I’ll have to talk to Professor D’Oliveira, and in order to do that I’ll have to leave the house. I’d be disobeying not just Dad, but the man who had attacked me as well. I can’t be sure that he will go through with his threat, but I also can’t assume that he won’t. I lie here while all this is going through my mind, until a voice on the radio catches my attention. It’s a reporter, just out of a conference held by the Metropolitan Police.

‘At the moment, there seems little hope that the situation can be easily resolved. Fresh water – the lifeblood of the city – has stopped pumping around London. The heart of the capital has stopped, and this crisis will continue until someone finds a way to restart it.’ He takes a breath, and even with the volume down I can hear how shaky he sounds. ‘Right now, London needs a miracle.’

Poirot is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room in near darkness. His green eyes are shining like a cat’s.

‘London needs a miracle,’ he repeats, tutting softly. ‘Mon dieu.’

‘I could get into trouble,’ I say to him.

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Oddlow – trouble is all around. But heroes are rare.’

I turn off the radio and get out of bed. It’s no good waiting for a miracle – somebody needs to act.

‘Thanks, Hercule.’

He rises from his chair and bows goodbye. ‘It is my pleasure.’

Someone might be watching me leaving the house, so I need a disguise. Thankfully, I’ve spent plenty of time preparing for this. I look through my wardrobe for a minute before settling on my outfit of choice – a white T-shirt, lace-up shoes and baby-blue medical scrubs. If I’m going to the hospital, I might as well look like a nurse.

The scrubs are loose fitting – nice in the hot weather, but I know I can’t go out like this – I put on a knee-length navy trench coat and a matching floppy hat. I look in the mirror, checking everything over, then decide that my hair is too recognisable. I replace the hat with a wig of honey-blonde hair and look again. Now I doubt even Dad would recognise me in the street. I’m roasting, though.

Disguise complete, I step up on the bed and hoist myself out of the skylight. I sit on the roof for a moment. There’s a breeze, but it’s still warm. When I’m ready, I shuffle forward, down the slope of the roof, until I come to the edge. There’s a rustle as my feet brush the leaves of the oak tree below. Putting one leg over, I feel around for the right branch.

I find my foothold and – with a deep breath – push into space.

The craggy tree is there to meet me, and I grip on to the trunk until I find my bearings. I start to climb down, finding old footholds, trying to be quiet. By the bottom, I’ve turned a half spiral round the tree, so its trunk is between me and the house. I peer round and can see the kitchen light on. Dad is hunched over the table, talking on the telephone. Before he can turn and see me, I steal across the garden lawn and out through the back gate.

Hyde Park is dark. I move quickly, jumping at every rustle, every shadow. Before I reach the gates, a fox leaps out in front of me and I almost cry out. It scampers off, and I take a moment to compose myself. In another minute I come to the north edge of the park. The traffic ahead reassures me – when there are other people around I’m less scared that someone will drag me into the shadows.

I come out opposite Lancaster Gate underground station. My mobile is back in my room, so I cross the road and go into a telephone box outside the station. It smells dreadful inside, but it’s worth it to remain anonymous. Someone might be tapping my phone.

Because Professor D’Oliveira was knocked down in Hyde Park, I know which hospital they will have taken her to – St Mary’s, just a five-minute walk north of the park. I had my appendix taken out in the very same hospital, so I know it well. I wipe down the plastic receiver with my handkerchief and put a handful of change into the slot. Quickly, I Change Channel. A filing cabinet with handwritten cards appears in front of me, and I flip through to ‘H’ for hospital …

Ah! There we go – I dial the hospital reception’s number from memory.

‘St Mary’s Hospital, how can I help?’ a chirpy voice says.

‘Ah yes, ’ello,’ I say, adopting a French accent and lowering my voice an octave, ‘I am telephoning you to enquire about – ’ow you say? – my aunt. I sink she was taken to your ‘ospital earlier today.’

‘Name?’

‘My name? It iz …’

‘No, not your name – hers.’

‘Ah, mais oui! Dorothée D’Oliveira.’

‘Hang on a second.’

I listen to her typing on a keyboard, while I worry that my handful of change will run out.

‘Hello? Yes, she’s staying the night for observation, but visiting hours are over – you’ll have to come tomorrow.’

The phone starts to beep – I’m about to be cut off.

‘Ah, but of course! Could I have ze details of ze ward?’

She tells me the wing and ward in which the professor is staying, and the hours I can visit her the next day.

‘Ah, sank you, merci!’

The phone goes dead, and my change clunks into the belly of the machine.

‘Good work, Agatha,’ I say to myself. ‘Now you just need to break into a hospital without getting arrested.’

St Mary’s is as busy as ever – ambulances coming and going, people smoking and talking outside the main gates. I notice a number of tankers, parked in a line down Praed Street, in front of the main building. I guess they’re delivering fresh water – nowhere in the city will be worse affected by the crisis than hospitals.

I know if I go in through the main entrance I’ll be spotted. I walk to the end of the street and turn down South Wharf Road – the back of the hospital buildings. Keeping my head down, I walk until halfway down the road I come to an open bay door, next to which is parked one of the huge trucks. A thick plastic pipe runs from the tanker into the dimly lit bay. There is a whooshing, gurgling noise as the water is drained.

I stop and pretend to search for a phone in my pocket. Carrying a mobile gives you an excuse to stop dead in the street and look gormless. The only person I can see who’s watching over things is the lorry driver, leaning against the wall by the bay, smoking a cigarette. He isn’t watching the lorry, but something inside the bay – a pressure gauge, perhaps. He isn’t wearing his security pass, which is resting on a piece of machinery next to him.

I stand for a second, weighing up my options. I look at the lorry and at the street. Then, before I draw attention to myself by standing there too long, I cross the road and walk until the lorry is between me and the driver. Stepping up on the metal plate, I reach for the handle, hoping he has left his door locked. He has – the handle doesn’t give. I yank it a couple more times, but nothing happens. Exasperated, I draw my foot back and give the truck a hard kick.

‘Ow ow ow!’ I mutter under my breath, toes smarting.

Nothing happens for a second.

The truck’s alarm goes off, scaring me half to death. Quickly, I jump down from the plate and walk round to the other side of the lorry where the driver is still smoking his cigarette. He’s frowning, looking at his truck with its alarm blaring and lights flashing, when I go up to him.

‘‘Scuse me, mister, some kid’s trying to break into your truck!’ I say.

‘What …’ he begins, then swears loudly and runs round the side. Quickly, I duck inside the bay, past an array of pipes and gauges to a door at the back. I grab his security pass as I go and press it to the door release. It beeps once and the door opens. I breathe a sigh of relief and step through.

I inspect my outfit – immaculate – before hurrying down the corridor, away from the angry shouts of the truck driver, who must have returned to his station to find the pass missing. I take off my coat and stash it in an alcove. I fix my blonde wig back with a scrunchie and a couple of hair slides.

Showtime.

I spend the next quarter of an hour navigating my way through the service corridors of the hospital, many of them quiet and unlit, listening for sounds of activity. The hallways go from bare brick with pipes and cables to old, chipped plaster, full of cleaning supplies and mop buckets. Finally, fresh-painted walls – corridors through which doctors, nurses and porters can move quickly around the hospital.

After a close call with a woman collecting laundry, and another with a porter wheeling a patient on a trolley, I make my way to the professor’s ward. Several people see me, but none of them close up. From a distance, I can pass for one of the nursing staff. Entering through the caretaker’s door, I avoid going past the ward reception. At the other end of the ward I can see a nurse sitting at her station, reading. Everything else is dark – closed doors on either side. Some have dim lights behind their misted glass – reading lamps or televisions. I wonder if patients are staying up to watch the news of London’s crisis.

Starting to move down the ward, I peer in the half light at each door, on which is a whiteboard giving the names of the patients. The rooms have up to four people in them, but when I find the professor’s room, halfway down the ward, her name is alone on the board. Through the misted glass, I can see that the lights are off. I’d hoped she’d be awake to see me, but I haven’t come this far to give up.

I try the handle. It’s locked, but I know that hospital doors never have proper locks – they can always be opened easily from the outside, in case there’s a medical emergency. Examining the handle, I see a turning piece with a groove down the centre. I used all my spare change back at the telephone box, but I take one of the clips from my hair, fit it into the groove, and turn the mechanism. The door clicks.

Not wanting to alert the night nurse to my presence, I step inside the room before saying anything, and close the door behind me.

‘Hello—’ is all I manage, before something hard whistles through the darkness and cracks on the back of my head.

I tumble forward on to the floor, clutching my head.

Suddenly the lights are on.

‘Who the hell are you?’ A voice speaks above me. Not a male voice, nor a young one – it is an older woman’s voice, with a hint of the Caribbean – Jamaica, at a guess, or possibly Trinidad. Slowly, half blinded by the light, I open my eyes and look up. Standing above me, with one arm in a sling and the other holding a metal crutch over her head, is Professor D’Oliveira. She looks more formidable than when she was unconscious.

‘My name is Agatha.’ I wince, keeping my arms over my head until she lowers the crutch.

‘Who sent you?’ Her gaze is piercing and I have trouble meeting it.

I push myself up to sitting, rubbing my head. The blow has left my blonde wig askew, and I remove it.

‘Nobody sent me. I’m the one who found you in the park this morning.’ I get to my feet with as much dignity as I can muster. My head is beginning to throb – she has quite a whack for an elderly woman.

‘You called the ambulance?’

‘Yes.’

She sighs and walks back to her bed, sits down and watches me. I wait for an apology, but none comes. There is a file full of papers next to her on the bed, which she reaches out and closes before I can see any of them.

‘So, Agatha, what brings you to St Mary’s in the middle of the night?’

I wrestle with my thoughts, trying not to give away my suspicions.

‘I need to talk to you. Your card says you’re a professor in hydrology?’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘Not an ordinary schoolgirl, are we, Agatha?’

‘I should hope not,’ I say with some impatience.

She chuckles. She really is difficult to read.

‘Ah, a bit of fire in the belly, I like that.’ She studies me some more. ‘Well, thank you, Agatha – you did me a good turn. Not all thirteen-year-olds would have stopped to help an old lady.’

‘How do you know my age?’

She shrugs. ‘A lucky guess.’

I let it pass. ‘I was wondering – do you have any idea why someone would want to do that to you? Knock you over?’

I watch her face carefully as I say this, but her expression doesn’t change.

‘Oh –’ she waves her hand airily – ‘I’m sure it would be the same if some other little old lady had been standing in my place. Just a hooligan.’

Her tone is convincing, but I don’t believe for one moment that she thinks of herself as a ‘little old lady’.

‘Well, did you see anything that might identify them?’

‘No. And right now, I’m scarcely angrier with them than I am with you.’

I stare at her. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve had a nasty shock and I need to sleep, girl – not to be scared out of my wits by some picklock sneaking into my room in the dead of night. Now, please get out and leave me alone.’

She climbs into bed and puts her head on the pillow. Clearly, she feels the interview is over. I persevere –

‘No close-up details of the bike perhaps, or what the rider was wearing? It went too quickly for me to get a good look.’ This isn’t entirely true – I could pick that bike out of a line-up – but I need to get her to open up.

She groans. ‘I don’t remember a thing. And if I did, I would be telling it to the police, not a schoolgirl.’ She reaches up to the panel behind the bed, full of dials and buttons. ‘And if you don’t leave now, I’ll press the emergency call button, and you can explain to the night guard why you’re creeping around the hospital in the dark, scaring old ladies.’

‘But—’

I don’t finish: she presses the emergency call button, and a red light starts to flash over the door. Outside, I can hear an alarm ringing at the nurses’ station.

Wasting no time, I make for the door. But, as I do, something catches my attention – a pair of shoes – Professor D’Oliveira’s shoes – left next to the door. On the side of one of the shoes … is that a trace of red? I have no more time to think about it – I have to keep moving, out of the room.

‘Hey, stop! Who are you? You’re not allowed in there!’ a nurse calls to my fast-retreating back. I ignore her and run out of the ward, back into the maze of corridors. I sprint down two flights of stairs and into another hospital block, retracing my path from earlier. When I’m sure nobody is trying to chase me, I slow down. I listen round every corner in case someone is there. The more I listen, the more I feel like I’m being watched. The dark corridors echo, and every so often I can hear linoleum squeaking with footsteps.

Finally, I come back to the corridor where I stashed my things. I put my coat on quickly and keep walking. I’d left the wig behind, so my disguise is a bit lacking now. I walk out into another bay at the back of the hospital, where surgical supplies are being unloaded.

‘Hey, kid! You’re not meant to be back here.’

‘I’m leaving, aren’t I?’

I walk out on to South Wharf Road. A girl is standing on the other side of the street, just quietly watching me. My heart thumps in shock. Forcing myself to react, I realise my only option is to turn back into the bay. But then the girl crosses the road towards me, and I see it’s Brianna Pike, from school. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I almost throw my arms round her. Then I remember that she is one of the CCs, practically Sarah Rathbone’s henchwoman. Brianna is tall and slim, like her compatriots, but more athletic – muscular.

She doesn’t greet me, but asks ‘How is she?’ in a low voice.

‘Who?’ I don’t think I’ve ever been asked a question by Brianna before. She’s usually giving orders.

‘The old lady.’

‘You mean Professor D’Oliveira?’

‘Is that her name?’

I sigh. ‘How do you know about her? Brianna, what are you doing here?’

‘I just … I heard about the old lady getting knocked down.’

I frown at her. ‘How did you hear?’ She’s not acting like herself. If anything, it seems like someone else is standing in front of me, in a very convincing Brianna disguise.

‘Oh … I read about it in the paper. I knew your dad worked at the park, so …’ She tails off.

None of it adds up. I’m sure there was no report in the paper, and why would Brianna care anyway? All that interests her are designer outfits.

There’s a long silence.

‘Look,’ I say at last, ‘I really need to get home …’

She jolts, as though she’d forgotten where she is – or who I am. ‘Sure, sure. I’ll see you at school … My brother’s got the car round the corner. Do you want a lift?’

I’m tempted by the thought of not having to walk back home in the dark, but I’m not ready to get in a car with one of the CCs. I shake my head.

‘No, it’s OK, thanks – it’s not far. See you then, Brianna.’ I walk away, mulling over the weird conversation.

London is still too quiet. Even at night, the city usually has a low hum, like a machine on standby.

I turn a corner and keep walking. There’s the roar of a motorbike behind me on the otherwise empty road. My skin prickles. Keeping my head down I slow my pace, as though I’m just out for a stroll, enjoying the night air. The bike comes nearer. It’s the same bike from earlier in the park – the one whose rider Dad argued with; the one that knocked down the professor. I’m sure of it.

Riding the bike is a man dressed all in black. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pass. He seems to slow down, then turns his head and looks right at me as he passes. I see myself, reflected in the mirrored visor. Then, with a grunt from the engine that makes my stomach twist, the bike speeds off.

‘Oh, no.’ I say, ‘No, no, no …’

I start to run. Did they recognise me? Has the professor called someone? Is she in cahoots with the man on the bike? I have no idea, but I need to get home to Dad before the man on the bike beats me to it. My feet pound the pavement, past Paddington Station, through Sussex Gardens, across Bayswater Road, until the familiar park surrounds me – the park that now seems like a trap. I run, even though my legs are burning and I feel sick and heavy-headed.

Finally, I’m home – the back garden and the tree. I climb without care, branches scraping my arms and face, in through the skylight. Quickly, making no noise, I go down the attic stairs to Dad’s bedroom. Tiptoeing over, I open the door and hear his familiar, gentle snores.

All at once the fear bleeds out of me and I sink to the floor. I listen as my heartbeat slows and the pain in my legs fades.

Twenty minutes pass.

At last I’m calm.

Calm, and very tired. Nobody seems to be coming to the house – not tonight anyway – but I can’t bring myself to sleep upstairs. I go to my room, get changed, and put away my coat and scrubs. Then I fetch my duvet and pillows, make a nest for myself next to Dad’s bedroom door, and sleep.