Читать книгу Murder at the Museum - Lena Jones - Страница 6

‘That film was crazy!’ says Liam with satisfaction as we step out of the Odeon.

The evening air is pleasantly warm and there are still hordes of people milling around in Leicester Square. We navigate through them. Liam turns his phone back on, while I fish out the last scraps of popcorn from my box. We’ve just seen the latest crime thriller – Midnight Delivery – and can’t wait to point out all its plot holes.

‘I knew it was the window cleaner,’ I say. ‘He was far too nosy. And as for the detective – he was soooo slow.’ I laugh. ‘Brianna would’ve had a field day! Why did she say she couldn’t come?’ Liam is my best friend, but Brianna is a close second. The three of us hang out together a lot.

‘Oh … I think she had homework,’ he says.

I chuckle. ‘That figures. One full day left of the holidays and she’s finally getting round to it.’ Liam and I always get our schoolwork done at the start of the holidays, but Brianna likes to leave it until the last possible minute. I once saw her writing in an exercise book while she was walking down the street to school.

Liam’s too busy looking at something on his phone to reply, so I wander over to a bin and dump my empty popcorn box. On a pavement board close by is a poster, with the words LORD MAYOR’S FIREWORKS! in big letters at the top. I scan the details. The extravaganza – with ‘over 15,000 fireworks!’ – will take place beside the Thames, on Sunday.

‘Isn’t September a bit early for the Lord Mayor’s fireworks?’ I say as Liam comes over. ‘Don’t they usually do them in November – around Guy Fawkes Night?’ I think some more. ‘And I’m sure they’re usually on a Saturday.’

He doesn’t answer my question, but says, ‘Check this out,’ and he holds out his phone, so I can see the screen. It’s a news alert:

BREAKING NEWS: Murder at British Museum

I stare at the red letters for a moment, feeling a familiar excitement. It’s been five weeks since I solved the case of the red slime that had polluted London’s water supply, and I’m itching to get going again. Things have been too quiet with no cases to solve, so I haven’t been enjoying my summer holidays as much as usual.

I take his phone and click on the link. There’s not much information to go on yet:

A member of staff has been stabbed to death shortly after closing time this evening at the British Museum. Police have yet to release the name of the staff member, who is believed to be an attendant who may have disturbed an intruder. A museum exhibit is said to be missing from a display case.

I feel a surge of happiness. ‘Finally, an actual case!’ I catch Liam’s eye as I hand back his phone. ‘Come on – we need to investigate!’

He scrutinises me. ‘Agatha, tell me you’re not actually pleased that someone’s been murdered …?’

My cheeks turn red; hopefully he won’t have noticed. ‘Of course not.’ I study my nails: currently black with silver stars. I’m especially pleased with the stars, which have come out just right.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘it’s a murder investigation – you won’t be able to just wander in there.’

This is the type of challenge I live for. ‘Of course I will. “No Case Too Odd”, remember?’ I say, reciting the Oddlow Agency’s motto. I’d got sick of people making fun of my surname, Oddlow (Oddly … Oddball … Oddbod … Odd Socks …) so I’d decided to put a positive spin on it.

‘But this doesn’t even seem especially odd …’ he says doubtfully.

Not wanting to waste time, I grab him by the arm and start to stride through the Leicester Square crowds, in the direction of the Tube. Liam stumbles after me, reading the report on his phone.

‘It says they’ve put the museum on lockdown, so nobody can get in there – not even you.’

‘Ah, but who said I was going to use the front door?’ I look back at him, raising an eyebrow. With my free hand, I touch the place below my neck where my mum’s black metal key is hanging from a silver chain. It’s not just a trinket: it belongs to a secret organisation called the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and it gives access to underground passageways all over London.

Liam frowns. ‘You’ll be in serious trouble if Professor D’Oliveira finds you using the tunnels before your Trial begins.’ The professor is my contact at the Guild. If I want to become an agent, or Gatekeeper, like my mum (and I really, really do), I have to pass three tests that make up the Guild Trial.

I sigh. ‘I know … but I didn’t expect it to take this long to get started! I’ve been waiting five weeks already!’

‘Come on, you know how gutted you’ll be if they catch you – and the professor says you can’t take the tests and become a Gatekeeper if you break the rules.’

I roll my eyes. ‘But they’re not going to notice if I use the key just this one time, though, are they? I’m sure I can dodge them.’

Liam shakes free of my grip.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ I ask, in surprise. Liam normally jumps at the chance of some excitement.

‘Agatha, you’re my best friend – but you’re talking about interfering with a crime scene and risking your chances of becoming an agent.’

I decide to focus on his first objection, so I ignore the second. ‘I’m not going to interfere,’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m just going to look for clues …’

‘… And potentially get in the way of the police, who are themselves looking for clues.’

I pause for a moment, wondering whether to try and win him round. But he’s wearing his determined look.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it – you can go and find out what they’re saying about the murder on the news. We can compare notes when I see you on Thursday in school.’

‘Right … just – be careful, though.’

‘Oh, it’s OK – I’ll just dig a tunnel using a spoon,’ I say, referring to one of our favourite films.

‘So long as you have a plan,’ he says with evident sarcasm (spoilt by the fact he’s obviously trying not to laugh when he says it).

‘I always have a plan,’ I reply.

‘If there’s any more info on the news, do you want me to leave you a note?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you – Dad found the loose brick in the wall, so we can’t use it for messages any more. He’s cemented it in!’

‘Seriously? Couldn’t you have stopped him?’

I shrug. ‘He’d “fixed” it before I got the chance. We’ll just have to find a new way of sharing information.’

Liam shakes his head sadly. ‘I loved our brick,’ he says, as if we’ve lost a dear friend.

I shrug again. ‘Look, I’ve got to be off, OK? I’ll see you at school on Thursday,’ and I give him a quick wave then jog the short distance to the Tube station.

On the platform, with five minutes to wait for the train, I feel the adrenaline start to mount. Tonight I’m no longer Agatha Oddlow, scholarship student at a school for privileged kids, but Agatha Oddly, private investigator, named after the world-famous crime writer Agatha Christie.

As the train carries me along, I settle into the rhythm and plan my entrance into the museum. I have a useful ability to ‘Change Channel’ – switch off from whatever’s going on so I can access other parts of my brain. I close my eyes and use this technique now, to focus on the task ahead. I’ll be needing a costume and a convincing reason for being at the museum after hours.

By the time I get back to Hyde Park I’ve worked it all out, and I can’t wait to get started.

As I hurry along the path beside the Serpentine lake I automatically glance at the benches to see if my old friend JP is there, but then I remember JP’s no longer homeless, so he doesn’t live in the park any more. He’s managed to get himself a job, and it even comes with a flat he can rent cheaply. I’m really pleased for him, but I miss our daily chats.

As Groundskeeper’s Cottage comes into view, I force myself to focus on my plan. The first thing I need to do is be seen by my dad, Rufus, so that he thinks I’m going to bed for the night. Also, the popcorn already seems like a long time ago, so I should probably make myself a sandwich before I set out.

‘Hey, Dad!’

‘Hi, Aggie. How was the film?’

‘So terrible that it was brilliant – really funny!’ I go over to where Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, studying some landscape designs for the park, and give him a peck on the cheek.

‘That’s good. Have you eaten?’

‘Only some popcorn,’ I admit. (Dad hates it when I skip meals.)

‘You should make yourself a sandwich,’ he says.

I grin. ‘You read my mind!’

I set to work, spreading first butter, then peanut butter, then a layer of salad cream. It’s a combination I haven’t tried before, but I’m always keen to experiment. I did over-experiment at one point last term, when I attempted to create a masterpiece from a French cookery book. It was disastrous – and I lost some of my confidence – but I’m over that now, and open to new culinary experiences again.

As I stick the two pieces of bread together, I start to go over the details of the plan in my head. I’ll need some keys from Dad’s collection – he has them to open gates and gratings all over Hyde Park. But Dad derails my train of thought—

‘I won’t be around tomorrow morning, by the way.’

‘Oh? How come?’ I look around for the bread knife. Sandwiches always taste better when you cut them into triangles.

‘Yeah, I … um, I have a meeting with an orchid specialist from the Royal Horticultural Society.’

Something about Dad’s tone makes me turn round and look at him.

‘An orchid specialist?’

‘Yes … a very prestigious one … and she’s only free first thing. So I won’t be around when you get up.’

He clears his throat and goes back to studying the plans in front of him, in a too-concentrated way that seems a bit forced. But I don’t have any time to worry about what Dad may be up to – I have to get going if I want to inspect the crime scene before the police remove all the evidence.

‘OK, I’m going up.’

Dad glances at the clock. ‘It’s only eight thirty. Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a well-known fact that teenagers need more rest than adults.’

‘That’s my line,’ he says, frowning. ‘What are you up to?’

I put on my most innocent expression. ‘Nothing. I’ve just got some reading to do for English, and I want to look over the essays I did at the start of the holidays.’ I scoop up my plate and make for the door. ‘Don’t stay up too late, Dad. See you in the morning!’

‘OK … night, love.’

I stop on the first-floor landing and creep into Dad’s room, where Oliver the cat is curled up on the bed. Dad has a rule about not letting cats on beds, but that never deters Oliver. Slipping the set of keys I need from a hook on his crowded key rack, I place them in my pocket, then start up the next flight of stairs, wolfing down my sandwich on the way. It tastes foul and I make a mental note not to try this particular combination again. I set the empty plate down on my bedside table and look around with satisfaction at my room. It’s in the sloping attic space at the top of our cottage and is packed with interesting objects and artefacts, including shells, feathers and fossils, newspaper clippings and elaborate disguises. There’s a porcelain bust of Queen Victoria that I found in a skip, plus a chart of eye colours with codes for each shade, which I’ve memorised. A portrait of my favourite crime writer, Agatha Christie, hangs in pride of place above the bed, and there’s a smaller portrait of her most famous character, Hercule Poirot, on the back of the door.

For a moment, my thoughts turn back to the Guild – and, more importantly, the Trial. I’ve been thinking about it all summer, like a song I can’t get out of my head. It makes me nervous, knowing that the first challenge could begin at any moment, even in the middle of the night, and I have to be ready for it. I guess that’s the whole point – if you can’t be ready at any moment, to act without warning, then you can’t be a member of the Guild. But I do wish they’d get it over with.

I take off my red beret – my best-loved item of clothing – and place it carefully in its box. Then I go over to my two rails, where I keep all my clothes and costumes, and start to rummage for the items I need.

Luckily for me, I’ve already made some notes in my head on the British Museum from my previous visits there. I close my eyes and Change Channel to reach the area where the relevant information is stored. It looks like a series of old-fashioned filing cabinets. I access the one for uniforms and flip through the handwritten cards inside, until I reach M, for ‘Museum’ – then I select subcategory B, for ‘British’. All the British Museum uniforms I’ve observed have been filed away here, each as an imaginary photograph. I want to get in as an attendant – it’s the most convincing role for someone of my age – and the uniform I call up is a simple one: black trousers with a white shirt.

Flicking through the garments hanging from my clothes rail, I pick out a suitable shirt and some trousers. From a box underneath I take a black faux-leather belt and a pair of Doc Martens boots with thick rubber soles that give me a few extra centimetres. They were a brilliant find in a charity shop and I love them. I get changed quickly, removing my knee-length red gingham shirt dress (one of my favourites, also from a charity shop) before pulling on the trousers and shirt. Accessories come next – a work pass on an extendable lanyard which I attach to my belt, and a very basic work badge to pin to my chest, which claims that my name is ‘Felicity’. This is the name I use on social media – after detective Hercule Poirot’s secretary, Felicity Lemon. Finally, I tie my hair back in a bun, and for extra camouflage add a pair of thick-rimmed glasses (which are stored in a chest of drawers full of similar accessories – false eyelashes, sunglasses, headscarves, fake scars, bushy eyebrows …). I slip the keys into my pocket, along with a small notebook and pen, an LED head torch, a lock-picking kit, and a plastic vial containing a clean cotton bud – an essential part of any detective’s kit. My pocket is now bulging, but I don’t want to complicate things by taking a bag with me that I might have to abandon somewhere.

Everything done, I look myself over in the mirror.

Pretty convincing.

I don a long plastic mac over my outfit to keep it clean. This monstrosity – the sort of shapeless cover-up sold to tourists who arrive in Britain unprepared for the rain – is not an item I would ever normally wear in public. But needs must.

‘See you later, Mum,’ I tell the photo of my mother that I keep by my bed. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt, big sunglasses and a floppy hat. I like her style – comfortable but chic. She’s standing astride her bike, which is piled high with books, as usual. The police said it was the books that made her bike difficult to steer – and that was why she’d lost control in an accident with a car and died. But I don’t believe that. For a start, I found her bike, and it didn’t have a scratch on it. If I can join the Gatekeepers’ Guild, maybe I can find out what she was investigating when she died, and it might give me some answers.

Deep breath now – here comes the difficult bit.

I turn my bedroom lights off. If Dad comes up to see what I’m doing, I don’t want him to think I’m awake. Then, making my way across the cluttered room by memory, I climb on to my bed. The evening sky is overcast, but there’s just enough light for me to make out the rectangle of my skylight. I open this now, grab on to the edge, and haul myself up and out, so that I’m sitting on the roof, straddling the ridge.

I wait for a moment. I like it up here – there’s a gentle breeze stirring and, now that summer’s coming to a close, the night is neither too warm nor too cold. Off in the distance, at the edge of the park, I can see the twinkling lights of Kensington. I divide the mission up into phases in my mind: stage one – get away from the house undetected by Dad; stage two – crawl through a long, uncomfortable passage; and stage three – gain entry to the museum. I take a deep breath.

Right: it’s time to go.

I ease myself off the ridge and slide down the tiles to the edge, where I cautiously stick my right foot out into space until it makes contact with the nearest branch of the ancient oak tree. The left foot joins it. Next comes the scariest moment, when I push off from the roof and have to trust the rest of my body will get across safely … It does, of course – I’ve been climbing up and down this tree since I was ten. With my arms round the trunk, I feel for my next foothold and make my way down to the ground. I’m glad I thought to wear the raincoat, or my clean white shirt would be covered in moss and lichen by now.

I jump down on to Dad’s immaculately maintained lawn, keeping the oak tree between me and the kitchen window. Dad mustn’t see me. Then, taking a deep breath, I run through our gate and off across the park, into the night.

Stage one – complete.