Читать книгу The Silver Serpent - Lena Jones - Страница 8

I leap out of bed when my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning. My dreams have been filled with images of potential partners, from a very frail old man to a supremely bossy Hermione Granger, and even an Inspector Gadget. It takes a while for my sleep-fogged brain to realise they aren’t real.

Sliding my feet into my granddad-style tartan slippers and donning my dressing gown, I head downstairs.

Dad’s up already, urgently shovelling cereal into his mouth, as if it’s been several days since his last meal.

‘Morning,’ he says brightly through a mouthful of cornflakes.

‘Morning.’ I sit down at the table and reach for the Coco Pops.

‘What’s your schedule for today?’ he teases.

‘Oh, thought I’d go to school …’

‘Mmm, why not?’ He plays along. ‘And maybe try not to run off and solve any mysteries?’

‘Well, unless something comes up …’

He shakes his head. ‘A hopeless case,’ he says – but he’s smiling.

I finish my cereal and run upstairs to clean my teeth and get changed into my uniform. I’ve worked out that I have time to show my face at registration, before finding a way to leave again. If I get marked as present this morning, I can keep my attendance figures from sinking too quickly. I add a floral scarf and my red beret, then pull on my coat. Having a sudden idea how to get out of school, I rummage through my disguises and add some items to my backpack.

Finally, I stuff another change of clothes as well into my already bulging backpack – I have a feeling that school uniform would seriously undermine my credibility as an investigator.

Outside, the wind is still biting. I hurriedly fasten my coat right to the top and tighten the knot in my scarf. Then, despite my fatigue, I jog most of the way to school, keen to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. When I’m within sight of the school gates, I hear someone calling my name. Turning, I catch sight of Brianna. She’s not hurrying – Brianna rarely rushes anywhere – and she looks almost blue with cold.

‘Come on,’ I say, ‘I’m not staying out here any longer than I have to.’

One of the best things about St Regis is that we’re allowed to go straight in when we arrive. As soon as we get inside, we find a radiator to lean against. Shivering, I glance around and catch sight of Liam, standing close by. He’s talking to a girl I vaguely recognise from class. They seem to be discussing mathematical theories.

He grins at Brianna and me and says, ‘Tamsin’s also a fan of Fermat!’

‘Is that the one with the salivating dogs?’ asks Brianna.

‘That’s Pavlov,’ Liam and I say in unison, and we both laugh.

‘Pierre de Fermat is considered one of the founders of the modern theory of numbers,’ I quote, from a piece I read the first time Liam mentioned Fermat, when I’d had no idea who he was. ‘He was born in the early 1600s and was one of the leading mathematicians of the first half of the seventeenth century.’

‘Who needs Wikipedia when they’ve got Agatha?’ says Brianna. She glances behind me and mutters, ‘Incoming!’

We hold our breath as Sarah Rathbone and her entourage pass by. Sarah doesn’t acknowledge us, thankfully, and we all breathe out with relief.

Without warning, a voice booms in my direction. ‘Remove your coat, hat and scarf at once, Miss Oddlow! You’re in school now!’ It’s our form teacher, the formidable Mrs Bodley-Finch, lurking in the corridor so she can jump out at unsuspecting students. I’m convinced she has chameleon powers and can blend in to the background.

‘Sorry, ma’am!’ I take off the offending articles, folding the coat and scarf carefully and placing them all in my backpack. Liam and I call a ‘See you later!’ to Brianna and walk towards our form room.

‘The professor’s given me a case,’ I whisper as we walk along. ‘I’m going over to the Guild after the register.’

His eyes go wide. ‘You went over there and asked her?’

I nod. ‘And she said she had something for me.’

‘That’s great! So how will you get out of this place?’

‘I’ve brought a disguise.’

Liam shakes his head and sighs. ‘Aggie, no offence, but you did get caught when you tried to impersonate a health inspector. And a tree surgeon.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’ve chosen a foolproof costume this time.’

We follow the other students into our form room, where I catch our teacher’s eye and smile innocently.

‘Morning, Mrs Bodley-Finch.’

She glowers and looks away. She has only two expressions: frowning and glowering. I wonder what it’s like to be her husband, forever waiting for a smile that isn’t going to come.

Liam and I take our usual seats in the middle of the room.

‘What’s your disguise?’ he whispers.

But Mrs Bodley-Finch frowns at him and says, ‘That’s enough talking, Liam!’

As soon as we’ve escaped from registration, I head towards the girls’ cloakroom to get changed. ‘Let Brianna know what’s going on, will you?’ I murmur to Liam in parting.

‘But wait,’ he says, ‘you haven’t told me your disguise!’ but I don’t reply.

In the cloakroom, I pull my outfit from my backpack. I only have one school skirt, so after I’ve taken it off I’m careful to fold it neatly before placing it in my backpack with the rest of my uniform. I’m especially pleased with my disguise, which is the uniform for St Mary’s School for Girls – the school just down the road from St Regis. I check in the mirror as I don my costume. With the addition of a blonde wig and blue-framed glasses, I’m unrecognisable. Better yet, I look uncannily like Meredith Atkins – this year’s director of the St Mary’s school play.

Let me explain. Every year, St Regis allows St Mary’s School for Girls to use its state-of-the-art theatre for their school production – and St Mary’s takes its annual production very seriously. I’ve seen Meredith coming and going, even in lesson times. She’s only two years ahead of me, and I’ve envied her the ability to leave school at whim. Now, with wedge heels that raise me to around her height, I’m going to borrow her freedom.

When I reach reception, the secretary barely glances my way before pressing the button to open the door. I march out, arms round a folder that could easily conceal the script of a play (but actually holds my maths homework). The walk across the playground feels longer than ever before. It reminds me of those prison films, where there’s a revolving light, picking out prisoners as they attempt to make a break for it. My heart’s pounding at the thought that I could get caught just as I’m about to escape. But, just as I reach the metal gate, it swings open at the secretary’s command, and I’m through! I take a deep breath of icy air and begin to walk, shivering without my coat.

At least I’ll soon be underground.

Over the past few months, I’ve been introduced to a number of routes to the Guild HQ that are far more comfortable than the one beside the Serpentine. I choose one now – a well-built tunnel, which has its entrance right next to Grosvenor Square Gardens. There’s a bike-hire rack close by, so I pay for a bicycle and wheel it over to the rhododendron bush, behind which the metal entrance door is sited.

Checking for onlookers, I dodge behind the large shrub and take my key from round my neck. It turns soundlessly in the well-oiled lock. I swing the door open, wheel the bike through and manage to close the door behind me. I’ve grown accustomed to bumping bicycles down steps into subterranean passageways. I use the torch on my phone to light my way to the bottom of the flight. Leaning my bike against the wall, I rummage in my backpack for yet another set of alternative clothes. It wouldn’t be my first choice of changing room, but needs must. I don black trousers, a white shirt, a pair of smart trainers, and I pull my red coat out from the bottom of my bag, and I’m set to go. Then I mount the bike, push off and let its self-charging lamps illuminate the tunnels. I feel a bit as though I’m flying, with my coat billowing out behind me like a cape.

It takes less than ten minutes to reach the massive door that marks the main entrance to the Gatekeepers’ Guild. Two armed guards check my pass and let me through. Leaving my hired bike in a set of racks provided for the purpose, I make my way through the various passages on foot, until I reach Professor D’Oliveira’s office.

She calls ‘Enter!’ in answer to my knock, and I step inside. ‘Good morning, Agatha. Please take a seat.’

She’s sitting at her carved desk in her wood-panelled office, where everything is plush and ornate. The only clue that we’re underground is the lack of windows.

I sit and she slides a folder across the desk towards me. ‘Your first case for the Gatekeepers’ Guild,’ she says. As I reach to pick it up, there’s another knock at the door … and who should enter but the boy from the National Gallery.

Arthur! My brain struggles to compute. There’s a word, incongruous, which means something that looks completely out of place. This is not his territory, but mine. What on earth is he doing here?

‘Ah!’ says the professor. ‘Arthur – thank you for joining us. Agatha, this is Arthur Fitzwilliam. Arthur, Agatha Oddlow. The two of you will be working on the case together.’

He grins sheepishly at me. ‘Sorry – I looked on your school calendar and found out your class were visiting the gallery yesterday, so I couldn’t resist popping in, in the hope we’d get a chance to meet.’

My brain feels foggy. ‘But … you didn’t say you had anything to do with the Guild!’

‘Not really the place, was it?’ he points out. ‘I couldn’t start blurting out about a top-secret organisation in public.’

The professor looks from me to Arthur and back. ‘Have you two met already?’ she asks, with a frown.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Arthur faked a “chance encounter” with me at the National Gallery yesterday afternoon.’

‘I see …’ she says slowly. ‘Arthur, please take a seat.’

As he sits, his face is full of happy mischief.

‘Sorry, Professor D,’ he says. But he’s smiling.

‘That was totally unprofessional conduct,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t fair to Agatha – and it was in blatant breach of Guild rules.’

‘Sorry, Professor,’ he says again. ‘But you told me I was going to be working with Agatha and—’

She holds up a hand to silence him – a gesture I’ve seen too many times directed at me. ‘That will do.’

‘But it’s not like I told her anything!’ he protests.

I can’t help smiling. There was no malice in Arthur’s actions, after all, and I had enjoyed meeting him. I reckon we’ll have fun working together.

The professor shakes her head. ‘I despair, I really do,’ she says. But her eyes are twinkling and the corners of her mouth are twitching.

‘So you knew we were going to be working together?’ I say, turning to Arthur. ‘When we met at the gallery, I mean.’

He nods. ‘The professor told me yesterday morning.’

Professor D’Oliveira shakes her head. She turns to me. ‘So, Agatha,’ she says, ‘you see what you have to deal with … Keep him on a tight leash, won’t you?’ But she’s smiling indulgently, as if he’s a favourite child.

‘I will,’ I promise.

‘This is a sensitive investigation,’ she says, looking from one of us to the other. ‘But I’m sure you’ll make an excellent team. Arthur, who has good art knowledge and more Guild experience, is the lead on this case, but I do expect you, Arthur, to listen to Agatha – she has good instincts and is a natural codebreaker. Right – I think that’s everything for now. I need to get on with my own work.’ She looks at Arthur. ‘Take Agatha to the induction room and bring her up to speed with the case so far, would you?’

‘Certainly, Professor,’ he says. He picks up the folder and the pair of us stand up and move towards the door.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘just one more thing. Agatha, stay behind a moment, will you? We won’t be long, Arthur.’ Arthur nods and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

‘Now, Agatha,’ she says, ‘don’t let this young man take over completely. There’s a case to be solved, and he needs a firm hand at times. He may have been an agent for a couple of years longer than you, but don’t be afraid to contradict him, if you feel it’s required.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you for trusting me with this.’

‘You’ve already proven your worth, with the two cases you conducted outside of the Guild. Don’t forget, though – it’s not only Arthur who needs to toe the line. Now you’re working for us, you can’t be going off on your own. There are safeguarding issues at stake here – and I don’t want to have to suspend you again.’

I feel myself flush with embarrassment and frustration. What do I have to do to make her trust me? ‘I won’t – I promise,’ I say, biting back the urge to defend myself.

Arthur is waiting for me outside the office. He nods towards the corridor we need to take to the induction room, and we begin walking side by side. As we pass door after door, part of my mind marvels, as always, at the scale of this underground community.

‘So, you’re Clara Oddlow’s daughter?’ he says.

‘How did you know that?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘Common knowledge within the Guild.’

‘Oh.’ I take that in. ‘So, what do you know about her?’

‘Well, she’s a bit of a legend around here, isn’t she? Something to live up to. Must be hard for you, as her daughter.’

‘Well, if I let myself think too hard about it, I’d be paralysed with fears of inadequacy and failure!’ I laugh to show I’m not entirely serious.

‘I believe it’s best not to dwell on the negatives,’ says Arthur. ‘Life’s hard enough at times, without setting yourself up to fail.’

‘That’s exactly what I think!’ We smile at each other. ‘What’s the case?’ I ask him. ‘Professor D’Oliveira said you’re an art expert, so I’m guessing it’s about art?’

‘It is indeed,’ said Arthur. ‘Let’s go in here and then I’ll fill you in.’ He opens the door to the induction room. Unlike the previous times I’ve visited this space, now there are a number of other people sitting at tables, mainly sifting through files. We take seats on the far side, near the radiator. The cold wind doesn’t reach these offices, but it’s still distinctly chilly underground.

I glance around. One man is studying something that looks like a photo, but he’s using his phone to examine it.

‘What’s he doing?’ I whisper to Arthur.

‘It’s a special app. The thing he’s examining is a bit like a microfiche – do you know about those?’

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as I summon up my mental filing cabinet and flick through the imaginary, hand-written cards until I reach the right one:

‘A flat piece of film containing microphotographs of the pages of a document,’ I say, reading the text inside my mind.

‘That’s right – tiny images, which you have to view through a special machine that magnifies them. Well, this is a thing called a nanofiche. It was invented by someone at the Guild and can only be viewed using the organisation’s own app.’

‘Wow, that’s cool.’

He points to another person, a woman apparently staring straight ahead of her. The only thing odd about her – apart from this behaviour – is her glasses, which are larger and more clunky than normal. They remind me of the ones an optician uses to test your eyes.

‘She’s watching an information reel,’ Arthur says.

‘She’s actually watching something?’ I say uncertainly. I’m not sure if he’s teasing me.

‘Yep. Those glasses she’s wearing are another Guild invention – the Spectacular. The lenses are really tiny screens.’

‘Wow,’ I say again. Then I lean forward. ‘So, what’s the case?’ I ask again eagerly.

‘Oh, you’ll like this one,’ he says. ‘It’s about the National Gallery.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’m always serious about art,’ he says. I look at this boy – with his floppy blond hair and dimples – and can’t imagine he’s ever serious about anything.

He draws a sheet of paper from the folder the professor gave us.

‘This is Dr Elizabeth MacDonald, the director of the National Gallery,’ he says, showing me a newspaper clipping of a woman standing in front of Sunflowers. She’s an elderly lady, in a tweed skirt-suit with loafers and is dwarfed by the large canvas. Her white hair is pinned back in a neat bun. She resembles a kindly nanny from a children’s book far more than the director of one of the most famous art galleries in the world.

‘OK …’ I say, scanning her clothing, her stance and her expression. I don’t believe you can work out much about a person from a photograph – especially a posed one, when they’re on their guard – but a person’s choice of dress says a little about how they want to be seen. And how a person desires to be viewed offers certain hints regarding the way they feel about themselves. Elizabeth MacDonald, I decide, is clearly secure enough in her knowledge and experience of the art world not to feel the need to resort to designer clothing or outrageous dress, in order to make her mark.

He draws another sheet from the file: a square photograph.

‘And this is Sheila Smith, the senior curator.’ The picture shows a woman with wavy blonde hair and bright-red lipstick. He places a one-page document below the image. ‘And this is the report on her disappearance.’

I look up sharply. This is the first time he’s lost his jovial tone and seems genuinely grave. ‘Disappearance?’

‘That’s right. She was reported missing yesterday morning, by Dr MacDonald – although it seems that no one’s seen her since Friday night, when she failed to board a flight.’

I take a moment to process this. ‘How long have you been working on this case then?’

‘I’d only just started when I met you at the Van Gogh yesterday. I’d come straight from a meeting with Dr MacDonald. In fact, I had thought I’d be teamed up with Sofia. Between ourselves, I was quite relieved when she had to fill in for someone who’s off sick. She’s a bit … uptight, if you know what I mean?’

I laugh. ‘So, where was Sheila meant to be going?’

He draws out a notebook from his rear trouser pocket and consults his notes. ‘Colombia,’ he replies, ‘to view a painting that’s just come on the market. The National Gallery’s interested in buying it. It was the art dealer over there, in Bogotá, who called Dr MacDonald on Monday morning, to say Sheila had never arrived.’

‘Has anyone checked if she boarded the plane?’

He nods. ‘Dr MacDonald made enquiries with the airport. It was a late-night flight – eleven o’clock – but Sheila never checked in.’

‘What about her family?’

‘They haven’t heard from her.’

‘Why didn’t someone just call the police?’ I ask. ‘It sounds like a straightforward missing person’s case.’

‘Ah. The police aren’t convinced there’s “foul play” involved. They say Ms Smith is perfectly within her rights to take off without notifying anyone. They did have a quick check of her flat, and there was no sign of a struggle. Also, her passport’s missing, so she could have gone anywhere – by ferry, if not by plane. They said they’re happy to hand it over to a private investigator for now, which is why Dr MacDonald contacted us. There’s an agreement that we must tell the police if we turn up anything serious. And they said they’ll have to intervene if we haven’t found her by Friday evening.’

‘We need to get a move on then,’ I say. ‘What else is in that folder?’

‘Not much – it’s waiting to be filled. Oh – I’m meant to give you this.’ He hands me a fake ID badge, with my name beneath my photo and a company name.

‘Who are Prodigal Investigations?’ I ask.

‘That’s our undercover employer, while we’re working this case. It avoids awkward questions about the Guild. The story goes that we’ve been recruited by a PI agency that specialises in hiring promising young people. It’s just to show to anyone who asks too many questions.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say and stash the badge in the outside pocket of my backpack.

He skims through his notes. ‘What I found out from my tête-à-tête with Dr MacDonald was that she’s approaching retirement, and that she’s from an old Scottish clan who own lots of land. They even have an island! It’s called the Isle of Fairhaven. She’s planning on going to live there when she retires from the gallery.’ He puts on a pretty convincing old lady’s voice – complete with Scottish accent – and says, ‘I’m going to pass the autumn of my years on the Isle of Fairhaven.’

I laugh. ‘Is that what she sounds like?’

‘It is, and that’s what she said, verbatim, when I interviewed her yesterday.’ He slips back into Scots mode. ‘She’s such a dear, wee little thing.’ If I’m honest, part of me is a bit uncomfortable about his mockery of Dr MacDonald (I’ve been on the receiving end of too much teasing myself) but I can’t help laughing again – he’s too funny.

‘Her own island,’ I murmur. I picture the tiny plot of land in the Serpentine, to which I’ve rowed from time to time, and wonder how big the MacDonald clan’s isle might be.

‘So where do you think we should start?’ he asks me.

I’m flattered that Arthur thinks enough of me to ask my opinion, when he’s clearly the more experienced agent. I do a mental run-through of important early procedures, from a book I’ve read five times: Complete Crime Scene Investigation Handbook. It tells you that one of the first things is to think of the obvious, and so I say, ‘Have you been to Sheila’s home yet, to search for clues?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I haven’t really started yet.’

I draw Sheila’s photo close for a good look. She’s probably in her early fifties, dressed in a trouser suit, with one hand in her trouser pocket. With her glossy, blonde, shoulder-length hair, she has a vintage-film-star quality, like Greta Garbo or Rita Hayworth.

‘When was Sheila last seen?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, I know it was Friday night, but what time and where?’

‘At work. She got her coat at five thirty and said goodbye to all the staff. Apparently, she prides herself on knowing the names of all her colleagues, on both the art history and art maintenance sides.’

I like the sound of Sheila.

‘And did anyone witness her leaving through the main entrance?’

He consults his notebook. ‘No. The person on reception was busy with a tour group, so nobody actually saw her go.’

‘So she might have been kidnapped directly from the gallery.’

‘Or she might even still be there,’ he suggests. ‘Either hiding, for some reason, or tied up by an assailant.’

This sounds unlikely to me. ‘Surely someone would have come across her by now, if she was being kept hostage in the building.’

‘A good investigator doesn’t rule anything out,’ he says.

‘True. So we need to check the security cameras to make sure she did leave, and see what time it was.’

‘Good idea.’

I Change Channel and summon up a view of the National Gallery, with its roof removed, as if I’m floating above it. If I was Sheila Smith and I wanted to hide here, where would I go? And if I was her assailant, where would I put her, alive or dead?

It takes me a moment to realise Arthur is speaking to me. ‘Hello? Earth calling Agatha …’

‘Sorry!’

‘Where did you go?’ he asks.

I blush. ‘I just switched off this room inside my head and shone a light inside the gallery building.’

Most of the time, people look at me politely or with mild concern when I explain my Change-Channel mechanism. Not Arthur, though. ‘Oh – I do that!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I call it Auto-Focusing!’

‘Changing Channel!’ I say. I catch his eye and we laugh.

‘I guess the Guild attracts a certain brand of weirdo,’ he says.

‘I prefer “maverick”,’ I say. ‘You know – someone who’s happy to do things their own way.’

He grins. ‘OK. Maverick it is. Let the investigation begin!’