Читать книгу Murder at the Museum - Lena Jones - Страница 7

To reach the underground passageways governed by the Gatekeepers’ Guild, first I have to open a grating beside the Serpentine. I step down the short ramp that leads to the dark, caged-off hole and, when I reach the grating, I fish out Dad’s keys and select the correct one. I insert it into the lock – but for some reason I can’t get it to fit neatly and turn. I struggle with it for a while before giving up and sitting down on the dewy ground. What now?

I hear Hercule Poirot’s voice in my head, with its familiar Belgian accent: ‘Venez, Mademoiselle Oddlow, we won’t let un petit lock stop us at the first ’urdle, n’est-ce pas?’

Poirot may be a fictional detective, but he’s my inspiration. Why won’t the key turn? Maybe something’s stuck in the mechanism. I get up and inspect the padlock. Sure enough, there’s a pine needle jammed inside. I form pincers with my thumb and forefinger and manage to remove the tiny obstruction. Then I try the key again. This time it turns, and I swing the grating open and crawl through, pulling it shut behind me.

I shiver, remembering the last time I was down in this dank passageway. The tunnel had been full of toxic red algae, so Liam and I had worn face coverings to filter out the fumes. Even without the stinking slime, it isn’t exactly welcoming.

I take the head torch from my pocket, turn it on and slide the harness over my head. The bright bulb illuminates a dirty concrete path. There’s a crumbling brick roof that’s far too low for comfort, even for a thirteen-year-old of average height, and I have to crouch. I sigh and begin my uncomfortable passage through the long tunnel. It stretches downwards, taking me ever deeper beneath the ground.

Despite the vast amount of earth above my head, I divert my thoughts away from images of the ceiling caving in. My palms and knuckles keep scraping on the stone and brick, and my neck aches badly from having to keep my head bent at an awkward angle. My progress is further hampered because I have to stop every so often to rub my aching leg muscles, which aren’t used to staying bent for so long.

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until the corridor opens out into a wide cavern, and I find I’m gasping – dragging in oxygen as if I’ve been under water. I laugh at myself – I’ve made the whole journey harder by tensing up and holding my breath! I stretch my back out and give myself a shake. It’s such a relief to be able to stand upright.

Stage two – complete.

On the far side of the cavern there’s an iron door covered in rivets, like the entrance to an ancient castle. It’s so rusty that it’s almost the exact shade of the surrounding bricks, making it nearly invisible. Now for the next key: the one I promised Professor D’Oliveira I wouldn’t use.

I pull the silver chain out from the collar of my shirt and insert the large metal key into the lock. Mum’s key. For a moment, I picture her turning it in secret gates and doors. I feel such a strong link to her when I use it. It turns soundlessly in the well-oiled mechanism. I leave my head torch on the ground, then I push the door open a crack – enough to check for guards, before stepping inside and pulling it closed behind me.

That was way too easy: the Gatekeepers’ Guild really should increase their security.

I head down a long, well-lit corridor with a plush, red carpet. After a couple of hundred metres, the carpet gives way to stone as I approach the bike racks. There are hundreds of bicycles here, of all sorts, from high-tech mountain models and off-roaders, to older, more upright models. The Guild own mile upon mile of tunnels, and they prefer to ride through them wherever possible, to save energy and time. For a moment, I try to imagine what type of person owns each model. I spot a large, unwieldy black mountain bike and picture a very severe man in a dark suit. I fix on another one – a pink sparkly, Barbie-doll type – and decide it has probably been borrowed by a parent from their child. I know which one I’m going to use. It belonged to my mum: a baby-blue town bicycle with a basket. The professor promised to keep it here for me.

But it’s missing.

I go through the racks, twice, but it’s definitely not here. Has someone taken it? Or is it just being stored somewhere safe? I make a mental note to ask the professor about it. I feel a pang at the absence of what feels like a piece of my mum. It’s only a bicycle, I tell myself. I consider taking another one instead – but that feels more like stealing. I’ll just have to jog.

I start to run slowly, building up speed until I’m making good progress along the main tunnel. The ground is fairly smooth here – worn down, I suppose, by years of use by the Gatekeepers. At last I spy a smaller passage off to the right, with a sign for the British Museum. I turn into it and soon reach a full-height metal gate.

Once again, my magic key opens the lock. I step through, close the gate behind me, and abandon my hideous raincoat at the bottom of a short set of stone steps leading up to the museum. At the top, another turn of the key lets me through a wooden door.

I’m in a tiny room that holds nothing but a long staircase, leading upwards, and I jog up them with ease. My fitness levels are pretty good these days as I’ve been working out a lot over the summer. Before too long I reach what I gauge to be the ground floor. There’s a door with a grimy window. I give it a wipe with my hand, and see I’m just off a large corridor. There’s no one about, so I slip through the door and easily find my way into the main foyer of the museum.

Stage three – complete.

I know the layout of the British Museum from the many times Dad has brought me here over the years to see the different exhibits, and I walk quietly but confidently through the public section of the building. I meet no one on the way, but I can hear voices as I approach the area where the murder took place. I walk towards the doorway, careful not to draw attention to myself. As I step over the threshold, I take out my notebook and pen and stand poised at the first display cabinet, as if I’m taking notes on the exhibits. If I’m spotted, I’ll need to have a good cover story.

Despite my careful planning, I freeze at the sound of a voice quite close, convinced I’ve been seen. But they’re not talking to me.

‘So, the piece that’s missing is a clay mug?’

I glance over at the speaker. It’s a female police officer, with light-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s writing in a notebook.

The person she’s addressing is a man of about thirty-five, with closely cropped hair and round glasses, which he keeps pushing up his nose. He’s clearly anxious – I can see beads of sweat on his forehead. This nervousness, combined with the expensive cut of his suit, suggests he’s probably a senior official at the museum. No doubt he’d be feeling distressed that one of the museum attendants, a member of his staff, has died at work. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to feel responsible for something like that.

He clears his throat. ‘That’s right, yes. It’s a strange choice for a burglar.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, you see this piece, right beside the gap?’

I crane my head to get a look but I’m too far away.

‘With the lion’s head?’

‘That’s right. Well, that is a very fine example of Etruscan pottery. It’s almost priceless. The clay cup … well, that’s not worth much.’

‘So you’re saying …’

‘I’m saying it’s odd that a burglar would kill for the clay cup. But perhaps he took the wrong artefact …? I still can’t believe one of our own museum attendants is dead!’

‘I’m so sorry. This must be very upsetting for you. I’ll try not to keep you much longer. But the more help you can give us, the sooner we can catch the culprit.’

‘I understand—’

‘Hey! Where did you come from?’ I jump at the voice in my ear and turn to face a male police officer. He frowns. ‘You aren’t supposed to be here.’

Rookie mistake: I should have kept checking behind me, instead of becoming mesmerised by what was going on in front.

‘Oh no,’ I say, in an eager voice, ‘I am meant to be here, Officer. I’m here on work experience, and I’ve been in the stores, cataloguing the exoskeletal organisms.’ I have no idea if such a collection exists, but I’m hoping to blindside him with long words.

‘So what are you doing here?’ He gestures to the display case. I haven’t even taken in the exhibits, but I glance down and see they appear to be fertility statues. I think fast.

‘Oh – I finished my work experience tasks for the day and my manager said I could do some of my own work, on my school project – “Fertility rituals of the ancient worlds”.’

‘Did you not hear the announcement to evacuate?’

I shake my head, wearing my most earnest expression. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything. Why … has something happened?’

‘Surely someone told you this part of the museum is off-limits?’ He seems entirely bemused by my presence.

I shake my head again. I need to distract him with a change of topic. Discreetly, I take in as much information as I can, my eyes flicking over his form. There’s not much to go on, because he’s in uniform, but I do find a few clues.

‘Do you like dogs?’ I say, thinking on my feet. ‘I love them!’

His eyes light up. ‘I love dogs too! I have four of my own,’ he says proudly.

‘You’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘I’d love a dog, but my dad won’t let me have one.’

His radio crackles and a female voice comes through, issuing instructions. ‘Oh, that’s for me,’ he says. ‘Just get your things and go home.’

‘OK … thanks! I hope my school teacher won’t mind too much if I’m late with my project.’

‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Don’t forget your coat,’ he says, pointing to a door marked STAFF ONLY. As long as he’s watching, I can’t head back the way I came in, so I obediently go the way he indicates.

It takes me into another hallway, with another set of stairs leading down. I run down to the basement, wondering if there might be some way back to the tunnel from here. At the bottom there’s a door.

I push it open.