Читать книгу Murder at the Museum - Lena Jones - Страница 8

I step inside and quickly shut the door behind me. I’m in darkness and I fumble for a moment before finding the light switch. My nostrils fill with the smell of damp stone.

The single bulb flickers and then comes on; it sheds barely enough light to see by, and casts weird shadows around the room.

The basement itself is ordinary enough – concrete floor and ceiling, with three walls also made of concrete. The fourth wall, facing me, is made of brick and looks older. There are several sets of metal shelves against the walls, stacked with a variety of cleaning products – sponges and mops, buckets and basins, bottles of bleach and disinfectant. There’s only one other object in the room, over in the far corner.

It’s as big as a bear, and so blackened with age it takes me a minute to work out what it is – a boiler, old and long retired. It was probably left here because it was too much trouble to dismantle it and lug it up the narrow stairs. The squatting lump of metal is knuckled with rivets and valves. There are several water pipes leading up from it, but these have been chopped off, and now stop short of the ceiling.

I sniff the air. Not just damp, but the scent of bleach. This could be from the army of mop buckets down here, but the smell is strong and fresh. By the light of the single, naked light bulb, I look around at the floor, then crouch to run my finger over it. Dust – lots of it.

Over in the corner, by the old boiler, the floor is darker. I walk over. Yes – the concrete here has been scrubbed recently and is still damp. Why would someone clean this patch but not the rest of the room?

In my mind’s eye, I conjure up a Polaroid camera. It appears in front of me, hovering in the air. I hold the imaginary camera steady, and start to take some snaps of the room. Each photo scrolls lazily out of a slot on the camera and develops from black to a colour image. When I’ve taken enough pictures, I file them away in my memory.

Now for my next job. I fish out the plastic vial and use the cotton bud to swab the floor. I could be wrong, but I have a funny feeling about this wet patch. So I place the swab safely back inside the vial for analysis in Brianna’s secret lab.

Then I step up to the disused boiler. It’s covered in dust and clearly hasn’t been used in a very long time. The pipes are cut off, so it can’t have leaked. Why would anyone need to clean up here?

Peering into the darkness behind the boiler, I can’t make anything out. On my keyring I have a tiny torch, which my dad gave me last Christmas as a stocking filler, so I point it into the darkness. There isn’t much there, although … I peer more closely. Yes! It looks like there could be a hole in the wall! I can’t see into it from this angle, but the back of the boiler is completely free from dust. It seems as though someone’s been crawling around in this area.

There’s only one thing for it. Clamping the torch between my teeth, I shuffle forward and crouch down until I’m fully enclosed inside the cramped space. I can see it now, just as I suspected – a hole in the brick wall, big enough for a grown human being to fit through. Looking down at the dirty floor, I can just make out a boot print. Someone has definitely been through here recently!

Steeling myself, I start to crawl forward. My keyring torch doesn’t do much to illuminate the space, but by moving the beam around I can see tunnel walls opening up. I wish I hadn’t left my powerful head torch in the cavern under the Serpentine.

As I go through the underground passage, the brick surface changes, first to something like concrete, then to a material resembling bedrock, chipped away roughly with a chisel or a small pickaxe. There are no signs of activity here, and it’s completely silent. I continue, slightly crouched, but hurrying along.

After about thirty metres, the corridor begins to slope down and, a little further on, the space starts to open out once again. Here, the walls are lined with brick, as the rough-hewn tunnel gives way to a carefully built structure, like a Victorian sewer. Thankfully, this is much cleaner and drier, though!

I carry on, now able to stand up fully, holding the torch in front of me like a miniature shield. Its beam isn’t strong enough to fully light the way, and the area ahead looks especially dark and unwelcoming. Until this moment, I’ve been caught up in the chase. Now, though, I’m suddenly aware of my own smallness. What, or who, might I find down here?

I hesitate. I think of Dad, and my cosy room under the eaves of the cottage.

Then Hercule Poirot speaks to me in the darkness: ‘Ma chère Agathe, you have stumbled upon un petit mystère, non? You are not going to turn back now?’

Too right I’m not. I push on.

Twenty more steps and the space opens out into an even wider passage. Here, my tiny light seems brighter than it did in the brick section, because the walls around me are lined with white ceramic tiles which despite being grimy still manage to reflect a little of the beam back towards me. The pale expanse is broken up by bands of tiles in a dark colour, burgundy perhaps, or purple – it’s hard to tell in this light under the layers of dirt. But there’s something very familiar about them. It takes me a while to realise what it is, out of context as they are.

Of course! These are the tiles used across London to line the walls of Tube stations! In the days when many Londoners couldn’t read, the patterns were used to signal the different stations.

Over the last few years, I’ve travelled through almost all the stations on the Tube map, except for some of the ones further out. I’ve taken mental pictures of all the tile designs, and I call them to mind now. The pictures appear in front of me as Polaroids, stuck with brass pins to a corkboard that’s hanging on the wall.

I check through all of them quickly, but can’t identify the particular arrangement of tiles I’m seeing now – the two burgundy bands separated by a band of white. I turn away from the images.

This is a conundrum – a Tube station which is not a Tube station, right in the heart of London.

I walk a little further, my footsteps echoing back at me. Glancing down, I see dust swirling around my feet. The tunnel is thickly carpeted in a grey lint, which has settled and collected over many years. But I’m not the first person to walk here recently. There are footprints, though how many sets it’s difficult to tell because they keep to a track, like when someone walks through snow along the same path that someone else has already trodden down. I think about walking in that track myself, to disguise the fact I’ve been here, but it’s too late – I’ve already left my prints behind me. A little further down the corridor, I get my first confirmation that this underground building is indeed a Tube station, albeit an unused one – a faded, much-torn poster advertising Ovaltine is pasted to a curved billboard set into the wall.

The poster looks old – very old by the style of font and the watercolour illustration of a woman holding a steaming mug in front of her. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s from the 1930s or ’40s, and was put up sometime during the Second World War. But why is it still here? Why was this Tube station abandoned? I walk on, turning this way then that through the empty tiled corridors, and find my answer.

I’ve stepped out on to a platform. And there, on the wall across from me, is a faded sign, which reads: BRITISH MUSEUM.

It’s the disused British Museum station! It’s been closed for decades. The people who ran the Tube back then decided that there weren’t enough people using it. It wasn’t even close to the museum. I know that it used to be a stop on the Central line (that’s the line marked red on Tube maps), which for the most part draws a neat line through the middle of London. I wonder whether the Central line trains pass through this station now or just bypass it, going down another nearby tunnel.

As if on cue, I hear a distant, rattling rumble – the familiar sound of a Tube train passing by.

I’ve always wanted a chance to visit some of the abandoned stations – but I don’t have much time to think about that now, because it’s getting late and there’s a murder to solve – and if Dad has realised I’m away from home, I need to be getting back sooner rather than later.

I search quickly around the platform and find more clues – tiles wiped clean of dust through contact, and, there, a little further along, a dust-free space on the ground, where something was obviously being stored, though it’s gone now.

The space is large and roughly rectangular. It doesn’t give much of an idea as to what might have been there. When I reach the edge of the platform, I bend down and shine my light into the dark passage. I half expect to see that the old tracks have been ripped up, either to stop trains from passing this way, or so that the metal could be recycled, as happened with many of the city’s metal gates and fences during the Second World War. But, as I shine my torch down into the dark canyon, two gleaming bands of silver throw the beam of light back at me. The old rails are not only still in place; they are polished so highly that there can be no mistaking it – trains have passed through here recently, and often.

Hmm … how can that be? I’ve now heard three trains pass by and not one of them has come through. Perhaps they use this tunnel to store trains when they’re not in service. Or maybe it’s used to store repair vehicles on the tracks. Or could it be a bypass tunnel, which allows trains to pass while another sits idle?

I finish looking around the station, taking mental photos of everything as I go. I wish I had a real camera, so I could get some actual pictures of the boot prints marking the dust around me, but my own memory will have to suffice. I stare at some of them for longer than usual, to make sure that the images are well developed.

Finally, it seems there’s no more for me to investigate down here. I could go back up to the British Museum the same way I got down, but the police investigation is well established up there. If I make another appearance, I’m bound to be spotted again, and this time the police might be suspicious. I’m glad I brought my Guild key.

Walking to the far end of the platform, I hop down on to the tracks – and just in time too: I hear the voice of a man, arriving on the platform behind me. Hurriedly, I turn off my torch.

‘Did you remember my five sugars?’

I crouch and hold very still.

Another man responds: ‘Dunno. I just shovel them in.’ So that’s two men, at least.

‘Jeez, Frankie – you know I can’t drink it when it’s not sweet enough.’

‘I’m just amazed you’ve got any teeth left.’

They laugh. I can’t hear any other voices joining in, but, although it’s a relief they’re alone, two’s more than enough to worry about. I begin to shuffle quickly towards the tunnel, but I lose my balance for a moment and my foot thuds against the metal of the train tracks.

One of the men speaks: ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘I heard a noise.’

‘Probably one of those mice that live along the rails.’

‘Sounded like a pretty big mouse.’

I hear footsteps approaching and flatten myself against the side of the platform as much as possible. Crouching in the shadows, I hope I’m nearly invisible.

A torch is shone along the tracks. It gets worryingly close to me, reflecting in the toe of my boots. I really shouldn’t polish my footwear if I’m going to wear it for undercover work. Has he seen me? I hold my breath and close my eyes. I’m clutching my front-door keys, the only potential weapon I have to hand, but I don’t fancy my chances if I have to rely on them to defend myself.

‘Nothing there,’ he pronounces, turning and heading back to his mate.

‘What time did you say it’s due?’ asks the other one.

‘In the next five or ten, I reckon – if they don’t have to stop in a side tunnel on the way.’

While they’re talking, I run silently to the tunnel mouth. I know there are several doors on the Central line which will give me access to the Guild passages, and, once I’m in one of those, it will be simple enough to find my way back to Hyde Park. Most importantly, I need to get off the rails before the train comes through.

Inside the total darkness of the tunnel, I dare to turn on my torch again. It doesn’t make a lot of difference – the light was dim when I used it earlier in the museum, and it’s lost power since then and is frustratingly weak, but it’s all I’ve got. I push on. Five minutes of jogging and I find what I’m looking for – a small wooden door set into the side of the service passage leading off from the Central line.

The sounds of trains on the other tracks are closer now, rumbling and rattling, and screeching as they brake. To some people it could be unsettling – frightening even – knowing that these fast engines are racing through the tunnels surrounding them. But I’m used to this – used to walking underground, used to being a little bit too close to forces that might harm me. Taking the Guild key from round my neck, I don’t even pause before putting it into the lock. I’m also growing accustomed to breaking the rules.

Still, after waiting all summer to take the Trial, I can’t help but shudder at the thought of the consequences if I get caught down here. I open the door and step into a narrow tunnel which is far cleaner and better kept than the one I’ve just come from. As I enter, lights come on – automatic sensors picking up my movement. This brightly lit corridor is more disconcerting than the previous one: there’s nowhere to hide.

I turn off the little torch and put it in my pocket. One of my brain’s tricks is an internal compass that I use to navigate. I have a lot of tools like this – internal filing cabinets and visual memory aids – but I can’t explain how most of them work, even to myself. They just do. I walk a little way, passing various doors on my left, until I reach one on my right, which my compass tells me is the right direction for home. I open it and pass through, and walk for fifteen to twenty minutes, checking over my shoulder the whole time. At last, I come to a sign on the wall with arrows pointing in two directions. One of the arrows points towards Piccadilly Circus, the other towards Marble Arch.

Marble Arch is close to home, so I head in that direction. This isn’t the most exciting Guild passage, with very little to see in the way of other routes branching off from it, and it’s not carpeted and wood-lined like some of the more elaborate ones, such as those that run under Hyde Park. However, it’s good to be out of the bright lights of the larger tunnel. It also has a smooth surface, and I begin to jog again, enjoying the rhythmic pace, which lets my brain slow down and start to process the information I’ve gathered so far.

The maze of underground pathways that runs under London was only partly constructed by the Guild, of course. They patched together several networks, from old Roman and Victorian sewers to modern service pipes, plus parts of the Tube, the electricity board’s passageways, the water board’s, sections of underground car parks and even telephone exchanges. This patchwork design can be quite useful, because it often gives you a clue as to where you are. In the tunnels I’ve visited near the South Bank (beside the Thames), the walls are made of an orangey concrete, with two rows of lights down either side. In the tunnels near to Buckingham Palace, they are plush, as though in preparation for a royal visit, and have chandeliers in place of bare light bulbs.

I’ve never been in this part of the network before, so I make sure I commit it to memory in case I’m ever here again and need to find my bearings. It’s weird, heading in the direction of home without any of the familiar landmarks I would have above ground. I’m jogging at a comfortable pace when I hear a faint sound behind me.

I glance over my shoulder.

The tunnel is slightly curved, so I can’t see what’s making the noise. But I listen very carefully. It’s a regular tapping. Perhaps just a leak? No, it doesn’t sound like that: it’s too regular, and that rhythm …

Footsteps.

They’re getting louder. Someone’s running in my direction. I look back again. As they come round the bend, they’re just a shadowy figure. The only thing I can make out is that, when they see me, they speed up.

There’s no time to lose. I pick up my own pace, racing like I’m doing the hundred-metre sprint. If the person behind me is from the Guild (and who else would it be, down here in the Guild tunnels?) then I can’t let them catch me, or they’ll be bound to bar me from taking the Trial. I run and run until my blood is thudding in my ears. My feet are pounding so hard against the concrete that they’re starting to throb. At least I seem to be increasing the distance between us, though. After a little while I come to a branch off to the left. I’m dizzy from the run, and have to pause before my vision clears enough to read the next sign. With a sigh of relief, I see it says HYDE PARK 1⁄3 MILE.

In the brief time I’ve been standing still, the footsteps have become much louder. The person following me is really close now. With one last push, I race down the offshoot. There’s no lighting, but I can make some out ahead, filtering through from the far end of the tunnel. This passage is also straighter than the one I was just in and, after a few moments, I glance back into the darkness and see a torch heading through the darkness towards me.

My forehead is dripping with sweat and my breathing is becoming painful. I keep glancing back, and the light is still there, following a little way behind. Whoever’s chasing me can’t catch up, but they’re not falling back either. Off in the distance I see it at last – a spiral staircase leading up from the tunnel floor.

It takes an almost Herculean effort to make it up the stairs. I have to stop partway up because my calves are aching badly. I bend over, panting and rubbing my legs, convinced my tracker will reach me. Then the area below lights up from their torch, and that’s enough of an incentive to send me climbing again, up and up, above the roof of the tunnel.

Finally, the spiral staircase ends. I see a small iron door in front of me; I put my Guild key into the lock; and, just as my pursuer’s foot sounds on the bottom rung of the metal staircase, I step through the door, out into the cold night air, and shut the door firmly behind me, panting loudly.

The moon is bright and full, showing me that the door is set into a stone embankment, near the Serpentine lake. I’m not far from home and I don’t have time to stand around. After taking a second to get my bearings, I race away across the lawns, into the night.

Usually, when getting home late, I climb back up the oak tree and in through the skylight. But there’s no way my legs will cope with that tonight. Plus, it’s so late that all the lights are off in the cottage. Dad must be in bed. I don’t want to spend any more time outside than I need to, not when somebody might still be tailing me. So I take out my house keys and, as quietly as possible, go in through the front door.

I collapse in the hallway, leaning against the front door and breathing heavily. The excitement of the evening, and the chase through the tunnels, have worn me out. But my mind’s as alert as ever, buzzing with ideas and theories, with images from the museum and the underground station.

I decide to get myself a glass of milk. Maybe that will help me get to sleep. There’s no point in me staying up all night, trying to solve a case where I don’t have all the facts. I will wake up rested tomorrow and start again, with Liam and Brianna to help me.

It’s dark in the kitchen, but I don’t want to turn the light on. The moon’s shining through the window and it’s just about enough to see by. I open the fridge, letting out a refreshing blast of cold air. I take out the milk, close the door, and turn towards the cupboard, where the glasses are kept.

As I do, I jump, so startled that I drop the carton of milk on the floor.

There’s someone standing in the corner of the kitchen, waiting silently in the shadows.

I stumble away, pressing my back to the work surface. Without taking my eyes off the intruder, I feel for a knife in the knife block. But my silent companion doesn’t move. I focus hard on their outline. There’s something not quite right about this person.

Walking over, I flick the light on.

For a few seconds, I’m blinded. But then I can see what startled me – one of Dad’s old suits. It’s hanging on a coat hanger from a hook on the wall, a double-breasted jacket over the trousers below. This is a particularly offensive article from Dad’s wardrobe: double-breasted brown twill with mustard pinstripes. Someone should have been arrested for creating this suit. And someone should definitely arrest Dad for wearing it. Knowing him, he’ll probably team it with a mustard shirt and his favourite green tie. I love him dearly, but his fashion sense could do with some help.

Dad said he had to visit another gardener in the morning, but why would he be putting on a suit to visit an orchid specialist? Especially a suit he hasn’t worn in years – a suit which, though it’s hard to believe, he thinks is very flattering. I walk up to the offending outfit and tentatively sniff it, and the smell it gives off confirms my suspicion – this suit has recently been dry-cleaned. It looks smart: pressed and lint-rolled of even the slightest speck of dust. Who is Dad trying to impress?

I pour myself a glass of milk, replace the carton in the fridge, turn out the light, and begin my weary climb to bed. I navigate my way upstairs, avoiding the creaky steps. I’m conscious that I’m still wearing my disguise and am now streaked with grime from the dirty tunnels through which I’ve been running and crawling. If Dad were to see me now, like this, his suspicions would certainly be raised.

Dad knows I love investigating, but I think he imagines that I’m out looking for people’s lost cats, or watching for shoplifters at the corner store. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, but I have bigger fish to fry. Dad doesn’t know about these bigger fish: about the Guild, or about the work they do, protecting the capital from the plots of dangerous, greedy people.

Which is for the best really.

I can hear Dad snoring loudly as I climb the stairs. At the top, a sudden ‘Meow!’ makes me freeze. Oliver has come to welcome me. He purrs loudly and pushes his stocky body against my legs.

‘Shhh, Oliver!’ I scoop him up with the arm that isn’t carrying the milk and let him drape himself round my neck. It’s far too warm for this, but I love feeling his vibrating purr. I wait for a moment, to make sure Dad’s still snoring, then creep up the flight of wooden steps to my attic bedroom.

I set Oliver down gently on the floor and look around me. Everything is laid out as I left it, but it seems like I’ve been gone for so much longer than a few hours – as though I left yesterday, or a week ago.

Adventure is a bit like that – you feel as though you’ve been moving very fast, and the rest of the world has been moving very slowly, and you can’t quite believe that it’s still Wednesday, or whatever day of the week it is, because it seems like you’ve lived a week – a month, a year! – in a short space of time. I suppose I like this feeling a bit too much – I rely on the adrenaline rush to keep my life from getting dull – but I try not to worry about that.

I go over to sit on my bed and sip at the glass of milk. I wonder if Mum ever felt like this, when she was a Gatekeeper. You don’t get into this line of work if you don’t like excitement – if you don’t thrive on risk. Did she worry that one day her escapades would get her into serious danger? Or did she live her life from day to day, not worrying about what tomorrow would bring? I look over at her photo on my bedside table.

Looking at this picture usually makes me feel sad or wistful, similar perhaps to what I’d feel if I was looking at a picture of a house that I used to live in – a happy memory. But, tonight, I don’t feel sad or wistful.

I feel angry.

I decide to analyse this new response. I run through what I know – and don’t know – surrounding her death:

1. Whatever happened to Mum, it wasn’t a bike accident.

2. I have a hunch that her death was linked to her work as a Gatekeeper.

3. Someone’s covered up what actually happened – could it have been the Guild?

I realise my new anger is because I’ve just had a close encounter with someone who almost certainly belonged to the organisation. I feel something close to rage at whoever caused Mum’s death – but also at whoever hid the truth from Dad and me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing until I’ve calmed down enough to turn the rage into determination.

‘I will find out what happened to you, Mum,’ I promise her photo.

Finally, with no energy left to think or feel, I get under the covers, drink the last of my milk (thinking how Mum would have scolded me for not brushing my teeth) and turn the light out. Just before I drift off, I remember the swab that will need analysing. I grab my mobile, switch it on, and send Brianna a text, asking if I can go over to hers the next morning. Then I let sleep pull me under its thick surface.