Читать книгу The Secret Key - Lena Jones - Страница 9

Away from the bus stop, I take out my notebook. Where to start? Hmm. First I should take another look at the crime scene – the longer I leave it, the more it’ll be contaminated with litter from passing tourists. Time is of the essence. From Hyde Park I can then walk to the Royal Geographical Society – the base for Professor D’Oliveira – on Kensington Gore. My body is tingling, almost light-headed. What is this feeling, I wonder? Then I realise –

Adrenaline! I feel alive!

As I hurry back towards Hyde Park, I have to skirt round crowds of tourists on every corner, stopping to have their pictures taken beside red phone boxes. When I get to the park, I use my best subterfuge to keep out of sight of Dad’s gardeners, most of whom will know me if they spot me.

I cross the grass, rather than taking the main paths, hiding behind trees and shrubs, and only moving when I’m sure the coast is clear. As I reach the scene of the hit-and-run, I take a quick look around. There are plenty of people, but there aren’t any abandoned wheelbarrows or lawnmowers to suggest a gardener is nearby.

I’m hoping to spot a clue to the biker’s identity, when I see something glinting under a prickly shrub and, with a quick look down at my already filthy skirt, get down on my knees and crawl towards it. At that moment, I hear Dad’s voice, sounding sombre and far too close.

‘It’s very strange; I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m wondering if it’s connected to the water mains. Anyway, I’ve taken some samples.’

I don’t hear his companion’s reply, but two pairs of feet stop in front of my hiding-place.

‘This mahonia has got far too leggy.’ It’s Dad’s voice. ‘We should look at that in the spring.’ Again, his companion makes a quiet response. I concentrate on staying still. Then the voices move away, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

They haven’t seen me.

I look at the object I crawled under the bush for, but it’s just a chocolate wrapper. I crawl out, feeling stupid, and hoping nobody spotted me.

‘Agatha!’

Crud.

Lucy, Dad’s deputy gardener who looks after the plant nurseries, has spotted me. Luckily, Lucy always assumes the best of me.

‘How’re you doing?’ She blows a lock of hair out of her eye.

‘Good, thanks. Busy.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got weeds coming out of my ears!’ Lucy grins. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she asks, the first doubt creeping in.

‘Free period,’ I lie. Lucy deserves better, but I can’t risk her telling Dad.

She nods, as though this should have been obvious. ‘Oh, I have something for you.’ She fishes in her pocket and draws out a pencil. ‘One for your collection.’

‘Thank you – where did you find it?’

She shrugs. ‘Just down the path here. Anyway, I’d better get on.’ She waves her border fork and heads back to work.

I take a seat for a moment on the bench. I look at the pencil a while before dropping it into my lap as though I’ve been burnt. A pencil, lying on the path near where the hit-and-run took place? Perhaps it belonged to the professor!

Careful not to touch the pencil any more, I take a pair of tweezers from my satchel and use them to move the pen to a clear bag. Embossed in gold on the side are the initials ‘A. A’. Not Dorothy D’Oliveira’s pencil, it would seem. The fingerprints on the outside of the pencil might have been wiped away by Lucy and me handling it, but there could still be some on the grip. Perhaps the pencil was dropped by a tourist passing through the park, but at this stage I have to take it seriously.

Standing, I dust myself down. I pause – I have the sensation that someone is watching me. I look around and see –

None of them seem to be looking directly at me, but good spies are clever. They’re able to hide what they’re up to.

I inspect my clothing quickly. The knees of my navy tights are green, as are the elbows of my matching blazer. Far worse, there is a rip in my skirt. I must have caught it on the shrub when I crawled under it. This is my only school skirt and I wonder if I’ll be able to mend it without Dad discovering.

But for now, I have more important things to think about – time to visit the Royal Geographical Society (RGS).

It takes me no time at all to get from the park to Kensington Gore. The exterior of the RGS is a bit disappointing – from the name you might expect a beautiful structure, like the white-and-redbrick façade of the Science Museum on the nearby Exhibition Road. The RGS entrance is a newer addition, made from floor-to-ceiling glass. It looks like it might take off in a strong gust of wind.

I walk the short distance from the pavement to the glass entrance. Inside, a man in a smart suit sits behind the reception desk. He looks me up and down – slowly, and with a raised eyebrow.

‘Not looking your usual well-coiffed self today, Agatha,’ he observes.

I pull a face and smooth my bob. ‘Sorry, Emile. Difficult day. I was hoping to speak to you about this …’ I draw the business card from my pocket.

‘Agatha, we’ve been over this,’ he interrupts, shaking his head. I feel quite sorry for Emile – he’s always having to turn down my requests, and I can tell it doesn’t suit him. ‘I can’t give you a lifetime membership to the Society.’

‘Oh, no – that’s not why I’m here.’

‘It’s not? You mean … you have a query – an actual query – that I might be able to help you with?’ He brightens.

I nod.

‘Oh, good.’ He smiles. ‘I have to say, I was surprised that you weren’t wearing some disguise or another. Like that dirty jumpsuit!’

Ah yes – the time I pretended to be a plumber. ‘Well, anyway …’ I change the subject. ‘If you could take a look at this business card – it belongs to one of your members.’ I place the card on the desk, and he inspects it.

‘Professor D’Oliveira. Why are you enquiring about her?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Is this one of your detective games?’

‘I do not play games, Emile. I conduct investigations.’

‘Right … Is this one of your investigations?’

I pretend not to notice the sarcasm. I like Emile; it’s just a shame he doesn’t always take me seriously. ‘Possibly … I mean, do you know Professor D’Oliveira?’

‘Of course. She spends a lot of time here – she’s a highly regarded member of the Society.’

‘Good.’ I take out my notebook. ‘Then perhaps you could tell me more about her.’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why are you asking this?’

I hesitate. It’s hard to know how much to tell. I didn’t want to give any information about the hit-and-run if the Society don’t already know.

‘I met her in Hyde Park, earlier today,’ I say. This isn’t entirely a lie – I did meet her – she had smiled at me, after all. I think quickly and add, ‘and I thought she might make an interesting subject for our school newspaper.’

He smiles. ‘I’m sure she would. I can arrange to make an appointment for you to interview her – only, I don’t think she’s been in today, but let me call her assistant.’ He reaches for the phone.

‘Oh – don’t worry about that for now,’ I say quickly. ‘Perhaps I might have access to the Society’s archives today to check out some facts?’

‘That might be a problem. I don’t think you’ve filled in an application form for access to the Foyle Reading Room?’

I shake my head. ‘Can I do that now?’

‘I’m afraid, for under-sixteens, we would need parental consent.’

‘Really, Emile? Is there nothing you can do?’

‘Well … I suppose I could put in a call to your school – obtain their permission, as it’s for the school newspaper.’

‘Oh! No, that’s all right. I’ll leave it for now. Thanks anyway.’

‘Sorry not to be more help. Do give me a call tomorrow – Professor D’Oliveira often has meetings, so we can sort out that interview soon.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Emile.’

He calls to my back – ‘Agatha!’

I turn with renewed hope, ready to be as charming and grateful as required. ‘Yes?’

‘Did you realise you have a twig attached to your hair?’

‘Ah … no.’

I remove the twig and carry it outside. It’s hot after the air-conditioning, and I’m just pondering where to go from here when suddenly a hand covers my mouth from behind. I’m yanked backwards, out of sight of the foyer building with my arm pinned behind me. A male voice mutters in my ear –

‘You really are a meddling little girl, aren’t you?’

Strangely, I feel a moment of relief that I hadn’t been imagining it – I was being watched back in the park!

But relief gives way to panic. I struggle, but can’t escape the tight grip. Thinking back to self-defence manuals I’ve read, I scrape my heel up his shin and stamp hard on his foot. He grunts in pain but doesn’t loosen his hold.

‘You’re a regular little snooper, Agatha Oddlow.’ His breath is warm and wet on my cheek. He smells of whisky and Chanel Bleu aftershave. A man with expensive tastes.

‘Are you afraid?’ he whispers.

I shake my head as well as I can.

‘Well, you should be – and if you aren’t afraid for yourself, how about that father of yours? What if he had an accident? Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?’

I try not to react – how does he know my name, and what does he know about Dad? How does he know my mum isn’t alive any more?

‘Where would you live if something should happen to him? That little cottage goes with the head gardener’s job, doesn’t it?’

I try to calm my breathing, and focus on his accent. It’s Scottish, that much is obvious. I think back to the tapes I’d listened to in the library – Accents of The British Isles – spending hours with headphones, playing the voices over and over, until I was confident of recognising them all.

Edinburgh – No.

The Borders – No.

Fife – No.

It comes to me – the man is from Glasgow!

This small victory does nothing to help my situation. A shiver works its way down my back. My breathing – already awkward due to the hand across my face – becomes laboured, and I can hear the blood pounding in my ears, like ocean waves. He leans in again. ‘You didn’t see anything this morning in Hyde Park – you understand me? Nothing.’

A rag is clamped over my mouth, and I smell something like petrol fumes. Darkness starts to pull me under. Sight leaves me, then sound, then touch. The last thing that lingers is the chemical smell.

Then nothing.