Murder at the Museum

by Lena Jones

  She hands me the folder and I shove it into my backpack. I try to squeeze the handbook in as well, but it won’t fit. Seeing me struggle, she picks it up for me.

  ‘I will carry it for you, for now,’ she says. This is the first bit of kindness she’s shown me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say meekly.

  I drag myself to standing and trail after her all the way back down the corridor, towards the entrance. Just before we reach the front door, she turns off to the left.

  ‘Come on.’

  My legs are so heavy with exhaustion, I could sink to the floor and weep. ‘I thought we were going home.’

  ‘I’ve just seen a light on. There’s someone you should meet.’

  Can’t it wait till another day? I wonder. But she’s already striding ahead. I see her stop in front of a door and knock before opening it.

  I catch her up. On the open door, I read the name WALLACE JONES, QUARTERMASTER.

  ‘Here she is,’ says Sofia.

  I join her in the doorway. Inside, seated at a wide desk, is a man who seems to take up a lot of room. His office is one of the larger cubicles, but he reminds me of Alice, when she encounters the EAT ME cake and does indeed eat it. (As if everyone doesn’t know you should never eat anything if you don’t know where it’s come from!) Not that Mr Jones fills his entire room or anything – it’s just that everything about him seems squeezed in: his clothes look too tight; his chair and desk too small; even his skin looks stretched. I get the feeling that, if he stood up, his head would touch the ceiling.

  ‘Clara’s daughter – we meet at last!’ he says, coming out from behind his desk to clasp my hand. He has a friendly, open manner, and his hand is warm and dry.

  ‘I’ll leave you then,’ says Sofia. She places the tome on the corner of Mr Jones’s desk. I have no idea how I’ll transport it home.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Solokov,’ he says, smiling at her, and she nearly smiles back – the corners of her lips twitch. Amazing – even Sofia appears less surly in his company.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he tells me, drawing up a comfy-looking armchair, and gesturing for me to sit in it. I put my backpack down and sink on to the cushioned seat.

  ‘Hard day?’ he asks, going back to his own chair.

  I nod. ‘I only just passed the Trial, and then we got to the file rooms, and …’ I tail off. It occurs to me that I don’t yet know if the missing file is classified information.

  Wallace Jones doesn’t push me, though. He smiles and nods. ‘Too much at once?’ Then his face is suddenly filled with sorrow. ‘So very sad about your mother. We all cherished her here, you know. She was one of our best.’

  ‘Can I …?’ I hesitate, not sure how to ask such a big, important thing of someone I’ve just met.

  ‘What?’ he prompts.

  ‘Do you know what happened to her?’

  He sits back with a thoughtful expression. ‘I heard there was a nasty accident with that bike of hers. She always loaded it up with books. I used to beg her to leave some of them behind.’

  I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t the bike.’

  He frowns. ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘The bike is intact – not a scratch on it.’

  He leans forward. ‘Really? That is suspicious then. I had no idea. When did you see it? I assumed the police had confiscated it, after the accident.’

  I hesitate. ‘Well, I haven’t seen it for a while. It’s gone missing.’

  ‘The police must have it,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe they came back for it … I haven’t had a chance to ask Professor D’Oliveira.’

  ‘Anyway, we are overlooking one very important fact, my dear.’

  I hold my breath. Mr Jones is about to tell me something about my mum – something vital, that will help unlock all the answers.

  ‘You are now a Gatekeeper! That must be celebrated!’

  The breath leaves me like air bursting from a punctured tyre.

  ‘There will be a lot of people watching you, as the daughter of Clara Oddlow,’ he continues, wagging a finger at me – but he is smiling again. He lowers his voice to a whisper and leans towards me across the desk. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you, Agatha. You go at your own pace, and I’m sure you will do great things.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve already heard that you are quite the talented young lady.’ He beams again. Then he looks around his office. ‘So … do you know what I do?’

  ‘You’re the quartermaster. I think, in the military, they are in charge of provisions and stuff?’

  ‘Exactly. I am in charge of stuff!’

  I can feel my face get hot. ‘I mean …’

  ‘Don’t get flustered, my dear. It’s a good description for the wide variety of … stuff I have to buy in. Imagine having to order thousands of rolls of loo paper, and then have them brought in to a secret underground base without arousing attention …’

  I hadn’t thought about that. ‘How do you do it?’

  He taps the side of his nose. ‘Ahhh, need-to-know basis, I’m afraid.’

  Although I’m fascinated by Mr Jones and his demanding job, my fatigue takes over and I can’t stifle a yawn.

  ‘My dear child, you are exhausted,’ he says. ‘Go home, go home!’ He stands up and holds out a small paper bag with things in it. ‘Consider it a welcome present, if you will.’

  I thank him and get to my feet, reaching for the massive handbook.

  ‘Leave it, leave it!’ he says.

  ‘But the professor …’

  He holds up a hand. ‘I will explain that it’s far too heavy for you to take home, and I’m sure the professor will understand. I will have it returned to the induction room, for your next visit.’

  With that, he helps me to put on my backpack then escorts me out of this section, into the main corridor. I’m starting to get a feel for the geography of the Guild’s network now: there is one main tunnel, off which all the others branch, but I’m grateful that Mr Jones is making sure I’m heading in the right direction. He gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze and, as I walk away, I realise that I feel lighter, as if Wallace Jones not only buys in solid things, like toilet rolls, but also obtains and distributes necessities you can’t touch, such as kindness and goodwill. Even the thought of my mum’s file having disappeared doesn’t seem quite so bleak now. After all, the professor is on the case.

  I stop for a moment in the tunnel to examine the contents of the paper bag. There are two items: a transparent pen that glows in my hand with a weird light; and a small pager – a square electronic keypad, that allows you to send and receive messages. There’s a note in the bag: Page 6662 if ever you find yourself in danger. I slip the two gifts back inside the paper bag, put it inside my backpack and continue on my way.

  I can barely stand, let alone walk, but somehow I stumble on and find my way to the staircase that leads up to the top of Wellington Arch in Hyde Park. I don’t take this staircase in daytime as there’s a viewing gallery up here, and tourists might get quite a shock at my sudden materialisation. But at this time of night no one is likely to spot a girl appearing as if by magic from behind the statue of the Angel of Peace.

  I drag myself across the park, back to the cottage, and let myself in through the front door, confident that Dad will be asleep. I glance at my bedside clock as I throw myself on to my bed. Quarter past two – thank goodness it’s Friday night, so I don’t have school in a few hours. I say ‘Goodnight, Mum,’ to her photo, and fall asleep.

  I wake up late, feeling depressed, and for a moment I can’t remember why.

  Then I’m hit hard by the memory of what happened the day before. The file I’d waited so long to read, wiped completely blank. The cold stone is back in my belly, and it feels a little like losing Mum all over again.

  In one sense, I’ve got what I wanted. But in another way, I’ve failed. I may have passed the Trial, but I haven’t got one of the main things I took the Trial for. It’s like learning to drive a c
ar on the day that all the petrol runs out. I’m still no closer to finding out what happened to Mum. I look around the room despondently at the strewn clothes, many of them parts of my disguises. I look at my map of London on the wall, dotted with coloured pins and pieces of string. I look at the shelf full of notebooks – with black covers for general cases, and red for details of Mum’s life and habits. It all feels rather silly, rather pointless.

  What am I investigating for anyway? What makes me think I’m a detective? Why do I even want to be a detective? If it’s to find out what happened to Mum, I’ve categorically failed, and, anyway, it doesn’t seem like a particularly good reason to have chosen this career. Also, if we move to Cornwall for Dad’s work, I won’t be able to keep visiting Guild headquarters and complete my training with Sofia the robot-horse.

  After a long time in bed, staring up out of the skylight at the blue September sky, I force myself to get up. I slip on my tartan slippers (granddad-style, but I like them) and pad downstairs to the kitchen. It looks like Dad has already been up, had his breakfast, and left. He doesn’t work every Saturday, but sometimes he gardens even if he’s not on the rota – he can’t keep away from plants.

  To cheer myself up, I take the time to make myself a luxury hot chocolate. The smell is blissful. For extra decadence, I grab a canister of squirty cream from the fridge and spray a large dollop on top. I sit at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug and staring through the doorway at the photos that hang in the hallway. A lot of them are of me when I was younger, and there are several of Mum.

  There she is, holding on to my arms as a toddler as I wade into the sea wearing a frilly pink bathing suit and gigantic inflatable armbands. There she is, hovering in the background as I blow the candles out on my seventh birthday cake, which she and Dad baked and iced together – a pirate ship, complete with sails and masts, which was what I’d asked for that year. And there she is again, just a few months before her accident, standing with me and Dad on Waterloo Bridge.

  I remember how we had asked a tourist to take the picture for us. We’re all smiling, and Mum’s head is cocked to one side, so that it rests gently on top of my own.

  I sip at the hot drink and, with each sugary gulp, a little more of the fog seems to clear from my brain. Mornings are always the worst time for doubting yourself, I think. I wonder if everybody is like this, all the great musicians and poets and painters, when they think about their life’s work first thing in the morning. Do they all doubt themselves as much as I do? By the time I reach the bottom of the mug of hot chocolate, I feel more like myself.

  I can’t give up now. I have to find out what happened to Mum; I will still do what I can to avenge her. But that will have to wait until the professor has finished her own investigation into the missing file. In the meantime, I need to do something to keep the grey cells busy while I’m waiting. Otherwise, I’ll just obsess about the situation.

  I decide to ignore Sofia’s warning and continue with my British Museum case. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t have been deterred by anyone else’s advice, so why should I let it stop me?

  I rinse out the mug in the sink and run back up to my room, where I quickly get dressed. I opt for denim cut-off shorts with a sleeveless black turtleneck top. Staring at me unpleasantly from my desk, where I left it the night before, sits the homework set by Sofia in its bulging folder. I can’t even bear to look at it. The thought of doing any more codes, breaking any more puzzles, just to gain her approval, seems ridiculous now.

  Sofia thinks I know nothing about the real world, but surely I know more than a girl who sacrificed her childhood to a secret agency? I will not be distracted from my mission any longer. I pull on socks and my biggest, clumpiest pair of boots – the Doc Martens – and get out my mobile phone. While it’s turning on, I go downstairs and quickly brush my teeth. When I call Liam, he does not pick up.

  I try Brianna’s number instead, and she answers after the second ring.

  ‘Yo, how’s it going?’

  ‘Not bad. Any idea why Liam isn’t answering his phone?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. He has tennis practice with that coach his guardian hired.’

  I strike my forehead with my palm. ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘I completely forgot!’

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk about?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, I’m on a case. I was wondering … would you like to come down to the tunnels with me?’

  ‘You mean, because your first choice isn’t available?’

  I feel myself flush. ‘No, I was going to invite both of you …’

  She laughs. ‘Relax! I’m just teasing you. I’d love to come! What do I need to bring?’

  Brianna knows about the tunnels, but she’s never been down there. I’ve described them to her in general terms, as tunnels left over from former times – from the Tube and sewer networks, and the remains of Cold War bunkers – but I’ve never told her they’re governed by a top-secret organisation called the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and I’ve always discouraged her from investigating the tunnels herself. I’ve been careful to protect the Guild’s secrecy, even from one of my best friends. But the Gatekeepers have failed me – I trusted them to keep my mother’s secrets safe, and they let me down. Why should I protect their secrets now?

  We chat for a few minutes more, and I think out loud over the phone about items she could bring to help us. By the time I hang up, I’ve listed one or two gadgets that Brianna has in her high-tech crime room, and I’ve suggested she bring her tool bag with maybe a screwdriver and file for tampering with locks, and we’ve agreed to meet up at a café opposite the British Museum.

  I go on foot to meet her. It takes a good half-hour at a fast walk, but I don’t have much pocket money left for a bus or Tube. Also, the weather is still fine, and I could do with the fresh air if we’re going back underground. I start to regret this decision almost immediately, when I have to navigate a group of tourists having their pictures taken beside Marble Arch. By the time I arrive at Oxford Street, the crowds are heaving. I quickly turn off and take backstreets the rest of the way to the café opposite the museum.

  Brianna is already sitting at a table when I enter. I don’t recognise her at first, until she waves to me.

  ‘What happened to your hair?’ Her blue hair has been dyed back to a sedate brown.

  She shrugs. ‘Got to do as I’m told, or Doc Hargrave might suspend me. The seniors will stop my allowance if that happens.’

  It’s a shame. I liked the blue hair, which suited her personality. She smiles ruefully.

  ‘Do I look very dull?’

  In her ripped jeans, with her leather biker jacket, multiple earrings and half-shaved hair, I don’t think Brianna could ever be described as ‘dull’.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I reassure her.

  ‘So, do you want something to drink, or shall we get going?’

  ‘Let’s just go.’

  She swigs the last of her tea, and grabs her bag. It’s a big duffel bag, which looks like something a soldier might carry. As we step out of the café, she salutes me smartly and says, ‘So, where first, ma’am?’

  ‘Did you bring the seismograph?’

  She pats the duffel bag. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let’s set that up first, somewhere near the museum – I want to record any tremors.’

  ‘I’ve got an app on my phone – so I’ll get data directly if anything happens.’

  She sets up the seismograph on one of the lawned areas in the courtyard of the museum. The machine is solar-powered and looks like a small yellow case. She places it with the lid open. Inside the lid, there’s a screen which tracks movements under the ground. Usually, seismographs are used to monitor earthquakes, but I want to find out if anyone is doing too much drilling and excavating – enough to cause sinkholes like the one in Bernie Spain Gardens, for instance.

  ‘Remind me why you own this thing,’ I say.

  She shrugs. ‘They were selling them online and it looked cool.�
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  ‘Too much money,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘Hey! You’re benefiting, so I wouldn’t start complaining.’

  ‘Good point.’

  One or two people shoot us curious glances as we position the seismograph, and Brianna checks it’s communicating with the app on her phone. No one tries to stop us, though. Hopefully, we look like we’re just doing some kind of school project. Brianna unrolls a length of striped warning tape and places it round the machine, to keep people away.

  ‘Right,’ I say quietly, ‘ready to go underground?’

  ‘Try and stop me.’

  It doesn’t take long for me to spot a grille behind a large fir tree. We squeeze past the scratchy branches, until we’re crouching in front of it.

  ‘It looks like it takes one of those big old-fashioned keys,’ says Brianna, pointing to the lock.

  ‘Like this?’ I hold out my key on its silver chain.

  ‘Seriously – you carry a massive key around with you?’

  ‘You have a lot of catching up to do. But, yeah, this key opens secret gates, doors and gratings all over London.’

  ‘Cool,’ she breathes. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ I fit my key in the lock. It opens with the same perfectly oiled motion as most of the other locks. The Gatekeepers certainly know how to maintain their property.

  Together, we swing the grille up and I nod for her to go first down the stone steps. She does, and I follow, closing the grille and checking it locks behind us.

  ‘Creepy,’ she says. Then a light comes on. I can’t work out where it’s coming from.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask, following her down the stairs.

  ‘Just the torch on my mobile.’

  ‘OK …’ I curse myself for not having remembered mobiles have torches: that would have been useful the last time I found myself in the dark.

  ‘How long do these stairs go on for?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve no idea – but not much longer, I’m guessing. We should arrive in a tunnel in a moment or two.’

  Her next words suggest she’s reached the bottom: ‘Wow! Agatha, get down here.’