Murder at the Museum

by Lena Jones

  I shake my head. ‘They’ll just be calling about the fireworks.’

  ‘Of course. Aren’t you going?’ He studies me with concern. ‘I thought you were looking forward to the display.’

  ‘I’m a bit tired today. Thought I’d give it a miss.’

  ‘Is this all about Cornwall?’

  I shake my head.

  He stands for a moment, watching me. Then he says, ‘Well, let them know you’re all right, won’t you? I don’t want them turning up on the doorstep in a panic.’

  ‘I’ll let them know.’

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Brianna’s voicemails all asked you to reply to her texts …?’

  My mobile is in my dressing-gown pocket, and I extract it and turn it on. It beeps with a ridiculous number of notifications, some from Liam and others from Brianna.

  I open the thread from Brianna:

  Seismograph has picked up weird readings! Call me!

  The next message just reads:

  ?????????????

  She then resorts to:

  Earth calling Agatha: are you out there???

  Her final text reads:

  Calling your landline. PICK UP!!

  I should probably call her back, but the mention of the ‘weird readings’ has caused something to start clicking into place. I lift Oliver off my lap and set him gently down beside Dad on the sofa.

  ‘Agatha – what’s going on?’

  Dad sounds concerned, but I just say, ‘Got to work something out.’

  I almost run through to the kitchen. My brain is whirring. I grab a pen and an envelope off the pile of unopened post (I must remind Dad to open some of the bills) and sit down at the table to make a list of possibly unconnected thoughts:

  1. The Waterloo and City line runs every day except Sunday. Today is Sunday.

  2. The Lord Mayor’s Fireworks are also today.

  3. The attendant at the British Museum might have been killed because he discovered the secret tunnel down to the abandoned Tube station.

  4. The abandoned British Museum Tube station is linked by rail to the nearby Bank station, right by the Bank of England.

  5. The British Museum station has a stash of highly explosive chemicals.

  6. The Waterloo and City line starts near the Bank of England and ends south of the river, near the smugglers’ dock that Brianna and I found.

  I sit back as realisation dawns.

  This is the link! Someone is planning a heist. They can use the thermite to blow through the vaults at the Bank of England, and then get away using the Waterloo and City line and the underwater dock. The fireworks must be scheduled to disguise the sound of the explosions. And because it’s a Sunday they can use the Waterloo and City line tunnels because no trains are running.

  I run up to my room – there’s no time to lose. I scroll quickly through Liam’s texts, which are all about the fireworks. I send one text to both him and Brianna:

  Heist alert! Thermite for robbery @ Bank of E! Fireworks to divert attention & drown out explosion! Call police NOW! Am going in!

  I survey my rails of clothes. I’m going to need to dress practically. I pull on dark-blue jeans and a navy hooded sweatshirt. I empty my backpack out on the bed. What do I need, what do I need? Then I stop for a minute, sitting with a thump down on the bed, as I have a heavy realisation: I haven’t got my Guild key. I can’t do anything to foil the plot if I can’t get into the tunnels. Unless …

  Last time, I gained entry to the museum through the tunnels. This time, I can do the opposite, and get down to the tunnels via the horrible hole behind the boiler. I check my watch. The British Museum closes at half five, and it’s already twenty to six. I’m just going to have to go undercover. I grab a standard cleaner’s tabard, in a fairly disgusting purply-brown colour (that’s meant to be called ‘puce’, but which I can’t help thinking of as ‘puke’). I stuff it in my backpack, together with my name badge and head torch.

  There’s no sign of Dad, so I shout, ‘Right, Dad, I’m off.’

  He appears from the living room. ‘Are you going to the fireworks?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say brightly. I don’t add that I’ll be experiencing them from below ground.

  ‘Great. Enjoy yourself. Oh – here you go.’

  He takes out his wallet and extracts a ten-pound note.

  ‘Oh no – I’m fine for cash, thanks, Dad.’ I feel bad enough about the half-lie without taking money from him as well. I peck him on the cheek.

  Outside, there’s a fine drizzle coming down – not ideal fireworks weather, but then again not enough to rain off the whole shebang. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and start to run. Just as I reach the museum, I pull my tabard on, over my hoodie. Then I walk round the building, trying all the doors, in the hope of finding one that opens. The first two don’t yield, but I catch a glimpse of a man in a cleaner’s tunic going in through the next, so I run over and try the door.

  It opens. Inside, a guard at a desk glances up as I enter, but he just gestures for me to sign in to a large bound book. How old-fashioned and quaint! I sign ‘Felicity Lemon’, add the time, and pin on my name badge as I stride away.

  The cleaners are gathered round some lockers, throwing in their bags and shoes and calling out friendly greetings. They go quiet as I appear.

  ‘Hi, guys!’ I say. ‘Just looking for my aunt? Janice (I saw this name in the signing-in book, high enough up the list to have left the locker room by now) – is she about?’

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ The speaker is a large woman, with dark hair tucked neatly up into a headscarf with an African print. She gestures to my tabard.

  I giggle. ‘Oh … Auntie Janice said I could pretend I work here. We’re doing this thing at school where we tail people from different professions. You know, to get a feel for what it’s like to do different jobs.’

  The woman in the headscarf nods. ‘Your auntie’ll have to clear it with Sandra,’ she tells me.

  ‘Is Sandra about?’

  ‘She’s here somewhere. She’s always dashing around, that one!’

  ‘I’ll tell Auntie Janice to clear it with her,’ I say, and I stride from the room.

  I get my bearings quickly, and head straight to the stairs leading down to the old boiler. The hunk of defunct machinery is as I left it – dusty, apart from the area behind it. I rummage in my backpack for my head torch, then I pull up my hood, fit the torch harness over the top, and wriggle through the hole.

  I’m in darkness, lit only by the funnel of light from my torch beam. The unlit areas are shadowy, and this place has got no less creepy since I was last down here. Images of big men with shovels – or, worse, knives – flash through my imagination. Then Poirot appears beside me, friendly and reassuring:

  ‘Eh bien, Agathe – I hope you are not forgetting you are the daughter of Clara, agent extraordinaire?’

  Feeling braver, I plough on through the tunnels, semi-crawling past brick walls, then concrete, until the space opens out at the old Tube station and I can stand up in the tiled corridor.

  I stop for a moment, checking for sounds of other human activity. A large grey rat appears in front of me. It isn’t scared at all: we eyeball one another. At last, probably realising I am neither food nor proffering food, it ambles away, sniffing at the air as it goes. Meanwhile, I’ve conjured up a map of this underground area in my mind’s eye. The Bank of England is only linked from here by rail – by the Waterloo and City line that doesn’t run on Sundays. I’m starting to doubt all my choices. I’ve wasted precious time blagging my way into the museum just to get down here, and I’m still a distance from the Bank of England. What exactly am I planning on doing when I get there, anyway?

  What if Brianna and Liam haven’t picked up my text asking them to call the police?

  I take out my mobile but there’s no signal down here. I will just have to find a way to slow down the robbers when I get there. />
  I begin to run – slowly to start with, then building up a good rhythm.

  I stop after about ten minutes. I’m making quick progress, but my ribs feel like they can’t contain my overstretched lungs and racing heart. I clutch my sides and wait for my breathing to settle. There’s a scorching in my throat and I’m desperate for a drink.

  This is when the first fireworks go off, right above my head. I check my watch in the beam from my head torch: seven o’clock precisely. How did it get so late? At least I must be nearly there, if the display is so close. I begin to jog again, making my way through the last bit of tunnel. And that’s when I hear it: a double report of explosions, above and below ground simultaneously – the fireworks and the thermite going off in perfect sync.

  The attack on the bank vault has begun.

  Ahead, there’s a makeshift tunnel leading off from the official one – just like the previous passage I found with Brianna, the one that had caved in. My sense of direction informs me that this tunnel leads directly beneath the Bank of England. Here is where the robbers will have entered. I don’t want to tackle them alone, but I don’t have anyone with me, and my phone still has no signal.

  Then I remember the pager Wallace Jones gave me. I fish it out and, with nervous, fumbling fingers, key in the numbers from the note: 6662.

  Another firework goes off – in time with another underground explosion – this one extra loud and ominously close. My hunch was definitely right. They are trying to enter the bank vaults.

  Whoever Wallace sends, they will not materialise instantly through a handy portal. I look around for anything else that might help me – and spot a phone, fixed to the wall – clearly designed for emergency use by engineers working on the Tube tracks. I pick up the receiver and am immediately connected to the operator.

  ‘Transport for London emergency services. How can I help you?’ says a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes, hello, there’s a burglary in progress at the Bank of England. You need to send the police.’

  There’s a pause – Argh, there’s no time for pauses! – then she says, ‘Is this a prank call?’

  ‘No. You have to listen to me. I’m going to try to slow them down, but there’s a group of people attempting to rob the Bank of England as we speak. They’re breaking into the underground gold vaults.’

  ‘And you want me to call the police?’

  ‘Yes. Call the police and tell them what I’ve just told you.’ I hang up and sprint through the remaining length of tunnel. Ahead, I can see light where there shouldn’t be any. Is there a floodlight down here? Dust motes choke the air like a strange underground fog: presumably rubble dust, from the two explosions. I slow my running to a jog as I get nearer.

  I’m squinting from the darkness into the light, trying to make out details as I move cautiously towards it, when someone grabs me from behind. I’m thrown against the rough wall of the makeshift tunnel with such force that I’m winded and momentarily defenceless.

  I rally with a kick to the shin, and my assailant cries out in pain. I step away from the wall and focus on remaining loose – something that Mr Zhang keeps trying (and failing) to teach me. I guess I’m just a naturally tense person. As the man – it is a man, and he is tall and solid as a wall, not my first choice of sparring partner – reaches to grab me, I don’t resist; instead, I let him take my arm but I continue moving it in the same direction, so that he is set off balance by the continued arc of my limb through the air. I nearly cheer as, with my next move, I take advantage of him being wrong-footed and send him flailing to the ground. Mr Zhang would be so proud! But where did this man come from? Is he a lookout, placed here by the bank robbers?

  I don’t wait for my attacker to get up – I’m racing through the newly dug tunnel into the thick fog. I squint and make out ahead the outline of a rope ladder, leading still further below ground. I grab it and descend. My head torch emits a wavering light as I go down, but I can see that the area below me has been lit by battery-powered lamps. I don’t know whether I’m racing away from one attacker towards a room full of them, but I have to take the chance. Down and down I climb, and I have an image of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. There must be a bottom to this pit somewhere …

  I arrive, at last, at the bottom and jump to the ground. I’m pretty sure the ladder is already twitching with the weight of another human coming down it. I glance up the ladder, but without a large knife – I think with longing of the broadsword that Mr Zhang lets me use for training – I can’t think of any way to damage the ladder, to make it harder for my pursuer to get down.

  Instead, I glance around. I’m deep underground. The light, though, is almost blinding, and I have to squint to make out where I am. Then I take in the astonishing view: I’m in an enormous room, furnished entirely with blue metal shelving. Each set of shelves has four tiers – and each tier is stacked with gold ingots. The room is basically filled with gold. In contrast with the value of the room’s contents, there’s only bare wooden flooring and strip lighting. I have a moment’s flashback to the sugar maze – but no madman has created this place. I’m deep in the vaults of the Bank of England, and the shimmering piles, bouncing the light around the room, are gold bullion.

  ‘Hey!’

  A figure moves towards me, then two more. There’s something familiar about them – the way they carry themselves and the authority they give off, like senior civil servants.

  I back away – and straight into the welcoming arms of my assailant, who’s just made it down the ladder.

  ‘Got you.’ He’s right: he has me held so tightly I can’t move any part of my body. I try to squirm and wriggle, but there’s no chance to free myself. I go limp, hoping to take him off-guard, but he just tightens his grip and yanks me back to a standing position. His body is like a brick wall behind me. He lifts me and carries me to one side, away from the rope ladder, my only escape route. Only now does the seriousness of my situation hit me. I’m deep underground, where no one is likely to rescue me. I’m not even sure the Transport for London phone operator I spoke to believed me enough to alert the police. If Liam and Brianna picked up my text, they may already have dialled 999. I hope so. But is there any chance help will arrive soon enough?

  My breathing is coming fast and noisy as my thoughts whirl with possible scenarios of what could happen to me: being abandoned deep in the bank vaults where I might never be found – or only discovered when it’s too late; being tied up by my captor and dumped on a Tube track; or …

  Enough! I tell myself. Mr Zhang didn’t train you to lose the plot the minute things got scary. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, focusing on emptying my mind – which is much trickier than it sounds. Then, with a clearer head, I open my eyes and ask, ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you cooperate. And on what he says.’

  I look around, but can only see the team of robbers filling trolleys with stacks of gold ingots. They are methodical, each one knowing his or her role. Once a trolley’s full, it’s wheeled to the base of the ladder, and hauled up using a rope and pulley system that seems to have appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. The empty trolley is then lowered for refilling.

  And then a voice speaks, from among the stacks of gold. ‘Really, Byron – it took you two attempts to restrain her? She’s a thirteen-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake. How on earth did she get away the first time?’

  That voice – I know it. I close my eyes and pull up my identification files, running through the categories, knowing I’ll get there if I can pin down his appearance:

  I hear heavy, confident footsteps and my eyes flick open. I know who I’m dealing with. But I don’t want to believe it.

  And then an all-too-familiar figure comes into view.

  ‘Mr Jones!’ I exclaim. My mind rebels at the possibility he could be a traitor. I run through everything I’ve observed about Wallace Jones, and this just ca
n’t be really happening.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Agatha. Thank you so much for the “heads-up”, as I believe you youngsters call it.’

  When I stare blankly at him, he fills in the gap. ‘The pager alert you so kindly sent.’

  I groan. The pager was why I encountered Byron in the tunnel – the gadget’s tracker told Wallace Jones my precise location, and he was able to send his heavy to intercept me. Any remaining hope that Mr Jones is going to save me and foil the plot seeps from me. I feel fury rise up in my chest and throat – at myself, for my carelessness, and at Wallace Jones, for his betrayal.

  ‘This can’t be true,’ I shout. ‘You’re a Gatekeeper. You’re supposed to risk your life to protect the country. But you’re just … a traitor!’ Byron tightens his grip on my arms and I yelp in pain.

  Wallace Jones smiles a sweet, confiding smile. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to live on a Gatekeeper’s salary, my dear? If the Guild valued us long-servers sufficiently, there would be no need to resort to such tactics. I mean, you didn’t think I chose to keep working to such a ripe old age, did you? This is my pension.’ His eyes harden; I haven’t seen his face so … mean before. His gaze switches to Byron. ‘Right. Tie the girl up and bring her with us – we can’t risk her being found down here. She’ll give the whole game away.’

  I attempt to struggle as Byron loosens his grip just enough to draw a length of rope from his pocket and tie my hands together. Another, longer rope is looped round my legs and drawn tight. For the second time in two days, I find myself thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of flour. I only realise how sore I am from the last time when the same bruises are bumped again.

  We arrive back at the rope ladder, and I can’t imagine how Byron will get up the rungs with me over his shoulder. Wallace Jones goes first, and I’m curious to see how he manages. I can’t imagine him doing anything so undignified as climbing a rope ladder. But I nearly laugh out loud when he climbs into an empty trolley and is hauled up by his men working the pulley system at the top. We can hear their grunts of effort all the way down the shaft. Surely Wallace Jones can’t weigh as much as a trolley-load of gold?