Murder at the Museum

by Lena Jones

  Now for us. Byron unties my feet and hands, and gestures for me to climb the ladder ahead of him. He holds a knife and makes it clear what he’ll do with it if I try to get away. He doesn’t need to use words to make his intention clear.

  I know I should be terrified – and my legs do feel wobbly as I climb the long ladder – but, thanks to that moment’s meditation a few minutes earlier, a strange calmness has settled in my mind. It’s as if everything has led up to this moment. I’m thankful for the martial arts lessons with Mr Zhang, which have got me to peak fitness, because I arrive at the top barely out of breath.

  I’m also, however, only just ahead of Byron. I step to one side and gauge my chances of escape. If he’s only got the knife, it might be worth running – but what if he has a gun? Mr Zhang hasn’t taught me any moves for dodging bullets.

  I decide it’s not worth the risk. Byron reaches me and swiftly reties my limbs and throws me back over his shoulder. As he strides through the newly blasted tunnel, I crane my neck, trying to spot anything that might help me get away. But there is only dust and rubble.

  After a bumpy walk across stones and concrete, we arrive at Bank station. There’s a Waterloo and City line train waiting, carriage doors open and engine rumbling. We have to wait on the platform while the trolley-loads of bullion are spread across several carriages. Byron sets me on my feet, but my wrists and ankles are still tied, so I’m like a convict in shackles. The ropes are cutting into my skin, and I want to ask Byron to loosen them, but I’m not sure what his temper is like, and I’m nervous of angering a man of his stature.

  To distract myself, I take the opportunity to count the conspirators: twelve men and women, plus Byron and Jones. None of them have bothered to cover their faces, which worries me. They weren’t expecting any witnesses – now they have one. What will they do with me, the only witness, after this? If I do survive, I’ll need to be able to identify them, so I decide to take advantage of their lack of disguise to study them.

  – I observe each person in turn, and store their details in my identification files. There are two men who look so alike they must be twins: both short, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s an old, white-haired man, so bent and wizened that I’m astonished he’s part of the gang. But he heaves the stacks of gold ingots like a much younger man, hardly pausing for breath. There’s a thin, pale woman with waist-length red hair – like in the Pre-Raphaelite paintings my mum took me to see when I was little. The remaining eight members of the crew are less distinguishable. I make a mental note of any features that might help – glasses, freckles, a beauty spot or a bald patch – but they all look just like ordinary people you might see in the street. What has brought them together? I notice again the way they hold themselves, as if they’re important in some way. Could they also be Gatekeepers?

  Despite the gravity of their task, there’s an atmosphere of excitement. They swear and shout instructions, but, in between, they laugh and joke, clearly relieved at the success of their heist.

  At last, all the gold has been loaded on to the train, and the twelve crew members have taken their seats on board. Byron picks me up, and he and Wallace Jones step into the first carriage, among the stacks of bullion. I’m dumped unceremoniously on to a double seat, and my head bangs against the side of the carriage.

  ‘Careful, Byron – she might as well enjoy the ride. It’s going to be her last,’ says Jones. His voice holds no trace of either sympathy or compassion, nor any of the gentleness he’d shown when I first met him.

  Sociopath, I decide. The bad thing about sociopaths is that in extreme cases they don’t value the life of anyone but themselves, and I’ve already decided that Wallace Jones is an extreme case. The good thing about sociopaths is that they tend to be quite vain. Maybe I can use this to my advantage.

  Jones sits opposite me and peers out of the window as the train pulls out of the station.

  ‘So, this is a very complex plot,’ I say.

  He looks very pleased with himself. ‘Yes; it was all my own idea. Clever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very. So … who are the others?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘My team? Oh … others who’ve been let down.’

  ‘By the Gatekeepers’ Guild?’ I ask him. ‘How on earth did you manage to convince them all to go along with your plan?’

  He beams and leans eagerly towards me. ‘I am quite good at persuading people to do things. I have the gift of the gab, I suppose.’

  I push on with my questioning. ‘Tell me – how did you get the date of the fireworks moved from November to cover the heist? And to a Sunday too?’

  ‘Ahh.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Friends in high places, don’t you know.’

  ‘What … like … the Lord Mayor?’

  He shakes his head, smiling, as if he’s indulging a naughty child. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  I decide to change tack, to appeal to his love of talking. Anything to establish any kind of bond, to delay him from having me killed.

  ‘Can you tell me about my mum?’

  He turns surprised eyes on me. ‘Clara? What do you want to know?’

  I shrug. ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘She was one of a kind, your mother. Surprisingly tough for such a delicate-looking creature – and so quick-witted!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She could solve any puzzle, any code, put before her. She was faster than our most experienced codebreakers. They hated her!’ He laughs. ‘They had a name for her, er, what was it …?’

  He goes into a reverie, and I have to prompt him: ‘The nickname?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was “Wise Cracker” – you know, a pun on how she cracked codes, but also how she thought she knew everything.’

  ‘Did you think she was like that?’

  He looks surprised again. ‘Not at all. She was the most modest woman I’ve known. If anything, she underestimated her gifts. In fact, I blame her modesty for her demise …’ He catches my eye and tails off abruptly.

  I feel as if someone’s clutched my heart in a cold fist. ‘You know how she died? Tell me!’

  He glances at Byron, who’s standing in the aisle, like an ominous shadow looming over me. ‘Are you sure she’s tied up correctly? The ropes look a bit loose.’

  Byron leans over and tugs on my bindings. I grit my teeth as I feel them dig still further into my flesh.

  ‘They’re sound,’ he says. ‘I know my knots.’

  ‘I’m sure you do; I’m sure you do,’ says Jones, absent-mindedly. ‘We must be nearly there by now.’

  I don’t want us to be ‘nearly there’. I don’t want to arrive at the next leg of our journey, and discover what their plans are for me. I don’t want to be disposed of, or abandoned in a dark pit from which there’s no escape. And I don’t want to miss an opportunity to find out what really happened to Mum.

  ‘Tell me!’ I cry out. ‘What happened to my mother?’

  It’s my last chance. The train begins to slow and my heart, in contrast, begins to race. Normally, I would have loved a train ride on a privately chartered train. I would have enjoyed the movement and the blur through the window, and I would have felt privileged. Today, though, the train’s emptiness only reminds me how isolated I am. I give way to this feeling again for a moment, remembering anew that nobody knows where I am.

  My mobile …! Is there any chance I can get a signal? And how can I reach my phone, with my hands tied? I glance at my feet and realise with a pang my backpack’s been left behind. So that’s it then. I can only hope Wallace Jones doesn’t really care about killing me – if I’m lucky, he’ll opt instead for just keeping me tied up, until he and the others have got away.

  I recommence my questions. ‘I haven’t asked you why you had to move the fireworks from November to September,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t you have waited and carried out the robbery when the fireworks are normally held?’

  His watery eyes wander back to focus on me. ‘Oh, th
e financial savings laws are changing,’ he says vaguely. ‘I need to get the gold offshore before the new regulations came in.’

  ‘So … you’re breaking the law, to make sure you don’t break the law?’

  Wallace Jones turns an alarming shade of red, and I instantly regret provoking him. At Mr Zhang’s I haven’t got to the bit about defending myself when my hands and legs are tied. If I survive this experience, I’ll definitely request it. Along with any bullet-dodging moves. Maybe he can give me some superhero powers while he’s at it too.

  Jones’s spittle hits my face as he protests angrily. ‘I wouldn’t have to break the law if those in power at the Gatekeepers’ Guild weren’t so keen to keep the rest of us in poverty.’

  I glance at his clothing. It’s impossible to attend a school full of rich students and not learn how to spot expensive clothes. He’s wearing at least a thousand pounds’ worth of suit – and I reckon his shoes cost a good five hundred. This is not a man who is living below the poverty line. I think of Dad, with his ancient, ugly, scratchy suit, and how he never complains about having so little money to spend on himself. I can’t stop a tear from running down my face, as I realise that, if I go missing, Dad might soon have more money to spend on himself. He also might never find out what happened to his only child.

  We arrive at the British Museum station, where the gold is loaded into crates on the back of a truck, and driven towards the secret dock. I watch the stacks of ingots leave the train, and with each one I feel my chances of survival dwindle. Wallace Jones steps down and Byron slings me back over his shoulder and jogs off the train and towards the dock, passing Jones on the way.

  ‘All right, Byron, let’s not show off, shall we?’ calls Jones, mildly. ‘You may have the brawn, but I definitely have the brain.’

  Byron just grunts in response, and I get the impression he isn’t that keen on his boss. If I had more time, I might be able to turn him – but we’re about to enter the dock, so time’s running out fast.

  ‘Mr Byron,’ I try. He grunts, which I decide to take as encouragement. ‘He doesn’t treat you with much respect, does he? Mr Jones, I mean.’ Another grunt. ‘Why don’t you take over? The gold’s already been stolen; the plan’s all gone well …’ No answer. ‘I mean, Mr Jones might have been useful for his contacts, but do you really still need him?’

  ‘And do you ever shut up?’ he says eventually.

  ‘Not very often,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, try it now, and I might let you live a little longer.’

  I decide to take his advice.

  At the dock, with the entry doors closed behind us and two Gatekeepers posted as guards, Byron unties me again. I rub my sore wrists where the rope has dug in.

  ‘Just don’t try anything,’ he says.

  We stand as a group beside the truck filled with gold and wait. Jones is having some kind of discussion on a walkie-talkie. After a couple of minutes, the water in front of us surges upwards and a white submarine emerges. Despite my dire circumstances, I can’t help feeling a thrill of excitement at seeing it rise from the water. How many people can say they’ve watched a submarine come to the surface? It looks a lot like a small private plane, except that it hasn’t got any wings. It has a tall piece on top near the back, that sticks up like a fin. Not quite Thunderbird 4, but still pretty exciting.

  ‘What do you think of our transport, Miss Oddlow?’ says Jones. He looks, if possible, even prouder of himself than he did earlier.

  I hesitate. Flattery hasn’t got me released, so I decide to try confrontation. ‘It’s a bit rusty,’ I say, pointing to a brown patch on the submarine’s side. ‘Are you sure it’s watertight?’

  He frowns at me. ‘Why is she untied?’ he asks Byron.

  Byron shrugs. ‘Didn’t seem much point keeping her tied up in here – there’s nowhere for her to go.’

  ‘Well, tie her back up, will you?’

  Byron shrugs again and starts to pull a rope from his pocket. I’m keeping one eye on him as I watch the truck advance towards the submarine. Its driver is the red-haired woman; her hair is like a beacon down here, where everything else is grey or black. The claws of a crane on the back of the truck seize the first crate and start hoisting it upwards.

  I have an idea which might slow things down, at least. As Byron takes a step towards me, I sprint round him, reaching the crane just as it starts to swing into position ready to lower the crate of gold. A man has climbed out of the submarine and has his arms outstretched, waiting to receive the delivery. In one smooth move, amid the startled cries from those around me, I jump up to where the truck driver sits, reach in front of her, and pull the lever that will release the gold. The crate tumbles from the crane’s claws, hits the top of the submarine and lurches off into the water, drenching everyone standing close by.

  Wallace Jones is one of the bystanders who gets soaked. He lets out a roar of anger at seeing his gold hit the water. His hair is dripping, and he pushes it impatiently back from his face.

  ‘Can you reach any of it?’ he yells, looking down from the side of the dock and waving his arms around in distress. He reminds me of a spoilt little boy watching his favourite toy boat take in water and sink in a pond.

  The man on the submarine vanishes back down inside and reappears with a diver’s suit. He steps into the suit and pulls it on. Within seconds, he’s fitted his breathing apparatus and has dived into the water to hunt for the fallen gold.

  Wallace Jones turns to me with the same red-faced fury I caught a glimpse of on the underground train. I know I’m in trouble now – but I’ve created the distraction I wanted. He advances towards me and I’m suddenly aware of how big he is. When I met him at the Gatekeepers’ Guild headquarters, he was like a large, welcoming uncle. Now he is a looming threat.

  I’m amazed when Byron steps between us.

  ‘Leave her,’ he says quietly.

  ‘This is your fault, Byron. If you’d tied her up, as I asked, she wouldn’t have managed to release that crate into the water. You’ll pay for this out of your cut.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone.’ says his henchman, calmly.

  ‘Don’t forget this was entirely my plan. You are worth nothing without me,’ sneers Jones.

  The crane is moving again, and I get ready for another sabotage attack. But Jones spots me.

  ‘You don’t really think you can pull off the same trick twice, do you? Haven’t you heard the expression, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”?’

  ‘How about, “Rob the Bank of England, shame on you”? Have you heard that one?’ I ask him.

  He goes – if possible – even redder. His colour is actually deepening to something close to purple. I wonder if he might be about to pass out. At least that would buy me more time to escape.

  No such luck. Instead, Wallace Jones walks towards me and picks me up by the hood of my sweatshirt. I barely have time to process the realisation that he is far stronger than I’d imagined, as I’m suddenly suspended over the dark water. He holds me at arm’s length, so I can’t use any moves to defend myself.

  ‘Not so talkative now, are we, Agatha Oddlow? Your mother wasn’t half as annoying.’

  I play for time. ‘So do you know how she died?’

  He laughs. ‘Is that really what you want to talk about right now? I’d focus on your own life, if I were you. Doesn’t look like it’s going to last much longer.’

  I stare down into the water. I can’t see anything below the dark surface. How cold will it be? Too cold for the human body to survive the shock, no doubt.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say.

  ‘“Please don’t,”’ he mimics, in a high-pitched voice. ‘You regret your actions now, eh?’

  ‘I don’t regret anything,’ I say fiercely – and rather recklessly.

  ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he says.

  And then he drops me.

  The water feels freezing, even after the coolness of the cave. I know it’s i
mportant to float for a moment until I catch my breath, to avoid cold-water shock, but first I have to get out of sight of the people on land. I need them to believe I’ve drowned, so they don’t come looking for me. I manage to swim round to the far side of the submarine, where I can’t be seen. I lie on my back and open my arms and legs, like a starfish. From here, I can see the back of the man who’s receiving the gold from the crane. It looks like he has other people inside the sub, helping him to receive the gold.

  My teeth are chattering, but I know I have a greater chance of surviving here in the cold (but thankfully not too cold) water than I do on land in the company of Wallace Jones. I don’t think Byron would have killed me, whatever Jones’s instructions, but now I don’t have to put that hunch to the test.

  I can hear Jones’s booming voice, even from here: ‘Is she dead? Can anyone see her?’

  Byron answers, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

  ‘Come on, everyone!’ shouts Jones. ‘That’s the brat done with – just get on with your jobs, for heaven’s sake! What are you waiting for? The police to arrive?’

  I’ve done it – they think I’m dead. My breathing slows, both with relief and with my body adapting to the water temperature. Now I need to act fast. I only have until all the gold is on board to stop the robbers from leaving.

  I take a deep breath and dive beneath the submarine. It’s pitch black, and I have to feel my way round the underside of its hull. What can I do down here, to delay them, with no weapons? I swim back to the surface and close my eyes so I can Change Channel. I summon up a mental photograph of a diagram I once saw of a submarine. There are valves to let air in and out, to help the machine to descend and ascend, plus a rudder, and a propeller—

  The propellers – that’s it! I have a sudden flashback of Alesky, the taxi driver on Sloane Street, removing the plastic bin liner from the wheel of his cab. I need to jam the propeller, which should be at the back of the vessel. But I’m treading water, without a single tool to hand. What on earth can I use?