Murder at the Museum

by Lena Jones

  I realise my clothes are the only thing I have. It takes my weary arms a ridiculous length of time to remove my sweatshirt, which is stuck to my body as if it has suction cups. At last, I succeed. But I can hear the engine of the sub starting up – time is running out.

  With one last push, I dive to the back of the submarine. The propeller is already turning, and I’m terrified of getting my hand or even my whole arm mangled in the blades. But the sub may be leaving at any moment – and I can’t let Wallace Jones get away.

  Gingerly, I begin to poke one sleeve of my sweatshirt towards the propeller; it snags, and there’s a guttural sound, as if the propeller is choking. Then the entire garment is yanked from my grasp as it gets wound round the blades, and I have to let go quickly, to avoid being dragged into the spinning trap myself.

  I smile briefly at the success of my plan. With one last push, I make it back to the surface. I’m so cold and tired I can’t feel my limbs. My body is a weightless empty vessel and I’m floating. There are lights bobbing about prettily around the dock – fireflies? Nothing makes sense any more. And then everything goes dark.

  It feels like I have an eel down my throat that is being hauled out. I’m gagging, choking, vomiting … And all the while, someone is stroking my back and saying, ‘That’s right – get it all out.’

  At last, the gagging stops. I lie on my side, gasping. My throat is stinging, and everything aches. And I’m cold – so very, very cold. My teeth won’t stop chattering and my whole body is clenching, locking up with cold.

  Someone shouts, ‘Can we have some blankets over here?’ A moment later, I’m being wrapped up like a child after a hot bath, and carried – oh, the bliss of being carried …

  I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  Bright lights – too bright. And white everywhere – white walls, white furniture … And that smell – illness and disinfectant … Hospital. I feel a strong sense of déjà vu.

  ‘She’s awake!’ Liam’s voice is calling to someone, who looms into view.

  ‘Dad!’ My voice is croaky and my throat’s raw.

  Dad sits on a chair beside my bed and takes my hand. ‘You’ve got to stop scaring me like this.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You should be. Dashing after crooks and villains without any thought for your poor old dad.’

  ‘I did think of you,’ I croak. ‘I thought about how you’d never know what happened to me if I died.’ I smile.

  ‘Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting for you to wake up?’ asks Liam.

  I frown. Have I been asleep for more than a couple of hours?

  ‘Eighteen hours,’ he says.

  The shock must show in my face, because he laughs. ‘Yep – a lot’s been happening while you were sleeping like a fairy-tale princess.’ I pull a face at him, and he laughs again.

  ‘So,’ he continues, ‘do you want to know what happened, after you conked out?’ He walks closer, so I can see him.

  Dad holds up a hand. ‘She’s just woken up, Liam. Let’s get Agatha checked over before you start overwhelming her with information.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a nurse,’ says Liam. While he’s gone, Dad holds my hand and smiles down at me. I close my eyes for a moment or two. I feel so safe and warm that I nearly drift off to sleep again, but a nurse’s voice snaps me back to the present.

  ‘I hear our patient’s awake. Let’s have a look at you.’ She picks up my wrist to check my pulse but first she peers into my face with a kind expression. ‘I’ve been wondering what colour eyes you have. Lovely deep blue, aren’t they?’

  I smile. Shade 2B on my eye-colour chart.

  She takes my blood pressure and nods in approval. ‘You’ve come out of this pretty well, young lady. No more dips in underground waterways for you, though.’

  I laugh, but it hurts my throat and I wince.

  ‘Yes – I understand you vomited up quite a lot of water. You’ll be sore for a while,’ she tells me. She makes some notes on a handheld electronic device, then turns to Dad. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, and walks out, shutting the door behind her.

  Liam comes straight back in and Dad gestures for him to perch on the edge of my bed, which he does.

  ‘So you don’t even know how it ended,’ he bursts out. ‘They caught them all! Even that traitor Jones – and all thirteen of his co-conspirators.’

  Relief fills my lungs. I hadn’t realised how tense I’d been, waiting to have this confirmed.

  ‘It was so lucky that the submarine broke down like that,’ says Liam.

  I shake my head. ‘Sweatshirt,’ I tell him.

  ‘Sweatshirt?’ He frowns in bemusement.

  ‘In the propeller.’

  His eyes grow wide. ‘That was such a clever idea! I’d never have thought of that!’

  I feel a blush rise to my cheeks.

  ‘Don’t encourage her,’ says Dad. ‘It was foolhardy and reckless.’

  ‘True,’ says Liam. ‘Really clever, though.’ He looks me over, assessing my fragile state. ‘Are you up to hearing the rest of the story?’

  I hesitate. The little bit of energy I had when I woke up has already drained away, and I feel exhausted. My arms and legs are like lead and it feels as if my brain’s full of cotton wool – all fuzz and no substance. I nearly tell him I have to sleep. I have an image of that dark, deep water – of what it felt like to be suspended above it by Wallace Jones, knowing he didn’t care what happened to me. I shiver.

  ‘Are you cold, love?’ asks Dad, tucking the hospital blanket more closely round me.

  I shake my head. ‘No …’ I fix my eyes on Liam. ‘Tell me what happened,’ I say hoarsely.

  ‘OK …’ He hitches himself up a bit more on the end of my bed. ‘So after you messaged me and Brianna, we tried to get back in touch with you, but we couldn’t reach you, so we called the professor. Luckily, she guessed you’d be at the underground dock. That place is amazing!’ He looks a bit shame-faced. ‘Me and Brianna weren’t actually meant to go there – but we couldn’t stay away knowing you might be in danger. We got through by going down to the Waterloo and City line at Bank station and then finding the newly dug tunnels. We did have to wait for the Guild to turn up, so we could get into the dock. They were all a bit distracted, so we just followed them and they didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘The Guild …?’ says Dad.

  ‘Oh … I mean the professor,’ says Liam quickly.

  Dad frowns. ‘So that officer from the Metropolitan Police who came round to the cottage to thank you, after the whole incident with the water pollution …?’

  ‘She’s in a guild of senior police detectives,’ says Liam quickly. I’m pleased with this response, which Dad seems to accept. ‘So, anyway,’ Liam continues, ‘they found you and dragged you out – it was Brianna who spotted you with these amazing torches she’d brought with her.’

  ‘The fireflies,’ I tell them.

  ‘Right …’ says Liam, nodding like he’s humouring a dangerous lunatic. ‘Anyway, while you were being dragged out, that Wallace Jones guy and the rest of the gang were being encircled and arrested. Only one of them – a huge bloke, bodyguard-type – tried to resist.’

  Byron, I decide. ‘Did he get away?’

  ‘The big guy?’ he asks. I nod. ‘No. He was caught by two officers and well and truly restrained.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say.

  Liam’s eyes are sparkling – he clearly feels he’s had a great adventure.

  ‘Sorry you missed the fireworks,’ I croak, and Liam laughs.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – this was way more exciting.’ He catches Dad’s eye and turns pale. ‘I don’t mean … I don’t … I just … Well, I’m glad you’re OK, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ murmurs Dad sarcastically.

  ‘Er … well … I’ll leave you to it,’ says Liam.

  I wave goodbye and sit in silence with my dad, relishing the feeling of being clean, dry and safe, with his big, warm han
d holding mine.

  After a few minutes, he clears his throat. ‘Listen, love, about Cornwall …’

  I take a deep breath and force myself to say, ‘You did really well to get that job. You deserve it – you work so hard.’

  He squeezes my hand. ‘Thank you for that – I know how much it cost you. Anyway, I turned it down.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘It was going to be such an upheaval,’ he continues. ‘I like it here – don’t you?’

  I nod. My eyes well up with relief, but he pretends not to notice.

  ‘Good,’ he says, nodding. ‘Well, that works out for both of us then.’

  ‘Dad …?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Will you regret it?’ The words come out as a rasp from my sore, raw throat.

  ‘What? Not taking the job? I did think long and hard about it. There’ll be other opportunities, but now is not the right time for us to be moving and having to start all over again somewhere else. We both have too many friends here. And I love the park. And Groundskeeper’s Cottage.’

  ‘Me too,’ I croak. The stone in my belly is shrinking. It’s a pebble – no, a tiny piece of gravel – no, a grain of sand, a speck of dust … Now it’s dwindled to nothing. I find myself beaming at him.

  I’ve had all week off school to recover from my near-drowning incident. I open the front door on Saturday morning to find an old friend on the doorstep.

  ‘Surprise!’

  I haven’t seen JP since he stopped living in the park. He’s been way too busy with his new job.

  ‘JP!’ I give him a big hug, then take a step back to admire his new look – he no longer looks like a rough sleeper, but is dressed smart-casual, in a V-neck navy sweater over a light-blue shirt, with navy chinos. ‘You look good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’m earning money again – it’s been a revelation.’

  ‘Come in!’ I say, stepping back to let him into the house.

  ‘JP – great to see you.’ Dad has been waiting in the hallway to greet him, and they shake hands.

  ‘You too, Rufus.’

  They stand about, smiling stupidly at each other, until I say, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re grown men – you can give each other a hug without being so childish about it.’

  They laugh and do as I suggest.

  We’re still standing in the hall when there’s another knock at the door. I glance at Dad. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just open it,’ he says, with a smile.

  This time, Professor Dorothy D’Oliveira is on the doorstep, neatly dressed in a lightweight pink coat and matching hat and shoes.

  ‘Hello, Agatha. May I come in?’ she asks.

  ‘Sure …’ I say. She isn’t frowning, so she can’t be about to find some new way of firing me.

  She, Dad and Rufus greet one another politely, then Dad takes their coats, hangs these on the coat hooks on the wall, and shows our guests through to the living room. It’s all surprisingly formal. I’m just going in to join them when there’s a third knock at the door.

  ‘Can you get that, Aggie?’ says Dad.

  ‘OK …’ This is getting distinctly weird. This time, Liam and Brianna are on the doorstep.

  ‘I brought a cake,’ says Liam, holding up a white cardboard box. It has no logo on it, so I can’t tell which shop it’s from. I let them in and, while they’re slinging their coats over the bannisters, I ask, ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Your birthday, dummy!’ says Brianna, with a laugh. She takes in my gobsmacked expression. ‘You didn’t forget your own birthday, did you?’

  ‘I guess I just lost track of the date.’ I do some calculations. ‘Hold on – it’s on Monday. Isn’t today Saturday?’

  ‘We thought we’d do it today – much more fun than on your first day back at school,’ says Liam.

  Brianna is shaking her head at me in wonder. ‘Agatha Oddlow, you’re the only girl I know who can forget her own birthday.’

  I pull a face. ‘Hey! I’m older than you, you know.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, by a whole five weeks.’

  ‘Five and a half,’ I correct her. ‘Let’s see this cake then.’

  ‘All in good time,’ says Liam, mysteriously. ‘Is anyone else here?’

  ‘JP and Professor D’Oliveira.’

  They seem to be expecting this. I lead them through to the living room, where we file in and take seats between the adults, who are talking about Wallace Jones.

  ‘So he really isn’t going to get charged?’ Dad is asking.

  The professor shakes her head. ‘It certainly looks that way. Do you know what really gets my goat?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Dad.

  ‘I trusted that man.’

  ‘Oh, so you knew him?’

  She nods. ‘Only through my work on the police force. He was part of national security, so we had to work together from time to time, running protection for high-profile events.’ She shakes her head. ‘Because of him, I’ve found myself questioning my own instincts. I thought I was a better judge of character.’

  ‘But he believed he was right about everything,’ I point out.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  I’ve spent all week thinking about this. I was as shaken as the professor to find I’d liked and trusted a traitor. ‘He didn’t give off evil vibes, because he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. He had basically convinced himself that he deserved everything he tried to steal.’ I get into my stride. ‘I mean, normally people are aware when they’re doing something wrong – but someone like Jones, who saw everything only from his own point of view, believed he was always right. You’d never guess he was anything other than genuine, because he’d never seem unsure or guilty – he’d never do anything to make you suspicious of him.’

  The professor considers this. ‘Something like a narcissistic personality disorder? You may be right there. But I will still be more cautious from now on – the fact someone like that could fool everyone …’ She sighs. ‘But we are not here to waste our breath on such a man.’

  ‘No – we’re here to celebrate Agatha!’ shouts Liam, making everyone jump. ‘Sorry – got a big carried away there,’ he says, with a blush. ‘Where should I put this?’ He holds up the cake box, which he’s been cradling on his lap, and Dad escorts him and the cake through to the kitchen.

  The rest of us sit in silence, until JP says, ‘Oh – I brought you this!’ He produces a small package from his pocket. It’s wrapped in gold and tied with a purple ribbon and is a beautiful thing in its own right. He hands it to me.

  ‘Ooh, a present!’ I clap my hands like a toddler. I can’t help it – I love getting gifts. ‘Shall I wait for the others or …?’

  ‘Open it now,’ says JP, clearly almost as eager as I am.

  I untie the ribbon and ease my finger under the sticky tape on the wrapping paper, careful not to tear it. Inside, there is a small box. I lift the lid and gasp at its contents: a silver locket, in the shape of a book, engraved with my initials. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

  ‘Open it,’ he tells me.

  I ease open the hinged door of the locket, and inside find a photo of my mum. It’s a miniature version of the photo I keep by my bed, the one of her and her bike. I look at him. ‘This is my favourite photo of Mum! Where did you get it?’

  ‘Your dad gave me a copy.’

  ‘It’s beautiful – I love it. Thank you so much.’ I jump up and give him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Me next,’ says Brianna, but just then Liam sticks his head round the door, sees what we’re doing, and disappears again.

  ‘They are!’ we hear him shout. ‘They’re opening the presents.’

  ‘Well, tell them not to!’ comes Dad’s voice. ‘I want to be there.’

  Liam pushes the door open again.

  ‘It’s OK, we heard,’ I tell him. ‘I only opened one, in any case.’

  He vanishes again, and a moment later a hand comes r
ound the door to turn off the living-room light. Then Dad and Liam enter the room; Liam is carrying the cake, which is twinkling with candles. Everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’, and I blow out my candles. When the lights come back on, I take in the wonder of the cake. Like my new locket, it’s in the shape of a book. I read the title on the cover and, underneath it, the name of the author.

  Murder at the Museum

  Felicity Lemon

  ‘Do you like it?’ Liam whispers in my ear. (How did he get there? I didn’t see him come over.)

  ‘I love it,’ I tell him.

  We eat the cake – a delicious Victoria sponge, stuffed with jam and cream – and then I open my remaining presents.

  Dad has bought me a knee-length wool coat, with a full skirt and a wide belt. It’s almost exactly the same shade of red as my favourite beret.

  ‘But … how did you …?’

  ‘I had a little help,’ he tells me, smiling at Brianna. I mouth my thanks across the room.

  ‘And this is from me,’ Brianna says, handing me a plastic bag. ‘Sorry – I didn’t get time to wrap it.’

  It’s a chemistry set, complete with a mini Bunsen burner. I hate chemistry lessons, as she knows – but she also knows that doing my own experiments is an entirely different experience from following the teacher’s instructions.

  ‘Fantastic – thanks!’ I say.

  Dad groans. ‘Really? Are you trying to encourage her to burn down the house, Brianna?’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she uses it safely.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Dad doubtfully.

  ‘This is from me,’ says the professor, drawing a slim, rectangular parcel from her handbag and handing it to me. I tear off the paper. Inside is a DVD of the film Alice in Wonderland. I already own this, but I don’t want to be rude.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she replies. Then she lowers her voice, ‘Watch it when you’re alone.’