The Secret Key

by Lena Jones

  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.

  Darkness.

  There is a tiny light, far off and I move towards it, but moving hurts. I’m not sure what is hurting – I don’t have a body yet. Slowly the light grows, white in the darkness. I remember my body – legs and torso, arms and head. Ah yes, my head – that’s where it hurts. I must have fallen. I can hear voices. Where is the man who attacked me?

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Mum, is she going to die?’

  ‘Has anybody called an ambulance?’

  I lie there, breathing deeply for a while, wishing for silence so that I can think straight. Another voice, gentle but firm, cuts through the rest.

  ‘Excuse me, please. I’m a doctor.’

  Then something soft is placed under my head. The white light fades and turns into a face – the face of a man.

  ‘Hello. Are you all right?’

  ‘Mmf,’ I say.

  ‘Let me help you up.’

  The man takes my arm gently and helps me into a sitting position against the wall. The crowd moves away. As my vision clears, I look at the man who is crouching to help me. His hair is white, though he can’t be much older than Dad. He has high cheekbones and very pale blue eyes. One hand grips a black malacca cane. His suit is white linen, with a silver watch chain between waistcoat pockets. His face is angelic.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks again.

  ‘Yes.’ I frown. ‘I, uh … I’m fine. I just slipped,’ I lie. My voice is hoarse – I haven’t had a drink in ages, and my throat is dry and gritty. I look round, trying to pick out anyone who might have been my attacker. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask the man.

  ‘Not practising. In my youth, I studied medicine at La Sorbonne.’

  ‘Oh … Paris.’ I say rather dumbly. My brain is full of fog.

  He smiles indulgently. ‘Now, do you feel up to standing?’ He stands carefully, using the cane as support, and offers his hand. I take it, and manage to get to my feet, though my legs still feel wobbly. He’s wearing cologne, but this time I don’t recognise the brand. He’s so elegant, so very well dressed, that I can hardly believe I’m awake at all. I feel so foolish standing in front of him – with a torn skirt and messed-up hair – that I can’t think of anything to say.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He asks again.

  ‘Oh, yes … thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. Now, it’s a hot day – I think you should get yourself a cold drink.’ He takes a coin from his pocket and presses it into my palm. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  Smiling, he bows his head once and sets off down the street, malacca cane tapping the pavement. I feel a pang as he goes – as if an old friend has visited, but can’t stay.

  Dazed, I find my way across the street to the nearest pub, the Sawyers Arms. At least I’m not far from home. The inside of the pub is cool and dark, though the barman looks less than pleased to see me. Children aren’t usually allowed in London pubs unaccompanied, but I’m desperate. I want to look for evidence outside the RGS, to track my attacker down. But I’m too tired, too thirsty.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’

  ‘We don’t serve kids,’ he says.

  ‘Actually, under article three of the Mandatory Licensing Act, you’re obliged to ensure that free tap water is provided on request to customers where it is reasonably available.’

  A man sitting by the bar chuckles, but the barman only scowls more.

  ‘On request to customers,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, let her have a drink, Stan.’ The man on the stool says. ‘It’s as hot as brimstone out there.’

  The barman grunts.

  ‘Only if she buys something.’

  ‘I’ll have a packet of peanuts then,’ I chip in.

  The barman slouches to reach a pack and throws it in my direction. He gets a glass and picks up the nozzle, which dispenses fizzy drinks and water. But, when he presses the button, nothing comes out. He shakes the nozzle and tries again, but only a dribble appears.

  ‘Damn thing … you’ll have to have bottled.’

  I sigh and hand over the money, too tired to question the charade.

  I leave the pub, blinking in the sun’s glare off the pavement. The road is so hot that the tar is melting – I can smell it. The air shimmers. My legs still feel shaky, but I have no money left to get a bus. I tell myself that I’m nearly home – all I have to do is get through Hyde Park without Dad spotting me.

  It’s weirdly quiet as I walk past the townhouses on Kensington Road. The air is thick with car fumes, and no breeze stirs. Far off, I can hear the siren of a fire engine. There is the usual row of tourist coaches opposite the park, engines idling to keep their air-conditioning going. At Soapy Suds, the carwash that cleans the Jags and Bentleys of Kensington, a man in a suit is arguing loudly with the attendant.

  ‘Whaddya mean, you’re not washing cars? Can’t you read your own sign?’

  Hyde Park is looking lush, even after weeks of heat – the lawns are emerald green, the flowerbeds blooming. Still, it seems too quiet for a summer’s day in central London – just the occasional dog walker idling their way along a path. Have I missed something while making my investigations? Is everyone indoors, watching a major sporting event, perhaps? An ice-cream van drives past, blinds pulled on the serving window, chimes switched off.

  I try to make sense of it, to shift my brain into puzzle-solving mode, but the same two words keep repeating in front of me, like a flashing warning sign –

  TOO QUIET

  I’m walking over the lawns towards Groundskeeper’s Cottage when I spot two figures in the distance. One of them is Dad, dressed in his overalls. The other man stands next to a large motorbike, and is wearing black biking leathers. His face is obscured by a helmet, but I can tell that the two of them are arguing. Before I know why, I’m running. The words of the man who grabbed me outside the Royal Geographical Society start to run through my head on a loop –

  Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

  There is a knot in my stomach, like the end of a rope that links me to Dad.

  Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

  I’m getting closer, and I can hear their raised voices. Dad lifts his hand, pointing towards the park gates. The man in black reaches back, towards the bike. The bike looks like the same one that knocked over t
he professor this morning.

  Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

  In a fluid motion that makes my heart skip a beat, the man in black mounts the bike, kicks the machine into life and roars off, back wheel spraying clods of dry earth. Dad shouts after him, but he’s drowned out by the roar.

  ‘Dad, are you OK?’ I yell, running headlong into his arms.

  ‘I’m fine, I— Agatha, what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?’ I step back to look at his face.

  ‘Hurt me? Of course he didn’t hurt me – I was just telling him he couldn’t ride that stupid bike in the park. He’s made furrows through the lawns, look. Anyway, don’t change the subject – I got a call from your headmaster earlier. He said that you hadn’t shown up for any of your classes today. He used the word escaped.’

  Bother.

  I swallow. In my moment of fear, I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be avoiding Dad on my way home.

  ‘Ah, yes … about that …’ I say.

  Dad has given me some big lectures before, but this is the biggest. Being dressed down in public, as dog walkers pass by, is the worst. By the time he sends me home, with an order to go to my room, my cheeks are burning. I trudge back to the cottage, tired and miserable. His final words are the ones that sting the most –

  ‘You’re not a detective, Agatha. You’re a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. And if you carry on like this, you won’t even have a school to go to!’

  I’m angry with him for saying that, but he’s right, isn’t he? I’m not a real detective, and I’ve put more than my grades at risk today. Who the man in black was, I’m not sure, but I know I don’t want to be that scared for Dad’s safety again. Perhaps it’s time to forget about investigating crimes.

  As soon as I step through the front door, Oliver is mewling and winding figures of eight round my legs. ‘All right, all right, hang on …’ I mutter.

  I dump my satchel in the hallway and go to the kitchen cupboard to find a tin of Yummy Cat Duck & Heart – Oliver’s favourite meal, and the smelliest in the range. His mewls go up a semitone as he races between me and the food bowl. I dump the jellied meat in the dish, trying not to breathe too deeply. He eats happily for a few bites, then breaks off and starts mewling again.