The Secret Key

by Lena Jones

  I push myself up to sitting, rubbing my head. The blow has left my blonde wig askew, and I remove it.

  ‘Nobody sent me. I’m the one who found you in the park this morning.’ I get to my feet with as much dignity as I can muster. My head is beginning to throb – she has quite a whack for an elderly woman.

  ‘You called the ambulance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighs and walks back to her bed, sits down and watches me. I wait for an apology, but none comes. There is a file full of papers next to her on the bed, which she reaches out and closes before I can see any of them.

  ‘So, Agatha, what brings you to St Mary’s in the middle of the night?’

  I wrestle with my thoughts, trying not to give away my suspicions.

  ‘I need to talk to you. Your card says you’re a professor in hydrology?’

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Not an ordinary schoolgirl, are we, Agatha?’

  ‘I should hope not,’ I say with some impatience.

  She chuckles. She really is difficult to read.

  ‘Ah, a bit of fire in the belly, I like that.’ She studies me some more. ‘Well, thank you, Agatha – you did me a good turn. Not all thirteen-year-olds would have stopped to help an old lady.’

  ‘How do you know my age?’

  She shrugs. ‘A lucky guess.’

  I let it pass. ‘I was wondering – do you have any idea why someone would want to do that to you? Knock you over?’

  I watch her face carefully as I say this, but her expression doesn’t change.

  ‘Oh –’ she waves her hand airily – ‘I’m sure it would be the same if some other little old lady had been standing in my place. Just a hooligan.’

  Her tone is convincing, but I don’t believe for one moment that she thinks of herself as a ‘little old lady’.

  ‘Well, did you see anything that might identify them?’

  ‘No. And right now, I’m scarcely angrier with them than I am with you.’

  I stare at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve had a nasty shock and I need to sleep, girl – not to be scared out of my wits by some picklock sneaking into my room in the dead of night. Now, please get out and leave me alone.’

  She climbs into bed and puts her head on the pillow. Clearly, she feels the interview is over. I persevere –

  ‘No close-up details of the bike perhaps, or what the rider was wearing? It went too quickly for me to get a good look.’ This isn’t entirely true – I could pick that bike out of a line-up – but I need to get her to open up.

  She groans. ‘I don’t remember a thing. And if I did, I would be telling it to the police, not a schoolgirl.’ She reaches up to the panel behind the bed, full of dials and buttons. ‘And if you don’t leave now, I’ll press the emergency call button, and you can explain to the night guard why you’re creeping around the hospital in the dark, scaring old ladies.’

  ‘But—’

  I don’t finish: she presses the emergency call button, and a red light starts to flash over the door. Outside, I can hear an alarm ringing at the nurses’ station.

  Wasting no time, I make for the door. But, as I do, something catches my attention – a pair of shoes – Professor D’Oliveira’s shoes – left next to the door. On the side of one of the shoes … is that a trace of red? I have no more time to think about it – I have to keep moving, out of the room.

  ‘Hey, stop! Who are you? You’re not allowed in there!’ a nurse calls to my fast-retreating back. I ignore her and run out of the ward, back into the maze of corridors. I sprint down two flights of stairs and into another hospital block, retracing my path from earlier. When I’m sure nobody is trying to chase me, I slow down. I listen round every corner in case someone is there. The more I listen, the more I feel like I’m being watched. The dark corridors echo, and every so often I can hear linoleum squeaking with footsteps.

  Finally, I come back to the corridor where I stashed my things. I put my coat on quickly and keep walking. I’d left the wig behind, so my disguise is a bit lacking now. I walk out into another bay at the back of the hospital, where surgical supplies are being unloaded.

  ‘Hey, kid! You’re not meant to be back here.’

  ‘I’m leaving, aren’t I?’

  I walk out on to South Wharf Road. A girl is standing on the other side of the street, just quietly watching me. My heart thumps in shock. Forcing myself to react, I realise my only option is to turn back into the bay. But then the girl crosses the road towards me, and I see it’s Brianna Pike, from school. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I almost throw my arms round her. Then I remember that she is one of the CCs, practically Sarah Rathbone’s henchwoman. Brianna is tall and slim, like her compatriots, but more athletic – muscular.

  She doesn’t greet me, but asks ‘How is she?’ in a low voice.

  ‘Who?’ I don’t think I’ve ever been asked a question by Brianna before. She’s usually giving orders.

  ‘The old lady.’

  ‘You mean Professor D’Oliveira?’

  ‘Is that her name?’

  I sigh. ‘How do you know about her? Brianna, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I just … I heard about the old lady getting knocked down.’

  I frown at her. ‘How did you hear?’ She’s not acting like herself. If anything, it seems like someone else is standing in front of me, in a very convincing Brianna disguise.

  ‘Oh … I read about it in the paper. I knew your dad worked at the park, so …’ She tails off.

  None of it adds up. I’m sure there was no report in the paper, and why would Brianna care anyway? All that interests her are designer outfits.

  There’s a long silence.

  ‘Look,’ I say at last, ‘I really need to get home …’

  She jolts, as though she’d forgotten where she is – or who I am. ‘Sure, sure. I’ll see you at school … My brother’s got the car round the corner. Do you want a lift?’

  I’m tempted by the thought of not having to walk back home in the dark, but I’m not ready to get in a car with one of the CCs. I shake my head.

  ‘No, it’s OK, thanks – it’s not far. See you then, Brianna.’ I walk away, mulling over the weird conversation.

  London is still too quiet. Even at night, the city usually has a low hum, like a machine on standby.

  I turn a corner and keep walking. There’s the roar of a motorbike behind me on the otherwise empty road. My skin prickles. Keeping my head down I slow my pace, as though I’m just out for a stroll, enjoying the night air. The bike comes nearer. It’s the same bike from earlier in the park – the one whose rider Dad argued with; the one that knocked down the professor. I’m sure of it.

  Riding the bike is a man dressed all in black. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pass. He seems to slow down, then turns his head and looks right at me as he passes. I see myself, reflected in the mirrored visor. Then, with a grunt from the engine that makes my stomach twist, the bike speeds off.

  ‘Oh, no.’ I say, ‘No, no, no …’

  I start to run. Did they recognise me? Has the professor called someone? Is she in cahoots with the man on the bike? I have no idea, but I need to get home to Dad before the man on the bike beats me to it. My feet pound the pavement, past Paddington Station, through Sussex Gardens, across Bayswater Road, until the familiar park surrounds me – the park that now seems like a trap. I run, even though my legs are burning and I feel sick and heavy-headed.

  Finally, I’m home – the back garden and the tree. I climb without care, branches scraping my arms and face, in through the skylight. Quickly, making no noise, I go down the attic stairs to Dad’s bedroom. Tiptoeing over, I open the door and hear his familiar, gentle snores.

  All at once the fear bleeds out of me and I sink to the floor. I listen as my heartbeat slows and the pain in my legs fades.

  Twenty minutes pass.

  At last I’m calm.

  Calm, and very tired. Nobody seems to be
coming to the house – not tonight anyway – but I can’t bring myself to sleep upstairs. I go to my room, get changed, and put away my coat and scrubs. Then I fetch my duvet and pillows, make a nest for myself next to Dad’s bedroom door, and sleep.

  I had hoped to wake before Dad, but he’s up first, and nudges me awake with his slipper.

  ‘Agatha? What are you doing on the floor?’

  ‘I … had a bad dream.’

  He smiles and frowns at the same time.

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Pretty bad.’ I get up and hug him. ‘Want coffee?’

  ‘Please. Big day ahead.’ He sighs, remembering everything that has happened the day before. ‘I feel like I had a bad dream too.’

  ‘Maybe I can help out in the park today,’ I say. ‘I bet St Regis will be closed without water …’

  He chuckles at my optimism. ‘Nice try. I’ve been listening to the radio – sounds like everywhere but St Regis is closed. They’ve shipped in water especially for you.’

  I groan.

  Dad is right – St Regis is open for business. Lesser schools might have been closed down by the ‘minor crisis’, but St Regis – the school of choice for the sons and daughters of billionaires and oligarchs – is not going to be brought down by something as trifling as a water shortage. So, I will have to sit through maths and chemistry, wishing I could be investigating, but most of all wishing I could keep an eye on Dad.

  My first lesson is dance in the Great Hall. Liam must have arrived a little while before me because he’s already changed and standing in the corridor outside the hall. I see Brianna Pike nearby, but the other CCs are standing apart from her. Sarah and Ruth talk to each other closely, as though sharing a secret. This is nothing new. They like to make everyone else feel like they aren’t in on the joke.

  Quickly, I change into my dress and shoes and join the class. We all hate ballroom dancing, but there’s some generous donor on the board of governors who thinks all young ladies and gentlemen need to learn, so we have no choice. I can’t wait to tell Liam about everything that happened yesterday and luckily, as we are partners, I don’t have long to wait. Liam and I were paired together at the start of term. Unluckily, we are both dreadful. The portraits of St Regis’ past alumni look disdainfully down on us – surely all of them knew how to dance a foxtrot.

  Liam shuffles over quickly, dying to talk.

  ‘Agatha, have you seen the news?’

  ‘Of course I have – and I do have so much more to tell you,’ I say in a low voice. But, just as I’m about to recount my tale, the music starts. As Liam stands on my foot during the warm-up and mumbles an apology, I lean in to his ear, ‘I think the water crisis is linked to the hit-and-run.’

  ‘Whaaat?’ He looks sharply at me. ‘How can it be?’

  ‘Because Dorothy D’Oliveira is a professor of hydrol— OW! –’ Liam has trodden on my foot again – ‘Careful!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry … Howz about you explain everything and I’ll concentrate on not stepping on your toes?’

  So I do, telling Liam about everything that happened since I’d left him at school yesterday. I tell him about the assault outside the RGS, the mysterious biker, my encounter with Professor D’Oliveira and Brianna Pike. For a moment, I’m aware of Brianna and her partner dancing closely to us, in perfect time, but then they’re gone. She’s with a tall, dark-haired boy who’s rumoured to be from the dethroned royal family of a small country in Eastern Europe. Fleetingly, I wonder if Brianna has heard any of my story.

  I finish up – ‘And I could have sworn that I saw the red slime on her shoe as I left … It can’t just be a coincidence. The professor went to hospital early in the day – before the first sightings of the slime!’

  Liam doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but I can’t be sure if he’s thinking about what I’d said, or concentrating on not tripping up. Our steps are even more out of step than usual. Finally, he says –

  ‘Look, Agatha, don’t you think this investigation is a bit … over our heads?’

  ‘Liam, this is the best case we’ve ever had!’ I cry out. ‘I need your help more than ever. I need you, Liam.’

  ‘Ahem! You do realise the music has stopped, Miss Oddlow, Mr Lau?’ The teacher’s voice makes us spring apart.

  The others in the class are sniggering, and I blush in spite of myself.

  ‘Nice one, Oddball.’ Sarah Rathbone grins. Next is the polka – a particularly evil dance, which never seems to fit the music. With the music back to cover our voices, I do my best to convince Liam.

  ‘London needs us – this is a real crisis, not a missing cat.’

  Turn, sidestep, hop, reverse.

  ‘I don’t know … Shouldn’t we leave it to the police?’

  ‘But they don’t have the leads that we have,’ I say.

  ‘Change partners! Keep your back straight, Mr Fitzpatrick. Tem-po!’ the teacher interrupts our conversation.

  Liam spins away from me, into the arms of another girl, and by the time he returns he seems to have made up his mind. ‘Agatha, look, you’re my best friend … If this case is so important to you, then count me in. Just try not to get us locked up because of it.’ He grins, and my heart leaps.

  ‘Thanks, Liam, that really means— ouch!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Mr Lau, could you at least attempt to hear the hop in the music?’ calls the teacher.

  Liam smiles and whispers into my ear, ‘Apparently, there’s a hop in the music.’

  I shake my head, smiling. With Liam on board it really is going to be a proper investigation.

  After the lesson, I put my regular shoes back on, rubbing my bruised toes, and go to the toilets to splash water on my face. My hair is a mess from all the whirling around. I look at my flushed cheeks, then stand in front of the mirror and run a brush through my dark bob. I think I’m alone, until I hear a whimper from one of the cubicles. I jump at the unexpected sound – yesterday wasn’t good for my nerves. I pull myself together.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s no reply except for a choked sob.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeat, going over to the cubicle and tapping the door. ‘Are you OK in there?’

  There’s no sound for a second, then the door unlocks.

  ‘Come in,’ says a voice. I know that voice, and for a moment I hesitate – surely this is a set-up? But, for whatever reason, I do as she says.

  Brianna Pike is sitting inside, muddy tracks of mascara streaking her cheeks. I’m so used to Brianna wearing a certain expression – haughty disdain – that it takes me a moment to realise she’s crying.

  ‘Brianna … what’s the matter?’

  ‘Lock the door. I don’t want anyone coming in … Please?’

  I hesitate, then do as she says. It’s pretty cramped in here. ‘What’s happened?’

  She doesn’t say anything, just shows me the screen of her smart phone. I look at it, trying to understand. I rarely use social media, but I grasp a few key facts –

  1. There is a photo of Brianna’s face.

  2. Unlike the many photos of Brianna’s face (posted by Brianna), this has been posted by someone else.

  3. That someone else is Sarah Rathbone.

  4. The photo is NOT flattering.

  ‘Sarah posted that?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘Yes … And the caption is “Hot or Not?”’ The words bring Brianna to another spasm of tears. Her shoulders shake and her make-up dissolves further.

  ‘I take it the comments weren’t … positive?’

  She shakes her head. ‘She took that picture before I’d put my make-up on after a sleepover and I’d hardly had any sleep and …’

  Now I fully understand what has happened, but I feel like I understand nothing. Who cares about a spot of make-up? Still, I try to be sensitive to Brianna’s tears. ‘But … why would she do that?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were friends?’

  Brianna tears off some toilet paper and dries her eyes. ‘Me too
–’ she sighs – ‘but I guess she wanted to show me who’s boss … That we’re friends because she lets us be friends.’

  I shake my head. ‘That doesn’t sound like much of a friendship. Why do you hang out with her?’

  Brianna shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Her tears seemed genuine, but I feel uneasy – Brianna has been as mean to me as Sarah and Ruth since my first day at St Regis. What’s changed now? Everything seems too convenient, too much like a trap. Everywhere I go, she turns up and with what’s going on in London, I don’t know who I really can trust.

  ‘Brianna, I have to ask – what were you doing outside the hospital last night?’

  Brianna stops drying her eyes and looks right at me. She seems to have forgotten the photo, forgotten Sarah’s betrayal. For a moment, she looks defensive, her old, cocky self. Then she looks away.

  ‘I … I can’t tell you here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t tell you … someone might overhear. Come to my house … tonight.’

  We leave the cubicle. She takes a piece of paper from her school bag and writes a mobile number and an address. ‘If you come, I’ll tell you.’

  She hands the piece of paper to me and goes quickly, leaving me dazed and confused in the girls’ lavatories.

  Finally, after the slowest Friday on record, the bell rings, and we almost run out of the gates. I need to do some urgent research into London’s water supply. With Liam at my side I flag down a black cab.

  ‘St James’s Square, please.’

  St James’s Square is home to the London Library – my favourite place in the whole world. I have a young person’s membership, which I begged Dad to buy me as a combined birthday and Christmas present. The library is full of rare books, manuscripts and old newspapers. Agatha Christie used to be a member, and sometimes I pause and wonder, romantically, if I’m reading the same monograph on blood-spatter patterns that she did all those years ago.

  But this is no time to be whimsical – something nasty is going on! If this isn’t an opportunity for greatness, stretching its hand out to mine, I don’t know what is. We spend the taxi ride talking about what we need to search for. Part of my mind is still on Brianna, and what happened in the toilets.