The Secret Key

by Lena Jones

  ‘About me?’ A chill runs down my back.

  ‘Yeah, just making conversation really. He said he has a daughter your age, and I was telling him that you want to be a detective when you grow up … Nice bloke, actually.’

  I hand Dad his cup of tea, feeling queasy.

  ‘I, uh, I should go … Things to do.’

  ‘All right. Don’t forget your homework this weekend – you’ll feel better when it’s done.’

  ‘OK, Dad.’

  I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs to my room. Perhaps the man’s visit was just a coincidence, but I have a bad feeling. And why was JP lurking outside our house when he left? There are many questions and few answers, but I can’t shake the sense that I’m being watched.

  Gathering my thoughts, I go back to the mysterious key – what could it be for? What could it lead to? Whatever it is, it has to be important – Mum took the trouble to hide it, and left a coded message so I would find it. (Eventually, I think. I’m embarrassed at how long the key had lain there, undetected.) I pace the room, thinking over everything I know, but getting no further. I sit down on my bed and write a list of points in my notebook, which is filling up quickly –

  1. The key was hidden, so it must be important.

  2. If the key is important, it must open something.

  3. Mum wanted me to find the key.

  Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away.

  4. If so, she must have left something telling me what the key opens.

  And yet – what can that clue be? I have no idea what the key might be for, or where I might find out. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something lying on the floor – a tiny slip of paper.

  ‘Of course!’ I shout, snatching up the bookmark that fell out of the book last night. In my excitement at discovering the key, I’d forgotten all about it. When I turn it over, I see it’s a tiny photo. The image – a grainy black-and-white shot barely bigger than a passport photo – shows a caged-off tunnel. A path leads down to a small opening covered by iron bars. I know that tunnel, and search my memory for a moment. I have it – it’s a tunnel in Hyde Park, at the edge of the Serpentine.

  The tunnel must run right under the lake. I’ve always thought it was just some sort of drain.

  ‘Right,’ I say to myself, suddenly scared of what I know I must do next …

  An hour later, I’m striding down to the caged-off tunnel, dressed all in black and wearing gigantic wading boots, with a torch in one hand and a gas mask in the other. The gas mask came with our cottage – it had been sitting in its box under the stairs since the Second World War, quietly gathering dust. I don’t know if it still works, but it will have to do. It’s all I have to protect me from the noxious fumes of the red gunge. Most importantly, I have a set of keys to the grating in my pocket. In Dad’s room, there’s a rack holding dozens of sets of keys, for all kinds of sheds, gateways and grates around the park. It took me a little while to find the right one for the grating. It was labelled Serpentine and Surrounds. None of the keys look like the mystery key round my neck, but some of them are very old.

  I go down the short ramp to the grate and look around, but nobody is there to see me. People aren’t going out much, preferring to stay home and keep cool. Also, there are rumours that the red slime might cause all sorts of diseases if inhaled, so people are getting nervous about breathing in the city air. According to the news, thousands of people have left to go to the countryside, and sales of air conditioning have gone through the roof.

  I try a couple of Dad’s keys in the padlock before I come to the right one. The lock clicks open in my hand. I take a deep breath and put on the gas mask. It smells musty, but I don’t have any choice – there could be more of the noxious red slime down here. Switching on the torch, I step into the tunnel.

  The space is tiny – I have to crouch right down to move through it. The floor is muddy concrete, the arched tunnel made of crumbling brick. Though I can’t see any of the red slime yet, I can smell its familiar stink, and hope the gas mask is protecting me. I press on, not allowing myself to stop and think about what I’m doing. The tunnel seems to go on forever, until my legs are cramping and my neck stiff. The floor becomes muddier, and now there are pools of thick red algae. I tread carefully, my hand on the wall and my feet squelching in slime, but I can’t see much through the tiny circles of glass in front of my eyes. Suddenly, my hand misses the wall and my feet slip from under me.

  I curse as I hit the ground hard. I’m covered in the cold ooze. It makes my hands sting – I wish I’d thought to wear gloves. The torch jolts from my grasp and hits the ground with a clunk. I’m terrified its bulb will blow and leave me in darkness, but the light stays on. I take a moment to make sure I’m not badly hurt. I’m more winded than injured. I collect my torch and get up again. It can’t be far now, I tell myself. On and on I go, becoming shaky and light-headed, as if I’m reaching high altitude, rather than a tunnel just a few metres below ground. Finally, the passage opens into a slightly taller tunnel that turns right. I stand, relief spreading through my aching muscles. Ahead of me is a narrow opening, like a doorway. When I shine the torch through it, no light bounces back – it must be a big cavern.

  I take a deep breath, nervous but excited – I’m about to find something incredible, I’m sure.

  Gripping the torch, I step though the gap, and out into –

  Nothing.

  I shine my light around, taking in the space. It’s big, that much is true. I’m standing in a vast arch of brick under the Serpentine. The roof is leaky, dripping gobbets of slime. The floor is covered in water and algae, completely unusable. The whole place feels empty and abandoned. I stand there for a minute, jaw clenched inside the gas mask – whatever I expected to find under the lake, it isn’t here. Was the clue a red herring? But why would Mum want to lead me on a wild-goose chase?

  I’m turning to leave when the beam of my torch passes over something. I point it back, squinting through the greasy glass of the mask. It’s just a patch of brown, a slightly different colour from the surrounding brick, and a little shorter than me. I squelch over to the wall, and as I get closer I can see that it’s a door made of cast iron and rivets. The handle is a single bar that can’t be turned. But below it there is a keyhole.

  I don’t know how I know, but I do. Perhaps the keyhole looks a similar shape. Perhaps it’s just something about the door itself. Perhaps it’s just my overactive imagination. Perhaps I have read Alice in Wonderland too many times. Whatever it is, I take the mystery key from round my neck and insert it into the lock. I turn the key, and a smooth, well-oiled mechanism goes – click!

  Click.

  Oh crikey.

  It went click.

  It clicked.

  Feeling like I’ve walked into a dream, I pull on the handle and the door swings back smoothly. Golden light shines out, into the dank cave, smothering the tiny light of my torch.

  I look down. At my feet is a doormat printed with the word ‘WELCOME!’.

  In front of the doormat stands a small umbrella holder, which is empty. And in front of that runs a plush red carpet, very clean and dry. I take off my gas mask and peer through the doorway. The carpet stretches in two directions down a long corridor illuminated by wall lights. The corridor has fine oak panelling on the walls, like the interior of a stately home. On a pedestal near the door sits a logbook and a pen. I look at the book, which seems to record times, identity numbers and the condition of the tunnel. It doesn’t tell me what I need to know, so I flick to the front of the book.

  The Gatekeepers’ Guild – Inspection Log, No. 38261.

  As I stare in disbelief at the ordinary objects in front of me – so out of context in this strange tunnel – I hear the sound of someone whistling down the corridor. I freeze for a second, and hear the soft tread of their shoes on the carpet. Very quickly, I retreat into the cavern, shut the heavy iron door and lock it, fingers fumbling with the key.

  I stand th
ere in darkness for a second, my breath rasping from the fumes, hoping that whoever is walking down the corridor didn’t hear me. I press my ear to the cold iron. Faintly, I can hear the whistling behind the door. It stops, and I hold my breath. There is a pause, then the whistling resumes and fades away.

  I stand alone in the darkness.

  After another long walk back through the tunnels, I’m shaking with tiredness, begrimed with mud and slime from head to toe. I just want to get out. I emerge into the sunlight – birds are singing. I start to walk through the park, but my relief is cut short when I see a trio of girls under a tree. As I get closer, I see it is the CCs – Sarah, Ruth and Brianna – using the park as a place to take selfies.

  Sarah shrieks when she sees me trudging across the lawns.

  ‘What. The?’ Ruth asks nobody in particular.

  I peel off the gas mask to reveal my face.

  ‘Is that … Agatha? You have got to be kidding me.’

  ‘What are you doing in the sewers, Odd Socks?’ Sarah taunts, horror replaced by glee. ‘Meeting friends?’

  Brianna just looks at me open-mouthed. Has she made peace so quickly with Sarah? She doesn’t say anything to me, but she certainly doesn’t say anything in my defence, either. The other two don’t seem to notice her silence. I see that Sarah has a bottle of water in her hand. I wouldn’t usually ask her for anything, but I’m desperate.

  ‘Please, I’m so thirsty … Can I have some water?’

  ‘Oh what, this?’ She looks at the bottle in her hand. ‘Sorry, this is for my spritzer.’ She takes out a small spray-bottle, fills it with the last of the water, and sprays some on her face. ‘You know, it’s just so hard to keep cool in this heat,’ she finishes, grinning evilly.

  Ruth and Sarah’s laughter rings out so loudly that I think the whole park will hear it, but I just walk past them without saying anything. I can still hear their laughter way off. For once, their insults don’t hurt me – I’ve just discovered something huge, something quite impossible. Most importantly, I’ve discovered something that Mum wanted me to discover. Is this something to do with how she died? Or something else entirely? Either way, I need to find out more about the Gatekeepers’ Guild.

  By the time I’m out of the rubber waders, there is a knock at the front door – Liam has arrived on our doorstep. I open it and words come tumbling out of him.

  ‘Agatha! Is everything OK? You sent the emergency signal – I would have come sooner, but you said twelve and I didn’t want to mess up your plan if you had one …’

  I hold up my hand to halt him.

  ‘Liam, I’m fine. Sorry if I panicked you, but I have a lot to tell you.’

  I think, after everything I’ve done, that I deserve a cup of tea. ‘Just wait while I get changed.’ I point to my black jeans and top, which are still soaked in slime from the tunnel.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ His eyes bug out.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’

  I run upstairs and change quickly into a striped navy T-shirt with navy ankle-length Capri pants, a red belt and red lace-up pumps, and tuck Mum’s key inside the neck of my top. I grab my notebook, then run back downstairs. I walk past Liam, towards the front door.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell him over my shoulder. ‘We’re going to the Orangery.’

  ‘To the … but … hang on …’ he splutters, following me out. I shoot him a radiant smile – for some reason, this always works. ‘Oh, all right,’ he says.

  The Orangery is an elegant tearoom next to Kensington Palace, at the west side of the park. We crunch up the gravel, past the Round Pond in front of the café, which is usually full of lily pads and water flowers, but now is scummed over with a red skin. There are normally tables outside the Orangery, but thanks to the stink coming off the pond, all the tables have been taken inside, the doors and windows shut. Liam pauses by one of the windows, which is hung with delicate lace.

  ‘Are you sure about this? We could just get a couple of ice creams from the van.’

  I drag him inside, and a tinkling bell above the door summons the maître d’. What I haven’t told Liam is that I have a special relationship with Mr Worth, the head waiter at the Orangery, after I helped him out one day with a difficult customer. Ever since, he’s always given me the broken meringues or less-than-perfect scones.

  ‘Hello, Miss Oddlow!’

  ‘Hello, Mr Worth.’ I grin. ‘A table for two, please.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Worth gives me a wink and leads me to a side table.

  As ever, there is a heavenly glow in the café – the walls are pure white, with soaring Corinthian columns and flowing curtains. We are taken right through the interior, past rows of quietly spoken men in blazers and women in Chanel suits, and are seated out of the way, in one of the apses where King George II used to enjoy holding court.

  ‘So, are you … all right?’ Liam asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say cautiously, realising that my brain is so full of new, confusing information that it’s buzzing like a beehive. Maybe I’m not all right, actually – maybe I’ve discovered too many things all at once. ‘Anyway, listen – I have a lot to tell you.’

  At that moment, typically efficient, the tea arrives. I can see Liam shifting anxiously, wanting to hear my news, but I wait. Finally, the waitress is gone, I have poured myself a cup, put a sugar cube in, sipped the hot tea – and I am ready.

  ‘So, last night …’

  I start with the break-in that wasn’t a break-in at Brianna’s house and the revelation of her secret room. The scones and cream arrive with a pot of strawberry jam. I break off my story to spread clotted cream on to a scone and top it with a generous dollop of jam. I bite into it and can’t help but smile at the taste. The head waiter has done us proud.

  ‘Agatha!’ Liam hisses, reaching for a scone. ‘Stop making me wait!’

  So I tell him about the mysterious visitor to our house last night, the discovery of the key, and my visit to beneath the Serpentine. I tell him about the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and the secret passage, while Liam sits in silence, his undrunk cup of tea cooling in front of him, his eyes growing wider with each moment. When I’m done, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, he seems to have drifted off into a daydream.

  ‘Liam?’ I prod him in the ribs.

  ‘What? Oh – sorry. It’s a lot to absorb.’

  ‘And? Don’t you think it’s incredible – a secret guild with tunnels under Hyde Park?’

  He looks down into his tea, then up at me again. ‘So who do you think the man at your house was?’ He sounds concerned. I expected him to be amazed and excited, but his worry trumps any sense of adventure. I feel deflated.

  ‘I’m not sure. Dad said he was some environmental officer …’ I say, though I don’t really believe it.

  ‘Agatha, don’t you think you should stop investigating? I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘But, Liam, don’t you see what’s going on? We’ve stumbled across something huge. This shady organisation – “the Gatekeepers’ Guild” – maybe they’re the ones behind the red slime. Perhaps they’re using their tunnels to infiltrate and poison London!’

  ‘Maybe …’ Liam sounds uncertain. ‘But something doesn’t stack up. Agatha, this is all too dangerous. That letter you got. This isn’t a lost cat or a stolen bicycle. These people, whoever they are, must be powerful and, if you get in their way, they’ll hurt you – they’ve made that clear. I can’t let them do that.’

  ‘Look, I’m not worried,’ I tell him. ‘This is bigger than my safety.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not worried for yourself, then what about your dad?’

  I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out. There is a heavy feeling in my stomach, an indigestible weight, like I ate a rock. He’s right – investigating further could risk the safety of my father. Then I think about my mum. She had clearly wanted me to find the key, had wanted me to find the tunnel, had wanted me to investigate.

  I can’t l
et her down.

  I open my mouth to tell Liam all of this, just as Mr Worth appears by my side, holding a silver platter.

  ‘Ahem.’ He coughs and winks.

  He lowers the silver platter so that I can see the envelope resting on it. It’s addressed in neat copperplate handwriting – To Miss Agatha Oddlow.

  ‘Did you see anyone deliver this?’

  Mr Worth shakes his head. I take the letter from the platter and wait for Mr Worth to leave.

  ‘How does anyone even know you’re here?’ Liam asks me when the head waiter has gone.

  ‘I was wondering the same thing.’ I look down at the envelope in my hand, which has crashed our party like an uninvited guest.

  ‘Open it, open it!’

  ‘OK …’

  Tearing into the envelope, I pull out a short note, written in the same immaculate calligraphy –

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘The Gatekeepers’ Guild?’ says Liam in a whisper. ‘The ones with the carpeted corridor under the Serpentine?’

  I nod. ‘It would seem so.’

  London’s South Bank is a series of concrete buildings, underpasses and winding staircases. Some people think of it as an ugly growth on London’s historic silhouette, but it’s always been one of my favourite places. It almost seems that the Gatekeepers – whoever they are – know what I like. After all, they knew to find me at the Orangery. Tucked between the Waterloo and Hungerford railway bridges are table after table of secondhand books, laid out to lure me to spend more money than I have.

  Liam didn’t want me to accept the invitation in the note. He said it was too dangerous. But when he realised that I was going and he couldn’t stop me, he said he’d come along.

  ‘Liam, it says “best to shop alone” – they don’t want anyone to accompany me.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what worries me!’ He adjusts his glasses in frustration. ‘Because if you’re on your own, they’re free to drag you off to who-knows-where!’

  ‘But if you’re there, they may not show themselves at all.’