by Lena Jones
Brianna takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘That must have been tough to hear.’
Tears start brimming in my eyes again.
‘We’re going to catch them, Aggie,’ she says gently.
Then she immediately becomes brisk and businesslike, to give me a chance to pull myself together.
‘Now, I’ve been thinking – what if your mum had other notes stashed away? I mean, she did a pretty thorough job of hiding this letter. Do you think she could have concealed details of other investigations in a similar way?’
Simultaneously, we both look at my bookshelves.
‘She wouldn’t have done anything to damage the Agatha Christies,’ I say, ruling out two whole shelves of books.
‘So it would have to be a book – or books – with little or no sentimental value. How about this?’ She draws out a hardback volume on blood-spatter patterns.
I shake my head. ‘Nope. That one’s mine.’
‘Of course it is,’ she says drily. ‘I bet it’s your bedtime reading.’
‘How about this one?’ I pull out an art book I’ve never studied in detail. It’s called Neue Sachlichkeit and has an ugly picture of a naked man and woman on the front. The text is all in German, which is why – combined with the off-putting cover image – I’ve never spent time looking at it.
‘Go on,’ she says.
I turn to the back and – yes! – I feel a bulge inside the cover, just like the one I found in the Story of Art book. My hand is shaking as I take my penknife and gently slice apart the layers.
Inside, I can see the corners of some lined paper. I draw it out and unfold it. There’s just one sheet, and it bears my mum’s neat writing in purple ink. I’d forgotten how she liked to use coloured pens – she said they brightened the world.
My eyes blur with tears, and I have to blink hard to clear them. I’m holding another piece of Mum. That’s what it feels like – as if I’m slowly fitting her back together, from the pieces she left behind.
Brianna is at my elbow. ‘What does it say?’
There are letters on the paper, but they don’t form words:
yuu’kl ib wkp qnoc’s glsh
exe hdexe bz shlow glaie tiojh bzi
I’m filled with frustration. ‘It’s in code!’
‘So?’ says Brianna. ‘Aren’t you an ace codebreaker?’
‘It’s not something you just do in half a minute. And if this is Mum’s code, it’s bound to be a tough one.’
‘Except you’re her daughter, don’t forget. If anyone knows how her mind worked, it’s you.’
‘I was seven when she died,’ I protest.
‘Maybe we can work it out together,’ she suggests.
So I place the page on the bed and Brianna and I kneel side by side on the floor, staring at the letters.
‘How would you normally start?’ asks Brianna.
‘I’d look for a repeating set of three letters, which will usually represent “the”. That’ll give us the letters T, H and – most usefully – E. Then we need to find a single letter that repeats frequently – that’s likely to be A.
‘Hmm, makes sense,’ says Brianna. ‘Could it just be one of those shift codes? You know, the ones where the whole alphabet has shifted two letters to the left or something?’
‘That just seems too basic for Mum,’ I say. I gaze at the page. ‘There’s not enough here to find a pattern!’ It’s true: it’s only a short message, with only a few characters.
I close my eyes and Change Channel, bringing up memories of Mum from all those years ago. She’s calling ‘Hello, house!’ as she opens the front door. She’s laughing as she freewheels down the hill on her bike, with me strapped in a seat behind her and shouting out with excitement. She’s in the swimming pool, teaching me breast stroke. She’s handing me a lock-picking kit and waiting patiently while I tackle my first padlock. She’s sitting on the chair beside my bed, a book open on her lap, reading me stories of criminals and the great detectives who thwart them.
When I open my eyes, the cipher has shifted into focus.
‘I’m the key,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’ asks Brianna.
‘It’s a Vigenère cipher and my name’s the key – Agatha Oddlow.’
‘Does that mean the message is only made up of the letters in your name?’
I shake my head. ‘No – it works on polyalphabetic substitution.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course it does.’
‘Look.’ I write ‘AGATHA ODDLOW’ at the top of a page in my notebook. Now I write out the letters of the alphabet beneath my name. ‘So you see how the first A of “Agatha” lines up with A at the start of the alphabet, but the G of “Agatha” corresponds to B, the second A to C, the T to D, and so on?’
‘Yep. Is that it?’ She sounds disappointed.
I shake my head. ‘It’s like a double layer of concealment. The new letters then get allocated a whole other set of characters in a grid. Without the key, it can be a nightmare to decode.’
I feel a familiar buzz of excitement as I set to work on deciphering Mum’s code.
It’s fairly quick work now I know the key. ‘You’re in the crow’s nest …’ I say. ‘That’s what Mum called my bedroom!’
‘Brilliant!’ says Brianna. ‘So, “You’re in the crow’s nest” …?’
‘But there is still …’
‘Still what?’ asks Brianna. ‘What is there, above the crow’s nest?’ she muses. ‘Isn’t the whole point that it’s at the top of the boat, the top of the world?’
‘Sky?’ I suggest, though that’s too short for the letters in the message.
We look at each other and say in unison, ‘Space!’
I decode the word to check it. ‘Yes – space, that’s right.’
I go quiet again while I work out the remaining part of the message.
At last, I sit back and read: ‘You’re in the crow’s nest but there is still space above you.’
Brianna frowns. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The loft hatch outside my bedroom!’ I say. ‘It leads to a tiny storage space!’
We have a full-size loft, which we can access from Dad’s room. It’s filled with damaged goods: three-legged chairs and other broken or cast-off furniture and toys. The ‘loft’ outside my room, on the other hand, is a very small rectangular space. I remember Mum showing it to me once, but it never occurred to me she might have had an ulterior motive. What was it she said …?
I close my eyes as I recall her words.
‘“This is a good place if you ever need to hide something small.”’
Brianna and I walk out on to the landing and look up at the wooden board that serves as a door to the little space.
‘Do you have a ladder?’ she asks.
‘Yeah – I think there’s one in a cupboard down in Dad’s room.’
Dad’s downstairs watching telly, so it’s easy to fetch the wooden ladder from his room without having to answer any questions. I struggle a bit with manoeuvring the steps along the landing and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. ‘Ouch!’ I shout, as I graze my knuckles on the wall.
‘Are you all right?’ calls Brianna, who’s waiting at the top of my stairs. She helps me to position the ladder, and we use it to try and push open the hatch. But it won’t budge.
‘It must be locked,’ she says.
I grab my head torch and put it on. ‘Hold the ladder,’ I say, as I start climbing to the top. Up close, I examine the hatch and, sure enough, there’s a keyhole. The shape of it reminds me of the key I wear round my neck … I draw it out and fit it into the lock. It’s a little stiff when I go to turn it, but after a moment there’s a satisfying click and I’m able to push the wooden hatch open.
Clouds of dust and cobwebs come tumbling down. Brianna jumps back quickly, but I get covered in filth. I have to wait until the air clears before I can see properly again.
‘You OK up there?’ she asks.
I’m not sure how to answer.
There’s a heavy feeling in my stomach, which is getting worse the closer I come to finding out what Mum has left for me to find. What if it’s something disturbing or upsetting? Or what if I’ve misinterpreted the code, and there’s nothing up here at all? I can’t decide which option would be worse. My palms are damp and slippery, so I wipe them on my dress.
‘Ready?’ asks Brianna, when the dust has settled.
Let it be something nice, I think to myself as I step up the last two rungs until I can see inside the dark opening.
The loft space is even smaller than I remembered – my torch easily lights the whole area – but it’s packed with small items. I can see several shoeboxes, a hatbox, a small suitcase, a video, a Thermos flask and a box of Lego. I reach in and rummage around, exposing an old DVD player, two biscuit tins, a moth-eaten coat, a jigsaw and a video. A video? I draw it towards me. The writing on the front announces that it contains the first three episodes of the TV series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot. One final glance around confirms this must be the object I’m meant to find.
I grab the small box and gingerly climb back down. I’m glad I’ve got Brianna there, holding the ladder steady – but I’m still relieved when I can jump down from the third step to the landing. Leaving the steps where they are, we hurry back into my bedroom and open the box. There’s just a VHS tape inside.
Liam joins us and we stand in a row, staring at the black rectangle of plastic.
‘What is it?’ asks Brianna.
‘A VHS tape,’ says Liam. When Brianna continues to look blank, he adds, ‘A video.’
‘Oh – why didn’t you say so? But … do you even own a video player, Aggie?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
Brianna picks it up and shakes it. ‘Do they normally rattle like this?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Definitely not,’ agrees Liam.
We peer over her shoulder to inspect the two tape spools that should be visible inside the transparent part of the casing. But they’re not there.
‘This is some weird video. Shall I open it?’ asks Brianna.
Liam and I both nod, and she prises the plastic apart. Inside, there’s a DVD.
I feel a bit like I’m at a kids’ party, playing pass-the-parcel – each layer I unwrap just leads me to another inexplicable package.
‘Hopefully, it won’t just come up with a self-deleting warning,’ I say. Then I remember I haven’t told them about the memory stick yet. ‘Oh – I’ll explain later.’
Liam inserts the CD into my computer and we wait. Liam sits in the chair and Brianna perches on the arm, but I’m too on edge to sit down, so I pace.
Within a few seconds, it starts playing, and I feel as if I’ve been punched in the ribs – because there’s Mum, looking straight at me. I turn up the volume. And then her voice comes out, as clear as when she was alive:
‘If you’re watching this, my darling Agatha, it means you’ve turned into a great codebreaker, just like I knew you would.’ She pauses and when she speaks again, her tone is soft and sad: ‘It also means I’ve died … Please believe me, when I say I would never have chosen to leave you – and I certainly won’t have gone without a fight. I love you, sweet-heart. Never doubt that.’
A drop of water falls on my hand. When did I start crying? Brianna and Liam – I’d forgotten they were here – come to stand on either side of me.
‘I don’t have long,’ says Mum. ‘I need to share with you what I’ve discovered. But if I’ve gone, then it’s likely that my current investigation is what sealed my fate. Anything I tell you may put you in danger, my darling. For my sake – please, please don’t do anything reckless.
‘First of all, there’s a woman you need to seek out. She’s called Professor Dorothy D’Oliveira, and you can track her down at the Royal Geographical Society, where she’s a senior fellow in hydrology. She will be able to advise and protect you.’
(Oh, Mum! I think. This advice is coming a bit late! It’s both distressing and wonderful to have my mum talking to me like this, but I hope there’s going to be something really useful in what she says, to help us find Sheila.)
‘As I said,’ Mum continues, ‘I don’t have long – I’m pretty sure there’s someone coming after me – so I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve been investigating an organisation who call themselves “The Alumni”. It began as a group of ex-students, all from the same school, but they’ve expanded since. The group’s mission is to acquire works of art by top artists, because they believe, arrogantly, that they are the only people who can truly appreciate them. They are willing to use any means necessary to source and obtain the artworks.
‘The main line of my investigation has been a forgery ring. I believe that, for a number of years now, agents of the Alumni have been stealing world-famous paintings and replacing them with forgeries. However, they are very clever at covering their tracks. For instance, although I have established links with several major international galleries, I still don’t know who is at the head of the forgery operation. Goodness knows how many thefts have taken place altogether. The Alumni get other people to carry out the thefts for them, and are careful never to expose their main operatives.’
She pauses.
Then she says, ‘These people will stop at nothing to get what they want. Seek the professor’s help – and keep safe, my darling. Remember that I love you.’
The screen goes black. I wait, but there’s nothing more.
‘Wow, are you OK?’ asks Brianna.
I shrug, fairly sure I’ll break down if I try to talk. I feel as if I’ve just got Mum back – as if someone’s shown her to me, only to take her away again.
Liam and Brianna put their arms round me and we have a big hug.
‘The A on the Sunflowers painting …’ I say.
‘A for Alumni,’ says Brianna, and I nod.
‘But if the Silver Serpent doesn’t refer to Lord Rathbone,’ I say, ‘then who or what does it refer to? Of course! I should have realised the snake on the Rathbone crest was nothing like the one on Sheila’s letter …’ I see their bewildered faces and realise this is another detail they know nothing about. ‘Remind me to keep you in the loop with my investigations in future,’ I tell them.
‘Yes, please do,’ says Brianna.
‘Are you feeling better now, though?’ asks Liam, and when I nod, he adds, ‘Good – because I’ve traced that registration number.’
‘Really?’ I say.
‘Yep. It took me ages.’
‘It’s been less than an hour,’ says Brianna drily.
‘Well, it felt like ages,’ he says.
‘So?’ I ask him. ‘Who’s the car registered to?’
‘Someone I’ve never heard of – a Tabitha Fitzwilliam?’
There it is, the proof I needed. Fitzwilliam. Even though I was pretty sure that, all along, Arthur had been working against me – against the Guild, I still feel a shiver along my arms and back.
‘Fitzwilliam?’ I say, ‘Are you sure?’
He nods. ‘Quite sure.’
‘That’s Arthur’s surname,’ I tell them.
They look at each other and then at me.
‘So he’s not just an Alumni henchman – it’s his own nefarious scheme,’ says Liam. ‘I’ve always wanted an opportunity to use that word.’
‘“Nefarious” is a great word,’ I say. ‘But I’m guessing Tabitha Fitzwilliam is his mum, so we don’t know if it’s his plan or hers. In fact, it’s possible they’re both working for someone else. More importantly, this means Sarah’s dad had nothing to do with the kidnapping – they were just trying to frame him. He probably doesn’t know anything about the forgeries either.’
‘Do you still want to play along with Arthur?’ asks Brianna. ‘Only, I feel a confrontation might be in order, now we know he was in on the kidnapping as well.’
‘I want to find out what they did to my mum,’ I say.
‘I’m definitely up for it,’ sa
ys Liam. ‘I’d like to tell this Arthur what I think of anyone who treats my friend Aggie badly.’
‘Where does he live?’ asks Brianna.
I shake my head. ‘I just know it’s near Greenwich, because of what he said to the taxi driver, but I don’t even know if that’s true.’
‘Ah, but I have an address,’ says Liam triumphantly. ‘They hadn’t covered their tracks as well as they thought. I tracked down the online shop that they’d ordered the false number plate from, and was able to hack their customer records. The address was listed: The Lodge, Greenwich Park. As it’s in Greenwich, I bet it’s the right one.’
‘You really are amazing,’ I tell him, and he grins with pride.
‘It’s ten o’clock already. Are you two sure about this?’ I ask them.
‘Definitely,’ they say in unison, and grin.
We leave by my trusty old escape route of the skylight and the oak tree. Liam and Brianna clearly find the whole climbing-on-to-the-roof-and-leaning-across-to-grab-a-tree experience a bit too thrilling. There’s a lot of shrieking and laughter.
‘Shhh!’ I tell them. ‘Dad might hear.’ We can’t risk him trying to stop us from going. He might just about have adjusted to the idea that I sometimes have to take off at strange hours – but he’s bound to feel responsible for my friends’ welfare, while they’re staying with us.
Once we’re on the ground, we duck and run, until we’re out of sight of the house. Then we hasten through the park to Park Lane and hail a black cab at Marble Arch.
I don’t have a plan as we sit in the taxi and watch the meter piling on the pounds. It seems pointless to even attempt to prepare for an encounter with someone it turns out I know nothing about. My ‘friend’ has proved as fake as the combined forgeries of The Marriage, Sunflowers and The Yellow House. Was anything he told me true? I wonder, not for the first time: who is the real Arthur Fitzwilliam?
It was dark when we set out, but by the time we arrive, the clouds have parted enough to allow the full moon to shine through. The light illuminates a pair of grand metal gates, the sort that mark the entryway into the grounds of a mansion. Nothing about the Arthur I’ve met has led me to expect his home to be so grand.