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The Secret Key
Lena Jones


Meet thirteen-year-old Agatha Oddly – a bold, determined heroine, and the star of a stylish new detective series.Agatha Oddlow has been a detective for as long as she can remember – she’s just been waiting for her first big case. And nothing gets bigger than saving the City of London from some strange goings-on.With a scholarship to the prestigious St Regis School, a cottage in the middle of Hyde Park, a room full of beloved sleuthing novels, and a secret key that gives her access to a whole hidden side of London, Agatha is perfectly poised to solve the mystery of what’s going on. But just who can she trust when no one is quite who they seem…













First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2018

Published in this ebook edition in 2018

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Text copyright © Tibor Jones 2018

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Cover illustration by Alba Filella

Tibor Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008211837

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008211844

Version: 2018-04-12


For Kika and Mylo


Contents

Cover (#u57b5b908-31c1-535e-afc1-81676fa81580)

Title Page (#u6f34a320-ebaf-5a9c-8217-415b22acae29)

Copyright (#u4ba39566-e290-5e00-9d40-2e68c882b315)

Dedication (#u0f6abd0d-784a-5397-b97f-dccb421e7ba2)

1. A Lesson in Chemistry (#u9313af93-faa8-5d75-85d3-ac12a822946b)

2. Hemlock and Foxglove (#u51673e2c-f967-513a-b6b8-b05e19afe215)

3. The Silver Tattoo (#uef7f54b0-7ea6-503e-b2f8-9b62b5541550)

4. Run-in (#u9fc25a0e-678d-56d2-8ada-68b970c8bf64)

5. The Red Slime (#u29b78384-4220-5c78-be45-dbfd7a29f64a)

6. The Missing Plans (#litres_trial_promo)

7. Breaking and Entering (#litres_trial_promo)

8. Under the Weeping Tree (#litres_trial_promo)

9. The Turning Eye (#litres_trial_promo)

10. The Face of Tomorrow (#litres_trial_promo)

11. A Vision of the Damned (#litres_trial_promo)

12. The White Maze (#litres_trial_promo)

13. Where No One Can Hear You Scream (#litres_trial_promo)

14. Trapped (#litres_trial_promo)

15. Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)







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‘This is the twelfth –’ the headmaster glances up from his notes – ‘no, let me correct that – the thirteenth time you’ve been in trouble this term, Agatha.’

We’re sitting in his office, the air sticky, and that’s not just because of the heatwave outside.

I look down at the floor. It’s true, and I don’t know what to say.

Dr Hargrave (Ronald Hargrave OBE, BPhil, MEd) likes to fill silences. He’s very good at that, and it’s best to wait until he’s done. He isn’t a doctor, as you and I think of them, but he likes to be called one. He has five liver spots in the shape of the constellation Cassiopeia on his forehead, and a steely glare, which I would say is a 4B on the eye-colour chart I have hanging in my bedroom.

He reads from his list:

‘One – you were found hiding in the ceiling space above the chemistry labs, because you believed Mr Stamp was stealing sulphuric acid to sell on eBay.’

This really happened – he was – but without evidence I had to drop my investigation. Plus, Dad grounded me.

‘Two – you tried to miss lessons by convincing the groundskeeper that you were an apprentice tree surgeon who needed to scale a tree near the boundary wall … and just so you could get out of school …’

I zone out. I’ve always found this easy – like switching channels on TV. If I want to watch something more interesting, I just imagine it. I call it my ‘Change Channel’ mechanism.

The headmaster’s desk is very shiny and if I look down I can see my own reflection in the caramel-coloured wood. I’m wearing my red beret – Dr Hargrave hasn’t even started lecturing me on this breach of uniform rules yet. My bob-cut hair frames my face, and my eyebrows are knitted together as though concentrating on his lecture. And, just like that, my reflection shimmers, shifts and becomes someone else. A small man in a hat and a bow tie looks back up at me. Smoothing out his moustache, he steps out of the desk, hops neatly to the floor and stands behind the headmaster.

‘How long do you think le docteur Hargrave will go on this time?’ he asks in a soft Belgian accent.

I zone back in to hear what my headmaster is saying now …

‘Four – you installed a listening device in the wall of the staffroom …’ – and then I glance back to where Hercule Poirot, famous detective, is looking at the clock.

‘Your headmaster has already been talking for twenty-two minutes.’ Poirot raises an eyebrow, as though daring me to do something about it. ‘He might break his record of twenty-seven, no?’

Actually, I reckon the headmaster is almost done – his stomach just rumbled, and it’s long after lunchtime. My eyes flicker around the room, details lighting up my mind like a pinball machine.








‘Twenty-four,’ I say out loud.

‘What?’ The headmaster looks up from his notes.

‘Nothing.’ I clear my throat.

Poirot nods in recognition – I have made my bet.

‘Are you listening to me, Agatha?’

‘Absolutely, sir. You were saying that impersonating a health inspector is a criminal offence.’

‘Yes, I was. Do you not take that seriously, Agatha?’

I nod seriously. ‘I do, Headmaster. I was just starting to worry.’

‘Worry? Worry about what?’ The headmaster’s eyebrows furrow.

‘That you’d be late for lunch with your wife.’

A look of confusion creases his face at the change of tack. ‘My … wife?’

‘Yes. You’re wearing a very nice shirt, sir. And aftershave. And I couldn’t help notice the box of chocolates on your table, clearly a gift for a lady …’ I smile, pleased with my investigatory skills.

‘Aha, yes,’ he splutters, ‘my wife.’ He looks at the clock on his wall. The words hover in the air like fireflies. ‘As you were saying, I’m going to be late for lunch … with my wife.’

‘Well, sir, I wouldn’t want to make you late,’ I say.

Dr Hargrave stands up, brushing invisible crumbs from his suit. ‘Yes. I’d better get going.’ He glances around, as though looking for the exit. ‘As for you, Agatha, I would advise you to think about … um … everything I’ve said.’

‘I will, sir.’

Dr Hargrave seems to be sweating as he shows me to the door where Poirot stands, smiling with approval. Poirot looks at his pocket watch.

‘Twenty-four minutes – you were right, mon amie.’

I smile as Dr Hargrave opens the door for me.

‘Bien sûr,’ I say.

‘What was that?’ asks the headmaster.

‘I said, enjoy your lunch, sir.’

He presses his lips together, as though holding something back, then mutters – ‘Be careful, Agatha Oddlow. Be very careful.’






Liam Lau, my best friend, is pacing the corridor outside when I come out of the office. He turns to face me, his face all scrunched-up-serious. It takes me a moment to remember why. Ah yes – Liam knew I was in trouble and thinks I’m going to be expelled. In fact, Liam has been expecting my expulsion from St Regis since the day we met – only this time he’s sure that this latest adventure will be my last. Wanting to draw out the suspense, I pull a sad face.

Liam covers his face with his hands. ‘What did I tell you?’ he wails. ‘Who will I eat lunch with now?’

It’s true, Liam and I do eat lunch together – every day, in fact – at least whenever we cross over after lessons. We sit on ‘Exile Island’ – the table in the refectory where all the weird kids sit.

‘Liam …’ I start.

‘I know I shouldn’t moan,’ he groans.

‘Liam …’

‘Expelled …’ He groans again. ‘Oh, Agatha, maybe we can get him to reconsider? Maybe if we get your dad to write a letter—’

‘Liam!’ I shake him by the shoulders. Finally, he stops to listen.

‘I’m not going to be expelled,’ I say again.

He freezes. ‘You’re …’

‘Not. E-x-p-e-l-l-e-d.’ I spell the letters out, one by one, and examine my nails, painted forest green and bitten to the quick.

A smile smooths the worry lines from Liam’s face. He grabs me and gives me a massive hug. ‘What did Dr Hargrave say?’

I give him a sideways glance from under a fallen strand of hair. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. Come on – or we’re going to be late for chemistry.’






‘That’s not a superpower.’

‘I’m just saying – not getting expelled would be a pretty useful superpower.’

‘But superpowers are stuff like invisibility, or levitation. “Not getting expelled” is just what normal people do.’

The school day is over, and Liam and I are meeting back in our form room.

‘Normal people don’t have as much fun as I do.’

Liam imitates the school librarian, looking disapprovingly over his glasses, and I can’t help but smile. He always manages to cheer me up. He never judges me for Changing Channel, or for talking to people who aren’t there. ‘So, did you find any more clues about the caretaker?’ he asks.

I shrug. That’s why I was in trouble in the head’s office in the first place – for dressing as a health inspector to check up on the caretaker who has been acting suspiciously for weeks. I’ve wanted to be a detective since I was young and love putting on a disguise. Mum always encouraged me. She liked setting me trails of clues to follow and solve. But, as you know, after several, ahem, incidents, I’ve been – well, I’ve been banned by the headmaster from doing anything that might be called ‘snooping on innocentpeople’. Liam isn’t as passionate about being a detective as I am, but he does enjoy solving puzzles and cracking codes. That’s why we’ve set up the Oddlow Agency (no ‘detective’ in the title, to avoid annoying the headmaster).

‘So shall we start the meeting, Agatha?’

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I’ll have to be quick, though; I need to get some stuff for dinner.’

‘Haute cuisine? Cordon bleu?’ Liam puts on an exaggerated French accent like I sometimes do when Poirot is with me.

‘Oui. That’s the idea, anyway.’

He nods seriously and opens the brand-new record book of Oddlow Investigations. My name is so often abused by other people (Oddly, Oddball, Odd Socks) that I’ve made it a part of my motto – ‘No Case Too Odd’. Unfortunately, the Oddlow Agency hasn’t been employed for a case yet. Still, that’s no reason not to keep proper records.

‘First order of business,’ I begin, ‘is the design of the insignia to be used on all official correspondence, business cards and rubber stamps. Any thoughts?’

Liam ponders for a second.

‘What about a lion … holding a magnifying glass!’

Really? I give him a hard stare and change the subject. It doesn’t sound very imaginative to me. ‘Why don’t we think about stationery later? We could practise taking identification notes?’

‘Sure. But you’ll have to tell me what identification notes are.’ He grins.

I look across at him and smile. ‘Identification notes are important facts about everyone. I write them for all sorts of people – anyone who might be important in an investigation.’ I shrug. ‘They help me remember what they looked like, how they dressed, what perfume they had on … that kind of thing.’

‘OK, I reckon I can do that.’ Liam nods. ‘Let’s start by giving it a go for each other.’

‘OK, so take your notebook and write three identifying things about me. Things that are unusual – that make me stand out. I’ll do the same for you.’

We put our heads down and scribble for a few minutes, then swap notebooks. Thoughtfully, I chew on my pencil as I hand them over.

My identification notes for Liam Lau –

1. Liam used to be smaller than me by a couple of inches, but has recently had a growth spurt that brings us level pegging.

2. He has black-rimmed glasses and dark hair, which is always immaculate. ‘Geek chic’ would describe his look.

3. He’s inseparable from Agatha Oddlow.

Liam’s identification notes for me –

1. Agatha is thirteen years old, 5 ft 2 (ish?). She has chestnut-brown hair worn in a bob.

2. She likes wearing vintage clothes – floral dresses, trench coats, DMs. So many trench coats. She’s often writing in a notebook.

3. Always hanging out with Liam Lau.

I’m about to say that my hair is dark brown, not chestnut, when someone bursts loudly into the classroom.

‘We can use this room, it’s just Oddball and Boy Wonder in here,’ they say.

I know immediately whose voice it is before I turn round – Sarah Rathbone, one of the three CCs, and she’s got the other two with her – Ruth Masters and Brianna Pike. They say that CC stands for Chic Clique, but everyone else says it stands for Carbon Copies. With their identically blonde hair, manicured nails and primped and preened appearances, they stand for everything St Regis is about. The school is full of the rich and beautiful like them, and making the rest of us feel unpopular is what they’re best at.

Some identification notes, for telling one CC from another –

1. Sarah Rathbone – If the other two are copies, Sarah is the original. The jewellery she wears has real diamonds, but it’s small and tasteful.

2. Ruth Masters – Second-in-command, Ruth is ruder than Sarah, which is saying something. Her dad works in PR, and Ruth is just as conscious of her public image, carefully managing who the CCs talk to and who they avoid.

3. Brianna Pike – Brianna is Sarah’s other henchwoman. She plays with her hair a lot and spends all day posting pictures of herself pouting on social media.

I face Sarah, head on. ‘I’m afraid we’re using this room,’ I say.

‘Using it for what?’ Sarah sneers. ‘Making detective notes with your little friend?’

Brianna approaches me. She draws her shoulders back and swings her blonde hair like a weapon. ‘Move.’

‘But we’re in the middle of something,’ I say.

‘We’re in the middle of something?’ Ruth sing-songs back at me. ‘Well, get in the middle of this – SCRAT.’ She brings her face up-close-and-personal and I automatically spring back. She picks up the book I’m reading from the table – Poisonous Plants of the British Isles – and shoves it into my chest.

‘Enough messing around,’ Brianna joins in, ‘get out, Agatha. Get going.’ She pushes my shoulder.

I brush my blazer as though some dirt has landed there. ‘Come on, Liam,’ I say, gathering my things. ‘We’re outnumbered.’ And then I mutter under my breath, ‘Physically, if not mentally.’

By the time the CCs realise they’ve been insulted, we’ve already left the room. The door slams behind us. I sigh, letting my frustration show.

‘You OK, Aggie?’

‘Yes … thanks, Liam.’ I shrug. Sometimes I hate St Regis more than anywhere in the world. My first school, Meadowfield Primary, was so different. The buildings might have been falling down and there was never enough money for new books, but it had been bright and friendly, and the teachers had encouraged all of us just to get along. I had a nickname there – The Brain – which hadn’t been a bad thing. It was a dumb nickname, but secretly I had liked it. At Meadowfield, being brainy was OK. When nobody else knew the answer to a question, they’d turn to me. Then had come the scholarship to St Regis that my teacher had put me forward for. I almost hadn’t shown it to Dad. When he saw the letter, he’d said it would be silly not to at least take the test. He’d been right, hadn’t he? There was nothing to lose. Even if they offered me a place, I could still turn it down, right? And they probably wouldn’t offer me a place anyway, would they?

I took the test.

I won the scholarship.

Dad sent a letter back, saying I would accept, starting in September.

I had been excited about going to a prestigious school at first. My new school had more money floating around than Meadowfield could have ever dreamed of. New computers, new classrooms, spotless walls and carpets. But in this place of shiny things, it was me who ended up seeming shabby. It didn’t matter whether I was brainy. In fact, it didn’t matter whether I was kind or funny or whatever else might have made me the person I was. I just didn’t fit, until I met Liam …

I’d been sitting in the canteen (or refectory, as they preferred) of St Regis, eating lunch, when I pulled the Sunday Times from my satchel and started trying to do the cryptic crossword.

13 down – Calling for business meeting, talker gets excited.

‘Perhaps “calling” means a telephone call.’ A voice came from across the table. I jumped – I hadn’t realised that I’d been thinking out loud. I looked up and saw a boy my own age who I recognised from class. His name was Liam Lau. I don’t think I’d heard him speak once, except to answer ‘present’ when register was called.

‘Sorry, did I startle you?’

‘No, I … I just didn’t realise I was talking to myself.’

He smiled. ‘Do you do that often?’

‘Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘Me too.’ He nodded, grinning. ‘They say it’s the first sign of madness.’

‘Hmm … Maybe you’re right about “calling” being a telephone call.’ I said. Then, as though my brain had suddenly decided to co-operate – ‘Oh, and what if “excite” means “jumble” – there might be an anagram in there?’

‘Yes, that sounds good … Hmm, what about “meeting talker”?’ Liam said. ‘That’s the right number of letters.’

We both stared at the letters M E E T I N G T A L K E R for a long moment. Then, together, we both shouted –

‘Telemarketing!’

I was grinning as I took up my pen and put the answer in.

‘Agatha …’

Liam’s voice shakes me out of the memory. Here we are, almost a year later. I’m still a social outcast, but I have Liam as a friend. I look at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Promise me something?’

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Try not to get expelled tomorrow?’

I roll my eyes. ‘I promise.’

He grins. ‘Come on, then – you can walk me to the bus stop.’







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I’ve just finished liquidising a pile of vegetables when Dad walks into the kitchen, begrimed with mud and smelling of manure. I’d forgotten my tiredness in the excitement of making something new.

‘What on earth are you doing, Aggie?’

‘Making dinner,’ I say.

‘With all the green mush, I thought it might be some kind of science experiment,’ he laughs.

I sigh – Dad can be soooo closed-minded sometimes. He isn’t a bad cook, but he isn’t a very good one, either. I often make dinner for the two of us, but it’s usually one of his favourites – something easy, like sausages and mash or beans on toast. Who can blame me for wanting to try something different for a change? I’d found a dog-eared copy of Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire from a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, and then spent an evening trying to decode his instructions from the original French. Dad looks over at the wreckage, shaking his head, and trudges off to get clean.

Dad – Rufus to everyone but me – has been a Royal Park warden since he left school at sixteen. He’s worked his way up to the position of head warden of Hyde Park, so we live in Groundskeeper’s Cottage. Still, even though Dad’s in charge, he refuses to let others do all the dirty work and is never happier than when he’s got his sleeves rolled up and is getting his hands dirty. He reappears in a fresh shirt, smelling strongly of coal-tar soap, which is an improvement from the manure. He looks over at the food I’m making, stroking his gingery-blond beard.

‘What … is it?’

‘Vegetable mousse, with fillets of trout, decked with prawns and chopped chervil.’

‘Looks quite fancy, love.’

‘Just try it – you’ll never know if you like it otherwise.’

Dad shrugs and sits down.

I’ve been saving up for weeks for the ingredients. Dad gives me pocket money in exchange for a couple of hours shovelling compost at the weekend so it’s been a hard earn. But it’s worth it – everyone should have a chance to try the better things in life, shouldn’t they? Dad reaches for his fork, staring at the plate. He searches for something diplomatic to say, and fails. ‘It’s not very English.’

I smile.

‘Poirot says something like, “the English do not have a cuisine, they only have the food,”’ I recalled.

He groans at the mention of my favourite detective. I go on about Hercule Poirot so much that Agatha Christie’s great detective is a bit of a sore spot for Dad.

‘You and those books, Agatha! Not everything that Poirot says is gospel, you know.’

I ignore this last comment and plonk a plate of the fish and veg medley in front of him. He takes a fork of everything, and I do the same.

‘Bon appetit!’ I smile, and we eat together.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I look to Dad, and I’m impressed by how long he manages to keep a straight face.

Something awful is happening to my taste buds. I can’t bring myself to swallow for a long moment, and then I force it down, gagging.

‘I may have … mistranslated.’

Dad swallows, eyes watering.

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






When the last of the mousse has been scraped into the bin, we go off to buy fish and chips. I decide not to paraphrase Poirot’s thoughts on fish and chips, that ‘when it is cold and dark and there is nothing else to eat, it is passable’. I don’t think Dad would be amused and, besides, I really like fish and chips.

After carrying them back from the shop in their paper parcels, our stomachs rumbling, we eat in happy silence. I savour the crisp batter, the soft flakes of fish, the salty, comforting chips. For once, I have to admit that Poirot might have been wrong about something.

While we eat, Dad asks about my day, but I don’t feel like talking about school and the CCs, or the headmaster, or about how I’d zoned out in chemistry class, so I ask about his instead.

‘So are the mixed borders doing well this year?’

‘Not bad,’ he grunts.

I think of the book I’m reading at the moment.

‘And do you grow digitalis?’

‘If you mean foxgloves, then there are patches of them down by the Serpentine Bridge.’

‘What about aconitum?’ I eat a chip, not looking Dad in the eye.

‘Monkshood? You know a lot of Latin names … Yes, I think there’s some in the meadow, but I wouldn’t cultivate it. It’s good for the bees, though.’

‘Ah … what about belladonna?’

‘Belladonna …’ His face darkens, making a connection. ‘Foxglove, aconitum, belladonna … Agatha, are you only interested in poisonous plants?’

I blush a little. Found out! Poisonous Plants of the British Isles is sitting in my school satchel as we speak.

‘I’m just curious.’ Deep breath.

‘I know that, love, I do. But I worry about you sometimes. I worry about this … morbid fascination. I worry that you’re not living in the real world.’

I sigh – this is not a new discussion. Dad loves to talk about the REAL WORLD, as though it’s a place I’ve never been to. Dad worries that I’m a fantasist – that I’m only interested in books about violence and murder. He’s right, of course.

‘I’ll do the washing-up,’ I say, quickly changing the subject. Then I look over at the sieves, pans and countless bowls that I’ve used in my culinary disaster. Perhaps not.

‘My turn, Agatha,’ says Dad. ‘You get an early night – you look tired.’

‘Thanks.’ I hug him, smelling coal-tar soap and his ironed shirt, then run up the stairs to bed.






When we’d first moved into Groundskeeper’s Cottage, I chose the attic for my bedroom. Mum had said it was the perfect room for me – somewhere high up, where I could be the lookout. Like a crow’s nest on a ship. I was only six then, and Mum had still been alive. Before that, we’d squeezed into a tiny flat in North London, and Dad had ridden his bike down to Hyde Park every day. He’d been a junior gardener when I’d been born, still learning how to do his job. The little flat was always full of green things – tomato plants on the windowsills, orchids in the bathroom among the bottles of shower gel and shampoo …

The attic has a sloping ceiling and a skylight that is right above my bed so, on a clear night, I can see the stars. Sometimes I draw their positions on the glass with a white pen – Ursa Major, Orion, the Pleiades – and watch as they shift through the night.

The floorboards are covered with a colourful rug to keep my toes warm on cold mornings. We don’t have central heating, and the house is draughty, but in mid-July it’s always warm. It’s been scorching today, so I go up on my tiptoes and open the skylight to let some cool air in. My clothes hang on two freestanding rails. Dad is saving to get me a proper wardrobe, but I quite like having my clothes on display.

On one wall there’s a Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster with Audrey Hepburn posing in her black dress. Next to her is the model Lulu. There’s also a large photo of Agatha Christie hanging over my bed, which Liam gave me for my birthday. On the other is a map of London … Everything I need to look at.

My room isn’t messy. At least, I don’t think it is, even if Dad disagrees. It’s simply that I have a lot of things, and not much room to fit them in. So the room is cluttered with vinyl records, with books, with a porcelain bust of Queen Victoria that I found in a skip. Every so often, Dad makes me clear it up.

And so, I try to tidy now. But with so little space it just looks like the room has been stirred with a giant spoon.

I take the heavy copy of Le Guide Culinaire and place it on my bookshelf, which takes up one wall of the room. I sigh – what a waste of time. What a waste of a day.

I run my hand along the spines of the green and gold-embossed editions – the mysteries of Poirot, Miss Marple, and Tommy and Tuppence – the complete works of Agatha Christie, who my mum named me after. She’d got me to read them because I liked solving puzzles, but said I should think about real puzzles, not just word searches and numbers. When I’d asked what she meant, she had said –

‘Everybody is a puzzle, Agatha. Everyone in the street has their own story, their own reasons for being the way they are, their own secrets. Those are the really important puzzles.’

I feel hot tears prick the back of my eyes at the thought that she’s not actually here any more.

‘I got called in front of the headmaster today …’ I say out loud. ‘But it was OK – he just let me off with a warning.’ I continue, tidying up some clothes. I do this sometimes. Tell Mum about my day.

I change from my school uniform into my pyjamas, hanging everything on the rails and placing my red beret in its box. What to wear tomorrow? I choose a silk scarf of Mum’s, a beautiful red floral Chinese one. I love pairing Mum’s old clothes with items I’ve picked up at jumble sales and charity shops, though some of them are too precious to wear out of the house.

Next, I go over to my desk in the corner and unearth my laptop, which is buried under a pile of clothes. I switch it on and log in. People at school think I don’t use social media, but I do. I might read a paper copy of The Times instead of scrolling down my phone, and write my notes with a pen. But I’m more interested in technology than they’d know. You can find out so much about people by looking at what they put online. Of course, I don’t have a profile under my own name. No – online, my name is Felicity Lemon.

Nobody seems to have noticed that Felicity isn’t real. Several people from school have accepted my friend requests, including all three of the CCs. None of them have realised that ‘Felicity Lemon’ is the name of Hercule Poirot’s secretary, or that my profile photo is a 1960s snap of French singer Françoise Hardy.

I scroll through Felicity’s feed, which seems to be endless pictures of Sarah Rathbone, Ruth Masters and Brianna Pike. They must have flown out to somewhere in Europe for a mini-break over half-term. They pose on sunloungers, dangle their feet in a hotel swimming pool and sit on the prow of a boat, hair blowing behind them like a shampoo commercial. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of jealousy and put the lid down.

Rummaging through my satchel, I take out the notebook that I started earlier in the day. I put it by my bed with my fountain pen, in case inspiration strikes in the night – that’s what a good detective does: they note down everything, because they never know what tiny detail might be the key to cracking a case.

Most of my notebooks have a black cover, but some of them are red – these are the ones about Mum – all twenty-two of them. They have their own place on a high shelf. My notes are in-depth – from where she used to get her hair cut to who she mixed with at the neighbourhood allotments. Every little detail. I don’t want to forget a single thing.

I look over at Mum’s picture in its frame on my bedside table. She’s balanced on her bike, half smiling, one foot on the ground. She’s wearing big sunglasses, a crêpe skirt, a floppy hat and a kind smile. There’s a stack of books strapped to the bike above the back wheel. The police had blamed the books for her losing control of her bike that day – but Mum always had a pile of books like that. I don’t believe that was the real cause of her accident. That’s not why Mum died. Something else had to be the reason.

I climb into bed and pull the sheet over me, then take a last look at the photograph.

A lump rises in my throat. ‘Night, Mum,’ I say, as I turn out the light.







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‘Dad, will you stop letting Oliver walk all over the work surface? It’s unhygienic.’

I’m trying to wash up the bowl I used for breakfast, but our cat is sitting by the sink and keeps batting my hand with his tail. He’s purring loudly at the fun new game he’s invented. I turn to look at Dad, who is hunched over a bowl at the table. He shrugs and shovels in another spoonful of cereal. He’s running late, as usual.

‘I can’t watch him all the time, Agatha.’

Sighing, I scoop Oliver off the counter. He’s grey, and on the portly side from all the treats Dad feeds him. He causes so much trouble, but he has a special place in my heart. He’s middle-aged in cat years, and his main hobby is sitting – on the work surface in the kitchen, in front of the mirror in the hall or on the threadbare armchair that used to be Mum’s. I suppose he misses her too. When he isn’t sitting, he’s lying down.

Oliver rubs his face up against my chin and I scratch the soft fur of his neck. I can feel his low, rumbling purr in my chest. I think back to the day I first met him. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was sitting by the fire, reading. Mum had come in through the front door with a cardboard box, which she brought over and set down in front of me.

‘What is it?’

‘Why don’t you find out?’ she said, smiling and shaking the raindrops from her hair.

I opened the wet cardboard box. At first it seemed to be full of nothing but blankets. I looked at Mum, puzzled.

‘Keep searching – just be careful.’

I pulled back the layers of blanket, realising that there was a sort of hollow in the middle of them, like a nest. And there – curled into itself and barely bigger than my fist – was a kitten. My eyes widened with surprise, and I didn’t dare touch the sleeping creature.

‘Go on – you can stroke him.’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, he’s a boy. You’ll have to think of a name.’

I thought about this for a moment. ‘Why do I have to think of a name?’

Mum laughed. ‘Because he’s yours.’

‘He’s … mine?’

Something like a shiver passed through me as he opened two huge ink-black eyes and looked up at me.

Then Mum had put her arms round me from behind and held me while I held Oliver. I closed my eyes.






The memory was so clear – even though that kitten was fully grown now, Mum was still somewhere behind me, holding her arms round me. He might have been mine, but his heart always belonged to Mum.

I put Oliver down on the tiles and clear my throat. As I finish my washing-up and dry my hands, Dad brings his empty bowl over to the sink.

‘Are you OK, love?’

I nod and manage a smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s just, you look a bit …’ He puts his head on one side.

‘… of a genius?’ I suggest, trying to deflect the attention from myself and clear the lump in my throat, but he doesn’t laugh.

‘Is something wrong?’ Dad is more interested in things that grow in soil than things that live in houses, but sometimes he notices more than I expect.

‘I’m fine, Dad, really …’

‘Really?’ He puts a shovel-sized hand on my shoulder.

‘Yes, really, Dad. Now go – get to work before you’re late!’ I reach up on tiptoes and hug him. For Dad, actions make more sense than words. He softens.

‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘your collar’s all twisted.’ I sort out his polo shirt and he stands very still, like an obedient child.

‘Right – you’ll do,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Off you go.’

‘Have a good day, love.’

Dad goes, and I rush back upstairs to finish getting ready. I brush my teeth and pull on my blazer, brushing my hair until my dark bob shines. I tie Mum’s red silk scarf round my neck like a lucky charm and, finally, put on my tortoiseshell sunglasses – perfect for observing people without them noticing. Next, I pack my satchel – notebook, magnifying glass, sample pots for evidence, fingerprint powder and my second-best lock-picking kit. (My best one has been locked in the headmaster’s shiny desk since yesterday afternoon.)

Outside, the sun is bright. Dewdrops sparkle on the emerald-green lawns and the sun fades. It’s been hot today. I feel a swell of pride – the beautiful trees, the grass and flowerbeds, all lovingly tended by Dad and his wardens. I step through the wrought-iron gate of Groundskeeper’s Cottage and close it behind me, taking my usual route along the Serpentine lake. I’m looking forward to my morning chat with JP, who lives in the park. JP isn’t supposed to live in the park – he’s homeless – but Dad pretends not to notice when he’s still there at night-time. Dad says he scares off the occasional graffiti artist. This morning, as I approach, I see JP sitting with his eyes closed, looking pale.

‘Hey, JP!’ I hurry towards him. I have a premonition that he will fall forward as I reach him, a knife sticking out of his back. He would murmur something as he fell into my arms – ‘Agatha, you must avenge me.’ Then I would …

‘Morning!’ JP calls brightly, his eyes flicking open.

He’s not dead.

‘Were you comfortable last night?’ I ask.

‘Not too bad. I slept under the weeping tree in the Dell. Don’t tell your Dad, though.’

‘Did you make sure not to leave a trace?’

‘Not a fingerprint.’ He laughs and eyes my pockets hopefully. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’

I pull out two pieces of toast, sandwiched together with butter and marmalade.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He takes a large bite, then speaks through a mouthful. ‘Now, by the way …’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you have a school to go to?’

I check my watch. It’s 8:37 already; school starts at 8:55. ‘Yup, I’d better run. Bye!’ I set off at a brisk walk.

‘Have a good day!’ he calls after me.

I walk along the path. There aren’t many people around at this time, but I nod to an old lady as I pass her, and she smiles back. She’s walking fast, wearing a light tan coat and matching hat.

As I pass under the canopy of beech and willow trees, I hear a roar ahead. Approaching me, far too quickly, is a motorbike. Motorbikes are banned from the park, the same as any vehicle. I feel cross, but I have no time to react as the bike shoots past me, down the footpath and out of sight. A moment later and I hear a screech of tyres, a loud thud, then nothing.

Before I know it, I’m running back in the direction that I’ve just come from, and as I round a bend in the path I see what I feared – the old lady in the tan coat lying on the ground. The bike is next to her, but only for a second – the rider revs the engine and speeds away.

‘Hey!’ I shout after the rider, rather pointlessly. ‘Stop!’

Of course, the bike does no such thing, and just disappears down the winding path. I rush over to where the woman lies on the ground. Her hat is askew, her eyes closed, and the contents of her handbag are strewn over the path.

I stand frozen for a second, stunned. I have to check myself – I haven’t Changed Channel. This is not a dream. This is really happening.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask, and she opens her eyes slightly, but just looks blearily at me, then blacks out.

‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Someone, help!’

There is hardly anyone around, but JP comes running over.

‘We need to call an ambulance. I’ll call nine-nine-nine,’ I say.

‘You have a mobile?’ He sounds surprised.

‘Well, of course,’ I say, a little peeved. ‘I’m just not glued to it all the time. We need to hurry.’

I reach into my satchel and take out the phone. I press the ‘on’ button, but it seems to take forever to power up.

‘JP, could you go and see if there’s a warden nearby?’

JP makes off across the lawns, the sole of one shoe flapping as he runs.

I turn my attention back to the woman. She looks almost too peaceful, and for a second I’m worried that she might have died while I was distracted.

My phone finally powers up; I call nine-nine-nine and ask for an ambulance. The woman keeps me on the line at first, asks about the lady’s breathing and pulse. Her right arm is twisted oddly under her and looks broken. Carefully, I unbutton the cuff of her coat sleeve and find her wrist. Pressing my fingers to her skin, I find a regular – if rapid – pulse.

The woman on the end of the line hangs up, telling me the ambulance is about to arrive and I should make sure they can see me. Taking my hand away, I notice something unusual on the old lady’s wrist – a tattoo of a key.

It’s very simple – one long line and three short, like the teeth of an old deadlock. Dad has a dozen keys like that on a ring, which open the old iron gates and grilles in the park, but it seems a strange thing to have tattooed on your wrist, especially for an old lady. The handle of the tattoo key is a circle with a dot inside, a bit like an eye. It’s outlined in white ink, which shines silvery on her dark skin. I start to put her scattered things back in her handbag, hoping to find a next-of-kin contact. There’s lipstick, some mints in a tin, a pen, a large set of keys (none of which are deadlocks) and a purse.

There’s no perfume in the bag, though I can smell that she is wearing some. I sniff again – I can’t help it – it comes instinctively to me. A waft of vanilla, a hint of leather and carnation. Tabac Blond, first made by Caron in 1919. An expensive perfume.

Her clothes are plain, but her blouse has the feel of silk. The mother-of-pearl buttons might be plastic, but I’m not so sure. I look in the purse for a contact telephone number, but find nothing except several business cards.

Prof. Dorothy D’Oliveira

Senior Fellow, Hydrology Studies

Royal Geographical Society

Hydrology? What does that mean? ‘Hydro’ is from the Greek for ‘water’. So, she studies water? Out of ideas, I go back to making sure she’s comfortable. I don’t risk moving her right arm, though it looks uncomfortable bent beneath her. But, as I fold my blazer and place it under her head, I spot something in her left hand. I don’t know how I missed it at first. With a glance at her peaceful face, I gently prise her fingers open to find a piece of folded pink newspaper – a page from the Financial Times. Looking around to see if anyone is watching, I open it out.

It has the usual stories – mergers of electronics companies, CEOs getting millions of pounds in bonuses, a story about London pollution. Without thinking, I fold the paper and slip it into my blazer pocket. JP hasn’t returned yet, so I’m left alone to watch over the professor. Somewhere nearby, a siren starts wailing. I have an idea – opening my satchel, I take out a small brown bottle, unstopper it, and wave it under her nose.

It was insanely difficult to find smelling salts in London chemists. Finally, a pharmacy on Old Compton Street had agreed to sell me some, on the condition that I leave my name and address.

After a moment, the professor starts to take deeper breaths, and coughs twice. She opens her eyes and looks at me. The sound of the siren is much louder now, and I can see the ambulance racing across the lawns towards us, churning furrows into the dew-soft grass. Dad won’t be happy. It stops right next to us. The two paramedics jump out and start to tend to their patient.

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ A paramedic points to the bottle I’m holding.

‘Sal volatile.’

He looks blank.

‘Spirit of hartshorn?’

‘What?’

I suspect the man of being a little slow.

‘Ammonium carbonate with lavender oil.’

‘Ah, aromatherapy. New age.’

I sigh. ‘If you say so.’

They check the woman’s pulse and breathing, and shine a light in her eyes to check for concussion. Then they apply a sling before loading her on to a stretcher. The one who called my smelling salts ‘new age’ asks me some questions about what happened.

‘Hit by a motorbike?’ He shares a look with his colleague. ‘She’s lucky not to be more seriously hurt.’

‘Pretty unlucky to get hit at this time of the day in a park, mind,’ says the other paramedic.

‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ I say. ‘This was deliberate.’






I give the paramedics my home address and say I’m happy to talk to the police. I think about offering to ride with the professor to the hospital, but before I get the chance the ambulance leaves, and I stand there feeling as though I’ve woken from a dream. But this was no dream, and when I reach into my blazer pocket – yes! – there it is – the folded sheet of newspaper.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ I breathe. There is a strange tingle behind my eyes. In the spotless blue sky above me, clouds are starting to form. Not just any clouds – they are spelling out words.








The clouds form and dissolve away just as fast. My heart is racing. I pick up my satchel and start to walk, replaying the events in my mind, and several images refuse to fade.

I think of the biker, whose face was hidden by the dark helmet. I think about the business cards from the Royal Geographical Society. And, most of all, I think about the key tattoo, in its silvery ink. I’ve never seen that symbol before. I pause – or have I? There’s something at the back of my mind, just niggling away at me …

I stop, feeling frustrated.

I’m already late for school, so surely it can wait another minute. I sit down on a park bench and open my satchel, taking out my current casebook. I’m so excited; it might as well be the first one – this is a new beginning. I flip open the notebook to the opening page and cross out the details about the local shopkeeper’s parking violations. I write the heading: ‘Hit-and-Run – Hyde Park’, underlining it a couple of times. Then I jot down some quick notes –

1. Old lady knocked down in Hyde Park. The path was wide. Was this deliberate? What could the motive be?

2. Her perfume was expensive, and she had an unusual tattoo (sketch overleaf). Something seems odd here – what is her story?

3. Business card says she is a member of the Royal Geographical Society – do they know more about her?

I look over all those exciting question marks for a moment, puzzling it over.

Something is afoot, of that I am sure.






‘So, you saw an old lady knocked down in the park by a motorbike, and now you want us to investigate?’

Liam is staring down at my notebook and frowning. We’re in form class, before lessons. ‘Don’t people get knocked down all the time? What makes this one any different?’

I glance to the front. Mr Laskey is behind his desk, reading the newspaper, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s sleeping or not. The rest of 8C are chatting noisily, so there is little chance of our conversation being overheard. Still, there isn’t much time to tell Liam everything that has happened. Brianna Pike, one of the three CCs, is sitting on the desk next to us, but she’s too wrapped up with doing her make-up to pay us any attention.

‘Not just an old lady getting knocked down,’ I whisper. ‘There was something funny about it. This didn’t look like an accident. There were … unusual circumstances. Comprenez-vous?’

‘You mean –’ he glances around at our classmates before continuing in a whisper – ‘you think someone might have targeted her?’ He sounds more excited than normal about one of my cases.

‘Exactly! And if you come with me to the Royal Geographical Society, I’ll prove it to you.’ I hold out the professor’s business card.

He takes it and reads. ‘Professor D’Oliveira, Senior Fellow, Hydrology Studiesd—’

‘We need to get going – now,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Time is of the essence.’

‘Whoa, hold up! We’ve got school. What’s the hurry?’

‘I need to solve this before the police do.’

‘But we have a maths test! And you almost got expelled yesterday! Just wait till we’re finished.’ His voice is plaintive – Liam loves maths tests. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up at strange angles. I resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. I catch the eye of two girls, who seem to be staring at Liam. That’s been happening a lot lately, since his growth spurt. They scowl at me and I shoot them a sweet smile as they start whispering to each other.

I lower my voice. ‘I’m going now. Are you coming or not?’ I hiss. I draw my notebook back towards me across the desk and stare down at it, trying not to be influenced by the pleading look in his eyes.

He sounds strained. ‘Erm … not.’

‘All right. But you can still help out with something.’

He brightens. ‘What?’

‘On the woman’s wrist, there was a symbol.’

‘A symbol?’

‘Well, a tattoo. I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before. I need you to find out what it means.’

‘Sure. What did it look like?’

‘I’ll draw it for you.’ I take my fountain pen and draw from memory the eye-and-key tattoo. ‘I was thinking you could check Masonic symbols first, then alchemical, witchcraft …’

‘OK … I’ll scan it into my laptop and run some image-recognition algorithms to—’

‘Yes, yes. Whatever you have to do.’ I should have mentioned before that Liam is a computer genius. When he gets going about techy stuff, I have no idea quite when he’ll stop.

‘Right, I’d better be off then.’

Liam shrugs. ‘You’re going to be in so much trouble if you’re caught, Aggie … Oh, wait! Hang on a sec.’ He reaches into his bag and pulls out a black box, which he holds up to my mouth. ‘At least if I’m here I can cover for you. Say “here”.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Here.’ I repeat into the box.

He takes the box away and presses a button.

Here, says the box in my voice.

‘I can hide this at the back of the class and remote control it with my phone when they call the register.’

‘Can’t you just say “here” for me?’

‘Do you think my impersonation of you is that good?’ Liam raises an eyebrow.

‘Point taken. Now, I really need to go!’

‘How are you going to get out? They’ve already locked the gates.’

‘Well, it’s a Thursday, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, so?’ He looks blank.

I smile.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.’






Getting out of form class is as easy as excusing myself to use the loo. From there on, things become complicated. When I woke this morning, my brain felt grey and heavy, like an old wash rag that needed wringing out. But now I’m full of energy, which is good – I’ll need to be as awake as possible to escape St Regis.

I take the stairs down to the assembly hall, my footsteps echoing on the stone floor. I have three minutes before the bell goes and everyone rushes out of class. I make it past the biology labs, alongside the headmaster’s office and into the Great Hall with its polished maple floor. This is where we have assemblies, and where we sit exams. Even though the hall is empty, I feel watched by an invisible presence, and not just from the dusty frames of St Regis’ past alumni. I shiver and hurry on.

Creeping quickly over to the back doors, I hurry out on to the playing fields. I take off my red beret, crouch down, and start to run under the windows of the maths department, where students are still in form class. From an open window, I can hear one of Dr Hargrave’s sermons on innocence and obedience.

‘The rules are there to protect students from themselves. Stay within the rules, children, and you have nothing to fear …’

‘… and nothing to gain,’ I mutter, forging on.

At the end of the block, I stop and peer round the corner. The entire school is ringed by a three-metre-high wire fence, impenetrable with the tools I have on me (strawberry-flavoured eraser, 2HB pencil). The only way out is in disguise, and I’m looking right at one – between the sports teacher’s hut and the door to the kitchens stand the half-dozen wheelie bins that are collected by the council twice a week.

I know Mr Harrison, the PE teacher, will be having a cigarette in the privacy of his hut before the first class arrives to collect their hockey sticks and basketballs. He’s a creature of habit (full-tar, slim filter), and I’m relying on that. Smoke signals from the window support my hunch. Coast clear, I creep across the open ground to the bins and quickly look inside each of them in turn. All of them are full to the brim with tied-up rubbish sacks. What a pain.

Quickly, making as little noise as possible, I empty one bin, stashing the sacks in the space between the hut and the back wall of the school. I take off Mum’s scarf and put it in my pocket – I don’t want it getting dirty. For a second I hear a noise from the hut and freeze, but nobody comes out. The bin is empty. I peer in. There is a thin, brownish slime at the bottom, and a strong smell of rotten fruit. I sigh. With a last look at my polished shoes and my lint-brushed skirt, I start to climb in.

As I do, there’s a sound of unlocking from the kitchen door. Quickly, I crouch down in the foul-smelling bin and shut the lid. I’m in warm, smelly darkness, but I can hear well enough.

‘Oi, Charlie! You got anything else that needs chucking? I’m gonna put the bins out.’ It’s one of the kitchen workers.

‘Yeah,’ replied another voice, ‘take these peelings.’

There are muffled noises and footsteps coming closer. I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t pick the bin I’m in. A moment later, light floods in. I look up. A young, stubbled face peers at me, looking startled.

‘Oh, hey, David!’ I say cheerfully.

‘Again, Agatha?’ He does not seem thrilled to see me.

‘Look, David—’

‘Dave.’

‘Dave, this is very important.’

‘It was very important last time. I could lose my job!’ He speaks in an urgent whisper.

‘Look, this is the last time, I swear. Never again.’

He stares at me, unspeaking, then back to the kitchen, then at me again.

‘Never again,’ he says. ‘And if you get caught, I didn’t know you were in there, OK?’

‘Sure.’

He dumps the bag of potato peelings on my head and slams the bin shut. If I weren’t in hiding, I might have sworn. I spend another five minutes in cramped confinement, trying to shift the soggy bin bag from my head without making a sound. I hear Dave taking the bins around me, one by one, to the gates. I’m sure he’s leaving mine until last, prolonging my discomfort. Finally, I feel my centre of gravity shift sideways, and we begin the bumpy ride to the bin depot. With a last thud, my journey is complete.

I wait a moment until Dave has time to go back inside the gates. A dribble of cold juice has escaped the bin bag and trickles down my neck. A shiver runs up my spine. With the bag on top of me, it’s impossible to peek out and see if the coast is clear. Instead, deciding I can’t put it off any longer, I spring out.

The bin depot is outside the school grounds, next to the H83 bus stop. A small old man flattens himself against the shelter in shock.

‘Sorry!’ I leap out of the bin and make off down the road at speed, slinging my satchel over my shoulder.

‘Stop!’ he yells ‘You … you criminal!’

I shout over my shoulder, feeling the need to correct him.

‘I’m not a criminal – I’m a detective!’







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Away from the bus stop, I take out my notebook. Where to start? Hmm. First I should take another look at the crime scene – the longer I leave it, the more it’ll be contaminated with litter from passing tourists. Time is of the essence. From Hyde Park I can then walk to the Royal Geographical Society – the base for Professor D’Oliveira – on Kensington Gore. My body is tingling, almost light-headed. What is this feeling, I wonder? Then I realise –

Adrenaline! I feel alive!

As I hurry back towards Hyde Park, I have to skirt round crowds of tourists on every corner, stopping to have their pictures taken beside red phone boxes. When I get to the park, I use my best subterfuge to keep out of sight of Dad’s gardeners, most of whom will know me if they spot me.

I cross the grass, rather than taking the main paths, hiding behind trees and shrubs, and only moving when I’m sure the coast is clear. As I reach the scene of the hit-and-run, I take a quick look around. There are plenty of people, but there aren’t any abandoned wheelbarrows or lawnmowers to suggest a gardener is nearby.

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.








(#ulink_f86e0a8d-226a-562e-b2fd-b84e536c3a95)


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 the 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 –




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