Murder at the Museum
It takes an almost Herculean effort to make it up the stairs. I have to stop partway up because my calves are aching badly. I bend over, panting and rubbing my legs, convinced my tracker will reach me. Then the area below lights up from their torch, and that’s enough of an incentive to send me climbing again, up and up, above the roof of the tunnel.
Finally, the spiral staircase ends. I see a small iron door in front of me; I put my Guild key into the lock; and, just as my pursuer’s foot sounds on the bottom rung of the metal staircase, I step through the door, out into the cold night air, and shut the door firmly behind me, panting loudly.
The moon is bright and full, showing me that the door is set into a stone embankment, near the Serpentine lake. I’m not far from home and I don’t have time to stand around. After taking a second to get my bearings, I race away across the lawns, into the night.
Usually, when getting home late, I climb back up the oak tree and in through the skylight. But there’s no way my legs will cope with that tonight. Plus, it’s so late that all the lights are off in the cottage. Dad must be in bed. I don’t want to spend any more time outside than I need to, not when somebody might still be tailing me. So I take out my house keys and, as quietly as possible, go in through the front door.
I collapse in the hallway, leaning against the front door and breathing heavily. The excitement of the evening, and the chase through the tunnels, have worn me out. But my mind’s as alert as ever, buzzing with ideas and theories, with images from the museum and the underground station.
I decide to get myself a glass of milk. Maybe that will help me get to sleep. There’s no point in me staying up all night, trying to solve a case where I don’t have all the facts. I will wake up rested tomorrow and start again, with Liam and Brianna to help me.
It’s dark in the kitchen, but I don’t want to turn the light on. The moon’s shining through the window and it’s just about enough to see by. I open the fridge, letting out a refreshing blast of cold air. I take out the milk, close the door, and turn towards the cupboard, where the glasses are kept.
As I do, I jump, so startled that I drop the carton of milk on the floor.
There’s someone standing in the corner of the kitchen, waiting silently in the shadows.
I stumble away, pressing my back to the work surface. Without taking my eyes off the intruder, I feel for a knife in the knife block. But my silent companion doesn’t move. I focus hard on their outline. There’s something not quite right about this person.
Walking over, I flick the light on.
For a few seconds, I’m blinded. But then I can see what startled me – one of Dad’s old suits. It’s hanging on a coat hanger from a hook on the wall, a double-breasted jacket over the trousers below. This is a particularly offensive article from Dad’s wardrobe: double-breasted brown twill with mustard pinstripes. Someone should have been arrested for creating this suit. And someone should definitely arrest Dad for wearing it. Knowing him, he’ll probably team it with a mustard shirt and his favourite green tie. I love him dearly, but his fashion sense could do with some help.
Dad said he had to visit another gardener in the morning, but why would he be putting on a suit to visit an orchid specialist? Especially a suit he hasn’t worn in years – a suit which, though it’s hard to believe, he thinks is very flattering. I walk up to the offending outfit and tentatively sniff it, and the smell it gives off confirms my suspicion – this suit has recently been dry-cleaned. It looks smart: pressed and lint-rolled of even the slightest speck of dust. Who is Dad trying to impress?
I pour myself a glass of milk, replace the carton in the fridge, turn out the light, and begin my weary climb to bed. I navigate my way upstairs, avoiding the creaky steps. I’m conscious that I’m still wearing my disguise and am now streaked with grime from the dirty tunnels through which I’ve been running and crawling. If Dad were to see me now, like this, his suspicions would certainly be raised.
Dad knows I love investigating, but I think he imagines that I’m out looking for people’s lost cats, or watching for shoplifters at the corner store. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, but I have bigger fish to fry. Dad doesn’t know about these bigger fish: about the Guild, or about the work they do, protecting the capital from the plots of dangerous, greedy people.
Which is for the best really.
I can hear Dad snoring loudly as I climb the stairs. At the top, a sudden ‘Meow!’ makes me freeze. Oliver has come to welcome me. He purrs loudly and pushes his stocky body against my legs.
‘Shhh, Oliver!’ I scoop him up with the arm that isn’t carrying the milk and let him drape himself round my neck. It’s far too warm for this, but I love feeling his vibrating purr. I wait for a moment, to make sure Dad’s still snoring, then creep up the flight of wooden steps to my attic bedroom.
I set Oliver down gently on the floor and look around me. Everything is laid out as I left it, but it seems like I’ve been gone for so much longer than a few hours – as though I left yesterday, or a week ago.
Adventure is a bit like that – you feel as though you’ve been moving very fast, and the rest of the world has been moving very slowly, and you can’t quite believe that it’s still Wednesday, or whatever day of the week it is, because it seems like you’ve lived a week – a month, a year! – in a short space of time. I suppose I like this feeling a bit too much – I rely on the adrenaline rush to keep my life from getting dull – but I try not to worry about that.
I go over to sit on my bed and sip at the glass of milk. I wonder if Mum ever felt like this, when she was a Gatekeeper. You don’t get into this line of work if you don’t like excitement – if you don’t thrive on risk. Did she worry that one day her escapades would get her into serious danger? Or did she live her life from day to day, not worrying about what tomorrow would bring? I look over at her photo on my bedside table.
Looking at this picture usually makes me feel sad or wistful, similar perhaps to what I’d feel if I was looking at a picture of a house that I used to live in – a happy memory. But, tonight, I don’t feel sad or wistful.
I feel angry.
I decide to analyse this new response. I run through what I know – and don’t know – surrounding her death:
1. Whatever happened to Mum, it wasn’t a bike accident.
2. I have a hunch that her death was linked to her work as a Gatekeeper.
3. Someone’s covered up what actually happened – could it have been the Guild?
I realise my new anger is because I’ve just had a close encounter with someone who almost certainly belonged to the organisation. I feel something close to rage at whoever caused Mum’s death – but also at whoever hid the truth from Dad and me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing until I’ve calmed down enough to turn the rage into determination.
‘I will find out what happened to you, Mum,’ I promise her photo.
Finally, with no energy left to think or feel, I get under the covers, drink the last of my milk (thinking how Mum would have scolded me for not brushing my teeth) and turn the light out. Just before I drift off, I remember the swab that will need analysing. I grab my mobile, switch it on, and send Brianna a text, asking if I can go over to hers the next morning. Then I let sleep pull me under its thick surface.
I wake up late and check my mobile. Brianna replied at about 2am.
Sure. Come over whenever
I don’t know what she was doing up in the early hours, but I guess I’ll find out when I see her.
I pull on my dressing gown and head down to the kitchen. Dad and the brown twill suit have both gone. He’s left me a note:
Gone to that meeting I mentioned.
May be back late.
Help yourself to croissants.
Croissants are my favourite. I’m just cynical enough to suspect he’s done something wrong – or is planning to do it – if he’s buying me my favourite breakfast food. This doesn’t stop me accepting it, though. I eat a croissant, down a glass of orange juice, then go up for a shower before getting dressed. I choose one of my mum’s floral shirt dresses over a pair of jeans. I add a wide black belt to cinch in the dress, and top off the ensemble with a denim jacket. I love wearing Mum’s things – it makes me feel closer to her. I toughen up the look with my Doc Martens boots.
I stuff a couple of croissants in my jacket pockets and munch on another as I head across Hyde Park towards Cadogan Place. It’s quicker to walk to Brianna’s than take public transport. It’s close to noon, and the air is muggy for early September, but the light is glorious, gilding the trees.
I turn into Sloane Street, the home of super-expensive designer shops like Louis Vuitton and Chanel. Brightly coloured flags fly outside the embassies for Denmark, Peru and the Faroes. A black cab driver has got out of his vehicle next to the Danish embassy. He’s on his knees, unwinding what looks like a long piece of black plastic bin liner from one of his back wheels. I recognise him as one of the drivers from the taxi rank outside the park.
‘Hi, Aleksy!’ I call.
‘Hi, Agatha. Just look at this mess. I wish people weren’t so careless with their rubbish,’ he says. ‘This could affect my brakes if I don’t get it all out.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, that’s all right, thanks. No point both of us getting filthy.’
‘OK, if you’re sure. Good luck!’
‘Thanks!’
I leave him and continue my walk. I demolish the last croissant at the corner of Brianna’s road, and dust the pastry flakes off my hands.
When I reach the grand townhouse on Cadogan Place, Brianna throws open the door. She couldn’t look less like a CC these days: there’s not a trace of the over-manicured mannequin that Liam and I loved to hate, before we got to know her. The CCs are the Chic Clique, a group of annoying, wealthy, smug girls, all with identical long blonde hair, thick make-up and manicured nails, that go to my school. Brianna’s hair – which has been dyed a brilliant sky blue, cut to chin length and then shaved on one side – is sticking up messily at the back, and her black eyeliner is smudged, giving her panda eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.
‘Fantastic shade of blue!’ I say, ruffling her already ruffled hair, and she grins and gives me a hug.
‘Thanks! Thought it made a change from last week’s pink.’ She pulls back to look at me. ‘I love the dress. Another one of your mum’s?’
I nod, happily, and follow her as she leads the way to the study, where she seems to spend most of her time.
‘Have you slept at all?’ I ask as I follow her through the massive, marble-paved hallway. ‘You look shattered.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m doing research into how long a person can survive on no sleep.’
‘Really? How long have you managed so far?’
She squints blearily at her watch. ‘Ummm … something like thirty hours?’ She sounds unsure.
‘Isn’t sleep deprivation one of the ways they torture people?’
She grins ‘Yeah. But it’s a bit different when you’re safely at home.’
I’m confused. ‘So how does this fit with you wanting to be a forensic scientist?’
She shrugs. ‘I want to get inside the heads of criminals, so I’m trying out a few torture methods on myself.’ She sees the look of alarm on my face and quickly adds, ‘Just the easy, painless ones – a dripping tap, sleep deprivation, that kind of thing.’
‘Your mum and dad are away again?’ I ask.
‘Do you need to ask?’
Her parents (or ‘seniors’, as she calls them) are always travelling to glamorous locations, leaving Brianna in the care of her rather careless and frequently absent older brother.
‘Missed you at the cinema,’ I say. ‘It was a good one.’
‘Yeah – Liam said. But I had way too much to do.’ She leads me through to the study, where I stop in surprise at the sight of Liam. He’s sitting in a chair at the desk, leaning back with his feet up. His face breaks into a beam when I enter, and he gets up and hurries over.
‘Hey – great to see you.’
‘So, this is why I’m here …’ I begin.
‘You mean it’s not just for the pleasure of my company?’ says Brianna, pouting.
‘Stop doing that with your face,’ I tease her. ‘You remind me of when you were in the CCs – all fake pouts and baby voices.’
She shudders. ‘Don’t. I can’t bear to remember it. Was I awful?’
‘Awfully awful,’ I tell her gravely. ‘You’re lucky you’ve got me and Liam now to keep you grounded.’
‘Did you hear about the horrible thing Sarah’s done to me?’ she asks. She means Sarah Rathbone – queen of the CCs and her ex-best friend, of course.
‘No, what’s happened this time?’
‘She’s posted awful pics of me again, all over Instagram. She’s Photoshopped them, so I look like I’ve got really bad acne.’ She hands me her phone, and Liam and I study the pictures. Brianna looks quite different when she’s covered in pimples.
After a moment, Liam nods approvingly. ‘That’s pretty skilled work. It must’ve taken ages to make the spots look authentic.’ Brianna doesn’t seem offended.
‘Oh – she had help. She’s got a cousin who’s really good at editing photos.’
I hand back the phone. ‘So why is she doing it this time?’
Brianna is trying to look nonchalant, but I can see it’s hurt her. ‘Just part of her ongoing campaign to humiliate me.’ She shrugs. ‘For deserting the posse.’
‘Nice,’ I say, pulling a face.
‘At least it confirms I made the right move, leaving the CCs,’ she says.
‘I heard they were holding auditions for your replacement,’ says Liam. ‘Wasn’t there some girl who bleached her hair because she was so desperate to get in?’
‘Yeah, Cherry-Belle McLaughlin – you know, the footballer’s daughter.’
‘The one with all that long black hair?’
Brianna pulls a face. ‘Not any more. Now it’s bright orange and she’s having treatment to try and stop it breaking from the bleach damage.’
‘Ouch!’ I say, and Liam nods in agreement. There’s a word, Schadenfreude, which basically means taking pleasure in other people’s pain or misery. As the year’s ‘misfits’, ‘geeks’ or whatever you want to call us (I prefer ‘mavericks’), we’ve been on the receiving end of far too much Schadenfreude to relish other people’s misfortune.
‘So,’ says Liam, pointedly changing the subject, ‘how did you get on at the museum?’
‘OK.’ I pat my pockets. ‘I’ve got a swab sample I’m hoping Brianna will analyse for me.’ I produce the vial containing the cotton bud.
‘Where did you take it?’
After I fill them in about what happened at the British Museum, Liam makes a low whistling sound of admiration. I feel myself blush.
‘So you really did manage to get in then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s our girl,’ says Brianna. She yawns and stretches. ‘Not sure how much longer I can stay awake, by the way,’ she says apologetically. She checks her watch and makes a note in an open exercise book. ‘Thirty-one and a half hours,’ she murmurs.
‘Did you use the Gatekeepers’ key to get in?’ Liam asks me. I frown a warning at him: we’re not supposed to talk about the Guild in front of Brianna. ‘You know you’re going to get murdered if the professor finds out.’
But Brianna doesn’t seem to be listening. She’s walked over to a light switch near the bookcases on the back wall of the study. She flicks the switch casing open and presses a keypad. A section of the bookcase swings back. I never tire of seeing this: it’s such a classic secret-room device. If I ever envy Brianna, it’s not for her huge house, nor for the library (and I do mean an actual library, in its own room, with a high-up reading area like a balcony) – but for her secret room filled with all the paraphernalia a detective could ever dream of. She’s collected so many gadgets and chemical testing kits in her private lab over the years, as long as she’s been dreaming of becoming a forensic scientist. I feel pretty lucky to have got to know her – not just for her gadgets but for our shared love of all things investigative.
But while we’ve been distracted by the bookcase, Brianna has slumped against the wall, her eyes closed. ‘Sorry, but I need to sleep now,’ she murmurs. ‘Can we do this later?’
‘Of course,’ I say. I drag one of the curve-back study chairs over to her side and Liam helps me manoeuvre her into it. He finds a blanket in another room and drapes it over her.
Once we’re satisfied she’s comfortable, we walk inside the secret lab. Liam hasn’t been in here before and he stops on the threshold, taking in the extraordinary sight. It’s just how I have remembered it. Metal shelving fills the walls, and there are all sorts of tools and equipment on every shelf, including test tubes, pipettes, Petri dishes and bell jars. I walk past Liam, running my hand along a row of bottles containing various substances arranged in alphabetical order from acetic acid to zinc. I take mental pictures of all the supplies – just in case I ever need something.
In the centre of the room there’s a stainless-steel table furnished with a Bunsen burner. I’m itching to set the flame alight, but I hold back. It’s not mine, and I should really wait for another day when I can ask Brianna whether I can come and try out some experiments.
‘This place is amazing!’ says Liam.
‘I know. I wish I had one.’
‘Hey – at least she’s willing to share it.’
‘True.’
We’re silent for a moment, studying the room. Then Liam says quietly – not for the first time, ‘Brianna’s not at all what I expected.’
‘I know. She’s not all about her Instagram image at all.’
Reluctantly, I take a final look around the room of sleuthing treasures. ‘OK – better close this up, I guess – I don’t feel like I should use the equipment to test the swab without her.’
We come back out and close the bookcase, and I place the vial on the mantelpiece, with a page torn from my notebook propped up behind it, bearing the words Please test me!
‘OK,’ says Liam, ‘shall I walk you to the Tube?’
I laugh. ‘It’s broad daylight, in a built-up area – I’m pretty sure I don’t need an escort. But we can walk together if you like.’
We head out of Brianna’s house, making sure the front door latches properly behind us. The street is quiet as we walk towards the Underground station, and the air has become even more muggy, as if Liam has draped a blanket over not just Brianna, but the whole of London too. When we get to the Tube, he gives me a quick wave.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he says.
My heart sinks. School! How will I ever do the Trial when I’m stuck in a classroom all day?
I watch him walk off to his bus stop. I know his walk so well, I could pick him out in any crowd: swift and eager, as if there’s always something good round the next corner.
I don’t go home. I’m due at my martial arts lesson with Mr Zhang. I’m not sure why I haven’t told Liam about these lessons. After all, he knows pretty much everything about my life. If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably just that I want to be much more proficient before I share it with him. At the moment, I’m little more than a beginner. Vanity affects us all to some degree, I guess.
This is a new pursuit for me, which was suggested by Professor D’Oliveira. Actually, ‘suggested’ is too gentle a verb. Her exact words were: ‘If you’re going to be running about London like a headstrong fool, you’ll need some decent skills.’ I’d bridled at that. I had plenty of skills, many of which she still knew nothing about.
Still, she’d given me Mr Zhang’s card and said to tell him Dorothy had sent me.
The martial arts gym (called a dojo) is beneath Mr Zhang’s restaurant – the Black Bamboo – in the Soho area of central London, which he runs with the help of his granddaughter, Bai.
I open the wooden door and step inside. Bai is sitting on a stool at the bar, surrounded by textbooks. She fits working at the restaurant around her law studies. Bai stands politely to greet me. She is tall and slender – she always reminds me of a silver birch tree; her hair is long, and today she’s wearing it knotted at the nape of her neck. She’s dressed in a silky sheath dress with an all-over print of poppies.
‘Hi, Bai. You look lovely.’
She smiles. ‘Hi, Agatha. Thank you. I love your dress! You can change into your gi in the back room.’
Bai gestures for me to go through a curtain made from vertical strips of coloured plastic. It leads to a tiny room at the back, where I quickly remove my dress and jeans and don my white gi, which I’ve brought in my backpack. I fold my clothes and place them on a chair, with my boots underneath. I stop for a second to study a symbol framed on the wall above the chair.
I know it’s the symbol for biang biang noodles. Mr Zhang has explained that it is one of the hardest symbols to write in the Chinese language. The story goes that the symbol was invented by a poor scholar who didn’t have any money to pay for his bowl of biang, so he offered the cook a symbol to advertise his dish. It’s so complicated that there’s still no way to type it on computers or phones. Luckily, there’s a mnemonic for writing it by hand. Mr Zhang taught it to me:
Roof rising up to the sky,
Over two bends by Yellow River’s side.
Character eight’s opening wide,
Speech enters inside.
You twist, I twist too,
You grow, I grow with you,
Inside, a horse king will rule.
Heart down below,
Moon by the side,
Leave a hook for fried dough to hang low,
On our carriage to Xianyang we’ll ride.
I leave the room and descend a set of red-tiled stairs to the basement. Back underground, where I belong, I think to myself, with a wry smile. I seem to be spending all my life in basements and tunnels at the moment.
Mr Zhang is waiting for me when I open the door. He is dressed in a black suit – his gi – and his grey hair is scraped back from his face and fixed in place with what look like chopsticks. Mr Zhang frequently loses personal items such as his glasses, his house keys, or the special sticks he uses to hold his hair in place. One time when I came, he was hunting for a pen, and I had to point out that he had two in his hair. For a true master of his trade, Mr Zhang can be surprisingly flaky.
We bow to one another and I approach him, barefoot, across the wooden floor. I would love to say that Mr Zhang lunges at me and I defend myself with a skilful move, throwing him halfway across the room – but my lessons aren’t like that. Instead, he instructs me to work through the ‘forms’ he’s taught me so far – the sequences of movements which will, eventually, lead to more complex skills.
When I finish, there is a long silence.
‘You have been practising these forms?’
‘Yes.’ I have been doing them every morning and evening throughout the holidays. I only forgot last night and this morning, with all the excitement of the new case.
‘Hmmm.’
I stand and wait for his judgement.
At last, he clears his throat and says, ‘We will take some tea.’
He leads me to a little table, at which we each take a seat, and he pours jasmine tea from a decorative pot into small matching cups without handles, like tiny bowls. All of the china at the Black Bamboo features the same pattern: a delicate, sketch-like outline of bamboo canes and leaves on a white background. I love the way the tiny cup feels in my hand – smooth, warm and fragile, like a soon-to-hatch egg.