Murder at the Museum Read online

  Right: it’s time to go.

  I ease myself off the ridge and slide down the tiles to the edge, where I cautiously stick my right foot out into space until it makes contact with the nearest branch of the ancient oak tree. The left foot joins it. Next comes the scariest moment, when I push off from the roof and have to trust the rest of my body will get across safely … It does, of course – I’ve been climbing up and down this tree since I was ten. With my arms round the trunk, I feel for my next foothold and make my way down to the ground. I’m glad I thought to wear the raincoat, or my clean white shirt would be covered in moss and lichen by now.

  I jump down on to Dad’s immaculately maintained lawn, keeping the oak tree between me and the kitchen window. Dad mustn’t see me. Then, taking a deep breath, I run through our gate and off across the park, into the night.

  Stage one – complete.

  To reach the underground passageways governed by the Gatekeepers’ Guild, first I have to open a grating beside the Serpentine. I step down the short ramp that leads to the dark, caged-off hole and, when I reach the grating, I fish out Dad’s keys and select the correct one. I insert it into the lock – but for some reason I can’t get it to fit neatly and turn. I struggle with it for a while before giving up and sitting down on the dewy ground. What now?

  I hear Hercule Poirot’s voice in my head, with its familiar Belgian accent: ‘Venez, Mademoiselle Oddlow, we won’t let un petit lock stop us at the first ’urdle, n’est-ce pas?’

  Poirot may be a fictional detective, but he’s my inspiration. Why won’t the key turn? Maybe something’s stuck in the mechanism. I get up and inspect the padlock. Sure enough, there’s a pine needle jammed inside. I form pincers with my thumb and forefinger and manage to remove the tiny obstruction. Then I try the key again. This time it turns, and I swing the grating open and crawl through, pulling it shut behind me.

  I shiver, remembering the last time I was down in this dank passageway. The tunnel had been full of toxic red algae, so Liam and I had worn face coverings to filter out the fumes. Even without the stinking slime, it isn’t exactly welcoming.

  I take the head torch from my pocket, turn it on and slide the harness over my head. The bright bulb illuminates a dirty concrete path. There’s a crumbling brick roof that’s far too low for comfort, even for a thirteen-year-old of average height, and I have to crouch. I sigh and begin my uncomfortable passage through the long tunnel. It stretches downwards, taking me ever deeper beneath the ground.

  Despite the vast amount of earth above my head, I divert my thoughts away from images of the ceiling caving in. My palms and knuckles keep scraping on the stone and brick, and my neck aches badly from having to keep my head bent at an awkward angle. My progress is further hampered because I have to stop every so often to rub my aching leg muscles, which aren’t used to staying bent for so long.

  I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until the corridor opens out into a wide cavern, and I find I’m gasping – dragging in oxygen as if I’ve been under water. I laugh at myself – I’ve made the whole journey harder by tensing up and holding my breath! I stretch my back out and give myself a shake. It’s such a relief to be able to stand upright.

  Stage two – complete.

  On the far side of the cavern there’s an iron door covered in rivets, like the entrance to an ancient castle. It’s so rusty that it’s almost the exact shade of the surrounding bricks, making it nearly invisible. Now for the next key: the one I promised Professor D’Oliveira I wouldn’t use.

  I pull the silver chain out from the collar of my shirt and insert the large metal key into the lock. Mum’s key. For a moment, I picture her turning it in secret gates and doors. I feel such a strong link to her when I use it. It turns soundlessly in the well-oiled mechanism. I leave my head torch on the ground, then I push the door open a crack – enough to check for guards, before stepping inside and pulling it closed behind me.

  That was way too easy: the Gatekeepers’ Guild really should increase their security.

  I head down a long, well-lit corridor with a plush, red carpet. After a couple of hundred metres, the carpet gives way to stone as I approach the bike racks. There are hundreds of bicycles here, of all sorts, from high-tech mountain models and off-roaders, to older, more upright models. The Guild own mile upon mile of tunnels, and they prefer to ride through them wherever possible, to save energy and time. For a moment, I try to imagine what type of person owns each model. I spot a large, unwieldy black mountain bike and picture a very severe man in a dark suit. I fix on another one – a pink sparkly, Barbie-doll type – and decide it has probably been borrowed by a parent from their child. I know which one I’m going to use. It belonged to my mum: a baby-blue town bicycle with a basket. The professor promised to keep it here for me.

  But it’s missing.

  I go through the racks, twice, but it’s definitely not here. Has someone taken it? Or is it just being stored somewhere safe? I make a mental note to ask the professor about it. I feel a pang at the absence of what feels like a piece of my mum. It’s only a bicycle, I tell myself. I consider taking another one instead – but that feels more like stealing. I’ll just have to jog.

  I start to run slowly, building up speed until I’m making good progress along the main tunnel. The ground is fairly smooth here – worn down, I suppose, by years of use by the Gatekeepers. At last I spy a smaller passage off to the right, with a sign for the British Museum. I turn into it and soon reach a full-height metal gate.

  Once again, my magic key opens the lock. I step through, close the gate behind me, and abandon my hideous raincoat at the bottom of a short set of stone steps leading up to the museum. At the top, another turn of the key lets me through a wooden door.

  I’m in a tiny room that holds nothing but a long staircase, leading upwards, and I jog up them with ease. My fitness levels are pretty good these days as I’ve been working out a lot over the summer. Before too long I reach what I gauge to be the ground floor. There’s a door with a grimy window. I give it a wipe with my hand, and see I’m just off a large corridor. There’s no one about, so I slip through the door and easily find my way into the main foyer of the museum.

  Stage three – complete.

  I know the layout of the British Museum from the many times Dad has brought me here over the years to see the different exhibits, and I walk quietly but confidently through the public section of the building. I meet no one on the way, but I can hear voices as I approach the area where the murder took place. I walk towards the doorway, careful not to draw attention to myself. As I step over the threshold, I take out my notebook and pen and stand poised at the first display cabinet, as if I’m taking notes on the exhibits. If I’m spotted, I’ll need to have a good cover story.

  Despite my careful planning, I freeze at the sound of a voice quite close, convinced I’ve been seen. But they’re not talking to me.

  ‘So, the piece that’s missing is a clay mug?’

  I glance over at the speaker. It’s a female police officer, with light-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s writing in a notebook.

  The person she’s addressing is a man of about thirty-five, with closely cropped hair and round glasses, which he keeps pushing up his nose. He’s clearly anxious – I can see beads of sweat on his forehead. This nervousness, combined with the expensive cut of his suit, suggests he’s probably a senior official at the museum. No doubt he’d be feeling distressed that one of the museum attendants, a member of his staff, has died at work. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to feel responsible for something like that.

  He clears his throat. ‘That’s right, yes. It’s a strange choice for a burglar.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you see this piece, right beside the gap?’

  I crane my head to get a look but I’m too far away.

  ‘With the lion’s head?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, that is a very fine example of Etruscan pottery. It’s almost pr
iceless. The clay cup … well, that’s not worth much.’

  ‘So you’re saying …’

  ‘I’m saying it’s odd that a burglar would kill for the clay cup. But perhaps he took the wrong artefact …? I still can’t believe one of our own museum attendants is dead!’

  ‘I’m so sorry. This must be very upsetting for you. I’ll try not to keep you much longer. But the more help you can give us, the sooner we can catch the culprit.’

  ‘I understand—’

  ‘Hey! Where did you come from?’ I jump at the voice in my ear and turn to face a male police officer. He frowns. ‘You aren’t supposed to be here.’

  Rookie mistake: I should have kept checking behind me, instead of becoming mesmerised by what was going on in front.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, in an eager voice, ‘I am meant to be here, Officer. I’m here on work experience, and I’ve been in the stores, cataloguing the exoskeletal organisms.’ I have no idea if such a collection exists, but I’m hoping to blindside him with long words.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ He gestures to the display case. I haven’t even taken in the exhibits, but I glance down and see they appear to be fertility statues. I think fast.

  ‘Oh – I finished my work experience tasks for the day and my manager said I could do some of my own work, on my school project – “Fertility rituals of the ancient worlds”.’

  ‘Did you not hear the announcement to evacuate?’

  I shake my head, wearing my most earnest expression. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything. Why … has something happened?’

  ‘Surely someone told you this part of the museum is off-limits?’ He seems entirely bemused by my presence.

  I shake my head again. I need to distract him with a change of topic. Discreetly, I take in as much information as I can, my eyes flicking over his form. There’s not much to go on, because he’s in uniform, but I do find a few clues.

  ‘Do you like dogs?’ I say, thinking on my feet. ‘I love them!’

  His eyes light up. ‘I love dogs too! I have four of my own,’ he says proudly.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘I’d love a dog, but my dad won’t let me have one.’

  His radio crackles and a female voice comes through, issuing instructions. ‘Oh, that’s for me,’ he says. ‘Just get your things and go home.’

  ‘OK … thanks! I hope my school teacher won’t mind too much if I’m late with my project.’

  ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Don’t forget your coat,’ he says, pointing to a door marked STAFF ONLY. As long as he’s watching, I can’t head back the way I came in, so I obediently go the way he indicates.

  It takes me into another hallway, with another set of stairs leading down. I run down to the basement, wondering if there might be some way back to the tunnel from here. At the bottom there’s a door.

  I push it open.

  I step inside and quickly shut the door behind me. I’m in darkness and I fumble for a moment before finding the light switch. My nostrils fill with the smell of damp stone.

  The single bulb flickers and then comes on; it sheds barely enough light to see by, and casts weird shadows around the room.

  The basement itself is ordinary enough – concrete floor and ceiling, with three walls also made of concrete. The fourth wall, facing me, is made of brick and looks older. There are several sets of metal shelves against the walls, stacked with a variety of cleaning products – sponges and mops, buckets and basins, bottles of bleach and disinfectant. There’s only one other object in the room, over in the far corner.

  It’s as big as a bear, and so blackened with age it takes me a minute to work out what it is – a boiler, old and long retired. It was probably left here because it was too much trouble to dismantle it and lug it up the narrow stairs. The squatting lump of metal is knuckled with rivets and valves. There are several water pipes leading up from it, but these have been chopped off, and now stop short of the ceiling.

  I sniff the air. Not just damp, but the scent of bleach. This could be from the army of mop buckets down here, but the smell is strong and fresh. By the light of the single, naked light bulb, I look around at the floor, then crouch to run my finger over it. Dust – lots of it.

  Over in the corner, by the old boiler, the floor is darker. I walk over. Yes – the concrete here has been scrubbed recently and is still damp. Why would someone clean this patch but not the rest of the room?

  In my mind’s eye, I conjure up a Polaroid camera. It appears in front of me, hovering in the air. I hold the imaginary camera steady, and start to take some snaps of the room. Each photo scrolls lazily out of a slot on the camera and develops from black to a colour image. When I’ve taken enough pictures, I file them away in my memory.

  Now for my next job. I fish out the plastic vial and use the cotton bud to swab the floor. I could be wrong, but I have a funny feeling about this wet patch. So I place the swab safely back inside the vial for analysis in Brianna’s secret lab.

  Then I step up to the disused boiler. It’s covered in dust and clearly hasn’t been used in a very long time. The pipes are cut off, so it can’t have leaked. Why would anyone need to clean up here?

  Peering into the darkness behind the boiler, I can’t make anything out. On my keyring I have a tiny torch, which my dad gave me last Christmas as a stocking filler, so I point it into the darkness. There isn’t much there, although … I peer more closely. Yes! It looks like there could be a hole in the wall! I can’t see into it from this angle, but the back of the boiler is completely free from dust. It seems as though someone’s been crawling around in this area.

  There’s only one thing for it. Clamping the torch between my teeth, I shuffle forward and crouch down until I’m fully enclosed inside the cramped space. I can see it now, just as I suspected – a hole in the brick wall, big enough for a grown human being to fit through. Looking down at the dirty floor, I can just make out a boot print. Someone has definitely been through here recently!

  Steeling myself, I start to crawl forward. My keyring torch doesn’t do much to illuminate the space, but by moving the beam around I can see tunnel walls opening up. I wish I hadn’t left my powerful head torch in the cavern under the Serpentine.

  As I go through the underground passage, the brick surface changes, first to something like concrete, then to a material resembling bedrock, chipped away roughly with a chisel or a small pickaxe. There are no signs of activity here, and it’s completely silent. I continue, slightly crouched, but hurrying along.

  After about thirty metres, the corridor begins to slope down and, a little further on, the space starts to open out once again. Here, the walls are lined with brick, as the rough-hewn tunnel gives way to a carefully built structure, like a Victorian sewer. Thankfully, this is much cleaner and drier, though!

  I carry on, now able to stand up fully, holding the torch in front of me like a miniature shield. Its beam isn’t strong enough to fully light the way, and the area ahead looks especially dark and unwelcoming. Until this moment, I’ve been caught up in the chase. Now, though, I’m suddenly aware of my own smallness. What, or who, might I find down here?

  I hesitate. I think of Dad, and my cosy room under the eaves of the cottage.

  Then Hercule Poirot speaks to me in the darkness: ‘Ma chère Agathe, you have stumbled upon un petit mystère, non? You are not going to turn back now?’

  Too right I’m not. I push on.

  Twenty more steps and the space opens out into an even wider passage. Here, my tiny light seems brighter than it did in the brick section, because the walls around me are lined with white ceramic tiles which despite being grimy still manage to reflect a little of the beam back towards me. The pale expanse is broken up by bands of tiles in a dark colour, burgundy perhaps, or purple – it’s hard to tell in this light under the layers of dirt. But there’s something very familiar about them. It takes me a while to realise what it is, out of context as they are.

  Of course! These a
re the tiles used across London to line the walls of Tube stations! In the days when many Londoners couldn’t read, the patterns were used to signal the different stations.

  Over the last few years, I’ve travelled through almost all the stations on the Tube map, except for some of the ones further out. I’ve taken mental pictures of all the tile designs, and I call them to mind now. The pictures appear in front of me as Polaroids, stuck with brass pins to a corkboard that’s hanging on the wall.

  I check through all of them quickly, but can’t identify the particular arrangement of tiles I’m seeing now – the two burgundy bands separated by a band of white. I turn away from the images.

  This is a conundrum – a Tube station which is not a Tube station, right in the heart of London.

  I walk a little further, my footsteps echoing back at me. Glancing down, I see dust swirling around my feet. The tunnel is thickly carpeted in a grey lint, which has settled and collected over many years. But I’m not the first person to walk here recently. There are footprints, though how many sets it’s difficult to tell because they keep to a track, like when someone walks through snow along the same path that someone else has already trodden down. I think about walking in that track myself, to disguise the fact I’ve been here, but it’s too late – I’ve already left my prints behind me. A little further down the corridor, I get my first confirmation that this underground building is indeed a Tube station, albeit an unused one – a faded, much-torn poster advertising Ovaltine is pasted to a curved billboard set into the wall.

  The poster looks old – very old by the style of font and the watercolour illustration of a woman holding a steaming mug in front of her. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s from the 1930s or ’40s, and was put up sometime during the Second World War. But why is it still here? Why was this Tube station abandoned? I walk on, turning this way then that through the empty tiled corridors, and find my answer.