Murder at the Museum Page 7

  ‘But . . isn’t the Eden Project in Cornwall?’

  ‘Yes . . but, look – I haven’t even been offered the job yet,’ Dad protests, looking guilty. ‘They said they’d get back to me in the next day or two.’

  For a moment, my head is too full of thoughts for me to respond. If Dad takes the job, it would mean moving away from my friends, away from the Guild … Cornwall might be lovely, with its sandy beaches and palm trees, but leaving London would mean an end to my life as I know it.

  There are a thousand reasons why I don’t want to leave the capital, but one keeps coming back to me.

  London is Mum’s city.

  This is where she was born, where she lived, where she died, and now where she’s buried. I have to stay here, to be close to her.

  ‘I just – I wish you’d told me this was going on,’ I say, rather lamely.

  Dad looks sheepish. ‘I was always going to tell you. I thought the interview would go terribly, anyway. I was only going to go out of curiosity.’

  ‘So the second interview went well?’

  ‘I didn’t say that! They were nice … Oh, I don’t know.’ He runs his hands through his hair until it stands up all over. ‘This could be a fantastic opportunity for me. What do you want me to say?’ His voice is almost pleading.

  ‘That you have no intention of taking the job. That we’re not moving to Cornwall. That I’m not going to have to leave my friends behind.’ Tears are streaming down my face and my voice is coming in gulps. I push back my chair and stand up. ‘I – I’m going up to my room. I’ll come and get my pizza when it’s ready.’

  I retreat upstairs, feeling bewildered and powerless. I can’t open up and tell Dad about the Guild, and all that it might mean for my life – and for finding out how Mum died. My mind is churning, and I just lie on the bed, staring up through the skylight, unable to stop thinking about it all.

  After a while – I have no idea how long – there’s a soft knock on my door.

  ‘Aggie?’

  ‘Come in.’

  Dad pushes open the door. ‘I’ve brought your hot chocolate up – it was going cold.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I sit up and he hands me the mug.

  ‘Pizza’ll be done in a few minutes,’ he says. He stands awkwardly for a moment, then picks up the clothes from the chair by my bed, looks around for somewhere to put them, gives up and piles them on the floor. He sits down.

  ‘Look, Aggie – I didn’t mean to spring this on you …’

  ‘Will you take it? The job?’

  ‘I don’t know. It would be a big step up in my career. They want to train me up as senior management.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great.’ I smile, but it’s weak. ‘Dad … on the day, you know, when Mum …’ I leave it unspoken; it’s still hard to say the word died – ‘I was just wondering what they told you – what the police told you, I mean.’

  Dad shakes his head sadly. ‘What’s brought this on again, love?’

  I hesitate. ‘It’s just – if we’re going to be moving away from Mum …’

  He nods. ‘I understand. But I’ve told you everything I know, Aggie – what the police said to me; what the paramedics said to me; what the witnesses said to me …’

  I sigh, knowing this is true – Dad’s remembered and recounted everything he knows. But, somehow, I can’t help going back to it. All I want is to gain access to the Guild files on Mum’s death, because I know there’s something going on, and I know someone is keeping information from me. Once I’ve become an agent, I should be granted access to the file rooms, including any files there might be on Mum – including the case she was working on when she died. Waiting to get access to those files is driving me crazy. Once the Trial is over—

  ‘I just worry, love, that you’re going over things too much.’ Dad breaks my train of thought. ‘It’s not healthy. It won’t bring her back.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m trying to do.’

  He pats me on the knee. ‘Just try to let it go.’ He stands up. ‘I’ll see to those pizzas.’

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry for how I reacted about your job.’

  ‘That’s all right, love. I don’t blame you – it’s quite a bolt from the blue, isn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘So do you think they’ll offer it to you?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Let’s wait and see, before we start to panic, shall we?’

  I smile and nod. ‘Are you going to watch your gardening show?’

  ‘Or we could eat together up here instead, if you like?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, that’s fine. Just my pizza, please.’

  He salutes smartly. ‘Aye, aye, ma’am!’

  I stick my tongue out at him and he laughs. Five minutes later, I’m sitting on my bed, tucking into a margherita pizza with black olives, and Dad’s downstairs, watching TV.

  I glance over at Mum’s photo. ‘Isn’t it funny how food can make you feel better?’ I ask her. She smiles and I toast her with my empty mug.

  Several hours later, I pad softly downstairs to the kitchen to make myself another mug of hot chocolate. (Whatever people say, I don’t think you can have too much of a good thing.) Dad’s sitting in the living room, with the telly still on, and he doesn’t hear me opening the fridge for the milk. I’m quite glad to be alone with my thoughts. I decide that I’ll make a list of positives about moving to Cornwall, just in case. So far, the list only has two points:

  1. More sunshine

  2. Less pollution

  I’ve heard there’s an island off Cornwall where cars aren’t even allowed, only bicycles. Perhaps we could live there – it would be like living in a different time period, which I’ve always dreamed about.

  I finish making my drink, wash up the pan and creep back upstairs. I place the mug on my bedside table and lie back down on my bed while I wait for the cocoa to cool. That’s when I spot it: a square of white on the other side of my skylight that I’m sure wasn’t there before. It looks like an envelope … It shines as brightly in the moonlight as if it had a spotlight trained on it. For a moment, I can neither move nor take my eyes from it. Finally, I find the willpower to act. I stand on the bed, open the skylight, and haul myself out just far enough to grasp the paper. I drop back inside and close the window.

  I sit on the end of my bed and turn the envelope over, slowly and cautiously, as though it’s a venomous creature that might bite. I smell it to check for traces of poison, but it just smells of bleach and ink. It’s a fine-quality envelope, made from densely woven fibres. The name on the envelope – and it’s only a name, no address – is neither mine nor Dad’s, but that of Felicity Lemon.

  Could this be the second test in the Trial? I’ll just have to put my Cornwall list on hold for now.

  I clear a space on my cluttered desk, pushing aside a plastic replica of a human skull (filled with pencils), several vinyl LPs from Camden Market, a Perspex box containing the dissected contents of an owl pellet, and a thick Victorian tome on the subject of blood-spatter patterns.

  At last, I rip the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper, with a list of nine email addresses typed on it in black ink. Helvetica font, I note. A bit old-fashioned, but nothing special.

  1. Samantha Octavius – soctavius@twofatladies.net

  2. Matt Parlance – matty@talktoomuch.au

  3. Samantha Helix – samh@andshout.com

  4. Alan Gardener – agardener@flourish.org

  5. Majid Mustang – maj@hihosilver.org

  6. Janice Corona – janco@overhead.com

  7. Alice Selena – ally@crescent.com

  8. Stanislav Hasp – stan@captainjames.net

  9. Emmeline Jaunt – emmybean@fairground.co.uk

  I scan the list several times, and realise this is a fairly simple cipher, at least to begin with. There’s something in the name and something in its corresponding email address that together point to a word. In the case of Stanislav Hasp, for example, the surname is another word for a hook; and the
Captain James in his email address could refer to Captain James Cook, the explorer, or maybe Captain James T. Kirk, but I’m sure that it refers to Captain James Hook, from Peter Pan. So both the name and the email address are pointing me in the direction of one word – ‘hook’.

  The other eight are the same.

  By the end, I’ve listed nine words. The last one to give me trouble is Samantha Octavius, until I remember that Octavius is from the Latin word ‘octo’, which means ‘eight’, and ‘two fat ladies’ refers to the bingo call for the number ‘eighty-eight’, so the answer is simply ‘eight’.

  So now I have my list of words – eight, speech, twist, grow, horse, heart, moon, hook, ride.

  Here is where things get difficult. Finding the words was a little tricky in places, but really no more difficult than doing the cryptic crossword in a Saturday newspaper. Figuring out what the sequence of words means, however, is totally different. I stare at my notebook. Have I seen these words before? There’s something at the back of my head, something that I can’t quite grasp. This is what it’s like sometimes with solving clues. It’s as though another part of my brain has the answer, but doesn’t want to give it up.

  I close my eyes and Change Channel, picturing the words on a blackboard above my head. Then the words go fuzzy and I hear someone speaking them. The voice is Mr Zhang’s. My eyes flick open.

  I’ve come across this sequence of words before, and not that long ago. They’re from the mnemonic poem for drawing the symbol for biang biang noodles! I run through the poem in my head.

  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.

  Biang biang noodles are an unusual dish, and there aren’t many places that make them. Luckily (though perhaps not surprisingly), the Black Bamboo claims to serve the best biang in this hemisphere. It was there that I first saw the complicated Chinese symbol – so where else could the riddle be wanting me to go?

  It’s late, but there will still be people in the streets. If someone is following me, I’d rather not stand out. Quickly I change into a neat black sweater and black leggings. I tuck my chin-length hair into a black cap. I’ll probably be a bit warm, but at least I’ll look nondescript.

  A quick check in the mirror, and then I make for the skylight. The night is cooler than I expected, and a slight breeze whips around me. I’d forgotten how tired I was until now, balancing on the roof, making for the tree. My body aches from my run through the tunnels the night before last, but it moves on autopilot as I start to climb down the branches. I’m so full of adrenaline that I can’t think of anything but the riddle, and getting to Soho as quickly as possible.

  I reach the ground and, silently, with my back to the house, start to run across the lawns, out into the darkness of Hyde Park. I settle into a jog and keep up a steady pace, out of the park gates and on into the night.

  The streets are quiet and London has an almost deserted feeling as I push on through Soho and finally come within sight of the Black Bamboo. There are no lights on in the shops and cafés on either side of the restaurant, but through the misty glass of the restaurant I can see a lamp is still lit. I hurry over to the door, taking in everything in the window: the red and gold decorations, the pictures of cats happily waving, and there, in the cards showing the various dishes, the symbol for biang.

  I hesitate before knocking on the door, running over the riddle in my head, in case I’ve missed anything. I’m sure this is where I was meant to come, but what if I was supposed to bring something with me? Or knock on the door a certain number of times? I can’t think of anything, but, just to be certain, I knock on the door nine times, like the nine clues in the riddle.

  After a brief wait, I see a shadow moving in the gloom behind the glass, then the unmistakable form of Mr Zhang unlocking the door, sliding bolts and removing chains. The door opens inward and he’s standing there, silhouetted in the light, a small smile playing on his lips. I’m a little out of breath, but Mr Zhang is perfectly still. He’s clearly happy that I’m here, but his head is tilted, as if he wants to hear something specific from me. There is only one thing that I can think to ask:

  ‘I’d like a bowl of biang biang noodles … do you have any?’

  The small smile breaks into a full grin, and Mr Zhang seems to breathe a sigh of relief. When he remembers himself, he nods seriously, steps back from the doorway and ushers me into the empty restaurant. The chairs are up on the tables, and there’s the smell of floor cleaner in the air. Perched on a stool behind the counter is Bai, in her dressing gown, and yawning widely.

  ‘You made it!’ she calls. I wave and she waves back.

  Wordlessly, Mr Zhang points to a table, so I go over and sit down, while he disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen. Now that I’m further into the restaurant, I can smell, not just floor cleaner, but something else – a rich, brothy smell. Something is already simmering away, ready for me.

  I listen to the sounds of Mr Zhang working in the kitchen, though these are sparse. There’s no clattering of pots and pans when you’re a trained martial arts master: everything is graceful and controlled. Bai just sits on her stool and grins at me. Her gaze makes me fidgety. Is she waiting for me to do something?

  ‘Should I …?’ I begin to ask aloud, but Bai just grins more widely for a moment and puts a finger to her lips. She shakes her head.

  No talking then. OK.

  I sit in the darkened restaurant, stomach rumbling a little at the delicious smells that are snaking out of the kitchen, but my mind is fully focused on the test. I’m so restless, waiting to discover the next part, waiting to find out if I pass, that I’m practically squirming in my chair.

  After what seems like at least half an hour, but is only ten minutes according to the clock above the counter, Mr Zhang reappears, with my food balanced on a tray. Bai follows him over to my table, and the two of them take seats opposite me. The bowl of steaming noodles is pushed towards me, and I inhale a lungful of fragrant steam.

  Biang biang noodles are strange things, which is why they have become known as one of the eight strange wonders of Shaanxi. Instead of being thin and straggly, they are wide and must be slurped and bitten off. The broth is so tangy and rich that just the smell of it brings tears to my eyes.

  I thank my sifu, then we sit for a moment in silence. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but it quickly becomes obvious that Mr Zhang and Bai aren’t allowed to give me any clues, and they’re clearly expecting me to eat the noodles. The one thing I notice, before I pick up my chopsticks, is that this is not the usual china used at the Black Bamboo. Instead of the familiar white background and sketched outline of a bamboo plant, this bowl is patterned with intricate blue lotus flowers. I sense that, whatever I’m looking for, it has something to do with this dish.

  I pick up my chopsticks, unwrap them from their paper, break the wooden halves apart, and tentatively pick up the first steaming noodle. The taste is good: rich and meaty. I set down the enormous noodle, pick up the spoon provided, and take a sip of the rich, salty broth. It’s all delicious and piping hot. I burn my tongue a little, but there’s nothing unusual about the noodles themselves, nor the broth. It all tastes as it should, as far as I can tell – no strange punch of cinnamon lurking in the flavours, no incongruous whack of liquorice that might be a clue to something else.

  So, if the clue is not in the food itself, it must be hidden somewhere in the unusual serving bowl. I look round the surface of the dish again, taking in the blue and white hand-painted lotus designs. It’s beautiful – but, again, there’s nothing in particular for
me to latch on to, no clue that I can see.

  I start to eat the noodles again, faster this time, blowing on each bite quickly before I take it in. Again, I burn my tongue, and my eyes are still tearing up. My nose is running a little with the heat, and I consider blowing it on the cloth napkin, but decide to sniff instead. Mr Zhang picks up on this and hands me a clean tissue, which he seems to pull from thin air.

  Time passes as I eat the noodles, the rest of the restaurant completely silent. Mr Zhang and Bai stay on the other side of the table, watching me eat my meal, almost as though I’m a messenger from a far-off land, who has come in from a long trek across Siberia and the Altay Mountains, and this is the meal that is being provided to me. I imagine myself kicking snow off my boots on the threshold, sitting down at the table and being presented with this meal. Not a bad reward.

  It’s a little disconcerting to be watched as you’re eating a meal, though, but my mind is busy planning, fantasising and trying to guess what the clue will be.

  Finally, I’ve eaten all the noodles and vegetables, and have drunk most of the broth. Murkily, through the shimmering oil on the surface of the broth, I can see something painted on the bottom of the bowl, but I can’t quite make it out. Setting down my chopsticks and spoon, I take up the china dish in both hands, raise it to my lips, and drink down the last of the liquid in a single, long draught. I set the bowl down, wiping my lips on the napkin and blinking the tears out of my eyes. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but Mr Zhang looks particularly focused on me at this moment.

  I peer down into the bottom of the dish and see, among the blue lotus flowers, a single detail that does not appear elsewhere in the design. Right at the bottom, painted in the same blue and white as the flowers, is a number – 13.

  There’s no doubting it: this is the clue I’m looking for. There’s nothing else it can be. Just as I raise my head to check with Mr Zhang and Bai, he says, ‘Granddaughter, leave now.’