Murder at the Museum Page 8

  ‘What?’ Bai looks appalled. ‘But it’s just getting interesting.’

  ‘Time for bed,’ he says firmly, and she shoots me a look of despair, before getting up from her seat and heading away from us. I can’t help noticing that even her stroppy walk is graceful.

  I can’t wait any longer. ‘It must be the number thirteen,’ I say to Mr Zhang. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Thirteen?’

  ‘Ah, but what does thirteen represent?’

  I clench my fists. After cracking the coded email addresses, and heading over here in the middle of the night, I can’t believe the test isn’t over now that I’ve discovered the number.

  I close my eyes and summon my mental filing system.

  Thirteen

  • 13

  • Odd number

  • Prime

  • Superstition

  • Bad luck

  I shake my head.

  ‘Look hard at the figures,’ he instructs.

  A thought strikes me. I stare into the dish at the figure 13 at the bottom, and imagine the 1 and 3 joining up.

  ‘Is it – is it a letter B?’

  I hold my breath for a second, worried I might have chosen the wrong thing. Then a wide smile breaks across Mr Zhang’s face. He reaches for my hand and shakes it.

  ‘Well done, Agatha. You remained calm under pressure. You kept your balance when everything around you was unbalanced. You have passed the second test of the Trial.’

  He smiles again, and is that another wink?

  By the time I get home, it’s very late. Dad will be fast asleep, so I use the front door, rather than climb the tree.

  When I get upstairs, I find Oliver on the floor in front of my door, curled up asleep. I have to step over him to get inside my room. I close the door and lean against it. It feels like many, many hours since I left. I’ve been out for a while, because it took time to walk to Soho, time to walk back – not to mention the time it took to complete the challenge. My room is dark and cold, because I’d left the skylight ajar so that I could get back in. The night air has cooled and seeped inside, chilling everything.

  I climb on to my bed to close the skylight. Then I lie on my back. I start to shiver, so I kick off my shoes and crawl under the covers, still fully dressed. I’m exhausted but I feel elated. ‘I did it, Mum!’ I whisper to her, before falling asleep.

  Someone is thumping on a wooden drum. No – on my skull. No – on my … door?

  ‘Urgh …’ I struggle to open my eyes and focus. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Agatha, can I come in?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess …’

  Dad enters. He’s already dressed in his head gardener clothes with the official Hyde Park logo on the dark-green polo shirt. He’s holding something out to me. I squint at it. It’s dark and …

  ‘The phone, Agatha,’ Dad says at last, realising I’m struggling.

  ‘Oh … Thanks.’ I take the phone and he leaves the room.

  ‘Agatha?’ Liam’s voice comes down the line.

  ‘Urghhhh?’ I say.

  ‘Agatha?’ He sounds concerned.

  Must … make … an … effort. ‘Yep. Present and correct,’ I say groggily. ‘Or just present, at least.’

  ‘Right … Are you OK? I tried you loads of times last night.’

  ‘Did you? Sorry. I was otherwise engaged.’

  ‘The second test?’ he whispers.

  ‘Can’t talk here. It’s not safe. You never know who’s listening.’

  ‘Can I come over?’

  I squint at my bedside clock: 6:00.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s important. I’m already on my way – I’ll be there in ten.’

  ‘OK …’ I try to put the phone down on my bedside table but there isn’t room among the empty mugs and used plates, so I give up and put it on the floor. I drag myself to an upright position.

  ‘Come on, girl: get yourself up and dressed,’ I tell myself sternly. Luckily, no one is around to hear me, unless you count Oliver. He pricks up one ear, but otherwise ignores my strange behaviour. He is far too sleepy to care.

  I lie there for another ten minutes before I finally make it out of bed. I have a quick wash, pull on my school uniform and run a brush through my bob. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. There are dark circles under my eyes. Finally, I drag myself downstairs. Liam is already in the kitchen, chatting with Dad. He catches my eye and smiles.

  ‘Hello, lazybones.’

  ‘Liam – it’s ridiculously early!’ Then I look at Dad. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ I watch him, gauging his mood. Has he had an email overnight, offering him the job?

  ‘Sure – plenty. There’s toast, cereal, eggs – anything you like, if you do it yourself.’

  I study him through eyes that are dry and prickly from lack of sleep. He grabs his gardening gloves from the windowsill.

  ‘Well, I’d best get to work – I’ve a lot to catch up on.’

  Dad leaves and I start on breakfast. If Liam hadn’t been here, I’d have asked Dad if he’d heard anything about Cornwall. I feel a pang at the thought that I’ll have to wait until tonight now.

  Liam pulls up a chair at the kitchen table while I fetch a bowl and plate and put some bread in the toaster. Then I take a seat opposite him.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks.

  I look up from pouring cornflakes into my bowl. ‘What?’

  ‘Your dad. There was a weird atmosphere between you.’

  I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to talk to Liam about the possible move – it might make it real. He picks up on my uncertainty.

  ‘It’s all right – you don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it. Are you OK, though?’

  I shrug. ‘Been better. Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’

  ‘Oh, yeah – did you get the second test?’

  ‘I did, and I’ll tell you about it later. How about you tell me what you found out, while I eat breakfast?’

  ‘OK. Well, the sinkhole’s right over a Tube line tunnel, the Waterloo and City line. I thought it might be important, seeing as you’d asked me to let you know what was underneath.’

  I shovel in a mouthful of cereal and frown in concentration. The Waterloo and City line is a shuttle service, running between two stations: Waterloo (as you’d expect) and Bank, in the area of London known as the City (even though the whole of London is a city really). The trains don’t stop at any other stations.

  I finish my cereal, ignoring Liam’s repeated demands for a reaction. At last, I put up a hand. ‘Shhh. I’m thinking.’

  ‘Right … Course you are …’ He picks up the newspaper he brought with him from home and begins to flick through it. I put my bowl in the sink and check my watch. I haven’t got time for toast.

  ‘You got everything you need for school?’ I ask him.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Right, let’s get going.’

  He pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Where to?’

  ‘The London Library. We need to do some research.’

  ‘Surely it won’t be open at this time?’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ I say mysteriously.

  ‘OK then. I’ll pay for a taxi.’

  I smile broadly for the first time this morning. ‘That sounds good. Maybe I can snatch forty winks in the car.’

  He hails a black cab on the main road, and we whizz over to the library in St James’s Square, arriving far too quickly for my liking – I’m all cosy in the back of the cab, with my head on Liam’s shoulder, when we arrive. We climb out of the taxi and Liam pays the driver through the window. He always has loads of cash on him. Liam’s parents work overseas and have been in Hong Kong for the last few years, so he hardly ever sees them. I’d never say this to Liam, but I’d much rather live in a small cottage with my dad than in a grand flat without him, like Liam does.

  We turn to survey the London Library building. The lights are all off and the front door looks very much closed and l
ocked.

  ‘It’s shut,’ Liam says.

  ‘I know, but it’ll be OK.’ I tap on the door using a special sequence of knocks – a kind of code. It’s actually a cha-cha rhythm, but I don’t bother to explain. The doorman and his wife used to do ballroom dancing together.

  There is the sound of movement from within, then various locks and bolts are audibly released. The door opens.

  ‘Miss Agatha,’ says Clive, the elderly doorman. He taps his cap in polite greeting.

  ‘Mister …’ I hesitate – ‘Clive,’ I say, at last, performing a small bow. Clive is rather stately and it always seems a bit rude just calling him by his first name, but he insists on it.

  ‘And Master Liam – what a pleasure,’ says Clive.

  ‘Hi, Clive,’ says Liam, less formally.

  Clive glances around, like an illegal street trader checking for cops, then nods for us to enter.

  ‘Thanks for letting us in,’ I say.

  ‘Any time, any time,’ Clive says. He lowers his voice. ‘Just don’t tell anyone: I don’t want to receive angry letters from jealous library lovers.’

  Liam laughs. ‘We won’t – I promise.’

  Clive hands me a key and we place our school backpacks in one of the lockers. Then he gestures towards the library stacks.

  ‘Make yourselves at home,’ he says.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asks Liam as we head towards the stacks.

  ‘Schematics for the Waterloo and City line. And any details of the abandoned British Museum Tube station.’

  Liam groans. ‘More plans – of course.’

  ‘What did you think? That we were here to read Marvel comics?’

  Liam brightens. ‘Do they have those?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t know, Liam. But that isn’t what we’re here for, OK?’

  ‘No, you’re right – the investigation must come first.’

  I decide to overlook his robotic delivery of this statement.

  We have a fair idea of the section we need from previous research sessions. It doesn’t take long to find the plans relating to the Underground system. We scan the shelves.

  ‘Waterloo and City line,’ says Liam, pulling out a folder.

  ‘Great! Now we just need to find anything on the British Museum station.’

  That’s not so easy. Whereas there’s plenty of information regarding the stops that are in use, material on the out-of-service stations is trickier to find – if indeed there is any there at all.

  At last, my eyes alight on a small hardback book, squeezed between various folders: The Forgotten Underground: London’s Secret Stations. I take it from the shelf and join Liam, who is sitting at a table, working through the schematics of the Waterloo and City line.

  I sit down next to him.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ he asks again.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m hoping we’ll know it when we find it.’

  I flick through the book – which doesn’t seem to have an index (a real failing in any reference book, in my opinion) – searching for any reference to the British Museum stop. There are various maps and plans. I turn the book to study a landscape image of the lines going in and out of Bank station – and then I see it: there’s a link from Bank to the defunct British Museum station.

  Liam has got there as well at the same time – his finger is on the disused rail track showing on the much larger plans he’s been studying. We catch one another’s eye.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. But I do know I need to investigate the sinkhole from underground, to see what’s been going on down there.’

  ‘That sounds like a terrible idea after that woman warned you off.’

  I grin. ‘You didn’t really think I was going to listen to her, did you?’

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘I know you far too well for that.’ He glances at his watch and lets out a yelp. ‘Yikes, we have to get out of here – we’re going to be late for school!’

  Liam treats us to another cab – but this time we’ve hit rush hour. There’s a lot more traffic on the roads, and the journey to St Regis is halting and frustrating. In the end, he pays the driver and we jog the last few hundred metres. Well – he jogs and I walk. Liam is a lot more intimidated by authority than I am and can’t stand getting into trouble at school.

  Mr Perkins is standing guard on the gate when we arrive, and Liam looks back over his shoulder at me, pleadingly.

  ‘Please, Agatha, hurry up!’

  I’m not being deliberately mean. I just don’t want to arrive at school panting and covered in sweat.

  By the time we make it into school, the corridors are empty.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asks Liam. ‘Form class or assembly?’

  I put an ear to the hall door and hear Dr Hargrave droning on about uniform, and how important it is to take pride in our appearance.

  ‘They’re all in there,’ I whisper, pointing to the door.

  So we wait outside the hall and just mingle with everyone as they come pouring out. Easy.

  Brianna pushes her way through the throng. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘I hear you were in big trouble in form class – or would have been, if you’d been there.’ She frowns. ‘Except, if you had been there, you wouldn’t have been in trouble, would you? Have you been to the office, to report your arrival?’

  ‘Not yet,’ says Liam, looking horror-struck. ‘I’m going to get my first ever late mark,’ he wails.

  Brianna catches my eye and smirks.

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ I tell her. ‘He prides himself on his hundred per cent attendance record.’

  ‘And now it’s ruined,’ says Liam sadly.

  ‘At least you’ve not been told off about your appearance,’ says Brianna. ‘Hargrave caught me in the corridor on the way to assembly and told me I’ve got to dye my hair a “natural colour”. I pointed out that blue is a perfectly natural colour – the sky, the sea …’

  ‘How’d our esteemed headmaster take that?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head sadly. ‘Not well. Not well at all.’

  ‘Oh dear …’

  ‘We’d better get over to the office,’ says Liam.

  We bid Brianna farewell and I allow him to propel me to the office at top speed. We are both reprimanded by the school secretary – although Liam’s telling-off is rather more gentle than mine, as he is a model student.

  ‘What lesson have you got now?’ she asks us.

  ‘Maths,’ says Liam.

  ‘Really?’ I mutter. ‘It’s like I’m stuck in an eternal maths lesson. Maybe it’s a metaphor for hell.’

  ‘Well, off you go then,’ says the secretary firmly.

  Liam once again hurries me through the corridors. We arrive at the classroom and he goes straight in, holding the door open so I can follow.

  ‘Mr Lau, Ms Oddlow, how nice of you to join us,’ says Mr Patel, our maths teacher.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Patel,’ we murmur dutifully.

  I spend the lesson using one portion of my little grey cells to do the calculations set by Mr Patel – and the remainder to ruminate on the case in hand. By lunchtime, I’m wondering how I’ve ever survived a full school day – it’s so long! And tedious. I catch up with Liam and Brianna at Exile Island – the table in the canteen only occupied by weird kids like us (except nobody is quite like us …).

  ‘Agatha – are you with us?’ asks Brianna.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were really giving Sarah the evil eye,’ she says.

  ‘Oops! I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Haven’t you got PE with her later?’

  My heart sinks. Lacrosse – out on the field, with studded boots and those lethal sticks with the cages on top. And Sarah Rathbone.

  ‘I’ll have to plead injury of some sort,’ I say, in desperation.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ says Brianna. ‘Doughty made Fiona Lewis do netball with a broken leg last year.’
/>
  ‘I don’t think that can be right …’ says Liam, cutting in.

  ‘Just ask Fiona!’ says Brianna. ‘She was limping about like a rabbit that’d been caught in a trap.’

  ‘I still think …’ tries Liam.

  ‘Look – there she is!’ says Brianna. ‘Let’s ask her. Fiona! Hey – Fiona!’

  Fiona Lewis, a lanky girl with long red hair, which she hates and everyone else envies, stops with her tray. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Tell them about Doughty and your broken leg.’

  Fiona rolls her eyes. ‘It’s true – she made me do netball. It was a complete farce. I can’t play at the best of times! You should’ve seen me, hopping about the court and trying not to fall over. It hurt like hell as well.’

  She walks off, and Brianna turns to Liam,

  ‘Now do you believe me?’

  He’s turned pale. ‘Sometimes I worry about this place.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I wail. ‘She’ll kill me.’

  ‘Who? Doughty?’ says Liam.

  ‘Keep up!’ says Brianna. ‘She’s talking about Sarah.’

  ‘Ohhhh …’ He pulls a face. ‘Maybe she’ll be in a good mood – first week back and all that.’

  ‘Right. And maybe she helps out at a homeless shelter in her spare time,’ says Brianna.

  ‘I’m dead,’ I wail.

  ‘I think you are,’ says Brianna.

  I barely survive PE. Sarah Rathbone has clearly rounded up all her cronies, and every girl on the field seems to be running straight at me. Miss Doughty doesn’t notice, as always – I’m not gifted at sport, so I’m invisible. By the time Sarah sticks out her foot and trips me, I’m almost grateful. Despite the warm summer we’ve had, the ground is soft with moss and I’m tempted to close my eyes and let the game go thundering on above and around me. But then a foot kicks me in the belly and I realise I need to get up, now.

  I limp off – still ignored by Doughty – and head for the office, to have my injuries tended to. But ‘tended to’ always involves them applying a sticking plaster and sending you back to class.

  I make it through domestic science, in which the felt rabbit I’m making is beginning to resemble Darth Vader. Liam keeps leaning over and whispering, ‘I am your father,’ and I can’t stop giggling.

  At last, at ten past four, the bell goes for the end of the day, and I limp home. My shins are coated in mud, and I’m pretty sure there’s some more stuck behind my ears.