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I grin. ‘You read my mind!’
I set to work, spreading first butter, then peanut butter, then a layer of salad cream. It’s a combination I haven’t tried before, but I’m always keen to experiment. I did over-experiment at one point last term, when I attempted to create a masterpiece from a French cookery book. It was disastrous – and I lost some of my confidence – but I’m over that now, and open to new culinary experiences again.
As I stick the two pieces of bread together, I start to go over the details of the plan in my head. I’ll need some keys from Dad’s collection – he has them to open gates and gratings all over Hyde Park. But Dad derails my train of thought—
‘I won’t be around tomorrow morning, by the way.’
‘Oh? How come?’ I look around for the bread knife. Sandwiches always taste better when you cut them into triangles.
‘Yeah, I … um, I have a meeting with an orchid specialist from the Royal Horticultural Society.’
Something about Dad’s tone makes me turn round and look at him.
‘An orchid specialist?’
‘Yes … a very prestigious one … and she’s only free first thing. So I won’t be around when you get up.’
He clears his throat and goes back to studying the plans in front of him, in a too-concentrated way that seems a bit forced. But I don’t have any time to worry about what Dad may be up to – I have to get going if I want to inspect the crime scene before the police remove all the evidence.
‘OK, I’m going up.’
Dad glances at the clock. ‘It’s only eight thirty. Bit early for you, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a well-known fact that teenagers need more rest than adults.’
‘That’s my line,’ he says, frowning. ‘What are you up to?’
I put on my most innocent expression. ‘Nothing. I’ve just got some reading to do for English, and I want to look over the essays I did at the start of the holidays.’ I scoop up my plate and make for the door. ‘Don’t stay up too late, Dad. See you in the morning!’
‘OK … night, love.’
I stop on the first-floor landing and creep into Dad’s room, where Oliver the cat is curled up on the bed. Dad has a rule about not letting cats on beds, but that never deters Oliver. Slipping the set of keys I need from a hook on his crowded key rack, I place them in my pocket, then start up the next flight of stairs, wolfing down my sandwich on the way. It tastes foul and I make a mental note not to try this particular combination again. I set the empty plate down on my bedside table and look around with satisfaction at my room. It’s in the sloping attic space at the top of our cottage and is packed with interesting objects and artefacts, including shells, feathers and fossils, newspaper clippings and elaborate disguises. There’s a porcelain bust of Queen Victoria that I found in a skip, plus a chart of eye colours with codes for each shade, which I’ve memorised. A portrait of my favourite crime writer, Agatha Christie, hangs in pride of place above the bed, and there’s a smaller portrait of her most famous character, Hercule Poirot, on the back of the door.
For a moment, my thoughts turn back to the Guild – and, more importantly, the Trial. I’ve been thinking about it all summer, like a song I can’t get out of my head. It makes me nervous, knowing that the first challenge could begin at any moment, even in the middle of the night, and I have to be ready for it. I guess that’s the whole point – if you can’t be ready at any moment, to act without warning, then you can’t be a member of the Guild. But I do wish they’d get it over with.
I take off my red beret – my best-loved item of clothing – and place it carefully in its box. Then I go over to my two rails, where I keep all my clothes and costumes, and start to rummage for the items I need.
Luckily for me, I’ve already made some notes in my head on the British Museum from my previous visits there. I close my eyes and Change Channel to reach the area where the relevant information is stored. It looks like a series of old-fashioned filing cabinets. I access the one for uniforms and flip through the handwritten cards inside, until I reach M, for ‘Museum’ – then I select subcategory B, for ‘British’. All the British Museum uniforms I’ve observed have been filed away here, each as an imaginary photograph. I want to get in as an attendant – it’s the most convincing role for someone of my age – and the uniform I call up is a simple one: black trousers with a white shirt.
Flicking through the garments hanging from my clothes rail, I pick out a suitable shirt and some trousers. From a box underneath I take a black faux-leather belt and a pair of Doc Martens boots with thick rubber soles that give me a few extra centimetres. They were a brilliant find in a charity shop and I love them. I get changed quickly, removing my knee-length red gingham shirt dress (one of my favourites, also from a charity shop) before pulling on the trousers and shirt. Accessories come next – a work pass on an extendable lanyard which I attach to my belt, and a very basic work badge to pin to my chest, which claims that my name is ‘Felicity’. This is the name I use on social media – after detective Hercule Poirot’s secretary, Felicity Lemon. Finally, I tie my hair back in a bun, and for extra camouflage add a pair of thick-rimmed glasses (which are stored in a chest of drawers full of similar accessories – false eyelashes, sunglasses, headscarves, fake scars, bushy eyebrows …). I slip the keys into my pocket, along with a small notebook and pen, an LED head torch, a lock-picking kit, and a plastic vial containing a clean cotton bud – an essential part of any detective’s kit. My pocket is now bulging, but I don’t want to complicate things by taking a bag with me that I might have to abandon somewhere.
Everything done, I look myself over in the mirror.
Pretty convincing.
I don a long plastic mac over my outfit to keep it clean. This monstrosity – the sort of shapeless cover-up sold to tourists who arrive in Britain unprepared for the rain – is not an item I would ever normally wear in public. But needs must.
‘See you later, Mum,’ I tell the photo of my mother that I keep by my bed. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt, big sunglasses and a floppy hat. I like her style – comfortable but chic. She’s standing astride her bike, which is piled high with books, as usual. The police said it was the books that made her bike difficult to steer – and that was why she’d lost control in an accident with a car and died. But I don’t believe that. For a start, I found her bike, and it didn’t have a scratch on it. If I can join the Gatekeepers’ Guild, maybe I can find out what she was investigating when she died, and it might give me some answers.
Deep breath now – here comes the difficult bit.
I turn my bedroom lights off. If Dad comes up to see what I’m doing, I don’t want him to think I’m awake. Then, making my way across the cluttered room by memory, I climb on to my bed. The evening sky is overcast, but there’s just enough light for me to make out the rectangle of my skylight. I open this now, grab on to the edge, and haul myself up and out, so that I’m sitting on the roof, straddling the ridge.
I wait for a moment. I like it up here – there’s a gentle breeze stirring and, now that summer’s coming to a close, the night is neither too warm nor too cold. Off in the distance, at the edge of the park, I can see the twinkling lights of Kensington. I divide the mission up into phases in my mind: stage one – get away from the house undetected by Dad; stage two – crawl through a long, uncomfortable passage; and stage three – gain entry to the museum. I take a deep breath.
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.
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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 priceless. 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.
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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.
