Lena Jones - Murder at the Museum

‘It says they’ve put the museum on lockdown, so nobody can get in there – not even you.’

‘Ah, but who said I was going to use the front door?’ I look back at him, raising an eyebrow. With my free hand, I touch the place below my neck where my mum’s black metal key is hanging from a silver chain. It’s not just a trinket: it belongs to a secret organisation called the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and it gives access to underground passageways all over London.

Liam frowns. ‘You’ll be in serious trouble if Professor D’Oliveira finds you using the tunnels before your Trial begins.’ The professor is my contact at the Guild. If I want to become an agent, or Gatekeeper, like my mum (and I really, really do), I have to pass three tests that make up the Guild Trial.

I sigh. ‘I know … but I didn’t expect it to take this long to get started! I’ve been waiting five weeks already!’

‘Come on, you know how gutted you’ll be if they catch you – and the professor says you can’t take the tests and become a Gatekeeper if you break the rules.’

I roll my eyes. ‘But they’re not going to notice if I use the key just this one time, though, are they? I’m sure I can dodge them.’

Liam shakes free of my grip.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ I ask, in surprise. Liam normally jumps at the chance of some excitement.

‘Agatha, you’re my best friend – but you’re talking about interfering with a crime scene and risking your chances of becoming an agent.’

I decide to focus on his first objection, so I ignore the second. ‘I’m not going to interfere,’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m just going to look for clues …’

‘… And potentially get in the way of the police, who are themselves looking for clues.’

I pause for a moment, wondering whether to try and win him round. But he’s wearing his determined look.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it – you can go and find out what they’re saying about the murder on the news. We can compare notes when I see you on Thursday in school.’

‘Right … just – be careful, though.’

‘Oh, it’s OK – I’ll just dig a tunnel using a spoon,’ I say, referring to one of our favourite films.

‘So long as you have a plan,’ he says with evident sarcasm (spoilt by the fact he’s obviously trying not to laugh when he says it).

‘I always have a plan,’ I reply.

‘If there’s any more info on the news, do you want me to leave you a note?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you – Dad found the loose brick in the wall, so we can’t use it for messages any more. He’s cemented it in!’

‘Seriously? Couldn’t you have stopped him?’

I shrug. ‘He’d “fixed” it before I got the chance. We’ll just have to find a new way of sharing information.’

Liam shakes his head sadly. ‘I loved our brick,’ he says, as if we’ve lost a dear friend.

I shrug again. ‘Look, I’ve got to be off, OK? I’ll see you at school on Thursday,’ and I give him a quick wave then jog the short distance to the Tube station.

On the platform, with five minutes to wait for the train, I feel the adrenaline start to mount. Tonight I’m no longer Agatha Oddlow, scholarship student at a school for privileged kids, but Agatha Oddly, private investigator, named after the world-famous crime writer Agatha Christie.

As the train carries me along, I settle into the rhythm and plan my entrance into the museum. I have a useful ability to ‘Change Channel’ – switch off from whatever’s going on so I can access other parts of my brain. I close my eyes and use this technique now, to focus on the task ahead. I’ll be needing a costume and a convincing reason for being at the museum after hours.

By the time I get back to Hyde Park I’ve worked it all out, and I can’t wait to get started.

As I hurry along the path beside the Serpentine lake I automatically glance at the benches to see if my old friend JP is there, but then I remember JP’s no longer homeless, so he doesn’t live in the park any more. He’s managed to get himself a job, and it even comes with a flat he can rent cheaply. I’m really pleased for him, but I miss our daily chats.

As Groundskeeper’s Cottage comes into view, I force myself to focus on my plan. The first thing I need to do is be seen by my dad, Rufus, so that he thinks I’m going to bed for the night. Also, the popcorn already seems like a long time ago, so I should probably make myself a sandwich before I set out.

‘Hey, Dad!’

‘Hi, Aggie. How was the film?’

‘ So terrible that it was brilliant – really funny!’ I go over to where Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, studying some landscape designs for the park, and give him a peck on the cheek.

‘That’s good. Have you eaten?’

‘Only some popcorn,’ I admit. (Dad hates it when I skip meals.)

‘You should make yourself a sandwich,’ he says.

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.