Lena Jones - Agatha Oddly

We bow to one another, then Mr Zhang nods and says, ‘Show me the new sequence I taught you.’

I work through it, concentrating hard as I turn, kicking and punching the air and keeping my weight low to the ground.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Very good. You are making excellent progress. We will make a master of you yet.’

‘Thank you, sifu ,’ I say, bowing my head.

He has me work on various moves and then use a punch bag.

‘Focus!’ he shouts. ‘When your mind is distracted, you lose the essential balance of mind and body.’

‘Yes, sifu .’

We work until I’m out of breath. I check my watch. It’s half past five. I need to hurry if I’m to keep my promise to be back at the cottage by six. I thank Mr Zhang, run upstairs to get changed and shout my goodbyes to him and Bai.

I jog all the way home. It’s amazing how much fitter I am now that I train regularly. The route is lovely – the whole of Oxford Street is lit up with early-Christmas windows, and it’s hard not to keep stopping to admire the scenes.

Balance and focus , I remind myself, thinking of my lesson with Mr Zhang.

I can’t help wondering who my partner in the Guild will be. What if they’re like Sofia – bossy and judgemental?

Back home, I follow a trail of muddy items through the hallway – boots, fleece and gardening gloves – until I find Dad in the kitchen, making dinner. Oliver greets me again, purring loudly as he rubs against my legs.

‘Hi, Dad!’

‘Hi, Aggie. How was the jog?’

‘Bracing!’ I shiver. ‘Were you OK working outside today?’

‘Oh, you know me – I don’t mind the cold. We retreated to the glasshouses once it got dark. Omelettes OK again?’

‘Great. Do you want me to make them?’ I offer.

‘No, I’ve got it. You go for your shower.’

‘OK! Then shall I make a fire in the living room?’

‘Good plan,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat in there – it’ll be nice and cosy.’

After my wash, Oliver comes with me to the living room and keeps me company as I set to work building a fire in the little stove. Dad’s taught me how to do this, using old newspaper as kindling and waiting for the flame to catch. It’s important to keep the stove door open at this stage. Then, when it’s blazing, I add pieces of wood – but not large ones nor too many, or the fire will be suffocated. Once it’s burning reliably, the door can be shut.

‘There,’ I tell Oliver, as I take a seat on the sofa and spread a fleecy throw over my legs. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

His purring reaches new decibels and he leaps on to my lap, where he turns round several times before deciding on the optimal position and curling up. His whole body starts to vibrate with contentment. I’ve read that stroking a pet can lower a person’s heart rate and blood pressure. I’m probably a bit too young to worry about either of those, but there’s definitely something soothing about running my hands over Oliver’s smooth fur.

Dad brings in dinner and I eat carefully, holding my plate up close to my chin, so I don’t drop any hot food on the cat. My omelette is filled with Cheddar cheese and baked beans – my favourite combination.

‘So, how was the trip?’ he asks.

‘Interesting, thanks.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I thought you found your art teacher – Mrs Sheldon … Shelby …? – boring?’

‘Shelley.’

‘As in the poet?’

‘Yep. And she is boring. But the paintings were amazing, and there was this boy there, who knew all about art.’

‘What? Surely not more than you?’

‘Maybe a little bit …’ I grin. ‘It was weird, though – the Sunflowers painting had been moved for the Van Gogh exhibition and it looked different in its new spot.’

Dad takes a sip of water. ‘Different how?’

‘Paler … or brighter.’ I sigh. ‘Hard to explain – but Arthur didn’t say anything about the change.’

‘Arthur? Is that the young man?’

I nod. ‘He loves that painting too. It’s really interesting how just moving a picture to a different spot can change its appearance like that, isn’t it?’ Dad is nodding, listening intently. ‘So … how are the cuttings?’ I ask.

‘They’re coming along beautifully, thanks. We were potting up the yew today – it’s getting quite bushy.’

‘Yew,’ I say, closing my eyes and consulting my internal filing system. ‘ Taxus Baccata. Widely planted in churchyards, to keep it away from livestock, because of its toxicity. ’

‘Very good. Although there is a lot of interesting debate these days as to the motives for churchyard planting …’

I zone out. It’s a terrible habit, but I just can’t focus on Dad’s horticulture lectures. My mind keeps skipping ahead to tomorrow morning, when I’ll find out who my partner’s going to be. They can’t be worse than Sofia , I reason. It’s still nerve-wracking, though, to contemplate having to work with someone I don’t know. It’s not exactly how I’d pictured my first case.

‘So, there you have it,’ finishes Dad brightly. ‘The debate around the common yew.’

‘Great, Dad.’ I finish scraping the last of the tomato sauce off my plate and put down my fork. ‘Look, I have homework …’

I don’t need to finish the sentence. ‘Sure – I’ll wash up,’ he says. He puts on a bad French accent. ‘After all, if ze little grey cells are not exercised, zey grow ze rust.’

‘Are you misquoting Poirot at me?’

‘Hey! Why should you get all the fun?’ He has a point.

‘Thank you for tea – and for washing up.’ I stand up and give him a kiss on the cheek before heading up to my attic bedroom.

Sitting at my desk, staring at the maths sheet in front of me, I find the numbers beginning to blur. I swivel in my chair and my eyes alight on the pile of red notebooks on a high shelf. These contain all the information I’ve collated over the years about my mum’s death. I don’t believe she was killed in a bicycle accident, but I still don’t know what did happen to her. I seem to be thwarted every time I try to find out.

You see, Mum – Clara Oddlow – was an agent of the Gatekeepers’ Guild before I’d even heard of it. By becoming an agent myself, I’d planned to gain access to her files, to find out what she was working on when she died.

My mind drifts back to that day in the summer, when Professor D’Oliveira and Sofia had taken me to the Guild file rooms, but I found the folders bearing my mum’s name had been emptied of documents and filled with blank paper.

I shake off these unhappy memories and focus on the maths questions I’ve been set as homework. I’m pretty good at maths, but nothing compared to Liam. Still, it doesn’t take me long to get the work done. I sigh with satisfaction as I slip my exercise book back into my backpack.

I get up from the chair and lie down on my bed. It’s cold and draughty, so I snuggle under the duvet. From here, I can see all the charts and artefacts that mark this room as mine. There’s the map of London, the bust of Queen Victoria, the beautiful hardback editions of Agatha Christie’s crime novels and her short stories. There are also the two clothes racks with my assortment of outfits and costumes, some of which have been useful for disguising myself during cases.

As I change for bed, I glance over at the photo beside my bed. It’s of my mum astride her bike, one foot on the ground for balance.

‘I will find out what happened to you, Mum – I promise,’ I tell her for the thousandth time. But I mean it – I won’t rest until I have all the answers. Before I go to sleep, I tell her about Arthur, and his fascination with the impasto texture of Van Gogh’s painting. It was good to meet someone who shares my passion for beautiful things and didn’t think me odd for being obsessed with Sunflowers .