Lena Jones - The Secret Key

It’s weirdly quiet as I walk past the townhouses on Kensington Road. The air is thick with car fumes, and no breeze stirs. Far off, I can hear the siren of a fire engine. There is the usual row of tourist coaches opposite the park, engines idling to keep their air-conditioning going. At Soapy Suds, the carwash that cleans the Jags and Bentleys of Kensington, a man in a suit is arguing loudly with the attendant.

‘Whaddya mean, you’re not washing cars? Can’t you read your own sign?’

Hyde Park is looking lush, even after weeks of heat – the lawns are emerald green, the flowerbeds blooming. Still, it seems too quiet for a summer’s day in central London – just the occasional dog walker idling their way along a path. Have I missed something while making my investigations? Is everyone indoors, watching a major sporting event, perhaps? An ice-cream van drives past, blinds pulled on the serving window, chimes switched off.

I try to make sense of it, to shift my brain into puzzle-solving mode, but the same two words keep repeating in front of me, like a flashing warning sign –

I’m walking over the lawns towards Groundskeeper’s Cottage when I spot two figures in the distance. One of them is Dad, dressed in his overalls. The other man stands next to a large motorbike, and is wearing black biking leathers. His face is obscured by a helmet, but I can tell that the two of them are arguing. Before I know why, I’m running. The words of the man who grabbed me outside the Royal Geographical Society start to run through my head on a loop –

Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

There is a knot in my stomach, like the end of a rope that links me to Dad.

Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

I’m getting closer, and I can hear their raised voices. Dad lifts his hand, pointing towards the park gates. The man in black reaches back, towards the bike. The bike looks like the same one that knocked over the professor this morning.

Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?

In a fluid motion that makes my heart skip a beat, the man in black mounts the bike, kicks the machine into life and roars off, back wheel spraying clods of dry earth. Dad shouts after him, but he’s drowned out by the roar.

‘Dad, are you OK?’ I yell, running headlong into his arms.

‘I’m fine, I— Agatha, what on earth are you doing here?’

‘Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?’ I step back to look at his face.

‘Hurt me? Of course he didn’t hurt me – I was just telling him he couldn’t ride that stupid bike in the park. He’s made furrows through the lawns, look. Anyway, don’t change the subject – I got a call from your headmaster earlier. He said that you hadn’t shown up for any of your classes today. He used the word escaped .’

Bother.

I swallow. In my moment of fear, I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be avoiding Dad on my way home.

‘Ah, yes … about that …’ I say.

Dad has given me some big lectures before, but this is the biggest. Being dressed down in public, as dog walkers pass by, is the worst. By the time he sends me home, with an order to go to my room, my cheeks are burning. I trudge back to the cottage, tired and miserable. His final words are the ones that sting the most –

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