First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019

Published in this ebook edition in 2019

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Tibor Jones 2019

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover illustration by Alba Filella

Tibor Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008211950

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008211967

Version: 2019-06-17

The students at Corpus Christi Primary School, Brixton, south London The coolest Agatha fans anywhere

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1. A Chance Encounter

2. The Beginning

3. Introductions

4. All the Signs Point to Nowhere

5. Into Thin Air

6. Dead Ends

7. A Message From Beyond the Grave

8. A Larger Puzzle

9. An Absence of Lead Paint

10. Rathbone Mansion

11. A Knotty Problem

12. A Snake in the Grass

13. Out with the New, In with the Old

14. The Space Above

15. Will the Real Arthur Fitzwilliam Please Stand Up?

16. Secrets and Lies

17. Chocolate Cake for Breakfast

18. Impossibly Familiar

19. The Silver Serpent

20. An Unexpected Visitor

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

Read all the Agatha Oddly adventures

About the Publisher

‘You’ve been gazing at that painting for at least ten minutes.’

Liam appears at my side, head tilted in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s a Tuesday in November, and we’re in the National Gallery on a school trip. ‘You’d think it had one of those hidden pictures in it, the way you’ve been staring at it,’ he continues. ‘You know – the sort you can only see if you look at it for long enough?’

‘It’s just my favourite, that’s all,’ I say, smiling at him.

‘I can tell!’

‘Mum loved it too. She used to bring me to see it whenever we were passing this way.’

‘How many times have you visited this place, just to behold its beauty?’ He says the last bit dramatically, sweeping his arm round with a flourish, as if he’s reciting a very corny poem.

I laugh. ‘Quite a lot!’ Then I pause. ‘It looks different today, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

I point to the vase, where the name ‘Vincent’ appears in blue script. ‘Well, that bit’s the same shade as normal, but the flowers –’ I gesture to the yellow petals – ‘they’re paler and clearer, if that makes sense.’

‘Less orangey-brown?’ suggests Liam.

‘Exactly!’ I smile at him. Nobody gets me like Liam.

Liam shrugs. ‘Perhaps they’ve had it cleaned.’

‘That would make sense … although I was actually wondering if it was more to do with where it’s hanging now. I mean, they’ve moved it from its usual spot, to make it part of the Van Gogh exhibition, so maybe the lighting’s different.’

My friend Brianna arrives at my other side. Her hair is still a sedate brown rather than her preferred blue – Dr Hargrave, our headmaster, has told her she mustn’t dye it an ‘unnatural’ colour again – only now it’s shaved everywhere except on top. She has delicate features and the contrast is almost shocking. Weirdly, though, it’s a good look for her.

‘Is it time to go home yet?’ she asks, studying her nails. They’re black with pale-green skulls.

‘Don’t think so,’ says Liam. ‘We’ve only seen one room so far.’

My backpack’s on the floor. Brianna crouches down and starts rummaging in the front pocket.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Looking for that ultraviolet torch thing. Did you bring it?’

‘It should be in there,’ I say. ‘What do you need it for?’

‘My nails are meant to glow,’ she replies.

I fish in the pouch of my bag and pull out the little torch, which is the size of a pen. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks,’ Brianna says. She shines it on her nails and we all admire the gleaming skulls.

‘Er … please can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?’ We turn round as Mrs Shelley, our art teacher, is trying to make herself noticed. All her clothes are drab browns and greys, and even her hair is an indeterminate sort of browny grey. She’s like a washed-out, watercolour version of a person. I find myself wondering what Agatha Christie’s Poirot would have made of her if he’d met her. I imagine my favourite detective nodding wisely and saying, ‘Non, mam’selle, there is no such thing as a really calm sea,’ in his Belgian accent. And maybe he’d have been right – perhaps Mrs Shelley does have hidden depths.

‘Er … everyone …’ she says again in her whisper of a voice, ‘can we move on now, please?’

I glance round at the other students. They must have finished looking at the paintings some while ago, because they’re all gathered round the benches and windows, chatting and chewing gum. One group of students are all busy doing each other’s hair, while some others are sitting on the floor, sharing things on their phones and laughing loudly. No one is listening to Mrs Shelley.

Brianna’s lost concentration again, and is aiming the torch at a landscape on a side wall. Then she points it at the next painting and starts moving the beam along, one picture at a time, until she rounds the corner and reaches Sunflowers. Until this one, the beam has been invisible, but now there’s something that shouldn’t be there. I move in closer.

‘Look,’ I say, pointing to a small mark that’s appeared, just below Van Gogh’s signature.

Liam frowns. ‘It looks like an “A”.’

‘It is an “A”, I say. ‘But what’s it doing there?’ I take a picture of it, while it’s lit by the ultraviolet beam. The letter is quite ornate.

‘Maybe it’s a mark made by the gallery … their way of marking against theft?’ he suggests.

‘You really think they’d write on a priceless painting?’ I ask.

Brianna shrugs. ‘It is in invisible ink.’

Suddenly there’s a loud clapping and we all go quiet, our heads swivelling towards the source of the noise. A tall, slender man with dark, greying hair, brown eyes and an expensive-looking navy suit is standing there. This is Lord Rathbone, father of Sarah, my archenemy at school. She’s standing next to him, a smug smile doing nothing to improve her habitual air of privilege and arrogance.

Normally, I love visiting the National Gallery, and I’d been looking forward to the Van Gogh exhibition for months. But it turns out that Sarah’s dad is a gallery patron and the fact that this trip had been arranged was entirely thanks to him, so all the pleasure’s been squeezed out of it like water from a mop.

Lord Rathbone smiles at us and I wince unexpectedly. I have an unpleasant image of him catching small prey in that sinister grin. He’s like one of those toothed Venus flytrap plants.

‘Please do your teacher the courtesy of paying attention to her words of wisdom,’ he says. ‘We are, after all, here to learn.’ His voice has the oily tone of someone who’s used to getting his own way.

Brianna leans in to my ear. ‘Ugh, he’s even more patronising than his daughter,’ she whispers.

I nod and murmur, ‘At least now we know where she gets it from.’

‘He gives me the creeps,’ she replies.

‘Me too,’ I agree.

Mrs Shelley clears her throat and says … something.

‘What’s that, Mrs S?’ asks a boy.

‘I can’t hear her,’ says another. ‘Can you?’

Liam leans in to my ear. ‘She said it’s time to move on to the next room.’

‘How do you know?’ I ask him.

‘I’ve been learning lip-reading. I thought it might come in useful.’

Lord Rathbone claps his hands again and shouts, ‘Silence!’ He’s gone an impressive deep red, which I’d like to inspect more closely. I think it’s shade #9A0000 in the hexadecimal code used to identify precise colours on computers, but it’s hard to tell without getting nearer to him than would be polite.

‘I will not tolerate this insolence!’ he exclaims. ‘You will listen to your teacher with respect!’ Everyone falls silent and he nods to Mrs Shelley, who blushes.

‘Er … right, thank you, Lord Rathbone. Now listen carefully, everyone. We’re going to move on to the next room, where I’d like you to look out for the painting we studied in class, Bedroom in Arles, which was, of course, one of Van Gogh’s own favourites. Remember what we discussed – the flattened perspective and the lack of shadows, and try to compare the style with the Japanese prints we looked at, and which the artist used for inspiration. Decide how successful you think he was. And don’t forget to take notes, for discussion in class next time.’

We all traipse dutifully through to the next part of the exhibition. Brianna, Liam and I walk along together, and Brianna asks, ‘What did she say? Something about a Japanese prince?’

Liam laughs. ‘Don’t you remember those prints we looked at, to see how Van Gogh tried to get a similar effect in his work?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t really listen in art. I mean, I like looking at the pictures and stuff, but Mrs S is so dull that I always end up switching off.’

‘Did you know she’s actually a lady?’ I ask her.

‘Well, I didn’t think she was a bloke, did I?’

‘Agatha means as in “her ladyship”,’ says Liam.

‘Seriously?’ says Brianna. ‘She’s not half as arrogant as the Rathbones, though, is she?’

Liam laughs again. ‘No one’s half as arrogant as the Rathbones.’

‘Shh!’ I warn them. Sarah and her dad keep walking past, like guards on patrol.

We can’t get near Bedroom in Arles, so we stand chatting at the back of the crowd. But after six or seven minutes staring at the back of people’s heads, I grow restless.

‘I’m going to have another look at Sunflowers,’ I tell my friends. ‘I can’t work out what that letter A’s doing on there. Can you cover for me?’

‘How are we expected to do that?’ asks Brianna.

‘Say I’ve gone to the loo?’ I suggest, then as soon as I see the Rathbones chatting to our art teacher, I sneak out and return to the previous room, which is now empty. Except it’s not quite empty – there’s a boy standing in front of Sunflowers. He glances up as I approach.

‘I love this work,’ he says in a familiar way, as if we’re friends.

‘Mmm, me too,’ I say.

‘I always look at Sunflowers when I come to the gallery.’

‘Mmm, me too!’ I really must think of something else to say. ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ I add, and my gaze flickers over him, taking in details:

I realise he’s watching me with a smile, and I feel myself blush.

‘So, you’re a fan of Van Gogh too?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘I’m a fan of art in general,’ he says. ‘I’ve studied it for years. Did you know that there were two series of sunflowers, painted by Vincent for his friend and fellow artist Paul Gauguin? He was going to hang them as a frieze round the walls of Gauguin’s room in the Yellow House in Arles.’

Actually, I do know that, but before I get a chance to respond, the boy is walking over to the next painting along: Wheatfield with Cypresses.

‘Look at the impasto!’ he exclaims.

I know that this means having several coats of paint layered one on top of another, to build texture, so I can at least nod. Van Gogh is said to have been one of the first painters to use the technique.

‘You can really feel the movement of the trees and clouds, can’t you?’ he asks.

‘You really can,’ I say, excited to find someone who shares my love of Van Gogh’s art. I’ve never met anyone else who’s known what ‘impasto’ means. ‘I’ve been having to keep my hands behind my back, so I don’t touch the surface. It’s so tempting.’

He glances round, one hand hovering just in front of the painting’s surface. ‘Shall we?’

‘No!’ I cry.

He bursts out laughing. ‘I wouldn’t really. It might be brittle, after all these years – I don’t want to be the boy who breaks one of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. I’m Arthur, by the way.’

‘Like Hercule Poirot’s friend!’ I say. I can’t stop myself blurting it out.

He smiles and bows. ‘Captain Arthur Hastings, at your service.’

‘You know the books?’ I say excitedly.

‘Know them? I’ve led my life according to the belief system of Hercule Poirot. I like to pretend my parents named me after his friend – but it was actually after some boring great-uncle or other.’

‘Well, I can do one better than that.’ I grin. ‘I’m named after the author herself,’ I announce. ‘I’m Agatha.’ We beam at each other. ‘So … do you work here?’ I finally ask.

‘I wish! No – I’m doing work experience at a printer’s nearby. I come in on my lunch hour, or if it’s quiet and there’s nothing for me to do at work. I’m not allowed to operate the machinery or anything, so when they’re busy I just get out from under their feet.’ He shakes his head in wonder, staring at Wheatfield with Cypresses. ‘Just look at that craftsmanship. It’s exquisite.’

‘It really is,’ I say. We stand side by side in silence for a moment. There’s something awe-inspiring about getting as close as this to a famous painting.

‘Well, I guess I’d better get back to the others,’ I say eventually.

He nods. ‘And they might have started to miss me at the printer’s. I’m not really supposed to go wandering off.’

We wave goodbye to each other and I walk quietly back through to the next room. Although it was great meeting Arthur, I wish I’d had another chance to look at that letter A. It reminds me of the first of the three tests I’d had to complete to become an agent – I only had an A to start with then as well. There’s no one in this part of the exhibition, so I spend a moment in front of another of my favourites, The Starry Night, with its yellow moon and swirly sky. Then I do my duty and examine Bedroom in Arles – admiring the bright colours and the bold simplicity of the bed, chair and door. I remember learning that the walls and door were originally purple rather than their current shade of blue: the paint has discoloured a lot over the years. The painting hangs beside The Yellow House – a picture of the house in Arles in which the bedroom was situated. Finally, I creep through to the next area, where Mrs Shelley is with the other students.

‘There you are!’ hisses Brianna. ‘You’ve been gone for ages! Mrs S asked where you were, and we had to say you’d got diarrhoea.’

‘Diarrhoea?’ I say in horror. Then I take in the glint in her eye. She’s just joking. She laughs.

‘Actually,’ says Liam, pushing his glasses up his nose, ‘nobody even noticed.’

‘Just another day of invisibility,’ I say brightly.

‘Do you really want this lot to notice you?’ says Brianna.

She has a point. There’s quite a lot of rivalry at St Regis. Lots of students live extraordinarily privileged lives, from a financial point of view at least. Their families own estates – or even whole islands. I attend the school on a scholarship and live in a park cottage, because my dad’s the head gardener there. I guess that’s still pretty privileged, but not by their standards. I wouldn’t change places with them for anything, though.

We take the minibuses back to school. Liam, Brianna and I sit close together, and I tell them about meeting Arthur.

‘Tall, blond and pretentious?’ says Liam. ‘Are you sure he’s not a St Regis boy?’

I roll my eyes. ‘He was nice, Liam. And not at all pretentious – he just knows stuff, that’s all.’

‘Whatever,’ he says.

Brianna starts singing some rhyme or other about Liam being jealous because he loves me and wants to do ‘kissing in a tree’. We ignore her. We learnt long ago that it’s the only way to get her to stop – she quickly gets bored if she can’t provoke a reaction.

We get back to St Regis just in time to take the register and then it’s time to head home.

‘Why does the school always insist we come back here after a trip?’ complains Brianna. Then she waves goodbye and walks over to a red sports car – her brother’s. He’s revving the engine, as if he can’t wait a moment longer. He’s one of those impatient, unreliable types and frequently lets Brianna down. But, as her parents are rarely in the country, he’s pretty much all she’s got.

I walk with Liam to his bus stop. I’m wearing my beautiful red wool coat (a birthday present from my dad), and my matching beret to keep my head warm, but there’s a cold wind that makes my ears ache. I pull my hat down as far as it will go and stuff my gloved hands in my pockets. It’s already dark and the streetlights cast orange reflections in the puddles.

‘Any word from the Gatekeepers?’ Liam asks as we walk.

‘Only the homework they keep giving me – no sign of an actual case,’ I reply.

The Gatekeepers’ Guild is the secret crime-fighting organisation that I’m an agent for. I’m their newest and youngest recruit – Agent Cipher X (OK – I made up the code name, but maybe it will catch on).

‘I don’t know why the professor said I’d be getting my first case soon,’ I grumble. ‘I haven’t heard a thing from her or from Sofia.’

Professor D’Oliveira is high up in the Gatekeepers’ organisation. She assigned the second-youngest Guild member, Sofia Solokov, to me as my mentor. The last four times when I’ve been over to HQ, there’s just been a folder full of homework waiting for me – ciphers to solve or information on new Guild rules and policies (as if the 3,051-page rule book wasn’t already enough).

We reach his bus stop and he waits in the shelter, rubbing his arms for warmth. I can see the steam from his breath in the bus-stop lighting.

‘I’m sure you’ll hear soon,’ he says. ‘After all, they were clearly impressed by your work on the museum murder and the water poisoning.’

‘I guess,’ I say with a shrug. ‘But sometimes I worry they’re going to forget about me.’

‘Forget about you? Agatha Oddlow, crime-fighter extraordinaire?’ he says in mock horror. ‘Never!’

I laugh. Liam’s always so good at cheering me up.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘since when have you waited to be allocated an investigation?’

‘True … Maybe I should go over to headquarters,’ I say, ‘and ask for a case. It might just be that the professor is waiting for me to be proactive.’

Liam nods. ‘I think that’s a good plan. And if all else fails, we could always investigate that woman over there,’ he says, pointing to a middle-aged woman across the street, who’s rummaging in a plastic bag. ‘She looks very suspicious.’ As he says this, the woman draws out a banana, peels it and takes a bite. ‘Definitely sinister,’ he says. ‘Could this be one for the Oddlow Agency?’ He raises an eyebrow.

I laugh. We’ve neglected our detective agency since I became a real investigator. The Oddlow Agency (‘No Case Too Odd’ – its motto inspired by my surname) seems a bit like a game now – almost as if we were different people back then. It feels as though we’ve done a lot of growing up in a short space of time.

Liam’s bus approaches, and he holds out his arm to signal to the driver to stop. It pulls up and Liam climbs aboard. I wave through the window at his outline, which is strangely distorted by the glass, then I continue along my way. I’ll drop off my school bag at home and change into more practical clothes, before heading over to the Guild headquarters.

It’s not far to get home to Hyde Park, and I walk quickly. The embassies are all lit up as I pass. When I reach the park, there aren’t many people around. All the dog-walkers have their collars turned up and woolly hats pulled down low, exposing as little skin as possible to the cold wind lifting off the Serpentine lake. Even their dogs look subdued.

When I open the door to Groundskeeper’s Cottage and step inside, our cat comes running up to meet me, winding himself tightly round my legs and knocking me off balance.

I laugh as I try to right myself.

‘Hey, Oliver, boy! Did you miss me?’

‘Meow!’

‘What you’re really missing is dinner, aren’t you?’ I check my watch. It’s only four thirty. ‘It’s a bit early, though, isn’t it?’

Oliver’s unimpressed when I open the door to the staircase and run up to my bedroom. I can hear him wailing at me from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sorry!’ I call down. ‘You’ll get fat if you start eating between meals.’

It takes me five minutes to change out of my uniform and into black jeans, a black sweater and my Doc Martens boots. After a moment’s hesitation, I put on a navy waterproof jacket with a hood. Not my style, but needs must – the tunnel I have to pass through will be dirty and damp. Another five minutes and I’ve assembled a powerful head torch, gloves and my notebook and pen to go in my backpack along with my martial arts outfit. My Guild key is always round my neck, so I’m sorted. The key is my favourite possession. It belonged to my mother when she was a Guild agent – and it opens entrances to underground tunnels all over London.

Downstairs, I scribble a note to Dad, in case he finishes early:

Gone jogging.

Back by 6.

I use a magnet to fix the message to the fridge, while Oliver winds himself round my ankles, meowing to be fed. At last, I take pity on him (after all, he was Mum’s cat, and I’m weak where he’s concerned) and spoon a small portion of food into his bowl.

‘Stinky fish for you,’ I tell him, as I plonk the dish on the floor. Then I leave the house and head over to the locked grille beside the Serpentine – at a jog, so my message to Dad won’t be a lie.

It’s time to head underground.

Unlocking the grille with my key, I slip inside. The smell that hits me is like seaweed mixed with rotten cabbage – but it’s still far better than when the polluted algae had taken over. Fitting my head torch, I switch it on, and the bright LED beam illuminates the gloomy, uneven space. I hate this passage to the network of tunnels that run under much of London, but it’s my nearest entrance. The low headroom means I have to stay at a crouch throughout. At least experience has taught me to protect my hands with gloves, and to free them up by using the head torch.

I shuffle along as quickly as I can to get through the narrow corridor to the cave at the end. But being in darkness always makes a difficult journey seem slower and I’m soon feeling as though I’ll never get out of this place. I have to stop a couple of times to rub my cramping calves. When I do, the reality of where I am crowds in on me – deep underground, and no one knows I’m here – and I have to slow my breathing and focus on my destination.

At last, I see the passage open out ahead, so I speed up. Reaching the cavern, I stretch and groan, easing out my neck and legs. Then I walk over to the brick wall, where the familiar big cast-iron door is almost fully camouflaged. It opens readily with my key and I step through on to the welcome mat that protects a plush red carpet. I’m inside the headquarters of the Gatekeepers’ Guild.

Professor D’Oliveira’s office is one of many down a long corridor. Along the way, I pass doors bearing other staff members’ names and it occurs to me – not for the first time – how many people are involved in the organisation. I haven’t even met most of these agents and administrative staff, yet they’re clearly an integral part of the Guild. I start to feel quite small by comparison – and I’m not comfortable with the feeling.

At the door marked PROFESSOR D. D’OLIVEIRA, I knock and she gives a brisk ‘Enter!’

Inside, the ‘little old lady’ (her own words, which really don’t do her justice) looks up from a document on her desk and raises her eyebrows.

‘Agatha? I wasn’t expecting you today …?’ Her Caribbean accent is slightly stronger when she’s surprised – it’s the only ‘tell’ she has – the only clue to her real emotions.

I shake my head. ‘I know,’ I say, ‘but I was hoping to talk to you.’ It’s strange how much less confident I feel, now that I’m faced with the professor. She has a big presence for such a small, neat person, and it’s hard not to be … intimidated.

‘Have a seat.’ She gestures to one of the curved wooden chairs in front of her desk, and I sit down.

‘Thank you – I was just …’ I hesitate.

‘You were just wondering when we were going to give you that much-anticipated first case?’ she suggests.

I nod. ‘I just … I feel …’ I take a deep breath: ‘I’ve saved London twice now but you haven’t trusted me with a case of my own yet.’ It sounds slightly childish, but at least I’ve said it.

She surveys me. I can’t read her expression, and I look down at my hands. My purple nail varnish needs a retouch. At last, she sits back in her green leather chair and folds her hands in her lap.

‘You are very young, Agatha …’

‘But I’m more than capable!’

She holds up a hand. ‘Please don’t interrupt. What I was about to say was that, despite your youth and relative inexperience, it has been suggested to me that you might be able to help out with a case I’ve received. We’re short of available agents at the moment.’

Please, please don’t say I’ve ruined it by whining like a spoilt brat …

‘Really?’ I say, holding my breath.

She nods. ‘I would have placed Sofia Solokov on this investigation, but another agent is on sick leave, so Sofia’s had to take over their cases and won’t have time to start on this one.’ She checks her watch. ‘Your new partner is not currently in the building. Please come in at nine thirty tomorrow morning and I’ll introduce you.’

New partner? I’m so shocked, I have to blink back tears. ‘My … partner?’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t realise I’d have to work with someone else …’

‘That is what I meant, when I said that you’re still very young, inexperienced. It will be beneficial to your skillset for you to learn to work as part of a team.’

I flush. ‘Oh, right. Yes, I see …’ I move to stand up. Then I remember my mum – an agent in the Guild herself. I know she didn’t die when her bike collided with a car, which is what the police told Dad and me seven years ago. ‘Professor?’

She’s already gone back to reading a document. ‘Hmm?’

‘Have you heard any more … about who took my mum’s file?’

She looks up. ‘No, Agatha, I’m afraid not. I was really hoping we’d have some answers by now. It troubles me to think of the Guild as vulnerable in this way – that a file could go missing. I hate having to mistrust so many people—’ She stops abruptly, as if she’s giving too much away. ‘But I do have some of my most trusted agents working on finding your mother’s missing file and, I promise you, as soon as we have any information, you’ll be among the first to hear about it.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Goodbye, Professor.’

‘Goodbye, Agatha. See you tomorrow, at nine thirty.’

‘Yes, see you then.’

Heading out of the area housing the offices, I reach the main corridor. From here, I can proceed to any part of London. I check my watch. It’s only quarter to five. I didn’t make it to kung fu training yesterday, so I decide to head to the dojo – the gym where I learn with my sifu (master teacher), Mr Zhang.

It’s not far to Soho from here, so I set off, jogging along the tunnels as both a warm-up and a continuation of my promise to Dad. As I run, I think back to the day I was accepted into the Guild – and then the discovery that my mum’s dossier was missing from the file rooms. I’d spent so much time believing that, when I found out who or what she’d been investigating, I’d finally have some answers, but without the file all that information was gone …

I wipe away an angry tear as I think about it again and focus on my breathing, drawing strength from the pumping of my lungs and heart. I will find out. I will find out, I think, in time to the pounding of my feet.

Back above ground, Mr Zhang’s granddaughter greets me at the door of the Black Bamboo restaurant.

‘Agatha, hi!’

‘Hi, Bai! Is your grandfather busy? I was hoping to train.’

‘He’s downstairs. Do you have your gi?’ She’s referring to my white training tunic and trousers.

I hold up my backpack. ‘Always.’

I change in a tiny room at the back, leaving my clothes neatly folded on a chair. There’s a framed Chinese symbol on the wall that represents the name for a dish called biang biang noodles. I study it for a moment. It’s famous for being hard to write, and even my near-photographic brain has trouble remembering every ink mark.

‘Sifu.’

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.

‘Night, Mum,’ I tell her, as I turn off the light.

I leap out of bed when my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning. My dreams have been filled with images of potential partners, from a very frail old man to a supremely bossy Hermione Granger, and even an Inspector Gadget. It takes a while for my sleep-fogged brain to realise they aren’t real.

Sliding my feet into my granddad-style tartan slippers and donning my dressing gown, I head downstairs.

Dad’s up already, urgently shovelling cereal into his mouth, as if it’s been several days since his last meal.

‘Morning,’ he says brightly through a mouthful of cornflakes.

‘Morning.’ I sit down at the table and reach for the Coco Pops.

‘What’s your schedule for today?’ he teases.

‘Oh, thought I’d go to school …’

‘Mmm, why not?’ He plays along. ‘And maybe try not to run off and solve any mysteries?’

‘Well, unless something comes up …’

He shakes his head. ‘A hopeless case,’ he says – but he’s smiling.

I finish my cereal and run upstairs to clean my teeth and get changed into my uniform. I’ve worked out that I have time to show my face at registration, before finding a way to leave again. If I get marked as present this morning, I can keep my attendance figures from sinking too quickly. I add a floral scarf and my red beret, then pull on my coat. Having a sudden idea how to get out of school, I rummage through my disguises and add some items to my backpack.

Finally, I stuff another change of clothes as well into my already bulging backpack – I have a feeling that school uniform would seriously undermine my credibility as an investigator.

Outside, the wind is still biting. I hurriedly fasten my coat right to the top and tighten the knot in my scarf. Then, despite my fatigue, I jog most of the way to school, keen to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. When I’m within sight of the school gates, I hear someone calling my name. Turning, I catch sight of Brianna. She’s not hurrying – Brianna rarely rushes anywhere – and she looks almost blue with cold.

‘Come on,’ I say, ‘I’m not staying out here any longer than I have to.’

One of the best things about St Regis is that we’re allowed to go straight in when we arrive. As soon as we get inside, we find a radiator to lean against. Shivering, I glance around and catch sight of Liam, standing close by. He’s talking to a girl I vaguely recognise from class. They seem to be discussing mathematical theories.

He grins at Brianna and me and says, ‘Tamsin’s also a fan of Fermat!’

‘Is that the one with the salivating dogs?’ asks Brianna.

‘That’s Pavlov,’ Liam and I say in unison, and we both laugh.

‘Pierre de Fermat is considered one of the founders of the modern theory of numbers,’ I quote, from a piece I read the first time Liam mentioned Fermat, when I’d had no idea who he was. ‘He was born in the early 1600s and was one of the leading mathematicians of the first half of the seventeenth century.’

‘Who needs Wikipedia when they’ve got Agatha?’ says Brianna. She glances behind me and mutters, ‘Incoming!’

We hold our breath as Sarah Rathbone and her entourage pass by. Sarah doesn’t acknowledge us, thankfully, and we all breathe out with relief.

Without warning, a voice booms in my direction. ‘Remove your coat, hat and scarf at once, Miss Oddlow! You’re in school now!’ It’s our form teacher, the formidable Mrs Bodley-Finch, lurking in the corridor so she can jump out at unsuspecting students. I’m convinced she has chameleon powers and can blend in to the background.

‘Sorry, ma’am!’ I take off the offending articles, folding the coat and scarf carefully and placing them all in my backpack. Liam and I call a ‘See you later!’ to Brianna and walk towards our form room.

‘The professor’s given me a case,’ I whisper as we walk along. ‘I’m going over to the Guild after the register.’

His eyes go wide. ‘You went over there and asked her?’

I nod. ‘And she said she had something for me.’

‘That’s great! So how will you get out of this place?’

‘I’ve brought a disguise.’

Liam shakes his head and sighs. ‘Aggie, no offence, but you did get caught when you tried to impersonate a health inspector. And a tree surgeon.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’ve chosen a foolproof costume this time.’

We follow the other students into our form room, where I catch our teacher’s eye and smile innocently.

‘Morning, Mrs Bodley-Finch.’

She glowers and looks away. She has only two expressions: frowning and glowering. I wonder what it’s like to be her husband, forever waiting for a smile that isn’t going to come.

Liam and I take our usual seats in the middle of the room.

‘What’s your disguise?’ he whispers.

But Mrs Bodley-Finch frowns at him and says, ‘That’s enough talking, Liam!’

As soon as we’ve escaped from registration, I head towards the girls’ cloakroom to get changed. ‘Let Brianna know what’s going on, will you?’ I murmur to Liam in parting.

‘But wait,’ he says, ‘you haven’t told me your disguise!’ but I don’t reply.

In the cloakroom, I pull my outfit from my backpack. I only have one school skirt, so after I’ve taken it off I’m careful to fold it neatly before placing it in my backpack with the rest of my uniform. I’m especially pleased with my disguise, which is the uniform for St Mary’s School for Girls – the school just down the road from St Regis. I check in the mirror as I don my costume. With the addition of a blonde wig and blue-framed glasses, I’m unrecognisable. Better yet, I look uncannily like Meredith Atkins – this year’s director of the St Mary’s school play.

Let me explain. Every year, St Regis allows St Mary’s School for Girls to use its state-of-the-art theatre for their school production – and St Mary’s takes its annual production very seriously. I’ve seen Meredith coming and going, even in lesson times. She’s only two years ahead of me, and I’ve envied her the ability to leave school at whim. Now, with wedge heels that raise me to around her height, I’m going to borrow her freedom.

When I reach reception, the secretary barely glances my way before pressing the button to open the door. I march out, arms round a folder that could easily conceal the script of a play (but actually holds my maths homework). The walk across the playground feels longer than ever before. It reminds me of those prison films, where there’s a revolving light, picking out prisoners as they attempt to make a break for it. My heart’s pounding at the thought that I could get caught just as I’m about to escape. But, just as I reach the metal gate, it swings open at the secretary’s command, and I’m through! I take a deep breath of icy air and begin to walk, shivering without my coat.

At least I’ll soon be underground.

Over the past few months, I’ve been introduced to a number of routes to the Guild HQ that are far more comfortable than the one beside the Serpentine. I choose one now – a well-built tunnel, which has its entrance right next to Grosvenor Square Gardens. There’s a bike-hire rack close by, so I pay for a bicycle and wheel it over to the rhododendron bush, behind which the metal entrance door is sited.

Checking for onlookers, I dodge behind the large shrub and take my key from round my neck. It turns soundlessly in the well-oiled lock. I swing the door open, wheel the bike through and manage to close the door behind me. I’ve grown accustomed to bumping bicycles down steps into subterranean passageways. I use the torch on my phone to light my way to the bottom of the flight. Leaning my bike against the wall, I rummage in my backpack for yet another set of alternative clothes. It wouldn’t be my first choice of changing room, but needs must. I don black trousers, a white shirt, a pair of smart trainers, and I pull my red coat out from the bottom of my bag, and I’m set to go. Then I mount the bike, push off and let its self-charging lamps illuminate the tunnels. I feel a bit as though I’m flying, with my coat billowing out behind me like a cape.

It takes less than ten minutes to reach the massive door that marks the main entrance to the Gatekeepers’ Guild. Two armed guards check my pass and let me through. Leaving my hired bike in a set of racks provided for the purpose, I make my way through the various passages on foot, until I reach Professor D’Oliveira’s office.

She calls ‘Enter!’ in answer to my knock, and I step inside. ‘Good morning, Agatha. Please take a seat.’

She’s sitting at her carved desk in her wood-panelled office, where everything is plush and ornate. The only clue that we’re underground is the lack of windows.

I sit and she slides a folder across the desk towards me. ‘Your first case for the Gatekeepers’ Guild,’ she says. As I reach to pick it up, there’s another knock at the door … and who should enter but the boy from the National Gallery.

Arthur! My brain struggles to compute. There’s a word, incongruous, which means something that looks completely out of place. This is not his territory, but mine. What on earth is he doing here?

‘Ah!’ says the professor. ‘Arthur – thank you for joining us. Agatha, this is Arthur Fitzwilliam. Arthur, Agatha Oddlow. The two of you will be working on the case together.’

He grins sheepishly at me. ‘Sorry – I looked on your school calendar and found out your class were visiting the gallery yesterday, so I couldn’t resist popping in, in the hope we’d get a chance to meet.’

My brain feels foggy. ‘But … you didn’t say you had anything to do with the Guild!’

‘Not really the place, was it?’ he points out. ‘I couldn’t start blurting out about a top-secret organisation in public.’

The professor looks from me to Arthur and back. ‘Have you two met already?’ she asks, with a frown.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Arthur faked a “chance encounter” with me at the National Gallery yesterday afternoon.’

‘I see …’ she says slowly. ‘Arthur, please take a seat.’

As he sits, his face is full of happy mischief.

‘Sorry, Professor D,’ he says. But he’s smiling.

‘That was totally unprofessional conduct,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t fair to Agatha – and it was in blatant breach of Guild rules.’

‘Sorry, Professor,’ he says again. ‘But you told me I was going to be working with Agatha and—’

She holds up a hand to silence him – a gesture I’ve seen too many times directed at me. ‘That will do.’

‘But it’s not like I told her anything!’ he protests.

I can’t help smiling. There was no malice in Arthur’s actions, after all, and I had enjoyed meeting him. I reckon we’ll have fun working together.

The professor shakes her head. ‘I despair, I really do,’ she says. But her eyes are twinkling and the corners of her mouth are twitching.

‘So you knew we were going to be working together?’ I say, turning to Arthur. ‘When we met at the gallery, I mean.’

He nods. ‘The professor told me yesterday morning.’

Professor D’Oliveira shakes her head. She turns to me. ‘So, Agatha,’ she says, ‘you see what you have to deal with … Keep him on a tight leash, won’t you?’ But she’s smiling indulgently, as if he’s a favourite child.

‘I will,’ I promise.

‘This is a sensitive investigation,’ she says, looking from one of us to the other. ‘But I’m sure you’ll make an excellent team. Arthur, who has good art knowledge and more Guild experience, is the lead on this case, but I do expect you, Arthur, to listen to Agatha – she has good instincts and is a natural codebreaker. Right – I think that’s everything for now. I need to get on with my own work.’ She looks at Arthur. ‘Take Agatha to the induction room and bring her up to speed with the case so far, would you?’

‘Certainly, Professor,’ he says. He picks up the folder and the pair of us stand up and move towards the door.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘just one more thing. Agatha, stay behind a moment, will you? We won’t be long, Arthur.’ Arthur nods and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

‘Now, Agatha,’ she says, ‘don’t let this young man take over completely. There’s a case to be solved, and he needs a firm hand at times. He may have been an agent for a couple of years longer than you, but don’t be afraid to contradict him, if you feel it’s required.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you for trusting me with this.’

‘You’ve already proven your worth, with the two cases you conducted outside of the Guild. Don’t forget, though – it’s not only Arthur who needs to toe the line. Now you’re working for us, you can’t be going off on your own. There are safeguarding issues at stake here – and I don’t want to have to suspend you again.’

I feel myself flush with embarrassment and frustration. What do I have to do to make her trust me? ‘I won’t – I promise,’ I say, biting back the urge to defend myself.

Arthur is waiting for me outside the office. He nods towards the corridor we need to take to the induction room, and we begin walking side by side. As we pass door after door, part of my mind marvels, as always, at the scale of this underground community.

‘So, you’re Clara Oddlow’s daughter?’ he says.

‘How did you know that?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘Common knowledge within the Guild.’

‘Oh.’ I take that in. ‘So, what do you know about her?’

‘Well, she’s a bit of a legend around here, isn’t she? Something to live up to. Must be hard for you, as her daughter.’

‘Well, if I let myself think too hard about it, I’d be paralysed with fears of inadequacy and failure!’ I laugh to show I’m not entirely serious.

‘I believe it’s best not to dwell on the negatives,’ says Arthur. ‘Life’s hard enough at times, without setting yourself up to fail.’

‘That’s exactly what I think!’ We smile at each other. ‘What’s the case?’ I ask him. ‘Professor D’Oliveira said you’re an art expert, so I’m guessing it’s about art?’

‘It is indeed,’ said Arthur. ‘Let’s go in here and then I’ll fill you in.’ He opens the door to the induction room. Unlike the previous times I’ve visited this space, now there are a number of other people sitting at tables, mainly sifting through files. We take seats on the far side, near the radiator. The cold wind doesn’t reach these offices, but it’s still distinctly chilly underground.

I glance around. One man is studying something that looks like a photo, but he’s using his phone to examine it.

‘What’s he doing?’ I whisper to Arthur.

‘It’s a special app. The thing he’s examining is a bit like a microfiche – do you know about those?’

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as I summon up my mental filing cabinet and flick through the imaginary, hand-written cards until I reach the right one:

‘A flat piece of film containing microphotographs of the pages of a document,’ I say, reading the text inside my mind.

‘That’s right – tiny images, which you have to view through a special machine that magnifies them. Well, this is a thing called a nanofiche. It was invented by someone at the Guild and can only be viewed using the organisation’s own app.’

‘Wow, that’s cool.’

He points to another person, a woman apparently staring straight ahead of her. The only thing odd about her – apart from this behaviour – is her glasses, which are larger and more clunky than normal. They remind me of the ones an optician uses to test your eyes.

‘She’s watching an information reel,’ Arthur says.

‘She’s actually watching something?’ I say uncertainly. I’m not sure if he’s teasing me.

‘Yep. Those glasses she’s wearing are another Guild invention – the Spectacular. The lenses are really tiny screens.’

‘Wow,’ I say again. Then I lean forward. ‘So, what’s the case?’ I ask again eagerly.

‘Oh, you’ll like this one,’ he says. ‘It’s about the National Gallery.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’m always serious about art,’ he says. I look at this boy – with his floppy blond hair and dimples – and can’t imagine he’s ever serious about anything.

He draws a sheet of paper from the folder the professor gave us.

‘This is Dr Elizabeth MacDonald, the director of the National Gallery,’ he says, showing me a newspaper clipping of a woman standing in front of Sunflowers. She’s an elderly lady, in a tweed skirt-suit with loafers and is dwarfed by the large canvas. Her white hair is pinned back in a neat bun. She resembles a kindly nanny from a children’s book far more than the director of one of the most famous art galleries in the world.

‘OK …’ I say, scanning her clothing, her stance and her expression. I don’t believe you can work out much about a person from a photograph – especially a posed one, when they’re on their guard – but a person’s choice of dress says a little about how they want to be seen. And how a person desires to be viewed offers certain hints regarding the way they feel about themselves. Elizabeth MacDonald, I decide, is clearly secure enough in her knowledge and experience of the art world not to feel the need to resort to designer clothing or outrageous dress, in order to make her mark.

He draws another sheet from the file: a square photograph.

‘And this is Sheila Smith, the senior curator.’ The picture shows a woman with wavy blonde hair and bright-red lipstick. He places a one-page document below the image. ‘And this is the report on her disappearance.’

I look up sharply. This is the first time he’s lost his jovial tone and seems genuinely grave. ‘Disappearance?’

‘That’s right. She was reported missing yesterday morning, by Dr MacDonald – although it seems that no one’s seen her since Friday night, when she failed to board a flight.’

I take a moment to process this. ‘How long have you been working on this case then?’

‘I’d only just started when I met you at the Van Gogh yesterday. I’d come straight from a meeting with Dr MacDonald. In fact, I had thought I’d be teamed up with Sofia. Between ourselves, I was quite relieved when she had to fill in for someone who’s off sick. She’s a bit … uptight, if you know what I mean?’

I laugh. ‘So, where was Sheila meant to be going?’

He draws out a notebook from his rear trouser pocket and consults his notes. ‘Colombia,’ he replies, ‘to view a painting that’s just come on the market. The National Gallery’s interested in buying it. It was the art dealer over there, in Bogotá, who called Dr MacDonald on Monday morning, to say Sheila had never arrived.’

‘Has anyone checked if she boarded the plane?’

He nods. ‘Dr MacDonald made enquiries with the airport. It was a late-night flight – eleven o’clock – but Sheila never checked in.’

‘What about her family?’

‘They haven’t heard from her.’

‘Why didn’t someone just call the police?’ I ask. ‘It sounds like a straightforward missing person’s case.’

‘Ah. The police aren’t convinced there’s “foul play” involved. They say Ms Smith is perfectly within her rights to take off without notifying anyone. They did have a quick check of her flat, and there was no sign of a struggle. Also, her passport’s missing, so she could have gone anywhere – by ferry, if not by plane. They said they’re happy to hand it over to a private investigator for now, which is why Dr MacDonald contacted us. There’s an agreement that we must tell the police if we turn up anything serious. And they said they’ll have to intervene if we haven’t found her by Friday evening.’

‘We need to get a move on then,’ I say. ‘What else is in that folder?’

‘Not much – it’s waiting to be filled. Oh – I’m meant to give you this.’ He hands me a fake ID badge, with my name beneath my photo and a company name.

‘Who are Prodigal Investigations?’ I ask.

‘That’s our undercover employer, while we’re working this case. It avoids awkward questions about the Guild. The story goes that we’ve been recruited by a PI agency that specialises in hiring promising young people. It’s just to show to anyone who asks too many questions.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say and stash the badge in the outside pocket of my backpack.

He skims through his notes. ‘What I found out from my tête-à-tête with Dr MacDonald was that she’s approaching retirement, and that she’s from an old Scottish clan who own lots of land. They even have an island! It’s called the Isle of Fairhaven. She’s planning on going to live there when she retires from the gallery.’ He puts on a pretty convincing old lady’s voice – complete with Scottish accent – and says, ‘I’m going to pass the autumn of my years on the Isle of Fairhaven.’

I laugh. ‘Is that what she sounds like?’

‘It is, and that’s what she said, verbatim, when I interviewed her yesterday.’ He slips back into Scots mode. ‘She’s such a dear, wee little thing.’ If I’m honest, part of me is a bit uncomfortable about his mockery of Dr MacDonald (I’ve been on the receiving end of too much teasing myself) but I can’t help laughing again – he’s too funny.

‘Her own island,’ I murmur. I picture the tiny plot of land in the Serpentine, to which I’ve rowed from time to time, and wonder how big the MacDonald clan’s isle might be.

‘So where do you think we should start?’ he asks me.

I’m flattered that Arthur thinks enough of me to ask my opinion, when he’s clearly the more experienced agent. I do a mental run-through of important early procedures, from a book I’ve read five times: Complete Crime Scene Investigation Handbook. It tells you that one of the first things is to think of the obvious, and so I say, ‘Have you been to Sheila’s home yet, to search for clues?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I haven’t really started yet.’

I draw Sheila’s photo close for a good look. She’s probably in her early fifties, dressed in a trouser suit, with one hand in her trouser pocket. With her glossy, blonde, shoulder-length hair, she has a vintage-film-star quality, like Greta Garbo or Rita Hayworth.

‘When was Sheila last seen?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, I know it was Friday night, but what time and where?’

‘At work. She got her coat at five thirty and said goodbye to all the staff. Apparently, she prides herself on knowing the names of all her colleagues, on both the art history and art maintenance sides.’

I like the sound of Sheila.

‘And did anyone witness her leaving through the main entrance?’

He consults his notebook. ‘No. The person on reception was busy with a tour group, so nobody actually saw her go.’

‘So she might have been kidnapped directly from the gallery.’

‘Or she might even still be there,’ he suggests. ‘Either hiding, for some reason, or tied up by an assailant.’

This sounds unlikely to me. ‘Surely someone would have come across her by now, if she was being kept hostage in the building.’

‘A good investigator doesn’t rule anything out,’ he says.

‘True. So we need to check the security cameras to make sure she did leave, and see what time it was.’

‘Good idea.’

I Change Channel and summon up a view of the National Gallery, with its roof removed, as if I’m floating above it. If I was Sheila Smith and I wanted to hide here, where would I go? And if I was her assailant, where would I put her, alive or dead?

It takes me a moment to realise Arthur is speaking to me. ‘Hello? Earth calling Agatha …’

‘Sorry!’

‘Where did you go?’ he asks.

I blush. ‘I just switched off this room inside my head and shone a light inside the gallery building.’

Most of the time, people look at me politely or with mild concern when I explain my Change-Channel mechanism. Not Arthur, though. ‘Oh – I do that!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I call it Auto-Focusing!’

‘Changing Channel!’ I say. I catch his eye and we laugh.

‘I guess the Guild attracts a certain brand of weirdo,’ he says.

‘I prefer “maverick”,’ I say. ‘You know – someone who’s happy to do things their own way.’

He grins. ‘OK. Maverick it is. Let the investigation begin!’

Arthur and I agree to start our search at the gallery. He calls ahead, to get clearance from Dr MacDonald for us to view the CCTV footage and speak to some of the attendants who were around on Friday.

‘So, does everyone who works there know she’s gone missing?’ I call to him as we cycle through the tunnel network towards Trafalgar Square. The wind’s strong in this section, causing my bike to make a strange whistling sound, as if it’s alive.

‘They should do. Dr MacDonald made a staff announcement. Tread a bit gently, though, in case anyone missed it.’

Above ground, I return my hired bike to one of the public racks close to Trafalgar Square, while Arthur chains his to a lamppost. Then we walk across Trafalgar Square, past Nelson’s Column and the four giant black lions on their pedestals, and stride up the steps to the gallery and through the revolving doors.

At the reception desk, a man in a National Gallery T-shirt is fielding enquiries and directing visitors to the various rooms and exhibits.

‘Hi,’ says Arthur, when it’s our turn. ‘We should be on your list to visit your security office.’

The receptionist only appears a little surprised to be confronted by a pair of school-age investigators. Dr MacDonald must have forewarned him. He consults a clipboard. ‘May I have your names?’ he asks politely. We hand over our fake ID badges.

‘Ah, yes – I’ve got you here. The security manager says you’re to go straight to the security office. It’s here,’ he opens a folded gallery map and draws a black ring round a room set in a distant part of the building. She’s let the security guard on duty know you’re to be helped with whatever you need.’ He hands us security passes. ‘These will get you through the doors.’

‘Thank you,’ we say politely.

Before we head off, I ask him, ‘Were you here on Friday, at around five thirty?’

He nods. ‘Why do you ask?’

I lower my voice. ‘You’ve heard about Sheila Smith?’

‘Yes – it’s very worrying. As I told Dr MacDonald, I was on the desk, but I didn’t see Sheila. She normally says goodbye, but on Friday afternoon I was tied up with a party of tourists. They were rather lively,’ he says ruefully.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Arthur. ‘It sounds like you had your hands full.’

‘We’re going to do everything we can to find her,’ I assure him.

He shoots me a doubtful look. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem quite young …’

‘Oh,’ I say quickly, ‘don’t worry – we’ll report back to our manager.’

We move off, leaving him to deal with the queue that’s formed behind us.

We turn left, then right, before heading down a long corridor and through some staff doors that require us to scan our passes, and I realise that Arthur isn’t consulting the map – and he isn’t following me.

‘Do you know the way?’ I ask.

He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Er … yeah. I have this ability …’

‘To remember routes you’ve only seen once?’

He stops short and turns to look at me. ‘You too?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’

‘So that means we both have the Auto-Focus/Change Channel thing and the map-memory trick … What else do you reckon we have in common?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. But I’m looking forward to finding out.

I can’t remember ever meeting someone so similar to me before. I’ve tended to be resented – rather than celebrated – for my unusual brain. Even around Brianna and Liam, I sometimes avoid stating exactly how I know things, and just let them call it a ‘hunch’. Photographic memory and mental filing cabinets only make sense to people whose minds work in a similar way – and there aren’t many of us around.

The security office has floor-to-ceiling black double doors with a keypad set into one of them. We press the entry buzzer and look up at the closed-circuit cameras trained on our spot.

Then lights flicker across the panel of the keypad, the door opens, and we’re confronted by a large man – almost a giant – in a dark-blue uniform. He must be close to seven foot, with spiky black hair that makes him appear even taller.

‘And you are …?’ he demands.

‘Agatha Oddlow and Arthur Fitzwilliam,’ I say quickly, just in case my colleague tries any pranks that get us barred from entering.

We show our passes, and the security guard holds the door ajar while we enter.

‘I’m Darren,’ he says, after we’re safely inside the room. He stares at us until I grow a little uncomfortable. At last, he says, ‘How old are you two?’

‘I’m not sure that’s relevant,’ says Arthur. ‘We’re both here on Dr MacDonald’s authority.’ (I have to admit to feeling quite important when he says that. I stand up straighter and hold my head a little higher.) Arthur holds up his security pass, but Darren just shrugs and peels his gaze from us. He walks over to a desk, where he leans down to input information into a computer. He’s not exactly friendly.

I glance around the room. There are no windows, and it’s fairly dark. One whole wall is dedicated to a set of small screens linked to cameras inside the different rooms.

‘Which day’s footage did you need to see?’ Darren asks.

‘The reception area, on Friday, from around five twenty-five pm please,’ I say.

‘That’s late,’ he says. ‘We close at six and final admission is fifteen minutes before that. There wouldn’t have been many people coming in so near to closing time.’

‘We’d still like to see it, though,’ I say.

Darren shrugs again, and types the requested date and time into the PC.

‘Done.’ He points to the screen that’s bottom-right in the stack, and Arthur and I walk over to it.

‘That must be the party of tourists who distracted the receptionist,’ says Arthur, indicating a horde of middle-aged people reclaiming their bags and coats from a man and woman, who are presumably their tour guides.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask, pointing at a figure in a man’s fedora hat and a long coat, walking past the tourists.

‘I can’t see their face,’ says Arthur. ‘Can you?’

We squint at the screen, but the person doesn’t turn towards the camera. They stride out of shot, heading for the exit.

‘Do you think it might be Sheila?’ I ask.

Arthur turns to Darren, who’s busy scrutinising the bank of CCTV footage. ‘Darren, how do we rewind this? Can we do it on the screen itself?’

The security guard comes over and shows us the correct buttons to rewind and pause, and Arthur takes the video back to the point at which the unidentified character appears. ‘Is this Sheila Smith?’ he asks Darren.

Darren joins us by the screen again, and studies the images for a moment. ‘It could be,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t like to say for sure. Why?’

‘I’m sure you’ve heard that she’s gone missing,’ I say. ‘We’re trying to track her down.’

‘You are?’ He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘I know we’re young, but we’re highly experienced investigators.’

‘It’s definitely a staff member,’ I continue, ignoring the Darren’s rudeness. ‘See there.’ I point to a centimetre of ribbon, showing at the back of the person’s neck, just above their coat collar. ‘Do you see a glimpse of one of the gallery’s security lanyards?’

‘Good eye!’ says Arthur approvingly, and I blush. (Since when did I start blushing all the time? It’s mortifying.)

‘Well, if they’re a member of staff, I’d say it’s definitely Sheila,’ says Darren. ‘Nobody else dresses quite like that! I haven’t seen a fedora since those old films with Cary Grant.’

‘She does have her own style,’ I say, admiring the hat and the long coat. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’

‘She’s certainly an interesting woman,’ says Darren. ‘I hope she’s all right. The gallery won’t be the same if anything happens to her. Dr MacDonald may be the director, but Sheila Smith’s the one everyone goes to. She’s like the warm heart of the place, you know?’ He breaks eye contact and starts staring at one of the screens, as if he’s embarrassed by his own sentimental outburst.

I catch Arthur’s eye and he says, ‘Well, we’ve got everything we need for now – thank you.’

‘Please let us know if you think of anything or hear something that might be relevant,’ I say. ‘And … thanks for your help.’

Outside the room, Arthur catches my eye. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he says.

‘It really was.’

‘Do you think he’s involved?’ he asks.

I pause for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He did seem very protective of Sheila, so probably not.’

‘I agree. I think he’s genuinely upset that she’s gone missing.’

We head back through the staff-only corridors, until we’re out again into the public area of the gallery.

‘Time to find out if any of the attendants know where Sheila is,’ says Arthur. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘How about the Van Gogh exhibition?’

‘Good choice.’

As we walk past the entrance desk, the receptionist calls us over.

‘Dr MacDonald has asked if you could go up to see her, when you’re finished with your interviews.’

‘Will do,’ says Arthur. ‘Thanks.’

At the entrance to the exhibition, Arthur turns to me. ‘How about you take this one, and I interview someone else?’

‘Good plan. Meet you by the reception desk in twenty minutes,’ I suggest, ‘and we’ll go up to see Dr MacDonald?’

‘Great.’ He heads off along an art-lined corridor, and I walk once again into Van Gogh’s extraordinary world. The artist had a condition known as ‘synaesthesia’. This means his senses overlapped – he saw shapes when he heard sounds, for instance. Those great swirls in the sky in The Starry Night? They were the result of his synaesthesia.

There’s no time to look at or reflect on the paintings today, though. We have a case to solve, and a missing woman to find.

The attendant is sitting on a wooden chair beside the archway that leads to the next room. He’s staring into space and nodding his head. It takes me a moment to realise he’s listening to music.

‘Hey!’ I say to him.

As he fumbles with his phone, turning off his music app, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes flick over him, searching for clues to his personality and interests.

‘Hi!’ he says with a smile. ‘What can I help you with?’

I decide to trust my hunch. ‘What do you play?’ I ask.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I noticed your fingernails. You play the guitar?’

He smiles. ‘Wow, you’re observant! Yeah – I’m a third-year guitar student at ACM – the Academy of Contemporary Music in Clapham.’

I study him. ‘Rock?’ I ask.

‘We have to cover everything, but, yeah, I’m more into the rock side than classical or folk. Do you play?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I love listening, though.’

He gestures to the art on the walls. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘The Sunflowers.’

He nods. ‘They’re cool.’ He points to the wall opposite his chair, where two paintings of Van Gogh himself hang side by side. ‘I like the self-portraits. They’re kind of creepy, but fascinating, you know?’

‘He was so talented …’ I pause for a moment, then say, ‘Have you heard the senior curator’s gone missing?’

He frowns. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I’m looking into her disappearance.’

‘You are? How old are you?’

I produce the fake ID badge and he takes it and reads it. ‘“Prodigal Investigations”. Is that like a PI firm or something?’

‘That’s right. They specialise in recruiting young people,’ I explain, ‘… but we still report to grown-ups,’ I add quickly. ‘So, do you know Sheila Smith?’

He hands back the badge. ‘Everyone knows her. She’s a really nice woman. Very glamorous – she always looks great …’ He pauses. ‘So, what’s happening? Are the police involved?’

‘They wanted to leave it a few more days – they say there isn’t any reason yet to suspect foul play, but they’re happy to let us look into it in the meantime, as the family are concerned.’

He looks worried. ‘So, do you think she’s all right?’

I shrug. ‘I hope so. There’s certainly nothing to suggest she was attacked.’ I get my pen ready for note-taking.

‘So, Robbo,’ I say, reading his name badge, ‘when was the last time you saw her?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Friday, at the end of the day. She came round to say goodbye and check I hadn’t gone mad from boredom, sitting here all afternoon.’

‘So she was already in her coat?’

‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘She was wearing this long coat, with a man’s hat. She carried it off, mind – very Marlene Dietrich.’

So that was Sheila in the CCTV footage!

‘Did she seem all right?’

He starts to nod, then appears to remember something. ‘Well, she was a bit on edge, you know?’

‘In what way, “on edge”?’

‘It’s just that normally she gives you her full attention, but on Friday she kept checking her phone and she seemed distracted. It’s probably nothing …’

‘It was worth mentioning, though – thank you. Was there anything else?’

‘No. After a few minutes, she just said, “See you on Monday, Robbo”.’

‘Well, thanks for your help.’ I tear a page out of my notebook and scribble down my mobile number. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’

He takes the slip of paper. ‘Will do. I still can’t believe it … Sheila, missing …’

I remember Darren and the receptionist’s comments on how young Arthur and I were, and want to reassure him. ‘I promise I’m going to report back to my supervisors,’ I tell him, ‘and they’re going to do everything they can to find her.’

It’s only been ten minutes, but Arthur’s already waiting when I reach the reception desk.

‘Let’s find a quiet spot to talk before we go and see Dr MacDonald,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can find a space upstairs in the medieval section, where it isn’t too busy.’

We walk up the stairs and enter a room where there are lots of religious paintings in dark colours with splashes of gold.

‘So, what did you find out?’ I ask him.

‘Not much. You?’

‘Robbo last saw her at the end of the day on Friday, when she did her usual round of goodbyes. She seemed distracted – she kept checking her phone. He also confirmed she was dressed in the clothes we saw on the monitor.’

‘So that was her then, on her way out?’

‘Yes. It’s good to have that confirmed,’ I say.

He nods and consults his notes. ‘Emma saw her in the ladies’ toilets at five twenty pm. They smiled and exchanged pleasantries – nothing more. I also had a quick chat with the other two attendants—’

‘Wow, you’re quick!’

‘Well – nothing to report, basically, so there was no reason to keep them talking.’

‘So, no leads …’

He shakes his head. ‘We’d better report to Dr Mac. Let’s hope she’s not expecting any results yet.’

‘I’d also like to inspect Sheila’s office, if she has one.’

He nods. ‘She does. We can get the key from Dr MacDonald.’

We head back down to the main foyer area and from there pass through another staff-only door and take the stairs two flights to the second floor. Arthur’s been here before, so he leads the way. As we walk, I tentatively say, ‘Arthur – have you noticed anything not quite right about the Sunflowers painting since it moved position?’

He shakes his head and looks puzzled. ‘No. What sort of thing?’

‘Just the colouring … I’m probably imagining it. Forget it.’ I decide not to mention the invisible A at this point – it might distract us, and Sheila’s safety must be our priority.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.