LITMIR.BIZ

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the wrought-iron gate of Groundskeeper’s Cottage and close it behind me, taking my usual route along the Serpentine lake. I’m looking forward to my morning chat with JP, who lives in the park. JP isn’t supposed to live in the park – he’s homeless – but Dad pretends not to notice when he’s still there at night-time. Dad says he scares off the occasional graffiti artist. This morning, as I approach, I see JP sitting with his eyes closed, looking pale.

      ‘Hey, JP!’ I hurry towards him. I have a premonition that he will fall forward as I reach him, a knife sticking out of his back. He would murmur something as he fell into my arms – ‘Agatha, you must avenge me.’ Then I would …

      ‘Morning!’ JP calls brightly, his eyes flicking open.

      He’s not dead.

      ‘Were you comfortable last night?’ I ask.

      ‘Not too bad. I slept under the weeping tree in the Dell. Don’t tell your Dad, though.’

      ‘Did you make sure not to leave a trace?’

      ‘Not a fingerprint.’ He laughs and eyes my pockets hopefully. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’

      I pull out two pieces of toast, sandwiched together with butter and marmalade.

      ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He takes a large bite, then speaks through a mouthful. ‘Now, by the way …’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Don’t you have a school to go to?’

      I check my watch. It’s 8:37 already; school starts at 8:55. ‘Yup, I’d better run. Bye!’ I set off at a brisk walk.

      ‘Have a good day!’ he calls after me.

      I walk along the path. There aren’t many people around at this time, but I nod to an old lady as I pass her, and she smiles back. She’s walking fast, wearing a light tan coat and matching hat.

      As I pass under the canopy of beech and willow trees, I hear a roar ahead. Approaching me, far too quickly, is a motorbike. Motorbikes are banned from the park, the same as any vehicle. I feel cross, but I have no time to react as the bike shoots past me, down the footpath and out of sight. A moment later and I hear a screech of tyres, a loud thud, then nothing.

      Before I know it, I’m running back in the direction that I’ve just come from, and as I round a bend in the path I see what I feared – the old lady in the tan coat lying on the ground. The bike is next to her, but only for a second – the rider revs the engine and speeds away.

      ‘Hey!’ I shout after the rider, rather pointlessly. ‘Stop!’

      Of course, the bike does no such thing, and just disappears down the winding path. I rush over to where the woman lies on the ground. Her hat is askew, her eyes closed, and the contents of her handbag are strewn over the path.

      I stand frozen for a second, stunned. I have to check myself – I haven’t Changed Channel. This is not a dream. This is really happening.

      ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, and she opens her eyes slightly, but just looks blearily at me, then blacks out.

      ‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Someone, help!’

      There is hardly anyone around, but JP comes running over.

      ‘We need to call an ambulance. I’ll call nine-nine-nine,’ I say.

      ‘You have a mobile?’ He sounds surprised.

      ‘Well, of course,’ I say, a little peeved. ‘I’m just not glued to it all the time. We need to hurry.’

      I reach into my satchel and take out the phone. I press the ‘on’ button, but it seems to take forever to power up.

      ‘JP, could you go and see if there’s a warden nearby?’

      JP makes off across the lawns, the sole of one shoe flapping as he runs.

      I turn my attention back to the woman. She looks almost too peaceful, and for a second I’m worried that she might have died while I was distracted.

      My phone finally powers up; I call nine-nine-nine and ask for an ambulance. The woman keeps me on the line at first, asks about the lady’s breathing and pulse. Her right arm is twisted oddly under her and looks broken. Carefully, I unbutton the cuff of her coat sleeve and find her wrist. Pressing my fingers to her skin, I find a regular – if rapid – pulse.

      The woman on the end of the line hangs up, telling me the ambulance is about to arrive and I should make sure they can see me. Taking my hand away, I notice something unusual on the old lady’s wrist – a tattoo of a key.

      It’s very simple – one long line and three short, like the teeth of an old deadlock. Dad has a dozen keys like that on a ring, which open the old iron gates and grilles in the park, but it seems a strange thing to have tattooed on your wrist, especially for an old lady. The handle of the tattoo key is a circle with a dot inside, a bit like an eye. It’s outlined in white ink, which shines silvery on her dark skin. I start to put her scattered things back in her handbag, hoping to find a next-of-kin contact. There’s lipstick, some mints in a tin, a pen, a large set of keys (none of which are deadlocks) and a purse.

      There’s no perfume in the bag, though I can smell that she is wearing some. I sniff again – I can’t help it – it comes instinctively to me. A waft of vanilla, a hint of leather and carnation. Tabac Blond, first made by Caron in 1919. An expensive perfume.

      Her clothes are plain, but her blouse has the feel of silk. The mother-of-pearl buttons might be plastic, but I’m not so sure. I look in the purse for a contact telephone number, but find nothing except several business cards.

       Prof. Dorothy D’Oliveira

       Senior Fellow, Hydrology Studies

       Royal Geographical Society

      Hydrology? What does that mean? ‘Hydro’ is from the Greek for ‘water’. So, she studies water? Out of ideas, I go back to making sure she’s comfortable. I don’t risk moving her right arm, though it looks uncomfortable bent beneath her. But, as I fold my blazer and place it under her head, I spot something in her left hand. I don’t know how I missed it at first. With a glance at her peaceful face, I gently prise her fingers open to find a piece of folded pink newspaper – a page from the Financial Times. Looking around to see if anyone is watching, I open it out.

      It has the usual stories – mergers of electronics companies, CEOs getting millions of pounds in bonuses, a story about London pollution. Without thinking, I fold the paper and slip it into my blazer pocket. JP hasn’t returned yet, so I’m left alone to watch over the professor. Somewhere nearby, a siren starts wailing. I have an idea – opening my satchel, I take out a small brown bottle, unstopper it, and wave it under her nose.

      It was insanely difficult to find smelling salts in London chemists. Finally, a pharmacy on Old Compton Street had agreed to sell me some, on the condition that I leave my name and address.

      After a moment, the professor starts to take deeper breaths, and coughs twice. She opens her eyes and looks at me. The sound of the siren is much louder now, and I can see the ambulance racing across the lawns towards us, churning furrows into the dew-soft grass. Dad won’t be happy. It stops right next to us. The two paramedics jump out and start to tend to their patient.

      ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ A paramedic points to the bottle I’m holding.

      ‘Sal volatile.’

      He looks blank.

      ‘Spirit of hartshorn?’

      ‘What?’

      I suspect the man of being a little slow.

      ‘Ammonium carbonate with lavender oil.’

      ‘Ah, aromatherapy. New age.’

      I sigh. ‘If you say so.’

      They

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