Murder at the Museum - Lena Jones Agatha Oddly

Скачать книгу

of other routes branching off from it, and it’s not carpeted and wood-lined like some of the more elaborate ones, such as those that run under Hyde Park. However, it’s good to be out of the bright lights of the larger tunnel. It also has a smooth surface, and I begin to jog again, enjoying the rhythmic pace, which lets my brain slow down and start to process the information I’ve gathered so far.

      The maze of underground pathways that runs under London was only partly constructed by the Guild, of course. They patched together several networks, from old Roman and Victorian sewers to modern service pipes, plus parts of the Tube, the electricity board’s passageways, the water board’s, sections of underground car parks and even telephone exchanges. This patchwork design can be quite useful, because it often gives you a clue as to where you are. In the tunnels I’ve visited near the South Bank (beside the Thames), the walls are made of an orangey concrete, with two rows of lights down either side. In the tunnels near to Buckingham Palace, they are plush, as though in preparation for a royal visit, and have chandeliers in place of bare light bulbs.

      I’ve never been in this part of the network before, so I make sure I commit it to memory in case I’m ever here again and need to find my bearings. It’s weird, heading in the direction of home without any of the familiar landmarks I would have above ground. I’m jogging at a comfortable pace when I hear a faint sound behind me.

      I glance over my shoulder.

      The tunnel is slightly curved, so I can’t see what’s making the noise. But I listen very carefully. It’s a regular tapping. Perhaps just a leak? No, it doesn’t sound like that: it’s too regular, and that rhythm …

      Footsteps.

      They’re getting louder. Someone’s running in my direction. I look back again. As they come round the bend, they’re just a shadowy figure. The only thing I can make out is that, when they see me, they speed up.

      There’s no time to lose. I pick up my own pace, racing like I’m doing the hundred-metre sprint. If the person behind me is from the Guild (and who else would it be, down here in the Guild tunnels?) then I can’t let them catch me, or they’ll be bound to bar me from taking the Trial. I run and run until my blood is thudding in my ears. My feet are pounding so hard against the concrete that they’re starting to throb. At least I seem to be increasing the distance between us, though. After a little while I come to a branch off to the left. I’m dizzy from the run, and have to pause before my vision clears enough to read the next sign. With a sigh of relief, I see it says HYDE PARK 1⁄3 MILE.

      In the brief time I’ve been standing still, the footsteps have become much louder. The person following me is really close now. With one last push, I race down the offshoot. There’s no lighting, but I can make some out ahead, filtering through from the far end of the tunnel. This passage is also straighter than the one I was just in and, after a few moments, I glance back into the darkness and see a torch heading through the darkness towards me.

      My forehead is dripping with sweat and my breathing is becoming painful. I keep glancing back, and the light is still there, following a little way behind. Whoever’s chasing me can’t catch up, but they’re not falling back either. Off in the distance I see it at last – a spiral staircase leading up from the tunnel floor.

      It takes an almost Herculean effort to make it up the stairs. I have to stop partway up because my calves are aching badly. I bend over, panting and rubbing my legs, convinced my tracker will reach me. Then the area below lights up from their torch, and that’s enough of an incentive to send me climbing again, up and up, above the roof of the tunnel.

      Finally, the spiral staircase ends. I see a small iron door in front of me; I put my Guild key into the lock; and, just as my pursuer’s foot sounds on the bottom rung of the metal staircase, I step through the door, out into the cold night air, and shut the door firmly behind me, panting loudly.

      The moon is bright and full, showing me that the door is set into a stone embankment, near the Serpentine lake. I’m not far from home and I don’t have time to stand around. After taking a second to get my bearings, I race away across the lawns, into the night.

img missing

      Usually, when getting home late, I climb back up the oak tree and in through the skylight. But there’s no way my legs will cope with that tonight. Plus, it’s so late that all the lights are off in the cottage. Dad must be in bed. I don’t want to spend any more time outside than I need to, not when somebody might still be tailing me. So I take out my house keys and, as quietly as possible, go in through the front door.

      I collapse in the hallway, leaning against the front door and breathing heavily. The excitement of the evening, and the chase through the tunnels, have worn me out. But my mind’s as alert as ever, buzzing with ideas and theories, with images from the museum and the underground station.

      I decide to get myself a glass of milk. Maybe that will help me get to sleep. There’s no point in me staying up all night, trying to solve a case where I don’t have all the facts. I will wake up rested tomorrow and start again, with Liam and Brianna to help me.

      It’s dark in the kitchen, but I don’t want to turn the light on. The moon’s shining through the window and it’s just about enough to see by. I open the fridge, letting out a refreshing blast of cold air. I take out the milk, close the door, and turn towards the cupboard, where the glasses are kept.

      As I do, I jump, so startled that I drop the carton of milk on the floor.

      There’s someone standing in the corner of the kitchen, waiting silently in the shadows.

      I stumble away, pressing my back to the work surface. Without taking my eyes off the intruder, I feel for a knife in the knife block. But my silent companion doesn’t move. I focus hard on their outline. There’s something not quite right about this person.

      Walking over, I flick the light on.

      For a few seconds, I’m blinded. But then I can see what startled me – one of Dad’s old suits. It’s hanging on a coat hanger from a hook on the wall, a double-breasted jacket over the trousers below. This is a particularly offensive article from Dad’s wardrobe: double-breasted brown twill with mustard pinstripes. Someone should have been arrested for creating this suit. And someone should definitely arrest Dad for wearing it. Knowing him, he’ll probably team it with a mustard shirt and his favourite green tie. I love him dearly, but his fashion sense could do with some help.

      Dad said he had to visit another gardener in the morning, but why would he be putting on a suit to visit an orchid specialist? Especially a suit he hasn’t worn in years – a suit which, though it’s hard to believe, he thinks is very flattering. I walk up to the offending outfit and tentatively sniff it, and the smell it gives off confirms my suspicion – this suit has recently been dry-cleaned. It looks smart: pressed and lint-rolled of even the slightest speck of dust. Who is Dad trying to impress?

      I pour myself a glass of milk, replace the carton in the fridge, turn out the light, and begin my weary climb to bed. I navigate my way upstairs, avoiding the creaky steps. I’m conscious that I’m still wearing my disguise and am now streaked with grime from the dirty tunnels through which I’ve been running and crawling. If Dad were to see me now, like this, his suspicions would certainly be raised.

      Dad knows I love investigating, but I think he imagines that I’m out looking for people’s lost cats, or watching for shoplifters at the corner store. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, but I have bigger fish to fry. Dad doesn’t know about these bigger fish: about the Guild, or about the work they do, protecting the capital from the plots of dangerous, greedy people.

      Which is for the best really.

      I can hear Dad snoring loudly as I climb the stairs. At the top, a sudden ‘Meow!’ makes me freeze. Oliver has come to welcome me. He purrs loudly and pushes his stocky body against my legs.

      ‘Shhh, Oliver!’ I scoop him up with the arm that isn’t carrying the milk and let him drape himself round my neck. It’s far too warm for this,

Скачать книгу