Oliver has given up hope of using me as his armchair, and is curled up on the landing.
I bend down to stroke him and an image flashes into my head.
It’s just a snapshot, but I feel sure I’ve touched on it.
Quickly, I think hard so that the image is beamed on to the landing wall by an old-fashioned film projector. A key sketched in pencil I press the rewind lever on the projector. With a click and a whirr, the film reels backwards. Images dance on the wall, too fast to see. I press the forward lever and the film plays again – a hand reaching up to a bookshelf my own hand
Suddenly, the film jams in the projector and, a second later, catches fire against the hot bulb. There is no more – the memory is gone.
But it doesn’t matter – I know where I need to look.
I run up the stairs and go to the bookcase in my room. I scan the titles. There it is – an old copy of Agatha Christie’s Mysterious Affair at Styles. Mum’s book. I draw the novel from the shelf with shaking hands, and open the back cover. There it is – on the discoloured end page, a small sketch of the key. It’s a perfect match with the professor’s tattoo. Below the drawing of the key is a string of rough lines that look, at first glance, like something written in Viking runes …
IVIVXIIVIIIXIIIVIIIXIIVII
I’m breathless. Whatever is going on, Mum must have been involved, and she has left a message for me to find. I have seen this code in the back of the book before, when I was younger, but never thought much of it. The picture of the key was meaningless, just a doodle. The code seemed to mean nothing, but now I put all my effort into solving it. How could I have let a message from Mum sit on my shelf all these years?
I grab my notebook and pen from by the bed and sit down on the rug.
The first thing I note is that the string of Is, Vs and Xs can be broken down into Roman numerals –
IV IV XII V III X II IV III X II VII
Where to split some of the numbers is guesswork – the V and the III (five and three) could actually have been VIII (eight). But if I do it this way, there are twelve numbers, or three groups of four, which seems neat –
(IV IV XII V) + (III X II IV) + (III X II VII)
I wrack my brain – what kind of code would use sets of four? I’m blank for a second, but then it hits me – the object I’m holding is a book! The groups of four numbers could be references to chapters, pages, lines and words. And from words, you could make a message.
Quickly, I flip to the fourth chapter, then the fourth page of the chapter, then run my finger down to the twelfth line, and along to the fifth word.
‘… the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning!’
The next two references share a page, I realise, turning to the tenth page of chapter three. I run my finger along the second line, and discover the other two words in the same sentence …
‘I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book, which gave me a description of strychnine poisoning.’
That’s it, I have no more. The message is – ‘Develop In Library’. I stare at it for a moment, my heart sinking. The message seems like nonsense. For a second I had a glimmer of hope. Not just that the puzzle was about to be solved, but that, after all these years, I was going to get one last message from Mum.
I slump back, my mind unfocused, letting disappointment flood in. Then, like a voice at the back of my head that won’t shut up, the phrase keeps repeating itself to me.
Develop in library …
Develop in library …
Develop in library …
I look up to a spot on one of the highest shelves. The books up there have spent many years unread – they are of no interest to me. There are catalogues of other books, or treatises on ‘information management’, whatever that is. Then I see it – right there, in the middle of the shelf, sits one of Mum’s old reference books – Developments in Librarianship, Vol. 18.
Trembling slightly, I pull a chair over to the shelf, get up, and take down the heavy brown book. My hand pauses for a second over the cover, almost not wanting to open it, scared of finding nothing inside. Surely that is what awaits me – another disappointment. Well, better to get it over and done with.
I open the book.
A small slip of paper – an old bookmark – falls out.
For a moment, I stop breathing altogether. There, in the middle of the book, is no page at all. Someone has hollowed out the book with a knife, making a small, rectangular compartment. And there, gleaming darkly in the light, is a key. A perfect physical copy of the drawing – the black lines translated into wrought iron.
I take the key from the book. It is cold, heavy and real. It had belonged to my mother and, after many years, she has given it to me. I have no idea where it came from, or what it is supposed to open. But it is mine.
I take the key and get into bed, exhausted now.
I gaze at the puzzle one more time before switching off the lamp.
Despite the baking heat in my little attic room, I fall asleep in a matter of seconds, the strange key grasped in my hand.
It’s Saturday, but I still wake before eight. I’m exhausted and groggy from the night before. But I wake with the key still cradled in my palm, and that makes me stop and think. Even though I don’t know its purpose, the key is precious. I can’t bring myself to put it down. I rummage through my jewellery box – a beautiful old Chinese box with an embroidered lid that belonged to Mum – and find one of Mum’s silver chains, which I thread through the key and fasten round my neck.
I turn my radio on and listen to the news –
‘… further outbreaks of looting and rioting across London, as the water shortage worsens. Police have been called to an unplanned demonstration on Old Kent Road which is blocking traffic. Fire crews attending a blaze in Putney have been struggling to control the flames at a carpet warehouse with the limited water supplies …’
I shut it off, a hollow feeling in my stomach. The next thing I do is to send a message to Liam. I might not use my phone much, but Liam has to be alerted immediately. I send the words ‘Custard Cream’ – our standard code for an urgent rendezvous – and the number 12, which tells him that he needs to come to my house at noon.
I go downstairs and make some toast, and am walking back through to the living room when I see a note on the doormat. It’s a plain envelope, without an address. All it says on the front is ‘Agatha’. I pick it up, noting that there is something inside. Maybe I should go and put gloves and goggles on before opening it. But I can’t wait.
I pull out a handwritten note, and something else falls to the floor. The note reads –
You shouldn’t spy on people.
My heart is racing. Someone is trying to scare me off. I look down at what has fallen out – it’s a wilted white flower. I look at it carefully, trying to understand what it means. Dad is the expert on flowers, not me, but I know the name of this one – clematis. It’s the plant that is growing up the back wall