I don’t know how I know, but I do. Perhaps the keyhole looks a similar shape. Perhaps it’s just something about the door itself. Perhaps it’s just my overactive imagination. Perhaps I have read Alice in Wonderland too many times. Whatever it is, I take the mystery key from round my neck and insert it into the lock. I turn the key, and a smooth, well-oiled mechanism goes – click!
Click.
Oh crikey.
It went click.
It clicked.
Feeling like I’ve walked into a dream, I pull on the handle and the door swings back smoothly. Golden light shines out, into the dank cave, smothering the tiny light of my torch.
I look down. At my feet is a doormat printed with the word ‘WELCOME!’.
In front of the doormat stands a small umbrella holder, which is empty. And in front of that runs a plush red carpet, very clean and dry. I take off my gas mask and peer through the doorway. The carpet stretches in two directions down a long corridor illuminated by wall lights. The corridor has fine oak panelling on the walls, like the interior of a stately home. On a pedestal near the door sits a logbook and a pen. I look at the book, which seems to record times, identity numbers and the condition of the tunnel. It doesn’t tell me what I need to know, so I flick to the front of the book.
The Gatekeepers’ Guild – Inspection Log, No. 38261.
As I stare in disbelief at the ordinary objects in front of me – so out of context in this strange tunnel – I hear the sound of someone whistling down the corridor. I freeze for a second, and hear the soft tread of their shoes on the carpet. Very quickly, I retreat into the cavern, shut the heavy iron door and lock it, fingers fumbling with the key.
I stand there in darkness for a second, my breath rasping from the fumes, hoping that whoever is walking down the corridor didn’t hear me. I press my ear to the cold iron. Faintly, I can hear the whistling behind the door. It stops, and I hold my breath. There is a pause, then the whistling resumes and fades away.
I stand alone in the darkness.
After another long walk back through the tunnels, I’m shaking with tiredness, begrimed with mud and slime from head to toe. I just want to get out. I emerge into the sunlight – birds are singing. I start to walk through the park, but my relief is cut short when I see a trio of girls under a tree. As I get closer, I see it is the CCs – Sarah, Ruth and Brianna – using the park as a place to take selfies.
Sarah shrieks when she sees me trudging across the lawns.
‘What. The?’ Ruth asks nobody in particular.
I peel off the gas mask to reveal my face.
‘Is that … Agatha? You have got to be kidding me.’
‘What are you doing in the sewers, Odd Socks?’ Sarah taunts, horror replaced by glee. ‘Meeting friends?’
Brianna just looks at me open-mouthed. Has she made peace so quickly with Sarah? She doesn’t say anything to me, but she certainly doesn’t say anything in my defence, either. The other two don’t seem to notice her silence. I see that Sarah has a bottle of water in her hand. I wouldn’t usually ask her for anything, but I’m desperate.
‘Please, I’m so thirsty … Can I have some water?’
‘Oh what, this?’ She looks at the bottle in her hand. ‘Sorry, this is for my spritzer.’ She takes out a small spray-bottle, fills it with the last of the water, and sprays some on her face. ‘You know, it’s just so hard to keep cool in this heat,’ she finishes, grinning evilly.
Ruth and Sarah’s laughter rings out so loudly that I think the whole park will hear it, but I just walk past them without saying anything. I can still hear their laughter way off. For once, their insults don’t hurt me – I’ve just discovered something huge, something quite impossible. Most importantly, I’ve discovered something that Mum wanted me to discover. Is this something to do with how she died? Or something else entirely? Either way, I need to find out more about the Gatekeepers’ Guild.
By the time I’m out of the rubber waders, there is a knock at the front door – Liam has arrived on our doorstep. I open it and words come tumbling out of him.
‘Agatha! Is everything OK? You sent the emergency signal – I would have come sooner, but you said twelve and I didn’t want to mess up your plan if you had one …’
I hold up my hand to halt him.
‘Liam, I’m fine. Sorry if I panicked you, but I have a lot to tell you.’
I think, after everything I’ve done, that I deserve a cup of tea. ‘Just wait while I get changed.’ I point to my black jeans and top, which are still soaked in slime from the tunnel.
‘What have you been doing?’ His eyes bug out.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
I run upstairs and change quickly into a striped navy T-shirt with navy ankle-length Capri pants, a red belt and red lace-up pumps, and tuck Mum’s key inside the neck of my top. I grab my notebook, then run back downstairs. I walk past Liam, towards the front door.
‘Come on,’ I tell him over my shoulder. ‘We’re going to the Orangery.’
‘To the … but … hang on …’ he splutters, following me out. I shoot him a radiant smile – for some reason, this always works. ‘Oh, all right,’ he says.
The Orangery is an elegant tearoom next to Kensington Palace, at the west side of the park. We crunch up the gravel, past the Round Pond in front of the café, which is usually full of lily pads and water flowers, but now is scummed over with a red skin. There are normally tables outside the Orangery, but thanks to the stink coming off the pond, all the tables have been taken inside, the doors and windows shut. Liam pauses by one of the windows, which is hung with delicate lace.
‘Are you sure about this? We could just get a couple of ice creams from the van.’
I drag him inside, and a tinkling bell above the door summons the maître d’. What I haven’t told Liam is that I have a special relationship with Mr Worth, the head waiter at the Orangery, after I helped him out one day with a difficult customer. Ever since, he’s always given me the broken meringues or less-than-perfect scones.
‘Hello, Miss Oddlow!’
‘Hello, Mr Worth.’ I grin. ‘A table for two, please.’
‘Of course.’ Mr Worth gives me a wink and leads me to a side table.
As ever, there is a heavenly glow in the café – the walls are pure white, with soaring Corinthian columns and flowing curtains. We are taken right through the interior, past rows of quietly spoken men in blazers and women in Chanel suits, and are seated out of the way, in one of the apses where King George II used to enjoy holding court.
‘So, are you … all right?’ Liam asks.
‘Yes,’ I say cautiously, realising that my brain is so full of new, confusing information that it’s buzzing like a beehive. Maybe I’m not all right, actually – maybe I’ve discovered too many things all at once. ‘Anyway, listen – I have a lot to tell you.’
At that moment, typically efficient, the tea arrives. I can see Liam shifting anxiously, wanting to hear my news, but I wait. Finally,