‘Agatha!’ Liam hisses, reaching for a scone. ‘Stop making me wait!’
So I tell him about the mysterious visitor to our house last night, the discovery of the key, and my visit to beneath the Serpentine. I tell him about the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and the secret passage, while Liam sits in silence, his undrunk cup of tea cooling in front of him, his eyes growing wider with each moment. When I’m done, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, he seems to have drifted off into a daydream.
‘Liam?’ I prod him in the ribs.
‘What? Oh – sorry. It’s a lot to absorb.’
‘And? Don’t you think it’s incredible – a secret guild with tunnels under Hyde Park?’
He looks down into his tea, then up at me again. ‘So who do you think the man at your house was?’ He sounds concerned. I expected him to be amazed and excited, but his worry trumps any sense of adventure. I feel deflated.
‘I’m not sure. Dad said he was some environmental officer …’ I say, though I don’t really believe it.
‘Agatha, don’t you think you should stop investigating? I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘But, Liam, don’t you see what’s going on? We’ve stumbled across something huge. This shady organisation – “the Gatekeepers’ Guild” – maybe they’re the ones behind the red slime. Perhaps they’re using their tunnels to infiltrate and poison London!’
‘Maybe …’ Liam sounds uncertain. ‘But something doesn’t stack up. Agatha, this is all too dangerous. That letter you got. This isn’t a lost cat or a stolen bicycle. These people, whoever they are, must be powerful and, if you get in their way, they’ll hurt you – they’ve made that clear. I can’t let them do that.’
‘Look, I’m not worried,’ I tell him. ‘This is bigger than my safety.’
‘Well, if you’re not worried for yourself, then what about your dad?’
I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out. There is a heavy feeling in my stomach, an indigestible weight, like I ate a rock. He’s right – investigating further could risk the safety of my father. Then I think about my mum. She had clearly wanted me to find the key, had wanted me to find the tunnel, had wanted me to investigate.
I can’t let her down.
I open my mouth to tell Liam all of this, just as Mr Worth appears by my side, holding a silver platter.
‘Ahem.’ He coughs and winks.
He lowers the silver platter so that I can see the envelope resting on it. It’s addressed in neat copperplate handwriting – To Miss Agatha Oddlow.
‘Did you see anyone deliver this?’
Mr Worth shakes his head. I take the letter from the platter and wait for Mr Worth to leave.
‘How does anyone even know you’re here?’ Liam asks me when the head waiter has gone.
‘I was wondering the same thing.’ I look down at the envelope in my hand, which has crashed our party like an uninvited guest.
‘Open it, open it!’
‘OK …’
Tearing into the envelope, I pull out a short note, written in the same immaculate calligraphy –
I take a deep breath.
‘The Gatekeepers’ Guild?’ says Liam in a whisper. ‘The ones with the carpeted corridor under the Serpentine?’
I nod. ‘It would seem so.’
London’s South Bank is a series of concrete buildings, underpasses and winding staircases. Some people think of it as an ugly growth on London’s historic silhouette, but it’s always been one of my favourite places. It almost seems that the Gatekeepers – whoever they are – know what I like. After all, they knew to find me at the Orangery. Tucked between the Waterloo and Hungerford railway bridges are table after table of secondhand books, laid out to lure me to spend more money than I have.
Liam didn’t want me to accept the invitation in the note. He said it was too dangerous. But when he realised that I was going and he couldn’t stop me, he said he’d come along.
‘Liam, it says “best to shop alone” – they don’t want anyone to accompany me.’
‘And that’s exactly what worries me!’ He adjusts his glasses in frustration. ‘Because if you’re on your own, they’re free to drag you off to who-knows-where!’
‘But if you’re there, they may not show themselves at all.’
‘And …’ He shrugs.
I sigh – he isn’t making this easy for me.
‘Do you think you can protect me from whatever happens, Liam?’
He thinks about this seriously for a moment. ‘Nope. Not at all, actually. But we’re mates and I want to do my best to look after you.’
I bristle – since when do I, Agatha Oddlow, need looking after?
He realises what he’s said almost immediately. ‘I mean … we can keep an eye out. Together. Can’t we?’
I give up. ‘Fine. You can come along. But try to blend in.’
‘Sure.’ He shrugs, pulling his arms and legs in as though trying to vanish behind a lamppost. I laugh before I can stop myself.
We walk. The Serpentine still has its floating islands of red algae. Hyde Park is much quieter than usual for a Saturday, almost deserted. We pass occasional walkers, all wearing masks against the algae’s noxious gases. Doctors in the seventeenth century wore masks filled with flowers, believing the sweet scent would protect them from the plague – I wonder if these masks really protect people from the fumes. There aren’t any joggers, as there usually would be, perhaps because there’s just not enough water to waste on having a shower afterwards.
I’m finding the going tough – it’s hot and I’ve inhaled a lot of fumes. I try not to picture my bedroom, with its sloping ceiling, my rows of books and my picture of Mum. Most of all, I try not to picture my bed, to imagine climbing back into it and letting my head slump against the pillow.
We walk through Knightsbridge, down the Mall and up past Buckingham Palace. I wonder how the Queen feels about the shortage of water, although I feel sure she’s probably not going without. After half an hour of walking, we cross the Thames by the Golden Jubilee footbridge. Often, the wind here is strong and cold, but today the breeze lifting off the Thames is a relief. The river has a spattering of the red slime here and there, which has escaped from the underground rivers. My throat feels dry and I’m desperately thirsty.
‘Nearly there,’ says Liam.
We both slow down as we cross the bridge. It’s impossible not to be struck by the London skyline – the magnificent dome of St Paul’s, the white filigree of the London Eye, the arches of Charing Cross Station … even the rocket-ship sheen of the Gherkin. In my eagerness to reach our destination and have something to drink I almost throw myself down the steps to the South Bank. I stumble at a bend in the staircase, and Liam grabs my elbow.
‘Steady!’