The blood is rising in my cheeks.
‘My mum was involved in all of this. I’m not going to stop! Not until I get some answers.’
Liam kicks hard at an empty drinks can, which skitters off into the crowds. ‘Don’t you care what I think?’ he says.
‘Of course I care what you think,’ I shout. ‘But look, Liam, this is important …’
Liam hangs his head. I’ve never seen him looking so hangdog or glum. He starts walking past the aquarium, heading for Westminster Bridge. ‘I’ll get us a cab then. Let’s go up to the road.’
‘I can make my own way, if you’d rather be on your own,’ I huff.
He reels to face me. ‘Did you not hear anything the professor said to you, about how much danger you’re in? Agatha, you’re so stubborn!’
Anger flares like a flame in my chest. ‘How can you talk to me like that? After everything I just found out?’
‘Somebody has to.’
‘You are so arrogant,’ I shout. ‘You think you’re in charge of me? That you can just boss me around?’
‘I’m arrogant? You’re the super-genius detective – I’m just some dopey sidekick to you. Oh, Agatha, how fascinating! Oh, Agatha, you’re sooo clever!’
‘Oh, yeah – I’m such a golden girl. Agatha Oddball, Oddity, Odd Socks … I’m a really difficult act to follow, aren’t I?’ I feel hot tears prickle at the back of my eyes.
‘That’s not who you are, Agatha.’ Liam stops and takes a deep breath. We’re blocking a group of tourists, who navigate around us. ‘Those names have nothing to do with the real you. I don’t mean to be so angry. It’s just …’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I get it.’
‘Taxi home, then?’
‘Taxi home,’ I agree.
In the cab, I’m dying to discuss the revelations about the Guild – and my mother – to see if Liam thinks the professor is trustworthy. But I don’t want to make him feel even worse, so we sit in silence. The taxi is soon depositing me at the gates to Hyde Park.
‘Take care,’ he says.
‘Thanks,’ I say, climbing out. I watch the taxi drive off. Liam’s face is blank at the window. For the first time I feel a rift open between us. The tears I’ve been holding back spill out. Dumb, I think to myself, wiping my cheeks.
By the time I reach our cottage, I’ve stopped feeling so tearful, but I’m still miserable. Through the front door I call out to Dad, but there’s no answer. I don’t like the way the house echoes. I peer into the kitchen, where his algae samples are bubbling away, like a mad scientist’s lab. I hunt for Dad, the professor’s words ringing in my ears – Look after your father. He is too trusting.
To my relief, I find Dad in the living room, fast asleep on the sofa, fully dressed and snoring loudly. Oliver is curled up on his lap, purring like a lawnmower. I don’t want to wake him – he looks exhausted.
Apart from the ice lolly, I haven’t eaten since the Orangery. I rummage for some bread and cheese in the kitchen, and take the food and a small glass of water up to my bedroom. Dad has brought back a gallon bottle of water from the shops, but it cost him as much as a week’s shopping usually does.
I sit on my bed and start to drift off.
The film projector is in front of me again, shining memories on to my bedroom wall. I watch the film of my day for a long time, seeing myself on the London Eye, talking with Liam on the South Bank, being in the capsule … The images replay in front of me, but it doesn’t help me think. My mind flicks back, swapping today for a day seven years ago. I see Mum pottering around the kitchen, swaying a little in time to the radio, buttering slices of toast for my breakfast.
Here is the quiet woman who introduced me to Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot and I’m grateful that I can still see her like this – that the images haven’t fled from my memory. And I know that the professor is telling me the truth about her. Mum might have been quiet, but she was anything but ordinary. I feel a bubble of excitement fizz up inside me. Mum. My mum. My totally amazing, kind, loving mum had been a secret agent.
I’m running through the silent corridors of St Mary’s hospital. Turning left and right through the maze, I see figures standing in the shadows out of the corner of my eye. There are quick footsteps behind me. They are going to catch me, but I have to reach my destination first. The hospital is so dark. Finally, I push open the door to a room. This is the place I was searching for – Dad’s room. He’s in a hospital bed like the professor’s, but he’s unmoving, kept alive by machines. The door behind me opens …
I wake gasping, sitting bolt upright, as though someone has been holding me underwater. I wait for my heart to slow. The bad dreams all blend together, but the fear they leave behind stays with me. I creep down to the first floor and put an ear to Dad’s door. I’d intended to wake him up after my snack and make sure he got into bed, but I must have dozed off myself. Thankfully, I see that he’s made it off the sofa and up to bed at some point, and is now snoring loudly. I resist the childish urge to wake him up.
I’m torn. In my daydreams there are no consequences to solving a crime. You either get it wrong, or you get it right. But the real world isn’t like my dreams – there are risks at every turn.
I have a quick breakfast of toast with marmalade and make up a buttered roll with cheese for JP. If JP is spying on us for some reason, I should pretend that I haven’t noticed. As the old saying goes – keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I make myself a small cup of peppermint tea, scrawl a note for Dad and prop it in front of the toaster –
Off to visit Mum.
Dad will know what I mean.
In the park, JP is nowhere to be seen. I hold the roll in my hand, as though it might summon him from his hiding place. Curious, I check his usual haunts – an oak tree near the lake, a bench surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and the railings by a patch of swaying poppies. Finally, I go to see if he’s in the hollow of the famous upside-down tree. A huge weeping beech, the upside-down tree’s branches hang down to the ground, making a sort of cave inside.
I crouch down to a gap in the branches and crawl into the darkened space. The air is oven-warm and smells of dry earth. This is a good place to hide in a rainstorm, for a while at least, until the rain bleeds through the canopy. There is nobody in here and I’m about to crawl back out when I glimpse a dark-red object among the roots of the ancient tree. It’s a notebook. Crawling closer, I tug on the notebook, which comes free with a dusting of soil. There’s a ballpoint pen stuck in the spiral binding. I look around, but I’m alone.
Only the first page of the notebook has anything on it.
22:43 – Arrived at house.
23:07 – Left house.
02:00 – Cutting flowers.
My heart speeds up. These notes are about me. Or, at least, about Dad and his mysterious visitor. The first two timings are obvious to me – this was when Davenport had turned up at our house and when he had left. The third time is less clear, but the note must refer to the person who had cut all the flowers off the clematis under my window.
Who could this notebook belong to? If it’s JP’s, then is he spying on us, and, if so, who for? Was JP the person