The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection: The Secret Key, Murder at the Museum and The Silver Serpent. Lena Jones

takes me about half an hour’s walk before the black metal railings of the cemetery come into view, with the two red phone boxes like sentries on either side of the gates. I’m hot and thirsty, but I’m on a mission.

      There are a lot of famous people buried in Brompton Cemetery – and Mum. I think Mum would have liked the thought of being buried alongside the suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst, opera singers and boxers, the inventor of the Christmas card and Native Americans from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.

      Mum’s grave is small and discreet. I’m sure that to anyone else it would look plain, like it doesn’t belong to a person at all, but only a name. Even I have to look at it carefully, almost squint, until I can picture her in her tortoiseshell glasses, and smell the fruit cakes that she baked each week. Then it isn’t a grey slab of stone any more, but a dusty grey window, to which I can press my face and glimpse her reading a book or dancing around the kitchen with the radio on, in another world altogether.

      I sit down on the cool stone like I’m sitting on the edge of someone’s bed.

      ‘Hey, Mum …’ I start, feeling lost for words. It might seem strange to some people, talking to someone who can’t talk back. But Dad always says that Mum was a good listener, so I don’t think she would mind.

      ‘Sorry I haven’t been for a while; it’s been a strange week. Oh, but I did bring you this …’

      I take a crime novel out of my bag that I’d picked up in a charity shop on the way, and place it on the stone. The one I left last time is still there, so I put that back in my bag. Sometimes they are soaked with rain, and sometimes they are gone altogether, but it feels more right to me than bringing flowers.

      I sit for a minute in silence, not thinking about anything much. Then, when I feel ready, I start to talk about everything that has happened. I talk about the hit-and-run, Professor D’Oliveira and the strange tattoo. I talk about the faceless man who attacked me, and the red slime that’s spreading all over London. I talk about Brianna, Liam and the professor warning me not to get involved. And, of course, I talk about the key – the present that she left me, and which I’ve finally found.

      ‘I knew you had a secret, Mum … I just knew it.’

      I’m talking and, out of nowhere, I start to cry. Maybe it’s because talking about everything makes it seem more real. Maybe it’s because I start to remember how scared I was when I was attacked. But mostly I think it’s because I miss my mum.

      As I cry, and the tears fall on the dusty stone, I feel a sinking tiredness come over me. The world turns sideways, until I’m resting my head on the grave, which seems as comfortable as my bed at home.

      ‘You shouldn’t be scared, you know.’ She brushes my hair with her hand. My face is buried in the pillow so I can’t see her.

      ‘I just … I feel like this is what I’m supposed to do.’ I sniff. The pillow smells of her perfume – a scent I’d almost forgotten.

      ‘But …?’ She coaxes.

      ‘But … but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

      She sighs, and for the first time she sounds sad. ‘Oh, sweetie, people always get hurt. That’s the way life is. But to not live life to the full … Well, that’s worse, I think.’

      Her hand is soft, and my shoulders hunch up, like the feeling you get when you know you’ve got nothing left to cry. I raise my head from the pillow to look at her.

      ‘Thanks, Mum …’

      I look around me but no one is there. I’m in the cemetery, and the grave is a grave, not a bed. The stone is still wet with my tears. I sit up and wipe my eyes. Something has changed, and it takes me a moment to realise what it is. The heavy weight in my heart has lifted.

      ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I repeat.