I’m hoping to spot a clue to the biker’s identity, when I see something glinting under a prickly shrub and, with a quick look down at my already filthy skirt, get down on my knees and crawl towards it. At that moment, I hear Dad’s voice, sounding sombre and far too close.
‘It’s very strange; I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m wondering if it’s connected to the water mains. Anyway, I’ve taken some samples.’
I don’t hear his companion’s reply, but two pairs of feet stop in front of my hiding-place.
‘This mahonia has got far too leggy.’ It’s Dad’s voice. ‘We should look at that in the spring.’ Again, his companion makes a quiet response. I concentrate on staying still. Then the voices move away, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath.
They haven’t seen me.
I look at the object I crawled under the bush for, but it’s just a chocolate wrapper. I crawl out, feeling stupid, and hoping nobody spotted me.
‘Agatha!’
Crud.
Lucy, Dad’s deputy gardener who looks after the plant nurseries, has spotted me. Luckily, Lucy always assumes the best of me.
‘How’re you doing?’ She blows a lock of hair out of her eye.
‘Good, thanks. Busy.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got weeds coming out of my ears!’ Lucy grins. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she asks, the first doubt creeping in.
‘Free period,’ I lie. Lucy deserves better, but I can’t risk her telling Dad.
She nods, as though this should have been obvious. ‘Oh, I have something for you.’ She fishes in her pocket and draws out a pencil. ‘One for your collection.’
‘Thank you – where did you find it?’
She shrugs. ‘Just down the path here. Anyway, I’d better get on.’ She waves her border fork and heads back to work.
I take a seat for a moment on the bench. I look at the pencil a while before dropping it into my lap as though I’ve been burnt. A pencil, lying on the path near where the hit-and-run took place? Perhaps it belonged to the professor!
Careful not to touch the pencil any more, I take a pair of tweezers from my satchel and use them to move the pen to a clear bag. Embossed in gold on the side are the initials ‘A. A’. Not Dorothy D’Oliveira’s pencil, it would seem. The fingerprints on the outside of the pencil might have been wiped away by Lucy and me handling it, but there could still be some on the grip. Perhaps the pencil was dropped by a tourist passing through the park, but at this stage I have to take it seriously.
Standing, I dust myself down. I pause – I have the sensation that someone is watching me. I look around and see –
None of them seem to be looking directly at me, but good spies are clever. They’re able to hide what they’re up to.
I inspect my clothing quickly. The knees of my navy tights are green, as are the elbows of my matching blazer. Far worse, there is a rip in my skirt. I must have caught it on the shrub when I crawled under it. This is my only school skirt and I wonder if I’ll be able to mend it without Dad discovering.
But for now, I have more important things to think about – time to visit the Royal Geographical Society (RGS).
It takes me no time at all to get from the park to Kensington Gore. The exterior of the RGS is a bit disappointing – from the name you might expect a beautiful structure, like the white-and-redbrick façade of the Science Museum on the nearby Exhibition Road. The RGS entrance is a newer addition, made from floor-to-ceiling glass. It looks like it might take off in a strong gust of wind.
I walk the short distance from the pavement to the glass entrance. Inside, a man in a smart suit sits behind the reception desk. He looks me up and down – slowly, and with a raised eyebrow.
‘Not looking your usual well-coiffed self today, Agatha,’ he observes.
I pull a face and smooth my bob. ‘Sorry, Emile. Difficult day. I was hoping to speak to you about this …’ I draw the business card from my pocket.
‘Agatha, we’ve been over this,’ he interrupts, shaking his head. I feel quite sorry for Emile – he’s always having to turn down my requests, and I can tell it doesn’t suit him. ‘I can’t give you a lifetime membership to the Society.’
‘Oh, no – that’s not why I’m here.’
‘It’s not? You mean … you have a query – an actual query – that I might be able to help you with?’ He brightens.
I nod.
‘Oh, good.’ He smiles. ‘I have to say, I was surprised that you weren’t wearing some disguise or another. Like that dirty jumpsuit!’
Ah yes – the time I pretended to be a plumber. ‘Well, anyway …’ I change the subject. ‘If you could take a look at this business card – it belongs to one of your members.’ I place the card on the desk, and he inspects it.
‘Professor D’Oliveira. Why are you enquiring about her?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Is this one of your detective games?’
‘I do not play games, Emile. I conduct investigations.’
‘Right … Is this one of your investigations?’
I pretend not to notice the sarcasm. I like Emile; it’s just a shame he doesn’t always take me seriously. ‘Possibly … I mean, do you know Professor D’Oliveira?’
‘Of course. She spends a lot of time here – she’s a highly regarded member of the Society.’
‘Good.’ I take out my notebook. ‘Then perhaps you could tell me more about her.’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Why are you asking this?’
I hesitate. It’s hard to know how much to tell. I didn’t want to give any information about the hit-and-run if the Society don’t already know.
‘I met her in Hyde Park, earlier today,’ I say. This isn’t entirely a lie – I did meet her – she had smiled at me, after all. I think quickly and add, ‘and I thought she might make an interesting subject for our school newspaper.’
He smiles. ‘I’m sure she would. I can arrange to make an appointment for you to interview her – only, I don’t think she’s been in today, but let me call her assistant.’ He reaches for the phone.
‘Oh – don’t worry about that for now,’ I say quickly. ‘Perhaps I might have access to the Society’s archives today to check out some facts?’
‘That might be a problem. I don’t think you’ve filled in an application form for access to the Foyle Reading Room?’
I shake my head. ‘Can I do that now?’
‘I’m afraid, for under-sixteens, we would need parental consent.’
‘Really, Emile? Is there nothing you can do?’
‘Well … I suppose I could put in a call to your school – obtain their permission, as it’s for the school newspaper.’
‘Oh! No, that’s all right. I’ll leave it for now. Thanks anyway.’
‘Sorry not to be more help. Do give me a call tomorrow – Professor D’Oliveira often has meetings, so we can sort out that interview soon.’
‘Yeah,