‘Maybe a little bit …’ I grin. ‘It was weird, though – the Sunflowers painting had been moved for the Van Gogh exhibition and it looked different in its new spot.’
Dad takes a sip of water. ‘Different how?’
‘Paler … or brighter.’ I sigh. ‘Hard to explain – but Arthur didn’t say anything about the change.’
‘Arthur? Is that the young man?’
I nod. ‘He loves that painting too. It’s really interesting how just moving a picture to a different spot can change its appearance like that, isn’t it?’ Dad is nodding, listening intently. ‘So … how are the cuttings?’ I ask.
‘They’re coming along beautifully, thanks. We were potting up the yew today – it’s getting quite bushy.’
‘Yew,’ I say, closing my eyes and consulting my internal filing system. ‘Taxus Baccata. Widely planted in churchyards, to keep it away from livestock, because of its toxicity.’
‘Very good. Although there is a lot of interesting debate these days as to the motives for churchyard planting …’
I zone out. It’s a terrible habit, but I just can’t focus on Dad’s horticulture lectures. My mind keeps skipping ahead to tomorrow morning, when I’ll find out who my partner’s going to be. They can’t be worse than Sofia, I reason. It’s still nerve-wracking, though, to contemplate having to work with someone I don’t know. It’s not exactly how I’d pictured my first case.
‘So, there you have it,’ finishes Dad brightly. ‘The debate around the common yew.’
‘Great, Dad.’ I finish scraping the last of the tomato sauce off my plate and put down my fork. ‘Look, I have homework …’
I don’t need to finish the sentence. ‘Sure – I’ll wash up,’ he says. He puts on a bad French accent. ‘After all, if ze little grey cells are not exercised, zey grow ze rust.’
‘Are you misquoting Poirot at me?’
‘Hey! Why should you get all the fun?’ He has a point.
‘Thank you for tea – and for washing up.’ I stand up and give him a kiss on the cheek before heading up to my attic bedroom.
Sitting at my desk, staring at the maths sheet in front of me, I find the numbers beginning to blur. I swivel in my chair and my eyes alight on the pile of red notebooks on a high shelf. These contain all the information I’ve collated over the years about my mum’s death. I don’t believe she was killed in a bicycle accident, but I still don’t know what did happen to her. I seem to be thwarted every time I try to find out.
You see, Mum – Clara Oddlow – was an agent of the Gatekeepers’ Guild before I’d even heard of it. By becoming an agent myself, I’d planned to gain access to her files, to find out what she was working on when she died.
My mind drifts back to that day in the summer, when Professor D’Oliveira and Sofia had taken me to the Guild file rooms, but I found the folders bearing my mum’s name had been emptied of documents and filled with blank paper.
I shake off these unhappy memories and focus on the maths questions I’ve been set as homework. I’m pretty good at maths, but nothing compared to Liam. Still, it doesn’t take me long to get the work done. I sigh with satisfaction as I slip my exercise book back into my backpack.
I get up from the chair and lie down on my bed. It’s cold and draughty, so I snuggle under the duvet. From here, I can see all the charts and artefacts that mark this room as mine. There’s the map of London, the bust of Queen Victoria, the beautiful hardback editions of Agatha Christie’s crime novels and her short stories. There are also the two clothes racks with my assortment of outfits and costumes, some of which have been useful for disguising myself during cases.
As I change for bed, I glance over at the photo beside my bed. It’s of my mum astride her bike, one foot on the ground for balance.
‘I will find out what happened to you, Mum – I promise,’ I tell her for the thousandth time. But I mean it – I won’t rest until I have all the answers. Before I go to sleep, I tell her about Arthur, and his fascination with the impasto texture of Van Gogh’s painting. It was good to meet someone who shares my passion for beautiful things and didn’t think me odd for being obsessed with Sunflowers.
‘Night, Mum,’ I tell her, as I turn off the light.
I leap out of bed when my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning. My dreams have been filled with images of potential partners, from a very frail old man to a supremely bossy Hermione Granger, and even an Inspector Gadget. It takes a while for my sleep-fogged brain to realise they aren’t real.
Sliding my feet into my granddad-style tartan slippers and donning my dressing gown, I head downstairs.
Dad’s up already, urgently shovelling cereal into his mouth, as if it’s been several days since his last meal.
‘Morning,’ he says brightly through a mouthful of cornflakes.
‘Morning.’ I sit down at the table and reach for the Coco Pops.
‘What’s your schedule for today?’ he teases.
‘Oh, thought I’d go to school …’
‘Mmm, why not?’ He plays along. ‘And maybe try not to run off and solve any mysteries?’
‘Well, unless something comes up …’
He shakes his head. ‘A hopeless case,’ he says – but he’s smiling.
I finish my cereal and run upstairs to clean my teeth and get changed into my uniform. I’ve worked out that I have time to show my face at registration, before finding a way to leave again. If I get marked as present this morning, I can keep my attendance figures from sinking too quickly. I add a floral scarf and my red beret, then pull on my coat. Having a sudden idea how to get out of school, I rummage through my disguises and add some items to my backpack.
Finally, I stuff another change of clothes as well into my already bulging backpack – I have a feeling that school uniform would seriously undermine my credibility as an investigator.
Outside, the wind is still biting. I hurriedly fasten my coat right to the top and tighten the knot in my scarf. Then, despite my fatigue, I jog most of the way to school, keen to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. When I’m within sight of the school gates, I hear someone calling my name. Turning, I catch sight of Brianna. She’s not hurrying – Brianna rarely rushes anywhere – and she looks almost blue with cold.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘I’m not staying out here any longer than I have to.’
One of the best things about St Regis is that we’re allowed to go straight in when we arrive. As soon as we get inside, we find a radiator to lean against. Shivering, I glance around and catch sight of Liam, standing close by. He’s talking to a girl I vaguely recognise from class. They seem to be discussing mathematical theories.
He grins at Brianna and me and says, ‘Tamsin’s also a fan of Fermat!’
‘Is that the one with the salivating dogs?’ asks Brianna.
‘That’s Pavlov,’ Liam and I say in unison, and we both laugh.
‘Pierre de Fermat is considered one of the founders of the modern theory of numbers,’ I quote, from a piece I read the first time Liam mentioned Fermat, when I’d had no idea who he was. ‘He was born in the early 1600s and was one of the leading mathematicians of the