The Silver Serpent

by Lena Jones

  ‘Any word from the Gatekeepers?’ Liam asks as we walk.

  ‘Only the homework they keep giving me – no sign of an actual case,’ I reply.

  The Gatekeepers’ Guild is the secret crime-fighting organisation that I’m an agent for. I’m their newest and youngest recruit – Agent Cipher X (OK – I made up the code name, but maybe it will catch on).

  ‘I don’t know why the professor said I’d be getting my first case soon,’ I grumble. ‘I haven’t heard a thing from her or from Sofia.’

  Professor D’Oliveira is high up in the Gatekeepers’ organisation. She assigned the second-youngest Guild member, Sofia Solokov, to me as my mentor. The last four times when I’ve been over to HQ, there’s just been a folder full of homework waiting for me – ciphers to solve or information on new Guild rules and policies (as if the 3,051-page rule book wasn’t already enough).

  We reach his bus stop and he waits in the shelter, rubbing his arms for warmth. I can see the steam from his breath in the bus-stop lighting.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll hear soon,’ he says. ‘After all, they were clearly impressed by your work on the museum murder and the water poisoning.’

  ‘I guess,’ I say with a shrug. ‘But sometimes I worry they’re going to forget about me.’

  ‘Forget about you? Agatha Oddlow, crime-fighter extraordinaire?’ he says in mock horror. ‘Never!’

  I laugh. Liam’s always so good at cheering me up.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘since when have you waited to be allocated an investigation?’

  ‘True … Maybe I should go over to headquarters,’ I say, ‘and ask for a case. It might just be that the professor is waiting for me to be proactive.’

  Liam nods. ‘I think that’s a good plan. And if all else fails, we could always investigate that woman over there,’ he says, pointing to a middle-aged woman across the street, who’s rummaging in a plastic bag. ‘She looks very suspicious.’ As he says this, the woman draws out a banana, peels it and takes a bite. ‘Definitely sinister,’ he says. ‘Could this be one for the Oddlow Agency?’ He raises an eyebrow.

  I laugh. We’ve neglected our detective agency since I became a real investigator. The Oddlow Agency (‘No Case Too Odd’ – its motto inspired by my surname) seems a bit like a game now – almost as if we were different people back then. It feels as though we’ve done a lot of growing up in a short space of time.

  Liam’s bus approaches, and he holds out his arm to signal to the driver to stop. It pulls up and Liam climbs aboard. I wave through the window at his outline, which is strangely distorted by the glass, then I continue along my way. I’ll drop off my school bag at home and change into more practical clothes, before heading over to the Guild headquarters.

  It’s not far to get home to Hyde Park, and I walk quickly. The embassies are all lit up as I pass. When I reach the park, there aren’t many people around. All the dog-walkers have their collars turned up and woolly hats pulled down low, exposing as little skin as possible to the cold wind lifting off the Serpentine lake. Even their dogs look subdued.

  When I open the door to Groundskeeper’s Cottage and step inside, our cat comes running up to meet me, winding himself tightly round my legs and knocking me off balance.

  I laugh as I try to right myself.

  ‘Hey, Oliver, boy! Did you miss me?’

  ‘Meow!’

  ‘What you’re really missing is dinner, aren’t you?’ I check my watch. It’s only four thirty. ‘It’s a bit early, though, isn’t it?’

  Oliver’s unimpressed when I open the door to the staircase and run up to my bedroom. I can hear him wailing at me from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sorry!’ I call down. ‘You’ll get fat if you start eating between meals.’

  It takes me five minutes to change out of my uniform and into black jeans, a black sweater and my Doc Martens boots. After a moment’s hesitation, I put on a navy waterproof jacket with a hood. Not my style, but needs must – the tunnel I have to pass through will be dirty and damp. Another five minutes and I’ve assembled a powerful head torch, gloves and my notebook and pen to go in my backpack along with my martial arts outfit. My Guild key is always round my neck, so I’m sorted. The key is my favourite possession. It belonged to my mother when she was a Guild agent – and it opens entrances to underground tunnels all over London.

  Downstairs, I scribble a note to Dad, in case he finishes early:

  Gone jogging.

  Back by 6.

  I use a magnet to fix the message to the fridge, while Oliver winds himself round my ankles, meowing to be fed. At last, I take pity on him (after all, he was Mum’s cat, and I’m weak where he’s concerned) and spoon a small portion of food into his bowl.

  ‘Stinky fish for you,’ I tell him, as I plonk the dish on the floor. Then I leave the house and head over to the locked grille beside the Serpentine – at a jog, so my message to Dad won’t be a lie.

  It’s time to head underground.

  Unlocking the grille with my key, I slip inside. The smell that hits me is like seaweed mixed with rotten cabbage – but it’s still far better than when the polluted algae had taken over. Fitting my head torch, I switch it on, and the bright LED beam illuminates the gloomy, uneven space. I hate this passage to the network of tunnels that run under much of London, but it’s my nearest entrance. The low headroom means I have to stay at a crouch throughout. At least experience has taught me to protect my hands with gloves, and to free them up by using the head torch.

  I shuffle along as quickly as I can to get through the narrow corridor to the cave at the end. But being in darkness always makes a difficult journey seem slower and I’m soon feeling as though I’ll never get out of this place. I have to stop a couple of times to rub my cramping calves. When I do, the reality of where I am crowds in on me – deep underground, and no one knows I’m here – and I have to slow my breathing and focus on my destination.

  At last, I see the passage open out ahead, so I speed up. Reaching the cavern, I stretch and groan, easing out my neck and legs. Then I walk over to the brick wall, where the familiar big cast-iron door is almost fully camouflaged. It opens readily with my key and I step through on to the welcome mat that protects a plush red carpet. I’m inside the headquarters of the Gatekeepers’ Guild.

  Professor D’Oliveira’s office is one of many down a long corridor. Along the way, I pass doors bearing other staff members’ names and it occurs to me – not for the first time – how many people are involved in the organisation. I haven’t even met most of these agents and administrative staff, yet they’re clearly an integral part of the Guild. I start to feel quite small by comparison – and I’m not comfortable with the feeling.

  At the door marked PROFESSOR D. D’OLIVEIRA, I knock and she gives a brisk ‘Enter!’

  Inside, the ‘little old lady’ (her own words, which really don’t do her justice) looks up from a document on her desk and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Agatha? I wasn’t expecting you today …?’ Her Caribbean accent is slightly stronger when she’s surprised – it’s the only ‘tell’ she has – the only clue to her real emotions.

  I shake my head. ‘I know,’ I say, ‘but I was hoping to talk to you.’ It’s strange how much less confident I feel, now that I’m faced with the professor. She has a big presence for such a small, neat person, and it’s hard not to be … intimidated.

  ‘Have a seat.’ She gestures to one of the curved wooden chairs in front of her desk, and I sit down.

  ‘Thank you – I was just …’ I hesitate.

  ‘You were just wondering when we were going to give you that much-anticipated first case?’ she suggests.

  I nod. ‘I just … I feel …’ I take a deep breath: ‘I’ve saved London twice now but you haven’t trusted me with a case of my own yet.’ It sounds slightly childish, but at least I’ve said it.

  She surveys me. I can’t read her expression, and I look down at my hands. My purple nail varnish needs a retouch. At last,
she sits back in her green leather chair and folds her hands in her lap.

  ‘You are very young, Agatha …’

  ‘But I’m more than capable!’

  She holds up a hand. ‘Please don’t interrupt. What I was about to say was that, despite your youth and relative inexperience, it has been suggested to me that you might be able to help out with a case I’ve received. We’re short of available agents at the moment.’

  Please, please don’t say I’ve ruined it by whining like a spoilt brat …

  ‘Really?’ I say, holding my breath.

  She nods. ‘I would have placed Sofia Solokov on this investigation, but another agent is on sick leave, so Sofia’s had to take over their cases and won’t have time to start on this one.’ She checks her watch. ‘Your new partner is not currently in the building. Please come in at nine thirty tomorrow morning and I’ll introduce you.’

  New partner? I’m so shocked, I have to blink back tears. ‘My … partner?’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t realise I’d have to work with someone else …’

  ‘That is what I meant, when I said that you’re still very young, inexperienced. It will be beneficial to your skillset for you to learn to work as part of a team.’

  I flush. ‘Oh, right. Yes, I see …’ I move to stand up. Then I remember my mum – an agent in the Guild herself. I know she didn’t die when her bike collided with a car, which is what the police told Dad and me seven years ago. ‘Professor?’

  She’s already gone back to reading a document. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Have you heard any more … about who took my mum’s file?’

  She looks up. ‘No, Agatha, I’m afraid not. I was really hoping we’d have some answers by now. It troubles me to think of the Guild as vulnerable in this way – that a file could go missing. I hate having to mistrust so many people—’ She stops abruptly, as if she’s giving too much away. ‘But I do have some of my most trusted agents working on finding your mother’s missing file and, I promise you, as soon as we have any information, you’ll be among the first to hear about it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Goodbye, Professor.’

  ‘Goodbye, Agatha. See you tomorrow, at nine thirty.’

  ‘Yes, see you then.’

  Heading out of the area housing the offices, I reach the main corridor. From here, I can proceed to any part of London. I check my watch. It’s only quarter to five. I didn’t make it to kung fu training yesterday, so I decide to head to the dojo – the gym where I learn with my sifu (master teacher), Mr Zhang.

  It’s not far to Soho from here, so I set off, jogging along the tunnels as both a warm-up and a continuation of my promise to Dad. As I run, I think back to the day I was accepted into the Guild – and then the discovery that my mum’s dossier was missing from the file rooms. I’d spent so much time believing that, when I found out who or what she’d been investigating, I’d finally have some answers, but without the file all that information was gone …

  I wipe away an angry tear as I think about it again and focus on my breathing, drawing strength from the pumping of my lungs and heart. I will find out. I will find out, I think, in time to the pounding of my feet.

  Back above ground, Mr Zhang’s granddaughter greets me at the door of the Black Bamboo restaurant.

  ‘Agatha, hi!’

  ‘Hi, Bai! Is your grandfather busy? I was hoping to train.’

  ‘He’s downstairs. Do you have your gi?’ She’s referring to my white training tunic and trousers.

  I hold up my backpack. ‘Always.’

  I change in a tiny room at the back, leaving my clothes neatly folded on a chair. There’s a framed Chinese symbol on the wall that represents the name for a dish called biang biang noodles. I study it for a moment. It’s famous for being hard to write, and even my near-photographic brain has trouble remembering every ink mark.

  ‘Sifu.’

  We bow to one another, then Mr Zhang nods and says, ‘Show me the new sequence I taught you.’

  I work through it, concentrating hard as I turn, kicking and punching the air and keeping my weight low to the ground.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Very good. You are making excellent progress. We will make a master of you yet.’

  ‘Thank you, sifu,’ I say, bowing my head.

  He has me work on various moves and then use a punch bag.

  ‘Focus!’ he shouts. ‘When your mind is distracted, you lose the essential balance of mind and body.’

  ‘Yes, sifu.’

  We work until I’m out of breath. I check my watch. It’s half past five. I need to hurry if I’m to keep my promise to be back at the cottage by six. I thank Mr Zhang, run upstairs to get changed and shout my goodbyes to him and Bai.

  I jog all the way home. It’s amazing how much fitter I am now that I train regularly. The route is lovely – the whole of Oxford Street is lit up with early-Christmas windows, and it’s hard not to keep stopping to admire the scenes.

  Balance and focus, I remind myself, thinking of my lesson with Mr Zhang.

  I can’t help wondering who my partner in the Guild will be. What if they’re like Sofia – bossy and judgemental?

  Back home, I follow a trail of muddy items through the hallway – boots, fleece and gardening gloves – until I find Dad in the kitchen, making dinner. Oliver greets me again, purring loudly as he rubs against my legs.

  ‘Hi, Dad!’

  ‘Hi, Aggie. How was the jog?’

  ‘Bracing!’ I shiver. ‘Were you OK working outside today?’

  ‘Oh, you know me – I don’t mind the cold. We retreated to the glasshouses once it got dark. Omelettes OK again?’

  ‘Great. Do you want me to make them?’ I offer.

  ‘No, I’ve got it. You go for your shower.’

  ‘OK! Then shall I make a fire in the living room?’

  ‘Good plan,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat in there – it’ll be nice and cosy.’

  After my wash, Oliver comes with me to the living room and keeps me company as I set to work building a fire in the little stove. Dad’s taught me how to do this, using old newspaper as kindling and waiting for the flame to catch. It’s important to keep the stove door open at this stage. Then, when it’s blazing, I add pieces of wood – but not large ones nor too many, or the fire will be suffocated. Once it’s burning reliably, the door can be shut.

  ‘There,’ I tell Oliver, as I take a seat on the sofa and spread a fleecy throw over my legs. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

  His purring reaches new decibels and he leaps on to my lap, where he turns round several times before deciding on the optimal position and curling up. His whole body starts to vibrate with contentment. I’ve read that stroking a pet can lower a person’s heart rate and blood pressure. I’m probably a bit too young to worry about either of those, but there’s definitely something soothing about running my hands over Oliver’s smooth fur.

  Dad brings in dinner and I eat carefully, holding my plate up close to my chin, so I don’t drop any hot food on the cat. My omelette is filled with Cheddar cheese and baked beans – my favourite combination.

  ‘So, how was the trip?’ he asks.

  ‘Interesting, thanks.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I thought you found your art teacher – Mrs Sheldon … Shelby …? – boring?’

  ‘Shelley.’

  ‘As in the poet?’

  ‘Yep. And she is boring. But the paintings were amazing, and there was this boy there, who knew all about art.’

  ‘What? Surely not more than you?’

  ‘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 rea
lly 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.