by Lena Jones
She pushes a loose strand of hair off her forehead. I’ve never seen her with anything other than immaculately scraped-back hair before. She even looks hot and bothered, instead of her usual cool, aloof self.
‘Hi, Agatha. We’re short-staffed since Wallace Jones was apprehended. Various other agents and admin staff have been suspended, pending investigations.’
Wallace Jones had been working for the Guild for years, but he’d revealed himself as a traitor when he and a team broke into the Bank of England. I’d been responsible for uncovering the plot and having him arrested. But I had no idea my investigation would cause the Guild to be short-staffed like this.
‘So … what are you up to?’ I ask.
‘I’m on a case,’ she says simply. She can be frustratingly brief in her responses. ‘But I hear you’ve been partnered with Arthur Fitzwilliam. Is he behaving himself?’
‘Most of the time,’ I say. To my amazement, she smiles.
‘He’s a bit of a livewire, that one,’ she says. ‘I had to work with him once, and I swore I’d never do it again.’
‘Oh, he’s not so bad,’ I say, feeling the need to defend my new friend.
‘If you say so. Speak of the devil …’ I glance behind me and see Arthur’s caught me up.
‘Hi, Fia,’ he says.
‘Hi, Thur,’ she says.
‘Thur?’ I ask.
Sofia grimaces. ‘If he’s going to insist on shortening my name, I’ll do the same to his.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘So, how are you getting on with the case of the disappearing curator?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘It’s more like the case of the disappointing curator at the moment – we don’t seem to be making much headway.’
‘It’s only Day One for you, right?’ she says.
‘Right. But we only have two days left after today – the gallery director wants results by the end of Friday or the police are taking over.’
‘Well, if anyone can solve it, Agatha, you can.’
I feel myself blush at this unexpected praise from my former critic.
We stand for a moment in awkward silence, until I say, ‘Right, we’re off to see Professor D’Oliveira.’
‘Oh, maybe I should warn you!’ she suddenly says, pulling a face. ‘Did you know she’d asked some of the admin staff to help out with Jones’s old job until someone new can be appointed?’
I shake my head. Jones had been in charge of ordering in all the supplies that are needed for the underground headquarters, from technical supplies and first-aid kits to coffee and biscuits.
Sofia goes on: ‘Well, this poor guy from admin didn’t realise that the jars of coffee are supplied in boxes of twenty. So he ordered “twenty”, thinking that was how many jars he’d get …’
‘And he got four hundred,’ completes Arthur.
‘Exactly! He’s made the same mistake with everything – pens, notepads, ink cartridges … So the professor is around, but she’s in a pretty bad mood, trying to find someone more competent to sort out the mess. If I were you, I’d come back to see her tomorrow instead.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ I say, feeling deflated.
‘See you later,’ she says. She gives us a wave and strides off, leaving me staring at her back.
‘Wow. I never heard Sofia praise anyone before,’ says Arthur. ‘You must have made a really good impression.’
‘I thought she hated me,’ I say in confusion.
‘How could anybody hate you?’ he says, eyebrows raised.
I hide my embarrassment by becoming business-like. ‘Shall we deliver the memory stick and note to the lab?’
He shakes his head. ‘The professor might want to see them. Let’s see what she says tomorrow.’
‘OK. Well, come on – let’s get out of here. We can do our separate research into those names, as we agreed, at home.’
‘Aye, aye, cap’n!’ He salutes me smartly.
‘Sofia’s right – you’re a liability,’ I say.
‘Ouch!’
‘But an entertaining one, at least.’
He grins. ‘I can live with that.’
‘I was really hoping to talk to the professor, though,’ I say. ‘I thought she might have an idea about who this threat could have come from.’
We walk in silence. I’m pretty sure Arthur feels the same as me: how frustrating and disappointing today’s investigations have been. It feels like we’ve hit a wall.
As we walk back to the main entrance, I start thinking about the threat again. It is a little scary, but I’ve been through this before, and I want to reassure my investigating partner, who’s looking nervous again. ‘Don’t worry, Arthur – I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He laughs, but it’s a nervous sound. ‘I’m not used to feeling vulnerable. I am a trained field agent, of course, but they usually let me focus on the research side of things, where I’m strongest.’
‘Do you have any self-defence training?’
Arthur shakes his head. ‘The professor did send me to classes, but I don’t have any talent for it – I kept tripping over my own feet.’
I feel a pang of concern for him. ‘Do you want me to accompany you home, to make sure you’re OK?’
He puts an arm round my shoulders in a quick hug. ‘That’s such a kind offer, but no – I’m sure I’ll be fine, thanks. I’m going to stay underground until I’m practically at my front door.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
We’ve reached the main entrance. I open the door and we both pass through. I point towards the right.
‘Well, I’m taking that route, so I’ll see you tomorrow. If we each search for those names online, we can compare notes. Shall we meet back here at nine thirty?’
‘Can we make it ten thirty? I’ve got a few things I want to check out first.’
‘Sure. See you then.’ We part company, each heading in opposite directions.
It’s nearly five, so as soon as I can get a signal I send Dad a text to tell him I’m on my way home. Then I begin to jog, replaying the day’s events in my mind.
I remember the look on my partner’s face as we said goodbye. Poor Arthur. He looked so scared. I wonder if there was anything I could have given him for protection. I run through the contents of my backpack. The trouble is, anything that might double as a weapon for self-defence could also be used against him.
I focus instead on the two items we found in Sheila’s flat. The note is still in my backpack, I realise. I’ll have to hand it in tomorrow morning, once I’ve shown it to the professor.
The lamps are all on when I reach Hyde Park. I keep up a steady pace along the avenues, the skirt of my coat swishing against my legs, until Groundskeeper’s Cottage comes into view. Dad’s turned on all the downstairs lights, and there’s woodsmoke coming from the chimney. It resembles something out of a storybook.
Once inside, I remove my coat, hat and shoes and track down Dad in the living room. Oliver is curled up on his lap and is ecstatic – I can hear his purrs from the doorway.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, but he doesn’t look up.
‘I got a call from the school,’ he says, staring at the blank TV.
I pull a face and perch on the arm of the chair nearest to him. ‘Sorry …’
‘When were you going to tell me you’d started skipping school again? We had an agreement, Agatha. By the time I picked up the voicemail, the school office was closed for the day, so I couldn’t even find out how you’d got out, or if they knew where you might have gone.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I reply. ‘I was going to tell you—’
He interrupts me with a shake of his head. ‘How am I meant to keep you safe when I don’t even know where you are?’ He sighs. ‘And how many times are we going to have to have this same conversation? When will it sink in?’ He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
‘Is this another one of your investigations?’ he demands.
‘Um, yes. It’s a new case.’
‘I don’t like it, Aggie. You’ve got into serious trouble the last times.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I promise.
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘Don’t forget I’m fitter now.’
‘Aggie, it’s great that you’re jogging regularly, but that won’t be much good if you get into danger.’ Dad thinks I’m just going for regular runs. I haven’t told him about my martial arts training, as it would be hard to explain how I came across Mr Zhang and why I don’t have to pay for my kung fu lessons. ‘You need to attend school,’ he continues, ‘and not be wandering around the city alone.’
As I open my mouth to protest, he holds up a hand and says, ‘I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
I give up. There’s no point in arguing with Dad when he’s like this.
He doesn’t stay cross, at least – he pats me on the head as he gets up to cook our dinner. We chat about safer subjects while we eat our fish fingers with Spaghetti Hoops, and then I go up to my room. I get out my notebook, where I wrote down all the names from Sheila’s email contacts list, and search for each one online. They all come up easily. Most are people from the art world – curators and restorers, gallery owners, and artists themselves. The remainder seem to be friends from school and university, or family members. If Sheila has a shady alternative life, it’s not visible in her online dealings.
Of course it’s impossible to tell much about someone from their online presence. After all, my Instagram account is in the name ‘Felicity Lemon’, who was Poirot’s secretary. But on first impressions, it seems unlikely that any of these people would be responsible for our warning message.
I need to sort through the jumble of thoughts in my head. Poirot appears and whispers in my ear, ‘One must always proceed with method, mam’selle.’ He’s right, of course.
I turn to the next blank page in my notebook and write:
Where is Sheila Smith?
1. Has she left through choice, or been abducted? Why doesn’t anyone seem to know what’s happened to her?
2. Who planted the memory stick? How do they know about Arthur and me? Is their threat genuine? If so, what are they afraid we will find out?
3. Sheila had gone to a lot of trouble to hide the note that she received from the ‘Silver Serpent’. Who is the Silver Serpent, and why were they threatening her?
4. What is the significance of the pictures on her office wall? Or do they just reflect her personal choice?
Didn’t Mum have a reference book on art? I’m sure I’ve seen one in the living room, and it might help me find out more about the pictures in Sheila’s office. I run back downstairs and find Dad sitting in front of the TV, watching a gardening show. It’s not one I recognise, and I’m momentarily distracted.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
Dad smiles sheepishly. ‘I’m ashamed to admit it’s called Don’t Tell the Owner. I haven’t watched it before, but it seems to involve people doing up their friends’ gardens in secret, but instead of it being a nice surprise, the owners are generally horrified by the results.’
‘So you’re –’ I hesitate – ‘enjoying this?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘No, I hate it, but somehow I can’t seem to stop watching it. It’s like those people that stand and gawp after a horrific car crash.’
‘Isn’t that what they call it – car-crash TV?’
Dad laughs. ‘That makes sense. Anyway, what brings you down from your fortress of solitude?’
‘A book. Is there an art book down here, or have I imagined it? One of those reference books about art history.’
‘There definitely is one. It belonged to your mum. I think it’s on the top shelf.’
I fetch a chair from the kitchen and use it to reach the high-up books. There are various reference works – a German dictionary, a book on the history of music, some volumes of an encyclopedia – and then I see it: The Story of Art by E. H. Gombrich. I draw it from the shelf and jump down from the chair.
‘You’re covered in dust!’ says Dad.
‘Hazard of the job.’
‘Agatha – I hope you’re just doing armchair investigating!’ he calls to my retreating back.
I pretend not to have heard.
When I get back to my room, I find Oliver curled up on my recently vacated desk chair.
I pick him up and reclaim my seat, placing him on my lap. He purrs loudly, kneading me with his claws.
‘Hey, boy, stop that – you’re hurting me,’ I say, but that just makes him purr even louder. I push gently on his bottom, hoping to encourage him to sit down, but he becomes ecstatic, and merely digs his claws in harder. I give up and turn my attention to the book. It’s very dusty. I take a tissue and gently wipe the cover of the thick paperback. It doesn’t matter how many of Mum’s books I’ve read, there’s always something special about holding a volume that was owned by her. A lump forms in my throat as I remember how safe and warm I used to feel sitting in bed while Mum read to me.
Poirot appears beside me. ‘Eh bien, mon amie,’ he says, ‘now is not the time for sadness. Now is the time to exercise those little grey cells, n’est-ce pas?’
He’s right. Arthur and I have a mystery to solve, and just two days left to do it – assuming Elizabeth MacDonald doesn’t change her mind and alert the police sooner. There’s no time to waste on sentimentality.
I start with the index, but I don’t know what I’m looking for, so I begin to flick through the book. It falls open quite determinedly in places, as if certain parts of the text have been read and re-read. Focusing on the first spread where this happens, I see that there’s a pencil mark beside one of the pictures – a question mark. Turning more pages, I find other pencilled question marks. I search carefully through the volume and count four in all. I take a photo of each of the pictures Mum has marked and then, grabbing my notebook, I log them.
1. Portrait of Greta Moll by Henri Matisse, 1908
This painting is on display at the National Gallery. It shows a woman in a high-neck white blouse with her hair pinned up. The sitter was a sculptor and painter in her own right, and a student of Matisse.
2. The Yellow House by Van Gogh, 1888
It was only yesterday that I was admiring this painting at the National Gallery!
3. The Marriage by Hogarth, 1733
This is from a series of eight paintings, and it’s the fifth one, The Marriage, that’s been singled out.
And then I remember: Mum took me to see these pictures! She explained that a rake is a man of low morals, whose life is filled with drink, gambling and similar bad habits. The paintings represent this man’s fall from respectability. The whole sequence is on display at Sir John Soane’s Museum – a magical place I haven’t visited in years.
4. Man with a Pipe by Paul Cézanne, 1892–6
A quick check on my phone informs me that this is part of the permanent collection at the Courtauld Institute, which is located in Somerset House on the Strand.
I sit back and look at the list I’ve made.
Why had Mum marked these four? Were they just her favourite pieces of art – pictures she wanted to view, or had viewed? But if so, why did she use question marks to mark them? It hurts to think I’ll probably never know.
‘Apart from the Hogarth paintings, I don’t think these are Mum’s preferred artworks,’ I tell Oliver, who purrs in approval. ‘No – she’s highlighted them for some other reason …’
I dig out my phone and turn it on, then take a photo of my notes, which I send to Arthur with the message:
Hope you’re OK. Was wondering what you know about these works … Could do with your expertise!
I’m relieved when his response comes almost immediately. I was worried he might have got into a bad state over the threat.
Means nothing to me. Why? Does this have something to do with Sheila?
Nope. My mum marked all of these in her art boo
k, but I don’t know why.
Dunno. Could mean anything. Perhaps she just liked them?
This is Clara Oddlow, Guild agent, we’re talking about. She always had a reason.
Good point! Let me
know if there’s anything I can do to help
Thanks!
Then I glance through Mum’s book for the paintings Sheila had prints of on her office wall. The O’Keeffe isn’t there, but Sunflowers is, in all its glory. I study it for a moment, but I don’t know what I’m looking for. With a sigh, I close the book and am about to place it on my desk when I notice a slight bulge in the back cover. Slowly, I open it again, and examine the thick paper that forms the book’s back. There’s something there, sealed inside the cover! I fish for a penknife in my backpack, and carefully probe with the smallest blade until the back cover splits open. Inside, there’s a folded sheet.
For a moment, I just stare at it. This is something of Mum’s – not just a book, but a prized item, something she cared enough about to hide it away.
It sits on my lap – a square of white paper, folded into a neat rectangle.
I take deep breaths to slow my heart. And then I unfold the sheet.
It’s a letter, handwritten in indigo ink. The writing is clearly by a keen calligrapher, as it’s curly and ornate:
Dear Ms Oddlow,
Further to your enquiries re: The Yellow House and The Marriage, I have made some findings that may be of interest to you. I would like to meet with you to discuss these further.
Please get in touch, at your earliest convenience.
With best wishes,
Samuel J. Cohen, A.C.R.
Freelance art conservator
The Yellow House! Why would Mum have been making enquiries about this Van Gogh painting? And about The Marriage, from that series by Hogarth? And what could be so important or secret that she had to hide the letter away? It’s not much, but maybe if I contact this Samuel J. Cohen, I can find out why Mum had written to him and what she wanted to know.
I’m too exhausted to do much else tonight, but I get up and take down the most recent of the red notebooks that contain information on Mum. I use a glue stick to fix the letter to the next blank page. Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll contact Mr Cohen. His phone number and email address are at the top of his letter.
