The Silver Serpent

by Lena Jones

  Glancing at my mobile, I see I have messages from both Liam and Brianna. It’s been less than a day, but I miss having them on hand to discuss the developments (or lack of them) in the investigation.

  I send a message on our group chat app:

  Long day. No news on the case. Will write when something happens! Hope all’s good with you both xx

  Brianna messages straight back:

  Brianna

  Vas-y, mon amie! Make Poirot proud!

  I send a smiley face in response. Then I change for bed, clean my teeth and say goodnight to Mum’s photograph. As I snuggle down to sleep, I can’t help smiling to myself, and feeling that – at last – I might be a tiny step closer to finding out more about Mum, and what happened to her.

  I wake up the next morning, feeling a lot less confident than I had the night before about finding Sheila. It’s Thursday already and we only have until tomorrow evening! Last night I completely forgot to look into Sheila’s background image for her desktop. With a pang of guilt, I realise that my excitement at finding Mum’s letter made me lose focus on the job.

  I fish out my mobile, turn it on and study the photo I took of the grid of typewriter characters with, here and there, the hieroglyphic symbols.

  There’s:

  A flower (the background to this is red)

  A bird

  A mountain

  A river

  A person

  A cat

  A house (another red background)

  A snail (that one’s crossed out).

  There are various others, but I stop at the end of the first column. I stare at the tiny symbols, but nothing clicks into place. Sighing, I put my phone to one side, pull on my dressing gown and slippers, and head downstairs.

  Over breakfast, I take a deep breath and turn to Dad.

  ‘Dad, please can I have the day off school today? It’s really important.’

  ‘Agatha, we’ve gone over this. I won’t have you missing school. I’m sorry, but as I said yesterday, you are just a child.’

  ‘But, Dad! I have to do this!’

  He holds up a hand to silence me. It’s a very un-Dad-like gesture. ‘And after “this”, there’ll no doubt be another “this”, then another …’

  I open my mouth to argue, but suddenly I realise he’s right. At least, I hope he is. I can’t imagine a life without a stream of cases to investigate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘There will be plenty of time to fling yourself headlong into danger once you’ve completed your education. Although, obviously, I’d prefer it if you found a less risky profession.’

  I nod. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He stands up. ‘Right – I’ve fed Oliver and he’s gone out to torment some birds and rodents.’

  ‘At least he rarely manages to catch any.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ He kisses my cheek. ‘I hope you have a good day in school.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I hope yours is good too.’ But really I’m on conversational autopilot, planning a way to get out of lessons without alerting him.

  As soon as he’s left the house, I run upstairs to my room and log into his email account on my computer. I type a message to my form teacher.

  Dear Mrs Bodley-Finch,

  I regret to inform you that Agatha is very under the weather with a migraine. I’m going to take her to the doctor’s later, if there’s no improvement. Please excuse her from school for the rest of this week, as she will undoubtedly be feeling weak tomorrow, even if the headache has passed.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rufus Augustus Oddlow

  I feel awful – not about lying to Mrs B-F, as she’s horrible, but about deceiving Dad, who deserves better. I’ll make it up to him, when all this is over, I promise myself.

  Then I open my own email app and send Samuel Cohen, the conservator, an email, introducing myself.

  Dear Mr Cohen,

  You don’t know me, but I’m the daughter of Clara Oddlow, who you did some research for seven years ago. You probably know that my mother died around that time.

  I’ve just come across a letter from you, which refers to two paintings, The Yellow House and The Marriage, saying you had information about both of them. I am anxious to know whether you ever saw my mother, to discuss what you’d found out. Would you be prepared to share your findings with me? I’m trying to piece together some facts about her life, and this would really help.

  Thank you!

  With best wishes,

  Agatha Oddlow

  I include my mobile number and press ‘send’.

  Now back to the matter in hand: there’s a missing person to track down.

  My phone rings almost immediately with a private number. It seems too quick to be Mr Cohen, but I answer straight away.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Oddlow? It’s Sam Cohen here. I just got your email.’

  ‘That was quick!’

  ‘Well, I always wondered what happened to Clara. I had no idea she’d died. I’m so sorry. She was a fascinating woman, and very kind.’

  ‘Thank you. It was very sudden.’

  Then he says, ‘It sounds as though you know what your mother was investigating.’

  So it was an investigation!

  ‘Not exactly,’ I reply. ‘As I said in my email, I just found the letter you sent her …’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He’s silent for a moment, and I’m about to speak again when he says, ‘The truth is, I’m not entirely sure about it myself. That is, I always suspected Clara was investigating a much larger puzzle than she involved me in.’

  I sit up. My skin prickles, as if electricity is running along it. ‘What sort of “larger puzzle”?’ I say.

  ‘That’s where I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I really have no idea. And she asked me to keep quiet about the work I did for her – otherwise I would have gone to the police. But she said the less I got involved, the safer I’d be. She also suggested I might jeopardise her own investigation.’

  Disappointment floods me, filling my eyes with tears. ‘So you don’t know anything about what she was involved in?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’ His voice is full of compassion. ‘Only the part concerning the two paintings. Shall I email you my findings on those? You might be able to piece together something that I’ve missed.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘OK, I’m sending the documents now. I think they’re fairly self-explanatory, but give me a call or email me if you want any further information.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  We say our goodbyes and end the call – and I sit on the edge of my bed, waiting for his email to come through. I can’t keep still for wondering whether I’m about to have a huge revelation concerning Mum, so it’s a relief when my inbox pings a moment or two later.

  There are two attachments and I download them.

  Double-clicking on the first, which is titled ‘Yellow’, I scan the text.

  Phrases jump out at me: ‘absence of lead’, ‘yellow too true’, and then I read the conclusion:

  This is not a Van Gogh painting but a more modern reproduction.

  Then I read it again. This is not a Van Gogh painting.

  In a flash, I’m clicking on the other file, where I find a similar report on The Marriage. I skip the main body of text and read the last sentence of this one too:

  This is not a Hogarth painting but a reproduction, probably painted in the latter part of the twentieth century.

  So these two paintings are forgeries! And Mum was investigating them when she died.

  I turn to her photo. ‘Why were you looking into forged paintings, Mum?’ I ask her. ‘Is that what got you killed?’

  On a whim, I start typing another email to Mr Cohen.

  Hello, Sam,

  It was good to talk to you. Thanks for these files! I didn’t know Mum was researching forged paintings.

  I was wondering … I know Mum asked you not to tell anyone, but did you conta
ct the police or any art authorities in the end, when you didn’t hear from her for so long?

  I pause and think for a moment, then add:

  Also, do you know if there’s anything unusual about the Sunflowers painting that’s currently in the Van Gogh exhibition at the National Gallery?

  I pause again, before adding:

  Or an O’Keeffe landscape of a lake with a reflection of hills?

  I check my watch. If I’m quick, I should still have time to swing by the National Gallery, to take another look at The Yellow House in the light of the new information from Mr Cohen. And if I’m really quick, I’ll also make it to Sir John Soane’s Museum before I’m due to meet Arthur at HQ at ten thirty.

  I layer up for the November weather. Despite the bright sun, I know it’s still going to be close to freezing.

  Thermal leggings and long-sleeve tops make a great base layer – you can wear anything over them. Flicking through the garments on my racks, I choose one of Mum’s old shirt dresses with a gorgeous pattern of sunflowers, which reminds me of the Van Gogh painting. My red coat and matching beret top it off and my Doc Martens boots are well broken-in – they should be good for hours of wear.

  Outside, it’s bitterly cold – the wind has kicked up another notch – and I catch two buses to the National Gallery, rather than walk across town. Once through the doors, I head straight to the Van Gogh exhibition. Despite the fact it’s a flying visit, I feel much more relaxed now I haven’t got the Rathbones, senior and junior, circling like well-trained sheepdogs.

  I take a brief detour via Sunflowers, and confirm to myself that the flowers do look a slightly different colour from when they were in their old spot, and that the mysterious fancy A is still there in the corner when I shine my ultraviolet torch. Why would anyone mark a painting like this? I surreptitiously flicker the light on the neighbouring pictures, but they are still graffiti-free. I wonder if it could be as simple as that – a graffiti artist, having a laugh?

  Then I head over to study The Yellow House, passing by Robbo the guitar-player’s chair, which is empty this morning. This isn’t a painting I’m familiar with, in the way I know Sunflowers. The background of the picture shows a steam train passing by on a bridge, set against a very blue sky, with the house itself in the foreground, pale yellow with green door and shutters. I stand in front of it for several minutes, taking in the details – two women with a child crossing the street, people sitting at a table outside a cafe. My expertise doesn’t come close to being able to say whether this is a forgery or not. It’s a beautiful painting, and it would definitely have fooled me.

  Rummaging in my backpack, I draw out the ultraviolet torch and direct it over the canvas. I have to run it across the whole painting twice, backwards and forwards, before I see it.

  An ornate capital, just like on Sunflowers. So someone appears to be marking the fakes – if that’s what they are. Is the A their own initial, or does it refer to something else? I check my watch and realise I need to get a move on if I want to make it to the museum after the gallery.

  As I near the attendant’s seat, I see it’s now occupied, not by Robbo, but by a woman with blonde hair worn loose to her shoulders. She’s reading a book. Walking over, I catch her eye.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I don’t think you were here yesterday, when my colleague and I were interviewing gallery staff, about Ms Smith.’

  ‘Who did you say you are?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ I produce my fake ID badge. ‘I’m Agatha Oddlow. I’m a private investigator, working for a firm that specialises in hiring young people.’

  She looks doubtful. ‘And they take on trainees as young as you?’

  I shrug. ‘Only if we can prove we’re dedicated and have the right sort of skills.’

  She smiles. ‘Fair enough. So what’s going on with Sheila? Did she really not catch her flight?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, and she’s not answering her mobile phone or responding to emails either. Sheila Smith’s family are worried about her, so Dr MacDonald has hired my firm to look into it.’

  ‘I didn’t even know she was going away, until she sent out the email to all staff. It was a last-minute trip. Did you know the painting she was going to view was by the artist she based her doctoral thesis on, Lucy Tejada?’

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Sheila loves Tejada’s work – there’s no way she’d miss an opportunity of having a private viewing of an original, and possibly securing it for the National Gallery. Is it possible she just caught a different flight?’

  ‘It looks like she didn’t check in at all, I’m afraid.’ I pause, then ask, ‘How did she seem on Friday?’

  ‘A bit distracted maybe, but pretty much like normal. And she does have this big exhibition to organise, right on the back of the Van Gogh. It’s not the best time for such a desirable artwork as Tejada’s to come on the market, to be honest.’

  ‘Is the “big exhibition” the pop art show?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I saw she has some prints on her office wall. Do you know if they’re anything to do with the pop art exhibition?’

  ‘Yes, they are. Before any big exhibition, she always puts up a few prints or photos of major pieces that are going to appear in the show. It’s quite informal – she says it helps her get a feel for the theme, having some of the more important pieces up round her room while she’s planning it.’

  ‘I was a bit confused, though …’ I say. ‘Can I show you?’ I dig out my phone and she waits patiently while I turn it on. I call up the photo of Sheila’s office wall, and pass it to her.

  ‘Oh! That’s odd,’ she says. ‘Those were all pop art the last time I was in her office.’

  ‘So the Van Gogh and O’Keeffe …?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what they’re doing there.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Sorry. I like art, but I’m no expert. You’d have to ask Sheila …’ She looks suddenly serious. ‘You don’t think something bad’s happened to her, do you?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know … There’s no evidence of any struggle at her home, which is a good sign.’

  She nods, but doesn’t look any less worried.

  ‘OK, thanks for your help –’ I squint at her name badge – ‘Danielle.’

  ‘Danielle Jackson. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’ I scribble down my number and pass it to her. ‘And please call me if anything occurs to you, however small.’

  ‘I will,’ she promises.

  It’s less than twenty minutes’ walk to Sir John Soane’s Museum from the gallery. I decide to brave the cold. There’s something about the rhythm of walking that can help to process thoughts.

  It’s as I’m passing the Royal Opera House, and see the name arranged in a grid of neat lettering on the banners, and the stone frieze of dancing figures behind the portico, that something occurs to me.

  I stop and pull out my mobile and study the artwork grid from Sheila’s desktop again.

  What if the symbols represent different paintings? The flower symbol, for example, could be Sunflowers. I glance down the column. The mountain could be the mountain in the painting by Georgia O’Keeffe, with its hills reflected in the water. What about the snail? Could that represent the famous collage by Matisse? As it’s crossed out, perhaps that means Sheila didn’t need to worry about it any more – maybe she’d found out the artwork was authentic and not a fake. On the other hand, maybe the red squares behind the flower and the house mean she’d discovered those pieces were forgeries.

  I’m becoming more and more convinced that Sheila had stumbled across something – a forgery ring perhaps? – and her disappearance could mean that she told the wrong person.

  Sir John Soane’s Museum is in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in the area of central London that’s known for its law firms, and it’s nothing
like any other museum I’ve ever been to. Rather than enormous rooms of glass cases in rows, imagine a big old house, with interesting things to see on every shelf, every wall and every patch of floor space.

  Today, though, I’m determined not to be distracted by all the treasures on display. No, my focus must be on the Rake’s Progress series by Hogarth – and in particular number five in the series, The Marriage. It was one of the images highlighted in Mum’s art book, and so it’s possibly another forgery. The series contains eight paintings about a young man called Tom, who inherits a lot of money, but wastes it all and ends up with nothing; the fifth one shows Tom marrying a rich old woman just for her money.

  One of the amazing features of the gallery is how Soane crammed extra artworks into quite a small space. He fitted hinged wooden panels round the walls, which can be opened up to reveal more paintings hung behind them. I remember that The Marriage is hidden behind a panel like this.

  One of the attendants approaches. She’s a tall, slim woman – verging on bony – with shoulder-length dark hair and deep-blue eyes (I estimate they’re shade 13 on my eye-colour chart). She has a streak of purple on one side of her hair.

  She smiles at me. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I hope so! I need to view the Rake’s Progress paintings by Hogarth. Please could you open up the panels for me?’

  She shakes her head with regret. ‘I’m sorry, but we only open them every two hours. If you can wait another hour and twenty minutes …’

  I make a show of checking my watch. ‘I really can’t!’ I say. ‘I’ve got a school project on Hogarth due in tomorrow, and I need to check something about A Rake’s Progress before I hand it in. Please, can you help me?’

  She grimaces. ‘I really can’t—’

  ‘There’s hardly anyone else here,’ I point out quickly. ‘And I promise I won’t tell, if you don’t.’ She still doesn’t look convinced, so I add, ‘My teacher says I’m going to fail this year’s coursework if I don’t do a good job with this project.’