The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection: The Secret Key, Murder at the Museum and The Silver Serpent. Lena Jones

      The memory was so clear – even though that kitten was fully grown now, Mum was still somewhere behind me, holding her arms round me. He might have been mine, but his heart always belonged to Mum.

      I put Oliver down on the tiles and clear my throat. As I finish my washing-up and dry my hands, Dad brings his empty bowl over to the sink.

      ‘Are you OK, love?’

      I nod and manage a smile. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘It’s just, you look a bit …’ He puts his head on one side.

      ‘… of a genius?’ I suggest, trying to deflect the attention from myself and clear the lump in my throat, but he doesn’t laugh.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ Dad is more interested in things that grow in soil than things that live in houses, but sometimes he notices more than I expect.

      ‘I’m fine, Dad, really …’

      ‘Really?’ He puts a shovel-sized hand on my shoulder.

      ‘Yes, really, Dad. Now go – get to work before you’re late!’ I reach up on tiptoes and hug him. For Dad, actions make more sense than words. He softens.

      ‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘your collar’s all twisted.’ I sort out his polo shirt and he stands very still, like an obedient child.

      ‘Right – you’ll do,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Off you go.’

      ‘Have a good day, love.’

      Dad goes, and I rush back upstairs to finish getting ready. I brush my teeth and pull on my blazer, brushing my hair until my dark bob shines. I tie Mum’s red silk scarf round my neck like a lucky charm and, finally, put on my tortoiseshell sunglasses – perfect for observing people without them noticing. Next, I pack my satchel – notebook, magnifying glass, sample pots for evidence, fingerprint powder and my second-best lock-picking kit. (My best one has been locked in the headmaster’s shiny desk since yesterday afternoon.)

      Outside, the sun is bright. Dewdrops sparkle on the emerald-green lawns and the sun fades. It’s been hot today. I feel a swell of pride – the beautiful trees, the grass and flowerbeds, all lovingly tended by Dad and his wardens. I step through the wrought-iron gate of Groundskeeper’s Cottage and close it behind me, taking my usual route along the Serpentine lake. I’m looking forward to my morning chat with JP, who lives in the park. JP isn’t supposed to live in the park – he’s homeless – but Dad pretends not to notice when he’s still there at night-time. Dad says he scares off the occasional graffiti artist. This morning, as I approach, I see JP sitting with his eyes closed, looking pale.

      ‘Hey, JP!’ I hurry towards him. I have a premonition that he will fall forward as I reach him, a knife sticking out of his back. He would murmur something as he fell into my arms – ‘Agatha, you must avenge me.’ Then I would …

      ‘Morning!’ JP calls brightly, his eyes flicking open.

      He’s not dead.

      ‘Were you comfortable last night?’ I ask.

      ‘Not too bad. I slept under the weeping tree in the Dell. Don’t tell your Dad, though.’

      ‘Did you make sure not to leave a trace?’

      ‘Not a fingerprint.’ He laughs and eyes my pockets hopefully. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’

      I pull out two pieces of toast, sandwiched together with butter and marmalade.

      ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He takes a large bite, then speaks through a mouthful. ‘Now, by the way …’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Don’t you have a school to go to?’

      I check my watch. It’s 8:37 already; school starts at 8:55. ‘Yup, I’d better run. Bye!’ I set off at a brisk walk.

      ‘Have a good day!’ he calls after me.

      I walk along the path. There aren’t many people around at this time, but I nod to an old lady as I pass her, and she smiles back. She’s walking fast, wearing a light tan coat and matching hat.

      As I pass under the canopy of beech and willow trees, I hear a roar ahead. Approaching me, far too quickly, is a motorbike. Motorbikes are banned from the park, the same as any vehicle. I feel cross, but I have no time to react as the bike shoots past me, down the footpath and out of sight. A moment later and I hear a screech of tyres, a loud thud, then nothing.

      Before I know it, I’m running back in the direction that I’ve just come from, and as I round a bend in the path I see what I feared – the old lady in the tan coat lying on the ground. The bike is next to her, but only for a second – the rider revs the engine and speeds away.

      ‘Hey!’ I shout after the rider, rather pointlessly. ‘Stop!’

      Of course, the bike does no such thing, and just disappears down the winding path. I rush over to where the woman lies on the ground. Her hat is askew, her eyes closed, and the contents of her handbag are strewn over the path.

      I stand frozen for a second, stunned. I have to check myself – I haven’t Changed Channel. This is not a dream. This is really happening.

      ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, and she opens her eyes slightly, but just looks blearily at me, then blacks out.

      ‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Someone, help!’

      There is hardly anyone around, but JP comes running over.

      ‘We need to call an ambulance. I’ll call nine-nine-nine,’ I say.

      ‘You have a mobile?’ He sounds surprised.

      ‘Well, of course,’ I say, a little peeved. ‘I’m just not glued to it all the time. We need to hurry.’

      I reach into my satchel and take out the phone. I press the ‘on’ button, but it seems to take forever to power up.

      ‘JP, could you go and see if there’s a warden nearby?’

      JP makes off across the lawns, the sole of one shoe flapping as he runs.

      I turn my attention back to the woman. She looks almost too peaceful, and for a second I’m worried that she might have died while I was distracted.

      My phone finally powers up; I call nine-nine-nine and ask for an ambulance. The woman keeps me on the line at first, asks about the lady’s breathing and pulse. Her right arm is twisted oddly under her and looks broken. Carefully, I unbutton the cuff of her coat sleeve and find her wrist. Pressing my fingers to her skin, I find a regular – if rapid – pulse.

      The woman on the end of the line hangs up, telling me the ambulance is about to arrive and I should make sure they can see me. Taking my hand away, I notice something unusual on the old lady’s wrist – a tattoo of a key.

      It’s very simple – one long line and three short, like the teeth of an old deadlock. Dad has a dozen keys like that on a ring, which open the old iron gates and grilles in the park, but it seems a strange thing to have tattooed on your wrist, especially for an old lady. The handle of the tattoo key is a circle with a dot inside, a bit like an eye. It’s outlined in white ink, which shines silvery on her dark skin. I start to put her scattered things back in her handbag, hoping to find a next-of-kin contact. There’s lipstick, some mints in a tin, a pen, a large set of keys (none of which are deadlocks) and a purse.

      There’s no perfume in the bag, though I can smell that she is wearing some. I sniff again – I can’t help it – it comes instinctively to me. A waft of vanilla, a hint of leather and carnation. Tabac Blond, first made by Caron in 1919. An expensive perfume.

      Her clothes are plain, but her blouse has the feel of silk. The mother-of-pearl buttons might be plastic, but I’m not so sure. I look in the purse for a contact telephone number, but find nothing except several business cards.