Murder at the Museum

But it’s missing.

I go through the racks, twice, but it’s definitely not here. Has someone taken it? Or is it just being stored somewhere safe? I make a mental note to ask the professor about it. I feel a pang at the absence of what feels like a piece of my mum. It’s only a bicycle, I tell myself. I consider taking another one instead – but that feels more like stealing. I’ll just have to jog.

I start to run slowly, building up speed until I’m making good progress along the main tunnel. The ground is fairly smooth here – worn down, I suppose, by years of use by the Gatekeepers. At last I spy a smaller passage off to the right, with a sign for the British Museum. I turn into it and soon reach a full-height metal gate.

Once again, my magic key opens the lock. I step through, close the gate behind me, and abandon my hideous raincoat at the bottom of a short set of stone steps leading up to the museum. At the top, another turn of the key lets me through a wooden door.

I’m in a tiny room that holds nothing but a long staircase, leading upwards, and I jog up them with ease. My fitness levels are pretty good these days as I’ve been working out a lot over the summer. Before too long I reach what I gauge to be the ground floor. There’s a door with a grimy window. I give it a wipe with my hand, and see I’m just off a large corridor. There’s no one about, so I slip through the door and easily find my way into the main foyer of the museum.

Stage three – complete.

I know the layout of the British Museum from the many times Dad has brought me here over the years to see the different exhibits, and I walk quietly but confidently through the public section of the building. I meet no one on the way, but I can hear voices as I approach the area where the murder took place. I walk towards the doorway, careful not to draw attention to myself. As I step over the threshold, I take out my notebook and pen and stand poised at the first display cabinet, as if I’m taking notes on the exhibits. If I’m spotted, I’ll need to have a good cover story.

Despite my careful planning, I freeze at the sound of a voice quite close, convinced I’ve been seen. But they’re not talking to me.

‘So, the piece that’s missing is a clay mug?’

I glance over at the speaker. It’s a female police officer, with light-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s writing in a notebook.

The person she’s addressing is a man of about thirty-five, with closely cropped hair and round glasses, which he keeps pushing up his nose. He’s clearly anxious – I can see beads of sweat on his forehead. This nervousness, combined with the expensive cut of his suit, suggests he’s probably a senior official at the museum. No doubt he’d be feeling distressed that one of the museum attendants, a member of his staff, has died at work. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to feel responsible for something like that.

He clears his throat. ‘That’s right, yes. It’s a strange choice for a burglar.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, you see this piece, right beside the gap?’

I crane my head to get a look but I’m too far away.

‘With the lion’s head?’

‘That’s right. Well, that is a very fine example of Etruscan pottery. It’s almost priceless. The clay cup … well, that’s not worth much.’

‘So you’re saying …’

‘I’m saying it’s odd that a burglar would kill for the clay cup. But perhaps he took the wrong artefact …? I still can’t believe one of our own museum attendants is dead!’

‘I’m so sorry. This must be very upsetting for you. I’ll try not to keep you much longer. But the more help you can give us, the sooner we can catch the culprit.’

‘I understand—’

‘Hey! Where did you come from?’ I jump at the voice in my ear and turn to face a male police officer. He frowns. ‘You aren’t supposed to be here.’

Rookie mistake: I should have kept checking behind me, instead of becoming mesmerised by what was going on in front.

‘Oh no,’ I say, in an eager voice, ‘I am meant to be here, Officer. I’m here on work experience, and I’ve been in the stores, cataloguing the exoskeletal organisms.’ I have no idea if such a collection exists, but I’m hoping to blindside him with long words.

‘So what are you doing here?’ He gestures to the display case. I haven’t even taken in the exhibits, but I glance down and see they appear to be fertility statues. I think fast.

‘Oh – I finished my work experience tasks for the day and my manager said I could do some of my own work, on my school project – “Fertility rituals of the ancient worlds”.’

‘Did you not hear the announcement to evacuate?’

I shake my head, wearing my most earnest expression. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything. Why … has something happened?’

‘Surely someone told you this part of the museum is off-limits?’ He seems entirely bemused by my presence.

I shake my head again. I need to distract him with a change of topic. Discreetly, I take in as much information as I can, my eyes flicking over his form. There’s not much to go on, because he’s in uniform, but I do find a few clues.

‘Do you like dogs?’ I say, thinking on my feet. ‘I love them!’

His eyes light up. ‘I love dogs too! I have four of my own,’ he says proudly.

‘You’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘I’d love a dog, but my dad won’t let me have one.’

His radio crackles and a female voice comes through, issuing instructions. ‘Oh, that’s for me,’ he says. ‘Just get your things and go home.’

‘OK … thanks! I hope my school teacher won’t mind too much if I’m late with my project.’

‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Don’t forget your coat,’ he says, pointing to a door marked STAFF ONLY. As long as he’s watching, I can’t head back the way I came in, so I obediently go the way he indicates.

It takes me into another hallway, with another set of stairs leading down. I run down to the basement, wondering if there might be some way back to the tunnel from here. At the bottom there’s a door.

I push it open.

I step inside and quickly shut the door behind me. I’m in darkness and I fumble for a moment before finding the light switch. My nostrils fill with the smell of damp stone.

The single bulb flickers and then comes on; it sheds barely enough light to see by, and casts weird shadows around the room.

The basement itself is ordinary enough – concrete floor and ceiling, with three walls also made of concrete. The fourth wall, facing me, is made of brick and looks older. There are several sets of metal shelves against the walls, stacked with a variety of cleaning products – sponges and mops, buckets and basins, bottles of bleach and disinfectant. There’s only one other object in the room, over in the far corner.

It’s as big as a bear, and so blackened with age it takes me a minute to work out what it is – a boiler, old and long retired. It was probably left here because it was too much trouble to dismantle it and lug it up the narrow stairs. The squatting lump of metal is knuckled with rivets and valves. There are several water pipes leading up from it, but these have been chopped off, and now stop short of the ceiling.

I sniff the air. Not just damp, but the scent of bleach. This could be from the army of mop buckets down here, but the smell is strong and fresh. By the light of the single, naked light bulb, I look around at the floor, then crouch to run my finger over it. Dust – lots of it.

Over in the corner, by the old boiler, the floor is darker. I walk over. Yes – the concrete here has been scrubbed recently and is still damp. Why would someone clean this patch but not the rest of the room?

In my mind’s eye, I conjure up a Polaroid camera. It appears in front of me, hovering in the air. I hold the imaginary camera steady, and start to take some snaps of the room. Each photo scrolls lazily out of a slot on the camera and develops from black to a colour image. When I’ve taken enough pictures, I file them away in my memory.

Now for my next job. I fish out the plastic vial and use the cotton bud to swab the floor. I could be wrong, but I have a funny feeling about this wet patch. So I place the swab safely back inside the vial for analysis in Brianna’s secret lab.

Then I step up to the disused boiler. It’s covered in dust and clearly hasn’t been used in a very long time. The pipes are cut off, so it can’t have leaked. Why would anyone need to clean up here?

Peering into the darkness behind the boiler, I can’t make anything out. On my keyring I have a tiny torch, which my dad gave me last Christmas as a stocking filler, so I point it into the darkness. There isn’t much there, although … I peer more closely. Yes! It looks like there could be a hole in the wall! I can’t see into it from this angle, but the back of the boiler is completely free from dust. It seems as though someone’s been crawling around in this area.

There’s only one thing for it. Clamping the torch between my teeth, I shuffle forward and crouch down until I’m fully enclosed inside the cramped space. I can see it now, just as I suspected – a hole in the brick wall, big enough for a grown human being to fit through. Looking down at the dirty floor, I can just make out a boot print. Someone has definitely been through here recently!

Steeling myself, I start to crawl forward. My keyring torch doesn’t do much to illuminate the space, but by moving the beam around I can see tunnel walls opening up. I wish I hadn’t left my powerful head torch in the cavern under the Serpentine.

As I go through the underground passage, the brick surface changes, first to something like concrete, then to a material resembling bedrock, chipped away roughly with a chisel or a small pickaxe. There are no signs of activity here, and it’s completely silent. I continue, slightly crouched, but hurrying along.

After about thirty metres, the corridor begins to slope down and, a little further on, the space starts to open out once again. Here, the walls are lined with brick, as the rough-hewn tunnel gives way to a carefully built structure, like a Victorian sewer. Thankfully, this is much cleaner and drier, though!

I carry on, now able to stand up fully, holding the torch in front of me like a miniature shield. Its beam isn’t strong enough to fully light the way, and the area ahead looks especially dark and unwelcoming. Until this moment, I’ve been caught up in the chase. Now, though, I’m suddenly aware of my own smallness. What, or who, might I find down here?

I hesitate. I think of Dad, and my cosy room under the eaves of the cottage.

Then Hercule Poirot speaks to me in the darkness: ‘Ma chère Agathe, you have stumbled upon un petit mystère, non? You are not going to turn back now?’

Too right I’m not. I push on.

Twenty more steps and the space opens out into an even wider passage. Here, my tiny light seems brighter than it did in the brick section, because the walls around me are lined with white ceramic tiles which despite being grimy still manage to reflect a little of the beam back towards me. The pale expanse is broken up by bands of tiles in a dark colour, burgundy perhaps, or purple – it’s hard to tell in this light under the layers of dirt. But there’s something very familiar about them. It takes me a while to realise what it is, out of context as they are.

Of course! These are the tiles used across London to line the walls of Tube stations! In the days when many Londoners couldn’t read, the patterns were used to signal the different stations.

Over the last few years, I’ve travelled through almost all the stations on the Tube map, except for some of the ones further out. I’ve taken mental pictures of all the tile designs, and I call them to mind now. The pictures appear in front of me as Polaroids, stuck with brass pins to a corkboard that’s hanging on the wall.

I check through all of them quickly, but can’t identify the particular arrangement of tiles I’m seeing now – the two burgundy bands separated by a band of white. I turn away from the images.

This is a conundrum – a Tube station which is not a Tube station, right in the heart of London.

I walk a little further, my footsteps echoing back at me. Glancing down, I see dust swirling around my feet. The tunnel is thickly carpeted in a grey lint, which has settled and collected over many years. But I’m not the first person to walk here recently. There are footprints, though how many sets it’s difficult to tell because they keep to a track, like when someone walks through snow along the same path that someone else has already trodden down. I think about walking in that track myself, to disguise the fact I’ve been here, but it’s too late – I’ve already left my prints behind me. A little further down the corridor, I get my first confirmation that this underground building is indeed a Tube station, albeit an unused one – a faded, much-torn poster advertising Ovaltine is pasted to a curved billboard set into the wall.

The poster looks old – very old by the style of font and the watercolour illustration of a woman holding a steaming mug in front of her. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s from the 1930s or ’40s, and was put up sometime during the Second World War. But why is it still here? Why was this Tube station abandoned? I walk on, turning this way then that through the empty tiled corridors, and find my answer.

I’ve stepped out on to a platform. And there, on the wall across from me, is a faded sign, which reads: BRITISH MUSEUM.

It’s the disused British Museum station! It’s been closed for decades. The people who ran the Tube back then decided that there weren’t enough people using it. It wasn’t even close to the museum. I know that it used to be a stop on the Central line (that’s the line marked red on Tube maps), which for the most part draws a neat line through the middle of London. I wonder whether the Central line trains pass through this station now or just bypass it, going down another nearby tunnel.

As if on cue, I hear a distant, rattling rumble – the familiar sound of a Tube train passing by.

I’ve always wanted a chance to visit some of the abandoned stations – but I don’t have much time to think about that now, because it’s getting late and there’s a murder to solve – and if Dad has realised I’m away from home, I need to be getting back sooner rather than later.

I search quickly around the platform and find more clues – tiles wiped clean of dust through contact, and, there, a little further along, a dust-free space on the ground, where something was obviously being stored, though it’s gone now.

The space is large and roughly rectangular. It doesn’t give much of an idea as to what might have been there. When I reach the edge of the platform, I bend down and shine my light into the dark passage. I half expect to see that the old tracks have been ripped up, either to stop trains from passing this way, or so that the metal could be recycled, as happened with many of the city’s metal gates and fences during the Second World War. But, as I shine my torch down into the dark canyon, two gleaming bands of silver throw the beam of light back at me. The old rails are not only still in place; they are polished so highly that there can be no mistaking it – trains have passed through here recently, and often.

Hmm … how can that be? I’ve now heard three trains pass by and not one of them has come through. Perhaps they use this tunnel to store trains when they’re not in service. Or maybe it’s used to store repair vehicles on the tracks. Or could it be a bypass tunnel, which allows trains to pass while another sits idle?

I finish looking around the station, taking mental photos of everything as I go. I wish I had a real camera, so I could get some actual pictures of the boot prints marking the dust around me, but my own memory will have to suffice. I stare at some of them for longer than usual, to make sure that the images are well developed.

Finally, it seems there’s no more for me to investigate down here. I could go back up to the British Museum the same way I got down, but the police investigation is well established up there. If I make another appearance, I’m bound to be spotted again, and this time the police might be suspicious. I’m glad I brought my Guild key.

Walking to the far end of the platform, I hop down on to the tracks – and just in time too: I hear the voice of a man, arriving on the platform behind me. Hurriedly, I turn off my torch.

‘Did you remember my five sugars?’

I crouch and hold very still.

Another man responds: ‘Dunno. I just shovel them in.’ So that’s two men, at least.

‘Jeez, Frankie – you know I can’t drink it when it’s not sweet enough.’

‘I’m just amazed you’ve got any teeth left.’

They laugh. I can’t hear any other voices joining in, but, although it’s a relief they’re alone, two’s more than enough to worry about. I begin to shuffle quickly towards the tunnel, but I lose my balance for a moment and my foot thuds against the metal of the train tracks.

One of the men speaks: ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘I heard a noise.’

‘Probably one of those mice that live along the rails.’

‘Sounded like a pretty big mouse.’

I hear footsteps approaching and flatten myself against the side of the platform as much as possible. Crouching in the shadows, I hope I’m nearly invisible.

A torch is shone along the tracks. It gets worryingly close to me, reflecting in the toe of my boots. I really shouldn’t polish my footwear if I’m going to wear it for undercover work. Has he seen me? I hold my breath and close my eyes. I’m clutching my front-door keys, the only potential weapon I have to hand, but I don’t fancy my chances if I have to rely on them to defend myself.

‘Nothing there,’ he pronounces, turning and heading back to his mate.

‘What time did you say it’s due?’ asks the other one.

‘In the next five or ten, I reckon – if they don’t have to stop in a side tunnel on the way.’

While they’re talking, I run silently to the tunnel mouth. I know there are several doors on the Central line which will give me access to the Guild passages, and, once I’m in one of those, it will be simple enough to find my way back to Hyde Park. Most importantly, I need to get off the rails before the train comes through.

Inside the total darkness of the tunnel, I dare to turn on my torch again. It doesn’t make a lot of difference – the light was dim when I used it earlier in the museum, and it’s lost power since then and is frustratingly weak, but it’s all I’ve got. I push on. Five minutes of jogging and I find what I’m looking for – a small wooden door set into the side of the service passage leading off from the Central line.

The sounds of trains on the other tracks are closer now, rumbling and rattling, and screeching as they brake. To some people it could be unsettling – frightening even – knowing that these fast engines are racing through the tunnels surrounding them. But I’m used to this – used to walking underground, used to being a little bit too close to forces that might harm me. Taking the Guild key from round my neck, I don’t even pause before putting it into the lock. I’m also growing accustomed to breaking the rules.

Still, after waiting all summer to take the Trial, I can’t help but shudder at the thought of the consequences if I get caught down here. I open the door and step into a narrow tunnel which is far cleaner and better kept than the one I’ve just come from. As I enter, lights come on – automatic sensors picking up my movement. This brightly lit corridor is more disconcerting than the previous one: there’s nowhere to hide.

I turn off the little torch and put it in my pocket. One of my brain’s tricks is an internal compass that I use to navigate. I have a lot of tools like this – internal filing cabinets and visual memory aids – but I can’t explain how most of them work, even to myself. They just do. I walk a little way, passing various doors on my left, until I reach one on my right, which my compass tells me is the right direction for home. I open it and pass through, and walk for fifteen to twenty minutes, checking over my shoulder the whole time. At last, I come to a sign on the wall with arrows pointing in two directions. One of the arrows points towards Piccadilly Circus, the other towards Marble Arch.

Marble Arch is close to home, so I head in that direction. This isn’t the most exciting Guild passage, with very little to see in the way of other routes branching off from it, and it’s not carpeted and wood-lined like some of the more elaborate ones, such as those that run under Hyde Park. However, it’s good to be out of the bright lights of the larger tunnel. It also has a smooth surface, and I begin to jog again, enjoying the rhythmic pace, which lets my brain slow down and start to process the information I’ve gathered so far.

The maze of underground pathways that runs under London was only partly constructed by the Guild, of course. They patched together several networks, from old Roman and Victorian sewers to modern service pipes, plus parts of the Tube, the electricity board’s passageways, the water board’s, sections of underground car parks and even telephone exchanges. This patchwork design can be quite useful, because it often gives you a clue as to where you are. In the tunnels I’ve visited near the South Bank (beside the Thames), the walls are made of an orangey concrete, with two rows of lights down either side. In the tunnels near to Buckingham Palace, they are plush, as though in preparation for a royal visit, and have chandeliers in place of bare light bulbs.

I’ve never been in this part of the network before, so I make sure I commit it to memory in case I’m ever here again and need to find my bearings. It’s weird, heading in the direction of home without any of the familiar landmarks I would have above ground. I’m jogging at a comfortable pace when I hear a faint sound behind me.

I glance over my shoulder.

The tunnel is slightly curved, so I can’t see what’s making the noise. But I listen very carefully. It’s a regular tapping. Perhaps just a leak? No, it doesn’t sound like that: it’s too regular, and that rhythm …

Footsteps.

They’re getting louder. Someone’s running in my direction. I look back again. As they come round the bend, they’re just a shadowy figure. The only thing I can make out is that, when they see me, they speed up.

There’s no time to lose. I pick up my own pace, racing like I’m doing the hundred-metre sprint. If the person behind me is from the Guild (and who else would it be, down here in the Guild tunnels?) then I can’t let them catch me, or they’ll be bound to bar me from taking the Trial. I run and run until my blood is thudding in my ears. My feet are pounding so hard against the concrete that they’re starting to throb. At least I seem to be increasing the distance between us, though. After a little while I come to a branch off to the left. I’m dizzy from the run, and have to pause before my vision clears enough to read the next sign. With a sigh of relief, I see it says HYDE PARK 1⁄3 MILE.

In the brief time I’ve been standing still, the footsteps have become much louder. The person following me is really close now. With one last push, I race down the offshoot. There’s no lighting, but I can make some out ahead, filtering through from the far end of the tunnel. This passage is also straighter than the one I was just in and, after a few moments, I glance back into the darkness and see a torch heading through the darkness towards me.

My forehead is dripping with sweat and my breathing is becoming painful. I keep glancing back, and the light is still there, following a little way behind. Whoever’s chasing me can’t catch up, but they’re not falling back either. Off in the distance I see it at last – a spiral staircase leading up from the tunnel floor.