The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection Books 1-3

Nobody seems to have noticed that Felicity isn’t real. Several people from school have accepted my friend requests, including all three of the CCs. None of them have realised that ‘Felicity Lemon’ is the name of Hercule Poirot’s secretary, or that my profile photo is a 1960s snap of French singer Françoise Hardy.

I scroll through Felicity’s feed, which seems to be endless pictures of Sarah Rathbone, Ruth Masters and Brianna Pike. They must have flown out to somewhere in Europe for a mini-break over half-term. They pose on sunloungers, dangle their feet in a hotel swimming pool and sit on the prow of a boat, hair blowing behind them like a shampoo commercial. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of jealousy and put the lid down.

Rummaging through my satchel, I take out the notebook that I started earlier in the day. I put it by my bed with my fountain pen, in case inspiration strikes in the night – that’s what a good detective does: they note down everything, because they never know what tiny detail might be the key to cracking a case.

Most of my notebooks have a black cover, but some of them are red – these are the ones about Mum – all twenty-two of them. They have their own place on a high shelf. My notes are in-depth – from where she used to get her hair cut to who she mixed with at the neighbourhood allotments. Every little detail. I don’t want to forget a single thing.

I look over at Mum’s picture in its frame on my bedside table. She’s balanced on her bike, half smiling, one foot on the ground. She’s wearing big sunglasses, a crêpe skirt, a floppy hat and a kind smile. There’s a stack of books strapped to the bike above the back wheel. The police had blamed the books for her losing control of her bike that day – but Mum always had a pile of books like that. I don’t believe that was the real cause of her accident. That’s not why Mum died. Something else had to be the reason.

I climb into bed and pull the sheet over me, then take a last look at the photograph.

A lump rises in my throat. ‘Night, Mum,’ I say, as I turn out the light.

‘Dad, will you stop letting Oliver walk all over the work surface? It’s unhygienic.’

I’m trying to wash up the bowl I used for breakfast, but our cat is sitting by the sink and keeps batting my hand with his tail. He’s purring loudly at the fun new game he’s invented. I turn to look at Dad, who is hunched over a bowl at the table. He shrugs and shovels in another spoonful of cereal. He’s running late, as usual.

‘I can’t watch him all the time, Agatha.’

Sighing, I scoop Oliver off the counter. He’s grey, and on the portly side from all the treats Dad feeds him. He causes so much trouble, but he has a special place in my heart. He’s middle-aged in cat years, and his main hobby is sitting – on the work surface in the kitchen, in front of the mirror in the hall or on the threadbare armchair that used to be Mum’s. I suppose he misses her too. When he isn’t sitting, he’s lying down.

Oliver rubs his face up against my chin and I scratch the soft fur of his neck. I can feel his low, rumbling purr in my chest. I think back to the day I first met him. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was sitting by the fire, reading. Mum had come in through the front door with a cardboard box, which she brought over and set down in front of me.

‘What is it?’

‘Why don’t you find out?’ she said, smiling and shaking the raindrops from her hair.

I opened the wet cardboard box. At first it seemed to be full of nothing but blankets. I looked at Mum, puzzled.

‘Keep searching – just be careful.’

I pulled back the layers of blanket, realising that there was a sort of hollow in the middle of them, like a nest. And there – curled into itself and barely bigger than my fist – was a kitten. My eyes widened with surprise, and I didn’t dare touch the sleeping creature.

‘Go on – you can stroke him.’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, he’s a boy. You’ll have to think of a name.’

I thought about this for a moment. ‘Why do I have to think of a name?’

Mum laughed. ‘Because he’s yours.’

‘He’s … mine?’

Something like a shiver passed through me as he opened two huge ink-black eyes and looked up at me.

Then Mum had put her arms round me from behind and held me while I held Oliver. I closed my eyes.

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.

Prof. Dorothy D’Oliveira

Senior Fellow, Hydrology Studies

Royal Geographical Society

Hydrology? What does that mean? ‘Hydro’ is from the Greek for ‘water’. So, she studies water? Out of ideas, I go back to making sure she’s comfortable. I don’t risk moving her right arm, though it looks uncomfortable bent beneath her. But, as I fold my blazer and place it under her head, I spot something in her left hand. I don’t know how I missed it at first. With a glance at her peaceful face, I gently prise her fingers open to find a piece of folded pink newspaper – a page from the Financial Times. Looking around to see if anyone is watching, I open it out.

It has the usual stories – mergers of electronics companies, CEOs getting millions of pounds in bonuses, a story about London pollution. Without thinking, I fold the paper and slip it into my blazer pocket. JP hasn’t returned yet, so I’m left alone to watch over the professor. Somewhere nearby, a siren starts wailing. I have an idea – opening my satchel, I take out a small brown bottle, unstopper it, and wave it under her nose.

It was insanely difficult to find smelling salts in London chemists. Finally, a pharmacy on Old Compton Street had agreed to sell me some, on the condition that I leave my name and address.

After a moment, the professor starts to take deeper breaths, and coughs twice. She opens her eyes and looks at me. The sound of the siren is much louder now, and I can see the ambulance racing across the lawns towards us, churning furrows into the dew-soft grass. Dad won’t be happy. It stops right next to us. The two paramedics jump out and start to tend to their patient.

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ A paramedic points to the bottle I’m holding.

‘Sal volatile.’

He looks blank.

‘Spirit of hartshorn?’

‘What?’

I suspect the man of being a little slow.

‘Ammonium carbonate with lavender oil.’

‘Ah, aromatherapy. New age.’

I sigh. ‘If you say so.’

They check the woman’s pulse and breathing, and shine a light in her eyes to check for concussion. Then they apply a sling before loading her on to a stretcher. The one who called my smelling salts ‘new age’ asks me some questions about what happened.