Agatha & the Scarlet Scarab Read online

  The sharp chill of a needle pierced Aggie’s vein at her elbow joint as the masked man held her down. She tried to struggle, but all power from her body had subsided within an instant, and she fell limp. Her visibility began to fade once more. She could see the two men leave the carriage; the masked man and the man in the fedora. The lady remained, holding her wrist in the way that nurses feel for pulses. It was only a matter of moments before her eyes rolled and Aggie retreated back into darkness again.

  Chapter 4

  Ambledown

  Aggie awoke, her eyes squinting at the piercing morning sun. For the first time in what had seemed days, she was not restrained. The room she now found herself in was not shrouded in darkness. Sunlight presented itself through slender arched windows where dust particles danced in the lightest of breezes. As her eyes adjusted, the edges of her sight were blurred with a sepia tint that made her vision like an old photograph. Squinting, mole-like, she sat up from where she lay.

  First checking her wrists, which were barely bruised, despite the recent restraints, and then her stomach, which had a small pink rub mark where the brass buckle had been tightened around her waist, she found that for the best part she was unscathed. She pondered what had actually gone on. Nothing really made much sense. Aggie sat herself up and turned herself around so her legs hung over the bedside with her feet dangling just above the floorboards. Tentatively she placed a single big toe onto the cold floor. She did not want to make a sound or suggest to her captors she was awake. Allowing the rest of her foot to ground itself and then slowly adding her second, she raised herself up from the bed, stood and surveyed her surroundings in more detail.

  The room, which looked to have been untouched for many years, had several small diamond-leaded windows. They were not large enough to escape through, not even for the smallest of children. At one end of the room, with generous helpings of cobwebs and neglect, the floor ran crooked with dark, twisted oak beams doing their best to hold it together. The walls appeared to be made of flint with a light sand mortar. It reminded Aggie of the Tower of London, which she had visited as a much younger child, and where Florrie had regaled to her stories of beheadings and betrayal. She desperately hoped this was not to be her fate. A very small, dark oak door, much smaller than an adult could fit through, was sunk into the floorboards; it appeared to be the only entry and exit point. An inkling of a light source, perhaps a single candle, wrapped the worn edges. Aggie crouched and squinted through below. A lack of light offered nothing more than the views of a descending passageway.

  Next to the bed was a small table. A swan-necked terracotta pitcher placed within a bowl, which was much too large for the table, dominated it. Aggie had seen one just like it many years ago at Florrie’s. A single pewter goblet stood accompanying it. The two objects were from very different parts of history. A large chest, covered in dust, sat against the end of the single brass bedstead, and against the far end of the tiny proportioned room was a large mirror that covered almost the entire wall and was as big as any man. The dust and ample scattering of dirt was not the type of filth that enveloped you following a bombing raid, engulfing and choking everything in sight, but the type of dust that lent itself to years of isolation, somewhere that time itself had forgotten. There was a rug in the middle of the room, possibly Persian, or of the Orient, its vibrant colours now shrouded in dust, apart from a small set of darkened footprints that looked as if they had recently led to and from the bed, via the mirror. No doubt her captor’s footsteps, Aggie determined, as she scrutinised them further. Definitely two sets, one much larger than the other, but what of the third person she recalled from the train? The woman, the man in the gas mask, and the Fedora man. There had definitely been three.

  Her thoughts began to race again. Mostly to that of her great aunt’s fate. She couldn’t be sure if she was dead; it certainly felt as if the smoke had overcome her, lying there limp-wristed and unable to respond as she had been, but Aggie couldn’t be sure. Florrie had always taught her that until the absolute facts were presented to her and beyond any shadow of a doubt then she should keep an open mind. Aggie grasped on to this strand of hope.

  ‘What do you see? What would Poirot see?’ she heard her great aunt’s voice echo in her head. For her namesake, influential towards her education, had led her to a healthy appetite in reading Christie’s books and to develop an art in problem-solving. Florrie and her five tutors had always encouraged her to be inquisitive.

  ‘Remember, a curious mind is an active mind!’ she heard Florrie rattle around her head again. Though tearful and painfully scared, Aggie knew that until she was presented with the purest evidence to say otherwise, she still had hope that she would see her aunt again.

  Sitting back on the bed, she dragged her legs up into her chest, and curled herself up into a ball, resting her forehead on top of her knees, thinking deeply, and running through scenarios. It was incredibly silent, peaceful. It allowed her to think, to compose herself. Hungry and thirsty – Lord knows how long since she had last supped – she turned to the pitcher on the table and the single goblet next to it. The pitcher was full of a transparent fluid but she couldn’t be sure what it was. It could be poison; after all, a quick needle prick had ensured she ended up in this place. Then again, if her captors had wanted her dead, they could have easily disposed of her by now. There must be some purpose to why she was where she was. She was so parched but refrained from drinking it.

  The chiming of bells broke the silence and shuddered through the dusty, leaded windows. She counted seven chimes in all. Wherever she was, it was seven o’clock in the morning, the dawn light ensured that. 7 pm in the evening would have been much darker by now. She tiptoed to one of the windows at the rear, looked out and saw old ruins and battlements. At least, they looked old, made of similar stone to the room she was in, but many a time in London, the buildings had come crashing down and looked as if they were ramparts from days of yore, so she wasn’t quite sure if they were as old as they looked or a product of a brutal blitz on this town. Creeping quietly to the front windows she could now hear a few faint voices. The window, if you could call it that, wasn’t diamond-leaded like the rear one. Instead, it was far too slender, a tiny slit in the deep-set stone and mortar. Aggie peered through it. It was only just about wide enough to fit her fist into, but was as deep as her outstretched arm. Glass sealed it in at its end. The sand-coloured masonry edges gradually slanted inwards, forming a natural viewing perspective. There was no escape, no matter if you were as small as a bug.

  From her elevated position, she could just make out the steady gathering of people walking up the slight incline of the hilly street below. It was difficult to hear anything due to the thickness of the walls and the distance to the street. Florrie’s house was on several stories, and this seemed much higher, considering the diminutive size of the people. Aggie continued to watch eagerly. They looked ordinary, not dissimilar to those in London, almost familiar in many ways. Certainly, they were not in any type of military uniform; no long black leather coats or skull-emblazoned headwear; which is what she feared the most.

  As Aggie watched from on high, surely no one knew of her spying, she thought. That was until she saw a boy pointing upwards towards her direction. Both an older girl and a younger girl accompanied him. As they passed, the boy encouraged the smaller girl to look upwards and Aggie immediately took a step backwards. Perhaps they had spotted her? Perhaps they could help her?

  Aggie was desperate to understand where she was. Where on earth had she been taken? Who knew she was there? Did anyone, apart from her captors, know she was there?

  Outside, the little girl let out a scream that was just about audible to Aggie who in turn took a further step back out of view. The older girl clipped the boy around the ear, then grabbed both of her charges and began marching them up the hill. Aggie glanced one more time and saw the older girl stare back momentarily. She made eye contact with Aggie directly but didn’t break stride.
/>   Chapter 5

  Kitchener

  At 7 a.m., roughly an hour before Collingdale’s daily round had begun, a large black removal van pulled into the delivery car park of the National Museum for Science and Nature. Several men, dressed in non-descript brown overalls and flat caps, alighted from the rear of the van carrying multiple rolled-up posters, buckets and brooms. After a brief discussion with the sentry guard, during which they unrolled one of the posters with an all too familiar image on it, they entered the Museum.

  Sitting opposite the Museum, a large black car watched on as the men went about their business. The front of the car had a magnificent silver bird, with long beak bowing and feathered plumage arched backwards. It sat atop of the car’s immaculate chrome radiator. In the front, sat the chauffeur, impeccably dressed and staring attentively straight ahead. To the rear, the passenger gazed on intently as she monitored the men moving in and out of the building. In her left hand a silver timepiece was running. Its two main black hands that were set on a pearl background were almost motionless, with a third crimson hand speedily revolving clockwise. In her right hand, she carried a palm-sized cigarette case. It was not silver, as was the typical fashion, but a dark jade embellished with gold edging. The clasp was curved like an ‘S’ and two interlocking pincers wrapped around the case and enclosed it as they intertwined. She thumbed it gently as if stroking the tiniest of pets.

  As she looked on, her brilliant blonde hair was somewhat out of place in the deep, dark pitch of the car. Her ankle-length overcoat was as bright and burning as the fiery embers that still simmered in the hearts of the ruined buildings nearby. Her sapphire-blue gaze broke only to blink and, only then, very occasionally.

  After forty-five minutes, the men sporting overalls left the building and, with one final daub from their buckets and broom, plastered their final posters directly on the entrance to the Museum.

  ‘BRITONS, HE NEEDS YOU!’ pronounced Lord Kitchener’s famous pointing finger as it motionlessly addressed the passers-by.

  At 7:50 am, a now often unseen method of transport, the Penny Farthing, cycled passed the onlookers’ car and rounded the wood-and-wire barricade into the Museum. On drawing to a halt, Professor Meredith Malcolm, immaculately presented in white linen, hopped fluidly off of his vehicle in a single motion carrying his butterfly net. With a swift look at his pocket watch and the tiniest twiddle of his moustache, he headed past the sentry and straight into the Museum. The onlooker glanced at her timepiece and smiled.

  At 7:55 am, a military-grade green truck pulled up, passed the barricades, and from the passenger seat out hopped Sergeant Major Boyd Collingdale. His moustache twitched as his voice bellowed, and from the back of the truck came, perversely, not soldiers, but an army of clerks and actuaries. They marched to the cue of the man’s beating bamboo.

  At 8 am, the chauffeur of the large black saloon arose from the front seat, rounded the impressive automobile and opened the rear passenger side door. The occupier was no longer focused on the time; she simply flicked the catch on her cigarette case and the pincers opened with a fluid motion. Inside, the lining was of violet silk that was in stark contrast to its external jade casing. Within its two halves, it harboured two distinctly separate supplies.

  Firstly, there were half-a-dozen slender cigarettes, more often associated with European capitals such as Paris rather than London, and each beautifully filtered with a violet silk ribbon to match the inlay. On the other half of the case lay two ebony lengths of a single cigarette holder. She took the two parts out and meticulously screwed them together. Taking one of the immaculate cigarettes and placing it within the holder, she pursed her lips and passed a single gentle breath through it. A wisp of soft violet hue floated around the car until it evaporated into its surroundings.

  The chauffeur opened the rear passenger side door and, holding the cigarette holder in her left hand while she grasped the case in her right, she was escorted by the elbow from the vehicle. Gliding graciously across the tan leather coachwork, she slid effortlessly out of the vehicle in one single movement. Standing an impressive six-and-half foot tall, she was adorned in a full-length tiger-skin coat that set ablaze against the dreary bomb-broken background. Her platinum-blonde hair swayed as her clip-clopping saunter began to cross the road to where passers-by and the occasional car stopped to stare in wonder. A short puff of her cigarette and exchange of pleasantries had persuaded the sentry to allow her access to the Museum, against Collingdale’s strict rules.

  Clip-clop, her high heels sounded, echoing through the acoustic hallways of stuffed exhibits, her tiger-skin coat swaying against the motionless creatures behind glass. It wasn’t long until she came upon the man she sought.

  ‘Good grief!’ Collingdale exhaled incredulously, staring at the stunning woman standing just yards away. He lowered his gun. Also transfixed by this newcomer, the scribes were all rendered motionless too. Draped in amber fur with its formidable striped pattern, as if she had just sprung from one of the mahogany exhibitions herself, she inhaled from her extended cigarette holder and emitted a light wisp of smoke through her drawn lips. The puff of foreign tobacco flitted amongst them and then dispersed itself into the ether.

  From her coat pocket, she drew out a crisp white business card and presented it to Major Collingdale who in turn glared at it intently observing the brilliant red lettering.

  ‘The Official Society for the Improvement and Rehabilitation of Injured Servicemen.’

  ‘Correct,’ came the response from the stranger in an unrecognisable foreign lilt. ‘Please,’ she said, placing her hand upon the Major’s hand and rotating it counter-clockwise. ‘Read the back too.’

  Collingdale gyrated his wrist and there on the back was a gold embossed crest with the initials RA emboldened beneath them. ‘By Royal Appointment eh?’ he responded, forehead wrinkled and moustache pouting and twitching with nervousness.

  ‘Correct again, Major,’ came the mystery blonde’s response. ‘But not your King. I represent a regal benefactor from a neutral state.’

  ‘A-ha! I couldn’t place the coat of arms. You’re Swiss!’

  The lady flirted with a little laughter as she withdrew her card and placed it back in her coat pocket.

  ‘My name is Sabine, Sabine Erket and I represent benefactors keen to help and improve those tormented in this terrible war. I require some assistance.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am, ummm…I’m not sure how I may help,’ the Major replied humbly.

  ‘Oh, it’s not actually you, Major Collingdale. It’s your entomology professor I am interested in.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the serviceman, jealous like a school child. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon. What on earth for?’

  Ms Erket just smiled, drew on her cigarette again, and puffed the smoke directly towards the increasingly reddening army man.

  ‘I need Professor Malcolm – YES?’ she said, staring directly at Collingdale and his band of supporters.

  ‘Yes!’ he replied subserviently and his entourage nodded in unison.

  ‘You may go now. YES?’ she nodded back.

  The Major popped the Peacekeeper under his arm, made an about-turn, and carried on with his business.

  Meanwhile, ‘Meticulous’ Meredith Malcolm had retrieved his knife and transfixed his glare onto the curled-up creature impaled on its blade with little interest for the proceedings going on around him.

  ‘Professor?’ Ms Erket said as she knelt down beside him as he studied the scorpion. She once again presented her business card.

  Malcolm broke from his intrigue at the now-dead arachnid. His index finger gently pushed his brass spectacles on to the top of the bridge of his nose so he could read what was on it and then gave it back.

  ‘Fascinating little monsters, aren’t they?’ he said, drawing his knife so the scorpion sat at the blade pinnacle and between his sightline and hers. Sabine Erket once more drew on her cigarette and gently exhaled towards Meredith as they both stood there gazin
g.

  ‘An apex predator for his size, the wolf of the desert some say, although scorpions don’t hunt in packs.’ The professor half-smiled looking upwards at her.

  ‘I really wouldn’t know, sir.’ She smiled back.

  ‘The interesting thing about this little beast is that I am certain I have never bred them or kept live ones in this museum.’

  Ms Erket stood up calmly, not quite as composed as she had been, inhaled a large drag of the cigarette and puffed it directly downwards at Meticulous’ face.

  ‘You’re a very smart man, Professor Meredith Malcolm – YES?’ she said, piercing her glare through his spectacles.

  ‘Yes!’ he responded in a single monotone.

  ‘And you are going to help me – YES?’

  ‘Yes!’ he replied in the same tone.

  ‘Good,’ Ms Erket responded. ‘Shall we?’ She ushered the Professor towards the entrance of the East Quarter where a temporary red-and-white-bannered cordon separated exhibits from the debris. A half-fallen column was propped up fretfully at forty-five degrees and allowed a small but dangerous opening to crawl through, which they duly did. As they passed the single entrance into the Entomology department, she took the Professor’s straw boater from his head.

  ‘You won’t be needing this,’ she said, turning around and skimming the hat through the opening and into the dust and detritus. Once through and ensuring both herself and the Professor were safe, she returned to the part-fallen column, and with a single swift shove, it buckled, crashing down before her, taking the ceiling and support with it. The only entrance to them was now blocked and for all intents and purposes, all that was left to the outside world of herself and Professor Malcolm were the crushed remains of a red-ribbon straw boater.

  Chapter 6

  Gideon

  After withdrawing back into the room even further, Aggie was sure she could no longer be seen in the shadows as she observed the passers-by way down below. Peering through the window at the empty street below, she stared and took in as much information as she could. The slim perspective she was afforded offered a view of several houses and what looked like a small store, but from her position within the tall building, the tiny writing could not be seen clearly. Turning her neck in all manner of angles and twisting her body from left to right she only managed to flit her vision from the church steeple, to the street. It was useless. There was nothing she could garner from here.