Agatha Oddly
A third mystery for thirteen-year-old Agatha Oddly – a bold, determined heroine, and the star of this stylish new detective series.As the youngest and newest recruit to the gatekeeper’s guild, Agatha Oddlow know she’s got a lot to prove – not least because her mother was such an important member of the secret society.So, when an assistant at the National Gallery goes missing, Agatha begins investigating. Soon she uncovers a plot bigger than she could ever have imagined. As Agatha delves deeper and deeper into the mystery, she’s not sure she’ll ever get to the bottom of it all…
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019
Published in this ebook edition in 2019
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
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Text copyright © Tibor Jones 2019
Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover illustration by Alba Filella
Tibor Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008211950
Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008211967
Version: 2019-06-17
The students at Corpus Christi Primary School, Brixton, south London The coolest Agatha fans anywhere
Contents
4. All the Signs Point to Nowhere
7. A Message From Beyond the Grave
13. Out with the New, In with the Old
15. Will the Real Arthur Fitzwilliam Please Stand Up?
17. Chocolate Cake for Breakfast
‘You’ve been gazing at that painting for at least ten minutes.’
Liam appears at my side, head tilted in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s a Tuesday in November, and we’re in the National Gallery on a school trip. ‘You’d think it had one of those hidden pictures in it, the way you’ve been staring at it,’ he continues. ‘You know – the sort you can only see if you look at it for long enough?’
‘It’s just my favourite, that’s all,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘I can tell!’
‘Mum loved it too. She used to bring me to see it whenever we were passing this way.’
‘How many times have you visited this place, just to behold its beauty?’ He says the last bit dramatically, sweeping his arm round with a flourish, as if he’s reciting a very corny poem.
I laugh. ‘Quite a lot!’ Then I pause. ‘It looks different today, though.’
‘How do you mean?’
I point to the vase, where the name ‘Vincent’ appears in blue script. ‘Well, that bit’s the same shade as normal, but the flowers –’ I gesture to the yellow petals – ‘they’re paler and clearer, if that makes sense.’
‘Less orangey-brown?’ suggests Liam.
‘Exactly!’ I smile at him. Nobody gets me like Liam.
Liam shrugs. ‘Perhaps they’ve had it cleaned.’
‘That would make sense … although I was actually wondering if it was more to do with where it’s hanging now. I mean, they’ve moved it from its usual spot, to make it part of the Van Gogh exhibition, so maybe the lighting’s different.’
My friend Brianna arrives at my other side. Her hair is still a sedate brown rather than her preferred blue – Dr Hargrave, our headmaster, has told her she mustn’t dye it an ‘unnatural’ colour again – only now it’s shaved everywhere except on top. She has delicate features and the contrast is almost shocking. Weirdly, though, it’s a good look for her.
‘Is it time to go home yet?’ she asks, studying her nails. They’re black with pale-green skulls.
‘Don’t think so,’ says Liam. ‘We’ve only seen one room so far.’
My backpack’s on the floor. Brianna crouches down and starts rummaging in the front pocket.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Looking for that ultraviolet torch thing. Did you bring it?’
‘It should be in there,’ I say. ‘What do you need it for?’
‘My nails are meant to glow,’ she replies.
I fish in the pouch of my bag and pull out the little torch, which is the size of a pen. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks,’ Brianna says. She shines it on her nails and we all admire the gleaming skulls.
‘Er … please can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?’ We turn round as Mrs Shelley, our art teacher, is trying to make herself noticed. All her clothes are drab browns and greys, and even her hair is an indeterminate sort of browny grey. She’s like a washed-out, watercolour version of a person. I find myself wondering what Agatha Christie’s Poirot would have made of her if he’d met her. I imagine my favourite detective nodding wisely and saying, ‘Non, mam’selle, there is no such thing as a really calm sea,’ in his Belgian accent. And maybe he’d have been right – perhaps Mrs Shelley does have hidden depths.
‘Er … everyone …’ she says again in her whisper of a voice, ‘can we move on now, please?’
