The Emerald Casket (2 page)

With a grunt of determination, he rolled onto his stomach and edged up onto his elbows and knees. The pencil stub was somehow still behind his ear and he plucked it free. His other hand scrabbled inside his shirt pocket and pulled out the message from his chess game. He scribbled a rough SOS, then glanced across to the hallway. His attacker was still inside the closet. Lethbridge puckered up and made soft kissing noises until the black pigeon waddled across.

‘That's my brave boy,' he cooed. ‘Got a special mission for you.'

Lethbridge gathered the bird into his hands and slipped the note into the tube on its leg. With an effort he twisted to face the open kitchen window and flung the bird into the air.

‘Go my proud beauty,' he hissed. ‘Fly! Fly to freedom!' Then he collapsed onto his stomach, exhausted but exultant.

The bird spread its wings and took a majestic circuit of the kitchen, a picture of perfection in flight. It then made a copybook landing square on Lethbridge's broad backside, where it set about feasting on the picnic of honey and birdseed that it found there.

Lethbridge closed his eyes and swore.

Out in the front corridor, the figure in black emerged from the hall closet. A gloved hand held a police notebook. A finger flicked open the cover and flipped through the pages. With a nod, the intruder slipped the notebook into the pouch in the folds of black fabric. When the hand reappeared, it held a small glass bottle. The contents were poured onto a cloth. With a few light steps the figure was by Lethbridge's side. A damp rag was clamped over the constable's mouth and nose.

The room began to melt and swirl. Lethbridge's eyes rolled back.

When he woke up several hours later it was to find two bemused paramedics staring down at him.

And two pigeons pecking happily at his backside.

Chapter 1

T
he canvas sack landed against the oak doors with such a judder it threatened to knock them off their hinges. Two more followed, each stuffed to bursting point. One of the doors opened inwards and a tall barrel-chested man, dressed in a dark suit, peered down at the pile of bags. They were stencilled with the words
Royal Mail
. The man's nostrils flared a millimetre. His eyes narrowed. Then, with an exhalation that reeked of resentment, he bent down and dragged the first of the sacks into the house.

The volume of mail delivered to the mansion at Avonleigh had been growing steadily for a fortnight. The post office in the village High Street had tacked a ‘Help Wanted' sign in the window. Three postal carriers had called in sick that week alone. Back strain. The local chiropractor was advertising for an assistant.

‘It's jolly good for business, is all I can say,' Mrs Parsons from the post office told Mrs Rutherford when she dropped in to post a letter to her brother. ‘Better than Christmas.'

Mrs Rutherford nodded. ‘Yes, Avonleigh has come to life in the past few weeks. We couldn't be happier up at the house.'

‘So will he be coming to town soon?' Mrs Parsons asked, her eyes wide. ‘You know, to meet a few of the locals? It would seem appropriate.'

Mrs Rutherford pursed her lips. ‘He's a little tied up at the moment. I don't think he'll be making any social calls for a while.'

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘That is disappointing,' Mrs Parsons sniffed. ‘A new lord of the manor has obligations. Even if he is Australian. Mister Gerald should be reminded of that by those who ought to know better.' She gave Mrs Rutherford an icy glare.

‘He prefers
Master
Gerald,' Mrs Rutherford said. ‘And I'm sure he'll meet everyone who is worth meeting in good time. A good day to you, Mrs Parsons.'

Mrs Rutherford fixed an Air Mail sticker to the front of her envelope, marched from the shop and dropped the letter in the post box out the front. She consulted the list she'd written in the kitchen at Avonleigh that morning, checked the basket on the front of her bicycle to make sure everything was there, then settled onto the seat and trundled up the cobblestones. She'd only gone twenty metres or so when Mrs Parsons stepped from the post office and onto the footpath.

‘You can't keep him to yourself forever, Mrs Rutherford!' she cried.

The woman on the bicycle smiled to herself and continued on her way, pedalling through the winding backstreets and onto a country lane, clicking and clacking over every bump and rut in the road.

It had been like this ever since the new master of Avonleigh had taken up residence. The first week or so had been quiet enough. Master Gerald had been able to wander in and out of town with his friends, still unrecognised. But after the events at Beaconsfield, and all the excitement in the newspapers and on television, it seemed the whole world wanted to know Gerald Wilkins.

The locals in Glastonbury were at Mrs Rutherford every time she came to town.

‘When will we get to see him, Mrs Rutherford?'

‘Is he as nice as they all say, Mrs Rutherford?'

‘Would he like to meet my daughter, Mrs Rutherford?'

That last question in particular had become more frequent and more insistent. It coincided with the enormous increase in the volume of mail delivered to the mansion. As she was the housekeeper at Avonleigh, Mrs Rutherford had also taken it upon herself to act as gatekeeper for the new master. He did have a few things on his mind. After all, it isn't every day a thirteen-year-old boy wakes to find he has inherited a colossal fortune from his great aunt.

Well out into the countryside, the bike came to a halt outside a large set of iron gates. In the centre of the gates was the image of an archer at full draw, his muscled torso set against a blazing sun. Mrs Rutherford pressed a button on an intercom recessed into a mossy stone wall. The gates swung inwards. She coasted through the opening and down a gravel drive lined with chestnut trees, the branches forming a canopy over her head.

Summer hung heavy in the air and Mrs Rutherford took a deep sniff of the perfumes of the Somerset countryside—the loamy soil, the aroma of freshly cut grass, a blizzard of pollens. A team of gardeners tended to a hedge and flowerbeds as Mrs Rutherford rattled past on her bicycle, sending them a cheery wave. She curved past the rose garden and the topiaries, beyond the croquet lawn and the turnoff to the old stables and the greenhouses, and was presented with the full Elizabethan splendour of the mansion at Avonleigh.

At the bottom of a gentle slope stood the main house, a four-storey monument to the stonemasons' craft. Hewn from golden rock and assembled by artisans, the building stretched upwards and outwards, a palace fit for an emperor. Manicured lawns, weed free and splendid, spread out either side of the house.

Mrs Rutherford wheeled her bicycle into a stone alcove and emerged with the wicker basket over her arm. She wandered around the end of the south wing. She reached an expanse of grass, took a look over her shoulder, then kicked off her shoes and took girlish delight in scrunching her toes into the velvet lawn. When she finally walked off the terrace and into the main drawing room, her cheeks were pink with life.

‘Morning, Mrs Rutherford.' A girl of about thirteen sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by piles of envelopes and packages. ‘You're looking happy this morning.'

Mrs Rutherford placed her basket on a side table and brushed her hands down the front of her dress, a simple grey uniform that almost reached the oriental carpet at her feet.

‘I am very happy this morning, Miss Ruby,' Mrs Rutherford said. ‘It is a beautiful day and one worth celebrating. I have plans for a particularly spectacular dinner this evening, if I do say so myself. Now, is there any sign of Master Gerald and your brother?'

The girl slit open an envelope with a silver letter opener. ‘They're mucking around outside,' Ruby said. ‘I thought I better make a start here. Most of it's left over from yesterday.'

A door banged open and the tall man in a dark suit entered. He dragged a mailbag across the carpet and added it to the stack in the corner.

‘Are there any more, Mr Fry?' Mrs Rutherford asked. Fry was massaging his right shoulder.

‘That's the last of them,' he said, without a jot of enthusiasm.

‘Excellent. You'll be happy to hear the post office is starting an afternoon delivery as well.'

‘Marvellous,' he said, and trudged out of the room.

Ruby stifled a giggle. ‘He's not too happy today.'

Mrs Rutherford clicked her tongue. ‘He is never a bundle of joy at the best of times,' she said. ‘But ever since Miss Archer's death—well, he's been even more unpleasant than usual.'

‘Has Mr Fry worked here for a long time?' Ruby asked.

‘Let me see. I'd been here twenty years when he started with Miss Archer, so that would make it some twenty-five years that we've had the pleasure of Mr Fry's company.'

‘Wow. And did she leave him anything in her will?'

‘A set of teaspoons, I believe. Quite nice ones. None of your tat.'

‘And she left the entire estate to Gerald?'

Mrs Rutherford busied herself with a bowl of flowers on the mantelpiece. ‘That may explain why Mr Fry hasn't been overjoyed since Master Gerald's arrival. Most inappropriate I think, begging your pardon for saying so.'

Ruby brushed aside a few strands of hair and re-tied her ponytail. ‘And Gerald is now the youngest billionaire in the world. It's all a bit fantastic, isn't it? One day he's at school in Sydney and the next he's flying to London to inherit twenty billion pounds.'

‘I understand there's a prince in Dubai who may be worth a touch more,' Mrs Rutherford said. ‘But Master Gerald's landed in it, that's for certain.'

Ruby looked up at the housekeeper. ‘Do you mind if I ask what Gerald's great aunt left you, Mrs Rutherford?'

The woman smiled. ‘Not at all, Miss Ruby. Miss Archer left me the memory of a kind and generous soul, whom it was a pleasure and honour to know. And that is all any of us should ever hope to receive.'

Ruby picked up another pile of envelopes. ‘So not quite like Gerald's mum and dad, then?'

Mrs Rutherford sucked on her lips. ‘I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Miss Ruby. Master Gerald's parents are touring the Archer estate's global holdings of luxury properties to ensure that all is in order.'

Ruby grinned. ‘So will they be back from that Caribbean island anytime soon?'

‘Not while the gin holds out,' Mrs Rutherford said under her breath. ‘Begging your pardon for saying so.'

At that moment two bodies rolled into the room, a wrestling tangle of limbs across the carpet. Among the flurry of arms and legs it was possible to make out blond hair—Sam Valentine with his broad shoulders and summer tan. He slammed his opponent onto the floor, straddled his chest and pinned him to the rug.

‘There!' he declared. ‘I win.'

The other boy stopped struggling. His unruly mop of dark hair, plain T-shirt and blue jeans gave no hint that this was the richest thirteen-year-old on the planet.

‘Go easy,' Gerald said. ‘Leg feeling better, is it?'

‘That? Yeah, it's pretty much right.'

‘And how about the morbid fear of rats? How's that going?'

Sam flinched as if his worst nightmare had just walked through the door. In a blink, Gerald flipped him over and sat on top of him, knees pressing his shoulders into the rug.

Sam howled, struggling to escape.

Gerald rolled off and the two of them got up from the carpet, laughing and breathing hard.

‘Boys,' Ruby said.

Mrs Rutherford shook her head. ‘And they don't improve with age, believe me.'

‘Morning Mrs Rutherford,' Gerald said. ‘Just showing Sam who's boss.'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' Mrs Rutherford said through lemon lips. ‘Now, you three are to deal with this correspondence today. I'm interviewing for a secretary to handle the mail but for now it is your responsibility. Hop to it while I see how morning tea preparations are progressing.' She bustled out of the room.

Gerald and Sam flopped down on either side of Ruby.

‘Not fair using rats against me in a fight,' Sam said to Gerald.

Ruby leaned across and patted her twin brother on the knee. ‘Then you should try being less of a wuss around them, shouldn't you?'

Sam muttered something about a medical condition and picked up the nearest pile of letters. Ruby slapped him on the wrist.

‘Mitts off,' she snapped. ‘I've already sorted those. Look, it's quite straightforward. Even for you. The coloured envelopes go over here. That's the greeting cards and pathetic love letters from stupid girls. All the long white envelopes go here—that's the begging letters. The parcels go over by the fireplace and anything with a window in the front goes into this stack for Mr Prisk to look at. Clear?'

Sam rubbed the back of his hand. ‘What's this pile then, Miss Frustrated Librarian?'

Ruby glanced at a mound of square buff-coloured envelopes, constructed from expensive looking parchment.

‘That's invitations to opening nights, parties and sporting events,' she said.

Gerald scooped up an armful of envelopes. ‘This is ridiculous. Why are so many people writing to me?'

‘Because you're richer than the Queen,' Ruby said. ‘They're all from people wanting something.'

Sam held up a letter in one hand and a photograph in another. ‘This one wants locking up. Take a look at that.' He handed the photo to Gerald who inspected it with alarm.

‘Dearest Gerald,' Sam read from the letter, ‘I know you're the one for me. Ever since I heard about your brave escape from that awful Sir Mason Green at Beaconsfield I knew we were destined to be as one. Promise me your eternal love. Or I'll hunt you down and hurt you.'

‘What?' Ruby said. ‘You're making that up.'

She snatched the photograph from her brother and took a look. Her eyebrows shot up.