The Emerald Casket (15 page)

Gerald lifted himself from the boards and wiped the rain off his face. ‘Want to come for a walk?'

They set out under the umbrella across the lush lawns in the teeming rain. Gerald was glad Ruby had come out. He didn't have the nerve to go back inside by himself.

‘The dreams seem so real,' he said. ‘It's like Mason Green is in the room with me. I think I really believed that finding that casket would save our lives, would stop Green from hurting us. You're right—I was possessed.'

Ruby walked alongside him in silence, feet sloshing through the grass. They stopped by a white marble statue of a Greek god, a bow and arrow in his hands.

‘But you're finished with it now,' Ruby said. ‘We can get on with our holiday without you going nuts again?'

Gerald didn't answer straight away. He knew Ruby was right. They were only dreams. He had acted like an idiot. But Mason Green's voice lingered in his ear:
It's in India, Gerald. Just waiting for you.
If one of the caskets was in the country, how could he deny its lure? How
could
he?

‘Sure,' Gerald said to Ruby. ‘Let's go see some tigers.'

‘You disappoint me, Gerald.'

Sir Mason Green sat on a lounge in Gerald's bed chamber, an ankle crooked over one knee, a gold-banded cigarette in the fingers of his right hand. His left cradled a tumbler of dark liquid, which Gerald assumed was whisky—his father was fond of an after-dinner tipple. In fact, the rhythm of Green's sip-drag-exhale-sigh-sip was so similar to his father's nightly ritual it was as if he was lifting images from his own life and wrapping them around the figure of Sir Mason Green.

Gerald tried desperately to wake himself. But he was trapped in the binds of sleep. Sir Mason swallowed deep and swirled his drink. The ice tinkled like a crystal bell. He placed the tumbler on a side table and leaned behind the lounge to pull out a case, one that might contain a musical instrument—a clarinet perhaps, or an oboe. He flipped two brass clasps and opened the lid to reveal, cushioned in maroon velvet, the rod from the diamond casket. He placed his cigarette in an ashtray and picked up the sceptre, cradling it like a newborn child.

‘I'll make a deal with you, Mr Wilkins,' Green said, his eyes fixed on the golden rod in his hands. ‘You help me find the next casket and I'll tell you exactly what this beautiful relic is for—its glorious history…' Green paused to wipe a smudge from the rod's patina, ‘…and its bountiful future.'

Gerald tried to open his eyes but it was as if his lashes were glued. Yet he could see Sir Mason Green so clearly, smell the tobacco smouldering in the ashtray. Every moment he spent with this spectral Mason Green somehow made the man more real, his presence more tangible. Gerald
had
to wake up.

‘What? First you threaten me and my friends and now you want a partnership?' Gerald said to his tormentor. ‘What's the matter? Can't you find it yourself?'

The man's eyes narrowed. He placed the golden rod back in its case.

‘I am not used to being spoken to in such a manner by a child,' he said, snapping the clasps closed.

‘Who cares?' Gerald said. ‘It's not like you're real.'

Green picked up his cigarette, took a long drag and allowed the smoke to pour from his nostrils.

‘You should care, Mr Wilkins,' he said.

Sip-drag-exhale-sigh-sip.

‘You seem to think my threat is not serious. I would hate for you to think that I am not a man of my word.'

Gerald tossed in his bed, trying to shake the vision from his mind. But the voice resonated in the room.

‘You had best be first to the casket, Mr Wilkins,' Green continued, his voice a rasp. He stood up from the lounge and drifted across to Gerald's bedside. He held up the cigarette and blew on the tip. It flared bright. ‘The lives of your friends depend on it.'

Then he stabbed the cigarette into Gerald's face, right between his eyes. The red ember seared the skin, as hot as an iron. The pain was electric. Gerald struggled to sit up but his shoulders were pinned to the bed, some hidden force holding him down. Green's eyes grew wild. The old man pressed down on the cigarette. Its tip was, impossibly, still alight. A shriek of agony jammed in Gerald's throat. He lay there, unable to move or make a sound, his mouth framing a silent scream.

‘Beat me to the casket,' Green snarled. ‘It's your only hope.'

Gerald's back arched at the torture. His eyes flew open as he finally broke the bonds of sleep. He sat up, his legs tangled in his sheets, sweat covering his body.

His hand shot to his brow, certain he would find a weeping wound between his eyes. But the skin was smooth and flawless. He breathed deep and stared at the lounge across from his bed. The cushions were undisturbed. There was no ashtray on the side table, no whisky glass to be seen. All was normal.

‘Pah!' Gerald cried out loud. ‘Normal?'

He screwed his eyes tight. But he couldn't erase the vision of Sir Mason Green. In the fraction of a second it had taken for Gerald to open his eyes, to emerge from nightmare into shivering consciousness, the cigarette that Sir Mason Green was grinding into his forehead had transformed into the golden rod—an exquisite branding iron searing his flesh.

There was no more sleep for Gerald Wilkins that night.

Chapter 10

A
lisha didn't join them for breakfast. Sam was content to bundle his plate with a mountain of pastries and sink himself into his usual nest of cushions in front of the music channel.

Gerald took a single croissant and sat at a table out on the porch. The rain spilled over the gutters in a liquid curtain. He stared into the deluge and went over the details of his nightmare, still vivid in his mind. More than once his fingers strayed to the bridge of his nose to check on the state of his forehead. It had all seemed so real. The smell of the tobacco smoke, the whisky. His own burning flesh…

Gerald knew he had to stop the dreams. He couldn't go through another night like that.

‘Have a good sleep?'

Ruby dragged a chair across the tiled porch and sat down, a plate of fresh fruit in her hand.

Gerald peered at her through puffy eyes.

‘I'll take that as a no,' Ruby said. ‘More dreams?'

Gerald bit into the croissant and chewed. It was an effort. He knew what he was about to say would annoy Ruby no end.

‘I've got a theory,' he said, gazing out at the rain while trying to keep half an eye on Ruby's face. ‘About these dreams.'

‘Is that so, Sigmund?' Ruby said, keeping an equally careful eye on Gerald's expression. ‘Do tell.'

Sigmund? Sometimes Gerald didn't understand Ruby at all. He tore off a corner of his croissant. ‘Would it be completely mental of me to think that Sir Mason Green is using the golden rod to insert himself into my dreams?'

Ruby didn't blink. She reached out, stabbed a slice of mango with her fork and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, then swallowed.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘You would be totally mental to think that.'

‘I knew you'd say that. But you didn't see what I saw. He was there in my room. Right there. And he stubbed his cigarette into my head, but it wasn't a cigarette, it was the golden rod. And it burned and—'

Ruby held up her fork. ‘Gerald, I understand that these nightmares are disturbing, but seriously that's all they are. Nightmares. Sir Mason Green is not broadcasting himself into your dreams, all right.' She wasn't looking for a reply.

Alisha opened the glass door to the guest villa. The hammering of rain followed her inside. She looked like she'd been arguing with her father again.

‘The tiger safari is organised,' she said flatly. ‘We fly down in the Archer jet the day after tomorrow.'

‘Great!' Sam said. ‘Love that jet.'

Ruby clicked her tongue at her brother then turned to Alisha. ‘Is something the matter?'

Alisha tossed her head back. ‘Father insists that Miss Turner and Mr Fry come with us.'

‘You must have expected that,' Sam said. ‘The usual escort.'

‘I know. Miss Turner will be shackled to me until the day I die. But there's something else.'

‘What's that?' Gerald asked.

The answer came with a sharp rap at the door. Gerald looked up to see a meaty face staring in at them. Sweat poured down the man's cheeks and he looked about as happy as a penguin in a sauna. It took them a second to recognise Constable Lethbridge of the London Metropolitan Police.

‘Flipping heck,' Sam said. ‘What's he doing here?'

Gerald pulled open the door. Lethbridge stood on the porch and closed his eyes as the waft of air conditioning swept over him. He let out a strangled ‘arrgghhhh'.

Gerald ushered the constable inside. Lethbridge collapsed into the nearest armchair, a physical wreck dressed in a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and sneakers. While the long summer had given Gerald, Sam and Ruby a honey tan, Lethbridge's skin had apparently gone from Arctic white to shocking pink in a matter of hours. He looked like he was about to expire.

Ruby offered him a glass of lime juice, which he took in both hands and gulped down. ‘More,' he gasped. ‘More…'

‘Bit hot for you?' Sam said. ‘Don't worry. It only gets hotter.'

The constable slumped back and took in slow breaths of cool air.

‘Flew in last night,' he gasped. ‘Nobody told me it was going to be this hot.' He glanced at the windows and the torrential bucketing that was going on outside. ‘Or wet.'

Gerald handed him another drink and Lethbridge snatched it and tipped it down his throat.

‘Look constable, it's nice to see you and all, but why are you here?' Gerald said. ‘Surely Inspector Parrott hasn't sent you all this way.'

Lethbridge caught his breath. ‘Not as such. I'm in India as a guest of the IPF—I'm here to attend a very high level conference in an official capacity.'

‘Wow!' said Ruby. ‘The Indian Police Force.'

Lethbridge cleared his throat. ‘Uh, no. The Indian Pigeon Fanciers. A most prestigious association. Very much respected in the world of pigeon fancying. I'm the general secretary of the East Finchley branch of the Royal Pigeon Racing Association.'

‘There's a world of pigeon fancying?' Sam said, failing to stifle a giggle. ‘Sorry, it doesn't sound too interesting.'

‘Not interesting! It's fascinating. Pigeons are very intelligent creatures. You can take them thousands of miles from their home and they still find their way back. I've had them since I was a lad and I love 'em. When you've got a pigeon, you've got a friend.'

Lethbridge looked at them with such earnest sincerity that it was difficult to respond.

‘They invited you to a conference,' Ruby said to fill the silence.

‘All expenses paid,' Lethbridge said with undisguised pride. ‘Air France—first class! Sat next to a very nice man—very good English, for a foreigner.'

‘You haven't travelled much, have you?' Alisha said.

‘First time,' he said. ‘How did you know?'

‘Lucky guess.'

‘And you're still in all the papers,' Lethbridge said to Gerald. ‘The man on the plane was reading about you in the
Independent
. We had a good chat about it. You're quite famous, you know.'

Gerald blushed. He hated the idea of being the topic of other people's conversations.

‘You'll be leaving quite soon for this conference,' Gerald said. ‘I mean, you won't be hanging around here for long.'

‘I'll be off the day after tomorrow. The conference is in Chennai, in the south.'

Gerald looked at Alisha. ‘That's not so bad.'

‘Tell them about my father's brilliant idea,' Alisha said to the police constable, a grim look in her eyes.

‘It is brilliant, isn't it. Mr Gupta said that since you're flying south I should hitch a lift.'

‘What!'

‘It's only a three-hour flight,' Alisha said. ‘And only a little out of our way. For some reason Father thought it was a great idea.'

‘Bit of extra security expertise,' Lethbridge said, puffing his chest out. Gerald couldn't help notice his similarity to a pigeon. ‘I'm meeting a local pigeon fancier later today. I can tell you all about it on the flight.'

‘I can hardly wait,' Sam said.

Lethbridge got up to go, then paused. ‘Almost forgot. The reason I dropped by.' He ferreted around in his bag. ‘The inspector asked me to give you this.'

He pulled out a stack of envelopes and handed them to Gerald. ‘They were in Sir Mason Green's room at the Rattigan Club. It seems they're yours.'

Gerald leafed through the envelopes. They contained the remainder of the news clippings and other documents that the thin man had stolen from the house in London, including the letter his great aunt Geraldine had left him.

But something else caught Gerald's eye. ‘What's this?' he asked. He pulled out a sealed envelope, with a blue Interpol insignia on the front. Typed on a label in capital letters was: INVESTIGATION INTO SIR MASON GREEN AND CERTAIN HISTORIC ANTIQUITIES IN EGYPT, FRANCE AND—

‘India!' Gerald said, his eyes popping.

Lethbridge looked at the envelope with surprise. ‘Don't remember that being in there. Must have picked it up by mistake. Never mind.' He reached across and plucked it from Gerald's fingers. ‘I'll send that back to the inspector.'

Gerald emitted a sound that a six-year-old might make if he dropped an ice cream in the dirt.

Lethbridge put the envelope into his bag. ‘I'm really looking forward to flying on your jet,' he said to Gerald. ‘I'll go out to the airport with your butler and check it out ahead of time. Security, you see. Till then, there's pigeon business to attend.'

Lethbridge took a deep breath, opened the door to the porch and took off up the covered walkway to the main house.