PRAISE FOR RICHARD NEWSOME AND
The Billionaire’s Curse
‘An irresistibly fun-tastic tale that’s virtually guaranteed to keep youngsters reading, chuckling and desperately waiting for the next book in the series.’
Independent Weekly
‘Newsome has created a ripping whodunit-style yarn.’
Sunday Age
‘Filled with secret passageways and deadly booby traps…you’ll be on the edge of your seat!’
K-Zone
‘Genuinely tension-filled moments and visceral action…fast-paced, humorous and fun.’
Magpies
‘A great whodunit which is almost as engrossing for adults as it is for children.’
Bookseller & Publisher
‘Newsome has a gift for injecting playful humour into almost every scene with laugh-out-loud moments on nearly every page.’
Fiction Focus
‘A rollicking good yarn.’
Weekend Herald
Richard Newsome was born in Wanganui, New Zealand, and moved to Australia as a child. He now lives in Brisbane with his wife and three children. Richard won the inaugural Text Prize for Young Adult and Children’s Writing for the first book in The Billionaire Trilogy, The Billionaire’s Curse.
Visit Richard’s website: richardnewsome.com
THE
EMERALD
CASKET
BOOK II
of
THE BILLIONAIRE TRILOGY
Richard Newsome
The paper in this book is manufactured only from
wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
textpublishing.com.au
richardnewsome.com
Copyright © Richard Newsome 2010
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published by The Text Publishing Company, 2010
Cover and page design by W. H. Chong
Typeset by J & M Typesetting
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Newsome, Richard. 1964-
The emerald casket / Richard Newsome.
ISBN: 9781921656453 (pbk.)
Series: Billionaire trilogy; 2.
Newsome, Richard. 1964- Billionaire trilogy ; 2.
Theft from museums--Juvenile fiction.
Detective and mystery stories--Juvenile fiction.
A823.4
For Mark and Sarah
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Prologue
A meaty hand slapped down on top of the alarm clock. Of all the sounds that Constable Lethbridge of the London Metropolitan Police might want to hear on a Sunday, a buzzer at six o’clock in the morning was not high on the list.
He rolled onto his back. One hand patted his belly. The other set off in search of the itch on his left buttock.
Still, he wasn’t too grumpy at the early start. After the last few weeks, any day out of uniform was bound to be a good one.
Lethbridge dressed and shambled down the stairs, whistling tunelessly, and yanked out the copy of the Mail on Sunday from the slot in the front door. He padded into the kitchen and a half dozen cockroaches scuttled under the fridge. The sink was stacked high with dishes.
He switched on the kettle, grabbed a packet of cornflakes from the cupboard and poured himself a bowl. The light inside the fridge cast a pitiful glow over its contents: a bottle of pickled onions, a packet of cheese slices and an open tin of baked beans unfinished from dinner the night before. He lifted out a bottle of milk and nudged the door shut with his bottom.
Lethbridge settled in a chair and unfolded the paper. The front page headline read: Boy billionaire solves gem heist. He grunted and poured milk over his cereal. As he lifted a spoonful to his mouth there was a knock at the front door. The spoon splashed back into the bowl. Lethbridge tramped to the front room and opened the door.
There was nobody there. He looked left and right along the street of terraced houses. No one.
‘Bleedin’ school holidays,’ he grumbled.
He shut the door and trudged back to his breakfast.
He sat down, turned the page of his newspaper and shovelled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Just as he was about to scoop up another he gagged and spat out the cornflakes with a retch.
‘Ewww!’ He inspected the use-by date on the milk and screwed up his face. The bowl was added to the pile in the sink and he poured the rancid milk down the drain. He dangled an Archer-brand teabag into a mug, filled it from the kettle (not forgetting to add a generous spoonful of honey), then wandered out the back door into the garden.
Striking up his tuneless whistle he ambled down the path and opened the door to the back shed. He poked his head around the doorframe and trilled, ‘Is there anybody ho-ome?’
A chorus of coos answered back.
A smile broke out on Lethbridge’s face. He closed the door behind him and placed his mug on a table in the middle of the room. He kicked an old milk crate across the floor, climbed up to a small loft and retrieved two pigeons—one black and one grey.
‘Who’s a beautiful boy then?’ Lethbridge clucked as he climbed down. ‘Has ’oo had a good trip?’
With a nudge of his elbow he knocked away a prop holding open the roof to the pigeon coop and it banged shut. He let the black bird fly up to perch on a rafter. The other he cradled on his lap as he flopped down onto the milk crate.
‘Has ’oo brought me a little present?’
A tube was attached to the bird’s leg, and from it Lethbridge removed a tiny roll of paper. The pigeon fluttered to the ceiling to join his mate. Lethbridge unrolled the message and snorted with derision. He lifted a cloth from the table to reveal a chess set, moved the white queen four spaces and studied the outcome.
‘What are you up to?’
Engrossed in his game of correspondence chess, he failed to notice the grey pigeon deliver its second message of the day when a large dollop dropped from the rafters and slopped into his tea.
Running a hand over his chin Lethbridge stretched out to pick up the mug. He stared at the swirling mixture for a second, shrugged and took a sip. Then he smacked his lips, took a large gulp and let out a satisfied aaah.
He pulled a chewed pencil stub from his pocket and was about to write his next move on the back of the piece of paper when the two pigeons flew down from the rafters. The black one settled on the edge of the table and the grey landed on Lethbridge’s shoulder, tugging at the hair sprouting from his left ear.
‘All right, all right,’ Lethbri
dge chortled. ‘Hungry are we?’
He wedged the pencil stub behind his ear and stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket. Then he bent down and levered off the lid of a cocoa tin by his feet. Lethbridge looked inside and sat up with a groan.
‘Sorry lads. Out of food. There’s more in the house.’
He scooped up the birds and shuffled back up the path, his tuneless whistle now accompanied by cooing.
With the pigeons deposited on the kitchen table, he scrabbled around in the cupboard under the sink and emerged with a packet of seed.
‘Here we go, my lovelies. Oi! What are you up to?’
The two homing pigeons were attacking the open honey jar, pecking at the congealed breadcrumb scum around the rim. Lethbridge struggled to his feet, waving the packet at the birds.
‘Go on. Get out of it.’ Seeds flew everywhere. Lethbridge let out a string of profanities before checking himself.
‘Sorry my beauties,’ he apologised to the pigeons, which had abandoned the honey for the smorgasbord of birdseed now on offer across the linoleum.
Lethbridge grabbed a dustpan and was scooping up the mess under the kitchen table when there was a bang on the front door. This time there was the sound of breaking glass.
Lethbridge stood up. His head and back smacked hard into the under side of the table, sending it bucking in the air. The honey pot catapulted over the edge and landed with a sticky splat on the small of his back, sending a lava flow of goo down his underpants. Lethbridge launched himself out the other side of the table and squelched down the corridor. He reached the front room to find the door ajar. Shards of glass lay across the entryway. Lethbridge halted—and heard the creak of floorboards above.
Someone was in the house.
He took a breath and steeled himself. Then he opened the hall closet, leaned in and pulled out his police baton, a sixty-centimetre-long tube of sleek black menace. Gripping it in two hands, he crept towards the stairs.
‘The element of surprise is mine,’ he whispered.
Sadly for Lethbridge, the surprise factor lasted all of two seconds. He made it to the third step when a flash of black hurdled over the banister and landed on top of him. Lethbridge tumbled backwards, his feet over his head. A lithe figure rolled over the top in a blur, leaping clear as the constable smacked onto his back with a crunching oof. The assailant landed cat-like by the front door, tensed for action. The figure was clothed entirely in black, a scarf wrapped ninja-style around the head, leaving only a narrow slit to reveal a pair of dark eyes.
This was no pranking school kid on holidays.
Lethbridge struggled to regain his senses. He glared across at his attacker. ‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘You’re for it.’
The constable dragged himself to his feet. But before he could take a step, the intruder flashed a hand into a pouch at the back of his black costume. Within seconds a rock on a short rope was being swung in the air. It whipped across the room, splaying out to become three flat stones tied at a central point. Lethbridge was caught across the throat and stood in dumb shock as the sling wound around his neck. Two of the rocks smacked hard against his temples; the third finished the job with a sharp rap across the forehead. Lethbridge went down like a felled oak.
When he woke he was flat on his back on the kitchen floor. He blinked to clear the fog in his brain. A noise came from behind. He tipped his head and saw that the figure was ransacking the hall closet. His police helmet lay on the floor alongside his equipment belt. Lethbridge tried to stand but couldn’t move. His ankles and wrists were tied, his arms bound across his chest. He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Lethbridge cast his eyes around the kitchen. The two homing pigeons were still pecking at the mess of birdseed on the floor.
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
The 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, pedalli
ng 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.
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