The Emerald Casket

by Richard Newsome

  ‘Excuse me, sir, would you be Mr Gerald Wilkins?’ The clipped English accent belonged to a solid man wearing an ivory-coloured turban and, despite the heat, a black suit and waistcoat. He boasted a superb beard and moustache.

  ‘Um, yes,’ Gerald said.

  ‘Most excellent,’ the man replied. ‘And these are your friends? On behalf of the chairman of Indian Railways, welcome to New Delhi Train Station.’ The man clicked his fingers and a team of porters appeared and started picking up their bags.

  ‘Your carriage is at the rear,’ the man said. ‘Please do come this way.’ He took off down the platform and Gerald, Ruby, Sam and Alisha, together with Mr Fry, Miss Turner and Constable Lethbridge, scampered after him.

  ‘Did you say the chairman of Indian Railways sent you down here?’ Gerald asked the man.

  ‘That is correct. Apparently he and Mr Gupta are old school friends. The chairman wanted to make sure you would be comfortable.’

  ‘My father called him?’ Alisha said. ‘Why can’t he let me live my life without interfering?’

  They stopped at the end of the train. Sam took one look at the last carriage and whistled long and low. ‘Just this one time, Alisha, let’s be thankful he made the call.’

  The chairman’s carriage was like a rolling palace. Even from the outside, it was obvious that they were going to enjoy a level of comfort far above anyone else on the train.

  The man in the turban climbed up to the door and swung it open. They clambered in and stared agog at the interior. Swathed in silks and hand-loomed rugs, the inside of the carriage was a scene from the Mughal era. Sam threw himself into a pile of cushions in one corner and squirmed around until he was comfy.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ Alisha asked.

  Sam closed his eyes and burrowed back into his nest. ‘If you have to take the train, this is the way to do it,’ he said.

  The porters lifted the bags on board. Lethbridge’s box of pigeons was the last item to be stowed. Within minutes the train was moving. Gerald leaned out the open door and watched as the few remaining passengers ran for their carriages. The last of the porters squeezed past him and stepped down to the platform. A long blast of the train whistle signalled they were on their way.

  Gerald closed the door and wandered into the air-conditioned carriage. Mr Fry and Miss Turner were preparing bunks in a sleeping compartment while Ruby and Alisha sat at a table and flicked through Ruby’s travel guide. Constable Lethbridge was checking on his pigeons.

  ‘Alisha’s arranged for us to stop in a town called Agra for a day, just to break the trip,’ Ruby said.

  ‘Why Agra?’ Sam asked.

  ‘To see the Taj Mahal, of course,’ Alisha said. ‘And an ancient fort.’

  Sam wriggled upright. ‘Of course I know all about the Taj Mahal,’ he said. ‘But, just for Gerald’s sake, what is it again?’

  Alisha raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘The Taj Mahal was built by one of India’s greatest Mughal emperors, Shah Jehan. He was so devastated when his wife died he constructed the most beautiful building in the world to be her eternal resting place.’

  Lethbridge looked up from a seat in the corner of the carriage. ‘Shah Jehan was an enthusiastic pigeon breeder, you know.’ No one paid him any attention.

  ‘It’s a very romantic story,’ Ruby said.

  They were interrupted by the sound of giggling. Miss Turner, a hand over her mouth, was laughing at something Mr Fry had said. Fry was looking extremely pleased with himself.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ Sam said. ‘More romance.’

  The smell of freshly-cooked bacon and eggs enticed Gerald from one of the best sleeps he could remember having. With the drum of rain on the roof and the comforting sway of the carriage, Gerald, wrapped in cool cotton sheets with his head nestled on a goose- down pillow, had fallen into a bottomless sleep. And this time, his dreams were blissfully free of Sir Mason Green. Instead, he’d been transported to an underwater world, where the liquid atmosphere made everything bulge and distort into the most bizarre of shapes. He had been trying to pick up a seashell that kept melting through his fingers when the fortune-teller from the market in Delhi came into view. The man took Gerald’s hand and, in time with the clackety-clack of the train, recited over and over: Nothing is certain, nothing is certain. Then the man hoisted Gerald off the ground till his feet were pointing straight up. With a gentle push, Gerald floated into the liquid sky, turning and twisting as if in the vacuum of space. The fortune-teller grew smaller and more warped the higher Gerald rose. The ground beneath the man’s feet began spinning like a pinwheel, with patterns forming and dissolving in an interlocking mosaic of colours and forms. It was only the whiff of bacon fat that brought Gerald back to the train carriage.

  ‘That smells so good,’ he said, wiping sleep from his eyes. ‘I’m starving.’

  The others were already seated around the table, tucking in to breakfast. Mr Fry, an apron strung around his waist, was dishing up generous serves onto fine bone china. He took an extra second to make sure Miss Turner’s meal was particularly well presented. She smiled at him.

  ‘What’s that on your head?’ Sam said to Gerald as he pulled up a chair.

  Gerald patted his forehead.

  ‘Oh this,’ he said. He peeled off a large adhesive bandage from his forehead. ‘Just something to help me sleep.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘Whatever works,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hear any more about your dreams.’

  ‘You having some funny dreams?’ Lethbridge asked through a mouth full of eggs.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Gerald mumbled.

  He tucked into breakfast and, despite himself, was impressed that Mr Fry could prepare such a delicious meal in the cramped confines of a rail carriage. Then it occurred to him—they weren’t moving.

  He stood up from the table and went to the door. He swung it open and a plume of hot air was sucked inside as he leaned out. The rest of the train was gone. The chairman’s carriage stood by itself in a station siding three sets of tracks from the nearest platform. People were milling in their scores along the length of the station among the clamour of food vendors and hawkers. Gerald pulled the door shut.

  ‘We seem to have lost our train.’

  Ruby and Alisha were stacking plates and helping clear the table. Constable Lethbridge washed up in a small sink, trying unsuccessfully to strike up a conversation with Miss Turner.

  ‘I told you,’ Ruby said. ‘We’re spending the day in Agra. We’ll hook onto the next train south tonight.’

  There was a knock on the door. Mr Fry opened it and a man with the largest handlebar moustache Gerald had ever seen climbed on board.

  ‘On behalf of the Mayor of Agra, welcome,’ the man said, bowing deeply. ‘The mayor extends a personal invitation for a private night viewing of the Taj Mahal this evening.’

  ‘A private viewing?’ Ruby said. ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Alisha said. ‘Did my father have anything to do with this?’

  The man with the moustache waggled his head. ‘I believe the mayor and Mr Gupta were at university together.’

  Alisha exhaled loudly.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Alisha,’ Gerald said. ‘A private tour of the Taj sounds pretty good.’

  ‘And at night,’ Ruby said. ‘Now we can spend the whole day shopping.’

  Sam spoke from his mound of cushions. ‘Or we could poke out our eyes with knitting needles. Whichever.’

  Alisha’s mood lifted with the prospect of a day at the markets. Gerald and Sam tried everything to wheedle their way out of the shopping trip but with no success. Alisha landed the knockout punch when she laid a hand on Sam’s forearm and said with a smile, ‘It wouldn’t be as much fun without you.’

  Even Mr Fry rolled his eyes at that.

  Alisha and Ruby had advanced the furthest along the narrow bazaar, making strong headway through the rows of clothing and shoe stalls. Behind them Miss Turner and Sam were t
rying to convince Mr Fry to buy a new hat, Sam doing his best to keep a straight face as he suggested increasingly ludicrous options. Gerald found himself bringing up the rear with Constable Lethbridge. They straggled along under leaden skies and stifling humidity.

  Lethbridge stopped at a stall crammed with cane baskets that were filled with colourful spices, nuts and seeds. He pointed to a mound of sunflower seeds and the vendor heaped two scoops into a paper bag. ‘A little treat for the pigeons,’ he said to Gerald, handing the man some coins.

  ‘Bit of an effort,’ Gerald said. ‘Bringing those birds all the way from London.’

  ‘They’re not my birds,’ Lethbridge said. ‘Mine are in a loft in East Finchley. That pigeon fancier in Delhi lent them to me. He can’t make it to the conference, poor chap, so he asked me to send a few messages to let him know how it’s going.’

  ‘Using the pigeons?’

  ‘Of course. They’ll fly straight to his house. Far quicker than sending a letter. How else would you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know—telephone?’

  Lethbridge gave Gerald a look of deep sympathy. They wandered on in silence.

  ‘Miss Turner seems very nice,’ Lethbridge said a few moments later.

  Gerald let the comment pass. The notion of any attraction between adults made him queasy. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about,’ Gerald said. ‘Your notebook—why would someone want to steal that?’

  Lethbridge paused to flick through a rack of T-shirts. ‘No idea. All it had was interview notes from when the diamond was nicked from the museum.’

  ‘Did you speak to many people?’

  ‘Lots. The professor, of course, and Mr Gupta. Sir Mason Green and people from the Rattigan Club.’

  ‘Do you think the inspector is any closer to finding Sir Mason Green?’

  ‘He could be. He doesn’t tell me everything.’

  ‘No,’ Gerald said. ‘I guess he wouldn’t.’

  They caught up with Sam. He was helping Miss Turner choose some new sunglasses.

  ‘Where’s Fry?’ Gerald asked.

  Sam nodded further up the line of stalls. Gerald spotted his butler buying a bottle of water. He was wearing an outlandish purple-and-gold-checked hat.

  ‘The things they do for love, eh?’ Sam snorted. He and Lethbridge wandered further on but Gerald felt a tug at his elbow. It was Miss Turner.

  ‘I’d like a word with you please,’ she said. Her eyes were masked behind her new sunglasses.

  Gerald stopped in his tracks. It was the first time Miss Turner had spoken to him without Alisha, Sam and Ruby around.

  ‘Yes,’ he swallowed.

  ‘Do you mind if I call you Gerald?’ The voice was sharp, authoritative.

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ he squeaked.

  ‘Gerald. Does St John have a, you know, special friend?’

  It took Gerald a moment to absorb the question, then another to realise who Miss Turner was talking about. He had absolutely no idea what to say. He was having difficulty with the concept of Mr Fry and a friend, special or otherwise. He shook his head. ‘No, he’s pretty much a lone wolf, I think.’

  Miss Turner nodded decisively, the way a lioness might when picking which zebra to take down for lunch. Gerald couldn’t change the topic fast enough.

  ‘Miss Turner, have you worked for the Guptas for long?’

  ‘Mr Gupta hired me the week before Alisha was born,’ she said.

  ‘He doesn’t let her do much, does he?’

  Miss Turner picked up a carving of an elephant from a display table and asked the price. After a minute of haggling she paid the stall owner and slipped the statue into her bag. ‘When Alisha was very young, maybe twelve months old, there was a terrible car accident,’ she said to Gerald. ‘Alisha’s mother was killed. Mr Gupta was devastated. Since then Mr Gupta has had only two interests in life: his daughter and his gem collection. And he will do anything to keep both of them safe.’

  They found Alisha and Ruby inside a handicrafts emporium. At that moment, the store offered Gerald everything he desired: air conditioning, somewhere to sit and a drink.

  A merchant and his assistants were laying out hand-woven saris for Alisha and Ruby to inspect. The others were spread out on a rug in a corner of the shop. Across from them a young woman sat on a stool, working a loom.

  Whether it was the presence of Miss Turner, the relaxing cup of tea or the sheer exhaustion from a day’s shopping, Mr Fry’s manner seemed to be thawing. Gerald thought it might be a good time to ask some questions.

  ‘Mr Fry,’ he said, ‘you worked for my great aunt for a long time—did she mention me much?’

  Fry sipped his tea and accepted a top-up from one of the shop assistants. He was enjoying being on the receiving end of some service for a change.

  ‘Your name came up whenever your mother telephoned,’ Mr Fry said. ‘Miss Archer would ask your mother about your health. Mind you, not as often as your mother asked Miss Archer about hers.’

  ‘Mr Fry!’ Gerald said. ‘You didn’t listen in on the phone, did you?’

  Fry looked suitably aloof. ‘I may have, on occasion, picked up the phone in error when your great aunt was speaking with your mother, but that is hardly an offence.’

  Miss Turner smiled at him. This had a significant impact on Mr Fry. He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, I seem to recall there was one occasion, when I was cleaning the telephone—’

  ‘Cleaning it were you?’ Sam said.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, cleaning the telephone, when I chanced to overhear Miss Archer speaking about you. It was to do with something called the fraternity, I think.’

  ‘What? Speaking with my mother?’ Gerald asked.

  ‘No. It was a man. I didn’t recognise the voice. It was a long distance call and the line wasn’t clear.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t clean the phones properly,’ Sam said.

  ‘Fraternity?’

  It was Ruby. She and Alisha had taken a break from their browsing and had wandered across. ‘Wasn’t that the word written on one of the envelopes your great aunt left you, Gerald?’

  ‘What is a fraternity, anyhow?’ Sam asked.

  ‘It’s a group of people who share a common bond, isn’t it?’ Gerald said. ‘What did Geraldine say about it?’

  ‘The man on the phone asked if you were ready,’ Mr Fry said.

  ‘Ready? Ready for what?’

  ‘That I do not know.’

  Gerald sighed. ‘There are times when I’d enjoy a simpler life.’

  The shop assistant returned and offered Gerald some more tea. ‘Can I interest sir in a handmade rug?’

  Gerald didn’t look too enthusiastic but the man was insistent.

  ‘These are a treasure for life,’ he said. ‘Owning one lets the soul roam free.’

  Sam looked sceptical. ‘How so?’

  The man smiled. ‘Have you ever felt your life is a constant conflict—between following what the gods have decreed for you and living what’s right in front of you?’ The man pointed to the woman at the loom. ‘Watch as she creates the carpet. Each thread is planned, the colour and design known from the beginning.’

  Gerald watched the woman’s hands skip across the loom. Coloured threads fed into the machine from all directions to form superb order.

  ‘It is a masterpiece from conception,’ the man said. ‘At the end you will have a piece of art. A rug that will last a lifetime. But you know the fate of every rug?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘People walk all over them!’ The man let out a raucous laugh. ‘Maybe sometimes, sir, it’s best to adjust to life’s changes as they come along. Let it be the rug that remains steadfast—and allow your life to be free.’

  The man nodded his head. ‘After all,’ he said. ‘In life, nothing is certain.’

  It was fortunate Gerald was already sitting down, otherwise he would have fallen over.

  Chapter 13

  The dinner at the rooftop restaurant
was excellent. Gerald noticed that Constable Lethbridge made a point of sitting next to Miss Turner and butting into her conversation with Mr Fry at every opportunity. The air was alive with insects and Gerald spent half the meal swatting at mosquitoes. He was chatting with Sam when an enormous brown cockroach flew right into the lamb curry in front of the police constable. Before Gerald could shout a warning, Lethbridge had scooped up a forkful of rice, curry and cockroach and shovelled it into his mouth.

  ‘Here, this food’s good, isn’t it Miss Turner,’ he said, biting down with a moist crunch. Gerald and Sam watched goggle-eyed as Lethbridge’s expression registered the odd taste. He ran his tongue over his lips, then smiled. ‘Just like home cooking, this is.’

  After dinner they walked the five hundred metres to the west gate of the Taj Mahal, past cycle rickshaws, camel carts and peddlers trying to extract some last business for the day.

  They were greeted by the man with the enormous handlebar moustache. ‘You need to be back at the station by one a.m. Your carriage will be coupled to the next train south and will leave with or without you on board,’ he said.

  He ushered them through a clutch of hawkers and into the peaceful confines of a courtyard garden.

  ‘Through those gates,’ the man said, pointing to an enormous red stone structure with a huge archway in the centre. ‘I do hope you have a pleasant time.’ He waved farewell and left them.

  The crowds were gone; the entire complex was theirs to explore.

  Alisha led the way across the red and white chequerboard paving and through the archway.

  On the other side of the entry they stopped in their tracks. A symmetrical garden stretched out before them. It was divided down the middle by a narrow reflecting pool. Lamps dotted throughout the shrubs and trees gave the scene a fairyland quality. But the greenery and the water features fell away before the structure about three hundred metres in front of them—the fabulous white marble domes of the Taj Mahal.

  ‘That. Is. Amazing,’ Gerald said.

  ‘It’s so much bigger than I imagined,’ Ruby whispered. ‘And so beautiful.’