The Mask of Destiny

by Richard Newsome

  Gerald gazed down, surprised to see his mother in her penguin outfit standing outside the closed doors to the ballroom. Walter was close by and they were talking with two uniformed police officers. For a second, Gerald thought they were party guests. But by the look on his mother’s face, he knew something was wrong.

  Vi caught sight of the movement on the stairs and turned her head. ‘Oh, Gerald,’ she said, her distress showing through her penguin make-up.

  ‘Mum?’ Gerald said. ‘What is it?’

  Vi put out a hand and leaned on Walter for support. ‘The police,’ she began. ‘They want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’ Gerald’s gut tensed.

  The taller of the police took a step forward. His expression was as hard as granite.

  ‘It’s more than just a chat,’ he said.

  Vi sniffed back a tear. ‘Oh, Gerald,’ she sobbed. ‘They are going to charge you with the murder of Sir Mason Green!’

  Chapter 6

  Vi hung up the phone in the main drawing room and poured herself another glass from the dark green bottle.

  ‘Mr Prisk is on his way,’ she said. ‘Gerald, you are to say nothing until he arrives.’

  Gerald sat with Sam and Ruby on a long leather couch, growing more frustrated by the second. The thump of the party sounded through the floor from the ballroom below.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Gerald said. He turned to the policeman who was standing by the windows. ‘I keep telling you. You should be looking for the woman who stole the ruby. And how am I supposed to have killed Green anyway? He died of a heart attack in front of a hundred people. You were there, Inspector Parrott. You saw it. Tell him.’

  ‘I must say I’m surprised by this,’ Parrott said, looking as serious as he could while dressed as a blood-splattered zombie. ‘Gerald has always—’ Parrott checked himself ‘—has mostly been very cooperative with the police in this matter. Constable Lethbridge and I have full faith in him.’ Lethbridge, still dressed as a pigeon, went to say something but his voice caught in his throat, and he only managed to make a soft cooing noise. Parrott glared at him, then turned back to the police officer. ‘Exactly what evidence do you have, Inspector Jarvis?’ Parrott asked.

  The tall policeman clenched his jaw. His voice sounded like he gargled gravel every morning before breakfast. ‘I have received certain information and I am confident Constable Nelson will turn up specific evidence in her search of the young man’s bedroom. We are well advanced in our investigation.’ He cast a dubious eye over Parrott and Lethbridge. ‘If we need the services of a six-foot-tall budgerigar, I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Pigeon,’ Lethbridge said.

  ‘What?’ Jarvis’s moustache bristled like a privet hedge full of rabbits.

  ‘I’m a pigeon. Not a budgerigar.’

  Parrott hissed, ‘That will do, Constable.’

  Lethbridge flapped his wings and mumbled to himself. ‘Never a budgerigar…’

  Gerald stood up. ‘And while we’re wasting time here the thief is getting away with the key to the ruby casket.’

  The door to the drawing room opened and a young policewoman entered. She was carrying an evidence bag. Gerald could see that it contained a small plastic tube. ‘It was right where you said it would be,’ Constable Nelson said to Inspector Jarvis.

  Jarvis’s eyes flickered. He took the bag and held it up to Gerald. ‘Do you recognise this?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was found in your bedroom closet. I have reason to believe it is part of a blowgun used by you in the assassination of Sir Mason Green.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Vi was furious. ‘How can you possibly—’

  ‘We have forensic evidence that Sir Mason died from a drug-induced heart attack,’ Jarvis said. ‘A drug that was administered by a tiny dart to the neck. From the anonymous information I have received, I am confident that DNA testing of this blowgun will reveal that the person who fired that dart, the killer, is none other than you, young man.’

  Every eye in the room turned to Gerald.

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Gerald said. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Like I’d try to kill him.’

  ‘Really?’

  The voice made Gerald cringe.

  Octavia.

  Gerald’s cousins had appeared in the doorway.

  ‘That’s not what you and the princess told me,’ Octavia said. ‘That was quite a story—about hiring a professional killer to take out the old man.’

  Gerald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘That was just a joke,’ he said. ‘Surely you didn’t believe—’

  A large hand clamped onto Gerald’s shoulder.

  ‘Gerry,’ Walter said, beaming down at him. ‘The first step in emotional renovation is to admit that your personal blueprint is flawed. There’s no use denying your structural shortcomings if all the evidence points to wood rot in your soul.’

  ‘Walter,’ Vi said. ‘Surely you don’t think Gerald is capable of murder?’

  The cavalry officer turned to face the penguin. ‘All I’m saying is it’s important that a person capable of murder does not influence your own renovation, my dear.’

  ‘Bleeding nonsense!’ Eddie was on his feet and advancing on Walter. He exerted all the influence that might be expected from a man dressed as a prima ballerina. His pink tutu brushed against Walter’s leg. ‘I’ve had enough of you and your new-age gibberish.’

  Inspector Jarvis fixed Gerald with a tight stare. ‘Time to come with us, son.’

  Vi choked back a gasp. ‘Not my little soldier,’ she sobbed.

  Walter patted her arm. ‘It’s for the best, Vi,’ he murmured. ‘A greenfields start for your reconstruction.’

  Eddie stepped up and grabbed Walter by the collar, swinging him around. ‘That’s enough!’ the ballerina shouted and threw a wild punch. It missed by a foot.

  Gerald saw Constable Nelson move across the room towards him. This was the only chance he was going to get.

  He dived in close to Ruby and Sam. ‘The kitchen,’ he whispered. ‘In two minutes.’

  Then he grabbed his backpack and bolted for the door.

  Constable Nelson tried to reach Gerald but instead ran into the melee of off-target fisticuffs that was going on between Walter and Eddie. Gerald was halfway to the door, vaulting an armchair to avoid Inspector Jarvis. He wrong-footed Octavia and only had Zebedee to beat. His cousin squared up and blocked the doorway. Gerald didn’t miss a step. At full speed he planted his right hand on top of Zebedee’s head and shoved hard. Gerald’s feet shot up the doorframe and he whirled clear over his cousin’s head and into the passage outside.

  He knew he would have to be quick. He tugged the straps of his backpack to notch it tight and bolted for the stairs. Shouts of ‘stop’ followed him down the stair-well.

  The party in the ballroom was still booming. Gerald dived into the middle of it. He dodged between dancing pirates and milkmaids, vampires and executioners, and made straight for the dumb waiter on the far side of the room. Halfway across the dance floor he charged into a blue-faced Scottish warrior.

  ‘Professor!’ Gerald shouted above the din. ‘Something’s come up. I have to go.’

  ‘Go, Gerald?’ the professor shouted back. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Away. Look, if I ring you, promise me you’ll answer? No matter what you hear about me?’

  McElderry’s eyes darted up and focused on the two police officers who had just barged into the ballroom. Gerald followed his gaze with alarm.

  McElderry planted a hand on Gerald’s shoulder and pushed him lower. The bustling dancers closed in around them.

  ‘I wanted to give you this,’ the professor said. He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm rested a band of gold.

  ‘It’s the signet ring with your family seal on it that I found in the burial chamber under Beaconsfield,’ McElderry said. ‘The one belonging to Gaius Antonius.’ He pushed it onto Gerald’s fin
ger. ‘I thought you should have it.’ He gave Gerald a clap on the shoulder.

  ‘Whatever mischief you’re up to, young Gerald, I’m sure your great aunt would approve.’ The professor gave him a wink, then stood up and ploughed across the dance floor. ‘Who’s that trying to get out the window?’ McElderry bellowed, waving his glass at the police and pointing in the direction furthest from Gerald.

  The ballroom was still heaving with partygoers, the band still raising a riot. Gerald grinned and ducked his way through the dancing throng towards the dumb waiter. The door slid open and he clambered inside. He reached out to press the button when a hand shot in and grabbed him by the wrist.

  ‘Dad!’ Gerald cried.

  Eddie Wilkins stared at his son through watery eyes. ‘Gerald,’ he began. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  Gerald saw the police almost at the windows where the professor had sent them. They’d soon realise they were in the wrong place.

  ‘Dad,’ Gerald said. ‘This isn’t the time.’

  Eddie looked into his son’s eyes. ‘I know I haven’t been around much lately, what with all the travel. And then there’s your mother, of course.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Dad,’ Gerald said, pulling back on his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But it does matter, son.’ Eddie’s face tightened. ‘It matters a lot.’

  Gerald tugged again on his arm but his father held on tight. ‘Dad, please let—’

  Gerald stopped. A French cavalry officer had emerged from the crowd to appear over his father’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ve snared the little termite,’ Walter said, slapping a broad hand on Eddie’s back. ‘Well done.’

  Eddie dropped Gerald’s wrist and spun around to face Walter. Their noses were centimetres apart.

  ‘Don’t call my son a termite.’

  Gerald watched as his father drew back his shoulders and chest-bumped into Walter. The impact caught Walter off guard, sending him back an unsteady step. Walter’s hand fell to his sword. For a second, Gerald thought he was about to draw the weapon.

  But with a bellyful of champagne and only watercress and eyeballs for dinner, Walter was still off balance. The sword was half out of its scabbard when Walter took another step backwards, into the path of a waiter carrying a tray of glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it. Walter hit the floor and the tray tumbled on top of him.

  Gerald couldn’t see clearly from his spot in the dumb waiter, but he guessed that the hollow clonk he heard was the bottle connecting with Walter’s head.

  Gerald looked at his father with a new appreciation. Eddie straightened his tutu and turned back to his son. ‘Gerald,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, do the right thing. Know yourself and do what’s right. Follow what’s in here.’ He grabbed Gerald’s hand and punched it above his heart.

  Octavia’s voice cut through the mayhem. ‘There he is! Over there!’

  Gerald looked across to the ballroom doors to see his cousin, face set in a scowl, pointing right at him.

  He lunged out and gave the burly ballerina a hug. ‘Look after Mum,’ he said to his father. Then Gerald rolled back inside as the dumb waiter door slid shut.

  Gerald lay cocooned in the tiny elevator as it descended, the sound of his heart thumping in his ears like a bass drum. When the door opened he rolled out onto the kitchen floor. Sam and Ruby were by the table. They held the backpacks from their shopping trip that day. Mrs Rutherford was tucking a parcel into Sam’s pack.

  ‘Some food for the road,’ she said in a business-like fashion. ‘Miss Ruby has told me all I need to hear. So hop to it. Mr Fry is waiting in the Rolls.’

  Gerald threw his arms around the housekeeper’s neck and squeezed. She closed her eyes and squeezed back. ‘Your great aunt said you would be tested one day. It looks like that day has come.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Rutherford,’ Gerald said. ‘For everything.’

  Tears welled in Mrs Rutherford’s eyes. She dabbed them away with a corner of her apron. The sound of boots approaching clattered down from the hall above.

  ‘You best be going. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.’

  Gerald gave her one more hug then followed Sam and Ruby out the kitchen door and down the stairs to the back drive. Mr Fry was in the driver’s seat of the Rolls, engine running.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ Fry asked as they piled into the back seat. It was the first time Fry had sounded remotely sincere since Gerald had met him.

  ‘Are you ready for a helicopter flight?’ he asked the butler.

  The car sent up a spray of white pebbles as it turned out of the drive.

  ‘Where are you going, Gerald?’ Sam asked.

  ‘France,’ Gerald said. ‘Want to come?’

  Chapter 7

  They skimmed past the last lights on the edge of the coast and headed across the English Channel; the only sound was the dull fwup of helicopter blades slicing through the night air.

  Gerald’s head rested on the kid leather of his seat in the Sikorsky S–76 chopper as they beat a path towards the French coast. A thousand thoughts battled for dominance, but Gerald knew one thing for certain: someone was trying to frame him for the murder of Sir Mason Green. He screwed up his eyes. Just when he thought his worries were over.

  ‘So who is she?’ Ruby’s voice cut through his brooding. ‘The woman in the cat suit. She knew exactly where to look for the ruby.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I bet she planted that blowgun in my room.’

  Sam undid his seatbelt and slid onto the floor between Ruby and Gerald. ‘Whoever she is, she must be searching for the third casket,’ he said. ‘Those golden rods must be worth a fortune—it’s not like Gerald would be the only one wanting Mason Green dead.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Gerald said. ‘Now you’re making it sound like I did kill him.’

  ‘That Inspector Jarvis sure wasn’t listening,’ Ruby said. ‘He’s convinced you did it.’

  Gerald stared out the window into the gloom. A bank of clouds lay dark and bruised ahead.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sam asked.

  Gerald pulled the drawing of the castle out of his backpack and unfolded it on his lap.

  ‘Do you remember that map on Mason Green’s desk in the Rattigan Club? The one that showed the paths taken by each of the three brothers when they smuggled the caskets out of Rome?’

  ‘Yep,’ Sam said. ‘The diamond casket went to Glastonbury, the emerald one to India and the ruby one was somewhere on the coast of France.’

  ‘Thank you, geography boy,’ Ruby said. ‘So we’re actually going to look for the ruby casket?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gerald said. ‘I think the woman who stole the ruby killed Green, and now she’s trying to frame me for it.’

  ‘So the best way to find her is to find the casket?’ Sam said.

  ‘What? We fly along the coast of France till we spot this castle?’ Ruby said. ‘Seems a bit random, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, Mr Fry says he knows where it is,’ Gerald said. ‘It’s Mont-Saint-Michel. Miss Turner told him.’

  ‘Miss Turner?’ Sam said. ‘How is Mr Fry’s squeeze going?’

  ‘He gets phone calls from Delhi every day,’ Gerald said. ‘I think they’re meeting up when Miss Turner brings Alisha out for the start of school.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Old Fry has a girlfriend! That’s too funny.’

  Ruby sat back in her seat with a thump. ‘Well, it’s nice that some people get a happy ending,’ she said. She turned and stared out the window.

  Gerald and Sam looked at each other. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Gerald said.

  Sam shrugged. ‘Girls,’ he said, as if that explained everything that was unknowable in the world.

  The intercom crackled through from the cockpit. Mr Fry’s voice was tense. ‘I think you ought to hear this,’ he said. There was a click and then the gravel voice of Inspector Jarvis filled the cabin.

  ‘…I say again, all airpor
ts across the UK have been placed on alert. There is nowhere you can go where I will not find you. You must surrender now or face the direst of consequences. I have sought permission to use force and will not hesitate to use that authority.’

  No one spoke while the words sank in.

  ‘Have you responded?’ Gerald asked.

  ‘No,’ Fry replied. ‘They seem to think we’re still in the country and I see no need to let the rotten beggars know where we are.’

  ‘Mr Fry!’ Ruby said. ‘Are you feeling rebellious?’

  There was a pause, then, ‘An accusation against the young master is an accusation against the house of Archer. He may be undeserving, ill-disciplined and irritating in the extreme, but I don’t believe he is a murderer.’

  Gerald let out a hollow laugh. ‘Tell us what you really think, St John,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t they see us on the radar?’ Ruby said.

  ‘I am flying too low, Miss Valentine. They have no idea where we are.’

  ‘Nice work, ace,’ Gerald said. ‘How long till we’re there?’

  There was a frosty silence for a second before Mr Fry replied: ‘We will be approaching Mont-Saint-Michel in twenty minutes. Would young sir like me to land or tip him out from a reasonable height?’

  The Archer corporate helicopter skimmed close to the waters of the channel, skirted the Cherbourg Peninsula and traced a path beyond the islands of Guernsey and Jersey. Sam was the first to catch sight of their destination. About a kilometre off the coast, at the end of a narrow causeway that jutted into a sweeping bay, the island of Mont-Saint-Michel was lit like a fairytale castle.

  Waves crashed against the broken rocks along the shoreline, infusing the air with a fine mist. Floodlights captured the spray, making the island glow against the dark waters of the bay.

  ‘It’s just like your sketch,’ Sam said to Gerald. ‘Amazing.’

  Three noses pressed against the glass as the helicopter swept closer. Sitting on top of the huge granite rock that soared out of the bay was a medieval castle, its stone turrets and battlements winding up the monolith until they peaked in a colossal spire that pierced the night sky. The edifice looked as if it was carved from a single block of grey stone, as ancient as creation.