Gerald sat next to his father and studied the small man with interest, wondering where he had been until now.
“This must be Gerald,” the man said pleasantly, half standing and extending a tiny hand, which Gerald shook softly for fear of crushing it like a dried leaf.
“Yes, this is him,” Vi said, as if identifying a bag snatcher in a police lineup. “Gerald, this is Mr. Prisk. He’ll be helping us with your great-aunt.”
“What help do we need?” Gerald asked.
Mr. Prisk smiled at him from across the table.
“Gerald, I have been your great-aunt’s solicitor for many years. She left specific instructions in the event of her death—quite specific instructions.”
“Uh…instructions?”
“From what I am told”—the lawyer gave Vi and Eddie some sharp glances—“you are unaware of the extent of the situation.”
Gerald saw an opportunity at last to get some answers. He cleared his throat, and said in his politest voice, “By ‘situation’ do you mean my parents coming to school yesterday to tell me that the high point of my holiday will be going to a funeral? Do you mean being driven home at twice the speed limit, told to pack a bag and get to bed early because we have a flight to catch first thing in the morning? Then today getting picked up in a stretch limo longer than our house and being taken to the airport where no less than a private jet is waiting? Being told to shut up and sit quietly in my seat, where I’m treated like an infestation of head lice by that guy?” Gerald jerked his thumb at Mr. Fry, who was laying out plates of poached salmon on the table, impervious to Gerald’s tirade. “And all the while my mother’s acting like she’s been named the next queen of England. Would that be the ‘situation’ you’re referring to?”
Gerald looked at Mr. Prisk, who had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with a corner of his napkin.
“Gerald!” Vi was livid. Her eyes blazed from beneath her lacquered helmet of hair. “How dare you speak in that tone!”
Gerald crossed his arms and sank back into the chair, glaring at the salmon on his plate, and what looked suspiciously like a thumbprint in the potato mash.
There was an awkward silence, then Mr. Prisk cleared his throat.
“Yes…well, perhaps there are a few questions that need to be answered.” Turning to Vi, he ventured, “Would you like me to provide some family history?”
Gerald’s mother sniffed sharply and drained her champagne glass, which was refilled almost immediately by Mr. Fry, who had been hovering in the background.
“Thank you, Fry. You are a dear,” Vi said.
The attendant bowed low and, with an almost inaudible “Madam is too kind,” withdrew to a serving cart at the rear of the dining area, still within earshot of the conversation around the table.
“Gerald,” Mr. Prisk began, picking up one of the piles of documents on the table and consulting the top sheet through his glasses, “your great-aunt was a most interesting woman.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know. I never even met her,” Gerald said. “But I get to go to her funeral. Oh joy.”
“Gerald!” His mother spluttered through a mouthful of salmon.
Mr. Prisk raised an eyebrow. “Gerald, your great-aunt was a woman of many dimensions,” he continued. “Tomorrow she will be buried in a small cemetery in London. There will be a great number of people there to say their farewells. She was a unique woman.”
“Unique? In what way?”
“Well, Gerald,” Mr. Prisk said, clearing his throat. “There is probably no tactful way of saying this, so I guess I’ll have to say it straight out. Your great-aunt was—”
“Just about the richest woman in the whole world!” burst out Vi with a gleeful shriek. She banged her champagne glass on the table, sending a fountain of bubbles over Mr. Prisk’s papers.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Gerald marveled at how happy his mother looked.
CHAPTER THREE
“Yes, Gerald,” Mr. Prisk continued, dabbing his sodden paperwork with a napkin. “It is true that your great-aunt was a woman of means. She was heir to the Archer estate and managed her affairs with tremendous skill. She built a small fortune into a great one.”
Mr. Fry fussed around Vi with a cloth, sopping up her spilled drink, before pressing another glass of champagne into her hand.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, your entrée is getting cold,” Mr. Prisk said. “Why not eat your lunch and I’ll bring Gerald up-to-date?”
“Very well, Mr. Prisk,” Vi said, stabbing a forkful of salmon. “But don’t take too long. You and I have much to discuss.”
Excusing himself, Mr. Prisk stood and indicated that Gerald should follow him. They walked past the lounge area to the front of the plane and climbed to the upper deck to a spacious office suite. This must have been where Mr. Prisk was earlier in the flight, Gerald thought.
“This is a working plane,” the lawyer explained as he sat down behind a tidy desk and waved Gerald into a seat opposite. “Your great-aunt insisted that she be able to operate the family business from anywhere in the world.”
Gerald sat bewildered.
“Mr. Prisk,” he started, “I have no idea who my great-aunt was. I just want to go to the snow with my friend and enjoy my holiday.”
Mr. Prisk regarded Gerald carefully.
“How old are you, son?”
“I’m almost fourteen,” Gerald said.
“Yes,” Mr. Prisk murmured. “You ought to learn a bit more about your great-aunt. You know you’re named after her, don’t you?”
Gerald took a breath. He loathed his name. Gerald. Ger-ald. He could never understand why his parents had lumbered him with such a boat anchor to drag around for life.
“I was named after her?” he said in disbelief. “Oddly enough, I don’t consider that a bonus.”
Mr. Prisk ignored the remark and went on, “The funeral is tomorrow. Your family has made an unusual request. Immediately after the ceremony there will be a reading of the will. Now, this is much sooner than is customary but, because of the sheer scale of Miss Archer’s fortune, you can imagine there are a lot of people keen to hear what she might have left them.”
Realization dawned on Gerald’s face.
“My mother included,” he said. “Yes, things are getting a bit clearer now.”
That was why his mother had been acting so strangely. The glasses of champagne, the hysterical tears, that grasping smile. Because her wealthy aunt had died and might have left her some money. All Gerald’s relations in England were probably behaving the same way, he thought. Relatives and money—what a toxic mix.
“But what about this jet? Why couldn’t we just fly out on a normal plane? Why are you even here?” The questions tumbled out of Gerald.
Mr. Prisk said nothing. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a length of pink ribbon. Tied on the end was a silver key. He pushed the key into a cabinet by his desk, opened the top drawer and removed a buff-colored envelope, about the size of a notebook.
“Here,” Mr. Prisk said, handing the package to Gerald. “I have been instructed to give this to you. It may provide some answers.”
Gerald took the envelope.
On the front was his name, in the same neat but old-fashioned handwriting he’d seen on the envelope in his mother’s bag. Under his name, in the same hand, was written: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL AFTER MY FUNERAL. Beneath that was: AND GERALD, I MEAN IT! He turned the package over and saw that the envelope was sealed with red wax. Pressed into the wax was the image of a triangle consisting of three forearms, hands clutching elbows, with a small sun at the center.
“That’s the Archer family seal,” Mr. Prisk said. “It dates back almost seventeen hundred years. You should understand that any attempt to open this envelope prior to the funeral will result in the forfeiture of any inheritance that may or may not be coming your way.”
Gerald looked at the envelope with renewed curiosity.
“Who instructed you t
o give this to me?” he asked.
Mr. Prisk looked surprised.
“Your great-aunt, of course. That’s her handwriting on the front.”
Fry gave Gerald a look of intense suspicion when he emerged from the upper deck with a large envelope under his arm. Gerald stuffed the package into his backpack and out of sight.
The jet refueled in Dubai and Gerald managed to catch a few hours’ sleep. He watched a couple of movies on the big-screen TV, but mostly he stayed in his seat, occasionally scribbling in his notebook. He couldn’t settle. The questions kept piling up onto the backs of one another. What was in the envelope? And what about the envelope in his mother’s overnight bag? What was in that one? And why on earth would his parents name him after his mother’s aunt and then have no contact with her for thirteen years? And why would a woman who hadn’t seen him since he was a baby leave him anything in her will?
Gerald had finally fallen into a light doze when he was woken by the pilot’s announcement that they would be landing in twenty minutes.
“Righto then, Gerald—seat belt on.” Eddie emerged from the bedroom suite and was settling in a chair. “We’ll be there soon enough now.”
Gerald looked down the cabin and saw his mother speaking with Fry, who appeared to be offering her yet more champagne. He turned to his father. “Dad, about Geraldine—how did she die?”
Eddie peered at his son through his poached-egg eyes and considered the question for a moment. “Everyone’s gotta go sometime. I guess this was her time. I know you were looking forward to the snow, but you’ll still have a good holiday.”
Gerald stared out the window. It was about ten in the evening London time, and the long summer twilight was almost at an end. The jet touched down with a light bump and cruised to a halt outside a modest terminal building. Gerald peered out but could only see that they had landed at a small airfield surrounded by trees—they certainly weren’t in the middle of a big city. At the front of the plane, Fry opened the main access door and a large set of steps was rolled into position. A young official in a navy blue uniform stepped inside.
“Evening, everyone,” he said. “Passports, please.”
He sat at the dining table going over the paperwork, stamping the documents.
“Welcome to the United Kingdom,” the man said as he returned Gerald’s passport. “You must be very popular.”
“Why’s that?” Gerald asked.
“A few of your friends have turned up,” the man said with a flicker of a grin. Then he packed up his stamp and inkpad and disappeared out the door.
“A few of my friends?” Gerald said. “Who do I know in England?”
He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and followed his parents to the doorway. The moment they walked out onto the steps the night erupted. Lights exploded all around them. Shouts and sharp cries came from the bottom of the steps.
“Over here. Over here!”
“This way! This way! Over this way, Vi! One more.”
“C’mon! Over this way, love. Keep coming.”
The shouts grew in volume and intensity and the lights kept flashing in Gerald’s face. He covered his eyes from the glare, stumbling on one of the steps and colliding with Eddie in front. Gerald blinked hard to clear his vision and after a second he made out the cause of the firestorm.
At the bottom of the steps a swarm of television crews and photographers was bursting flashes, raking spotlights, and yelling for Vi and Eddie. For a moment, Vi stood frozen halfway down the steps, unsure what to do. And then, as if some long-dormant instinct deep within sparked back into life, she took charge.
She strode down the steps onto the tarmac and stood directly in front of the cameras. She squared her shoulders to the crowd, tilted her head back, and threw her arms wide, barking, “It’s great to be back in England!”
There was a renewed barrage of flashes as Vi waved to the cameras. From his position back on the steps, Gerald could see that she even waved to corners of the airfield where there weren’t any people. He was surprised to admit his mother was pretty good at this.
“Vi! Vi,” a young male reporter in the front called out. “How does it feel to know you could inherit one of England’s greatest fortunes? How are you going to spend it?”
Vi smiled (another blast of flashes), closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and affected a coy laugh (more flashes) and then cocked one hand on her waist and waved a reproving finger at the reporter (yet more flashes).
“Not so fast, sweetie,” she cooed. “The will won’t be read until tomorrow. But there’s one thing for sure: I won’t be spending any of it on you, you naughty boy. I’m a married woman!”
Vi bathed in the reporters’ laughter and opened her mouth to speak again. Before she could say anything, Mr. Prisk materialized at her elbow and whispered into her ear. Vi’s eyes widened and her expression changed.
“Of course this is a time of tremendous sadness for our family,” she said in a hushed tone. “An occasion of great personal loss and we all deeply mourn the tragic passing of Geraldine Archer. We all miss her terribly…terribly.” She cast her eyes to the tarmac for a moment. Then the smile burst back onto her lips. “Now then…who’s next? Yes, you in the white pants—I love your shoes, by the way.”
For the next fifteen minutes Vi and Eddie answered questions. Flashes still burst sporadically into the night as Vi struck a variety of poses. Gerald found a spot by one of the jet’s tires to watch the show.
He was sitting with his chin resting on his fist when a sudden coldness clamped onto his shoulder. A hand encased in a black glove gripped him. Gerald wrenched around and leaped to his feet, knocking the hand away.
“Mr. Wilkins,” a lean male voice rasped in Gerald’s ear. “Did I startle you?”
Gerald stumbled back and looked up into the thinnest face that he had ever seen. The man was dressed entirely in black: elegant black boots disappeared up black stovepipe trousers, met at the hips by a tight-fitting black suit coat over a black shirt that was buttoned to the neck and fastened at the wrists with black cuff links. A black homburg covered the top of his head; wisps of snow-white hair peeked out at the sides. While the man’s clothing was the color of coal dust, his face was like chalk—he had a deathly white complexion that may never have seen a sunny day. A narrow gray scar ran the length of one gaunt cheek. His lips were thin, barely darker than the surrounding skin, and drawn tight across yellowed teeth. And, in spite of the evening now being quite dark, the man wore sunglasses. Against the night sky, it was as if a skull were floating in front of him. But for Gerald, the overwhelming impact was not the man’s gothic appearance or even his intense thinness, but his smell: a choking aroma of bleach made Gerald cover his nose. He took a gulp of air and another step backward.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The thin man stretched two hands toward Gerald like a giant puppet controlled by invisible strings.
“Mr. Wilkins,” he said in his rasping voice, his head jerking to one side, “there is nothing to fear. I merely wanted to…to welcome you…back to your home.”
“Th-thanks…I guess,” Gerald said, not taking his eyes off the outstretched hands that hovered near his face.
“I knew your great-aunt,” the thin man continued. “I got to know her quite well, you know, toward the end.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Well enough.” The thin man paused and looked Gerald up and down. But because of the dark glasses it was impossible for Gerald to tell exactly where he was looking. The thin man tilted his head and sniffed the night air, as a dog might if another animal ventured nearby.
“Sadly,” he said, as if talking to himself, “she wasn’t able to help me the way I had hoped she would.”
Gerald took another step back. The smell of bleach was overpowering. Then, in a blur of rapid movement, the thin man shot out a hand and grabbed Gerald hard around the wrist.
“Hey!” Gerald protested. The man may have been thin, but he was ve
ry strong.
“Perhaps you might be able to help me,” the man said, a mirthless smile spreading across his narrow lips.
“Let…go…of…me…” Gerald grunted as he struggled to free his hand. But the grip tightened until Gerald was sure his wrist would break.
“Yesss,” the thin man hissed through gritted teeth, drawing his face so close that all Gerald could see was his own stunned reflection in the dark glasses. “I think you may be of enormous help to me.”
A flash exploded behind Gerald’s ear, slicing through the darkness. The thin man recoiled, loosening his grip for a second. It was all Gerald needed—he whipped his hand away and fell backward onto the tarmac.
“Look! Here’s the kid,” a voice rang out.
Three photographers appeared out of the night and surrounded Gerald, firing a series of shots. “Just a coupla frames,” said one burly snapper, the pockets of his red vest stuffed with camera lenses. Gerald snatched his backpack from the ground and, pushing past the cameras, hurried toward his parents.
“There you are,” Eddie called as Gerald ran over. “What have you been up to?”
Gerald looked back behind him. The thin man had disappeared. “A man…over there. He tried to grab me,” he panted, holding his wrist.
“Yes, they can get a bit pushy,” Vi said as she fare-welled the last of the photographers. “Never mind. I’ll have Mr. Prisk appoint a PR company tomorrow to handle all requests for interviews.”
“Mum, I don’t think he was after an interview,” Gerald said. “I think he was after me.”
Vi let out a shrill laugh. “Don’t be hysterical. Why on earth would anyone want you?”
Mr. Prisk emerged from the plane, a large briefcase in each hand.
“Come along,” he said. “Time to get going.”
He ushered them across the tarmac to a black Rolls-Royce parked near the terminal building. Their bags were already in the trunk, and Mr. Fry sat behind the wheel, a chauffeur’s cap on his head.
The Billionaire's Curse Page 3
