The Billionaire's Curse

by Richard Newsome

  “Hello,” Gerald said cheerily. “I couldn’t help noticing the weathervane you were showing that man.”

  “Yes,” the man said, his eyes narrowing at the young stranger. “What about it?”

  “I’d like to buy it, please.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed further. “Sorry, sonny,” he said. “It’s already sold.”

  Gerald took out his wallet. He slapped a fistful of notes onto the counter.

  “I’ll give you two thousand pounds for it.”

  The old man didn’t blink.

  “Can I wrap that for you?” he asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Three empty tins of brass polish lay on the terrace at Avonleigh. The weathervane rested on a large tarpaulin, and Ruby knelt beside it, a blackened rag in one hand.

  Gerald let out an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms wide.

  “What do you reckon the professor said when he got back to that antique shop?” he asked. “I don’t suppose he was too happy.” Gerald and Sam reclined on deck chairs in the warm afternoon sun, enjoying the sight of Ruby sweating over the weathervane as she tried to extract a shine.

  “It’ll be nothing compared to what I’ll be saying to you two unless you come and help,” Ruby said, wiping a dollop of polish from a cheek with her sleeve. “This thing is a mess.”

  Gerald and Sam hauled themselves onto the tarp and each took a rag from a selection that Mrs. Rutherford had found for them. “I can get Mr. Pimbury to do this for you, Master Gerald,” she had said. “It’s really not the done thing for the lord of the manor to be shining the brass!” Gerald had waved away her offer. But now he was having second thoughts. The sun bit into his neck as he leaned over the archer, rubbing hard.

  Ruby sat back on her heels and dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Gerald, can I ask you something?” she said.

  “Sure. What’s up?” he replied, adding more polish to his rag.

  “Back in the bookshop, when we were looking for places to hide—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you suddenly peeled off down an aisle and just happened to find a spot right on top of the book that everyone was searching for.”

  Gerald stopped polishing and rested on his hands and knees.

  “You know, I have no idea why I went down that aisle. It was just like that day in the Reading Room at the museum. It was like a movie was playing inside my head and I went along with it. I can’t explain it.”

  Ruby looked at him curiously. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

  Gerald picked up the tin of polish. “No. What’s to hide?” he said, avoiding Ruby’s eyes.

  She looked at him for a second. “Let us know if it happens again,” she said.

  It took another hour of polish and perspiration before the brass archer lay gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  The last color of the day was draining from the evening sky by the time Gerald, Sam, and Ruby were ready to set off for the Tor. They had told Mrs. Rutherford that they wanted a good view of the fireworks from the hill overlooking Beaconsfield and promised to be back straight after midnight. She packed them a picnic of sandwiches and fruit in an old cake tin, which Gerald stowed in his backpack.

  Sam hoisted the brass weathervane, wrapped carefully in its black cloth, onto his shoulders and they started down the grassy slope.

  They made good time across the fields. The evening was perfectly still, and the sound of crickets and night birds filled the air. As they broached the crest above Beaconsfield the last of the twilight melted away, and across the valley, another body was making an appearance.

  Gerald and the Valentines paused under a chestnut tree.

  “Will you look at that!” Sam breathed. A golden sliver appeared along the horizon. Within minutes an immense full moon was clear of the treetops and on its way into the night sky. A Swiss cheese of craters pocked its face.

  “Do you reckon the peak of eternal light is up there?” Ruby asked, her face bathed in the moon’s glow.

  “Better be,” Sam grunted, shifting the weight of the weathervane on his shoulders. “This thing weighs a freaking ton.”

  Gerald checked his watch. It was just after ten o’clock.

  “Come on,” he said. “We better hurry.”

  St. Michael’s Tower stood a silent sentinel in the distance as they crossed into the shadows of the valley.

  By the time they reached the base of the Tor, the full moon was well into the heavens, giving the tower a huge glowing halo.

  Sam adjusted his heavy load and looked up.

  “Bit spooky, eh?” he said.

  “We better take the path that goes up around the back of the tower,” Gerald said. “Don’t want to let the world know we’re here.”

  They climbed in silence. As they approached the top of the hill, a yellow glow appeared from the opposite side of the tower.

  “What’s that?” Gerald whispered, surprised at how loud his voice sounded.

  They hurried to the foot of the tower and pressed themselves against its side. Ruby motioned for the others to stay put and skirted to the corner. She glanced back at the boys and held an index finger to her lips. With a skip she disappeared around the side in the direction of the glow.

  “What’s she doing?” Gerald breathed.

  Sam shrugged.

  Almost immediately, Ruby reappeared.

  “It’s the bonfire,” she said, with relief. “There’s a couple of hippies lying down next to it. Looks like they’re asleep or drunk or something. Come and see.”

  Sam and Gerald followed Ruby around the corner. About twenty yards down the other side of the hill was the bonfire that they’d seen being prepared a few days before. Flames licked high into the air. The effigy of the witch was nearby, strapped to the large wooden wheel, which was wedged against a rock. On the ground next to it was a petrol tin, its lid off and lying on its side. Two men in bright clothes were stretched out by the fire. The space around them was strewn with beer cans and wine bottles.

  “I guess the excitement got too much for them,” Sam said, twisting his shoulders under the weight of the weathervane. “We better get this thing into position.”

  They ducked inside the tower and Sam tipped the archer from his back and laid it on the stone floor.

  “Right,” he said. “Who’s going up?”

  Gerald and Ruby spoke at the same time.

  “I am,” they both said.

  Gerald gave Ruby a dubious look.

  “I think you’ll find I’m better at this type of thing,” he said. He pulled a coil of rope from his backpack and looped one end around his hips.

  “Yes, we were all impressed with the rock-climbing exhibition the other night,” Ruby said, grabbing the other end of the rope. “But I think the poise and balance of a gymnast might be more useful here.” She tied a knot around her waist.

  Gerald stared at her.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Ruby fixed him with an equally determined glare.

  “Not even slightly. I’ll climb up, throw the rope over the beam at the top of the tower and you two muscle men can hoist the weathervane up to me.”

  Gerald looked at Sam for support, but he simply shrugged. He’d clearly been on the receiving end of too many battles of will with his sister to bother arguing.

  “Okay,” Gerald grumbled. “But once we’ve hauled the weathervane to the top, I’ll climb up and help put it into place.”

  Ruby grinned. “Sure. If you feel you need to prove yourself.”

  Before Gerald could respond, Ruby wedged a foot into a crevice between two stone blocks and hauled herself off the floor. Soon she was feet off the ground.

  “Make sure you have three points of contact at all times,” Gerald called up. He gave Sam a meaningful look.

  “Oh, right,” Sam mumbled. He cleared his throat. “Way to go, sis! Woo-hoo. You’re my new hero!”

  “Get knotted, both of you,” Ru
by grunted back, not looking down.

  Ruby made steady progress up the inside of the tower, the rope hanging from her waist like an enormous rat’s tail. She reached the first level of empty window casements in a few minutes.

  “This is easy,” she called down. “But there’s a lot of pigeon poo up here.”

  She continued climbing, searching for cracks between the ancient stones. But the higher she went, the longer she was taking to find footholds.

  “Come on!” Sam called up to her. “We haven’t got all day.”

  From the ground they saw Ruby fumble with her right hand as she stretched high to grab a narrow ledge.

  “It’s getting a bit thin up here,” she said. Her voice was strained.

  Sam gave Gerald an uneasy glance.

  “She’s not too good with heights, actually,” he said. “Should have mentioned that earlier, I guess. She just wants to show she’s as good as you.”

  Gerald tilted his head to look up. Ruby was about two-thirds of the way up the tower, with nothing but sixty feet of air between her and the stone floor. He suddenly felt sick. One wrong move and…

  “Ruby,” Gerald called out. “There’s a stone jutting out from the wall a few feet up to your right. Can you see it?”

  Ruby froze.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you can get to that, then it’s a clear path to the next line of windows. You can have a rest and it’s only a meter or so to the top.”

  Ruby paused. “Waddya mean if?”

  “What?”

  “You said if I can get there. What happens if I can’t get there?”

  Gerald swallowed. “Let’s concentrate on the stone, okay?”

  Ruby extended her right hand. Her fingers sought out a nook in the rocks, like a spider seeking shelter. She eased her way up the stone face. All the while the rope snaked longer and longer down to Gerald on the ground. Finally she was able to wrap her fingers around the protruding stone and swing both hands up to cling on tight.

  She breathed. Then she stuck her foot onto a narrow ledge and pushed up hard.

  Without warning, a section of stone gave way. Ruby dropped face first into the wall, landing a heavy blow to her chest. Her full weight dragged on her fingers. Her body twisted as her feet flailed in the air, trying to find support.

  “Ruby!” Gerald and Sam cried in alarm, as a shower of stone and mortar rained down. “Hold on!”

  Her knuckles white, Ruby flung her right foot to the side and jammed her toe into a tight cranny. With one foot and two hands clinging to the wall, she took a deep breath, her left leg searching the air.

  “You all right?” Sam called to his sister.

  She didn’t answer.

  With another breath, Ruby pulled herself up. Her dangling foot found a ledge and soon she was grunting her way to the top. She threw a leg up and straddled the window as if it was a stone horse. She beamed down at the boys.

  “Ta-dah!” she called out, waving a hand in the air.

  Gerald and Sam gave Ruby a slow round of applause.

  “Yes, well done,” Sam called. “Now how about finishing the job?”

  Looking up, Gerald saw Ruby stiffen on her perch.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Ruby’s face had tightened in alarm. “B-b-behind you!” she shouted.

  Gerald swung around. In the shadows, a few yards away, stood the thin man.

  With alarming speed, the black figure covered the distance between them. He raised a gloved hand and swatted Sam’s face with a cruel backhand blow. Sam smacked into the wall, knocking his head against the stone, and his body slid senseless to the floor.

  Ruby’s scream filled the narrow void. The thin man barely glanced up. He snatched the rope from Gerald’s hand and gave it a mighty wrench. The force of the heave yanked Ruby from the casement, flipping her over the ledge. She clung to the stone shelf with her arms, her legs thrashing over the sheer drop.

  Before Gerald could move, the thin man had him by the shoulder and lifted him clear off the floor.

  The vice grip shot lightning bolts into Gerald. And again, the overwhelming stench of bleach filled his nostrils.

  “The time for subtlety is over,” the thin man snarled. He ground a thumb deep into Gerald’s shoulder. “You will tell me what I want to know!”

  Gerald’s cries soared to the top of the tower.

  “Waddya want?” he screamed in agony. “Let me go!”

  The thin man flung Gerald to the floor. He lifted a pointed black boot and drove it hard into Gerald’s ribs. Gerald rolled across the flagstones trying to escape, but again and again the boot found its mark, ripping the breath from Gerald’s lungs.

  Then it stopped. Gerald lay gasping for air. The thin man glared from behind his sunglasses. Not so much as a bead of sweat showed on his alpine skin. Then he crouched, took a fistful of hair and reefed Gerald’s head back.

  “Where is the diamond casket?” he demanded.

  Gerald peered back at him through half-closed eyes.

  “Tell me,” the thin man snarled, “or this birdie is going to fly.” He reached out and tugged hard on the rope. High above Ruby yelped in alarm as she was yanked dangerously close to the window’s edge.

  “It’s at Beaconsfield,” Gerald gasped. “Somewhere at Beaconsfield.”

  The thin man twisted his hand, tearing out clumps of Gerald’s hair.

  “I know that!” he hissed. “Tell me where!”

  “We don’t know,” Gerald said through the pain. “That’s why we’re here…trying to find out.”

  He stared back at the skeletal creature. Even with all the menace and the violence, the thin man’s face still didn’t register an emotion.

  At last, the thin man spoke: “I killed your great-aunt.”

  Gerald clenched his teeth and stared straight ahead.

  “And those two filthy beings lying out by the fire—I killed them as well.”

  A slow grinding realization was forming in Gerald’s brain.

  “And I’m going to kill you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Gerald blinked back tears. But he shook his head.

  “You w-won’t kill m-me,” he stammered. “If you do, you’ll never find the casket.”

  The thin man’s mask broke. A broad sneer spread across his face.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” he derided, “unless you want to watch your friend fall to a cruel and painful death right before your eyes, you will tell me where the casket is.” He lowered his mouth level to Gerald’s ear. “And then I will kill you.”

  He gave the rope another violent tug. Gerald could hear Ruby scrambling to hold on—a muffled cry tumbled down. Without a sound, the thin man slid a long thin blade from his sleeve, the same one that he’d thrust into Gerald’s back at the museum a week before. The point pressed into the skin at the base of Gerald’s exposed throat. A bead of blood formed at its tip.

  “Killing the old woman brought me no joy,” the thin man breathed. “There’s no challenge in killing the weak.” He licked his lips, a sharp colorless tongue wiping across the equally colorless mouth.

  “What do you and the major want this casket for?” Gerald blurted out, fire in his eyes. “What’s so special that you have to kill for it?”

  The thin man opened his mouth and cackled.

  “The major?” he spat with contempt. “And me?” The cancerous laughter returned. “That old buffoon has no idea what he’s dealing with.” He tilted his head like a bird of prey and studied Gerald’s pale face.

  “And neither do you, I suspect,” he said. “Such a shame for someone to die and not know the reason why, or what could have been.” The thin man twisted the tip of the dagger.

  “The carotid or the jugular?” he mused. “Each just as effective.”

  Gerald’s eyes shone wet. Thoughts and visions flooded his brain. Of his mother and father sunning themselves on an island half a world away, oblivious to his pain. Of his friends back home on a snowboarding holiday, friends h
e would never see again. Of this cursed inheritance that would surely end his life. Of Sam standing behind the thin man with the brass weathervane held high over his head…

  Gerald’s eyes snapped back into focus. The thin man sensed movement behind him but turned too late. Sam swung the sculpture like an almighty pendulum, holding the long rod attached to its back, and caught the thin man square across the face. The impact lifted the vile creature off his feet and sent him sprawling across the flagstones. The air was filled with a tremendous bong as the archer resonated with the blow. The dagger flew from the thin man’s hand and clattered into the shadows.

  The thin man regained his feet but could not stand upright. His sunglasses had been shattered by the blow, exposing two red eyes like sinkholes in the front of his face. Dazed, he brought a hand up to his head. As he withdrew it, Gerald saw it was covered in blood. The dark figure stumbled forward. But again Sam advanced, swinging the brass weapon, this time hitting the thin man hard across the chest. He flew spread-eagled backward into the night, as if he’d been yanked out by a rope around his waist. Gerald jumped to his feet and followed Sam out the door. Sam’s eyes were wide, his jaw set tight.

  Outside the tower, they found the thin man on his hands and knees, sucking in air. He lifted his face to them. With his head silhouetted against the bonfire, the red eyes almost glowed in the dark. A thick trail of blood streamed from one ear. He spat onto the ground.

  “You are all dead now,” he muttered.

  The thin man’s hand disappeared inside his coat. It was halfway out, clutching a shining silver blade, when Sam strode forward, this time wielding the archer like an Olympic hammer thrower.

  The night air was rent by another mighty toll as the archer struck under the thin man’s chin, snapping his head back and sending him flying off the terrace toward the bonfire.

  Sam dropped the weathervane and picked up a stick the size of a baseball bat. He struck the thin man again and again as they skirted the bonfire, shouting in time with each blow, “Don’t. You. Ever. Hurt. My. Sister. Again.”

  The final strike sent the thin man cartwheeling through the air, a whir of black-clad arms and legs. He landed on the straw witch, his limbs snared in firewood and pitch. The impact knocked the wheel from its mooring and set it rolling—straight toward the bonfire. The thin man was stuck fast, snared in the witch’s embrace.