The Mask of Destiny (9 page)

‘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 finger. ‘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

T
hey 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 airports 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.