May

by Gabrielle Lord

  But Great-uncle Bartholomew wasn’t in the mood for discussions about a missing jewel. He was busy loading two cartridges into the barrel of his shotgun. With the gun broken over his arm, he headed upstairs. I was frustrated that he’d been so easily distracted and quick to get his gun out, just because he heard some car in the distance. At this stage, nothing could be more important than getting information about the Ormond Jewel. I would have to tell Boges about it!

  From the shadows near the ceiling, Maggers made a strange, menacing warning call. My excitement fell away, replaced by fear. What if the car that my great-uncle had heard contained people who were trying to get hold of everything of mine that was spread on the wing table?

  Now, the jumping shadows thrown into dark corners by the fire seemed ugly and dangerous, and the occasional crackles and small explosions sounded like the snapping of twigs beneath a predator’s stealthy steps.

  I hurried up the stairs in the direction my great-uncle had taken, my heart pounding.

  The second floor also housed aeroplane parts and shrouded shapes under drop cloths. I imagined crouching dangers lurking underneath as I hurried after Bartholomew. I found him in the room that overlooked the front of his property, squinting through a telescope that was mounted in the window. He adjusted it, moving it a little to the left or right while squinting down the lens.

  He jumped back then shouted in triumph. ‘I told you! There’s someone driving back and forth along the road that runs past my property. Take a look for yourself!’

  Sure enough, I could see a vehicle through the lens. As moonlight passed over it, I realised it was the dark blue Mercedes!

  How had Oriana followed me here?

  ‘It’s them!’ I screeched to my uncle, my eyes flickering around to check out the top of the stairs behind him, as if the enemy were already inside the house. ‘That car belongs to Oriana de la Force!’

  ‘Those scoundrels had better not step a foot on my land!’ said Great-uncle Bartholomew, ‘or I’ll load them up with bird shot!’ Then he turned to me, grabbing both of my shoulders. ‘But how did they know you were here? How could they?’

  ‘I don’t know! They must have followed me! They always seem to be able to track me down!’

  ‘But you hitchhiked. How would they know which car you were in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I repeated. ‘And that was days ago, anyway!’

  ‘Somehow, they’ve been able to make a beeline for you. It’s as if they’ve got you fair and square on their radar screen.’

  ‘But that couldn’t be, unless …’ my voice trailed off. I remembered the interference on Brian’s CB radio. And the rhythmic static that had ruined the weather broadcasts on Great-uncle Bartholomew’s radio. A crazy idea came to my mind. My great-uncle took the words out of my mouth.

  ‘Unless you’re transmitting something,’ he said, wide-eyed.

  ‘If I’m transmitting something, it means I’ve been—’

  ‘Bugged! They’ve bloomin’ well bugged you, my boy!’

  I raced downstairs, shoved all my stuff into my backpack, and hauled it upstairs again.

  ‘I’m going to check everything I own,’ I called out on my way to the bathroom.

  He nodded vigorously, bringing me a kerosene lamp.

  I plugged the bathtub and began tipping the contents of my bag into it. Swiftly, I examined everything I owned and then the backpack itself, running my fingers into every nook and cranny. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I’d never seen a bug before but I imagined it would be pretty small.

  Next I pulled off the clothes I was wearing and checked them. They were a big zero—I didn’t find anything and anyway, Boges had given me those. Boges had given me the new backpack, too. It would have been impossible for anyone to bug any of my things. And yet, somehow the blue Mercedes was out on the road, just a kilometre or so away. I got dressed again, and as I yanked the hoodie over my head, I knocked the sore spot on my right shoulder into a hook on the wall. I swore.

  ‘Are you all right?’ my great-uncle called from the doorway. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything,’ I said. What if they were using some state-of-the-art nano bug, as small as a grain of sand?

  ‘What’s that blood on your shoulder?’

  ‘What blood?’ I asked, trying to pull my hoodie to one side, and craning my neck to see what he was talking about.

  A growing blood patch stained the fabric over my right shoulder.

  ‘I’d better have a look at that. Hurry and come down where there’s more light,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Looks like you’ve got a boil or some nasty infection there,’ he said shining his powerful flashlight over me. ‘A carbuncle.’

  ‘A carbuncle?’

  ‘I think I should put some antiseptic on it. You must have knocked it, or it’s come to a head. Something’s happened to make it bleed.’

  ‘I just bumped it on the towel hook. Whatever you have to do, make it quick!’

  While I gingerly felt around the back of my shoulder, pressing the swelling and the hot, infected skin with my fingertips, Bartholomew foraged through a little basket and pulled out some cotton wool and a small bottle, the contents of which he dabbed on my shoulder.

  ‘Yee-ow!’ I flinched. ‘Take it easy. What’s that? Sulphuric acid?!’

  Bartholomew had already stopped dabbing. He was peering intently at the infection. ‘I don’t like the look of this at all. It looks like you’ve got something under your skin.’

  ‘Maybe the spot where I was jabbed with the tranquilliser has become infected?’

  ‘Can’t be. This is nowhere near your neck. This looks nasty. There’s pus and blood oozing everywhere.’ He dabbed it again until I jerked away when he hit the really sore spot.

  As I did this, Bartholomew became very excited. ‘There’s definitely something in there!’

  Cautiously, I put my hand around to feel the site of the infection. Cringing, I felt something small and hard within the swollen tissue.

  ‘Don’t try and pull it out,’ ordered my uncle. ‘You need a precision instrument for this sort of work.’

  He opened a drawer and pulled out a large pair of gleaming tweezers. I gritted my teeth against the pain as he dug them into my flesh and fished around. Finally the tweezers clamped onto something hard.

  I swore out loud as he pulled whatever it was free, and more blood gushed down my back.

  ‘What in the world is that?’ I asked, revolted at the sight of the bloody lump he was holding up to the light.

  I stared in horror. I couldn’t believe my eyes!

  Bartholomew dropped the bloody lump into the sink and ran hot water over it until it shone clean.

  ‘There’s your carbuncle,’ he said, placing it in the palm of my hand. We both stood staring at the object, no bigger than a tiny nail, with a circular drum-shaped head.

  Even though I’d never seen one before, I knew what I was looking at.

  ‘The bug,’ I whispered. ‘A tiny transmitter. When could they have done that?’ I began, frantically racking my brain.

  ‘No way!’ I said, realising when it must have happened. ‘When they abducted me in January! They knocked me unconscious and when I woke up my right shoulder was aching. It’s been playing up ever since then!’

  I looked at my great-uncle in disbelief. ‘That’s how they always know where I am. That’s how they always track me down! That’s how that rat Kelvin has been passing info on to Sligo! That’s why Oriana’s car’s up there on Mount Helicon Road!’

  Bartholomew straightened up. ‘And that’s what was interfering with my radio channel! It’s been transmitting your whereabouts. It still is!’

  He grabbed the shotgun. ‘The low-down dirty crooks! They stuck it under your skin! An implant! Whoever they are, I’m going to deal with them,’ said Bartholomew, fiercely loading the shotgun. ‘And this time, I’m using live ammunition!’

  ‘I’ve gotta get out of here,’ I said. ‘They’ll
be coming straight in at any second!’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew grabbed my arm. ‘No! You’ve got to stay here. But we’ll make it look like you’ve left!’

  The old man’s face was glowing with excitement. He must have been crazy, I thought. I tried to reason with him. ‘Great-uncle Bartholomew,’ I said, ‘if those people come in here and get me, it won’t be just me they get. Don’t you see? You’re in danger too! We’ve gotta get out of here. But first, I’m going to destroy this thing!’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew grabbed my arm, stopping me.

  ‘I have a much better idea,’ he said.

  He leaned the shotgun against the wall, seized the small transmitter from my hand and then went downstairs to the fridge and pulled out some beef mince.

  ‘Please,’ I tried again, thinking the guy was really going nuts, ‘I’ve gotta get out of here. Don’t you get it? You’re in danger too!’

  Bartholomew didn’t answer me; instead, he looked up to the dark corner of the ceiling where Maggers perched on a small bracket. He whistled. Then he pressed the small electronic device into a juicy ball of meat and whistled again. This time I heard wings flapping. Maggers plopped down onto the table, steadying himself with his wings, then folded them and cocked his head at the food. He started eating greedily. Most of it went down quickly, including the bug. I looked at my great-uncle with new respect. The old guy was brilliant!

  ‘Maggers doesn’t like being disturbed at night,’ said my great-uncle, ‘but he’ll have to put up with it. He’s going on an important mission!’

  I wondered how the magpie would cope with a small transmitter in his gut but my great-uncle must have read my mind.

  ‘Don’t worry about Maggers,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about the process of avian alimentary elimination. What is commonly called bird droppings. Nature will take its course. Have you seen the size of mistletoe seeds? Old Maggers won’t even notice.’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew picked the bird up and, stroking his head gently, took him upstairs. At the window at the end of the hallway, he gently threw Maggers into the night air. There were some squawks of protest and a flurry of black and white feathers, before Maggers spread his wings and flew towards the dense forest way beyond the clear paddocks that surrounded the house.

  ‘What a pilot!’ said Great-uncle Bartholomew, watching him with admiration. ‘Night flying through trees without instruments. That should keep them entertained,’ he chuckled.

  I stared out the window but Maggers had already disappeared, swallowed up in the darkness. We took turns looking through the telescope. I watched with relief as the dark blue Mercedes that had parked on the roadside suddenly came to life, switched on its headlights and took off down the road towards the forested area, following the direction that Maggers had taken.

  They’d fallen for it! Maggers had bought me more time.

  We went downstairs again and, not knowing how long Maggers would keep them away from us, we fortified the house as best we could. We pushed tables, heavy chairs and cupboards against the doors and locked all the windows. I knew it was only a matter of time before Oriana de la Force and her enforcers would be breathing down my neck again, but for the moment the heat was off.

  Great-uncle Bartholomew put some sticking plaster on my right shoulder and put the kettle on. The night was very still. I liked thinking about Oriana’s goons crashing around in the bush trying to find me. I hoped Maggers would take them a long way away.

  Great-uncle Bartholomew grabbed his chest suddenly.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked, concerned.

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing. Not to worry.’

  ‘How long do you think before they work out what’s happened to the bug?’ I asked.

  ‘Could be days,’ he chuckled. ‘Let’s hope.’

  I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Uncle,’ I said, as I dug around in my backpack, ‘I think Dad had the Ormond Jewel. I reckon it was in his suitcase—the one that was sent to us by his landlady in Ireland. When we went through his clothes in it, we found this,’ I held up the transparency with the two names on it, ‘and an empty jewellery box. It was the first time Mum and I had ever seen it, but we didn’t even know it was there until we were tidying up after the break-in at our house.’

  ‘So you think the criminal gang that broke into your house pinched it?’

  I nodded. ‘Someone took it. Do you know anything about it? I mean, what it looks like?’

  Bartholomew took our empty soup bowls to the sink. ‘Cal, I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but the chances of the Ormond Jewel surviving up to now are very slight.’

  Suddenly a thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. ‘That’s where all the money went!’

  ‘What money?’

  With all the wild and crazy events of the last five months I’d almost forgotten how angry and hurt Mum had been by the news that Dad had taken almost every cent of their life savings.

  ‘Dad withdrew over one hundred thousand dollars while he was in Ireland. We thought he’d lost his mind—that it was part of his illness. But what if he found the Ormond Jewel and bought it from someone?’

  I could see my uncle looking at me in a very serious way. ‘I suppose there’s a chance that he tracked it down somewhere. You’d have to go to Ireland and find out where he bought it to be sure. But I can help you with something—I think there’s a description of it somewhere in one of my books.’

  Was this the prize that Vulkan Sligo and Oriana de la Force were after? Something didn’t quite add up.

  ‘The book is somewhere here,’ said the old man, digging through endless piles of books and journals. ‘It might take me a while to find it.’

  ‘Boges!’ I shouted, as soon as he answered my call. ‘It’s me!’ I’d turned my phone on to ring him while Great-uncle Bartholomew was busy.

  ‘Cal, how’s it going, man? You made it to “Kilkenny”!’

  ‘Yep, I’m cool, except for being bugged, but that’s not why I’m ringing. Guess what? My great-uncle’s told me all he knows about something called the Ormond Jewel. The Ormond Jewel!’ I repeated. ‘I reckon my dad had it!’

  ‘The empty jewellery box!’ Boges said excitedly. ‘Do you think that’s what the January break-in was all about?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Someone must have found out he had it, and then they stole it.’

  ‘Of course. It could have been the massive prize your dad was holding onto!’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first,’ I said, ‘but remember, there was that second break-in when Gabbi got hurt—and I had to run for it. And that’s the question,’ I said, thinking fast, ‘if the Ormond Jewel was the prize they were after, then why are both gangs still coming after me?’

  Boges grunted on the other end of the line. ‘Good point, dude.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. Sligo or Oriana might think I have the Jewel, but not both of them, because one of them has it already.’

  ‘You’re spot on. So tell me what you know about it.’

  ‘My uncle has a description of it somewhere in a book here. He’s looking for it right now. Plus he has some information on the Piers Ormond will. His house is kind of a mess, so finding what he’s looking for could take some time. I’ll call you back when I know more.’

  ‘You said something about being bugged.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a long story, and it kinda begins and ends with a magpie.’

  ‘Dude, you are sounding totally weird. Should I be worried?’

  ‘Nah, mate, I’m cool. How about you—’

  ‘Here it is!’ I heard my great-uncle yell from where he was kneeling on the floor.

  ‘Gotta go, Boges. I’ll call you again soon.’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew stood up, brushed himself down, and carefully carried the old book over to the wing table. The ancient-looking book was bound in scruffy, tan leather, with faded gold lettering down the spine. The pages were stiff and yellowed with age. My great-uncle gently prised them apart until
he came to the page he wanted.

  ‘This is a contemporary description of the Ormond Jewel,’ he said, ‘written by a courtier.’

  ‘I think I get the picture,’ I said, ‘even with all that weird spelling. It sounds pretty cool—a locket made of gold, with a big emerald, rubies and pearls on the outside, and inside a picture of some great lady … and on the back, some enamelled roses.’

  ‘Not just any lady,’ interrupted Great-uncle Bartholomew, ‘but the Sovereign Lady. The Queen herself. Probably a miniature. They were very popular in Tudor times. Instead of photographs, you gave someone a portrait of yourself.’

  ‘So this Ormond Jewel,’ I said, ‘was given by the Queen to the Ormond family?’

  ‘That’s the story,’ nodded my uncle. ‘The virgin Queen—she never married—gave jewels to her favourites or to anyone who had done her good service. You should have a talk to my sister, Millicent. She’s the historian of the family. She has all the family papers and documents. Me, I was always more interested in aeroplanes.’

  ‘Millicent?’ I was very keen to talk to anyone who might shed more light on the secret of the Ormonds. ‘She might know more about the Ormond Singularity?’ I asked.

  But my great-uncle didn’t answer me. Instead, he sat upright, a look of surprise on his face. He pointed to the drawings. ‘Will you look at that!’

  I peered over to see that he was jabbing at the drawing of the waiter with the tray and winning combination of cards.

  ‘That butler, with the tray,’ he said. ‘He’s scored a blackjack!’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘That’s what we’ve worked out, too. Except we didn’t call him a butler, we thought he was a waiter,’ I said, remembering then that Winter had actually referred to him as a butler.

  My uncle’s eyes softened as he looked at me. ‘Tom’s brain may have been scrambled, but he was trying to tell you something very important here,’ he said, tapping the drawing. ‘See what he’s done? Maybe you didn’t know that the family name Ormond comes from one of the great families of Ireland, the Butlers. The Butlers were the Earls and then later the Dukes of Ormond. You’re descended from them a long way back.’