The Emerald Casket

by Richard Newsome

  His hand shot to his brow, certain he would find a weeping wound between his eyes. But the skin was smooth and flawless. He breathed deep and stared at the lounge across from his bed. The cushions were undisturbed. There was no ashtray on the side table, no whisky glass to be seen. All was normal.

  ‘Pah!’ Gerald cried out loud. ‘Normal?’

  He screwed his eyes tight. But he couldn’t erase the vision of Sir Mason Green. In the fraction of a second it had taken for Gerald to open his eyes, to emerge from nightmare into shivering consciousness, the cigarette that Sir Mason Green was grinding into his forehead had transformed into the golden rod—an exquisite branding iron searing his flesh.

  There was no more sleep for Gerald Wilkins that night.

  Chapter 10

  Alisha didn’t join them for breakfast. Sam was content to bundle his plate with a mountain of pastries and sink himself into his usual nest of cushions in front of the music channel.

  Gerald took a single croissant and sat at a table out on the porch. The rain spilled over the gutters in a liquid curtain. He stared into the deluge and went over the details of his nightmare, still vivid in his mind. More than once his fingers strayed to the bridge of his nose to check on the state of his forehead. It had all seemed so real. The smell of the tobacco smoke, the whisky. His own burning flesh…

  Gerald knew he had to stop the dreams. He couldn’t go through another night like that.

  ‘Have a good sleep?’

  Ruby dragged a chair across the tiled porch and sat down, a plate of fresh fruit in her hand.

  Gerald peered at her through puffy eyes.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Ruby said. ‘More dreams?’

  Gerald bit into the croissant and chewed. It was an effort. He knew what he was about to say would annoy Ruby no end.

  ‘I’ve got a theory,’ he said, gazing out at the rain while trying to keep half an eye on Ruby’s face. ‘About these dreams.’

  ‘Is that so, Sigmund?’ Ruby said, keeping an equally careful eye on Gerald’s expression. ‘Do tell.’

  Sigmund? Sometimes Gerald didn’t understand Ruby at all. He tore off a corner of his croissant. ‘Would it be completely mental of me to think that Sir Mason Green is using the golden rod to insert himself into my dreams?’

  Ruby didn’t blink. She reached out, stabbed a slice of mango with her fork and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, then swallowed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You would be totally mental to think that.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. But you didn’t see what I saw. He was there in my room. Right there. And he stubbed his cigarette into my head, but it wasn’t a cigarette, it was the golden rod. And it burned and—’

  Ruby held up her fork. ‘Gerald, I understand that these nightmares are disturbing, but seriously that’s all they are. Nightmares. Sir Mason Green is not broadcasting himself into your dreams, all right.’ She wasn’t looking for a reply.

  Alisha opened the glass door to the guest villa. The hammering of rain followed her inside. She looked like she’d been arguing with her father again.

  ‘The tiger safari is organised,’ she said flatly. ‘We fly down in the Archer jet the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Great!’ Sam said. ‘Love that jet.’

  Ruby clicked her tongue at her brother then turned to Alisha. ‘Is something the matter?’

  Alisha tossed her head back. ‘Father insists that Miss Turner and Mr Fry come with us.’

  ‘You must have expected that,’ Sam said. ‘The usual escort.’

  ‘I know. Miss Turner will be shackled to me until the day I die. But there’s something else.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Gerald asked.

  The answer came with a sharp rap at the door. Gerald looked up to see a meaty face staring in at them. Sweat poured down the man’s cheeks and he looked about as happy as a penguin in a sauna. It took them a second to recognise Constable Lethbridge of the London Metropolitan Police.

  ‘Flipping heck,’ Sam said. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  Gerald pulled open the door. Lethbridge stood on the porch and closed his eyes as the waft of air conditioning swept over him. He let out a strangled ‘arrgghhhh’.

  Gerald ushered the constable inside. Lethbridge collapsed into the nearest armchair, a physical wreck dressed in a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and sneakers. While the long summer had given Gerald, Sam and Ruby a honey tan, Lethbridge’s skin had apparently gone from Arctic white to shocking pink in a matter of hours. He looked like he was about to expire.

  Ruby offered him a glass of lime juice, which he took in both hands and gulped down. ‘More,’ he gasped. ‘More…’

  ‘Bit hot for you?’ Sam said. ‘Don’t worry. It only gets hotter.’

  The constable slumped back and took in slow breaths of cool air.

  ‘Flew in last night,’ he gasped. ‘Nobody told me it was going to be this hot.’ He glanced at the windows and the torrential bucketing that was going on outside. ‘Or wet.’

  Gerald handed him another drink and Lethbridge snatched it and tipped it down his throat.

  ‘Look constable, it’s nice to see you and all, but why are you here?’ Gerald said. ‘Surely Inspector Parrott hasn’t sent you all this way.’

  Lethbridge caught his breath. ‘Not as such. I’m in India as a guest of the IPF—I’m here to attend a very high level conference in an official capacity.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Ruby. ‘The Indian Police Force.’

  Lethbridge cleared his throat. ‘Uh, no. The Indian Pigeon Fanciers. A most prestigious association. Very much respected in the world of pigeon fancying. I’m the general secretary of the East Finchley branch of the Royal Pigeon Racing Association.’

  ‘There’s a world of pigeon fancying?’ Sam said, failing to stifle a giggle. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t sound too interesting.’

  ‘Not interesting! It’s fascinating. Pigeons are very intelligent creatures. You can take them thousands of miles from their home and they still find their way back. I’ve had them since I was a lad and I love ’em. When you’ve got a pigeon, you’ve got a friend.’

  Lethbridge looked at them with such earnest sincerity that it was difficult to respond.

  ‘They invited you to a conference,’ Ruby said to fill the silence.

  ‘All expenses paid,’ Lethbridge said with undisguised pride. ‘Air France—first class! Sat next to a very nice man—very good English, for a foreigner.’

  ‘You haven’t travelled much, have you?’ Alisha said.

  ‘First time,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess.’

  ‘And you’re still in all the papers,’ Lethbridge said to Gerald. ‘The man on the plane was reading about you in the Independent. We had a good chat about it. You’re quite famous, you know.’

  Gerald blushed. He hated the idea of being the topic of other people’s conversations.

  ‘You’ll be leaving quite soon for this conference,’ Gerald said. ‘I mean, you won’t be hanging around here for long.’

  ‘I’ll be off the day after tomorrow. The conference is in Chennai, in the south.’

  Gerald looked at Alisha. ‘That’s not so bad.’

  ‘Tell them about my father’s brilliant idea,’ Alisha said to the police constable, a grim look in her eyes.

  ‘It is brilliant, isn’t it. Mr Gupta said that since you’re flying south I should hitch a lift.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s only a three-hour flight,’ Alisha said. ‘And only a little out of our way. For some reason Father thought it was a great idea.’

  ‘Bit of extra security expertise,’ Lethbridge said, puffing his chest out. Gerald couldn’t help notice his similarity to a pigeon. ‘I’m meeting a local pigeon fancier later today. I can tell you all about it on the flight.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ Sam said.

  Lethbridge got up to go, then paused. ‘Almost forgot. The reason I dropped by.’ He ferreted around in his bag. �
��The inspector asked me to give you this.’

  He pulled out a stack of envelopes and handed them to Gerald. ‘They were in Sir Mason Green’s room at the Rattigan Club. It seems they’re yours.’

  Gerald leafed through the envelopes. They contained the remainder of the news clippings and other documents that the thin man had stolen from the house in London, including the letter his great aunt Geraldine had left him.

  But something else caught Gerald’s eye. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. He pulled out a sealed envelope, with a blue Interpol insignia on the front. Typed on a label in capital letters was: INVESTIGATION INTO SIR MASON GREEN AND CERTAIN HISTORIC ANTIQUITIES IN EGYPT, FRANCE AND—

  ‘India!’ Gerald said, his eyes popping.

  Lethbridge looked at the envelope with surprise. ‘Don’t remember that being in there. Must have picked it up by mistake. Never mind.’ He reached across and plucked it from Gerald’s fingers. ‘I’ll send that back to the inspector.’

  Gerald emitted a sound that a six-year-old might make if he dropped an ice cream in the dirt.

  Lethbridge put the envelope into his bag. ‘I’m really looking forward to flying on your jet,’ he said to Gerald. ‘I’ll go out to the airport with your butler and check it out ahead of time. Security, you see. Till then, there’s pigeon business to attend.’

  Lethbridge took a deep breath, opened the door to the porch and took off up the covered walkway to the main house.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Gerald said, before the door had swung closed. ‘Egypt, France and India. One of the caskets must be here. The fortune-teller was right.’

  Ruby dismissed the idea in an instant. ‘Agent Leclerc didn’t mention it,’ she said. ‘He’s the local Interpol guy. It must be a mistake.’

  Gerald wasn’t listening. ‘And I don’t believe Lethbridge for a second. What a load of…pigeon business.’

  ‘You think he’s lying?’ Alisha said.

  ‘Of course. It’s a bit much, isn’t it? Five seconds after we get here he turns up with some rubbish story about a pigeon conference. You wouldn’t invite him for coffee, let alone fly him down here to join some bunch of bird nuts.’

  ‘Flock,’ Sam said. ‘It would be a flock of bird nuts.’

  ‘Flock then. I’ve never trusted Lethbridge anyway, not after the diamond went missing while he was guarding it. Think about it. His notebook with all the evidence from the case—supposedly stolen—just happens to turn up in India in the back pocket of a guy who tries to kidnap Alisha. And now Lethbridge is here to attend some pigeon conference and he just happens to have an Interpol report in his bag. He must be tied up in all of this.’

  ‘How would some junior police officer get involved with Sir Mason Green?’ Ruby said.

  ‘I don’t know. But I bet that Interpol report has some answers.’

  Ruby peered at Gerald with suspicious eyes. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I wonder which hotel Lethbridge is staying at.’

  Chapter 11

  The lobby of the Colonial Hotel in Delhi is one of the city’s standout meeting places. Beneath its crystal chandeliers and art-clad walls, the elite of India gather to sip tea and nibble tiny sandwiches, the crusts removed. While the city is a bustling metropolis of trade and commerce, the lobby at the Colonial is a cool oasis of calm and whispered conversations.

  Alisha led Gerald, Ruby and Sam through the hotel’s revolving glass doors shortly before seven o’clock in the morning.

  ‘What if he’s already had breakfast and gone back to his room?’ Sam said.

  ‘Then you better think of plan B,’ Ruby replied. She surveyed the plush surroundings. ‘The Indian Pigeon Fanciers must be doing okay to put Lethbridge up in this place.’

  ‘So you agree with me?’ Gerald said. ‘Lethbridge’s story doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock,’ Ruby said. ‘I’m just humouring you. Once you’ve done what you need to do here, we’re going to look at tigers.’ She took Gerald by the arm and looked into his eyes. ‘Right?’

  Gerald grinned. ‘Whatever you say. Now, how are we going to do this?’

  It was Alisha’s turn to smile. ‘My father does more business in this lobby than in his office. This is my second home. Follow me.’

  She set off towards the concierge desk, the others trailing after her.

  ‘Are you going to keep Lethbridge’s notebook?’ Ruby said to Gerald.

  ‘I’ll give it back eventually,’ he said. ‘But until his story checks out, I think it’s safer in our hands. If that bandit in black is working for Green, there must be something in that book worth having, and I wouldn’t mind betting the missing page holds some interesting information.’

  ‘That’s a lot of ifs,’ Ruby said.

  Alisha was talking to a slender man in a dark suit— he had a telephone in one hand and was jotting something on a pad with the other. He tore off a page and handed it to Alisha with a polite nod. She sauntered back to Gerald with a triumphant smile.

  ‘He’s on the ninth floor—room number 912. He hasn’t been down for breakfast yet. If we wait on that lounge over there we can keep an eye on the lifts and make our move when he appears.’

  ‘I thought all that stuff was supposed to be private,’ Ruby said.

  ‘I’ve known the concierge here for years. I said Constable Lethbridge was an old family friend and we wanted to surprise him.’

  ‘Isn’t she incredible?’ Sam said.

  ‘No,’ Ruby said. ‘She is smart. You being able to walk and talk at the same time is incredible.’

  Gerald ushered them over to the lounge and made sure Sam and Ruby sat as far apart as possible. They didn’t have long to wait. Constable Lethbridge rolled out of one of the lifts and made for the restaurant.

  ‘Judging by his size he’ll be eating for a while. We should have plenty of time,’ Gerald said. ‘You got the package?’

  Ruby patted her bag. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, then I’ll send it up.’

  Two minutes later Gerald and Sam stepped from the lift and counted down the rooms until they stood outside number 912.

  Gerald checked his watch. ‘We’ve only got a couple of minutes. We’ve got to time this right.’ He glanced to his left. ‘You take the door. I’ll do the talking.’

  Sam nodded and continued up the corridor, away from the elevators. There was a cleaner’s cart against one wall and he ducked behind it.

  Gerald went back past the lifts to the far end of the corridor. He reached a set of fire stairs and poked his head inside. ‘Perfect,’ he said. As he entered the stairwell, a ding signalled the lift door was opening. He peered around the door jam as a hotel porter stepped out of the lift and headed towards room 912. He was carrying a small parcel wrapped in striped paper.

  The porter knocked and waited. When there was no reply, he slipped a key into the lock and stepped inside. The moment the porter disappeared into Lethbridge’s room, Gerald moved. He scampered down the corridor until he was three doors from 912. He glanced at the cleaner’s cart further down the hall. Sam was invisible.

  Moments later, the door opened and the porter emerged. The moment Gerald saw him, he called out, ‘Excuse me?’

  The porter looked up and gave a polite smile. He paused in the doorway, his hand still on the open door.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

  Gerald knew the next five seconds were crucial.

  ‘Can you help me with some directions, please?’ he asked and pulled a folded street map from his pocket.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  The porter stepped towards Gerald, releasing the door. It started to swing to, the automatic closer drawing it in. Gerald tried not to look over the porter’s shoulder as Sam scuttled along the wall like a mouse on the skirting. The gap in the doorway narrowed. Sam was still metres away. The porter peered over the top of the map in Gerald’s hands.

  ‘Where was sir wanting to go?’<
br />
  The space inched tighter and tighter.

  ‘I’m trying to find the museum.’

  The gap narrowed to a sliver.

  ‘Which museum, sir? There are many.’

  ‘Um…’

  At the last second, Sam dropped onto the carpet in a baseball slide and shot out his foot, jamming the toe of his shoe into the door. A judder shot up the wooden frame. The porter started to turn his head at the sound.

  ‘The National Museum!’ Gerald was almost shouting, rattling the map under the porter’s nose, anything to distract him from the boy struggling onto his hands and knees and crawling into Lethbridge’s room.

  The porter turned back to Gerald. His description of the short walk to the museum from the hotel forecourt was detailed and entirely accurate. Gerald didn’t take in a word of it.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, as the porter entered the lift. The man held the door for Gerald, an inquisitive look on his face.

  Gerald waved a hand. ‘Um, no thanks,’ he said. ‘I just remembered I need to’—his mind went blank— ‘um, wash my hair.’

  The porter looked surprised, then gave a courteous nod as the lift doors closed.

  Seconds later Gerald was tapping on the door to room 912. It opened a crack and a blue eye appeared in the gap. ‘Is that room service?’

  Gerald shoved on the door and it banged into Sam’s head. ‘Don’t muck around,’ Gerald said. ‘We don’t have time.’ He pushed his way inside.

  Lethbridge’s king-sized bed was unmade and there was a pile of soggy bath towels bunched on one end. A sideboard bore the remains of a midnight feast: chocolate-bar wrappers and potato-chip packets. A bowl of fruit remained untouched. A large black suitcase sat on the floor with its lid propped open. Gerald made for it. Sam followed, still rubbing his head.

  Gerald lifted folded shirts and trousers out of the way, careful not to disturb things too much, but there was no sign of the Interpol report. He eyed a pile of underwear. It wasn’t clear if it was clean or dirty. He took a deep breath and was about to sink his hands into the middle of it when Sam spoke.