‘Uh, Ox?’
‘His name is Oswald,’ Gerald said. ‘Oswald Perkins. Everyone calls him Ox.’
De Bruin pulled a pad from his coat pocket, folded back the cover and made a note. Then he closed the cover and placed the pad back into his coat.
Ruby looked at him, her brow furrowing. ‘Shouldn’t you be doing more than just writing stuff down? Like closing airports and rounding up suspects?’
‘I am doing everything in order,’ de Bruin said. ‘I always follow set procedures.’
‘So you said. But isn’t there a way to speed things up?’ Gerald asked.
De Bruin placed the icepack on the table and wiped his hands on a handkerchief, which he then carefully folded and placed in his trouser pocket. ‘Routine is my friend. I follow a process. The process is there to get things done in a very specific order.’
‘Which order?’
Agent de Bruin fixed Gerald with an intense stare. ‘The right order.’
‘How about finding my mum and dad?’ Ruby said. A tear formed in her eye. ‘Is that part of your precious process?’
De Bruin switched his gaze to Ruby. ‘The process will be followed.’ He offered nothing more.
‘Uh, what were you hoping to find here, Agent de Bruin?’ Felicity asked, fiddling with the neck of her jumper.
De Bruin turned his head slowly to face Felicity. ‘Sir Mason Green may have been in possession of an item that is sought by the kidnappers,’ he said. ‘I came here to search the premises. Part of the—’
‘Process,’ Gerald said. ‘Yes, we get the idea. What item, exactly? At the chalet they seemed to be looking for a piece of jewellery.’
‘Possibly,’ de Bruin said. ‘Or maybe a document.’
‘They’re not interested in democracy or the Beatles,’ Sam said. ‘We know that much.’
Gerald picked up Felicity’s jacket from the table and passed it to her. ‘We better get back to the hotel,’ he said. ‘Agent de Bruin, you’ll call us if you find anything?’
De Bruin pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. ‘Of course. I have one question.’
‘Sure.’
‘What hat size are you?’
Gerald stared at the agent for a moment. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I’ll put you down as seven and a quarter. That’s about average for a boy your age.’
Gerald’s mouth popped open. ‘Hat size? Is that all part of the—’
‘Process,’ de Bruin said. ‘Oh yes.’ He scribbled in the notebook.
Felicity followed Sam, Ruby and Gerald into the lift. She pushed the button for the foyer and the doors slid shut. ‘I guess he’s just a process kind of guy,’ she said.
The presidential suite at the Fairmont Hotel was a sombre place that night. Sam made his usual giant mattress of cushions and pillows on the floor and set himself up in front of the TV. He had the remote in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other. Ruby sat with her feet curled under her in an armchair by the fireplace, trying to read a book. Gerald had dragged a chair up to a window overlooking the city and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head and his feet up on the sill. Felicity played Für Elise on a baby grand.
Ruby tossed her book over her shoulder. It landed on Sam’s stomach. ‘I’ve just read the same sentence five times,’ she said. ‘My mind is mush.’
Gerald stared out at the mist-shrouded city. ‘I know what you mean.’ He paused for a second. ‘I wonder what Ox and Alisha are doing right now.’
‘And our parents,’ Ruby said.
‘Of course,’ Gerald said. ‘It’s horrible for everyone. But I’m really worried about Ox. He still sleeps with a night-light in his bedroom.’
Felicity moved on to the Moonlight Sonata, her fingers feather-light across the keys. ‘That Agent de Bruin was an odd fellow,’ she said, idly. ‘Not what I expected an FBI agent to be like at all.’
Gerald looked across from the window. ‘That was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever sat through,’ he said. ‘What’s the business with my hat size?’
Ruby let out a derisive snort. ‘Do you even think he is an FBI agent?’
‘What do you mean?’ Felicity asked.
‘We’ve come across people claiming to be special agents before,’ Ruby said. ‘Do you remember Leclerc in India?’
Gerald nodded. ‘There was this guy in Delhi who pretended to be an agent with Interpol,’ he explained to Felicity. ‘Then it turned out he was working for Mason Green. Not that it helped him much in the end.’ Gerald shivered at the memory of Leclerc sinking into a pit of quicksand.
‘Do you think this de Bruin man is working for Sir Mason Green?’ Felicity asked.
‘At the moment,’ Gerald sighed, ‘I don’t know what to think. But where Green is concerned, I wouldn’t rule out anything.’
‘Whether he’s with the FBI or not, he was very strange,’ Ruby said.
‘Seriously, Felicity,’ Sam said, ‘if you hadn’t hit him with the bottle at the start I’d have done it by the end. Process this. Procedure that.’ He flicked the channel on the TV. ‘What a mental case.’
Felicity suddenly stopped playing and sat upright on the piano stool. ‘Gerald,’ she said. ‘I just remembered—the piece of paper that was inside the bottle.’
Gerald shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the roll of paper. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Message in a bottle,’ he said.
He knelt by the coffee table and gently eased off the red ribbon, then rolled the paper flat.
‘What is it?’ Ruby asked, peering over his shoulder.
There was a string of letters, handwritten in faded ink.
Xerxs blu c axtb pxfbi pab cilbnixg hxracib jl snbeebg xis rjiocuibs cp pj pab sbkpao eqp hy rjiorcbirb co cgg xp nbop c xh lclpy hcgbo ib jl rqgkbkkbn cogxis c sj ijp fijv cl c sbobntb nborqb oj c nbgy ji pab dqsubhbip jl pab jib vaj lciso paco hbooxub hxy yjqn ojqg eb nxcobs ji eqppbnlgy vciuo.
At the bottom, in a fine clear hand, was: Midshipman Jeremy Davey, October 1835. May God have mercy on his humble servant’s soul.
‘Well that’s complete nonsense,’ Sam said.
Gerald turned the paper over. The other side was covered in painted symbols, none of which made any sense.
‘It looks like it’s been torn from a book,’ Gerald said.
‘Torn from a book!’ Felicity said. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
Sam gave Felicity a sidewards glance. ‘You’re worried about books being vandalised? I take it you’re over your guilt for smashing a bottle over an FBI agent’s head?’
‘That’s if he is FBI,’ Felicity said. ‘Anyway, I can’t take it back now. Maybe this paper is what the kidnappers were looking for. Not some piece of jewellery at all. That’s a relief.’
Gerald held the paper up to the light, rubbing the fabric-like texture between his fingers. ‘Why would that be a relief?’ he asked.
Felicity toyed with the neckline of her jumper, and glanced towards the window. The lights of the city seemed to be shining brighter. ‘I just mean it will give the police something to work on,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘You know who might help us?’ Ruby said. ‘Professor McElderry. I bet he’d know what these symbols mean.’
‘Who’s he?’ Felicity asked.
‘He’s from the British Museum,’ Ruby said. ‘He knew all about the three caskets and the Oracle at Delphi.’
Felicity turned to Gerald, a quizzical look on her face. ‘What’s she talking about, Gerald? Is there something you haven’t told me?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll tell you later. Much later. But that’s a good idea about the professor, Ruby.’
The phone rang.
They all jumped.
I
t was a discordant, jarring clatter of a ring. The phone ring equivalent of fingernails down the blackboard.
Gerald looked to Ruby and Sam, then picked up the phone.
‘Yes?’ he said.
Ruby clung to Sam’s arm. Her eyes were glued to Gerald’s face.
‘Is it them?’ Ruby asked.
Gerald held up a finger for quiet. After a moment, he gave a simple ‘yes’, and hung up the phone.
‘Well?’ Ruby said.
‘That was Mr Prisk,’ Gerald said. ‘The fog has lifted. The jet’s ready to go. And if I refuse to go back to London he’ll get a court order forcing me to.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Ruby asked.
‘Go back to London, I guess,’ he said. ‘But I have to seriously think about getting a new lawyer.’
London was grey. Gunmetal grey, and December cold.
Christmas lights were strung along Oxford Street and holly wreaths hung from front doors. But the sparkles and splashes of colour did nothing to distract Gerald from the fact that Ox and Alisha were still missing, along with his parents and everyone else from the chalet.
From the bay window of the main drawing room at the terrace house in Chelsea, the view was grim indeed.
The flight from San Francisco had been a tiring non-event. Gerald had spent an hour of it in the jet’s office on the satellite phone to Mr Prisk, listening to updates from the police. A lot of reports, a lot of theories, and one singular thing that baffled them all: no contact from the kidnappers. No demands. No ransom.
‘Nothing?’ Gerald had said into the phone.
‘Nothing,’ Mr Prisk responded.
Gerald gave the paper from the bottle to Mr Prisk when they touched down, to pass on to the authorities, but not before he’d made a copy.
And now he was back in his London home, facing a relentless winter and the lonely uncertainty about his family and friends.
‘I should be at Bondi,’ Gerald grumbled. He turned his back to the window to face Felicity. She was seated on a rug in front of a crackling fire, doing a crossword from that morning’s newspaper.
‘Summer at Bondi,’ he continued. ‘Hot, sandy, sweaty Bondi Beach. Waves rolling in, water cool and refreshing. Swimming till sunset, then fish and chips in the park with a thousand screaming seagulls. That’s how you spend December.’ He dropped into an armchair and draped his legs over the side.
Felicity didn’t look up from her puzzle. ‘Mm-hmm,’ she said. ‘What’s a six letter word for tedious? Starts with B.’
‘Um…boring?’
‘That’s it,’ Felicity said, filling in the squares. ‘Boring.’
‘Yeah. And what’s with all this rain? All the time. And when it’s not raining the sun’s gone by, what, three o’clock in the afternoon? That’s just ridiculous.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Felicity said. ‘How about a seven letter word starting with W that means constant complaining?’
Gerald thought for a second. ‘Whining?’
‘Oh, well done. You’re good at this,’ Felicity said. ‘Whining fits perfectly. It connects Dire with Monotonous.’
Gerald gave Felicity a guilty look. ‘Have I been going on about the weather a bit?’
‘Only to the exclusion of everything else,’ Felicity said. She put down her pencil and looked up at Gerald. ‘It’s okay to talk about your parents, Gerald. It won’t make you any less of a man.’
Gerald couldn’t maintain the eye contact—he had to look away. ‘I prefer to talk to myself,’ he mumbled.
Felicity cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yes, that’s healthy.’
Gerald didn’t reply. No one could confront the kidnapping of their parents, or any other major trauma, by bottling everything up. But Gerald had spoken about it with Sam and Ruby—they were in the same situation, after all—and with Mr Prisk, and the San Francisco police, and the assistant housekeeper Mrs Fitzherbert. Frankly, he had nothing left to say.
‘By the way, the Colonel is fine with me staying here a while longer,’ Felicity said, breaking the silence. ‘That is, unless you want me to go back to St Hilda’s?’
Gerald tensed. It looked like the Christmas-cuddle conversation was upon him.
‘Uh, look,’ he said. ‘About that thing with Ruby…’
Felicity looked up at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘About that.’
Gerald swallowed and stared at the fire. He had absolutely no idea what he was meant to say. Maybe he should just throw himself into the flames. That would at least be less painful.
‘Um…’
‘Yes, Gerald?’
Why was there never a signpost pointing to the right thing to say? There were plenty of signs pointing to the M25 or the nearest Tube station. But never one to the nearest escape route.
‘It’s like this…’
‘Yes?’
Then a thought slammed into his head, like a pigeon into a clean window. ‘It was Christmas,’ he said. ‘Ruby’s a really good friend and you always give your good friends a Christmas hug. It’s traditional.’
He held his breath.
Felicity tilted her head a fraction more. ‘That’s your tradition, is it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Cuddling your friends.’
‘Yep.’
‘And I’m still your girlfriend?’
Gerald saw an escape hatch opening. He dived into it, head first.
‘Of course!’ he said, a little too forcefully. ‘Girlfriend of the Year.’ Gerald cringed as the words tumbled out.
‘Maybe I should get a T-shirt made up,’ Felicity said. She stared at Gerald for a moment then a smile returned to her face. ‘Good. That’s settled then.’
‘It is?’
Felicity nodded and went back to her crossword.
Gerald let out a silent sigh of relief.
That was that sorted.
Felicity understood exactly where everything stood with Ruby.
Gerald wished that he did.
‘Are we still meeting Sam and Ruby at the museum tomorrow to see this professor friend of yours?’ Felicity asked. It was as if the previous conversation had never taken place.
‘Um, in the morning,’ Gerald said, still not quite believing he was off the hook. ‘Mr Prisk has something he wants me to do in the afternoon. Want to come along?’
‘Sure—what is it?’
‘Something to do with me joining some billionaires’ club. I think Mr Prisk is trying to keep me busy.’
Felicity chewed on the end of her pencil. ‘Sounds a bit—’ She paused.
‘Six letter word for tedious, starting with B?’ said Gerald.
Felicity laughed. Gerald couldn’t bring himself to join in.
Chapter 15
Professor McElderry’s office at the British Museum was unchanged from the last time Gerald had visited. The same anxious secretary sat in the reception area. Through the open door to the office proper, McElderry’s disaster of a desk was visible, with towers of papers and journals all in a state of imminent collapse. Even the professor’s pet tortoise was in residence, dormant on the bookshelf. The only thing that was not there was the professor himself.
‘He isn’t in,’ the secretary said, returning her attention to her computer screen.
‘Oh, I hadn’t counted on that,’ Gerald said. Ruby, Sam and Felicity stood behind him, their faces registering disappointment. ‘When can we see him?’
The secretary ran a finger down a page on her desk calendar. ‘Let’s see,’ she said, ‘How about never? Is that good for you?’
Gerald was taken aback. ‘Excuse me?’
The secretary gave him a frail look of defiance, then crumbled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Her mouth sank and a tear formed at the corner of her eye. ‘I have no idea
where Knox is.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ruby asked. ‘Is he sick or something?’
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. She pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at her eye. ‘He took a week off before Christmas and was due back three days ago. He didn’t show. There’s no answer at his home. The mail hasn’t been collected. His phone rings out. I’ve called his family, his close friends, his academic colleagues. No one has heard a thing.’ She blew her nose in a sharp blast. ‘I know he’s an irascible old bully and a pain in the posterior. But,’ she blew her nose again, ‘I’m worried about him.’
There was an awkward silence. Then Sam piped up. ‘Maybe he had one too many drinks at Christmas, bumped his head and can’t remember who he is?’
Everyone turned to look at him.
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I may well be the stupidest boy in the world.’
‘Have you called the police?’ Felicity asked. ‘Missing persons—that sort of thing?’
The woman nodded. ‘His brother is handling all that,’ she said. ‘The worst thing is not knowing. Do you know what I mean?’
Gerald glanced at Ruby and Sam. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, we do.’
The secretary crushed the tissue in her hand and took in a calming breath. ‘Anyway, what was it you wanted to see the professor about?’ she said. ‘Perhaps I can help you?’
Gerald pulled a folded page from his pocket—it was the photocopy of the message from the bottle.
The secretary inspected the string of random letters on one side and the hand-painted symbols on the other. ‘You need to talk with Dr Efron. Rare and Ancient Documents—third floor. I’ll call and let her know you’re coming.’
Ruby led the way back to the lifts. ‘What was that all about? Professor McElderry going missing?’
Gerald pressed the button for the third floor. ‘There seems to be a lot of people disappearing at the moment.’
Dr Efron was not what Gerald had expected. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans, orange Converse sneakers, a slim-fit T-shirt and her hair was a neat tangle of dreadlocks. She didn’t look more than twenty-five years old.
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