The Billionaire’s Curse Page 11

  The major let out a low wheeze. There was another long slurp, then the sound of paper being unfolded and smoothed out. “This page is all we’ve got to go by,” Gerald heard the major say. “From that book I found in the town.”

  There was a long silence before Pinstripe Trousers spoke. “‘Pic de la lumière éternelle,’” he read slowly. “The peak of eternal light—‘indiquera le chemin’—will show the way. What on earth does that mean?”

  “Pardon my French, but it means what it says,” the major said. “We need to find the peak of eternal light and then we’ll find the casket.”

  “Well, where’s this peak then? On your estate?”

  The major groaned. “I’ve got four thousand acres down there and hills all over the blasted place; it’s got to be one of them.”

  Under the table, Gerald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. These two had stolen the diamond—they’d all but admitted it. Did that mean they’d killed Geraldine? And why did everyone want to find the diamond casket?

  “The buyer was very specific,” the major said. “We have to locate the position of the casket by Midsummer’s Eve—that’s next Friday—or the deal’s off. Mother is hosting her tiresome party as usual. There has been one held on the estate every midsummer since the Middle Ages, so she’s insisting it goes ahead. Keeping up appearances and all that.”

  Gerald frowned. What did Midsummer’s Eve have to do with anything?

  “Won’t that get in the way of what we’re doing?” Pinstripe Trousers asked. “People all over the place?”

  “If past years are anything to go by, they’ll all be legless by midnight and pocketing the silverware. You know what these London types are like.”

  Pinstripe Trousers sat up stiffly. “I am a London type,” he said.

  “Yes,” the major said midslurp. “I know.”

  Just then the door to the room burst open and someone rushed in. From his hiding place, Gerald couldn’t see a thing, but he recognized the newcomer.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Major Pilkington…your Lordship,” a rough voice said. “Have you seen three kids running around the club? They’ve managed to get away from me.”

  The major’s brown shoes disappeared from under the table. “No we have not,” he growled. “What’s the point of having a private dining room if I’m going to be disturbed? Out!”

  The porter mumbled an apology and the door closed again. “Right, Arthur. Grab some pudding and then we can get stuck into this rather excellent port.”

  The black boots also disappeared from under the table and the sounds of serving spoons on crockery soon came from the buffet. Gerald lifted a corner of the tablecloth and peeked out. The diamond thieves had their backs to him. For the first time, Gerald got to see them from the ankles up: a young man in a dark pinstripe suit cutting a slice of cake and an older gent—the major—helping himself to the port.

  Now’s my chance, Gerald thought, and he rolled out the other side of the table and scurried on hands and knees across to the door on the far wall. He opened it and disappeared through the gap just as the major turned back to the table.

  Gerald was appalled to find himself buried in a forest of old coats.

  Dammit, he thought. A closet. With his head surrounded by cloth, Gerald could only pick up a few snatches of the conversation in the pink room. It sounded like the major and Pinstripe Trousers were finishing up.

  “See you in a week at Beaconsfield,” he heard the young man say. “Let me know if you have any luck with…you know…”

  The major made some rumbling noises and Gerald glanced down to see the door handle to the closet start to turn. His eyes wide, Gerald pushed hard with his feet, shuffling as far back as he could, pulling jackets across in front of him. The door flung open. The major rummaged about inside, looking for his coat. Gerald pressed against the back of the closet. He could smell the major’s breath now—a toxic mix of alcohol and burned sausages. Then, just four inches from Gerald’s nose, the major’s gnarled hand appeared. It wrapped itself around the only coat left hanging between them and reefed it to one side.

  Gerald stared, horrified, right into the major’s bulging left eye.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gerald’s mouth hung open. The major continued to rummage in the closet, his face half obscured by coats, his left eye still staring smack at the middle of Gerald’s forehead. Gerald held his breath and waited for the major to let rip. Instead, he felt a sudden tug on his collar and, before he could react, he was jerked out of the back of the closet. He landed hard on the floor, his knees up around his ears, and looked up to find Sam smiling at him.

  “What the hell?” Gerald spluttered.

  Sam raised his finger to his lips. He put his ear to the door and listened.

  “Two-way closet,” he whispered. “A door on both sides.” He grinned at Gerald’s confusion. “Who were you expecting? Mr. Tumnus?”

  Gerald sat up and found himself in a room identical to the one he’d just been in, though in this room everything was blue. Through the closed closet door he could make out the muffled sound of the major’s voice on the other side: “Aah! Here it is. Come along, Arthur…the bar opens in twenty…”

  Gerald stood up and massaged his numb buttocks.

  “How did you know I was in there?” he asked.

  “I had no idea. I was having a look around and heard scuffling through that door. Had a peek, which was lucky for you.”

  Gerald shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Why didn’t he see me?” he muttered. “He was right in front of me.”

  Sam interrupted, keen to tell Gerald something. “While you’ve been hiding in the back of a closet, I’ve been finding out stuff,” he said.

  “Hiding!” Gerald protested.

  “Don’t sweat it. You’ll muscle up in time. Anyhow, I headed up that corridor and almost straightaway I was fronted by a man asking me what I was doing there.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Well, I lied, naturally. I said my father was a member and I was meeting him for lunch.”

  “Didn’t he ask who your father was?”

  “Of course. I said the Duke of Doncaster.”

  “Who’s the Duke of Doncaster?”

  “Wouldn’t have a clue. I made it up. But you know what these people are like—they love rubbing shoulders with aristocracy. Makes them feel special. After that it was all ‘Your Grace’ this and ‘Your Lordship’ that.”

  Gerald laughed. “How did you know he wasn’t a duke himself? They must all know each other.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Because if he was a duke he wouldn’t have spoken to me in the first place, dopey. He’d have sent a man across to do it for him. Honestly, Gerald, you really do need to learn how things work in this country.”

  “It’s not easy,” Gerald admitted.

  “Anyway, this man was really helpful. Turns out there are only about three hundred members of this club and the memberships are handed down from father to son. It’s almost impossible for anyone else to get in. Whoever had that matchbook under the museum was almost certainly a member. That narrows it down a bit. How’s that for detective work?”

  Gerald nodded. “Yeah. Pretty good. But I think I can narrow it down even more.”

  Sam’s jaw dropped lower and lower as Gerald laid out every detail of the lunchtime conversation that had taken place across the table above his head.

  At the end of the tale, Sam shook his head.

  “Do you mean there’s uneaten chicken legs in there?”

  “Very funny,” Gerald said. “Let’s find Ruby. I think it’s time to go to the police.”

  Gerald opened the Blue Room door and ducked his head into the passageway. It was deserted. They crept down the corridor to the top of the grand staircase and looked down to the foyer below. As they took the first step down the stairs a shrill whistle made them spin and look up. Standing on the landing above was Ruby, her cheeks bright and a huge grin cutting acros
s her face.

  “Come on, you pair, up this way!”

  Gerald and Sam bolted up the stairs. Ruby was bursting with excitement.

  “This is brilliant.” She beamed. “I gave that porter the slip and I’ve been roaming all around this place ever since. It’s amazing!”

  “Not as amazing as what Gerald found out,” Sam said.

  Before Ruby could ask, Gerald cut in, “No time. We’ll tell you outside.”

  They turned back down the stairs. But there on the lower landing, glaring up at them, was the porter, his face almost as red as the carpet.

  “Stand where you are!” he bellowed.

  “Not likely,” Sam muttered, and the three of them spun around.

  “Follow me,” Ruby said. She led the boys up the next flight of stairs to the top landing. They darted along a dim passageway lined with doors. Behind them the squeaks of the porter’s shoes gained intensity.

  “This way,” Ruby urged, and they tore around a corner only to find they’d run into a dead end, a wood-paneled wall boxing them in. They turned to go back but the porter appeared in the passageway, blocking their escape. He was a small man but he seemed to fill the space between them and freedom. Gerald, Sam, and Ruby retreated until their backs pressed against the wall. There was nowhere to go.

  “This feels familiar,” Gerald mumbled to himself, visions of castle dungeons and hideous beasts swimming in front of him.

  “Right, you lot,” the porter whispered. “You’re coming with me.”

  Ruby smiled at the porter and crinkled her nose. The porter gave her a curious look. Then she grabbed Sam and Gerald by the hands and, digging her heels into the carpet, heaved back as hard as she could, hauling the other two with her into the wood paneling behind them. Gerald braced himself for the crunch. But instead, a panel in the wall gave way and he was flipped backward, feet in the air. And then they were hurtling down. The panel high above swung open and closed, like a window in a storm, and for a split second Gerald saw the enraged face of the porter glaring down at them.

  “Wha—” Gerald yelled.

  “Laundry chuuuuuuuuuute!” came Ruby’s high-pitched squeal. Gerald, Sam, and Ruby were buffeted, bumped, and bounced as the chute fell and twisted away like a waterslide. They were finally dumped through swinging flaps onto a cushion of sheets in a huge wicker basket deep in the club’s cellar.

  No one moved. Then Gerald lifted himself above the lip of the basket. A pillowcase embroidered with a red R covered his ruffled head. He reached down and peeled back a striped bedspread to reveal Ruby and Sam in a sprawled heap. They all started giggling.

  “How did you know?” Gerald said through his laughter, pulling Ruby upright.

  “I told you I had a good look around,” Ruby said. “Now let’s—”

  Before she could finish, there was a rumbling from above. They looked up in time to see the flaps to the laundry chute swing open again. A week’s worth of sodden bath towels rained down on them. After a struggle, Gerald cleared a soggy towel from his face. He was met by the sight of the porter peering over the edge of the laundry basket, an evil grin on his beetroot-red face.

  The main drawing room at the Rattigan Club was very much a British country gentleman’s retreat. Richly upholstered chairs and couches were arranged in clusters in front of an enormous open fireplace, either side of which were glass-fronted bookcases, their shelves laden with every volume imaginable on the subjects of hunting, shooting, and fishing.

  Gerald, Ruby, and Sam sat huddled on a sofa, a disconsolate group. Their clothes were still damp from the towel drenching they’d received in the cellar. Nearby, Inspector Parrott sipped tea from a cup bearing the club’s red R insignia. He seemed to be enjoying the plush surroundings. He chatted with Sir Mason Green, chairman of the Museum Trust, who was leaning on his walking stick and listening politely. By the fireplace, Constable Lethbridge was jotting in his notebook as the porter recounted the afternoon’s events. The major sat across the room in a wing-backed chair, flicking through a copy of Horse and Hound, and taking the occasional drag from a cigarette.

  Sam turned to Gerald and said, “Well, you wanted to get the police in.”

  Gerald didn’t bother responding.

  The doors opened and a tall man strode into the room. He was dressed in a well-tailored navy-blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a maroon tie decorated with a tasteful pattern of gold Rs. His coiffed hair was flecked with gray but held enough chestnut to suggest the years were still on his side. He carried himself with the air of a man who was used to being in charge. He crossed straight to the inspector and thrust out his hand.

  “Inspector? Lord Herring, chairman of the Rattigan. And at the outset, let me say the Rattigan Club has been a respected part of this city for more than two hundred years. In all its history never has an incident like this occurred. Frankly, it’s disgraceful.”

  The inspector put down his cup of tea and shook the man’s hand. “Your Lordship. A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’ve long been an admirer of your work and—”

  The man cut the inspector off with an impatient flick of his hand. “Can we get on with this? I’m due back at the Lords for an important vote this evening.”

  Parrott nodded. “Of course. Can’t stand in the way of the nation’s—”

  Lord Herring brushed past the inspector and greeted Sir Mason.

  “Mason! It’s been ages. How are you mixed up in this?”

  Sir Mason smiled. “Redmond, good to see you looking so well. Museum business. You’ve heard about our missing diamond no doubt?”

  Herring nodded. “Most unfortunate.”

  “As chairman of the Museum Trust, I have a vested interest in finding out what happened to it. It seems the children here think one of the club’s members might be involved.”

  Lord Herring’s chest billowed out. “Nonsense! Children. Off the street. Running rampant around the club. Accusing honorable members of petty theft. It’s unheard of.”

  Inspector Parrott cleared his throat. “The theft of a diamond valued at more than one hundred million pounds is somewhat more serious than petty theft.”

  Herring cut him short. “What exactly is being said here? Who is accusing whom of what?” He turned to Sir Mason Green. “Mason, I know this diamond thing could cost the museum a bit, but do you seriously think a member of this club would ever stoop to such a thing—to common burglary? I mean, who among the membership here would need the money?”

  The inspector cleared his throat again. “Um…Your Lordship, in my experience money is rarely the prime motive for this kind of theft. You’d be surprised who nicks things sometimes.”

  Sir Mason put a hand on Herring’s shoulder. “Redmond, I think the inspector is keen to follow any leads that may come his way, no matter how…ahem…unorthodox the source might be.” At this, he threw Gerald a “what-have-you-been-up-to?” look. Gerald turned a light pink.

  Herring let out a strangled moan. “All right, Inspector,” he said. “What do you need from us?”

  The inspector motioned toward Lethbridge, who was busy thumbing through his notebook. “Constable, can you please read back what young Wilkins has told you?”

  “Yes sir,” Lethbridge said. “The boy said that he overhead Major Pilkington and a gentleman by the name of Arthur discussing the stolen diamond and a box that they need to find before Midsummer’s Eve. That’s this coming Friday, I believe.”

  There was a pause as everyone stared first at the major, then at Gerald.

  “And? What else?” the inspector asked.

  Lethbridge flicked back through his scribblings before closing his notebook.

  “That’s it.”

  There was another pause.

  Lord Herring turned to the inspector.

  “Bit thin, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lethbridge blushed. “Erm…yes. It sounded better when he first said it.”

  Gerald couldn’t contain himself.

  “It’s true!” he p
iped up. “They were talking about the diamond and whether it was in a safe place.”

  Every eye in the room turned to Gerald.

  “Talking about the diamond and admitting to stealing it are two different things,” the inspector said. “Half of London is talking about it. Did the major actually say, ‘I stole the diamond’?”

  “Well, no,” Gerald said. “It wasn’t like—”

  “And what about you pair?” the inspector said to Sam and Ruby. “Did you hear this alleged conversation?”

  They both mumbled, “No.”

  The inspector frowned at Gerald, then turned to Lord Herring. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Lordship. Had I realized the lead was this weak, I would never have bothered you.”

  Gerald couldn’t believe it. “But I heard them! Why don’t you ask him where he was when the diamond was stolen?”

  Attention switched to the major. He put aside his magazine and stubbed out his cigarette.

  Inspector Parrott glowered at Gerald and finally said, “Well, Major Pilkington? Where were you on the night of the robbery? Last Wednesday evening?”

  Before he could answer, Lord Herring spoke.

  “The major and I had dinner together that night, right here in the club. He was with me the entire evening.”

  The major nodded.

  Lord Herring took Sir Mason Green by the elbow and walked him toward Major Pilkington. “Mason, you really ought to come to the dining room one night. The asparagus is still very good and the chef is doing some splendid things with mushrooms.”

  Gerald was appalled at the way things were going.

  “But the papers said the robbery was at two in the morning,” Gerald interrupted. “He could still have done it. And what about the other man the major was with upstairs? Aren’t you going to talk to him?”

  “What cheek!” The porter, who had been standing by the fireplace, burst into life, his cheeks more crimson than ever. “How dare you talk to the major like that! The hero of the Second Battle of Bilghazi. He lost his eye in that campaign, he did, and all you can do is make up these ridiculous stories.”