The Emerald Casket (5 page)

Gerald recoiled. ‘A few weeks!'

‘Five or six at most. Now the second quarter trading for the year is traditionally fairly quiet in the northern hemisphere as we head into the summer months but you'll be pleased to hear the new operations in Argentina and Peru are providing an excellent hedge in the current economic climate. If you turn to page 137 in the green booklet you'll find a detailed breakdown of the trading for—'

‘Mr Prisk?'

It was Sam, still balancing on the edge of the couch.

The lawyer looked mildly annoyed by the interruption.

‘Yes, Mister Valentine?'

‘If Gerald's going to be stuck doing all this work, what are we going to do?'

Mr Prisk pulled a wedge of folders from the document box. ‘I expect you can go home.'

A shocked silence hit the room.

‘Go home?' Ruby said at last.

‘Yes. I think that would be best,' Mr Prisk said. ‘There's really no further point in your being here. Gerald will be occupied for the rest of the summer. I'll make arrangements with Mrs Rutherford to have you driven back to London.'

Sam looked stricken. ‘I thought we'd be together till the end of the holidays.'

‘Then you thought wrong. Perhaps you and your sister might go pack your bags. Now would be a good time.'

Sam looked to Ruby, then to Gerald, unable to put his thoughts into words. ‘But…but…but the food here is fantastic.'

Mr Prisk peered at Sam over the rim of his glasses. ‘Your dietary requirements are hardly sufficient reason to interfere with the daily workings of one of the world's great business enterprises. Gerald will one day take on the mantle of executive chairman of Archer Corporation. He has work to do.'

‘Silly me,' Ruby said. ‘I thought he was supposed to be having a holiday.'

Mr Prisk took a sharp breath. ‘If I recall my own childhood, Miss Valentine, children were to be seen and not heard. And preferably not seen either.' Mr Prisk's voice rose. ‘Gerald has greatness before him. The reports he will draft, oh the planning sessions he will attend. He—'

Gerald interrupted. ‘Do I get any say in this?'

Mr Prisk looked shocked. ‘Gerald. Your future is mapped. Nothing will be left to chance. Your days will be diarised. A schedule will be adhered to. Your life path is set in stone. Look, I've drawn up a calendar for the next eighteen months, it's all planned. Each and every day.'

Gerald took the leather-bound diary that Mr Prisk held out and flipped through the pages.

‘What are these?' Gerald asked. Every day had at least six entries.

‘Meetings,' Mr Prisk said. ‘Lots and lots of meetings. You will learn from the very best in the business. Think of it as school, only starting at seven in the morning and going till six or seven at night.'

Gerald flipped through the pages in a panic. ‘What? Seven days a week?'

‘I know,' Mr Prisk said, squeezing his hands together. ‘I can't wait to get started either. It's a good life.'

Ruby snorted. ‘That's not living,' she said. ‘That's barely existing.'

Mr Prisk looked up. ‘Are you still here? I thought you were packing.'

They were interrupted by Mrs Rutherford, who had appeared at the library door carrying a silver tray.

‘Mrs Rutherford,' said Mr Prisk. ‘Your timing is impeccable; it's as if you're reading my mind. Can you please supervise these children with their bags? They are returning to London. As soon as possible.'

Gerald stepped over the pile of documents on the floor and appealed to the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Rutherford, can't Sam and Ruby stay? I don't want to spend the rest of my holidays in meetings.'

Mrs Rutherford looked at the three stricken faces. She shook her head. ‘I am but a humble servant in this house,' she said. ‘It is most certainly not my place to instruct the young master on how he should be filling his days.'

Mr Prisk nodded. ‘Quite right,' he said.

Sam frowned. ‘You were doing plenty of instructing about sorting the mail yesterday,' he grumbled. ‘Didn't seem to slow you down then.'

Mrs Rutherford cast a pointed stare at Sam. ‘I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to,' she said. ‘Master Gerald is the master of the house. He is entitled to do as he pleases, regardless of what a lowly housekeeper such as myself has to say.' Mrs Rutherford allowed her eyes to stray across to Mr Prisk. ‘Or anyone else, for that matter. Master Gerald is, after all, his great aunt's successor. I don't recall Miss Archer taking kindly to being told what to do.'

A spark went off in Gerald's eyes. He turned to the lawyer.

‘I don't have to do any of this,' he said.

Mr Prisk moved between Gerald and the Valentine twins. ‘Yes, thank you Mrs Rutherford,' he said, ushering her, Sam and Ruby towards the door. ‘You have been most helpful.'

Mrs Rutherford gave Mr Prisk her sweetest smile. ‘Always happy to be of service, Mr Prisk. Come along, Ruby. Sam.' She turned to leave, then stopped. ‘I almost forgot.' She held out the silver platter to Gerald. ‘The reason I came in here. This arrived for you, Master Gerald. Special delivery.'

Gerald was still staring at Mr Prisk. ‘I can say no to all of this work. I can do what I like, when I like.'

‘Now, Gerald. Let's not be hasty,' the lawyer said. ‘There are important business considerations—'

‘I could call up the Archer jet and go surfing in Hawaii. I could go anywhere.' The realisation washed across Gerald's face like an incoming tide. ‘I'm a billionaire. I can do
anything
.'

Mr Prisk shook his head. ‘You have obligations to the company, to oversee the budgets.'

Mrs Rutherford broke into Gerald's dawning self-awareness.

‘Master Gerald? The letter.'

Gerald snapped out of his trance and looked down at the envelope on the tray. He picked it up and studied the front.

‘It's from India,' he said.

Sam's face lit up. ‘Alisha?' he said, a little too eagerly.

Ruby raised her eyes. ‘Pathetic,' she muttered.

Mr Prisk continued to talk, his voice growing ever more anxious—‘There are important capital works projects that need assessing, reports to review'—but Gerald had no ears for him. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of ivory-coloured paper.

‘It's from Mr Gupta,' he said.

Sam opened his mouth to speak but a glare from Ruby shut him down.

‘He's thanking us again for finding his diamond.'

‘I've drawn up a spreadsheet that summarises all the major issues,' said Mr Prisk, holding up a document which Gerald pointedly ignored.

‘He's apologising for not thanking us properly at the time.'

‘This chart shows the timeline we'll need to follow if we're to keep pace with the run rate—'

‘And he's inviting us for a holiday. To India!'

Sam and Ruby leapt across the room and grabbed Gerald by the elbows. ‘India! We're going to India?'

Mr Prisk's voice petered out. ‘No one's listening to me, are they? I'll just arrange for passports and visas then, shall I?' He collected his briefcase and trudged out of the room in a deep funk.

Gerald, Sam and Ruby hardly noticed.

Mrs Rutherford picked up the envelope that Gerald had dropped, placed it on the silver tray and swept out of the library, the merest hint of a smile at her lips.

Chapter 4

F
or the next two days, Avonleigh buzzed with preparations for the trip. Lists were drawn up and checked off. There was a shopping expedition to nearby Bristol to purchase extra light clothes for the Indian summer. Bags were packed, unpacked and repacked. Ruby and Sam talked their parents into letting them go with promises of behaving themselves, not getting into trouble and keeping their rooms tidy for the rest of the year. Gerald guessed that two of the promises were fragile at best.

Mr Prisk seemed resigned to Gerald not taking any interest in the family business for the foreseeable future. He consoled himself by setting some ground rules for the holiday. He revealed the details over breakfast.

‘Mr Fry's coming with us!' Gerald sputtered in a spray of scrambled eggs and parsley. ‘Why does he have to come?'

Mr Prisk removed a green sprig from his tie with a flick of an index finger. ‘Because, whether you like it or not, you are the executive chairman-in-waiting of Archer Corporation. I intend to ensure you survive long enough to take your place at the board table.'

Gerald prodded his fork at the remainder of his breakfast. His appetite had deserted him. Over by the sideboard the butler fussed with a variety of trays, muttering to himself.

‘I know you and Mr Fry haven't hit it off, but this is a necessary security measure. I'm sure the two of you will overcome your differences soon enough,' Mr Prisk said.

Fry appeared at Gerald's elbow like an apparition. ‘Rubbish,' he said.

‘Pardon me?' Gerald said.

‘Are you finished with your breakfast, sir, or should I take it to the rubbish?' Fry said, his face as immovable as porcelain.

‘The corporate jet is being prepared and our in-country agent will meet you at the airport in Delhi,' Mr Prisk said. ‘I have advised him that discretion is paramount. It is vital that you not stand out.'

‘Why's that, Mr Prisk?' Ruby asked.

‘Because, young lady, Gerald is a prime target for kidnappers and extortionists. It will do us no favours if he is seen flouncing about in limousines and the like.'

Sam looked up from his bowl of cereal. ‘I never took you for a flouncer, Gerald.'

Gerald tried to suppress a grin. ‘Oh, I used to flounce something shocking,' he said. ‘But don't worry Mr Prisk, my flouncing days are behind me now.'

Mr Prisk took a deep breath and gazed at the ceiling until the giggling stopped.

‘And
that
is why Mr Fry will be accompanying you,' he said. ‘He is well skilled in martial arts and he'll keep a lid on any childish antics.'

‘Terrific,' Gerald said. ‘Should be quite the holiday then.' He screwed up his face, but he wasn't too concerned about the butler. They'd find a way around Mr Fry.

The trip and the prospect of seeing Alisha Gupta again—in fact, anything that removed the memory of a silver dagger through the throat and a hole in the head—was appealing to Gerald at that moment.

Ruby's voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I didn't know you could do martial arts, Mr Fry.'

There was a sudden crash by the sideboard. They all swung around to find Mr Fry looking down at the shattered remains of a pile of breakfast dishes that he had dropped onto the floor.

‘Oh yes,' Sam said. ‘We're in safe hands.'

That night, after another belly-stretcher of a meal from Mrs Rutherford's kitchen, Gerald lay in cushioned comfort in his bed and stared at the ceiling. The act of digestion was occupying all his energy. His mind drifted to India and what adventures lay there. They were due to leave the next day and a feeling of blissful anticipation tickled at his senses. But soon, he found himself thinking about the Rattigan Club and the contents of the Green Room.

Sir Mason was clearly insane—he'd fallen over the edge of reason, pursuing Gerald's family back through the ages. Well, Gerald thought, Sir Mason was welcome to it. Gerald had survived thirteen years knowing nothing about his family history and he was happy to keep it that way. A holiday with Alisha and her father would take him well clear of whatever Sir Mason Green was up to and erase visions of skulls and daggers and branded foreheads. Gerald reached across and switched off the lamp by his bed.

He let the night wash over him. It was still the height of summer and the sun was not long below the horizon. A last hint of twilight peeked through the windows. Gerald closed his eyes.

The evening was mild and a slight breeze billowed the drapes, jangling the brass rings against the curtain rod. Gerald rolled over and tried to ignore the sound. The rattling continued. He sighed, then swung out of bed and padded across to the window to tie back the curtains. He tried to keep his eyes half closed so he could tumble easily back to sleep. But as he turned to go back to his bed, he froze. His heart lurched in his chest. Standing next to the bed, a long slender blade in his hand, was the unmistakable figure of Sir Mason Green.

Words choked in Gerald's throat. He tried to call out but no sound would come. He stood paralysed.

Sir Mason put a finger to his lips. He traversed the distance between them without making a sound and raised the tip of his sword to Gerald's throat. Gerald felt the steel against his skin.

Green motioned for Gerald to sit on the bed. Gerald was in a daze. He half-stumbled to the mattress, the cool sheets registering against the back of his legs. The man crossed to the door, opened it an inch and peered through the gap, then bolted it shut.

The neatly clipped silver hair and the military bearing were the same as Gerald remembered. But as Green turned and crossed the room, his eyes seemed to bore right into Gerald's brain, right between his eyebrows.

‘You know about the other caskets,' Green declared.

Gerald struggled to reply. ‘You can have them.'

‘Oh, I intend to, Gerald,' he said, his voice light and at ease. ‘But you should be looking for them as well.'

‘Why? Why should I care about them?'

Green laughed. ‘I would have thought your experience with the first casket might have piqued your curiosity.'

Gerald thought back to the diamond casket and the vision he'd endured when Green placed the golden rod across his forehead. That ancient relic obviously had some tremendous power behind it.

‘Don't you want to know?' Green's voice taunted him. ‘Don't you want to know everything?'

Gerald's eyes shifted to the sword in Sir Mason's hand. It was identical to the one that had so nearly taken Sam's life at Beaconsfield. Gerald's heart was pounding. Breathing was becoming difficult.