The Mask of Destiny (8 page)

There were pirates dancing with harem girls; an astronaut was jiving on a table with a nun; a bishop was screaming ‘Louie Louie' into the microphone on the bandstand. Gangsters, vampires, a bandage-wrapped mummy, kings and queens—all prancing and prowling in a melee of colour and sound.

And in the middle of it all stood a stout penguin, a glass of champagne in one wing and the other whooping tight circles above her head. The man dressed as a French cavalry officer by her side was dancing as close as he could, the golden braid on his jacket catching the light from the giant mirror ball suspended from the ceiling.

‘Is that Inspector Parrott over there?' Ruby asked as she climbed out of the dumb waiter onto the ballroom floor. Gerald and Sam followed.

‘What? In the zombie get up?' Sam said.

‘And I think that's Constable Lethbridge.'

‘Where?'

‘The giant pigeon.'

Gerald shook his head. ‘Mum invited him as a thanks for all that guard duty, but I didn't think he'd show up. At least not dressed as a pigeon.'

Then Sam and Ruby screamed—a high-pitched stereo shriek that pierced Gerald's brain. A large man in a kilt, his face painted a vibrant blue and his red beard flared out like he'd been electrocuted, had leapt in front of them, his features contorted in rage. ‘
Death to all
Sassenachs!
'

It took a few seconds for the ringing in Gerald's ears to fade.

‘Professor McElderry,' he said to the blue-faced highlander. ‘I didn't know you were coming.'

The professor gave Gerald a wink and raised a full glass. ‘Never miss a good knees-up,' he said. ‘You never know when it might be your last. Still,' he took a long draught, ‘wish they'd told me it was fancy dress.'

‘Oh,' said Sam, ‘didn't you know?'

McElderry blinked at Sam, as if he wasn't sure what he was seeing. ‘Have I ever mentioned that you might well be the stupidest boy in the world?'

Gerald smiled. ‘Well, it looks like you're having fun,' he shouted to McElderry above the booming racket of the ballroom. ‘Who's that dressed as a bishop and singing with the band?'

The professor glanced over his shoulder. On the other side of the room, a tall man dressed in white robes with a golden mitre askew on his head was belting out the chorus to ‘River Deep, Mountain High'.

‘That is the bishop,' McElderry said. ‘He really didn't know it was fancy dress. Not a bad voice. All those years in the choir, I expect. Look, I'm glad I caught up with you. I've had a call from my friend at the Vatican library in Rome—you remember him.'

Gerald nodded. The professor's friend had made the connection between Gerald's family seal and an ancient Roman emperor.

‘He's been doing some more reading into your very interesting family, Gerald,' the professor said. An explosion sounded over McElderry's right shoulder. Gerald caught sight of a penguin lopping off the top of a champagne bottle with a French cavalry sword.

Gerald let out a long breath. ‘It gets more interesting, does it?'

‘Oh yes,' Professor McElderry said. ‘And on both sides as well. Did you know that your mother's ancestors believed the family would one day produce someone special?'

‘Special?'

‘Yep. The progeny. Can you believe—'

The professor's words were drowned out by a shriek of ‘Gerald!' A pink-faced penguin was advancing on them.

‘Gotta go, professor! But let's talk later, okay?' Gerald said.

Gerald rolled back into the dumb waiter. Sam and Ruby followed him. Sam fumbled with the button panel.

The professor reached into a pocket and said, ‘I've got something for—' but the door slid shut, cutting him off. The dumb waiter moved down, and the blare of the party faded behind them.

‘Your mum seems to be having a good time,' Ruby said to Gerald.

‘Yeah. She specialises in that.'

‘I didn't see your dad,' Sam said. ‘What's he dressed as?'

Gerald stared at the wall. ‘I can't remember.'

‘You can't remember?'

‘That's right,' Gerald said. ‘I can not remember.'

The door slid open and the three of them tumbled out of the dumb waiter onto the kitchen floor.

Mrs Rutherford looked up from the table. ‘You took your time,' she said. ‘I've been battling to keep Mr Fry away from this lot.' She whipped a tea towel off a platter of steaming sausage rolls, pies and pasties.

‘Go on,' she said to Sam. ‘Don't hold back. There's no bad manners in a working kitchen.'

Sam didn't hesitate. He snatched up a sausage roll and bit into the pastry, sending a shower of flakes down the front of his shirt.

‘Mmmph,' he mumbled. ‘Del-ish-us.'

Mrs Rutherford piled a small basket with a selection of pastries and handed it to Ruby.

‘Here,' she said. ‘A little picnic for you. Fancy thinking people would want to eat parsley and sheep's bits.'

Gerald thanked Mrs Rutherford and tried not to laugh at the sight of Mr Fry laying a clean white handkerchief across his lap before nibbling on a piecrust.

‘Come on,' Gerald said to Sam and Ruby, ‘let's take this back to my room.'

The lift stopped on the fourth floor and they were halfway up the hallway towards Gerald's bedroom when they saw her. The woman was dressed in a black cat suit, complete with triangular ears on her head and a mask covering her eyes. She was at the end of the corridor, one slender leg out the window and about to step onto the neighbour's roof.

Gerald couldn't understand it. What was a party guest doing climbing out a window?

But then his eyes caught a flash of red in the woman's hand. A corner of leather poked from her clenched fist. The jewellery roll from his bedroom. The ruby!

‘What are you doing?' It was all Gerald could think to say.

The woman glanced down at the leather pouch in her hand and shoved it inside a pocket.

‘I thought you might be otherwise detained, Gerald,' she said, in rounded tones. ‘This changes things a tad.'

Gerald baulked. How did she know his name? And what did she mean ‘otherwise detained'? Then he saw a glint of silver in her hand. Something shiny. Something sharp.

Without warning, the woman flung out her fist. In the blur of movement, Gerald sensed something coming at him, fast. He dived to the wall, crunching hard into the flocked velvet wallpaper. A dart shot past his ear, missing him by millimetres. Gerald slid to the floor and took a second to recover from the impact. ‘She's got the ruby,' he called out.

Sam lunged for the woman, but she was already out the window. Gerald joined Sam at the sill and caught a glimpse of the woman, slinking around a chimney pot and away into the night.

‘She moves like a cat, too,' Sam said.

Gerald rubbed his shoulder where it had hit the wall. ‘She must have come in with the other guests,' he said.

Ruby's voice came from back in the hallway. ‘You two need to see this.' She was standing by a potted palm tree. As they watched, the deep green of the trunk turned a mottled grey, then it sagged to the floor. Ruby pointed to its base, out of which stuck a silver fountain pen.

‘Somehow, I don't think that was dipped in ink,' she said.

Sam went to pluck out the pen but his sister pulled his hand away. ‘Wasn't Inspector Parrott downstairs? I think we need to get him. Now.'

Gerald stared at the tree—it looked like it had been gassed. ‘Wait on,' he said. ‘I want to check something.' He raced down the hall to his bedroom and came out a second later, carrying his beaten backpack.

‘The drawing of the castle is still here,' he said. ‘The ruby is the only thing missing.'

‘How would anyone know you had it?' Ruby said.

‘Beats me. But she somehow knew where to look. Let's go get the inspector.'

Gerald jabbed at the lift button, glared at the still-closed doors, then made for the stairs. They rounded the landing to the third floor, and were about to launch down the final dozen stairs to the second floor when Gerald skidded to a stop. Sam and Ruby piled into the back of him.

Gerald gazed down, surprised to see his mother in her penguin outfit standing outside the closed doors to the ballroom. Walter was close by and they were talking with two uniformed police officers. For a second, Gerald thought they were party guests. But by the look on his mother's face, he knew something was wrong.

Vi caught sight of the movement on the stairs and turned her head. ‘Oh, Gerald,' she said, her distress showing through her penguin make-up.

‘Mum?' Gerald said. ‘What is it?'

Vi put out a hand and leaned on Walter for support. ‘The police,' she began. ‘They want to talk to you.'

‘What about?' Gerald's gut tensed.

The taller of the police took a step forward. His expression was as hard as granite.

‘It's more than just a chat,' he said.

Vi sniffed back a tear. ‘Oh, Gerald,' she sobbed. ‘They are going to charge you with the murder of Sir Mason Green!'

Chapter 6

V
i hung up the phone in the main drawing room and poured herself another glass from the dark green bottle.

‘Mr Prisk is on his way,' she said. ‘Gerald, you are to say nothing until he arrives.'

Gerald sat with Sam and Ruby on a long leather couch, growing more frustrated by the second. The thump of the party sounded through the floor from the ballroom below.

‘This is ridiculous,' Gerald said. He turned to the policeman who was standing by the windows. ‘I keep telling you. You should be looking for the woman who stole the ruby. And how am I supposed to have killed Green anyway? He died of a heart attack in front of a hundred people. You were there, Inspector Parrott. You saw it. Tell him.'

‘I must say I'm surprised by this,' Parrott said, looking as serious as he could while dressed as a blood-splattered zombie. ‘Gerald has always—' Parrott checked himself ‘—has
mostly
been very cooperative with the police in this matter. Constable Lethbridge and I have full faith in him.' Lethbridge, still dressed as a pigeon, went to say something but his voice caught in his throat, and he only managed to make a soft cooing noise. Parrott glared at him, then turned back to the police officer. ‘Exactly what evidence do you have, Inspector Jarvis?' Parrott asked.

The tall policeman clenched his jaw. His voice sounded like he gargled gravel every morning before breakfast. ‘I have received certain information and I am confident Constable Nelson will turn up specific evidence in her search of the young man's bedroom. We are well advanced in our investigation.' He cast a dubious eye over Parrott and Lethbridge. ‘If we need the services of a six-foot-tall budgerigar, I'll give you a call.'

‘Pigeon,' Lethbridge said.

‘What?' Jarvis's moustache bristled like a privet hedge full of rabbits.

‘I'm a pigeon. Not a budgerigar.'

Parrott hissed, ‘That will do, Constable.'

Lethbridge flapped his wings and mumbled to himself. ‘Never a budgerigar…'

Gerald stood up. ‘And while we're wasting time here the thief is getting away with the key to the ruby casket.'

The door to the drawing room opened and a young policewoman entered. She was carrying an evidence bag. Gerald could see that it contained a small plastic tube. ‘It was right where you said it would be,' Constable Nelson said to Inspector Jarvis.

Jarvis's eyes flickered. He took the bag and held it up to Gerald. ‘Do you recognise this?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘It was found in your bedroom closet. I have reason to believe it is part of a blowgun used by you in the assassination of Sir Mason Green.'

‘That's outrageous!' Vi was furious. ‘How can you possibly—'

‘We have forensic evidence that Sir Mason died from a drug-induced heart attack,' Jarvis said. ‘A drug that was administered by a tiny dart to the neck. From the anonymous information I have received, I am confident that DNA testing of this blowgun will reveal that the person who fired that dart, the killer, is none other than you, young man.'

Every eye in the room turned to Gerald.

‘But that's impossible,' Gerald said. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Like I'd try to kill him.'

‘Really?'

The voice made Gerald cringe.

Octavia.

Gerald's cousins had appeared in the doorway.

‘That's not what you and the princess told me,' Octavia said. ‘That was quite a story—about hiring a professional killer to take out the old man.'

Gerald couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘That was just a joke,' he said. ‘Surely you didn't believe—'

A large hand clamped onto Gerald's shoulder.

‘Gerry,' Walter said, beaming down at him. ‘The first step in emotional renovation is to admit that your personal blueprint is flawed. There's no use denying your structural shortcomings if all the evidence points to wood rot in your soul.'