October (8 page)

Rathbone’s footsteps softly crunched down the gravel path. I was almost enjoying this. I hoped his guilty conscience was spooking him in this silent and solemn place. Behind me in the mausoleum
lay the bones and ashes of my family, but I wasn’t frightened of the dead. It was the living who were endangering me.

I pressed up against the mausoleum wall. I was calm and determined, my torch in my hand, imagining the courage of Captain Piers Ormond flowing in my bloodstream.

Within the darkness of the footpath a thin beam of light shone. Rathbone’s stooped silhouette
followed
behind it. With hesitant steps he emerged from the shadows and waved his torch over the tombstones and vaults, searching for the one titled ‘Ormond’.

Once he spotted it, he slowly made his way closer until he was standing a metre or so from the steps that led up to the mausoleum door. I jumped down, deliberately scaring him.

He jumped back with a gasp.

‘Mr Rathbone,’ I said as he recovered himself. I shone my torch on him and saw an anxious man with dark circles under his eyes, flustered and afraid. He blinked and shielded his eyes with his hand. ‘You have the will?’ I asked.

He cleared his throat. ‘What about the photos?’

‘The will,’ I insisted.

He tucked his torch under his arm and took
something from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said.

I shone the torch on the document he had given me. On the front page I read in old-fashioned writing: ‘Last Will & Testament of PIERS ORMOND, Gent. Regimental No. 1589 17
^th
Battalion Imperial Forces. 15
^th
September, 1914’.

This was it! The will I’d been after for so long!

I stepped back, pocketing it safely.

‘The photos?’ he asked.

‘Last time you promised me this document it almost cost me my life.’

‘What?’ he asked, appearing confused. He straightened up. ‘Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with that? How dare you suggest I had anything to do with an attempt on your life!’

‘You’re the one who set up the meeting at your brother’s funeral parlour,’ I reminded him. ‘I came, just like you asked—’

‘It was not my fault the meeting went awry,’ he said. ‘The photos,’ he hurried on, changing the subject. ‘You have the will, now what about the—’

A night bird shrieked, making Rathbone jump again.

‘You will never see the photos again and
neither
will anyone else,’ I said. ‘As long as you cause no further trouble to me.’

Rathbone’s shoulders seemed to lower and relax on hearing this—his life and reputation
weren’t going to be ruined after all. He shook his head at me and turned to walk away.

A few steps up the path, he stopped and turned back. ‘You don’t know what you’re up against, boy. You’re just one kid, alone. My client is rich and powerful. What do you think you can do with that will?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ I said, cringing at the thought of Oriana, thinking her wealth and power gave her the right to other people’s property.

‘I’m telling you this for your own good. You’re in over your head. Whatever you think you’re doing, you’re never going to get away with it.’

‘I’m not trying to get away with anything,’ I said. ‘I just want the truth.’

I heard him snort with contempt. ‘There’s no such thing as the truth,’ he snapped. ‘There are only opportunities, and the right moments to seize them.’

‘My dad taught me differently,’ I said. ‘The truth will come out. It doesn’t belong to
your client
.’

‘Your father is dead. Why don’t you give up and leave the Ormond Singularity to the people who are in a position to pursue it? Back out of this and you’ll be left alone.’ He took a step closer, speaking now in a softer, friendlier tone. ‘I could make it worth your while—organise financing
so that you could disappear and change your identity…’

‘What a joke! I’ve already had to do that! There’s no way I’m backing out! And unless your client is the
firstborn male
descended from a very particular family tree,’ I pointed out, ‘she has no right to it.’

‘How can you talk about rights?’ sneered Rathbone. ‘You’re just a pathetic, fugitive kid. A deadbeat criminal on the run. It’s too late for you to start sounding like a boy scout. Don’t you understand? You
have
no rights! But you can still save your life. Tell me you’re backing out of this crazy dream of yours, and I can pass that on to my client. You want to live, don’t you?’

I lunged forward and Rathbone backed away, suspicious.

‘I believe that truth is something far more incredible than money and thuggery. It’s power! Getting to the truth of the Ormond Singularity is my assignment. It was given to me by my family—handed on by my dad. There’s no way I’m giving up. So pass that on to your client.’

Rathbone was silent.

‘Get out of here!’ I shouted.

Rathbone just stood there, unmoving.

‘Go on, get out!’ My shadow loomed over him like a huge wave about to fall.

‘You’re a fool,’ he said, turning and walking away. ‘They’ll get you next time,’ he called back before disappearing up the path.

14 OCTOBER

79 days to go …

My friends sat silently at the table with me while I ran my eyes over Piers Ormond’s will.

I skipped some of it because it was written in old-fashioned language. There were lots of
numbered
clauses about ‘devising and bequeathing jewellery and possessions’, as well as allocating a chestnut mare, Wilhelmina, to a foreman. I scanned impatiently until I finally came to the clause that I was looking for.

‘Here’s the bit about the Ormond Singularity,’ I said.

‘Go on, read it out,’ urged Winter.

‘Translation, please?’ I asked, putting the page down. ‘Boges? Winter? Anybody?’

‘There’s a double solar eclipse this year!’ said Boges, nodding. ‘Dude, everything points to this year! He’s talking about this year!’

‘The crazy guy you met on New Year’s Eve was right,’ Winter added. ‘The paperwork you found ages ago at Oriana’s was right. It’s all counting down to December 31st. This December 31st.’ She shifted up onto her knees and leaned over to read through the will again. ‘So the Ormond
Singularity can be handed down in a wi11, like it’s something physical.’

‘Exactly,’ said Boges. ‘Then if the person who inherits it is unable to claim what it offers—unable to work out the mystery of what the Ormond
Singularity
actually is, in their time—they have to hand it down to the next generation, to the next firstborn male.’

‘Just like the family tree indicated,’ I added. ‘So all of my predecessors have failed to claim it, and now it’s up to me. I have until December 31st to figure it all out. And then what? What happens at the end of the year?’

‘Here, check this out,’ said Winter.

‘If you don’t uncover what it is,’ said Winter, ‘it’s up to the Crown to work out. And if they don’t know what they’re searching for, it could all just crumble away.’

I stood up, frustrated. ‘We still don’t know what the Ormond Singularity means. What are we trying to uncover? What if we go to all this trouble only to find out it’s nothing valuable, just some old piece of writing?’

‘Don’t be so impatient!’ Winter said. ‘Property and money—that’s what wills are all about. My parents,’ she paused, her voice wavering, ‘left all their property and most of their money to Vulkan Sligo. On the proviso that he look after me.’

‘She’s right,’ said Boges. ‘Property and money. “Lands and deeds, entitlements, patents of nobility, gifts and treasures, and sundries”,’ he quoted. ‘Your dad did say to you in his letter that you might have to get used to the idea of being seriously rich.’

I nodded to my friends. ‘But we only have a couple more months to work it all out. Or we lose the lot. It goes to “the Crown”. This is our last chance to keep it in the Ormond family. We have to get the Riddle and the Jewel back. We have to get into Zürich Bank.’ I looked to Boges, hopefully.

‘The print is almost ready,’ he said, pausing to yawn. ‘Give me another couple of days.’

17 OCTOBER

76 days to go …

Sheldrake Rathbone was out of the way, so we’d been focusing all of our energy on Oriana and our bank bust. This morning Boges had called to tell me he’d perfected the fingerprint, which was awesome news, but we still had a lot to work out before we could try using it. We still needed to successfully make it in and out. And, above all, we needed Oriana’s PIN.

Winter and I were sharing surveillance shifts. Yesterday, Winter had posted herself at the bank, watching how people went in and out. If a client wanted to access the bank vaults, she watched how they paused at the scanner, pressing their fingerprint, waiting the few seconds until the physical barrier—two strong steel doors—released and they were allowed through.

It was during my surveillance shift that the
dark blue Mercedes pulled up outside the bank. I scuttled over the road with Boges’s bike and watched from the park opposite. Oriana clawed her way out of the passenger seat, stood up, adjusted her white suit jacket, and smoothed down her skirt. Her flame of red hair was high, as usual, and her outfit was questionable, but immaculate. Her purple glasses sat atop her superior nose. Cyril the Sumo—who was looking rounder than ever—bounded over to her and walked beside her up the stairs and through the automatic glass doors of Zürich Bank. How she walked in those high heels, I had no idea.

I padlocked the bike and helmet and crossed the road. Keeping my face turned away from the security cameras, I followed her into the bank, pretending to take an interest in the pamphlets on student accounts. I swiftly pulled out my phone, switched on the video mode, and pressed record.

Carefully I filmed her, capturing her
movements
and her style. Once inside the bank’s double glass doors, she swept straight over to the
biometric
scanner, pressed her forefinger over the sensitive area, barely waiting for the steel doors to open before disappearing through them. She didn’t pause once to take off her sunglasses.

In only a couple of minutes, Oriana and Sumo reappeared in the bank foyer, talking with a clerk.
Oriana’s voice was so loud and intense, it was like she was commanding everyone’s attention.

I quickly pocketed my phone, ducked out the front doors and down the stairs, then across the road to my bike. I unlocked it, jumped on and started pedalling, heading for the corner. I was half-steering, half-pulling my helmet on when I collided with someone.

Down we crashed—me, the bike and the guy, as well as the three cardboard boxes he was carrying. The boxes spilled open and scattered their contents everywhere.

I twisted my legs out of the pedals and on all fours I began gathering up the stuff that had spilled—magazines, buttons, key rings …

‘Sorry, sir,’ I began, ‘I didn’t see you coming.’

‘You!’ he grizzled. ‘I knew I’d
bump
into you again somewhere! Haven’t you done enough
damage
to my property already?’

I looked up the skinny legs and folded arms in a too-short green suit, to find two big possum eyes staring into mine.

‘Repro! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you!’

I pulled my helmet off and quickly gathered up the rest of the bits and pieces that were strewn all over the footpath.

‘I thought I was rid of you,’ he said, as I stacked up the last of his boxes. ‘And here you are, popping
up again, or should I say, crashing into my world again! Quick,’ he said, practically dragging me around the next corner and down an alley.

‘How are you?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Where have you been staying?’

He shook his head at me and let out a big, frustrated sigh. He heaped two of the boxes on the front of my bike, so that he was left with just one in his own arms. ‘Follow me.’

Repro’s new place was like an oversized, abandoned shed. It was less than ideal. For a start, there was no way to hide the front door and there were dozens of gaps in the roof and holes in the walls. I noticed the photo of his mother was hanging from a nail in the cracked wall. Her half smile seemed strangely familiar.

‘You can’t go on living here,’ I said. ‘This place must leak every time it rains. All your papers and journals would turn into papier-mâché.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, this is only temporary,’ he said. ‘It took me ages to clear away the
rock-fall
at my old place, just so I could get back in and collect my stuff. I have another lair lined up, I’m just using this for storage,’ he said,
looking
around the place with his wiry hands on his hips. ‘I could do with some help with the move.
I was just sitting here this morning, wondering how in the world I was going to manage
shifting
everything from here to my new place. It’s funny,’ he said, ‘how help sometimes lands, quite literally, in your lap!’

I smiled, wishing he could also help me solve my problems.

‘Because of the bluecoats and other nasty types, like those little thugs who trashed my collection and tied us up,’ continued Repro, ‘it’s best to make the move to
the cavern
at night.’ He looked at me as though he were waiting for an answer.

I knew I owed Repro. Big time. ‘Of course I can help you,’ I said.
The cavern
sounded interesting.

We moved as Repro wished, under cover of night, using narrow old shafts and tunnels. I followed him with a heavy-duty torch, carting and hoisting boxes of his collection up and down a near-
impossible
path.

We finally stopped at a place where a tunnel widened out into a low-roofed cavern. Beyond the reach of our lights was blackness, darker than the darkest night. I had no idea what lay beyond, and didn’t have much time to think about it—as soon as we laid our loads on the ground, Repro dusted off his hands and led us off again to fetch more.

It took us countless exhausting trips,
hauling
his remaining belongings, his dismantled bookshelves, the artworks, all the stuff that he’d collected over the decades. We retraced our steps through the tunnels, emerging in the cavern, and then back to the shed for yet more of his stuff.

Finally, after lowering the last of the cartons down the shaft to where the rest of the collection was piled up in the cavern, Repro stopped. He stood his torch upright on the ground and sat on one of the boxes. I joined him, exhausted and relieved the job was done. We listened to the distant rumble of the trains through the rocks around us, and shivered in the chill of the air.

Once the rumbling passed, I became aware of the sound of dripping water. Plink, plink, plink … I picked up my torch and approached the
pitch-black
end of the cavern. What was beyond there, I wondered? More tunnels? A honeycomb of other, smaller caves? This place was more private for Repro than the shed, but it still wasn’t what I
imagined
for his new home. It was too vast, too open.

‘Take my torch, too,’ said Repro, tossing it to me. ‘You may as well check out the next part of the job.’

‘
The next part?
’ I asked, looking around at
the huge pile of stuff we had just moved over the last few hours.

‘The night is young and we’re already halfway.’

‘Halfway!’ I said, almost choking. Was this guy for real? Where were we headed, the centre of the earth?

I took the torch from him and went where he pointed, to the place where the blackness spread beyond us. I held the two torches high and they penetrated the inky wall of darkness.

‘Oh man!’ I gasped, shocked and amazed.

Close beside me, Repro chuckled. ‘You didn’t think you’d be going boating tonight did you?’

I stood gaping at what lay ahead. Black and rippling in the torchlight, beneath a continuation of the cavernous roof, stretched an endless
underground
lake. Stalactites from the ceiling dripped water onto its placid surface, making wide ripples in the water. A few metres to my right, on the shore of this amazing underground sea, a small wooden boat barely rocked.

‘Come on. Don’t just stand there like a galah. Give us a hand to load up the boat.’