The Mask of Destiny (3 page)

‘Come on, Dad,' Gerald Wilkins said. ‘Let's get inside.'

‘GERALD!'

The crowd was hyped to explode.

The posters declaring undying love were consigned to the muck on the footpath, trampled beneath a herd of hormonal teenagers, reared on a diet of celebrity and gossip magazines. The photographers, who had held their line by the barriers, were pushed aside. Stepladders toppled and lenses smashed under foot. Screams of ‘GERALD!'—and just plain screams—filled the courtyard. For a second the boy glanced up. He gave a half-hearted wave. It was enough to ratchet the hysteria to another level. A police horse reared at the shrill cries that burst from the mob. But the moment the boy crossed the threshold, and a police constable stepped out to pull the wooden doors shut, disappointment fell over the crowd.

The show was over.

The photographers, reporters and hyperventilating teens drifted away until all that remained were two girls. One nudged the other.

They leaned glum-faced against the metal railings amid a mush of crumpled cardboard and flowers.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘Let's get something to eat.'

The other girl nodded. A tear rolled down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away.

A long wooden table ran down the centre of the waiting room. A dozen mismatched chairs were arranged around its sides. The fug of furniture polish hung stagnant in the air.

Gerald claimed a spot near the door. Ruby and her brother Sam pulled out a chair each and sat either side of him. Gerald's mother headed straight to the far end of the room, to a battered urn.

She wrenched off the lid and peered inside. ‘This water's none too hot,' she said with a sniff. ‘And I don't fancy it's been cleaned anytime recently. I can't see why they wouldn't let Mr Fry come with us—he'd get a decent cup of tea out of this thing.' She dropped the lid back into place and wiped her fingers on a paper napkin.

‘You can't have a butler with you all the time, dear.' Gerald's father squeezed past his wife and pulled down a packet of Archer-brand teabags from a shelf. ‘You managed well enough without him for most of your life.'

Vi looked down at the chair at the head of the table and let out a sharp
ahem
. Ruby and Sam's father rushed across to pull it out.

‘Thank you, Mr Valentine,' she said. ‘Most gentlemanly of you.' She squeezed her bottom into place as if taking up residence in Windsor Castle. Then she raised a stockinged foot onto the tabletop and put her shoes back on. ‘The point is, Eddie,' Vi said to her husband, ‘we have a butler now, and it seems a shameful waste not to be able to use him. Especially in frightful circumstances such as these.'

Eddie ignored his wife and dangled two teabags into a pot. ‘Cuppa for you?' he asked Mr Valentine. ‘Milk? Sugar?'

‘I just hope it doesn't take all day,' Vi declared, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘I have several important appointments this afternoon. And there's Walter to consider.'

Eddie placed a mug in front of his wife. ‘I'm sure the hairdresser won't mind if you're late. And as for Walter—'

Vi held up her index finger in warning.

‘Don't you dare,' she said. ‘I have had enough of your negative energy. You are having a serious impact on my emotional scaffolding. You know how important Walter is to my blueprint of enhanced health.'

Eddie poured tea into another mug. ‘Pfft,' he muttered. ‘Blueprint of wasted wealth, more like.'

At the other end of the table Gerald sucked in a deep breath. His parents had only returned from their holiday the week before and already he was wishing they'd leave for their next one.

Ruby leaned across and whispered, ‘Who's Walter?'

‘Please—don't ask about Walter,' Gerald said. He gazed down the length of the room as his mother continued to scold Eddie. ‘You don't want to know.'

Sam reached over, took a ginger nut biscuit from a plate in front of Gerald and took a bite. ‘You've had a fun week then?' he said.

Gerald cupped his chin in his hands. ‘You have no idea.'

Just then the door to the waiting room opened. A small man dressed in a suit a size too large stepped inside.

‘Ah, Mr Prisk!' Vi boomed, startling the man. ‘How much longer are we to wait? I don't fancy paying your fees by the hour if it's going to take all day.' She turned to Mr Valentine and gave him a wink. ‘Lawyers, Mr Valentine. A pox on them all, I say.'

Mr Prisk fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘They've just started,' he said. ‘You'd better come through.'

Vi pushed back on her chair and stood up. ‘About time,' she said. ‘Walter will be anxious if I'm late.'

They followed Mr Prisk along a dimly lit hallway and gathered in a foyer before a large set of double doors. Vi ignored Gerald's protests as she straightened his tie and patted down a tuft of hair.

‘Best behaviour,' she said to him. ‘Right?'

Gerald made a point of ruffling the back of his head as they went through the doors and into courtroom number one of the Old Bailey.

The trial was already underway.

Gerald followed Mr Prisk's directions and joined the others in the front row of the public gallery. The scene before him was straight from an old courtroom movie. A judge in red robes and a white wig sat at the bench, peering down at the prosecution counsel to one side and the defence counsel to the other. A jury of seven men and five women watched on as a barrister in a black gown stood up at the prosecution table.

‘The Crown calls the defendant to the stand.'

Every eye in the court moved to the dock. A silver-haired man, dressed in a navy blue suit and regimental tie, rose to his feet and stepped down from the raised wooden enclosure, then crossed the short distance to the witness box. He turned and fixed a firm gaze to the barrister.

The prosecutor straightened a pile of papers on his desk. ‘For the record,' he said, ‘please state your full name.'

The man in the witness box stared out at the court, as if searching for a friend in a crowd. His eyes passed across the jury, journeyed beyond the table of lawyers, cleared the packed press gallery and came to rest on the face of Gerald Wilkins. Then the man smiled.

‘My name,' he said in a voice of clear authority, ‘is Sir Mason Hercules Green.'

Chapter 2

P
rosecuting counsel Garfield Callaghan QC was fast losing his patience. He had spent the previous hour questioning Sir Mason Green about his movements on the night Geraldine Archer was murdered. But he was getting no closer to the answer that he wanted.

‘Sir Mason,' Mr Callaghan said with exasperation, ‘may I remind you of the gravity of the charges before you? Murder. Attempted murder. Conspiracy to murder. These are not trifling matters.'

He was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, followed by the clipped tones of the defence counsel. ‘My Lord, my learned colleague is surely aware that Sir Mason is attending these proceedings voluntarily. He surrendered himself to the authorities and is here to clear his name of these baseless accusations. There is not a scrap of evidence to tie him to these crimes other than the overactive imaginations of three juveniles—and there is considerable doubt as to whether their evidence will be admissible. It hardly seems in order that the Crown be badgering my client in this way.'

‘Thank you, Mr Elks,' the judge said, leaning back to adjust his robes. ‘You have made that point several times. Perhaps we could allow the prosecution to continue. Proceed, Mr Callaghan.'

Mr Callaghan glared at Sir Mason.

‘I put it to you that you ordered the murder of Miss Geraldine Archer, that you attempted to murder her great nephew Gerald Wilkins and his friend Sam Valentine and that you indeed did murder one Sunil Khan, an itinerant vendor of Delhi, India.'

Before Sir Mason could open his mouth, his counsel was back on his feet. ‘My Lord, are we now to hear accusations regarding events that may have occurred in other countries? Is the Crown's case that weak? I would argue that the charges before my client be dismissed at once.'

‘Thank you, Mr Elks,' the judge said. ‘You have saved me the effort of reminding the prosecuting counsel to restrict himself to the matters that are before this court. The jury is to disregard the matter of Mr Khan.'

Mr Callaghan closed his eyes. He appeared to be counting to ten. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘As ever, your Lordship is quite right.'

‘He is also quite hungry. This might be an appropriate time to break. Members of the jury, we shall reconvene after luncheon at, let's say, two thirty.'

The twelve jury members followed the usher from the court. Most of them stared at Gerald as they filed out, keen to get a good look at the richest thirteen-year-old on the planet. Sam tapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Looks like you're the centre of attention,' he said. ‘Again.'

Gerald's face burned. He hated it when people paid him any attention. He looked up to find that Sir Mason Green, still seated in the witness box, was staring at him with laser intensity. Their eyes locked. And Green's lip curled in a malignant smile.

‘Come along, Gerald.' It was Inspector Parrott from the London Metropolitan Police. He moved across to block the view of the man who had become Gerald's waking nightmare. ‘Let's get something to eat.'

Gerald prodded a fork at the reheated lasagna on his plate, failing to make any impression on it.

‘You going to finish that?' Sam was eyeing off Gerald's barely touched lunch.

Gerald slid the plate across the cafeteria table. ‘Help yourself.' He took a sip on a straw that poked from the can of lemonade by his elbow. ‘I don't get it,' Gerald said. ‘Why is Green looking so pleased with himself? He's guilty as all get out.'

‘Maybe,' Ruby said. ‘But when you think about it, he didn't actually kill your great aunt. The thin man did that.'

‘On Green's orders though,' Sam said, through a mouthful of mince and cheese.

‘The thin man's dead,' Ruby said. She flicked a sprig of parsley from her sleeve and sent a look of disgust to her brother. ‘He's not giving any evidence.'

‘But Green tried to kill Sam and me in the cavern under Beaconsfield,' Gerald said. ‘We're all witnesses to that.'

‘The word of a thirteen-year-old against one of England's most respected business leaders? Who do you think the jury is going to believe?'

‘Why wouldn't they believe me?' Gerald said.

Ruby let out a weary sigh. ‘Because, Gerald,' she said, ‘everyone in Britain hates you.'

‘Hates me?'

‘Because of the money. It's like you're the biggest lottery winner in the history of all history. Everyone wants to be as rich as you. It's envy.'

Gerald's shoulders slumped. ‘But what about all those girls outside? They seemed to like me.'

Sam took a long sip of his drink. ‘And the number of times you were mobbed by screaming girls before you inherited all that money was how many?'