Trouble and Treasure (#1, Trouble and Treasure Series) Page 3

  Chapter Three

  Amanda Stanton

  I kept running for my life. My heart beat so fast and violently a cold pressure spread through the top of my chest.

  I’d managed to make it down the dark garden path, my bare feet grating against the rough stones and soil as I headed toward the forest below. When I hit it, despite the leaves and sticks and god knows what else on the forest floor, I kept running.

  I hadn’t had any time to think since the moment I’d rolled out of bed and walked downstairs to meet the first of my attackers.

  They were after my globes, like the one I’d been so foolish to sell at the auction house earlier that week.

  When I’d come to my great-uncle’s estate, entrusted by my great aunt to sort through his junk, I’d never expected to find anything valuable. Great-Uncle Stanton had only ever collected junk. From the mountains of yellowed paper in the drawing room, to the boxes of old tattered photos in the lounge room, to the cupboard full of used baked-bean cans, old Great-Uncle Stanton, though a collector, was a collector of rubbish, not treasure.

  That had all changed the Tuesday before last when I’d made my way up to the attic. I could still remember heaving the door open and recoiling from the loud bang as the old wood swung back on its hinges and impacted the floor. A massive cloud of dust spilled toward me, and I almost fell off the ladder from the coughing fit that ensued. When I pulled myself up and onto the floor of the attic, everything had been worth it. All those weeks of going through all that junk, of trawling through the millions of old newspaper clippings, cigarette tins, postcards, stamps, and badges, so yellowed, bent, and rusted with age I had to wash my hands every half hour – all of it had been worth it.

  For there was treasure above. While the majority of the manor, from the bottom floor to the top, was filled with glorified rubbish, the attic was a sight I’d never seen outside of a fancy museum. Statues were pressed up against the side walls. Old urns had toppled on their sides, coins spilling out in a sea of gold. There were fancy desks and seats, covered with leather-bound books and parchment manuscripts.

  On a side wall amongst all this treasure sat a simple desk. On top of the desk were two things: one worn leather notebook and one old hideous spotting globe. Amongst all the wonder that surrounded me, that simple sight caught my attention.

  My old Great-Uncle Stanton had been the black sheep of the family, having left medical school halfway through his degree to take up treasure hunting instead. The rest of the family thought he was mad. They’d also thought, incorrectly, that all his years of traveling and toiling had brought him naught but further insanity.

  The family had been wrong.

  Old Great-Uncle Stanton had an attic full of treasure.

  My great-aunt, Imelda Stanton, the executrix of Great-Uncle Stanton’s will, dealt with the treasure, leaving me to deal with the dregs. Great-Uncle’s Stanton’s will had already gone to probate, all gifts given, and the residue of his belongings were to be sold and split up between the principle beneficiaries named in his will. So old Imelda had been quick in getting the goods removed and sold off. But the dregs? Oh, the dregs had been mine to deal with.

  And that was why I was in this current predicament.

  But I had a plan, and that plan was to continue running.

  Sebastian Shaw

  It was over for tonight, and maybe it was over in general. Despite the fact I would do anything for those globes, my hands were tied, literally. I hadn’t ingratiated myself with my comrades in arms. At the second suggestion I run after Maratova, the boys he’d left behind had got mad, complaining I was drawing attention to them before they’d checked the house for contacts. So they’d done the first thing they could think of: pistol whipped me, tied my hands behind my back with cable, and gaffer taped my mouth. It was genuine military hospitality.

  Though we were meant to be on the same team, technically, I didn’t begrudge them; they wanted those globes as much as I did, maybe more. Heck, you could bet that every single well-informed, well-armed guy out there wanted the same thing.

  You couldn’t calculate how much they would be worth, and it would be a world full of fun finding out. Treasure hunting was the grandpappy of fun.

  I hadn’t grown up wanting to be a treasure hunter. I hadn’t seen Indiana Jones as a kid and thought “that right there, that’s the job for me.” Nope, I fell into it.

  Despite the thrills, spills, maps, and gold – treasure hunting also had its downside, and Maratova, boy, was he a downside.

  By the time Maratova came back to the manor, I was sure Amanda would be dragged in by his side, a shaking puddle, tears streaking down her face, feet bloody from running through the forest, and body a bundle of bruises from tripping in every ditch from here to town.

  My expectations were wrong.

  Amanda Stanton

  As I ran, careful to avoid the trees and scrubby undergrowth, I realized I needed something to run toward. The more I heard the frenzied sound of pursuit, the more I realized I couldn’t carry through with my original plan and run for the old country road and into town; they would catch me the moment I hit open ground.

  I couldn’t hope to outrun them – I needed a place to hide.

  So I veered off, remembering that down an old glade was a storm pipe. It wasn’t massive, not like in Jurassic Park; it couldn’t fit a van in there or anything, but it was big enough for me to crawl through on my hands and knees.

  I reached it, managed to fit inside, hands shaking, body convulsing, heart a roar in my ears. And there I waited.

  For those short moments, or minutes, or hours – for I’d lost track of time – I’d never felt so much fear in my life. It was like some horror film where I waited alone, my attackers descending upon me from all sides, my escape routes blocked, my advantage lost, and my life probably to follow.

  As I rode out the fear, hands so sweaty as they pressed against the dirt and leaves underneath me that I would have to bathe for a week to get the marks out, the sound of pursuit passed.

  Somehow I’d managed to get away. That or my attackers were of the particular cruel variety and were standing outside of the pipe ready to catch me in a sack, or however it is you kidnap maidens in distress these days.

  Eventually, I realized I was indeed alone.

  I stood there, back pressed against the storm drain, mouth open without the ability to close it, for god knows how long. I was still waiting for every criminal in the country to round the corner or jump out of the trees, all shouting that they wanted to see my goods, antiques, or old and valuable items.

  When the attackers didn’t come and I realized how cold I was, I urged myself to move. One step after the next, I gathered speed until my bloodied feet sprinted along the forest floor once more.

  I had to be careful. I didn’t want to flee from the forest only to find a major road; in my mind every satellite in the country, every machine that could fly, and every guy who’d never listened to his mother and had become a murderous thug, were all trained or milling about on those open roads, ready to catch me the moment I nipped out from the forest. So I decided I had to keep to the forest as long as I could, or at least keep out of sight.

  The section of woods I was in led behind several of the old country manors in the district, and I realized, teeth chattering with the cold, that if I kept to the path and tried to navigate from the lay of the land, I could head to old Elizabeth Brown’s house. Elizabeth had been a good friend of my great-uncle, a woman of considerable eccentricity herself, but with better taste and less used tins of baked beans in the pantry. When I’d been a child, I’d visited my great-uncle on many occasions, and had grown to know Elizabeth and remembered her fondly. Since I’d been at my great-uncle’s manor dealing with the estate, I’d been to Elizabeth’s several times for tea, and she’d always said to pop in whenever I was around.

  I was about to take her up on her invitation. I hoped I wouldn’t be bringing along a truckload of mercenaries and bad
guys to the tea table though.

  Somehow I kept my footing as I navigated in the dark. Though it was a full moon, it was hard for the silvery light to penetrate the thick canopy above. I managed to make my way, as quietly as I could, as carefully as I dared. I soon realized I was at the back of Elizabeth’s property.

  As I climbed the hill that led to the back of Elizabeth’s well-appointed manor, hot tears began to streak down my face. Though I’d been through everything a woman shouldn’t have to go through in her pajamas in one night, I hadn’t cried before, or at least not like this. Now the tears came, flowing, collecting along my chin and streaking down my throat, making the top of my pajamas wet. I couldn’t stop them, not that I wanted to try.

  Just like that – in a bedraggled, damp, shaking, tear-and-mud streaked fashion – I knocked wildly on the back door of Elizabeth’s house.

  It was some time before she came to the door, and during all of it, wild flights of paranoia wheeled around my mind. I wondered whether every bad guy from my manor had somehow gotten here first and was about to play a wicked game of Red Riding Hood with me: dressing up in Elizabeth’s hideous floral pajamas and slippers with curlers in their hair and a gun tucked behind their hot-water bottle. Or, you know, dashing out with a gun in hand and a balaclava on their head.

  When Elizabeth opened the door, I lost it. I crumpled to my knees, tears so fast it must have looked as if I’d stood under a waterfall.

  Elizabeth didn’t shrink from me; despite her eccentricities, she was a level-headed woman. The first thing she did was pick me up, looking me up and down for signs of injury as she ushered me inside, closing the door and locking it firmly behind her.

  She pulled out a seat from the kitchen bench, manhandled me into it, stood at the other side of the bench and looked at me directly, a kindly but serious look on her face.

  “Well then, girl, you better tell me what’s going on.”

  It was some time before I could speak, and I wiped wildly at my wet and dirty cheeks with the sleeves of my pajamas, doing nothing but mixing the muck around. I gave a heavy sigh. “You aren’t going to believe any of this, but my house… I… there were mercenaries in my house. There was a robber at my door. There was a helicopter on my lawn… there was a lawyer in my kitchen,” for some reason I chose to end on the most benign point.

  Elizabeth didn’t burst into laughter, and nor did she call the local hospital to get them to send down a psychiatric assessment squad. She walked over to the kitchen door and pulled down the blind that looked out at her backyard.

  “I see,” she said, voice even. “Sounds as if you’ve had an adventure.” She offered a wan smile and headed directly to the kettle opposite and turned it on. She pulled two brightly colored mugs from one of her cupboards and set them down.

  I sat perched on the edge of the kitchen stool, clutching the fine silk cushion as I tried not to fall off, the sheer fright of the night catching up with me.

  Had I been robbed, or nearly robbed, by criminals, burglars, and soldiers? Or was this all a dream?

  “I think you’ll need two sugars in your tea,” Elizabeth said as she tipped the sugar jar into my mug, “Perhaps three.”

  “I…” I had no idea how to make any sense of it all.

  “The first thing you need to do,” Elizabeth sat the tea down in front of me, turned the handle toward me, and waited with a stern look until I reached for it and clutched it to my chest, “Is to drink tea. The next thing to do is to take several deep and long breaths, have a sugary cookie, and tell me what happened – from the beginning.”

  “Shouldn’t…” I hesitated, “I don’t know, call the police?”

  Elizabeth waved a hand at me. “Darling, you never call the police until you have called a lawyer first. Trust me, you’ll be safe here tonight, and I’ll call my lawyer in the morning. No, you must get all this off your chest,” Elizabeth gesticulated and took a deep breath like an enthusiastic drama teacher, “Then you need to have a shower, and then you are going to go straight to bed.”

  I narrowed my eyes, tasting a welcoming sip of tea. I thought calling the police was a better idea… but what if it wasn’t? Those men from the helicopter had looked official. I’d seen enough movies to know the police weren’t always the good guys. I knew it sounded paranoid; I didn’t care in my current state. I was so full of adrenaline and suppressed fear that the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. No matter how old you are, there’s always safety in a blanket.

  Maybe Elizabeth was right; maybe a lawyer would know what to do. At least then there would be more people involved in this, whatever this was. Having a lawyer onside surely couldn’t hurt.

  At the thought of how much trouble I was in, I shuddered, sucked in a hearty draft of my tea, and tried not to cry.

  Elizabeth waited until I could speak, handing me a tissue.

  I didn’t question whether sitting in her kitchen was safe. My pursuers could still be after me. Yet I felt safe. Or, more likely, so strung out I couldn’t think straight.

  I spilled the beans. I told Elizabeth all about finding those globes in my great-uncle’s attic. I even told her all about the treasure up there with them. Elizabeth, bless her eccentric soul, barely shrugged at the mention of treasure two houses down. The only comment she could muster was it must have been colorful. As if color was the most interesting fact about a hoard of gold, diamonds, and pearls.

  I continued to tell Elizabeth that Imelda had left me the task of selling off the dregs of Alfred’s collection. In a stroke of what I now labeled idiocy, I’d googled the spotting globe. It hadn’t taken long to realize they could go for a tidy sum. I’d played with the idea of snapping some photos and putting it up for auction on eBay, but that’s when I realized I still had the contact for the auction house my great-aunt often used.

  I’d enthusiastically arranged to see the head of the auction house. The poor man, realizing who my great-aunt was, had thought that I was going to sell something fantastically expensive. When I brought the globe to him with a stupid grin on my face, he’d been disappointed. He agreed to the auction anyway, possibly out of allegiance to my great-aunt.

  And that there had been the worst mistake of my life. I should have stayed at my old great-uncle’s manor, clearing out his estate, spending my nights tucked in the library, a small fire in the hearth as I read through my great-uncle’s exciting journals. But oh no, I’d put that globe up for sale. I even went to the auction in person, where I made my greatest mistake of all.

  I didn’t bat an eyelid when the auctioneer called me, a spike of excitement in his voice. There was considerable interest in my item; a record number of people ringing ahead to ensure there would be space at the auction and that the item hadn’t already been sold.

  I did bat an eyelid when the bidding shot through the roof. The asking price was a touch over £100. In the space of precisely one minute that sum rose to £200,000. People were clamoring so much they were standing, some on top of their seats as they shouted to be heard, their hands waving up in wide arcs as they drew the price higher and higher.

  I stood off to the side of the room. When the price reached £15 million, I staggered. Others in the audience were still willing to bid, some rising to their feet in anger as the auction hammer went down.

  It seemed there’d be a riot.

  Before I could run from the room in shock, I was approached by a man in a fine cream linen suit. He must have known I was the owner, because he bypassed the auctioneer, large brown eyes locking on mine, a large smile spreading his lips. “I will offer you £50 million for the item.”

  £50 million? Though I came from a well-off family and I had a trust fund, this was insane.

  Rather than squeak at the man that I would talk to the auctioneer to see whether the auction could continue, I blurted out the dumbest thing I ever had in my entire life. Shaking, I tilted my head to the side, pulled my lips back in a supremely awkward grin and blurted, “
But there are four more.”

  There were four more, four more spotting globes from my great-uncle’s collection. Well, technically.

  The auction house that seconds before had been ready to explode became still and cold like the depths of space. You could have dropped a snowflake and heard it hit the ground.

  “I see,” was all the man had said.

  And that right there had started this all. All that business with burglars in my hallway, mercenaries in my drawing-room, lawyers on my lawn, and soldiers in my kitchen; it was then and there it had begun.

  Elizabeth sent me to bed in short fashion, insisting I brush my teeth on account of how much sugar I’d consumed. It was a surreal experience to be ordered to clean my teeth before bed, barely an hour after being chased through a forest by soldiers with guns.

  Yet as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep, and I didn’t wake until morning.