Gold cups and plates glinted in the light. Jewelled bracelets, necklaces and rings flashed with colour. Golden statues peeped out from their wrappings. And in the centre of it all, in a padded box, they even glimpsed a golden skull.
The gleaming gold bathed their faces in shimmering yellow light.
‘So all that gold is REAL?’ asked Ben, his eyes as wide as saucers.
‘Oh yes, love,’ said his mum. ‘Pure gold.’
‘Twenty-four carat,’ said Lovely Susan.
‘Yes, and look at those perfect sapphires, emeralds and rubies,’ added Daisy, her big nose inches from the crates. ‘They’re flawless.’
‘Gosh!’ said Mrs Pole, impressed. ‘You are clever girls, aren’t you? Just wait until you see the Mummy’s Crown! It is the star of the show! It will take your breath away, but it’s still packed up just now. You’ll have to come back to see it in the exhibition. You’re quite right though, Daisy. The gems are perfect. The treasure must be worth—’
‘Three hundred and sixty-nine million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand, four hundred and sixty-nine pounds and twenty-seven pence,’ said Professor Pickering. ‘Give or take,’ he added, sidling up to Mrs Pole.
‘A treasure so valuable must be awfully well protected,’ he said casually, slipping a camera from his pocket and taking a few snaps.
‘Oh crikey, absolutely!’ said Mrs Pole.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Daisy, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It’s so pretty.’
‘Don’t worry, love. It’s safe and sound. Let’s see, firstly, all the doors and windows are locked up tight at night. Then there are all the cameras to spot any burglars, and there are alarms too. The doors to the Treasure Chamber are made of three-inch-thick steel and have auto-lock timers. And, of course,’ said Mrs Pole, puffing out her chest, ‘there’s me. I’m more than a match for any pesky burglar.’
‘No one’s going to get past you, Mum,’ said Ben proudly.
‘Thanks, love,’ said Mrs Pole. ‘I’m not worried. I mean, who’d want to steal the treasure anyway? Apparently it’s cursed.’
‘So they say. Now THAT would make a good project for your club,’ said Mrs Pole. ‘You can look it up in one of your books. Ben is fascinated by curses, ghosts and all that stuff.’ She smiled at Professor Pickering, rolling her eyes. ‘Boys will be boys.’
‘That’s a smashing idea,’ said Professor Pickering. ‘Something to think about for next term, eh girls? Right! Come along then,’ he said briskly, clapping his hands together. ‘Time to go, I think. Ben will want to be off home for his tea and I’m sure Mrs Pole has plenty to be getting on with. So, girls, what do you say to the dear lady?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pole,’ they said all together, bobbing with wobbly curtsies.
‘You’re welcome.’ Mrs Pole beamed. ‘And please come again, won’t you?’
‘Oh, we will, Mrs Pole,’ oozed Professor Pickering as they waved goodbye. ‘We will. Cheerio, Ben, my boy, see you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ben snapped awake.
‘NOW what?’ he groaned, dragging himself out of bed. He pulled on his dressing gown and plodded downstairs.
Ben’s nose twitched with the now familiar smell of burnt breakfast wafting from the kitchen.
‘DAD? IS THAT YOU?’ he shouted, pressing his fingers into his ears to block out the noise.
Mr Pole was standing on a stool and whacking the shrieking smoke alarm with a broom.
‘JUST PRESS THE RED BUTTON,’ yelled Ben, wafting the back door open and closed to clear the smoke, ‘TO TURN IT OFF!’
‘WHAT D’YOU SAY?’ boomed Mr Pole, giving up on the broom and wrenching the smoke alarm down from the ceiling. It warbled weakly in his hands and sputtered into silence.
‘Never mind,’ said Ben.
‘Mum made me put in fresh batteries,’ said Mr Pole, holding up the alarm.
‘On breakfast duty again then?’ said Ben, peering cautiously at the blackened pan on the stove. The green smoke didn’t fill him with confidence.
‘Yup!’ grinned his dad proudly. ‘It’s PORRIDGE this morning!’
Mr Pole’s porridge was the kind of porridge that would be perfect if you needed something to dam up a river, or stick heavy tiles to a roof on a windy day, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a boy ought to be eating for breakfast. It was so gluey that Ben spent the first half of the school day with his jaws firmly stuck together. He couldn’t utter a sound. In his chemistry lesson, he even got a gold star from Mrs Haversack for sitting quietly because he was the only boy to not make loud farty noises during her slideshow about gases.
Ben couldn’t even manage lunch, and spent the afternoon picking the last globs of porridge from between his back teeth with the tip of a pencil.
But Ben was happy.
The weekend was just around the corner and that morning his dad had cheerfully agreed to let him skip History Club and sleep over at Coo’s place, so he’d soon be back in the woods tucking into some delicious grub beside a roaring fire. Ben’s stomach gurgled joyfully at the thought of it.
After his last lesson of the day, Ben trotted over to Mr Travis’s classroom to see Professor Pickering and excuse himself from History Club.
When he got there the room was empty, so Ben let himself in and scrawled a quick note to leave on the professor’s desk.
His empty stomach burbled loudly, and suddenly all Ben could think of was Professor Pickering’s chocolate biscuits.
The professor was so generous, thought Ben, he wouldn’t mind if Ben took just one, would he? Ben’s eyes were drawn to the storeroom door in the back wall. He probably kept them in there, he thought, his stomach gurgling again.
Before he knew it, he had slipped through the door and was searching the little room. He had just grabbed a packet of Double-Chocolate Crumblies from a top shelf when he heard the classroom door creak open and several feet shuffle in.
Ben froze. He suddenly felt terribly guilty. What
