The Briefcase

N.B. This story was written according to the Macquarie/Oxford English dictionaries, using Australian/British terminology.

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Alex held her breath as she carried the bulging garbage bag to the bin on the kerb. She dumped her pungent parcel inside and let the lid fall shut. Exhaling heavily, she breathed in the clean night air.

She allowed her eyes to drift to the house down the street. Not so much a house as a mansion, dwarfing its neighbours in size and grandeur. She’d always loved it. Victorian; boasting dormer windows, ornate trim work, three turrets and a veranda which wrapped itself around two-thirds of the magnificent building. The only thing wrong with it, in Alex’s view, was its name: Vermont House. How ugly!

Alex had visited once, as a child, but had only vague memories of it now. She remembered Abby, a little girl her own age. They’d become friends at Kindergarten after discovering their birthdays were exactly one month apart. Abby was an orphan. Her parents had died in a head-on collision with another car. Abby had survived the accident and her grandmother, the crotchety old recluse still residing in the mansion, took her in.

The old woman had always frightened Alex, even though she hadn’t done anything to inspire such terror. Alex had been invited to the house for Abby’s seventh birthday party. She'd been thrilled, though nervous, to finally see inside the place. She remembered a magnificent staircase and shiny wooden floors. They'd had cinnamon cookies, lemon soda and chocolate-cherry cake. The grandmother, Mrs Croft, had sat in the far corner of the room, overlooking the children’s games. Alex hadn’t enjoyed being watched, but Abby didn’t seem to mind.

Not long after the birthday party, tragedy struck the family a second time. Abby was playing outside when her ball bounced across the road. She didn’t see the car before it hit her. Now, Mrs Croft lived alone, and rumour had it she’d grown even stranger and more reclusive since the death of her granddaughter – her last surviving relative, so it was said. Alex said hello whenever she saw her, which was rare, and had helped her carry her bags home a few times.

Alex sighed and straightened. At 21, it had been many years since she’d thought about Abby. She wondered how old Mrs Croft was these days – living all alone in that great house. She must be past 90 now. Alex took one more glance, turning to go back inside – and suddenly stopped. Something shining across the road had caught her eye. Alex squinted but couldn’t make it out.

Curiosity tugging her, she crossed the quiet street and approached the dark object. It was a briefcase, lying under a tree. Alex frowned. Why would someone leave this here?

It was an ordinary-looking briefcase, and Alex now saw what had attracted her notice: the golden clasps on top had caught a hint of streetlight stealing through the branches. Kneeling down, she gripped both clasps and pulled, but they remained locked in place. She now noticed writing on the side of the case, but the words were invisible in the street light. Alex looked around. A dog barked in the distance, but no-one was in sight.

She debated whether or not she should leave it, but curiosity won. Feeling somewhat rash, she gripped the briefcase’s handle and ran back across the road. Walking around to the backdoor, lest her parents see her carrying the mystery case, she slipped inside.

She entered her bedroom, switching on the light and locking the door. Ensuring the blinds were shut, Alex sat down on her bed and held the briefcase upright. She could now read the words, handwritten in white ink:

My darling girl was a pretty thing,

With tresses yellow as corn;

My world was filled with shadows and dust

'Till the day when she was born.

My darling girl was the sweetest thing,

Innocent, kind and pure;

My world was golden, happy and bright

'Till the day she was no more.

How strange! Alex read the verses again but could make no sense of them. She turned the case over, searching for other clues.

There! In a corner, stamped in faded gold letters, was a name: Mrs A. Croft.

Mrs Croft! Could Mrs Croft have left this? Alex wondered. It seemed so unlikely. Why on earth would cantankerous old Mrs Croft write a riddle on a briefcase and leave it out on the street? It made no sense.

And yet, if this was left by Mrs Croft, surely there was only one person this poem could refer to! Alex flipped the case back around and re-read the poem. Abby certainly had had yellow curls and was a sweet-natured little girl. Could these two verses be clues to opening the briefcase?

Alex examined the top of the case: six rotatable numbers sat next to either clasp. She read the poem once more. Perhaps these referred to the dates marking Abby’s life? It seemed to make sense. With a jolt of excitement, Alex realised she knew both. Abby’s birthday had been precisely one month before hers. As for Abby’s death, it had taken place three weeks to the day after her birthday.

Alex remembered this clearly, as her own birthday party the following week had been cancelled. She’d so looked forward to celebrating with Abby at her own party. Instead, that birthday was the grimmest she’d ever had.

Heart beating rather quickly, she entered Abby’s birthdate using the numbers on the left: 20-02-87. She then entered the date of Abby’s death on the opposite side: 13-03-94. Holding her breath, she tried the clasps again. With a satisfying snick, the hinges swung open.

Her heart beating hard now, Alex lifted the lid. Inside were two objects: a small black notebook and a square metal box. A long padlock hung from the box, containing rotatable letters instead of numbers. Alex counted six. She picked up the notebook. It looked new; made of leather and bound by an elastic band. Pulling the elastic aside, she opened it. It was blank, apart from a grid of dots on each page instead of lines. A ribbon bookmarked a page halfway through. Here she found a single line written across both pages:

If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me. What am I?

A riddle! Alex loved riddles. The answer would surely unlock the box – and it had to be six letters long. She re-read the words. What is lost once you share it?

A jolt spasmed through her heart – she knew the answer! Eagerly taking hold of the padlock, she entered the word S-E-C-R-E-T. The padlock clicked open with a tug. Opening the metal box Alex discovered a wad of cash, along with a note. Heart pounding, she picked it up:

Knowledge and ingenuity –

Their own reward? Not so!

Yet though you’ve made it through this far

You’ve still got far to go.

What you hold within your hands

Is rightly yours to take;

Yet this is but a tiny part

Of what there is at stake.

So go where I will lead you now,

Great riches wait for you.

Yet tarry not – at midnight’s toll

Departs the final clue.

Alex felt as though a siren were ringing inside her head. What was she to make of all this? Who leaves a briefcase lying around with free money inside? Was this really the work of elderly Mrs Croft – or did this briefcase just happen to belong to her once? And what about the clue about Abby?

Alex didn’t know how to make sense of any of it. She thumbed through the $100 bills and counted ten. Someone had left $1000 just lying in here, hidden behind a few puzzles. And there was apparently far more waiting. She looked at her alarm clock – it was already eleven o’clock! Turning the note, she saw an address written on the back – it was several suburbs away.

What should she do?

Was this a trap? Should she go to the police? How was this all connected to Mrs Croft? Alex rubbed her temples in consternation as the clock ticked on her bedside table. Minutes passed but Alex didn’t move as she thought hard. Suddenly she looked up. She knew what she had to do.

***

Ten minutes later, she stood outside Mrs Croft’s palatial front gates. Reaching out, she tried the handle and – to her great relief – it opened. Closing it silently, Alex hurried up the drive dividing the magnificent grounds.

She quietly mounted the steps, intending to leave the briefcase and its contents at the front door. The briefcase, at least, appeared to belong to Mrs Croft. Alex didn’t know what this was all about, but she didn’t feel right taking the money.

As she reached the porch she stopped. The front door was open. An unpleasant heat squirmed through Alex’s stomach. She approached the entrance but saw nothing in the dark, cavernous hall.

She cleared her throat. “Mrs Croft?” she called feebly. She tried again, louder.

All was silent. Alex then noticed a dim light from a doorway – across from the huge staircase that seemed unchanged since childhood. Tiptoeing towards it, she pushed open the door and found herself in a large, ornate lounge room – the same room Abby’s birthday party had taken place in. The light was emanating from a small cupboard on a shelf above an enormous fireplace. She walked slowly towards it. Placing the briefcase quietly on the floor, she reached out and opened the cupboard wide.

Alex gaped. Inside, lit by a tiny bulb, were multiple neatly-stacked piles of banknotes. Pinned to them was another note:

You chose well.

The sum of $20,000 is yours.

“Well done,” whispered a voice. Alex later estimated she must have jumped a foot in the air at hearing this, as a piercing shriek fled her throat. Snatching back her hand, she turned and saw her – Mrs Croft. The old woman clapped her hands over her ears and muttered, “oh, dear!”

“Mrs Croft!” Alex exclaimed. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know you were here. I called out before but no-one answered. I came to return this briefcase when I saw…” her voice petered out as Mrs Croft held up her hands for silence.

“I know, dear. It’s alright. I was expecting you.”

“Expecting me?”

“Yes, dear. It was I who left the briefcase, hoping you’d find it. I left those clues and the money inside.”

Seeing Alex’s incredulous stare, the old lady shook her head. “Let me be direct,” she said. “I don’t have long for this world. I have no living relatives, no dependents, and I intend to leave my worldly possessions to someone who really deserves them. This was a test, my dear. I’ve never forgotten your friendship with my Abby, or your kindness to me since then.”

Alex felt as if her brain had jammed. Trying to make sense of everything she said, “but – why me? You could leave your money to anyone – to charity…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve left plenty to charity; but to answer your question, I want my inheritor to be honest above all. You could’ve chosen to chase after the rest of that money – instead you came here.”

“What would have happened if I’d gone to the address you left?”

“You’d have ended up at a closed grocer’s – empty-handed, except for the $1000” she answered with a wry grin. “In a safe part of town, of course.”

“But – anyone might have found that briefcase.”

“Ah, but I know you take the garbage out every fortnight. I’ve lived here for many years, remember, and I see a lot.”

Alex felt a strange fluttering in her chest. “Mrs Croft – all that money… I really can’t accept – it wouldn’t be right.”

“Yes, it is, and yes you will,” Mrs Croft answered kindly, before her eyes saddened. “I was estranged from my son for many years, you know, not long after Abby was born. A silly argument,” Mrs Croft shook her head.

“She was named for me – Abigail. I’d only seen her a few times before she became mine. She was the spark of life that lit my world. A brief spark,” she added, with a humourless laugh. Her eyes sought Alex’s. “There are so few truly honest people in this world, Alexandra. I may be an eccentric old woman, but I reserve the right to do what I like with what is mine.”

“Including all this money?” Alex gestured to the open cupboard.

“Yes. This house and all its possessions are yours upon my death, including the $20,000. I’m speaking to my lawyers in the morning.”

Alex’s eyes lit up. “This house?”

Mrs Croft smiled. “You like it, do you?”

“Like it? I’ve always loved it!”

“Good! Then let’s shake on it.” She approached Alex with her hand outstretched. As Alex hesitated, Mrs Croft sighed and said, “it’s what Abby would have wanted.”

She still hesitated. “Are you really sure?”

Mrs Croft’s eyes had a steely glint in them. “I am.”

Alex reached out her hand.

***

Eight months later, Alex stood at the front entrance of the mansion, looking with satisfaction at the shiny new nameplate which hung there: Abby’s Place.

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