Brimley Baltimore was the richest man in Little Whimsy. By comparison to the rest of the town, he was wealthy beyond their dreams. He had money coming out of his ears, some claimed. If he coughed, he'd choke on a coin. If he farted, it smelled of gold. Now Brimley didn't know exactly what gold smelled of, as he'd never actually had any close enough to his nose to get a whiff, but he did admit to being quite well off. Being wealthy beyond the dreams of the Whimsy folk didn't really amount to much as their inbred lethargy meant they didn't usually have much to dream about, but that was ok. Brimley more than made up for them.

The Baltimore residence, as Brimley called his house, was spacious and proud. It lay just down the street from the Manor House, home to the current Mayor of Little Whimsy. The two houses were similar in size, but the Baltimore residence (house was far too common a term for such a grand monument to architectural engineering – or some such nonsense) was by far the most impressive. The Manor House had been left to the pleasures of the wind and the rain over the years, mainly due to it remaining empty for around twelve or so years until the mayor decided it was more suited to his haughty position than the little two-up, three-down he'd lived in previously.

In Brimley's case, he'd started with his own simple two-up, three-down that was dwarfed by the Manor, and extended and built and designed and patched until it was a real home to be reckoned with – a habitat with attitude. Seven bedrooms were more than ample for Brimley and his fairly small family, but so what? Four living rooms, three dining rooms and a pantry in a plum tree, the size of Windermere's back garden, might be a little excessive, but what did it matter? If you've got it, flaunt it, that was Brimley Baltimore's philosophy and he lived it to the full.

A glorious fountain in the shape of a hawk diving for a doomed rodent, the water spraying from the back-swept wings to give the illusion of great speed, occupied the front garden. It was ornately surrounded by various brightly coloured plants that blazed in the sunlight, the names of which Brimley couldn't remember and never intended to find out. All the windows of the house were frosted with images of animals and birds many of which no one this side of the Aren Rush's sister river, the Swell, had even heard of. The inspiration for the images came from the journals of Hector Ramsdale, the renowned explorer and shoemaker who had travelled from one end of the world to the other and back again, just to try out the luxuriously comfortable new shoes he'd created.

Doors two men high and at least four wide provided entry into the lavish hall which was dominated by a winding staircase leading into the extensive depths of the upper floor. Every room was of equal splendour - a palace that was as out of place in Little Whimsy as Gemini would be in the top form of Quentin Bopsidy's school.

Brimley wasn't a king, nor was he an earl or even a mayor. He was simply an ordinary Joe who'd chanced upon a little luck. He'd tell you it hadn't changed him. He'd say he was the same man who used to sing in the Town Square for loose change on a Sunday afternoon. He'd assure you he would, if he ever had the time, continue to entertain the children with his puppet shows after school on Wednesdays, just as he did when he was an ordinary Joe, which, of course, he still was. He wasn't conceited, Mr. Brimley Baltimore, he was merely a little misguided. Perhaps, though he'd be loath to admit it, his 'little luck' had gone to his head, just a teensy bit.

Opposite the doorway to the third living room (or the second if you were counting from the other way) was a small, non-descript door. It was the sort of thing you'd walk past without seeing, like a painting that had hung on the wall above the fire for so long, it was part of the background. A memory that you never remembered. It had a round handle, tarnished brass that had the grime and sweat of years worn into it. The door and its handle were about the only remnants of the house that had existed pre-little-luck. A stairway led down on the other side. It spiralled vertically in a tight coil into the darkness below.

On the wall at the foot of the staircase was a hook for a lamp which, when lit, flickered as if the flames were moths trying to escape the confines of the glass. A corridor, low and tight like the stairs, led a short way to a small bare room. A table was the only occupant of the room, and that was there purely to stand the lamp on while busying oneself with the real reason for the 'invisible' door, the tightly wound stairs and the cramped corridor.

Across from the entrance to the room, was a large, heavy steel door hung on massive hinges. It was triple locked with a combination of combination locks and a great stonking padlock that took all Brimley's strength to lift it. Behind this behemoth of a door was a vault. Within the vault, resting leisurely on a cushion that in turn rested upon a stone pedestal, was the source of Brimley Baltimore's fortune.

The door was hanging open. No matter how the hinges were oiled or greased, they always creaked, a sharp, vicious sound in the closeness of the vault and the room. Brimley was standing in front of the pedestal, staring at his treasure, lost in thought. Nowadays, when he wasn't out thinking of different ways to spend, this was where he'd be. Looking without seeing, present in body, but with his mind having wandered off back to when he found it. It was his favourite time – that few moments out of his entire life when he had something new and exciting and magical in his hands. Granted, he still had possession of his prize, but back when he originally found it, well that was special.

'It' was a small black leather purse. 'It' had a worn drawstring that threatened to snap whenever it was pulled. 'It' was basically a bag with a gather at the top and a cord to pull it shut. 'It' was nothing less than that, but it was also so much more.

Brimley had been walking back from the school. It was a Wednesday evening and he had not long finished another successful puppet show. He had introduced a pair of new characters, a cat and its owner, a wizened old woman who couldn't hear very well and kept sneezing – though she insisted she wasn't allergic to cats, and the children had loved them. He was smiling and looking forward to the sausage casserole that would be waiting for him when he arrived home.

It was hot. The sun was a blazing blur in the clear sky and Brimley had taken his ash-hair coat off to cool down. Ash hair was all very well on cooler days, and wasn't so bad on the run up to winter when the temperature could drop like a stone in the river, then splash back up to fool you into thinking it was still the leftovers of summer. For a hot day, however, the fur of the ash was simply too much. Besides, when it got hot, it itched. He was pleased he'd left his puppets at the school for the children to play with, rather than lug the heavy case home in this heat. It was evening. It was meant to be cooler in the evenings, but right now could easily have been noon.

He was nearing his street, from the opposite end to the grand Manor House, and had paused to pick a few wild flowers for Mary, his wife.

"Romance is my middle name," he'd tell her after springing a surprise present or box of chocolates on her.

"Funny," she'd say. "I thought it was Edward."

They'd laugh at their jokes and life would be good and life would be happy.

Brimley didn't see it at first. His hands were almost full with Lilies, Queen Anne's Lace and Black Eyed Susan brimming over his fingers. He plucked a rose as if it were a grey hair from his head – a sharp tug and it was in his hand. The purse was out of sight. It was away beneath a bush that was more thorn than leaf, almost as if it were hiding, or perhaps hidden. Perhaps it had been secreted by an unknown owner.

He thought it was a lump of mud, or a stone lazily sleeping in the summer heat. It wasn't until he was about to stand that he saw that it was neither. He reached in slowly, careful of the barbs on the bush, and pulled it out. It was light, obviously not full. Brimley looked around to see if anyone was nearby that might have dropped the purse. The street was empty. It did, to his credit, occur to him that maybe he should just put it back and walk away. There didn't seem to be much inside, but times were tough and even a few coppers helped keep the wolves from the door and the rain from coming through the roof.

His indecision lasted a few seconds, and then Brimley Baltimore did the one thing that changed his life forever. He stuck his fingers into the closed top of the purse and spread them. The purse opened like a flower in the morning sun, its leaves spreading to let in the hungry bees. He peeked inside. There were a few coins. Not gold – that was too much to expect, but it certainly looked like there wes a piece of silver or two. He tipped them into his palm and nodded to himself. Not bad, he thought. Enough to treat his wife to dinner at Corrigan's, perhaps. He scooped up the flowers from where he'd dropped them to examine the purse then turned and started towards his house, absent-mindedly tossing the purse back into the undergrowth.

Then he stopped. He turned back and looked down to where the purse had landed. It was almost exactly where he had picked it up from, concealed beneath the thorn bush. That wasn't, though, what had stooped Brimley Baltimore in his tracks.

The empty purse had jingled as it landed.

Brimley paused. Brimley frowned. Then, Brimley stooped and picked up the empty purse that was, strangely, no longer empty. It was still open – after all, why close an empty one? It wasn't as if the air was going to fall out. He pocketed the coins he already had and emptied the purse into his palm once more. Again it was a mixture of silver and coppers. Not a great deal, but more than nothing. Brimley bit his lip as he held the leather bag upright again. He shook it. It jingled. Again, he poured its contents into his hand and again it was the same.

Brimley took a deep breath. He was scared, elated and jittery as a jug-a-bug all at the same time. He put the coins in his pocket. His heart was beating faster than a startled horse. Beads of sweat popped out for a run down his forehead. His hands shook slightly. He repeated the sequence – tilt bag up, tilt it down, pour it out – three more times until he thought his trousers would be down to his ankles from the weight in his pockets.

He could scarcely breathe and his throat was dry. He licked his lips and swallowed, making a hard sound like an egg plopping through a small hole. Looking around nervously, he saw he was the only person in sight. Running as fast as he could without the change in his pockets bouncing away along the road or his pants falling down and tripping him up, he hurried home, the magical purse gripped in his hands as if it were the last loaf of bread in a starving world – except Brimley Baltimore didn't think he'd ever starve again.