[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (16 page)

Mrs. Smithers poured herself a glass of barley water as she replied dutifully to her irate husband. “Yes, dear, would you like some barley water? It's nice and cool.”

Claret slopped onto the tablecloth as he poured more from the decanter. “Barley water, bah! Can't abide the filthy stuff. Look out, here's that harum-scarum of mine.”

Wilf entered from the lawn by the French windows, red-faced and breathing heavily. He plunked himself down in the chair Maud had vacated. Taking the gammon ham slices from her plate, he slathered them with mustard and crammed them between two pieces of bread. His mother lectured him as he tore at the sandwich.

“Oh, Wilfred, you haven't washed your hands and you're late for lunch again. Leave that salad alone, it was Miss Bowe's. I'll tell Hetty to bring you a fresh plate. Dearie me, just look at you—”

Smithers interrupted his wife brusquely. “Oh, leave the lad alone, Clarissa. Stop fussin' an' faffin' about him! Now then, you young rip, got enough to eat there, eh?”

Wilf grumbled through a mouthful of ham sandwich. “Could do with some lemonade an' a piece of cake.”

Mrs. Smithers got up from the table. “I'll go and fetch them.”

Her husband called out as she left the room. “No need for you to go, what'm I payin' servants for?”

She paid him no heed and made her way to the pantry.

Smithers poured himself more claret. “Huh, women!”

He leaned close to his son and nudged him, lowering his voice confidentially.

“So then, what've you been up to, you and that gang of yours?”

Wilf wiped mustard from his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. He knew it was better to speak of victories than defeats to his father. “Just livening things up in the village. Gave old Evans a bad time. I heard him say he'd be glad to get back to Wales.”

Mrs. Smithers came in bearing a glass of lemonade and a plate of sliced sultana cake and was making as if to sit down when Obadiah stared pointedly at her.

“Finished your lunch, m'dear?”

She understood immediately that he wanted to be alone with Wilf. “Yes, dear, I'll go along and give Cook the menu for dinner this evening. Do you think Miss Bowe likes roast beef?”

Obadiah snorted. “Who gives a fig what she likes. She'll get what she's given in my house, and be thankful for it!”

Mrs. Smithers nodded and left the room.

Obadiah watched his son swigging lemonade and stuffing cake. “Never mind Evans and the rest. I've got them well under control. Mrs. Winn's the fly in the ointment—have you and your friends been 'round to her house lately? I need her out of there.”

Wilf stopped eating and gnawed at a hangnail. “There's a lad always hanging 'round with her. He's got a black dog with him, big, vicious thing. Makes it hard to do anything with them around, but I'll try.”

His father's face hardened, he grabbed Wilf's arm tight. “I've seen them. Listen, don't let the dog bother you. The moment it bites you or your pals, let me know. I'll get the constable to round it up and have it destroyed. I'm surprised at you, though, Wilf. That boy is half a head shorter than you and a lot lighter. Big fellow like you should be able to whale the livin' daylights out of him, that'd teach him a lesson. You're not scared of him, are you, son?”

Wilf's face grew even redder. “Me, scared of that shrimp? Huh!”

His father smiled. “Good boy, just like me when I was your age. You find a way to get him on his own and give him a good thrashin'. Don't let up if he cries, show him who's boss. Will y'do that for me, eh?”

Fired by his father's words, Wilf nodded vigorously. “I'll do it, all right. I owe that one a few good punches!”

Obadiah released his son's arm. Digging into his vest pocket, he produced an assortment of silver coins and gave them to him. “Here, buy your friends some toffee and tell them to keep old Ma Winn on her toes.”

Wilf jammed two slices of sultana cake together and took a bite. He ruled the Grange Gang with an iron fist, not toffee, and he would keep the money. “Thanks, Dad, I will,” he lied.

MRS. WINN TOOK A KEY FROM A JUG ON the kitchen shelf. “Let's take a look at the captain's room, Ben.”

Ned's ears rose slightly. “I'd better come with you, a good bloodhound may be required to search the room.”

Ben tugged his dog's ear lightly. “You're no bloodhound, Ned.”

The Labrador sniffed airily. “I should hope not—great, mournful-looking lollopers, that lot. But you know I'm pretty good at sniffing things out, so come on, my old shipmate!”

Ben helped Mrs. Winn to negotiate the stairs, trying not to show his impatience at her lack of speed. He told himself that he, too, would be old one day, then caught Ned's thoughtful observation. “Will you? When'll that be?”

The door was a heavy mahogany one, shining from layers of dark varnish, with brass trimmings.

Mrs. Winn gave the key to Ben. As he fitted it into the lock, he gave an involuntary shiver. Images of the sea welled up in his mind, ships, waves, wind, thrumming sails. He pictured himself and Ned long, long ago, locked in the galley of the
Flying Dutchman,
whilst outside, Vanderdecken murdered the seaman Vogel by shooting him. Then Mrs. Winn's hand was on his arm, breaking the spell.

“Ben, are you all right, boy?”

Reality flooded back, and he straightened up, turning the key. “I'm fine, Miz Winn. It was the lock, bit stiff I think. There, that's got it. Ladies first!”

It was a proper old seafarer's room, all shipshape and Bristol fashion, as the saying goes. Captain Winn had been a meticulous man, always storing things tidily. Framed certificates and merit awards, alongside pictures of various ships, carefully posed crews, and the captain himself depicted with groups of his numerous friends, hung in even lines on the walls. There was a brass-railed table, which had once graced a ship's cabin. On it stood a sextant and a globe.

In a corner a polished shell case stood, serving as a receptacle for some rolled-up charts and a couple of walking canes with carved heads. A rolltop desk took up most of another corner. Beside it were two sea chests. One was a beautiful example of carved Burmese teak, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and custard-colored ebony. The other was a plain, black, naval-issue, officer's steamer case, with the name “Captain Rodney Winn. R.N.” neatly painted on it in white enamel.

Mrs. Winn had to remove some interesting specimens of conch and nautilus shells from the top of the desk before she could open it. From a tiny drawer she took two keys, one plain and serviceable, the other very ornate, with a red silk tassel hanging from it. She unlocked the two chests, handing over the keys to Ben.

“All the captain's personal papers are in the desk and these two boxes. When you finish up here, make sure you lock everything up and put the keys back, Ben. I don't want to rummage through all this. Too many memories. Far too many ghosts for someone of my age. Hmm, I'll have to come up here tomorrow and have a good dust around. Captain Winn couldn't abide dust, hated it! Oh, would you like to see something, lad? Take a look at this.”

She opened a wall cupboard, which was actually a built-in wardrobe. All the captain's uniforms, from ceremonial dress to everyday duty, were hung from a rail. Below, on shelves, his accoutrements were displayed—white gloves, cotton and wool for different climates, leather ones for formal occasions. Various ties, cravats and bows, medals bars, ribbons, stars, and other decorations were placed with care alongside gold-braid sleeve bands. Most of all, Ben admired a magnificent Royal Navy captain's sword and sheath, complete with gold tassels. He turned to comment on it to Mrs. Winn, but she had gone.

Ned's thought confirmed this. “She's gone downstairs, looking rather sad, too. What a good woman. Wouldn't it be nice if we could stay here for good, Ben. You remember that saying, there's no place like home. I'm beginning to realize what it means. I really like it here.”

The lad sat down on the carpet, next to his friend, and stroked beneath his chin as he passed back a wistful thought. “I know what you mean, pal, but you know as well as I do, when the time comes to move on we've no option but to go.”

They sat in silence for a moment, imagining what it would be like if they were ordinary mortals, growing older, growing up, staying in one place, living a normal life.

The big Lab broke the spell by butting Ben in the stomach and playfully knocking him flat on his back. “Come on, shipmate, aren't we supposed to be helping Miz Winn save her home and land by searching the room for clues?”

Ben opened the captain's chest. “This looks as good a place to start as any.”

The Royal Navy chest was literally crammed with old dispatches, charts, and long-out-of-date yellowed newspapers, all in careful order.

Ben flipped through them, Ned watching him rather impatiently. “Anything of value there, Ben?”

The boy looked up from his task. “Not really, it's all like a record of Captain Winn's career, admiralty orders, sea blockade plans, and these newspapers. Look, 1854, war declared against Russia by Britain and France. September fourteenth, the Allied armies landing in the Crimea, the siege of Sevastopol. It goes on and on, British history, right through the Indian Mutiny, up to Africa and the Zulu wars in the late 1870s. No family history here that would help us. Let's have a look at this fancy trunk.”

He opened the carved chest. This looked more interesting at first glance, it had a fragrance of flowers, rose and lilac. Fine, dark red tissue paper separated the contents. Ben unpacked it and found a Chinese dragon-embroidered gown, bundles of letters tied with blue silk ribbon, a huge family Bible, a child's crayon drawings of landscapes and people, signed laboriously with the name James Winn, and photographs, some in cardboard frames bordered by hearts and doves.

Ben spread these on the carpet and studied them. “Hmm, what a handsome couple. Young Lieutenant Winn and his fiancée, Winifred, taken on the seafront at Brighton. Some wedding photographs, a picture of this house with Miz Winn standing in the garden. Here's another of them both with a baby carriage that must have been taken when their son Jim was born. Winnie wasn't joking when she said there were lots of memories here. What d'you think, Ned?”

The Labrador turned over a packet of letters with his nose. “Shall we take a look at these? There's lots of 'em.”

Ben shook his head. “No, they're love letters from when the captain and Winnie were courting. We don't want to pry into personal things like that. They're far too private.” He set the letters to one side. “Well, I think we'd better take a look in the desk. There doesn't seem to be anything that can help us here.”

Ned gazed reprovingly at his friend. “Except the Bible!”

Ben did not catch his dog's drift for a moment. “The Bible?”

The Labrador placed his paw on the volume. “Aye, Ben, the good book—every family should have one. Good for the spirit, a great source of scripture, and usually a book where family records are kept.” Sometimes Ned's knowledge of things was as surprising as his own.

Ben needed both hands to lift the huge Moroccan leather-bound family heirloom. “Of course! The family Bible. Good old Ned!”

The dog stretched out and yawned. “Good old Ned indeed, where'd you be without me?”

The boy placed the hefty tome upon the desk, smiling fondly at the big black dog. “Probably drowned off Cape Horn!”

It was a magnificent Bible, with a stained silver clasp holding it shut, faded gold-edged pages, and woven silk place markers. Ben dusted off the cover with his sleeve, undid the clasp, and opened the ancient volume. On the inside cover was a hand-sketched angel, bearing a scroll written in gothic script.

“This Bible belongs to the Lord and the family of Winn. Blessed are those who trust in the Lord and live by His word.”

Ben leafed carefully through the yellowed pages. Apart from beautiful illuminated verse headings and several colorful illustrations, there was nothing out of the ordinary. At the back of the book, he discovered a number of pages, some blank and others filled in by different hands over the centuries. Details recorded of births, deaths, and marriages provided an almost complete lineage of the Winns for several hundred years.

Ben read some of the details aloud.

“Listen to this, Ned. ‘Edmond De Winn wedded to Evelyn Crowley. 1655. Lord deliver us from the plague of Black Death. 1665. A son, christened Charles in honor of our King. 1669. A daughter christened Eleanor.' It says here that Edmond fathered more daughters, Winefride, Charity, Gwendoline, and three others.