[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (20 page)

Ben nodded sympathetically. “You haven't had it easy working for them, eh, Hetty?”

The maid primped at her lank, mousy hair. “I certainly 'ave not, Master Ben!”

Ben seemed very concerned at the maid's plight. “What'll you do for a job if Smithers carries out his plan and takes over the village for his cement business? Surely you'll be out of house and home, won't you, Hetty?”

She tapped the tabletop with a stick-like finger. “D'you know what Smithers said, 'e said I could live there, in the spare room, an' he'd deduct lodgin' out of me wages. There! What d'you think of that, eh?”

Ben played the gossipy maid like a fish on a line. “So it looks like he's got things well in hand. Does he talk much about the new venture?”

Hetty looked this way and that, as if others were listening in on the conversation, then put a hand to the side of her mouth and dropped her voice to a confidential half-whisper. “Just between me'n you, 'e never stops talkin' about it. Now, I'm not one for gossipin' an' repeatin' things, but you should've 'eard the argument Mr. Smithers an' Maud Bowe 'ad this mornin' over breakfast. It was fearful, I tell you, fearful!”

Mrs. Winn caught the nod from Ben, so she immediately took over his role, leaning forward to Hetty like a conspirator, whilst dismissing the boy. “Er, Ben, perhaps you'd better go and wash up for dinner.” As Ben left the room, he heard Mrs. Winn murmuring to the maid. “Oh, poor Hetty, you look so upset. Tell me all about it, dear.”

 

 

It was seven-thirty that evening. Hetty had departed, taking with her a jar of homemade blackberry jam and Mrs. Winn's condolences for the indignities she was forced to bear under the Smithers regime. Ben was sitting with Ned at his feet, Mrs. Winn with Horatio at hers, all replete after a Sunday dinner of Winnie's roast lamb and vegetables, followed by trifle with fresh cream. Ben waited, containing his curiosity until the old lady was ready to divulge what Hetty Sullivan had told her earlier. Mrs. Winn allowed Horatio to leap up onto her lap, and she stroked him as she related the maid's conversation.

“It's not good news, I'm afraid. Apparently Hetty heard every word. They were shouting and ranting at each other. Smithers is confident of the Chapelvale takeover and kept ignoring Maud's argument that something urgent be done about me. Apparently I'm the fly in their ointment. Smithers reckons the other villagers will fall into line; he can bully them with his legal jargon, compulsory purchase orders, and talk of big-money London investment companies. But he's finding it difficult to push me about—I'm the only one who is resisting him, you see!”

The strange boy's blue eyes showed their admiration of the plucky old lady, and he winked knowingly at her. “And you intend fighting Smithers and the Londoners every inch of the way. Good for you, marm!”

Horatio jumped down from Mrs. Winn's lap. She shook her head wearily. “I don't let others see it, but I'm a bit frightened really. I own this house and I can prove it, but the rest? Oh dear, it's all a bit up in the air. Captain Winn knew more about it than me. What a pity he's not here to help. The almshouse is a big building—it takes up an entire corner of the village square. It was always regarded as belonging to the Winn family, all the village land, too. I just took it for granted. Nobody ever asked me to produce title deeds, or confirmation of ownership. Not until Smithers and his London acquaintances came along. If I want to carry on the fight, I need proper proof of ownership!”

Ben interrupted her. “What else did Hetty tell you she overheard?”

The old lady fiddled with her worn wedding ring. “Well, Maud Bowe told Smithers that they would lose the contract if they don't have me moved out and the almshouse in their possession by the due date. Smithers blustered a bit, but wasn't quite sure how to deal with the problem. Then Maud said that she had friends in London who could take care of me.”

Ben looked questioningly at her. “Friends?”

The old lady looked worried as she continued. “Aye, friends she called them. But Smithers knew what she was talking about. He said that he'd have nothing to do with Maud's plan, said he was a man with a respectable family and high standing in the village, and that he didn't want paid bullies coming here from London!”

This was an unexpected turn of events, though Ben was not surprised at the things big-city business firms would come up with in achieving their aims. He tried not to let his concern show. “Oh, and what are these so-called big-city friends supposed to do?”

The old lady fussed with her apron strings. “Frighten me out of my house, Maud said. Smithers told her that if it came to light, he'd deny all knowledge of the whole thing. But she replied that it was only the same thing he had been trying to do through his bullying son and the gang he has around him. That seemed to shut Smithers up.”

Ben had a question to ask. “When are these ‘big-city friends' supposed to arrive in Chapelvale, Miz Winn?”

She shrugged. “Hetty never said, but she did mention that the minute Wilf arrived home this afternoon, Maud went up to her room to write a letter.”

Ben pondered this for a moment. “Suppose it takes a letter two days to get to London from here. Give it another day for these people to get themselves organized, and say the better part of a day for them to travel up here. Four days. Say sometime next Thursday, late afternoon.”

Mrs. Winn rose and started clearing dishes from the table. “What are we going to do, Ben?”

Gazing out of the window at the glorious summer evening, Ben patted his dog's head. “Leave this to us, Winnie!”

WHEN JONATHAN PRESTON TOOK DOWN the shutters from the almshouse back windows, morning sunlight flooded in. It was nice to have a bit of light and fresh air in the old place, he thought, taking the lamps down from the beam and extinguishing them. A piece of floorboard timber, weighted down by two bricks, stood on the table; he lifted them to one side. The old ship's carpenter smiled with satisfaction at the two pieces of paper he had rejoined skillfully with fish glue and rice paper as a backing. He held it up to the light, looking at the four small holes, murmuring to himself. “Good as new, writing's all joined up proper now.

He gazed at the paper awhile, then put it down, massaging the corners of his eyes with finger and thumb. “Wish I knew what those four little holes mean!”

He was putting the kettle on for tea and cutting some bread and cheese, when Ben's face showed at the window. “Morning, mate. Is it all right to come in? I've brought my friends along.”

Jon straightened up, one hand on the small of his back. “Bring 'em in, lad, by all means!”

Amy and Ned climbed through the windowspace with Ben. Alex followed behind, a touch hesitant. When they were introduced, the old seaman cut up the cheese rinds with his clasp knife, feeding them to the black Labrador and scratching vigorously behind the dog's ears. “This dog o' yours, Ben, he's a fine animal. Aren't you, boy?”

Ned gazed adoringly at the old carpenter, passing a thought to Ben. “What a nice old cove. He certainly knows how to treat a dog. Mmmmmm! Carry on, sir, more to the left, ah, that's it. Best ear scratcher I've met in many a year. Mmmmmm!”

Ben nudged the dog with his foot. “Move over a bit, Ned, you're beating me to death with that tail of yours!” He pointed to the rejoined paper on the table. “You've done a good job there, old friend. Found any more clues or bits of information?”

Jon shook his head. “Nothing, lad, though I was just going to give this place a good cleanup to see what I might come across. Would you and your pals like t'help me?”

Amy rolled up her sleeves. “Right, tell us what to do!”

Sweeping the floor was out of the question. It raised too much dust, but there was lots of old timber needed stacking outside. Ben and Amy passed it out through the window, and Alex and Jon stacked it up against the outside wall. They worked right through until midday, when they stopped to have a small lunch of the old seaman's bread and cheese and a cup of tea. All four sat on the window ledge, surrounded by dust motes, which swirled in the air like tiny golden specks. Jon appeared well satisfied with the job they had done thus far.

“Looks a lot better, don't it. Now that old floorboard plankin' is out of the way, I'll be able to move my table into the corner.”

The younger boy had lost his initial shyness about Jon and pointed to the table. “Look at that table's far leg. You'll either have to fix it or find another one.”

Jon stared at the leg in question, which up until then had been hidden behind a stack of wood. “Aye, so I will, mate—there's a piece of it missin', see. 'Tis balanced on that tin biscuit box. Must've been like that since I arrived here an' I've never noticed it. Let me see, now.”

The old man took the two bricks he had used as weights. Standing on edge atop of one another they were the depth of the tin. “Ben, Alex, hold that table up an' I'll wedge these under.”

It was a heavy table, and the two boys gasped as they held it up. Amy pushed the tin out of the way whilst Jon stuck the bricks in position. “All right, you two, let it down easy, careful now!”

Jon tested the table, it was solid and unmoving. “That's shipshape! Let's take a look at that rusty, old tin box, Amy.”

Amy placed the box on the table. “Feels like there's stuff inside!”

Jon traced the lip of the tin lid. “Rusted tight, hah! Villier's Afternoon Tea Wafers. Some years since I set eyes on them. Only one way to find out what's inside, mates!” Jon had a useful-looking can opener on his clasp knife. He punched it through the corroded metal and began vigorously working it along the edge. The tin was not as weak as it first appeared to be, and the old seaman's opener caused a skreeking noise that made the three young people wince. He stopped only when he had cut down three edges. “Papers!”

Covering his palm with the sleeve edge of his jersey, he wrenched the flap of tin back and shook out the contents onto the table. Immediately the four began sorting through the papers. They were yellowed with age. Amy studied one.

“Old back issues of the
Chapelvale Chronicle
! Look at this one, it's dated 1783. ‘Pitt the Younger becomes British Prime Minister.' ‘American Independence to be recognized. ' ‘Monsieur Montgolfier is to fly in a balloon.' I'll bet Mr. Braithwaite would be interested in these.”

Jon piled them in a stack. He seemed disappointed. “Well, they're of little use to anyone else. Come on, lass, let's take them over to him.”

Being a historian, Mr. Braithwaite was delighted with the find. So eager was he to have the papers that he made a grab at them, knocked them off the library desk, and sent them in a cascade across the parquet floor. “Er, oh dear, er, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Preston. Very, er, clumsy of me, I'm sure!”

But the old carpenter was not listening, he was holding up a square of material which had fallen out from between the folds of one edition of the
Chronicle.
“Look what I've found.”

Alex recognized the thing instantly. “That's a needle-work sampler, like children used to embroider their alphabets on. What does it say?”

Amy knelt by Jon and read aloud the bit she could understand. “ ‘Evelyn De Winn. 1673.' Ben, it was sewn by one of Winnie's family!” The embroidered writing was extremely neat, showing what a clever needlewoman Evelyn De Winn had been, though it was hard to make out the rest of the letters, as a lot of them were strangely archaic, each letter
S
being shaped like an
f.

Mr. Braithwaite was suddenly transformed from a bumbling librarian into a scholar of Old English text. He took up pen and paper excitedly. “Give it here, I'll translate for you. Amelia, sit there and write this down, please!”

There were no “ers,” “ahs,” or other hesitations from Mr. Braithwaite as he dictated in a clear, slow voice to her:

Mr. Braithwaite scratched his fuzzy mane. “Hmm, 1670, a time of persecution for British Catholics and nonconformists. That was when the almshouse ceased to be St. Peter's and the new church was built on the hilltop. They called it the Chapelvale Church, though secretly it was still known to the local Catholics as St. Peter's, hence its present name.”