[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (28 page)

He dropped his eyes and lowered his voice.

“Let them come and do what they've got to do. But no mistakes or failures. I want them in and out of Chapelvale as quick as possible. Understood?”

Maud could not help reveling in her victory. “Jackman Donning and Bowe are an established London company—we don't deal in failures and mistakes. Like some I could mention . . .”

Blood mounted to Smithers's cheeks, and he struggled to control himself. Turning on his heel, he made for the house, replying as he went. “I'll leave it up to you . . . my dear!”

A black cat appeared out of the hedgerow. Purring, it rubbed its flank against Maud's fine-grained, calf-button boots. She shooed it off with a swipe of her book. “Shoo, cat!”

Horatio prowled slowly back through the small gap in the hedge. “Miaow! 'Ratio go home now, Winnie got milk, sardines, purr!”

The black Labrador rose slowly from his hiding place in the shade of some lilacs. “Come on, then, me old furbag, I've heard enough for today. Sardines, ugh, nasty, slimy little fishes, don't know how you can eat the things!”

 

 

Mrs. Winn was taking her afternoon nap in the sitting room. Ben sat outside on the sunny lawn. He unfolded the copy of the poem Amy had given him and began studying it.

Sweat suddenly beaded on his forehead, he felt cold despite the warm summer day. The bell ne'er made a sound . . . carrion crow. . . . Visions and images of death floated about in his mind. Villainous faces marked by evil appeared unbidden, the sounds of seawaves roared in his ears. Long, long ago, Vanderdecken, Petros, Scraggs, Jamil, he saw them all, leering, cursing. But others were there, mingled with the crew of the
Flying Dutchman.
Older, half shadowed, their features showing the wickedness of evil men the world over. Closing his eyes tight, Ben fell back upon the grass, shuddering, feeling the earth move like a rolling ship's deck.

Warm breath and a damp tongue against his cheek brought Ben back from his dreadful trance. “Now then, pal, are you all right?”

Something smooth and silky brushed his hand, and Ben sat up, glad to be back in the normal world. Ned was sitting next to him, he caught sight of Horatio vanishing into the house. Immediately Ben felt better. He hugged the big dog's neck.

“I'm all right now you're here, you old rogue. It just happened, I was reading the poem from the base of the cross, when this awful feeling came over me.”

The Labrador nodded. “
Flying Dutchman
again, eh?”

Ben ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair.

“Yes, it was Vanderdecken and the others, but there were strange faces there, too, frightening ones I'd never seen before. Good job you came and snapped me out of it. I think it was due to reading that poem.”

A bee was taking an interest in Ned's nose, and he swatted at it with his paw. “Then don't read the poem, leave it to the others to solve. They're a pretty brainy lot, 'specially old Mackay and Braithwaite, real knowledge pots those two. Besides, we'll have other things to worry about tomorrow. Bet you'd forgotten about those rough types due to come up from London?”

Ben smote his forehead with an open palm. “Of course, the four men Miss Wot'sername said were arriving Thursday! I've been so busy contending with riddles and dealing with Wilf and his gang, they completely slipped my mind. Have you found out any more about the situation, Ned?”

The black Labrador winked. “Oh yes indeed, I spent a very profitable hour at the back of Smithers's lawn. You should have heard the racket. Mr. Smithers must have lungs of leather. By the way, isn't it time for tea? Come on, I'll tell you later, we've got the rest of the day. At least you won't have to worry about young Wilf anymore.”

Ben followed Ned inside. “What d'you mean about Wilf?”

Ned helped himself to a drink of water from his dish.

“Tell you later, come on, get the kettle on, slice the seed cake. Where's my old lady?”

Ben spread a clean cloth over the table. “Asleep in the sitting room, we'll surprise her with a nice afternoon tea when she wakes. Ned, will you tell Horatio to keep from under my feet?”

Ned shook his head. “No use telling him anything, unless it's about sardines!”

BY NINE O'CLOCK ON THURSDAY MORNing the sun was almost as hot as noon—it was a record summer. Jonathan Preston sat at his workbench, a pencil behind one ear. He stared at the poem and blinked. Stroking his beard, the old ship's carpenter took a sip of tea and bit into a bacon sandwich. Hearing the noise of young people coming in through the back window, he spoke without turning around.

“Aye aye, mates, sun's been up since six, so have I. What time d'you call this to be rollin' up on deck?”

Tearing the crust and bacon rind from his sandwich, he fed it to the black dog who'd gotten to the table before his companions. “Like my breakfast better'n your own, eh, feller!”

Amy perched on the edge of the workbench, where she saw the poem. “Have you solved it yet, Jon? St. Matthew's message?”

The old seaman smiled slyly. “No, not yet. Have any of you?”

Both boys shook their heads. Jon watched Amy drumming her heels against the bench. “Now then, pretty maid, d'you know something you ain't telling us? How did you find out it was St. Matthew's message?”

Her brother sounded rather injured. “Yes, how did you? You never said anything to me!”

Ben gave her a mock severe look. “Nor me!”

The girl plucked the pencil from behind Jon's ear and wagged it at them. “That's because you were asleep, my dear brother, and how could I tell you, Ben, you weren't even there. So I thought I'd keep it a secret 'til we were all together. Now watch this.”

She drew two lines between the words of the first line of the writing on Jon's copy:

“Now, spell out the letters between the two lines, Jon.”

He did as she told him. “M-a-t-t-h-e-w. Matthew! Very clever, Amy, I been staring at this for hours, but I never saw that. How did you come to notice it?”

Amy shrugged airily. “It's called an inclusion—we did it as a word game in school last term. You look for words among words.”

The blue-eyed boy nodded admiringly. “Well done, pal!”

Amy jumped down from the bench. “Not so well, Ben, I couldn't fathom out any more of the puzzle. Could you?”

“No, I had other things to think about, which I'll tell you later. I bet Mr. Braithwaite's managed to solve it.”

Jon tossed the last of his sandwich to Ned. “I went over there earlier, but he didn't seem to be in the library. Maybe he's arrived by now—let's go and see.”

Exiting the almshouse by the front door, they saw the gig with Delia standing patiently in the shafts outside Mr. Mackay's office. Amy ran across to stroke the mare.

“What's Will doing in Mr. Mackay's office this early?”

The door opened partially, and Eileen popped her head around it. “I was about to go'n see if you were up an' about, my dears. Come on in, we're all here!”

Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, and Will were gathered around the desk, and the lawyer greeted the newcomers. “Good morning, friends. Mrs. Drummond was about to go and see if she could locate you. I arrived here early to look up some old survey maps and see if I could throw any light upon our search.

“Mr. Braithwaite and the Drummonds have been helping me. I think we're close to a solution, that's why I was sending for you. By the way, did any of you manage to solve the thing?”

Jon spread his copy on the desk. “Amy did, she figured it was the first Gospelmaker, St. Matthew, whose treasure we're after. But that's as far as any of us got. Look at this first line.”

The librarian inspected the line of words, scratching away at his frizzy hair. “St. Matthew, eh. Well well, good, er, heaven, a simple inclusion. Hmm, and none of us, er, er, noticed it. Very good, Amy, yes, very good, very good!”

Amy could not conceal her impatience. “Mr. Mackay, you said that you were close to a solution. What have you discovered?”

The dapper little solicitor coughed importantly. “First we thought we were looking for a bell—does not the second line say ‘that bell ne'er made a sound'? But if we look at the next line we see that the bell in this case is a mere figure of speech, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud.' This death knell means in reality that something is finished. For instance, we could say, if Caran De Winn's title deeds to Chapelvale are not found, that signals the death knell for the entire village, you see? However, the rhyme does not speak of a place, but of people, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud for those who danced around.' ”

Will could not stop himself from blurting out. “Wait! I remember my ole granddad singin' a song when I was a little boy, something about a villain who ended up dancing around 'neath a gallows tree! Sorry for buttin' in on you, sir.”

Mr. Mackay merely smiled over the top of his nose glasses. “Quite all right, sir. Mr. Braithwaite, would you like to tell them our conclusion?”

Mr. Braithwaite clasped the edges of his scholar's gown. “Indeed, thank you, Mr., er, hmmm. We also have come to that same gallows tree. We put emphasis on the word ‘those,' er, yes, ‘for those who danced around.' This, er, would lead us to believe that more than one, er, person, miscreant, or whatever, was hung at this gallows place. . . .”

Recognition suddenly dawned on Ben. “So we're looking for that place of execution; what d'you think, Jon?”

“Right, mate!” the old carpenter agreed. “Places of execution, or gallows trees, as they were called, and they always had those 'orrible birds nearby, like in the next-to-last line, ‘the carrion crow doth perch above.' But what about the final line, ‘light bearers 'neath the ground'?”

A quiver of eagerness entered Eileen's voice. “That's what we'll find out by diggin' on the exact spot. You got your little paper with the 'oles in it, Jon? We've got our map.”

Between them they matched up the paper with the four holes to the ancient map from the farmhouse.

“It says
here,
‘prison,'” Will murmured. “The likely spot for a gallows tree. But I don't know of any prison in Chapelvale, do you, Eileen?”

Will's wife shook her head. “Must've been knocked down long since.”

Mr. Mackay took out a large survey map and compared it to the old map, looking back and forth from one to the other. “I'd say the old prison was right about here!” He made a pencil mark on the survey map. “Right where the police station stands.”

Ben and Alex were already making for the door. “Well, what are we waiting for?” the younger boy said.

THE POLICE STATION WAS A SMALL greystone building, sandwiched between two houses built at the turn of the century. One house was for the station sergeant, who often traveled to outlying communities, the other for the station constable, who attended to village matters and kept the station house ledger up to date.

Constable Judmann was tending to the rosebushes in his front garden; he was an enthusiastic gardener, a big, beefy fellow close to middle age. Seeing the two boys running ahead of the dairy cart, he wiped his hands on a cloth, and donning a uniform jacket, he buttoned it up from his ample stomach to a bull-like neck. Taking his helmet from the windowsill, he put it on and strode up the garden path with suitable dignity. He nodded at Alex.