Elephants and Castles

by John Patrick

Mary and Samuel returned to collect their hidden supplies. They found the inn-keeper dumping more rubbish in the alley and kicking out at the scurrying rats.

  Mary gave Samuel an unconvincing nod of encouragement and with heads down they walked quickly to their hiding place. Mary’s heart was thumping. She remembered what the inn-keeper had said about finishing the job himself. And what if he'd found their provisions and taken them for himself? How would they explain that to their father and Miss Pewtersmith?

  'This your stuff, is it?' The inn-keeper kicked his oversized boot into a sack of flour by his feet and laughed. 'Cos the rats have ‘ad a good feed if it is.'

  Small white clouds puffed out of ragged holes in the sack. Samuel pulled back the wooden crates in search of the rest of the supplies. Rats scurried out and ran over his feet. The packages were chewed and torn. Samuel picked up a parcel; it fell apart in his hands.

  Mary collapsed down onto her knees by the sack of flour. She smudged the tears from her eyes. 'What we gonna say to Dad? We need this stuff and we ain’t got no money left.'

  'It’s alright Mary. We can still carry this.' Samuel tried to pick up the sack but the flour poured out and filled the alley with a fine white mist.

  The inn-keeper stood on his step and looked down on the pitiful pair. 'Oh, come on, I’ll help you this once, if it’ll get rid of you both.' He reached inside the doorway and produced a cloth sack and threw it to the children. 'Bring those packages in ‘ere. I’m too kind, that’s my bloody trouble. Be quick before I change me mind.'

  Samuel scooped up the remains of the provisions and they followed him into the inn kitchen. Inside the air was hot and choked with eye-prickling wood smoke. The shutters on the windows were thrown wide open but there was no breeze. Spirals of blue-grey smoke drifted nonchalantly in shafts of sunlight. In a blackened fireplace, smouldering embers hissed beneath a bubbling cauldron, whilst a fat old bulldog snored by the hearth. In the middle of the floor, a wooden table was littered with the remains of rabbits that had been dismembered to top up the perpetual stew. The inn-keeper threw an arm down on the end of the table and swept the debris onto the floor. The bulldog waddled over to clean up.

  'Right, put it all on ‘ere.'

  Samuel dropped a pile of chewed paper, dried meat and fish onto the table.

  The inn-keeper produced a large cleaver and pointed it at Samuel. ‘This is what you need if you’re really gonna cut somethin’ up.' He laughed and he crashed it down into the table.

  Mary took a step back.

  The inn-keeper took a piece of dried meat and began to hack off the chewed ends. 'So anyway, what the 'ell were you doin' with that useless drunk, Scroggs? He’s no use to man nor beast, that man.'

  'Scroggs?' asked Samuel 'Who’s Scroggs?'

  'Scroggs, that useless drunken scoundrel. The one lying on the ground with blood coming out of his belly!'

  'That’s not Scroggs, that’s Shipton. He’s a fortune teller.' explained Samuel.

  'Shipton! Ha!' He crashed the cleaver back into the table 'He’s no more a fortune teller than me!' He turned his bearded face towards the children 'You want to be careful with him. He’s always drunk and always owin’ money. He’ll land you in trouble, he will. He’s got a bill ‘ere he ‘asn’t paid in weeks. An' it's not just me that 'e owes money too. There’s a lot of people who’d like to catch up with ‘im.' He smashed the cleaver back into the dried meat. 'There was a young lady and ‘er man servant lookin’ for ‘im just today there was. An’ another man yesterday. Yep, very popular man is old Scroggs. Very sought after.' He pushed the trimmed piece of meat to one side and reached for another.

  'But he’s got a box of jewels that…' Mary kicked Samuel.

  'Oh, you know about the jewels!'

  'Yes. That's what he uses to tell the future.' protested Samuel.

  'Even if they did work, 'e wouldn't 'ave a clue what to do with 'em!' The inn-keeper pointed the cleaver at Samuel. 'He won those ‘ere in a game of cards. Playin’ against a few people an’ they ran out o’ money. So, they started playin’ for other things. Pistols, clothes, ‘orses, jewellery, all sorts. Most o’ the stuff prob'ly never existed, ‘specially what Scroggs was bettin’. Any’ow, he ‘ad a good night for once, Scroggs - even though ‘e would 'ave bin cheatin’. But turns out the men 'e beat didn’t own the stuff they was gambling with neither. How d’you like that?' He swung the blade back into the dry meat. 'But they was all drunk as dogs and Scroggs took home everythin', including those jewels you're talkin' about.'

  'Well that’s not Mister Shipton’s’ fault. He wasn’t to know they didn't belong them other folk.' pointed out Mary.

  'Well, maybe so. Trouble is, from what I hear, there's one thing very special amongst that stuff an' the real owner wasn’t ‘appy when he 'eard one of 'is men 'ad lost it. They say when 'e found out he chopped him up and fed ‘im to ‘is dogs.' The cleaver thudded back into the table.

  Mary shuddered.

  'See' said Samuel 'I told you it was valuable!'

  'So which bit is so special?' asked Mary.

  'Well I heard a story, I don’t know if it’s true. I heard that one o’ them stones has come all the way from Scotland and is a kind of a healin’ stone. I heard they was gonna make potion to cure the sick. Would have made 'em a lot of money.'

  'But how’s it work?'

  'I ain’t got a clue.' The inn-keeper turned and pointed the cleaver at Mary. All I know is I wouldn’t want to be holding that thing when that mad Scot finds it. I don’t reckon ‘e’s gonna stop to ask how you got it.' He grabbed some cloth from the table and wrapped the trimmed meat and fish and handed it to Samuel. 'Be careful. You’re messing with things you don’t understand. If it was me I’d bury that stone somewhere safe. Somewhere only I knew about and I'd only get it out if I got sick.' He opened the back door to the inn. 'Now use that sack for the flour.' He looked ruefully down at Samuel and rubbed the top of his head. 'You look like my boy, you do. Same hair, same cheeky look.' His gaze became distant for a moment then he turned away.

  'Where is he, your boy?' asked Mary, looking back into the inn.

  'Six feet under. With his mother.' he answered quietly. 'Consumption took 'em both five years ago.'

  'Oh, sorry.' replied Mary, wishing she hadn't asked.

  'Don't be sorry. It's done. Can't be changed. Now get home with that and don’t dawdle.' He slammed the door shut leaving them outside again.

  When Mary and Samuel returned to the carriage house, Fran and the boys were gone. Shipton lay in the loft. Mary knelt by his side. He was the same; pale, clammy, breathless, unresponsive. Mary lifted his head and gently poured more water into his mouth.

  'Pass me that stone Sam. There must be some way we can make it work.'

  'Mary! Samuel! Where are you?' Miss Pewtersmith bawled. 'I saw yas! Stop hidin’ an’ get over 'ere. I got jobs for ya both!'

  ''Ere Sam, let's try somethin'. Pass me that strap.' Mary took the leather strap from the horse tackle and fastened it around Shipton’s head. She shoved the red stone underneath so it sat over the middle of his forehead. 'There, let’s try that.'

  'That ain't gonna work!' said Samuel.

  'You got any better ideas? Come on, we'd better get back.' She covered Shipton from head to toe with a horse blanket before they hurried back to the house.

  The cook stood inside the kitchen door waiting for them. 'What you two been doin’?' She looked at them with a sneer. 'You're spendin' a lot o’ time over there. You’d best not be up to no good. You’d best ‘ave put that stuff up safe. If them rats get it, there’ll be big trouble.'

  Samuel stood behind her. He shook his head mockingly from side to side. Mary frowned a warning back at him, but Miss Pewtersmith had already seen. She swung her hand a clipped him hard across the ear.

  'You’d better watch out you little brat! I know you two are up to somethin' an' I'll find out what it is don't you worry.' She walked across to the fireplace and starting pulling the blackened iron pots o
ff their hooks and let them clatter onto the floor. 'Right, I want these scrubbed inside and out. Everyone of ‘em. I wanna be able to see me face. And don’t forget, I’ll be watching the pair of you.'

  Chapter 11