by carl ashmore
‘Everyone’s fine, Keith,’ Uncle Percy replied.
‘Good.’ Pickleton scrambled out of the milk float, a rectangular brown paper package tucked securely beneath his arm. ‘Anyway, I believe this is what you asked for, old boy.’ He passed the bundle over to Uncle Percy, who returned a triumphant smile.
‘Oh, smashing, Keith. Well done.’
‘Not a problem,’ Pickleton replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I was the only bidder. The gavel went down on fifty dollars, a bargain, I’d say. And if your theory is correct I believe Emerson Drake will be as sick as the proverbial pig.’
Becky and Joe swapped intrigued glances.
‘What’s that?’ Joe asked.
Uncle Percy raised the package into the light. ‘This, Joe, unless I’ve made an error of gargantuan proportions, is the marker!’
Joe gasped. ‘What?’
‘This is the Israel Hands’ painting we’re looking for.’
Joe looked baffled. ‘So why did we nearly spend a million dollars on that massive one of Blackbeard?’
Uncle Percy gave a wry smile. ‘That’s precisely the point, Joe. We nearly spent a million dollars on the Blackbeard portrait. They did spend a million dollars. I bid so enthusiastically because I wanted them to believe that painting was the one I was after, thereby deflecting all attention from this little one by a supposedly anonymous artist.’
‘You mean Chapman’s just spent a million dollars on nowt?’
Uncle Percy chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t say nowt. In my opinion, he’s got a splendid piece of maritime history, but yes, one could argue he has overpaid for it, somewhat.’
Joe’s face cracked into a smile, which soon became a full-blown laugh. Soon, everyone was laughing. Everyone, that was, except Becky.
‘But how did you know about that painting?’ she asked, pointing at the package.
‘That, Becky, is a long story,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘Shall we get changed out of these uncomfortable clothes and I’ll tell it to you?’
*
Becky forgot all about George Chapman as she dashed back to the Hall, threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater and a raggedy pair of trainers, before rushing to Bowen library, where she saw Uncle Percy clutching the unopened package. A moment later, Joe appeared, panting, behind her.
Becky’s gaze fell on the painting. ‘Go on then, tell us why you think this painting is the marker?’
Uncle Percy took a deep breath. ‘Well, after seeing Israel Hands’ optomediaphibic folio, it seemed clear we needed to know more about his life … and death, and not just the kind of information that can be gleaned from the secondary sources we saw in the folio, but firsthand knowledge. Actual events. With that in mind, I activated Barbie’s Invisiblator and programmed her to travel back in time on a reconnaissance mission.’
‘Good idea,’ Joe said, sounding impressed. ‘Let’s see the painting then?’
‘In a mo, Joe.’ Uncle Percy said. ‘Anyway, Barbie did manage to obtain some crucial information. In short, most of what Reg said was correct. Israel did indeed supposedly create some markers that led to Blackbeard’s Treasure. She couldn’t find out what they were, but she does believe one of them to be this very painting.’ He raised the package up. ‘You see, Israel survived the Ocracoke incident and was captured by the Royal Navy, amazingly negotiating a pardon for his crimes. However, at the same time he found out he was dying with only months to live. The treasure was of no use to him anymore, and believing Blackbeard to be dead, he thought he was the only one who knew where it was. Subsequently, he devised the markers so his childhood friend, Edward Mallory, a priest, could find it at some point in the future. He entrusted his fellow pirate, Richard Young, to deliver the painting to Mallory in England. Anyway, neither the painting or Richard Young made it back to England.’
‘What happened to them?’ Joe asked.
‘No idea. All we know is that the painting somehow vanished into the haze of history, and only resurfaced at the auction in Chicago.’
Becky’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘May we see it?’
‘Of course,’ Uncle Percy replied. He pulled a small penknife from his coat pocket and cut the string. The paper fell away to reveal an oil painting set in a gilded frame. A misty ray of sunshine caught it like a spotlight, illuminating the image of the sad looking woman and baby Becky recalled from the auction.
‘Do you think that’s his wife and child?’ Becky asked.
‘I’m certain of it,’ Uncle Percy replied.
‘She looks so sad,’ Becky said.
‘Yes, she does,’ Uncle Percy agreed. ‘I wonder, however, how much of that was Israel’s state of mind when he painted it? After all, men like him often wouldn’t see their families for years at a time, and if caught would probably never see them again. Anyway, shall we take a more comprehensive look?’ He inserted the knife into the corner segment. With a soft crack, the wood split and the rear panel came away, revealing a brittle yellowing paper inside.
Becky’s heart slammed in her chest. In the top left hand corner, scribbled in elegant handwriting, were the following words:
Dear Edward,
By the time ye read this, I shall be dead. I have no fear of it and, for my countless sins, surely warrant it. However, although I do not regret my conduct in life, I can only pray my spoils be used for goodliness in my death. I leave to you the trail to a world of riches. A dangerous path, it surely is, but one I urge ye take. For the rewards would put Solomon’s haul to shame. Do this for my wife and son, for your parish, and for God.
I wonder if you remember the deception Mister Icabod Ferbeezle, our schoolmaster, revealed to us as children. If not, this should aid your recall. ‘A lemon shall write a wrong.’
I know I ask of much of you, dear friend, but look inside yourself as you must me, and you will see clearly the path to take.
Israel
Silence cloaked the room. Seconds bled into minutes. Becky read and reread the note, before looking up at Uncle Percy. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said finally. ‘A lemon shall write a wrong? That’s just nonsense.’
‘And it’s spelt wrong, too,’ Joe stated, pointing. ‘He’s put ‘write’ instead of ‘right’.’
Becky huffed. ‘And if we’ve got to go back in time to try and discover this deception we’re stuffed? We wouldn’t even know when to go back to.’
‘True,’ Uncle Percy said, nodding absent-mindedly. ‘Very true.’
For an age, Becky watched him span the length of the room, muttering, drumming his chin and muttering some more. Then, all at once, his expression changed, and he hopped up and down on the spot like an excited child, chuckling loudly. ‘Oh, wonderful, he gushed. ‘How simply wonderful.’
‘What is it? Becky asked impatiently.
Uncle Percy pulled out his car keys and spoke into the fob. ‘Barbie, if you could join us in the library, please.’
‘What is it?’ Becky repeated.
‘You just wait,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘I don’t want to spoil Israel’s big reveal.’
At that moment, an orb of white light appeared to the left of Uncle Percy. Swelling in size, the light vanished with a crack to show Barbie standing there. ‘You called, sir.’
Breathlessly, Uncle Percy picked up the painting. ‘Barbie, would you be so kind as to use your Radiax instillor and heat the paper up for me?’
‘To what temperature, sir?’
‘I’m not sure. Just take it slowly and we’ll see how we do.’
A mystified Becky watched as the robot raised her tiny hand. With a soft hum, a blurred haze surrounded Barbie’s fingers. Then she allowed her hand to move steadily across the paper. At once, letters appeared from nowhere.
Words were forming before their very eyes.
W-what? Becky spluttered. How?’
A satisfied expression crossed Uncle Percy’s face. ‘It’s the oldest Steganographic technique in the world.’
Becky and Joe looked at him blankly.
‘Stegano
graphic technique: the art of composing secret messages. And this one is the all-time classic. He’s used invisible ink.’
Joe laughed. ‘Wow.’
‘W-where would a pirate get invisible ink?’ Becky stammered.
‘Lemons,’ Uncle Percy replied simply. ‘Hence Israel’s phrase ‘Lemons can write’. There was no spelling error. He wrote this with lemon juice. You see … lemon juice is an organic substance that appears invisible, but oxidizes and turns brown when heated. Gosh, I do feel young again. You know, I did my first experiments with invisible ink when I was about three.’
‘You’ve always been the uber-geek, haven’t you?’ Becky grinned madly.
‘I do believe I have,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘Anyway, let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’ He began to read.
From faithful Peggy, ye should glean
The map, few souls hath ever seen
And see the chart doth plainly show
The cursed archipelago
Find a Godly crew, and a worthy ship
And bade farewells, before yer trip
Then off to Nassau ye shall go
To find the Surgeon, Stinky Mo
For with good Mo, I’ve left the light
That will guide you in your plight
Then bear the voyage long and cruel
Where winds and swells and tempests rule
Just listen closely to my friend
And ye shall find the journey’s end
Where Mary’s treasures, gained from strife
Can give your flock a finer life
Israel
Becky felt dizzy with excitement. She glanced at Joe, whose eyes were so wide they threatened to cover his entire face. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I think it means many things,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘I think it tells us everything we need to know to find Blackbeard’s Treasure.’
‘Who’s Peggy?’ Becky asked. ‘It looks like she’s a got a map.’
Uncle Percy shrugged. ‘No idea. A friend? A mistress? A fellow pirate?’
‘What’s an archipelago?’ Joe asked.
‘It’s a chain of islands.’
Joe exhaled. ‘So the first map, the one we get from someone called Peggy, is one that shows a group of islands.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Mary Island is one of them?’
‘That’s my guess.’
‘What’s Nassau?’
‘It was an infamous pirate port in the Bahamas.’
Joe considered this for a moment. ‘And that’s where we find this surgeon, Stinky Mo?’
‘So it seems.’
‘But we start by finding Peggy!’ Becky said.
‘I think so,’ Uncle Percy replied.
‘Great … then let’s get to it then,’ Joe said determinedly.
Uncle Percy shook his head. ‘Tremendously exciting though this most certainly is, I suggest we give ourselves a much needed break. Need I remind you we have had a hectic morning. Let’s rest now, eat, spend some time as a family, and maybe even take our minds of all of this. And then, tomorrow, we’ll do some research and take it from there. What do you think?’
Just then, Becky realised just how shattered she was. ‘Okay,’ she nodded.
‘Fair enough,’ Joe agreed reluctantly. ‘But we start again first thing tomorrow?’
‘Indeed.’
Joe looked at Becky. ‘I’m going on the net to see if I can find anything out. You coming?’ He hurried towards the door.
Becky was about to follow when she remembered something. ‘I’ll meet you in your bedroom in ten minutes.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Joe said, exiting the room.
Becky hesitated for a moment, before turning to Uncle Percy. ‘Will you give me that answer now?’ Her voice was calm but firm. ‘Who’s George Chapman?’
Uncle Percy knew at once he had to tell Becky the truth. His expression hardened. ‘George Chapman or Severin Klosowski, to give him his real name, was a convicted murderer and, as far as I was aware, was put to death at Wandsworth Prison in 1903 for the poisoning of three women. However, although that is in itself a monstrous crime, it doesn’t stop there. When Chapman was arrested, a prominent Scotland Yard detective, Frederick Aberline, was convinced they had finally caught the man guilty of a series of other murders … murders that occurred in the Whitechapel district of London in 1888 … murders that have since gained a certain amount of notoriety across the world.’ He took a moment to study Becky’s reaction. ‘And judging by the look on your face, you know precisely who I’m talking about?’
Becky couldn’t respond. The moment Uncle Percy had mentioned Whitechapel she had felt sick to her stomach. ‘You’re talking about Jack the Ripper, aren’t you? You’re saying that George Chapman is Jack the Ripper!’
Uncle Percy paused. ‘It’s a distinct possibility …’
- Chapter 19 -
Peggy’s Secret
‘Jack the Ripper?’ Joe blustered, ten minutes later. ‘Jack the bloody Ripper! You’ve gotta be kidding me?’
Becky sighed. ‘I wish I was.’ Her fingers traced their way to her neck. ‘I can’t believe he was holding a scalpel to my throat.’ She shuddered. ‘I’m gonna throw up.’
Joe flopped onto his bed, head in hands. ‘And Uncle Percy’s a hundred per cent sure?’
‘He said it’s a distinct possibility but we both know what that means.’
‘Yeah, it means Chapman’s Jack the bloody Ripper…’
Becky nodded. ‘And he’s asked us to not research the details of the Ripper case. In fact, he made me promise we wouldn’t.’
Joe looked up. ‘We don’t really need to. The clue is sort of in the name. That along with the fact that he’s the most famous serial killer of all time.’
For the next few minutes, Becky and Joe said nothing.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t worry about Chapman anyway,’ Becky said finally.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, a baddie’s a baddie. What’s the difference between him and any one of the thousand baddies Drake could’ve plucked from history?’
‘He’s Jack the Ripper, Becks,’ Joe replied. ‘He’s number one in the historical nutter stakes. I mean, if it was just Colin the Crabby it wouldn’t be so bad, but –’
Becky giggled. ‘Colin the Crabby? With that daft moustache it should be Reginald Ratface.’
Joe found himself smiling, too. ‘Or Stoat Nosed Stan?’
‘Or Vince Volemouth?’
‘Or Bertie Badgerchin.’
Soon, they were rolling around in fits of laughter. Finally, struggling to catch her breath, Becky changed the subject. ‘We should work on this poem?’
‘Okay. Where do we start?’
‘What about this name: Peggy. We can scour the net for something. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘There’s nowt there,’ Joe replied. ‘I checked my laptop before. There’s nothing online about a connection between someone called Peggy and Blackbeard or Israel Hands.’
Becky frowned. ‘I suppose it was a long shot.’ Then something else occurred to her. ‘And Peggy might not be a woman at all…’
‘What else could it be?’
Becky moved over to the window and looked outside. High above the distant forest, she saw Will’s golden eagle, Marian, circling the trees, her eyes searching out her next meal. ‘I dunno. A ship, maybe?’
Joe thought hard for a moment. ‘It had to be something obvious enough for Edward Mallory to find.’
Becky began to pace the room. ‘Ask yourself this, if you had a treasure map where would you hide it?’
Joe’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t give it to someone else, that’s for sure. No, I’d keep it somewhere close, somewhere personal. But this is different … Israel Hands wanted it found. He wanted Mallory to find it based on the information in that poem, so it has to be pretty simple to work out, I reckon.’
But they didn’t find it simple. They didn’t find it simple at
all. The late afternoon sun gave way to an early dusk and a spray of stars dappled the murky sky. At five o’ clock, Becky returned to her room feeling despondent and downcast. She had desperately wanted to solve the poem, to unlock its secrets, but they weren’t getting anywhere. She showered, threw on leggings and had just put on a sweatshirt when she recalled a sequence from the optomediaphibic folio. And then it hit her like a thunderbolt.
Faithful Peggy.
Heart pounding, she dashed from her bedroom. Moments later, she was slamming her fist against Joe’s door. It opened with a creak. ‘I’ve figured it out. I know what Peggy is.’
‘What?’
‘Not telling you.’ And with that, Becky hurtled off down the corridor, leaving Joe to growl to no one. She flew down the stairs into the Entrance Hall and saw the morning room door ajar. Rushing over, she pushed it open and saw Uncle Percy sat at his window seat, an open book resting on his lap. At seeing Becky’s cherry-red face, a look of concern crossed his face. ‘Is everything all right, Becky?’ he asked, as Joe appeared at her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ Becky panted. ‘I’ve done it. I’ve cracked the poem. Well, the first bit anyway. I know where the map is.’
Uncle Percy looked bemused. ‘Really?’
‘I think so. I mean, I might be wrong, but it does make sense.’
‘Go on then,’ Joe pressed. ‘Tell us.’
Becky inhaled deeply. ‘It’s in his leg.’
Joe looked at her as though she had gone mad. ‘What are you talking about?’
Becky ignored him. ‘In that note on the back of the painting it said something weird, something about looking inside him. And that optomediaphibic folio said he lost a leg in a raid or something.’
A smile arched on Uncle Percy’s face. ‘Ah, of course. Very good, Becky. Very good, indeed.’
‘What’s very good?’ Joe asked, baffled.
Becky shot him a superior look. ‘Faithful Peggy is his peg-leg!’
Uncle Percy clapped heartily. ‘Well-done, young lady. Bravo.’
‘All we’ve got to find out is where Israel Hands died,’ Becky said. ‘And then go and get his leg.’
