Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1

by Brian Jacques

  More murmurs of approval arose from the gang: They had every confidence in their leader. Unfortunately Wilf

  did not share their belief. He found himself wishing he had not started the whole business of silly dares.

  Ben interrupted his thoughts. "It's almost midnight. Shouldn't we all get over to the almshouse?"

  Regina cast him a wilting glance. "We? You and your dog can do what you like. Coward!"

  The Labrador shot his master a thought. "Shall I nip her ankle?"

  The boy patted his faithful friend. "No need to, things are working out quite nicely, pal. Alex is a great actor."

  They crouched to one side of the rickety iron gate behind a lilac that grew over the fence. Regina looked at her

  watch. "It's turned twelve. Get moving, you!"

  The young boy opened the gate and crept hesitantly toward the door of the almshouse. There was a titter from

  the gang as Regina called out in a loud whisper. "Go on, he won't eat you, I don't think!"

  Reaching the almshouse door, Alex paused, then raising his hand, he knocked faintly twice.

  The door flew open and there was Jon, looking like something out of a nightmare. He had a blanket wrapped

  about his shoulders like a flowing cloak, flour on his face, lampblack underneath his eyes, and two Brazil nuts

  hanging down from his upper lip like fangs. Laughing madly, he grabbed Alex and pulled him inside, slamming the

  door shut. The effect was startling. Led by Wilf and Regina, the Grange Gang fled screaming across the square. Ned

  went around the back like a dark streak, cutting off their way through Evans Tea Shoppe's alley by blocking off the far

  end. Ben and Amy came dashing across the square in the gang's wake, effectively penning them in the narrow alley.

  Ben tipped Amy the wink. "You tackle Wilf. Leave Regina to me!"

  Amy pushed her way through the melee of milling gang members and found Wilf standing paralyzed in front of

  a snarling Ned. She grabbed the big boy by his shirtfront and shook him. "Get back to the almshouse and help my

  brother!

  You were the one who thought all this up and dared him. Come on, I'm going to see that you carry out your end

  of the dare!" She began to drag Wilf away from the wall that he was huddled against.

  Everyone saw it, Wilf Smithers collapsed to the ground, clutching his bandaged hand and blubbering like a

  baby. "Waahahaah! I'm sick, my hand's hurting, let go of me, please, I want to go home. Waaaaahh!"

  Regina had been scrambling her way to the back of the gang, intent on escaping into the square, when Ben

  grabbed her hand. "What about you going to help Alex? You were the one calling all the names. Why don't you take

  the dare for Wilf?"

  She broke out in tears. "It wasn't anything to do with me! It was all Wilf's idea, he said we should do it!"

  Ben called to the others. "Amy and I are going back to the almshouse. You lot run and get some help. Fetch a

  policeman, quick!"

  The mention of police involvement sent them all stumbling past the big black Labrador and off into the

  darkness, crying.

  "My dad doesn't even know I'm out!"

  "I'm not going to any police station!"

  "Nothing t'do with us, it was Wilf!"

  Ned let them go. Amy planted her shoe firmly against Wilf's bottom and shoved him on his way. "Get out of my

  sight, coward!"

  Ben released Regina, and she shot off sobbing. In a trice the alley was deserted, save for Amy, Ben, and his dog.

  The sound of bolts being withdrawn from Evans's side door caused Ned to melt back into the shadows. A light went

  on, throwing a golden shaft across the alley. Bludwen Evans's huge night-gowned figure appeared in the open

  doorway. She was holding a hooked window-blind pole and holding on to her mobcap, squinting at Ben.

  "Indeed to goodness, what's all the row out here, boyo, eh?"

  Ben flicked at his tousled hair and smiled disarmingly. "Sorry about the noise, Miz Evans. My dog's got loose

  and I was out calling for him. I don't suppose you've seen him?"

  A gruff bark from nearby sent the boy running off, followed by Amy, who was calling. "Here, Ned! Good dog!

  Here, boy!"

  Mrs. Evans shook her head as she closed the door. "I 'opes they get him, I need my sleep!"

  30.

  THE OLD SHIP'S CARPENTER AND ALEX had cocoa made for Ben, Amy, and Ned as they entered the

  almshouse through the back window. They related what had happened in the alley, the younger boy and Jon roaring

  with laughter at Amy's impression of Wilf sobbing and wanting to go home, hugging his injured hand.

  Ben sipped his cocoa and winked at Alex. "Wait'll they find out tomorrow that you faced the Mad Professor and

  lived to tell the tale. I don't think the Grange Gang or Wilf will ever bother you again, Alex. It was great to see how

  you went at the bully and had him bawling in front of his own gang. They'll respect you and your sister from now on."

  Alex put his empty mug down. "But only because of you, Ben."

  The blue-eyed boy patted Alex heartily on the back. "Nonsense, mate, all I did was suggest a thing or two. The

  rest was you, having confidence in yourself. Isn't that right, Ned?" The dog nodded. Jon looked over the rim of his

  cocoa mug at him. "I suppose that was his collar itching him again, eh, Ben?"

  The strange boy's eyes twinkled. "You supposed right, mate."

  Alex was beginning to feel sleepy; he blinked. "Supposed what?"

  The black Lab leaped to the window frame, followed by Ben, who chuckled. "Supposed to meet at the library

  first thing in the morning, so we can have a word with Mr. Braith-waite. G'night, pals. Jon, will you see Amy and

  Alex get home all right?"

  Ben and Ned vanished into the night like twin shadows.

  Amy stared at the empty window space. "There's something rather odd about Ben. It's almost as if he and Ned

  are magic. What do you think, Jon?"

  The ex-ship's carpenter wiped the last of the lampblack off with a damp rag. "Ben's no more magic than you, me,

  or Alex. He's just good, aye, and clever. He's certainly taught me a thing or two, as old as I am. Come on, mates, I'll

  walk you as far as your house."

  "Not quite as far," Alex replied. "Leave us at the end of the lane, we've got to sneak in by the pantry window."

  Jon's craggy face broke into a smile. "See, you're learning fast, pal!"

  At breakfast next morning Hetty the maid brought the post into the dining room. She placed it next to Obadiah

  Smithers's plate, bobbed a brief curtsy, and left.

  Mrs. Smithers cast a worried glance at Wilf's empty chair. "Poor Wilfred, perhaps he's stayed in bed because

  he's still feeling poorly. I'll tell Hetty to take him a tray up."

  "No, you won't, madam!" Smithers slit an envelope vigorously with his egg-stained breakfast knife. "Let the

  young whelp stay abed until he's hungry enough to get himself down here and take his place at table. Confounded fool,

  punchin' a wall of all things, losing to a lad half his size. Oh, I've heard all about it from Reggie Woodworthy, Regina

  told him. Can't hold my head up in the village! Man with a great, strappin' son who doesn't know the difference

  between the other fellow's nose and a schoolyard wall. Huh!"

  Maud Bowe helped herself to a boiled egg and tapped the top daintily with her spoon, remarking caustically,

  "About what anyone could expect from that silly oaf."

  Smithers slammed the letter down on his side plate, cracking it in the process. He glared at Maud.

  "Keep your opinions to y'self, missie. It's not your place to criticize my family while you're a guest in my />
  house!"

  Sensing another verbal battle, Mrs. Smithers withdrew from the room quietly. She would take Wilfred a tray

  herself.

  Maud thrust her chin out defiantly at the older man. "Sir, an oaf is an oaf, in any circumstances, more so when

  he is a bad-mannered oaf. That is my opinion, like it or not!"

  Smithers, pretending not to hear, sorted a letter from the small pile of mail and tossed it across the table. "This

  is for you, young lady, from your father by the writing."

  She took a nail file from her pocket and slit the letter neatly open, her eyes blazing at Smithers. "Sir, I give you

  your proper title. My name is Maud, you may address me as Maud, Miss Maud, or Miss Bowe. I resent being called

  missie or young lady. I trust you will refrain from such expressions in future!"

  Smithers pretended to read his letter; he tapped it with his knife. "From the county planning office, final

  approval of compulsory purchase of Chapelvale lands two days from today. Providing, of course, that no majority

  property holder turns up with deeds to more than one section. Huh, even old Mrs. Winn can't argue with that, she can

  only prove the ownership of her own house. She has no papers for that almshouse ruin, or any other land. I've made

  sure of that, got a friend in the official search office, y'know. Look, there's a formal notice with this letter, to be posted

  in the square. I'll remove the old one an' put this one up, eh. How's that for progress? Well, what's your father got to

  say?"

  Maud folded the letter carefully and placed it on the table. "He says that the four men I asked for should be up

  by the evening train tomorrow. He has paid them expenses and money for the train tickets—"

  Smithers's explosion cut her short. "Well, I'm damned if I'd pay 'em a bent penny, missie. I've already told you

  what I think of your proposal, sending toughs and blaggards up from London. What'll happen if they're found to be

  connected to this venture? I'll be ruined, and so would your father and his fancy London partners. Then where'll we all

  be, eh? Answer me that, m'dear!"

  Maud's normally sallow pallor grew ashen with temper. "I'll tell you... Smithers! You'd be sitting out here at the

  end of some rural backwater with your fiddling little business. This is a big venture, that's why you're in with a proper

  London company, and doing quite well out of it, too. My father's company often uses the methods he needs—legal or

  not— that's the way you get things done in this modern age. And don't look so self-righteous—you had children

  trying to get things done for you, that oaf you call a son and his gang. What were you paying them, eh, sweeties,

  pennies ?

  "Well, that's all changed, you're in the game now for better or worse. It'll be worse if we listen to your piffling

  ideas, but better all 'round if you leave it to experts. That old lady Winn, she'll be shifted sooner than you think and for

  good, thanks to my suggestion to my father, so stop acting like a silly oaf, though the habit seems to run in your

  family!" Maud's ankle-length taffeta dress rustled stiffly as she swept out of her chair and vacated the room.

  Smithers sat openmouthed at the girl's impertinence, his heavy features flushing dark red. He gave vent to his

  ire with a bellow that would have done a stricken water buffalo credit, sending crockery and cutlery flying as his

  outstretched arms flailed across the table.

  Sitting up in bed, Wilf heard the roar and the ensuing crash. He started with fright, upsetting his breakfast tray.

  A glass of milk, toast, lemon curd, and two soft-boiled eggs spilled into his lap. He sobbed, floundering about in the

  mess, his mind running riot. Had his father found out about last night, his second foolish scheme gone astray? It

  wasn't his fault if the Somers boy had gone and got himself murdered by the Mad Professor. Had the police found out

  yet, would they come around asking questions ? Regina and the gang wouldn't take the blame, they'd lay it on him,

  their leader. Then what? Court, imprisonment. . . ? Regardless of the breakfast mess, Wilf pulled the coverlet over his

  head, wishing fervently that it would all go away. Tears, egg, milk, and lemon curd mingled on his face. He jumped as

  a timid knock sounded on the door.

  "Finished with your tray, Master Wilfred?" It was only Hetty.

  A muffled scream broke from beneath the stained counterpane. "Go 'waaaaaay!"

  31.

  MRS. WINN'S LAWYER, MR. MACKAY, WAS A man of small stature, exceedingly neat in appearance.

  Dressed in knife-creased pin-striped trousering, an eight-button black vest (complete with silver watch and chain), a

  crisp white shirt, with starched wing-tip collar and a dark blue stock with a modest peridot stickpin, he sported

  spring-clipped pince-nez, hanging around his neck on a black silk ribbon. A snowy peak of white linen handkerchief

  showed from the top pocket of his black fustian tailcoat. Mr. Mackay had a center part in his dyed black hair and a

  small, precisely trimmed mustache. He shaved twice daily and had about him an aroma of macassar pomade. The

  consensus of village opinion had marked him as a dry little stick of a man, his movements quick and bird-like, his

  speech clipped and precise, peppered with legal jargon. Now Mr. Mackay sat looking at the chalice on his desk. He

  had heard the story of its discovery from the old lady. Taking the pince-nez spectacles from his nose, he let them

  dangle by their black ribbon.

  He stared around at the faces of Will and Eileen Drum-mond, Mrs. Winn, the old ship's carpenter, Amy and

  Alex Somers, and Ben. "I take it, madam, that you require information regarding the location of the old stable and

  smithy from Mr. Braithwaite? Then so be it. You boys, run and fetch Braithwaite here. However, I think that I may be

  of some help in that direction—I acted on behalf of the Railway Company in conveying the land for the station and

  retained a copy of the paperwork for my own files."

  Ben and Alex left the lawyer's office with the big, black dog in their wake.

  Talking out of the corner of his mouth, Ben murmured to Alex, "See, over in Evans's alley, there's some of the

  Grange Gang. They're watching the almshouse, probably to see if your mangled body gets flung out the door. They

  haven't spotted us yet. Why not give them a wave?"

  Alex strode off toward the alley. "I'll do better than that, Ben, I'll pop over and have a word with them."

  Alex shouted, "Hello there, you lot! Hang on a moment, I want to see you!"

  They fled like startled deer.

  Ben shrugged. "That's odd, don't they like speaking to the ghost of a murdered boy?" The two friends laughed

  uproariously.

  They brought Mr. Braithwaite back to Mr. Mackay's office, where the librarian stood scratching his wiry mane,

  dandruff sprinkling like tiny snowflakes on the shoulders of his black scholar's gown. "I, er, can't stop very,

  hmmmmm, long. Library, er, business, I'm afraid . . ." His voice trailed off as he sighted the chalice on the desk.

  Ignoring everybody around him, he picked the chalice up with great reverence. No hesitancy showed in his voice as

  he spoke.

  "Calix magnificus! Magnificus magnificus! Byzantine tenth century. Crafted by the skilled goldsmiths and lap-

  idaries of a bygone age. What a perfectly beautiful specimen.

  These pigeon-egg rubies, jewels beyond price. This tracery and engraving, exotic, fabulous! Who came by such

  a remarkable chalice as this? Where was it discovered? Oh, tell me!"

  The grizzled old seaman r
elated the tale in full. Omitting no detail, he brought Mr. Braithwaite up to strength on

  even the latest development. The old scholar scratched his frizzy head. The initial gusto of seeing the chalice was

  wearing off, and he returned to his customary self.

  "Hmm, very good, very good! So I take it, you, er, er, wish to know the, ah, exact location of the, er, ancient

  stables and, er, blacksmith's forge, er, as it were?"

  Mr. Mackay held up a sheaf of legal-looking documents. "They're not far from the station, according to my

  records, sir!"

  Mr. Braithwaite raised his bushy eyebrows, staring at Mr. Mackay's small, dapper figure as if seeing him for the

  first time. "Not so, sir! I, er, that is, my, er, researches show, the, ah, smithy, stood on the, er, er, precise spot where

  the station was built, hmmm, yes indeed!"

  Mr. Mackay was not one to bandy words. Drawing himself up to his sparse height, he spread the documents on

  his desk, tapping a neatly manicured finger on a map diagram. "Then look for yourself, sir. My records are

  undeniable!"

  Mr. Braithwaite pored over Mr. Mackay's map, showering it with dandruff as he scratched his hair in

  bemusement. "Well I never, well I never, my, er, calculations were wrong, it, er, seems. I defer to your technical

  knowledge, sir. I, er, must consult you more often, in my, er, historical location studies. If I, er, may make so bold as

  to, er, suggest such a thing."

  "Of course you may, sir!" replied Mackay in his clipped, precise manner. He rolled the papers back into a scroll.

  Mrs. Winn liked her lawyer, despite his somewhat pompous attitude, and could see his interest was aroused by

  the search. "Would you care to take a look at the site, Mr. Mackay? We'd be glad of your expert opinion."

  A faint smile appeared on the lawyer's face. "An intriguing invitation, marm. I accept!"

  The old lady turned to Mr. Braithwaite. "We'd value your help if you'd like to come, too, sir."

  Scratching his head and pointing to himself, the old scholar grinned like a schoolboy. "Who . . . er, me? Oh, I

  say, rather, lead on, er, good lady, lead on, er, please do!"

  It was a curious team that trooped out of the solicitor's office, heading toward Chapelvale Station. Obadiah

  Smithers and his wife, Clarissa, had emerged from their carriage in the village square, she intent on shopping and he