His father towered over him, ignoring his pleas.
"Enough, sir, no more lies! I saw Regina's father in the village this morning. He caught her sneaking in, long
after midnight. So you can stop your sniveling lies. I know exactly what went on around the old almshouse last
night!"
Wilf cowered on the bed, his face ashen. "Regina's the liar, it was her who got Alex murdered, not me. I swear!"
His father's voice was like thunder. "What nonsense is this, eh? Murder indeed, I saw the very boy you're
talking of, the animal vet's young son. He was alive and well, sitting in a dairy cart with his friends. So you can stop
your lying about murder!"
Wilf was temporarily lost for words. He sat openmouthed as reality flooded in on him. Alex was alive, there
would be no policemen calling on him. No judges, court, or prison.
His father ranted on furiously. "A disappointment to me, that's what you've been, lad, a thorough
disappointment! Letting y'self get beaten by a boy half your size, then thinking up stupid murder plots. Still, I blame
m'self in ways—you're not half the young fellow I was at your age, no backbone! Mollycoddled, that's what you've
been, spoiled rotten! But all that stops right here and now, sir, d'you hear me? No more being waited on by a maid an'
hiding behind y'mother's skirts. Oh no, m'lad, it's boarding school for you. They'll straighten you out, an' no mistake!"
Wilf had only heard the latter part of his father's tirade. He leapt out of bed, a look of horror on his face.
"B-boarding school?"
His father took him by the arm and shoved him in the direction of the bathroom. "Aye, boarding school. There's
a good one up in Scotland, so I'm told. I'll make the arrangements today. Now, get in there an' clean that mess off
y'self. Then you can tidy your room up an' pack your trunk. I'm not havin' the good name o' Smithers scoffed at by
village bumpkins. No use appealin' to your mother. My decision's final, sir. Final!"
Slamming the bathroom door on his son's stunned face, Smithers went downstairs and out onto the back lawn,
where he took a deep breath of the summer air and straightened his starched collar. Maud Bowe was sitting primly,
reading another of her young ladies' etiquette books, not a hair out of place and not a sign of a flush upon her cheeks.
She shut the book decisively, folding her hands on the cover. "You wanted a word with me, sir. Well?"
Clasping both hands behind his back, Smithers circled her chair several times, finishing up facing her.
"Those, er, associates you're bringing up from London, Miss Bowe."
Completely composed, she stared levelly at him. "Yes?"
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.
'Twould seem at the wicked's fate
that bell ne'er made a sound,
yet the death knell tolled aloud
for those who danced around.
The carrion crow doth perch above,
light bearers 'neath the ground.
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!"
34.
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, h
e 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:
'Twould see/m at the w/icked's fate.
"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.
35.
THE POLICE STATION WAS A SMALL GREY-stone 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.
"G'mornin', young feller, an' wot can we do for you, eh?" The gig pulled up and Mackay dismounted. "It's all
right, Constable, the boys are with us."
The policeman tipped a finger respectfully to his helmet brim. He had always been slightly in awe of Mackay,
feeling that solicitors and lawyers were a cut above normal folk.
"Mr. Mackay, sir, wot brings you up 'ere, summat wrong?"
The lawyer straightened his black cravat. "No, no, Constable. Everything's in order. I merely want to ask you a
question."
The policeman's chest buttons almost popped as he stood erect, pulling in his stomach. "Question, sir? A
ty'service!"
> "What happened to the original Chapelvale prison, which, according to my survey map, stood near this site?"
Constable Judmann jabbed a fat thumb over his shoulder to the greystone building. "Nothin' 'appened, sir. There
'tis. Of course, it's been a police station for long as anybody can recall. No need for a lockup prison 'ereabouts for
many a long year now."
Mr. Mackay nodded solemnly. "But it was once a prison, and an execution ground, so I'm led to believe."
The constable brushed a finger over his handlebar mustache. "Sergeant Patterson says it was, sir, but that were
long afore my time—or his, for that matter."
The lawyer looked from side to side with a quick, bird-like movement. "I wonder where the executions took
place?"
Again the constable's thumb jabbed back over his shoulder. "Sergeant Patterson reckons it were in the yard,
be'ind the station 'ouse. Says murderers were 'anged back there."
Eileen climbed from the gig, pulling her skirts up, and, smiling at the policeman, she stepped down. "You must
be awful brave, Constable Judmann, livin' so close to a place where murderers were 'angered. I'd be far too afraid."
The constable's ruddy face turned a shade redder at the compliment, and his chest puffed out a bit further.
"There's nought there to worry about, marm, just a backyard with a plot o' garden. I sees it from my back
bedroom window «very day, tends the garden m'self. I like t'keep it tidy."
"I'll wager you do, Constable. D'you think we could take a look at it?"
The policeman appeared disconcerted at Eileen's request. "Oh, I don't know so much about that, Mrs.
Drum-mond. That's official police property. The public ain't allowed in there. 'Twould be more'n my job's worth if
Sergeant Patterson found I'd let folks go wanderin' willy-nilly 'round the station."
This announcement was followed by an awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of the sergeant
himself on his bicycle.
Patterson was a cheerful man in his mid-thirties, very tall and lean, with curly red hair and narrow sideburns.
His voice carried the faint trace of a Scottish border accent, from Cold-stream, the town of his birth. He touched his
peak cap to the small assembly and smiled.
"Mornin' to ye, looks like another warm 'un today, eh!"
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