How to Steal a Piano

by John Hughes

  Beryl pressed her foot onto the accelerator and the car jerked forwards. The figure at the window screamed as he was dragged along, then the face and the hand disappeared. In the mirror, she saw him rolling over on the floor, sending other pirates tumbling like skittles.

  “So, your name’s Pete,” she said.

  “You know very well it is.”

  “Pirate Pete. Not very original.”

  “I like it.”

  “Well I don’t. I think I shall just call you Mr P.”

  As they turned onto Causeway Lane, the ship was ahead of them, almost at the Matlock Town football ground. Pirates were hurrying to catch up and climb back on board, and to suffer the wrath of Black Jack for letting Pirate Pete slip through their fingers.

  “Look!” said Mr P. “They’re ahead of us, and the castle is in sight. They know what’s up there and will do anything to reach it first. Can’t this wreck go any faster?”

  “I’m doing thirty-five as it is. I’m breaking the speed limit.”

  “We should be on horseback. You can’t beat it.”

  “Actually this is a Fiat Punto 1.2 MPI and has seventy-two horsepower,” boasted Beryl, who had read the owner’s manual.

  “Pah! Seventy-two worn out old nags overdue for the knacker’s yard! One stallion at its peak is all we need.”

  “I’ll see if I can push it up to forty as we get out of the town centre.”

  “That’s my Meg. Come on, girl, let’s outrun that ship!”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult to outrun a ship, on dry land and going uphill.”

  “That’s the spirit!” He ruffled her hair which sent another shiver down her spine. “Onwards and upwards to stake our claim to the hoard!”

  * * *

  She stood on the top of one of the crenellated towers of Riber Castle, peering down into the valley below, Mr P by her side. The view was clear across to Matlock. To the left was the road to Matlock Bath and the Heights of Abraham; to the right, miles of open countryside pitted with villages until eventually you reached Chesterfield and its curious twisted church spire.

  There was no sign of the pirate ship.

  She looked away, and down to her body. Somewhere en route, she wasn’t sure precisely where, the jacket, polo shirt and jeans she had put on that morning had vanished. She had first been aware of the change when she pulled up and parked her Fiat at the rear of the castle. Mr P had climbed out immediately and she followed him. It was then she sensed a change and looked at herself. She wore a dark woollen hooded cape, contrasted by a soft black silk bodice, laced down the front with ribbon ending in a bow, with a full black silk taffeta skirt, rouched at one side to reveal a crimson lace petticoat and rich claret velvet jacket, gathered at the shoulders with narrow sleeves that covered the tops of her hands. Around her waist, she had a thick brown leather belt adorned with a large silver buckle to which a pistol was strapped. On her feet, she wore pirate boots. On her head, a large brimmed hat with a black feather.

  In the reflection of a window she saw her face; that too had changed. Her wavy blonde hair was longer and she wore blood red lipstick and jet black eye liner.

  The effect on Mr P had been dramatic. When he saw her, he kissed her again, roughly this time, pulling her up against his body. He was aroused. His blood was up. He pulled the bow on her bodice and it fell open.

  “Avast!’ she said playfully, and only halfheartedly because in truth she did not want him to stop. “Not here,” she pleaded. “We might be seen.”

  “Who cares!”

  “Mr Smedley, for one. Me for another.” They were standing on a lawn in front of the entrance to the castle, totally exposed, though the place appeared to be deserted.

  “I know where,” said Mr P. He took her hand and all but frogmarched her into the castle, up several flights of stairs and onto the roof of the tower, with its stunning vista of the Derbyshire countryside. “Here!” He lifted her off the ground and encircled his arms firmly round her thighs.

  When he eventually set her down gently on the roof again, Mr P ran his fingers through her hair. “What a woman you are, Meg,” he whispered with unexpected tenderness.

  “My name’s Beryl,” she insisted, breathlessly.

  He smiled and shook his head. “You’re my Meg.”

  She patted down her skirt. “What next? I’m feeling drained.”

  He took her hand. “Come, we have much to do and little time to do it in. Black Jack and his motley crew may be here at any moment.”

  “What are they after?”

  “Numerous things.” From inside his shirt he pulled a tattered piece of parchment. “First of all this – a map of Riber that tells where the treasure is hid. A hoard beyond your wildest imaginings. Second, the treasure itself. Third, me. They would love to capture me and make me walk the plank… or keelhaul me.”

  “What does keelhaul mean? That’s another pirate word I’ve never understood.”

  “It’s a terrible thing, Meg. They tie you to a line that’s looped under the ship, then they throw you overboard and drag you under the keel from one side to the other… or it might be from bow to stern. The hull’s usually covered with barnacles, so you’re cut to ribbons. If they pull you slowly you might sink below the hull and avoid them, but then you’d be under water so long you’d likely drown.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “Fourthly…”

  “Yes?”

  “Fourthly, you.”

  “Me?”

  “You, Meg. Black Jack would relish getting his hands on my woman to ravish and have his way with her. But have no fear, I’m here to protect you and be sure that never happens.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Beryl. “Twice in one day would be a bit much.”

  Hand in hand they made their way back down into the castle until they reached the entrance hall. Mr P lay the parchment on a mahogany table. “What do you make of this, Meg? I’m no good with maps and puzzles and working stuff out. I’m a man who does things. Look at this and tell me where the treasure is hid.”

  Beryl studied the parchment. “Where did you get this?”

  “I stole it off Black Jack.”

  “That wasn’t very nice. No wonder he’s after you.”

  “It was pirate justice! He too stole it… off Evil Paul Crew. Cut his throat to get it.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “Not awful. Evil Paul Crew stole it an’ all… off Larry Parry. Murdered him in his sleep.”

  “What dreadful people!”

  “That’s what pirates do. Possession is ownership with this parchment, and I have it, so it’s mine. I did no killing for it, mind, but there’s others that did. We’re up here at Riber in the wake of dead man’s shoes.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Time presses on, what does it say, this map?”

  It wasn’t a difficult task. The small rectangle was taken up mostly by a crude plan of the castle and the surrounding grounds. Underneath, written in faded ink, was a verse:

  This missive gives you all the power

  If on July the sixth can afford

  To rhyme with beast and then with flower

  Tis all you need to know, my lord;

  And when sun doth shine at midday hour

  You’ll find the key to Ribers hoard.

  “Well now,” she said. “It’s a rubbish poem, and there ought to be an apostrophe in Riber’s. But it’s quite simple really. Words that rhyme with beast and flower that have something to do with a castle. Beast, east, flower, tower. It means the East Tower.”

  “Which one is that?”

  She pointed at the map, blushing. “The one where we just…”

  Mr P grunted. “And what about the rest, about the midday hour and the key?”

  “I assume it means that if you stand on top of the t
ower at midday the sun will shine on something that will give a clue to the location of the hoard.”

  “What time is it now?”

  She looked across at a large clock on the wall. “Quarter to twelve.”

  “And today’s date?”

  “July the sixth. What an incredible coincidence!”

  “This is a fantasy,” said Mr P, winking at her. “Anything is possible. Fifteen minutes to go, no time to waste. Let’s go back there now, and hope the sun is shining.”

  “It was a moment ago.”

  They climbed again up the stairs to the tower roof which was indeed bathed in sunlight. In fact, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Mr P took Meg’s hand and kissed it, then ran his hand along the side of her face and neck. He looked deep into her eyes with an intensity that melted her to the core. She knew that this man, rough round the edges though he may be, adored her. He had not had her earlier – he had made love to her, in his own rugged way. Emotionally she felt totally content for the first time in her entire life.

  They stood in silence, glancing occasionally towards the sun. “How will we know when it’s midday?” she asked.

  “We shan’t need to,” said Mr P. “Something will show itself. I know.”

  Silence again. They looked around expectantly. Nothing seemed to offer a clue as to what might happen. There wasn’t a breath of wind now, even on the top of a tower on a high hill. A swift landed on the crenellation next to them and twittered to itself happily. The faint rumble of a train in the distance was the only other sound of any kind.

  Suddenly Mr P felt his hand being squeezed tight. “Look!” cried Meg. She was pointing up at the weathervane that rose above them on top of a wooden pole in the centre of the roof. The pointer had a majestic cock perched on it that crowed in the direction of the wind. Today it was motionless. Beneath was a static crosspiece indicating the four compass points in ornate ironwork letters – N,S,E,W. The extended arm of the N was casting a shadow against the side of the tower, pointing like a gnarled finger at a particular stone low down in the wall. “Is that it? Is that what we are looking for?”

  “You could be right!” said Mr P. He strode across and bent down on one knee, examining the stone. He ran his fingers round the edge, touching the grouting. “It’s loose,” he said. He took the knife from his belt and began to scrape around the sides. “This cement is parchment thin.” Shortly he put the knife away, slid his fingers into each side and tugged at the stone. Nothing happened, so he scraped some more with the knife and tried again. Still nothing. On the third attempt the stone came away a fraction.

  “It’s moving!” said Meg excitedly.

  One final application of the knife and the stone plopped out of its place in the wall and fell to the ground. Mr P peered inside. He put his hand into the space, felt around for a moment, then pulled it out. In the palm of his hand lay a large, ornate and very tarnished key. He examined it carefully, then peered inside the space again, feeling all around to see if there was anything else to be found. There was nothing.

  “A key,” said Meg. “But to what?”

  They took turns to examine the key from all angles. They could see no inscription, no markings, just a key.

  Mr P sat back on his haunches. “Now what!” he exclaimed, a look of exasperation on his rugged face.

  Meg looked equally baffled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.” She turned the key round in her hand, as if for inspiration. Then she looked at the gap where the stone had been. “Are you certain there’s nothing else in there?”

  “Certain,” said Mr P. The sun was still shining directly onto the space. From his squatting position, he could see directly into it and the sun was like a natural torch lighting it up. “No wait.” He lay flat on his stomach and pushed his face right up to the entrance of the gap. Attached to the stone at the back he saw a brass plaque. He squeezed a hand in and tried to pull it away but it was stuck solid. He peered at it. “There’s an inscription, Meg.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Just letters. N, then S, then E, then a question mark.”

  “Compass points. Like on the weathervane. The missing letter is W.”

  “So, do we head west?”

  Meg looked upwards, squinting at the crosspiece on the weathervane. The sun was in her eyes, so she moved round to the other side of the tower with the sun behind her. On the lines of the W she could just make out some writing.

  “On the weathervane!” she called out. “Another inscription. How do we get up there to read it for heaven’s sake?”

  Mr P studied the pole and kicked the wood at its base with his boot. A splinter flew off and the weathervane above rocked slightly. “We don’t,” he said. “The weathervane comes down to us.” He leaned against the pole, pressing his shoulder into it. With feet firmly rooted on the surface of the roof, he began pushing at it, harder each time. Meg heard a cracking noise from the base, where the wood was set in a kind of metal shoe and held firm by nails. The more Mr P pushed, the louder the cracking sound. She looked up. The weathervane was swaying perilously now and she moved aside, well away from where inevitably it would land. Then a loud crack as the pole split and began to topple.

  “TIM – BER!” yelled Mr P.

  The weathervane crashed to the roof. Compass points S and E had taken the brunt of the fall and buckled on impact. The cock was now crowing innocuously at the crenellated wall of the tower. W was conveniently positioned at roughly knee level as Meg and Mr P gathered round to read the inscription.

  “What does it say, Meg?” said Mr P.

  “Look,” she replied. “Just a few words. You read them.”

  “No, you.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “You handed me the parchment to read – now you won’t read these few words. Do you have a problem with literacy, Pirate Pete?”

  Mr P looked sheepishly at her. “If you mean can I read, the answer’s no. That’s woman’s work, not a man’s… especially not a pirate!”

  Meg chuckled. “You sound really silly,” she said.

  “I never had the chance for any schooling. Tain’t my fault.”

  “I’ll teach you one day.”

  “I’d like that.” He turned his attention to the compass point. “What does it say?”

  “Simple. It just says Beneath the Ice House.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we should look underneath the house where they store ice.”

  “I know that, woman! Don’t mistake me for a fool.”

  “I’m only teasing you, Mr P. Don’t be cross with me.”

  “Where is the ice house?”

  “Somewhere in the grounds I imagine, so we need to go down the tower again.”

  All of a sudden there was an almighty boom. It came from the front of the tower, in the direction of Matlock. They rushed to the side and gazed down into the valley below. In the distance a plume of smoke floated in the air above the port side of the pirate ship, which appeared to have made its way along Starkholmes Road and was moored beneath the castle. Another boom rang out and they saw a cannonball fly through the air and vanish into trees to their left.

  “Look!” exclaimed Meg, pointing downwards. Making their way up the hillside was a swarm of pirates, clambering over fences, crossing fields and slashing randomly with their cutlasses at anything in their path. “Black Jack wants his map back.”

  “Come!” said Mr P. “Not a moment to lose!”

  They hurried down the stairs and out into the grounds at the rear of the castle. Both stood and gazed out across the grounds; they saw a lawn, a cark park, trees, and a number of outbuildings of various shapes and sizes.

  “It must be one of those,” said Mr P, nodding towards the outhouses. He took Meg’s hand and started in that direction.

  “No wait,” said Meg, holding
him back. “I used to play up here when I was a kid. Ice houses are often round, a bit like an igloo, and with moss or greenery over them. I think I remember seeing something like that.” She tugged him in a different direction. “Over here. Yes, I’m sure it’s over here.”

  Mr P let himself be led. They crossed over the lawn towards some trees, the beginnings of a wood that bordered onto the land surrounding the castle. As they reached the edge they heard another great boom and seconds later a cannonball landed just to their right, splitting a tree in half. It faltered then crashed to the ground.

  “Well blow me sideways!” exclaimed Mr P.

  Meg grinned. “Let’s find the ice house first.”

  She led the way through the trees, following a path that didn’t appear to be well trodden. Soon they reached a clearing. In the centre was a conical hut, green from a covering of lichen, with a front door in the centre of a rectangular brick surround. It looked in reasonable condition, if somewhat neglected.

  “As you described,” said Mr P.

  “An early fridge.”

  “A what?’

  “Never mind. Now, the clue was Beneath the Ice House. Shall we take a look inside and see what the floor has to offer?”

  Mr P strode forward. “Let me.” He approached the door, which was wooden and looked very solid, and pressed his shoulder against it. He pushed. It didn’t give an inch, so he pressed harder. Nothing. He pulled back a foot or so and hurled himself at the door, but to no avail. He switched shoulders and tried again, and a third time. Next, he stood back further and kicked it firmly with the soul of his boot. He marked the wood but it didn’t give.

  “Can I try?” asked Meg meekly.

  “No, wench, this is the job for a man.” Mr P kicked the door again, and again. He turned around and backed into it with his feet rooted to the ground like two anchors. Nothing he did made any impact. The door remained unmoved and intact. Eventually he stood back, wiped the sweat from his brow and swore.

  Meg stepped forward, gripped the door handle and turned it. The door opened. “It’s not locked,” she said.