As his three friends unpacked, talking excitedly to each other, Dominic stood at the window in a sort of dream. He imagined stately galleons with billowing sails, crimson and gold flags fluttering from the topmost masts, the captain on the poop deck peering through a telescope. He saw the pirate sloop closing in for the kill, the skull and crossbones flapping in the breeze. He saw the great puff of white smoke as the cannons roared, and heard the shouts and screams of the pirates, their cutlasses flashing in the bright sunlight. He imagined whaling boats riding the heaving ocean, full of sailors, their harpoons raised as the great white whale surfaced, spouting water and crashing towards them.
‘Come on, Dom,’ urged Michael, who had unpacked his case and was keen to explore the house. ‘Get your things put away or you'll have “Old Grisly-Gruesome” after you.’
It was when all the beds had been made, the clothes hung up in the wardrobe and his three friends were standing by the door, with their boots and outdoor coats ready to take down to the tack room, that Dominic discovered something was missing.
‘Crikey!’ he cried. ‘I've forgotten my boots!’
‘What?!’ exclaimed Michael, Sean and Gerald together.
‘My walking boots, I forgot to bring them.’ Dominic flopped on to the bed and put his head in his hands. ‘When I packed all my clothes and things, I couldn't get them in, so I thought I'd carry them separately and I put them behind the back door. I've forgotten to bring them. Oh, crikey! What am I going to do?’
‘I don't know,’ sighed Gerald, staring down at Dominic's brightly-coloured trainers. ‘“Old Grisly-Gruesome” is sure to notice. He always does. He's been my teacher for over a year now and he misses nothing. He's got eyes in the back of his head.’
‘You could always stand behind us,’ suggested Sean weakly, ‘and keep out of sight.’
‘He said that he would be watching me like a hungry hawk,’ moaned Dominic. ‘He'll see for sure. I know he will.’
‘Well, we can try,’ said Gerald. ‘Just stay out of sight, Dominic.’
‘And don't open your mouth –’ said Sean.
‘And draw attention to yourself,’ added Michael.
‘You never know,’ said Sean, ‘he might not notice.’
There was a loud clanging of the gong.
‘We'd better go down for lunch,’ said Michael, ‘or we'll all be in trouble.’
The food was exactly as Miss Pruitt had said it would be. Miss Brewster brought in bowls of steaming potatoes topped with melted butter, fat juicy sausages swimming in thick, meaty gravy, delicious mounds of cauliflower cheese, all followed by generous portions of sticky treacle tart and creamy custard. For the moment, Dominic forgot about the problem with the boots and tucked in with gusto.
‘What's your room like?’ asked Velma, who was sitting next to Dominic.
‘Great,’ he replied.
‘Ours is as well. We look right out over the cliffs and can see the lighthouse.’
‘Just think of all the exciting things people have seen through those windows,’ said Dominic thoughtfully, looking up from his treacle tart. ‘All the shipwrecks and smugglers, pirates and sea battles. I'd love to live somewhere like this.’
‘So would I,’ sighed Velma, looking across the table. ‘Miss Brewster told us that if walls could talk this house would have really interesting stories to tell. She said that it was built over two hundred years ago for the vicar and his family.’
‘For just one family?’ gasped Dominic. ‘Crikey. All these rooms and massive gardens just for one family.’
‘Well, I suppose he had loads of children and lots of butlers and maids and gardeners,’ said Velma. ‘Miss Brewster took us around the house and showed us some of the rooms. There's a library, morning room, dining room, parlour, billiard room and a long conservatory at the back which faces the sea. There are big kitchens downstairs and dark cellars and old attics. During the First World War it was a hospital, then it became a school and during the Second World War it was a convalescent home. It became a youth hostel about twenty years ago.’
‘Do you think there's a ghost?’ asked Dominic. ‘There could be the ghost of the headless gardener or the vicar's little girl who fell off the cliff while she was picking flowers and was swept away by the tide, and who comes back at the dead of night looking for her parents, wandering from room to room, a-moaning and a-groaning.’
‘I hope not,’ Velma said, pulling a face and shivering. ‘I can't stand anything that's spooky and creepy, that moans and groans.’
Almost as if on cue, the booming voice of Mr Risley-Newsome interrupted all conversation.
‘Will everyone stop what you are doing for a moment, put down your cutlery and look this way. When you have finished your lunch, stacked your dishes tidily on the trolleys and wiped the tables, I want you to meet outside the entrance for the first of our visits. This afternoon we will be taking a short walk into the village of Thundercliff Bay via the church. It's a relatively gentle walk but you will need your outdoor coat, gloves, scarf, boots, clipboard and a sharp pencil. We will be walking along the clifftop, so keep your wits about you, stay on the path and behave yourselves.’
‘And bring some money,’ added Miss Pruitt. ‘You will be able to buy a postcard to send to your parents to let them know that you have arrived safely.’
‘Scenic views,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘and not those rude cartoon postcards.’
Sean, Michael and Gerald tried to smother their laughter, but Dominic, true to his aim to keep a low profile, looked down.
As the children gathered at the front of the youth hostel for their trip to Thundercliff Bay, Miss Brewster approached Mr Risley-Newsome, who was studying a large map which he held before him. She was carrying a heavy, black book. Dominic positioned himself with his three friends masking him, well out of the teacher's line of vision but, being of a curious nature, he was close enough to hear the conversation which followed.
‘It looks like rain again,’ said Miss Brewster pleasantly.
‘As I said earlier, Miss Brewster, a little rain won't deter us,’ replied the teacher, not looking up.
‘It really does come down heavily at this time of year.’
‘I'm sure it does,’ murmured Mr Risley-Newsome, not really listening.
‘Before you go,’ said Miss Brewster, ‘could I ask you to put the details of your trip in the book? I need to know where you are going and what time you are expected back.’
The teacher looked up and frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, could I ask you to put the details of your trip in the book? I need to know where you are going and what time you are expected back.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, just in case of an emergency.’
Mr Risley-Newsome gave a little laugh. ‘I don't envisage any emergency, Miss Brewster,’ he told her. ‘I have a great deal of experience in leading school trips and I have never had any emergencies.’
Miss Brewster sighed. ‘I'm sure you haven't, but I do need to know where you are going and when you are expected back. It's a safety check and one of the requirements for all those who stay at the youth hostel, so if you wouldn't mind…’ She held out the book.
‘Very well,’ sighed Mr Risley-Newsome, taking the book and scribbling in the details.
‘If you are overdue for some reason,’ explained the warden, ‘I can contact the police. Better safe than sorry, I always say.’ There was a touch of sarcasm in her next sentence. ‘Of course, I am sure it's just a formality for you, being so aware as you are of safety issues and what with all your experience in leading school trips.’
‘Quite,’ replied Mr Risley-Newsome.
When they were ready to set off for Thundercliff Bay, Dominic sandwiched himself between Michael and Sean, with Gerald placed strategically in front, well out of the eagle eye of Mr Risley-Newsome.
The teacher, who frequently consulted his map and compass, was far more concerned with leading the crocodile of children in
the right direction than bothering about Dominic and he strode ahead like Scott of the Antarctic, with Miss Pruitt bringing up the rear.
‘Is he always like this?’ Sean asked Gerald, as they plodded behind Mr Risley-Newsome. He wished he had never asked.
Gerald, who had been extremely quiet and shy when they had first met him, suddenly launched into a long and detailed account and there was no stopping him.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘Once he made all the class stand out in the playground in the freezing cold because somebody had talked on the way into school. And another time he tore pages out of everyone's books because the writing wasn't neat enough. When he marks your work he uses a really thick felt-tip pen and covers your page in red. It looks as if he's bled all over it. I hate handing work in to him. It comes back full of all sorts of comments. And at lunchtimes you're not allowed to leave anything on your plate. You can't get up from the table until everything is eaten.’
‘Do you –’ began Sean.
‘The worst thing about him, though,’ continued Gerald, without seeming to take a breath, ‘is he's never wrong. Once he told us the biggest dinosaur that ever lived was a diplodocus. I know a lot about dinosaurs. I've got loads of books about them. Anyway, I told Risley-Newsome it was the brachiosaurus. Actually, the diplodocus was the longest, it was about twenty-six metres, longer than two buses standing end to end. But the brachiosaurus was twelve metres tall, which is taller than two giraffes. It weighed thirty tonnes and was as heavy as eight elephants. My favourite dinosaur is the deinonychus. It was really small but it had huge slashing claws and –’
‘Wow!’ interrupted Dominic. ‘You do know a lot about dinosaurs.’
‘I know,’ said Gerald, keen to continue. ‘Anyway, Mr Risley-Newsome wouldn't have it, even when I tried to show him where it was written in the book. He said the book must have got it wrong. You soon learn to say nothing and you never ever argue with him.’ Gerald paused. Dominic was quick to take the opportunity of getting a word in.
‘I don't know why he ever became a teacher,’ Dominic said. ‘He doesn't sound as if he likes kids.’
‘He became a teacher,’ observed Michael, ‘because he likes ordering people about. That's what teachers like to do – order you about.’
‘Your mum's a teacher,’ said Dominic.
‘I know, and she likes ordering people about as well. She orders my dad about, she orders my sister about and she orders me about. She can't help it. It's not really her fault. You see, when they're at college training to be teachers they have special classes telling them how to order people about.’
Dominic thought for a moment. ‘I bet “Old Grisly-Gruesome” came top of that class,’ he said.
Six
The Legend of Reverend Bentley-Brewster
Their first stop was the church – a square, squat, grey building enclosed by red, rusting iron railings. It stood on a small knoll set back from the cliff edge and above the village. Several thick stone steps, green with lichen, led to the gate, and beyond a narrow path wound its way like a snake through the graveyard and thick shaggy grass to the church's porch. To the front of the church was an overgrown wooded area, choked with nettles and thistles, ancient bushes, sharp and twisted like barbed wire, and stunted, uprooted trunks, like a mass of huge, petrified claws. The air was full of the smell of salt and ivy, wild garlic and rotting wood. The iron gate creaked open crookedly on one hinge as the teachers and pupils made their way to the porch. The graveyard was full of tombstones, some in dark shiny granite, others in pearly white marble, some in greasy grey slate, others in pitted sandstone. They had been mostly forgotten, cracked and broken, ribboned with creepers or moss-covered. Some were strewn with dead flowers, shrivelled and black.
‘It's really spooky,’ whispered Velma to Dominic.
‘I bet “Old Grisly-Gruesome” feels really at home here,’ he replied.
The heavy door of the church was made of carved oak with shallow panels sunk in bevelled frames. Mr Risley-Newsome rattled the great iron ring noisily.
‘Unfortunately it's locked,’ he said, turning to the children gathered round him. ‘It looks as if the church study will have to be delayed for the time being.’
‘May I try?’ asked Miss Pruitt and, not waiting for an answer, slid past him and gently turned the iron ring, which gave easily. The door swung open.
Dominic expected the interior of the church to be dark and musty and cold. It was, however, warm and welcoming, and smelt surprisingly fresh and pleasant. Rows of highly-polished pews faced the chancel and high altar and four vivid stained-glass windows, each depicting different seascapes, were cut into the thick stone walls. In the centre of the church was a huge, polished, brass lectern in the shape of an eagle, its outspread wings supporting a large bible. With its sharp beak and fierce, staring eyes, Dominic thought it bore a remarkable resemblance to Mr Risley-Newsome. He stared up at the great, golden bird.
‘Now, don't touch anything,’ commanded Mr Risley-Newsome, looking in Dominic's direction. Dominic had positioned himself behind a pew so his trainers could not be seen. ‘We do not want the vicar arriving to find a broken statue or a damaged hymn book awaiting him. And stay away from that lectern, Dowson, it looks decidedly unsteady.’
‘May I help you?’ The voice came from the side of the altar. A cheerful-looking woman, rosy-cheeked, with hair tumbling over her shoulders, and her hands full of bright flowers and ferns, emerged from the shadows.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome. ‘Would it be at all possible for us to have a look around the church, as part of our studies? We are on a school trip and staying at the youth hostel.’
‘Of course,’ replied the woman. ‘If you like, I could give you a guided tour. I'm only here this afternoon to arrange the flowers for tomorrow's service. I don't have anything else on.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Miss Pruitt. ‘Lovely flowers.’
‘Yes, they are,’ agreed the woman. ‘I do think flowers brighten up the church, particularly at this time of year.’
‘Do you think we ought to get the permission of the vicar?’ asked Mr Risley-Newsome. ‘I know how difficult some of these clergymen can be when it comes to groups of children wandering around their church.’
‘No, not at all,’ replied the woman pleasantly, putting the flowers down on a table. ‘The vicar loves to have children in the church.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘I do feel we should ask him. He might not approve of a school party invading his premises.’
‘I am the vicar,’ said the woman simply. ‘And I should be delighted to show you around the church.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome.
Dominic noticed that small, smug smile appearing again on Miss Pruitt's lips.
The vicar, followed by the teachers and children, toured the building, explaining that it was not one of Britain's very oldest churches, had a fairly ordinary history and was not particularly beautiful, but it was small and homely and well used by the local people.
‘There is one quite interesting story associated with the church, though,’ she told the children when they had gathered beneath a small brass plate set high in the wall. ‘I'll just give you a few moments to read what is written,’ she said, pointing to the plaque. It read:
In memory of the Reverend Joseph Elias Bentley-Brewster, who departed this earthly life on the 20th day of March, 1799. He was a dearly loved husband, father and servant of Christ. His natural temper was affable and his conversation pleasing and prudent. His life was exemplary and regular and consistent with his chosen vocation as a priest.
‘Now, the Reverend Bentley-Brewster was rector here over two hundred years ago, and a bit of a character by all accounts,’ said the vicar. ‘He lived up in the big house which is now the youth hostel where you are all staying.’
‘Miss, he might have been related to Miss Brewster, who runs the youth hostel,’ said Dominic excitedly.
‘Brewster is a very common name,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome, dismissively. ‘Now, let the vicar continue, and listen.’
Michael and Sean pulled faces in Dominic's direction and mouthed: ‘Shut up!’
‘I thought he was keeping a low profile,’ whispered Gerald. ‘He's drawing attention to himself again.’
Sean sighed. ‘He can't help it.’
‘That's Dominic's trouble,’ said Michael, ‘he just can't help himself.’
‘It's an interesting thought about the name,’ said the vicar. ‘Miss Brewster might indeed be a long-lost descendant of quite a famous man. He did have a lot of children by all accounts. There are quite a lot of Brewsters who live hereabouts.’
‘Why was he famous?’ asked Velma.
‘Well,’ said the vicar, lowering her voice, ‘the Reverend Joseph Bentley-Brewster, so they say, was a smuggler in his spare time.’
‘A smuggler!’ gasped Dominic.
‘He and a group of local men were reputed to have hidden casks of brandy and barrels of wine in the caves below the cliffs.’
‘Were they ever caught?’ asked Sean Murphy.
‘No, never, although, so the story goes, the Reverend Bentley-Brewster was suspected and questioned by the customs men, who looked high and low for the contraband. I am sure they had a sneaking suspicion that he was involved in smuggling, but they never caught him. They searched the church and the crypt, the house and its cellars and could never find so much as a bottle. Many was the time when the customs men watched from the clifftop when the smugglers were rowing ashore. They saw them land in the little cove just below the vicarage and unload all the cargo.’
‘Why didn't they go down on the beach to get them?’ asked Michael.
‘Because that little cove has two sharp headlands jutting out on either side,’ the vicar told them. ‘The cliffs curve out like the horns of a bull and cut the cove off when the tide is in. The cliffs are steep and slippery there, so it was no use the customs men trying to climb down. They'd have got stuck in the mud. They just had to wait on the clifftop, watching helplessly as the smugglers brought all the barrels and casks ashore. Then, when the tide turned, they made their way along the beach at Thundercliff Bay. Of course, when they arrived at the cove there was no sign of anybody or anything. It was as if the smugglers had disappeared into thin air. They searched the caves with a fine toothcomb but found nothing. There must have been some sort of hidden chamber in the caves or secret passage leading up to the village.’
Dominic's Discovery Page 5
