‘I am well aware of your many qualifications and your extensive experience, Mr Risley-Newsome,’ replied Miss Pruitt, refusing to be put off. ‘Nevertheless, I would like, at the very least, to be informed as to what you have planned. You have organized the whole week, devised the itinerary, decided on the programme, produced the worksheets, dealt with room allocations – just about everything.’
Dominic had never seen this side of his teacher before. The calm, friendly, easy-going, cheerful Miss Pruitt had suddenly changed into this angry, stubborn and bad-tempered woman with a face like thunder. It was a bit like his gran and the incident with the seagull. She had been fine until the woman had started calling her grandson names. Then Gran had really told the woman with the chihuahua what was what.
‘Miss Pruitt,’ replied Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘let me make one thing clear.’ The patronizing smile had disappeared. ‘The only reason our two schools are on a joint trip is that there was no available woman member of staff at Cransworth to accompany me. Otherwise –’
‘I am perfectly aware of that,’ replied Miss Pruitt. ‘I would ask you, however, that in future you do me the courtesy of consulting me before you make any decisions concerning my pupils.’ Without waiting for a reply, she walked briskly away with her head in the air.
Mr Risley-Newsome caught sight of Dominic, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, sitting on the step. ‘And what are you doing there, Dowson?’
‘Tying my shoelace, sir,’ Dominic replied.
‘Then tie it!’ he snapped, before also walking briskly away with his head in the air.
So much for having eyes like an eagle, thought Dominic, smiling. ‘Old Grisly-Gruesome’ hadn't even noticed his trainers.
Eight
The Mystery of the Hidden Treasure
On the way back to the youth hostel along the clifftop, Mr Risley-Newsome struck off ahead with a powerful, determined tread. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the boy in the brightly-coloured trainers trying to keep out of sight.
‘Come along! Come along!’ he shouted irritably to the children panting and puffing behind him. ‘Keep up! It's like leading a lot of geriatric tortoises.’
‘He never even noticed my trainers,’ Dominic told his friends excitedly. ‘They were staring him in the face. I was sitting there on this step, tying my shoelace, and he looked straight at them and never said a word.’
‘Doesn't sound like Mr Risley-Newsome,’ said Gerald. ‘He must have something on his mind. He never misses a trick usually.’
‘Well, he missed my trainers,’ said Dominic, ‘and that's all I'm bothered about. In the words of my headteacher: “I'm home and dry” and “safe as houses”.’
Later that evening, after a dinner of thick, meaty stew with rich gravy, huge dumplings, creamy potatoes and fresh vegetables, followed by home-made apple pie and cream, Dominic's table was assigned to help Miss Brewster with the washing-up.
‘I never wash up at home,’ announced Nathan, carrying a pile of plates to the sink.
‘I never do, either,’ echoed Darren.
‘Well, now is your chance to learn,’ Miss Brewster told him cheerfully. ‘Put them in the sink and get washing.’
‘We've got a dishwasher at home,’ Nathan told her and anyone who would listen, ‘and we have a cleaning woman who comes in twice a week to clean the house.’
‘My goodness,’ said the warden. ‘I didn't know we'd got royalty staying with us. I should have put down the red carpet and got out my best china.’
‘Actually, we've got a red carpet in our lounge,’ announced Nathan.
‘We've got one on our stairs,’ said Darren.
Miss Brewster smiled and shook her head, thinking to herself how very different children could be.
When all the cups and saucers and plates had been dried and stacked, the cutlery put away and the surfaces wiped down, the pupils headed for the games room to watch television. Dominic and Velma remained behind. They had something to ask the warden.
‘Miss Brewster?’ said Dominic, casually folding up a tea towel.
‘Yes, love.’
‘Are you related to the man in the church?’
‘And which man would that be?’
‘The smuggler, Joseph Bentley-Brewster.’
‘And who told you about Joseph Bentley-Brewster?’
‘The vicar told us,’ said Velma. ‘We visited the church today and she showed us around.’
‘There are lots of Brewsters in these parts,’ said the warden.
‘That's what the vicar told us,’ said Velma.
‘And did she also tell you that her name is Brewster?’
‘No,’ said Dominic.
‘Well, it is. She's my niece.’
‘So, you both could be descended from Joseph Bentley-Brewster,’ said Dominic. ‘Wow!’
‘Well, I'll tell you this: we would both like to think that he was one of our ancestors. He was a very good man by all accounts was the Reverend Joseph Bentley-Brewster, a very kind and gentle man, and he did a lot for the poor and needy. Many is the family he saved from starvation.’
‘And he was a smuggler?’
‘So they say, but it could just be an old tale. Certainly there were men from the village who brought over from Holland silks and laces, bottles of rum and casks of brandy and they say the customs men never found so much as a box of nails.’
‘Where did they hide it all?’ asked Dominic.
‘There's the mystery. Nobody really knows. Probably deep down in the caves by the seashore, I should imagine. There's a whole network of tunnels and passages leading into the cliff. People have searched for a hidden cave, of course – potholers and climbers; people with metal detectors – but nothing's ever been found. If there was a secret cave, the smugglers took the secret to their graves.’
‘So nobody's found the treasure?’ asked Dominic.
‘Goodness me, there was no treasure, love!’ exclaimed Miss Brewster. ‘If the Reverend Bentley-Brewster was a smuggler, as people say, then he gave it all away. He died with not a penny to his name.’
‘He might have kept some hidden in a secret room in this house,’ said Dominic, rather disappointed.
‘I think by this time it would have been discovered, don't you? When they used the house during the war as a convalescent home, it was knocked about a bit by the soldiers and no mistake. Then, when it became a school, they had to knock walls down, turn rooms into classrooms and replace all the electrics and the plumbing. They would surely have found any secret passages or hidden rooms then, don't you think? I've been in this house for twenty years and I know every inch of the place. No, there's no hidden treasure behind the walls.’
‘Are there any ghosts, Miss Brewster?’ asked Velma.
‘No, there are no ghosts here, either.’
‘I'm glad about that,’ sighed Velma.
‘But not too far from here, at Brandon Bridge, there is the “Phantom Horseman”,’ said Miss Brewster.
‘Who?’ gasped Dominic.
‘Pull up a chair, you two,’ said the warden, ‘and I'll tell you all about him.’
Later that evening everyone assembled in the lounge area for one of Mr Risley-Newsome's marathon monologues about the walk they were to undertake the following day.
‘Tomorrow we will be walking firstly to Fylingthorpe,’ Mr Risley-Newsome told the children, ‘which is a couple of miles or so. Make sure you are all appropriately equipped with anorak, scarf, gloves, waterproofs and boots, and have your clipboards and a sharp pencil. After Fylingthorpe we will be following the track of the old Scarborough-to-Whitby railway line. This railway line was opened in 1885 but the track is now a walkway. The old railway path continues past a place called Fylings Park, and it is interesting to note that there was probably a medieval deer park here at one time.’
The children did not look the slightest bit interested in this snippet of information and continued to stare at him with weary expressions.
‘This
is seriously boring,’ whispered Dominic behind his hand to Gerald. ‘I've got a really good story about the “Phantom Horseman”. I'll tell you later, after lights out.’
‘Is there something you wish to share with us, Dominic Dowson?’ asked Mr Risley-Newsome.
‘No, sir,’ replied Dominic, putting on his most angelic expression.
‘Then kindly keep your mouth closed and listen. You might just learn something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, as I was saying, after Fylings Park, next stop will be Boggle Hole.’ The children giggled. ‘There is nothing funny about Boggle Hole,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome. ‘The word “boggle” is a local name for a hob or goblin, which is a mischievous elf. These mythical creatures were supposed to have lived here. It is another piece of superstitious nonsense.’
Typical, thought Dominic. Just as it is getting interesting, he goes and changes the subject.
‘If the tide is out,’ continued the teacher, ‘we will walk along the shore via Robin Hoods Bay. If the tide is in we will cross the footbridge and follow the clifftop path back to the youth hostel. Are there any questions?’
‘Sir,’ asked Nathan, ‘is Robin Hoods Bay where Robin Hood lived?’
‘No, nothing of the sort. There is no evidence whatsoever that the outlaw of Sherwood Forest, if indeed he ever existed at all, came to the village. It is another piece of fiction.’
‘Were there smugglers at Robin Hoods Bay, sir, like at Thundercliff Bay?’ asked Dominic.
‘I have no doubt that Robin Hoods Bay has had its share of thieves, looters, vagabonds and criminals, but that is of no interest to us. We will be looking at the geography of the area and not concerning ourselves with tall tales. Anyway, if we do visit Robin Hoods Bay, it will only be to pass through. We will not have time to linger there. That is not on my itinerary.’
Dominic could see that Mr Risley-Newsome had no intention of doing what Miss Pruitt had asked to consult her. He watched her as she gave the teacher a stare that would turn milk sour.
Later that night, when the lights had been turned off, when everything was still and silent and everyone was tucked up sleeping, three boys climbed from their beds in the large attic room at the very top and at the back of the house, to hear the story of the ‘Phantom Horseman of Brandon Bridge’.
‘It was in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-five,’ began Dominic in a hushed voice, ‘when Sir Brandon de Blunderville galloped out of Greaseborough Grange on his great grey horse. He wore a coat as red as fresh blood, a top hat as black as night, and spurs as sharp and shiny as silver knives. It was a cold, cold morning and the frost covered the ground like icing sugar. Sir Brandon was off to join the hunt and chase the fox.’
‘I like foxes,’ said Gerald.
‘Shush,’ said Michael. ‘Go on, Dom.’
‘Clip-clop, clip-clop went the horse's hoofs on the frozen ground,’ continued Dominic. ‘Over walls he jumped, through streams, across fields, down mossy banks, after the fox. He was a cruel man was Sir Brandon and no fox had ever escaped him. On and on he rode, his sweating horse beneath him panting and blowing out clouds of steam in the cold air –’
‘You're really good at telling stories, Dominic,’ remarked Gerald. He didn't sound all that happy.
‘Shush,’ said Sean. ‘Go on, Dom.’
‘Then he saw it!’
‘What?’ gasped Gerald.
‘The fox,’ said Dominic. ‘It was on the railway line in front of a tunnel, looking up at Sir Brandon. “Got you!” he cried, and blew his horn for the hounds. Down the bank came the dogs, leaping and springing, snarling and snapping.’
A distant owl hooted and the wind rustled the trees outside the window.
Gerald shuddered. ‘This is really spooky,’ he whispered.
‘Shush,’ said Michael. ‘Go on, Dom.’
‘The fox looked up for a moment and then trotted into the tunnel. None of the hounds would follow. They barked and growled and ran round in circles, but they would not go into the tunnel. Sir Brandon shouted and blew on his horn, but not a dog would go in after the fox. He dug his spurs deeply into the horse's side, leapt down the bank and galloped into the tunnel's darkness after the fox.’
‘And?’ asked Michael, his eyes as round as saucers.
‘A train was coming from the other end.’
‘Oh, heck!’ murmured Gerald.
‘There was a sickening thud,’ continued Dominic, ‘a terrible shriek of the whistle, a screeching of brakes and a scream – a terrible, eerie, frightening scream which echoed down the tunnel. Then the train appeared through great clouds of steam and thundered on down the track. The hounds ran off, yelping and whining. And do you know what?’
‘What?’ asked Gerald in a small voice.
‘The fox came out of the tunnel, smiling,’ said Dominic.
‘A fox can't smile,’ said Michael.
‘This one did,’ said Dominic. ‘Sir Brandon was never seen again, but on some days when it's cold and misty and the sky is full of dark clouds, out of the tunnel gallops the “Phantom Horseman”, his face as white as the sheet on my bed, his body all mangled and twisted, his eyes glowing like burning coals.’ Nobody spoke. ‘Are you all right, Gerald?’ asked Dominic.
‘No, I'm not,’ he replied.
‘I must admit,’ said Dominic cheerfully, ‘I am pretty good at telling stories. 'Night everybody.’
The next morning was cold and bright. The children assembled in front of the youth hostel. Dominic positioned himself judiciously behind his friends, well out of sight of ‘Old Grisly-Gruesome’. The man in question stood shielding his eyes with a gloved hand. He looked like the leader of some great expedition in his large, green, canvas anorak with the fur-lined hood, huge, brown hiking boots, thick woollen hat, and heavy rucksack. He consulted his watch and then his compass.
‘I didn't get a wink of sleep last night,’ said Gerald. ‘I kept thinking about that ghostly huntsman galloping out of the tunnel. And today we've got this long walk ahead of us. I could go back to bed, I'm so tired.’
‘Just look at “Old Grisly-Gruesome”,’ said Michael.
‘He looks as if he's about to climb Everest,’ said Dominic.
‘What was that, Dominic?’ asked Miss Pruitt, who had suddenly appeared behind him.
‘I said, will we ever have a rest, miss,’ he replied.
‘I'm sure you did,’ she replied, chuckling.
‘Forwards and onwards!’ Mr Risley-Newsome shouted, gesturing ahead of him with a sweep of the arm, and the school party was off. The intrepid explorer strode ahead with great determination and gusto, the cold wind blowing in his face. Behind him crept a crocodile of shivering children with Miss Pruitt, as usual, at the back, trying to keep up.
‘Come on! Come on, you slow-coaches!’ Mr Risley-Newsome barked impatiently, without looking back.
Nine
The ‘Phantom Horseman’
‘I don't reckon anything to this,’ gasped Michael Chan to Dominic. ‘Walking for miles and miles in freezing winds, through mud and water, soaked to the skin. It's supposed to be a school trip to look at the countryside and the coast, not an army survival exercise.’
‘Is that your voice I can hear, Dominic Dowson?’ boomed Mr Risley-Newsome from in front. ‘If it is, save your breath for the walk ahead. We've a long way to go and I've heard quite enough from you today.’
Firstly, Dominic thought, I have not said a word since we started and secondly, why did ‘Old Grisly-Gruesome’ always assume it was him? Well, he said to himself, just so long as he doesn't discover I'm not wearing boots, I shall be happy enough.
He wished for the umpteenth time that he had brought his boots. His feet were cold and wet and caked in mud already and the party had barely set off, and he kept slipping and sliding on the wet grass and muddy paths. The trainers had started life a bright blue and white but now were a dirty brown colour. Still, thought Dominic, they are much less easy to spot in this state.
> When the children finally reached the old railway bridge they were panting like exhausted greyhounds, their breath forming great clouds in the cold winter air.
‘We'll stop here for five minutes,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘to recharge our batteries before the climb.’
‘Climb!’ exclaimed Michael, out of the teacher's earshot. ‘We're off up a mountain now! A day in the country. It's like a trip up the Himalayas – wet and windy, cold and misty.’
‘I'm just about ready to drop,’ moaned Gerald.
‘Excuse me! Did you say something, Dowson?’ snapped Mr Risley-Newsome, swivelling round and stabbing a gloved finger in the direction of Dominic.
‘Gerald was just saying, sir, that he was ready for a stop,’ replied Dominic.
‘Yes, well don't start getting comfortable, we're only staying here a short time. Now, gather round everybody, I've got something to say.’ This was the introduction to yet another lecture. ‘For the last half a mile, as you all probably have noticed, we have been walking in a sort of valley. Now, it is not a natural valley cut into the rock by the ice, millions of years ago, like the ones I told my pupils about in geography last term. This sort of valley – are you listening to me, you boys at the back?’
‘Yes, sir,’ chorused Michael, Sean and Dominic.
‘I hope you are.’
‘We are, sir.’
‘Good. As I was saying, this is not a natural valley, but one that has been man-made. It has been carved out of the landscape for the railway that went from Whitby to Scarborough. Trees, bushes and heather were bound in sheepskins and used to create a firm base in boggy areas. We've been walking along the old railway line which would, of course, have been a very stupid and dangerous thing to do had we been doing so a hundred years ago –’
Dominic's Discovery Page 7
