‘It is a secret passage,’ Dominic gulped. ‘It's the one used by the smugglers. I just know it. No wonder the customs men couldn't find any trace of them. This tunnel must come from the beach, right up to the clifftop. Then they would have hidden their loot in the church.’
Dominic sat back on a mossy mound, ignoring Daisy's frantic barking. He imagined the smugglers, shrouded in long black cloaks, their hair stiff with salt, rowing ashore, unloading their illegal cargo on to the sandy beach, rolling the fat casks and heaving the heavy boxes across the rocks by the light of a pale moon. He could hear the swishing of the sea sweeping up the beach, the soft splash of the muffled oars in the water, the crunch of boots on the pebbles, the frantic shouts of the customs men on the clifftop and the crack of muskets. He was brought out of his reverie by the yelping from below.
‘All right, Daisy, I'm coming, I'm coming!’ he shouted down the hole.
Fixing the rope securely to the thick stump of a dead tree, Dominic lowered himself carefully into the blackness. The new boots, with their thick, rubber-moulded soles, were perfect for clambering down the slimy steps. One, two, three, four, five, six, he climbed before he felt Daisy jumping up excitedly.
‘Down girl!’ commanded Dominic. ‘You'll make me lose my footing.’
He shone the torch and discovered he was standing on a large ledge, from which a further flight of narrow steps, chiselled into the rock, disappeared downwards. Daisy was now leaping up and barking furiously.
‘All right, Daisy, all right!’
Dominic took a great breath, more out of relief than anything. The air below ground was icy cold and had an overpowering smell of seaweed and salt. Beneath him he could hear the distant slap, slap, slap of water on rock.
I knew I was right, he said to himself, rubbing his hands together to warm them. This passage must lead right down to the beach. It is the smugglers' secret tunnel.
Dominic directed the torch's beam around him. As his eyes became accustomed to the shadowy subterranean world, he could make out slimy walls, gaping caverns and a series of rusty iron rings set in the rock face at regular intervals, some with the remnants of rope hanging loosely from them.
‘I knew it!’ he said out loud. ‘This is the smugglers' secret tunnel.’ He picked up the frisky little creature which was leaping about his legs. ‘I'm going on down,’ Dominic told the dog, ‘but you can't come with me, Daisy. It's too dangerous for you. I'm taking you back to the house.’ He stroked the fat round head. ‘And don't you go spilling the beans to Miss Brewster.’
Twelve
The Secret of Thundercliff Bay
Dominic ran to the youth hostel, the dog tucked underneath his arm and with his heart thumping away in his chest, but this time with excitement rather than panic. His head was full of wild, fantastic thoughts. Suppose there was treasure down there – chests of sparkling Spanish doubloons, caskets crammed with sapphires and rubies, diamond rings, pearl necklaces, emerald brooches, carved ivory figures, swords inlaid with gold and jewels, huge ivory tusks and boxes of rare objects.
He could just picture the scene when he returned home. He would wander into the living room. Mum would ask if he had had a nice time. ‘Oh yes,’ he would say casually. Gran would ask him what he had tucked underneath his arm. He would then flick open the treasure chest and let the coins fall to the floor like a waterfall of gold. ‘I've brought you back a little present,’ he would say.
He tried to control his excitement when he entered the kitchen.
‘Just in time for lunch,’ said Miss Brewster. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
Amazing, phenomenal, extraordinary, incredible, astounding, unbelievable, Dominic thought to himself, but he answered vaguely, ‘Oh yes, very nice.’
Daisy panted at his feet, looking up expectantly with her bright black eyes.
‘You've certainly made friends with Daisy,’ said Miss Brewster. ‘She doesn't usually take to people like that. You've made quite an impression, Dominic. Was she good?’
‘Perfect,’ Dominic replied, patting the panting little dog, which was jumping up.
‘She didn't go near those cliffs, did she?’
‘Oh, no, Miss Brewster, not near the cliffs.’
‘Well, that's good. Now, what about some lunch?’
‘Could I have it later?’ asked Dominic, eager to return to the secret passage. ‘I thought I might have another little walk, this time without Daisy. Get used to the new boots.’
‘Another walk? You're a glutton for punishment. Go on, then, I'll save you something for later. But stay away from that cliff edge, won't you?’
Dominic ran back to the copse as quickly as his legs could carry him. Down the path, across the lawn, along the clifftop, until he came to the thicket. He fought his way through the bushes and brambles, crunching the twigs noisily underfoot until he came upon the slab of rock with the rusting iron ring and the tunnel. He hadn't dreamt it. It was real. The smugglers' secret tunnel.
Step by careful step he descended deep into the darkness, keeping the rope firmly grasped in one hand and the torch in the other. The beam of light illuminated a strange and damp world of dark caverns, gaping like the mouths of monsters, sculptured pillars, twisted fossilized formations, great rounded arches of stone, exotic carvings of jagged rock hanging like rotten teeth. The sound of the sea grew louder as he crept downwards. Soon it was no longer the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of water on rock he had heard earlier, but a thunderous crashing and smashing.
After what seemed to be many, many steps later, Dominic found himself in a spacious chamber with a moist sandy floor and a great domed roof. The sound of an angry sea filled the chamber. A shaft of light flooded upwards and shadows danced grotesquely on the slimy walls. Dominic shivered. Nervously, he edged towards the light and peered over a sharp overhanging ledge. Beneath him, a few metres down, was a small cave mouth into which the sea, in a frenzy of froth and foam, was hurling itself against the black seaweed-covered walls. This was the smugglers' cave for sure.
They would have unloaded their cargo, carried it into the cave, hoisted it up the rock face and then through the tunnel, and up the steps to the clifftop. But where was all the booty? Where were the chests of sparkling Spanish doubloons, caskets crammed with sapphires and rubies, diamond rings, pearl necklaces, emerald bracelets, swords inlaid with gold and jewels, boxes of rare objects? Where were the barrels of French brandy, the fat casks of dark Spanish wine, bales of tobacco and boxes of contraband? There was nothing but rock and water and sand.
Ah well, thought Dominic, it's exciting all the same. He had found the secret of the Thundercliff Bay smugglers and he might well become famous.
Dominic turned back, pulling himself up the steps slowly but surely with a great deal of heaving and grunting. He emerged into the light of day and took a deep breath of cold air. Sliding the slab of rock back in place, he left the rope where it was. He decided that he would come back and explore the secret passage again, as soon as he could.
At the youth hostel he returned the boots to the tack room, changed out of his wet clothes, had a shower and went in search of Miss Brewster.
Dominic was sitting in the kitchen, finishing a huge crust of freshly-baked bread, spread thickly with butter and jam, when he heard noises from the tack room.
‘Sounds as if they're back,’ remarked Miss Brewster. ‘I didn't think they'd stay out much longer in this weather. It's turned bitter out there. You had best be going, Dominic. You don't want to get into any more trouble with Mr Double-Barrel, High-and-Mighty, do you?’
Stuffing the remaining bread and jam in his mouth, Dominic scurried off up the stairs.
Five minutes later, sour-faced Mr Risley-Newsome, as bad-tempered as ever, and a gloomy-looking Miss Pruitt, as usual following behind, found him poring over a book in the library with an expression of fierce concentration on his face.
‘I trust you have completed the essay I set you, Dowson,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome.
‘
Oh, yes, sir,’ replied Dominic cheerfully, passing the teacher his exercise book.
‘Well, I really don't know what we are going to do with you, Dominic,’ sighed Miss Pruitt. ‘Fancy forgetting your boots.’
‘Typical,’ mouthed her colleague. Mr Risley-Newsome flicked through the pages of the exercise book and arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, it looks as if you will be writing a few more of these essays before we return to school, won't you?’ He let the book drop on to the desk in front of him. ‘Because, as I said before, there is not the slightest chance of you accompanying us on any trip without the appropriate footwear.’
‘Yes, sir, I know that,’ replied Dominic. He waited until the teacher had turned his back on him and started for the door before adding, ‘I have some boots now, sir.’
Mr Risley-Newsome turned round sharply. ‘You have some boots? From where, may I ask, have you suddenly acquired a pair of boots?’
‘Miss Brewster found a spare pair in the tack room, sir. They had been left by someone from another school and they fit me like a glove.’
‘Oh, that's excellent, Dominic,’ cooed Miss Pruitt, obviously pleased.
‘Fortunate for him, I should say.’ Mr Risley-Newsome scrutinized Dominic's feet and grunted. ‘And where are these boots?’ he asked.
‘In the tack room,’ replied Dominic, glancing down at the teacher's mud-caked boots. ‘You said we had to leave all our outdoor clothes and boots in the tack room, so we don't dirty the carpet.’
‘So I did,’ replied the teacher, departing. ‘So I did.’
Miss Pruitt, suppressing a smile, picked up Dominic's exercise book and examined his essay. ‘I have always thought that essays should be given to children as a treat and not as a punishment. Still, you seem to have made a very good effort here, Dominic. You weren't too bored by yourself all morning, were you?’
‘Oh, no, miss.’
‘Good.’
‘How was the trip, miss?’
Miss Pruitt pulled a face. ‘Cold, wet, windy and tiresome,’ she replied. ‘Still, there's only a couple of days to go.’ The teacher gave a little smile. ‘Dominic, is that jam round your mouth?’
After dinner Mr Risley-Newsome shuffled a thick wad of paper before him in preparation for another of his laborious lectures.
‘Tomorrow we will be walking along part of the Cleveland Way. The name Cleveland comes from the old Norse word Klifland which, for your information, means “Land of cliffs”.’
Now, there's a thing, thought Dominic, smiling. Whoever would have thought that Klifland meant ‘Land of cliffs’.
‘Is something amusing you, Dowson?’ asked Mr Risley-Newsome, catching sight of the boy's grinning face.
‘No, sir, I'm just feeling happy,’ replied Dominic.
‘Well, pay attention. The Cleveland Hills,’ continued the teacher, ‘form part of a range of unusually shaped scarps which are littered with Bronze Age tumuli and cairns. I shall be drawing your attention to these en route and we may have time to sketch them. In the seventeenth century alum was discovered…’
And so Mr Risley-Newsome's voice droned on. Dominic wasn't listening to a word. He was dreaming of the dark and dripping tunnel, the secret caves and caverns and the treasure that might be hidden there.
Later that evening, when the children were completing their lengthy worksheets about Whitby, St Mary's Church and Captain Cook, prepared in pleasure-destroying detail by Mr Risley-Newsome, Dominic headed for the library to get a book. He, of course, not having been on the trip, had escaped the exercise but had been told by Miss Pruitt to spend the time reading. When he heard the teachers' voices in the library, Dominic stood outside the half-open door to listen.
‘May I know where we are going tomorrow?’ Miss Pruitt was asking Mr Risley-Newsome.
‘I thought I explained that after dinner, Miss Pruitt,’ he replied in a mock-pleasant sort of voice. ‘We will be walking along part of the Cleveland Way –’
‘I mean, could I see the actual route itself?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
Dominic peered round the door. Mr Risley-Newsome was pointing to a large Ordnance Survey map before him and tracing a line with his long finger.
‘We are here, you see,’ he said, tapping the map. ‘We shall be following this designated footpath by Stainthorpe Farm, turning then on to this track here to get to the clifftop at Clayton Point. Following the route of the Cleveland Way, we shall find ourselves here, at Campbell's Point. The path drops down through woodland and, bearing right, we will reach the shore. Then after a mile or so's brisk walk across the sands at Thundercliff Wyke, we shall arrive at Capstan Cliffs and climb up this footpath to the clifftop just here and arrive back at the youth hostel.’ He consulted his watch. ‘I estimate it will take us about four hours at the most.’
Miss Pruitt examined the map for a moment and frowned.
‘Is there something troubling you, Miss Pruitt?’ asked her colleague.
‘Isn't Thundercliff Wyke supposed to be quite hazardous?’ she asked, examining the map.
‘Is that a question, Miss Pruitt,’ said Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘or an observation?’
‘I believe that Thundercliff Wyke is a dangerous stretch of coast.’
Mr Risley-Newsome sighed noisily. Dominic could see that he was none too pleased, but that he managed to keep a small, forced smile on his face. ‘I am not aware that Thundercliff Wyke has a reputation for being dangerous,’ he said. His good humour had disappeared like smoke in the wind.
‘Miss Brewster,’ Miss Pruitt continued, undeterred by his irritation, ‘did mention to me that Thundercliff Wyke was rather rocky and secluded and that there are fast-rising tides.’
Mr Risley-Newsome made a little chuckling noise. ‘Miss Pruitt,’ he said, ‘the whole of this coast is rather rocky and full of secluded bays with fast-rising tides.’
‘I appreciate that –’ she began.
‘Every stretch of coast is potentially dangerous.’
‘But I was told this particular stretch is notorious.’
Mr Risley-Newsome leaned back in his chair and breathed out heavily. ‘Are you suggesting that we abandon tomorrow's trip, Miss Pruitt?’ he asked. Before she could reply, he continued, ‘A trip, I might add, which I have planned down to the very last detail?’
‘I am merely mentioning that the area has a reputation for being dangerous. After all, Miss Brewster does live here and is familiar with the coast. Shall I ask her to have a word with you?’
‘That is really not at all necessary,’ replied Mr Risley-Newsome loftily. ‘I do know what I am doing, Miss Pruitt, despite your obvious reservations. Trust me.’
‘Could we perhaps miss that part of the walk?’ she asked.
‘No, we can't,’ replied Mr Risley-Newsome sharply. ‘To abandon our walk along the beach would mean me having to re-plan the whole excursion. I can assure you, Miss Pruitt, your concerns about Thundercliff Wyke are quite groundless.’
‘Very well, Mr Risley-Newsome. I just hope we don't live to regret it.’
Dominic crept away. He thought to himself, I just hope I find some time to return to the tunnel.
Thirteen
Nathan Comes a Cropper
The next morning was bright and fresh when the teachers and children set off for Thundercliff Wyke. Mr Risley-Newsome strode out ahead at a brisk pace, attired in his dark-green anorak, corduroy trousers and large boots, with an assortment of appendages – whistle, compass, binoculars and map case – dangling as usual from his neck, and a rucksack strapped to his back. Miss Pruitt, in her bright-pink anorak, yellow slacks and orange boots, brought up the rear. Dominic, in his new boots, strode out with a confident step with Nathan and Darren sniggering behind him.
‘Where did you get your boots from then, Dowson?’ asked Nathan Thomas.
‘Yeah, where are the boots from?’ parroted Darren.
‘Ignore him,’ said Velma to Dominic.
‘They're girls' boots,’ said Nathan. �
�Dowson's wearing girls' boots.’
‘Girls' boots,’ chortled Darren.
‘I wouldn't be seen dead in those,’ said Nathan.
‘No, neither I would I,’ said Darren.
Nathan started to chant, ‘He's got girls' boots. He's got girls' boots.’
‘Whoever's making that silly noise,’ came a thundering voice from the front, ‘be quiet!’
Dominic did ignore Nathan. He had too many things on his mind to bother with such stupid comments. ‘I've found something,’ he said to Velma under his breath.
‘What?’ she whispered.
‘I've found a tunnel.’
‘A tunnel!’ she exclaimed.
‘Sssh,’ said Dominic, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Where?’ asked Velma. ‘In the house?’
‘No, near the old church. At the front, in that overgrown copse. It's a secret tunnel leading from the cliffs to the beach. I found it yesterday when you were out walking. It's all dark and spooky and there are these slippery steps going all the way into the cliff. It's what the smugglers used to get their booty up from the beach.’
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Velma, her mouth dropping open.
Nathan, having failed to provoke a response from Dominic, soon became bored and turned his unwelcome attentions to another unfortunate pupil.
Dominic related the whole story to Velma. He had intended to keep his discovery to himself because he wanted to return to the tunnel alone. So far he'd managed to fight the temptation to spill the beans even to Smurph and Michael, but now he was just bursting to tell someone. And he had come to like and trust Velma. Anyway, she might be quite useful when it came to it. So he told her about Daisy getting lost, the dark jungle of weeds, bushes and dead trees, the slab of rock with the iron ring and the flight of slippery steps leading to the beach.
Dominic's Discovery Page 10
