by Mark Walker
“We may have to reconsider,” said Flora doubtfully, “and find a new place to stay, because I must say...”
“Oh, no, Miss Phipps, Flora, please. Why, we’ll do everything we can!” broke in Dinky Potter, and quickly changed the subject:
“Children, your Miss Danes arrived earlier this afternoon, and she’s been helping get your room ready. Certainly, has brightened up the place. She even gave a short concert for us earlier this afternoon.”
“Oh, that she did,” exclaimed Flora, “and how wonderfully sweet it was!”
“If only you could all stay the entire winter season,” smiled Fauna.
And just then, they faintly heard the gentle strains of violin music coming from above. It whimsically reached a flurried crescendo, then stopped.
Dinky Potter continued, “that’ll be Miss Danes all right.” Then they heard footsteps. “In fact, here she is now.”
The girl who bounced down the stairs appeared so striking anyone would instantly take note of her. The immediate impression was that she was rather tall, with a hint of Tom-boyishness or impudence about her, combined with a leggy, gangly grace. Large, wide-apart, emerald-sapphire eyes flashed under long lashes in a radiant face, framed by natural ringlets and swirls of unfashionably long pale blonde and strawberry hair. Her cheeks were rosy, her nose longish, though slightly, and endearingly upturned at the tip, and below it her full lips smiled a toothy grin. She wore a long open knit sweater and beret of pale grey, a plaid scarf, over a dress of dark purple. The wide black leather belt fastened with a big buckle matched the black boots that encased her slender legs and feet. She held a violin and bow and greeted the children warmly.
“Long time no see, kiddos,” she said in an exaggeratedly confidential throaty contralto.
“Kendra!” cried Mandy and Jen. “Miss Danes!” exclaimed Michael. They rushed to greet her. Kendra Danes pursed her lips. “My, my, now you’d think we haven’t seen each other for a month. It hasn’t even been a week.”
“How did your concert go?” asked Mandy.
“Oh, yes, yes, tell us!” from Jen.
“It was lovely, kids,” she crooned, setting down her violin and bow, “why we laid them in the aisles, with two standing O’s. But now, it’s away from the big city and out to this far-off, desolate burg. And say, isn’t this the most marvelous place?
“Maybe we can do some swell exploring before the big storm they’re all warning us is coming,” she said, taking Mandy and Jen by the hands, “Why just look around at all this nautical wonderment!”
“We decided to really do up the pirate angle for the tourists, you know,” explained Dinky Potter.
The children peered at all the “nautical wonderment” surrounding them. Seafaring decoration was all about—ships, ships, and more ships, and parts thereof—model ships, ships in bottles, paintings of ships, ropes, nets, starfish, chains, a giant anchor in the corner, maps, and encased in a heavy frame behind glass just above the bar, was a tattered, faded flag.
But unlike most black flags with the familiar skull and crossed bones—this pirate flag had a black image of the skull—like a photographic negative set against a white field inset in a black background, now faded with torn frayed edges.
“That’s the original flag you know,” said Dinky Potter proudly, “of the so-called ‘Sea Ghost’ who built this place two hundred years ago. We bought it from the Maritime Center in Eels’ Cove, trying to fix the place up you know. I must have been mad to buy the place in the middle of a depression! Business has been slow, but summer will be here soon, and things will turn round again,” he remarked optimistically. As it turned out, his optimism would ultimately prove well founded.
Although there were electric lights, throughout the room hung several lanterns, casting a warm glow that reflected off of the many brass ship’s portholes that adorned the outside walls. But there was something large hanging from a beam at the corner of the bar covered with a black cloth.
“That’s the parrot’s cage—Captain Blackjack’s his name. He belongs to one of our, er, other guests,” explained Dinky Potter.
“Why is he covered up?” asked Mandy.
“It’s past Captain Blackjack’s bedtime,” replied Doris. “He’s kept covered so he won’t catch cold during the night. He’s a very old bird, you know, a Macaw, I think. But you’ll hear him tonight, no doubt, and see him in the morning!”
“Hear him is right! I swear I’m going to strangle him if he doesn’t watch his tongue,” mumbled Dinky.
Doris Potter cautioned them: “But children, beware! The parrot’s owner is very protective of him, so don’t get too near the cage or he’ll simply have fits. He only allows us to touch the cage after breakfast to remove the cover. Any other time you must ask permission or he’ll throw one of his tantrums.
“Now you children will be hungry,” said Dora, “so let’s get you settled. And we’ll serve dinner shortly.”
Most of the bedrooms in the Roundhouse were arranged off the landings of the spiral staircase inside the five-storied turret. Fresh water and modern plumbing had been ingeniously fitted during the renovation eighteen months before. The inn had electricity that ran off a generator, located in the stone house at the crest of the cliffs, along with a backup in the cellar. The only real “mod-con” lacking (for that era) was a telephone.
The children were shown to a comfortable but sparsely furnished room that looked back over the bridge toward the shore and cliffs. Kendra Danes took them in hand, and they explored their immediate surroundings, with Jen dashing up and down the spiral stairs, until Dinky called them down to dinner.
Doris and Delia Potter were splendid cooks, and served up a tasty feast of fresh muscles, mushy peas, homemade bread and fish chowder (all the sea fare courtesy of Tom Melville). It was a delightful meal, with everyone joining in at the communal table, family style, including the Phipps sisters and Tom Melville.
But soon the conversation turned back to their unruly fellow guests, whom the others suspected to be smugglers or pirates (or worse!), who had seemed to almost take over the inn. They said Dinky Potter had to act more as a schoolmaster than an innkeeper, quelling his errant charges.
“Without Tom here to back me up, I’m not sure I could handle them. Been here almost a month,” said Dinky Potter with disgust. “I’ve been onto the Eel’s Cove Police, and Constable Croft, and Sergeant Akin have said they’ll do what they can. But being such a tiny spot, barely a village as ‘tis, and only the two of them to make of the whole force, I suppose they’re doing the best they can.”
“Oh, they are, I’m sure,” said Tom Melville earnestly. “Now, these fellers stayin’ here rarely get up a’fore noontime, have their meal, and then all they do is sit around and drink their ale and rum, play cards or darts, then are off to bed around five,” he continued disapprovingly. “But mark my words, there’s some strange business afoot here. It’s a known fact that pirates hung about these parts here two hundred years ago, and this place was built by one of ‘em.”
“So, might there really be a ghost?” asked Michael seriously.
“Well, maybe yes and maybe no, they might or they mightn’t, though most probably some truth in ‘em.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of truth in those stories,” put in Flora Phipps with a far-off look in her eyes, “you can be sure of that, young friends.”
Tom continued, “Can’t say as though I’ve seen a ghost meself, but there’s sure plenty of strange doings gone around here of late, and if me nose knows” (he tapped the side of his ruddy proboscis) “it’s tied up in them pirates ‘a’ been stayin’ here.”
Then children were full of questions about pirates.
“Oh, you’ll see these real pirates soon enough—tomorrow and that’s a fact,” said Tom Melville. “Well, I must be off to bed… I don’t want to say any more, in case you’ll have nightmares tonight…”
5
LATER, AFTER APPEALS FROM THE CHILDREN (especially Jen), Kendra cons
ented to play a goodnight tune to help them off to sleep. But in point of fact the children did have trouble sleeping that night, the first in this strange new place.
Every few moments there was a loud crash outside. It occurred with such regularity it seemed as if a giant machine was at work. It was the ever-practical Mandy who discerned what the sound was—the surf smashing against the rock!
After living their life in the great city, it was ever so strange for the children to be this far removed from civilization, and all of the familiar city sounds. The night was so dark! The blackness seemed as thick and heavy as velvet cloak hovering over them, billowing here and there as the storm clouds brewed. The darkness was broken only occasionally by flashes of lightning, punctuated with rolling booms of thunder. And the very building itself seemed alive with small sounds—of creaks and groans and sighs. The Roundhouse Inn that pirates had built seemed to speaking to them, whispering to them, cajoling them—warning them?
For almost an hour the children sat in their beds, the girls huddled together, Michael bravely trying to assuage their fears (and his as well), with wild and humorous tales he made up as he went along. But gradually, his bravado was quelled, and the strange sensations that permeated the Roundhouse crept up and over him and followed him under the covers, where he shivered in spite of himself.
A hard, cold rain had started to fall, and gradually they fell into an uneasy sleep, but were presently awakened by a huge crash of thunder and lightning. They lay there for a while, whispering about the events of the day, and embellishing them, Michael in particular, to great effect. Then, every few minutes, came a low, steady boom. It actually seemed to overpower the thunder outside. Now, unable to sleep, they moved to the window and looked out.
Suddenly, beyond the bridge and high upon the top of the cliff, a glowing spectral figure appeared out of the swirling rain and fog. A rumble of thunder overpowered the crashing of the sea. The figure seemed as though he was suspended above the ground and the children’s eyes widened in fear. But the rain against the windowpanes blurred their view, and suddenly the figure vanished, swallowed by the mist!
“Aiiieeee!!!” screamed the children in unison. And they hugged each other as lightning flashed against the window, casting their frozen dark shadows across the stone and plaster wall.
“Look! There he is again. And he’s moving!” cried Mandy.
They peered intently through the glass, and sure enough, the glowing figure had reappeared. It was moving in a zigzag, following the path of the cliffs… heading for the bridge!
“It’s coming to get us,” whimpered Jen.
“No, no, Jen, it can’t be!” said Mandy uncertainly.
“But it has to be!” cried Michael.
“It’s a ghost, it’s a ghost!”
“He’s—a—at the bridge!” Michael could hardly speak the words.
The rain poured harder, blurring the windowpanes. The weird glowing creature came inexorably across the swaying bridge, through the slashing rain. The figure was humpbacked! He (and surely it must be a “he”) began moving faster, the light emanating from him seeming to shoot straight at them. Finally, Michael cried, “We must see him!” And cranked opened the window despite the girls’ protests. The rain splattered in at them. The figure had come to the end of the bridge, reaching the Black Rock.
What had appeared to be a long finger of light became an electric torch; the humpback became a leather bag strapped across a streaming mac; and the other hand, which had resembled a claw, simply held a large headed walking stick and a satchel. Under a rain-swept hat, a familiar face appeared in a streak of lightning. The walking stick—it was Chief Inspector Riggs! He hurried across the gravel and rapped loudly on the door below them.
The children immediately rushed downstairs to greet him, which proved an unexpected and happy reunion in more ways than one for the soaking inspector. Riggs greeted the children with surprise but grinned hugely when he saw the innkeeper.
“Dinky!”
“Why, it’s Blackie! Blackie, old fellow! Kelly Riggs, as I live and breathe!”
“Dinky old boy!” They shook hands and greeted each other warmly.
“What a sight for sore eyes—and just in the nick o’ time! My, oh, my!” said Dinky.
“How long has it been? Fifteen years?”
“There abouts. It was at the races, wasn’t it? After the war,” admitted Riggs setting down his bags, “my, how time flies.”
Dinky made the introductions: “Doris, Delia, this is my old mate from the war—Blackie, meet the wife and kid! Meet the famous Scotland Yard detective inspector, Kelly Riggs. We’ve been following your exploits on the wireless and the papers.”
Riggs laughed, “So this is the kid you had and hadn’t seen yet.”
“Yes, she was born while we were over in France. Didn’t see her till she was almost nine months old!”
Doris Potter reached for his hat and coat. “Oh, yes, inspector, we certainly have been following your cases, but you must be soaked, so let’s get you out of those wet things and warmed by the fire.” She helped him with his mac. “Delia, let’s get him some chowder.”
Dinky Potter continued, “Ah, old fellow, I see you’ve met our young guests already, and this—”
“Yes! From our last big case together—and what a surprise! And this is?”
Mandy jumped in excitedly, “This is Miss Danes, er, Miss Kendra Danes, our new Nanny.”
Jen sparked up, “And she plays the violin!”
They shook hands briefly.
Kendra’s eyes widened in surprise, “Not a real police inspector?”
“I’m afraid so. Scotland Yard is on the case; even in the wilds of Cornwall.”
A muffled squawking erupted from the shrouded birdcage.
“Cap’n’s a pretty bird! Tip us a wink, luv! Tip us a wink! Brraacck!”
Dinky Potter threw up his hands.
“Cap’n’s a pretty bird! Brraacck!”
Kelly Riggs laughed, “Well, well, what do we have here?” Dinky Potter gave him a brief sketch of the captain and the other guests.
“And you say the bird belongs to our mysterious captain. Is he about?”
“I’m afraid our resident scoundrels are off to bed,” said Dinky Potter in a low voice, “but I can tell you, those four are up to something.”
“That’s why I’m here, Dinky, old boy, to see just what they are up to.” He looked about him at the incredible room. “When I found out in Eel’s Cove it was my old mate from the trenches who was running this place, I knew I’d have some luck on this case.”
“Bring on the rum! Brraacck!”
“Yes, luck,” said Kelly Riggs thoughtfully.
Michael was obsessed with the all the mystery about: “Are you here to investigate the pirates they say live here? Or are you really here to investigate the ghost?”
“Oh, ghosts now? Why, Dinky, you didn’t mention anything about ghosts! I hope you don’t have an infestation of them. We’re hardly the ghost exterminators of Scotland Yard,” he added dryly. “I’ll wash up and you can tell me all about the ghosts over dinner.”
Later, after Riggs had tucked in hungrily and was sopping up the last of his chowder with some homemade bread, Dinky Potter, reminisced, for the benefit of the others, “There were five of us stuck in that trench—a couple of shell holes actually—and we were all from different units and all of us were lost. We gave each other nicknames.
“You were ‘Blackie’ because your unit was the Black Watch.”
“And you were ‘Dinky’ due to your, er, size, ahem,” smiled Riggs.
“Then there was Frank Shrimpton—Jumbo Shrimp!”
“And hardly a shrimp, at that! Stood a full head taller than I, and shoulders like granite.”
“I think I heard he’s coaching football now, some school in the Midlands.”
“And don’t forget Tommy Rutherford—”
“Tommy Rot!” Dinky shook his head wistfully, “Then there wa
s the Yank—”
“Yes, poor old Sam, Uncle Sam. The only one of us who didn’t make it all the way through.”
“Six days of hell. Pure hell,” said Dinky, shaking his head.
“The mud,” they said in unison.
Riggs’s eyes narrowed, turning darker for an instant, before brightening. He grinned his lopsided grin and said, “And Jumbo’s stinky feet!”
“How about a spot of brandy to go with our coffee, old fellow?” asked Dinky.
“Delightful,” said Riggs, wiping his mouth, “and your good ladies are the finest of cooks.” Doris and Delia beamed as they cleared the table.
After eating, he felt (and looked) a bit more human. The children crowded round him, talking excitedly all at the same time. Delia and Kendra tried ineffectually to restrain them. “I flew down with Sergeant Bellows just this afternoon, in fact, he ought to be coming right along.”
Mandy exclaimed, “So, that was you flying the plane!”
Jen began bouncing up and down. “When can we go flying? I want to fly!”
Michael chimed in, “I thought it was a stunt pilot. That’s what I want to be!”
“What? Since when, Michael?” Mandy asked sarcastically.
Again, they began speaking all at once before Riggs quieted them and began to set them straight on the various specs and merits of the Dunwoodie X–2.
“Confidentially, Sergeant Bellows screamed like a schoolgirl when I flew us under the bridge out there.” The children giggled.
Sounds came from the front door. “Ah,” said Riggs, “but don’t tell him I told you, for speak of the devil, I perceive the arrival of our fair Sergeant Bellows, and Constable Croft from Eel’s Cove.”
For surely it was, and there was no one more surprised than the streaming, dripping Fred Bellows to find the children there; and it brought a “Great galloping golly–whoppers!” from him. But it was now almost midnight, so Kendra and Delia took the children back to bed. There, they fell instantly asleep, reassured by the arrival of their old friends from Scotland Yard.
Downstairs the three policemen spoke in low whispers, and Bellows and Croft gratefully accepted steaming bowls of chowder. Constable Croft recommended some sources for records in the town and promised the full but understandably limited resources of the Eel’s Cove Constabulary, being himself and Sergeant Akin, and their small station. Then he was off, back though the rain, and across the bridge to land, and Eel’s Cove.