The girl plucked the pencil from behind Jon’s ear and wagged it at them. “That’s because you were asleep, my dear brother, and how could I tell you, Ben, you weren’t even there. So I thought I’d keep it a secret ’til we were all together. Now watch this.”
She drew two lines between the words of the first line of the writing on Jon’s copy:“ ’Twould see/m at the w/icked’s fate.”
“Now, spell out the letters between the two lines, Jon.”
He did as she told him. “M-a-t-t-h-e-w. Matthew! Very clever, Amy, I been staring at this for hours, but I never saw that. How did you come to notice it?”
Amy shrugged airily. “It’s called an inclusion—we did it as a word game in school last term. You look for words among words.”
The blue-eyed boy nodded admiringly. “Well done, pal!”
Amy jumped down from the bench. “Not so well, Ben, I couldn’t fathom out any more of the puzzle. Could you?”
“No, I had other things to think about, which I’ll tell you later. I bet Mr. Braithwaite’s managed to solve it.”
Jon tossed the last of his sandwich to Ned. “I went over there earlier, but he didn’t seem to be in the library. Maybe he’s arrived by now—let’s go and see.”
Exiting the almshouse by the front door, they saw the gig with Delia standing patiently in the shafts outside Mr. Mackay’s office. Amy ran across to stroke the mare.
“What’s Will doing in Mr. Mackay’s office this early?”
The door opened partially, and Eileen popped her head around it. “I was about to go’n see if you were up an’ about, my dears. Come on in, we’re all here!”
Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, and Will were gathered around the desk, and the lawyer greeted the newcomers. “Good morning, friends. Mrs. Drummond was about to go and see if she could locate you. I arrived here early to look up some old survey maps and see if I could throw any light upon our search.
“Mr. Braithwaite and the Drummonds have been helping me. I think we’re close to a solution, that’s why I was sending for you. By the way, did any of you manage to solve the thing?”
Jon spread his copy on the desk. “Amy did, she figured it was the first Gospelmaker, St. Matthew, whose treasure we’re after. But that’s as far as any of us got. Look at this first line.”
The librarian inspected the line of words, scratching away at his frizzy hair. “St. Matthew, eh. Well well, good, er, heaven, a simple inclusion. Hmm, and none of us, er, er, noticed it. Very good, Amy, yes, very good, very good!”
Amy could not conceal her impatience. “Mr. Mackay, you said that you were close to a solution. What have you discovered?”
The dapper little solicitor coughed importantly. “First we thought we were looking for a bell—does not the second line say ‘that bell ne’er made a sound’? But if we look at the next line we see that the bell in this case is a mere figure of speech, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud.’ This death knell means in reality that something is finished. For instance, we could say, if Caran De Winn’s title deeds to Chapelvale are not found, that signals the death knell for the entire village, you see? However, the rhyme does not speak of a place, but of people, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud for those who danced around.’ ”
Will could not stop himself from blurting out. “Wait! I remember my ole granddad singin’ a song when I was a little boy, something about a villain who ended up dancing around ’neath a gallows tree! Sorry for buttin’ in on you, sir.”
Mr. Mackay merely smiled over the top of his nose glasses. “Quite all right, sir. Mr. Braithwaite, would you like to tell them our conclusion?”
Mr. Braithwaite clasped the edges of his scholar’s gown. “Indeed, thank you, Mr., er, hmmm. We also have come to that same gallows tree. We put emphasis on the word ‘those,’ er, yes, ‘for those who danced around.’ This, er, would lead us to believe that more than one, er, person, miscreant, or whatever, was hung at this gallows place. . . .”
Recognition suddenly dawned on Ben. “So we’re looking for that place of execution; what d’you think, Jon?”
“Right, mate!” the old carpenter agreed. “Places of execution, or gallows trees, as they were called, and they always had those ’orrible birds nearby, like in the next-to-last line, ‘the carrion crow doth perch above.’ But what about the final line, ‘light bearers ’neath the ground’?”
A quiver of eagerness entered Eileen’s voice. “That’s what we’ll find out by diggin’ on the exact spot. You got your little paper with the ’oles in it, Jon? We’ve got our map.”
Between them they matched up the paper with the four holes to the ancient map from the farmhouse.
“It says here, ‘prison,’” Will murmured. “The likely spot for a gallows tree. But I don’t know of any prison in Chapelvale, do you, Eileen?”
Will’s wife shook her head. “Must’ve been knocked down long since.”
Mr. Mackay took out a large survey map and compared it to the old map, looking back and forth from one to the other. “I’d say the old prison was right about here!” He made a pencil mark on the survey map. “Right where the police station stands.”
Ben and Alex were already making for the door. “Well, what are we waiting for?” the younger boy said.
35
THE POLICE STATION WAS A SMALL greystone building, sandwiched between two houses built at the turn of the century. One house was for the station sergeant, who often traveled to outlying communities, the other for the station constable, who attended to village matters and kept the station house ledger up to date.
Constable Judmann was tending to the rosebushes in his front garden; he was an enthusiastic gardener, a big, beefy fellow close to middle age. Seeing the two boys running ahead of the dairy cart, he wiped his hands on a cloth, and donning a uniform jacket, he buttoned it up from his ample stomach to a bull-like neck. Taking his helmet from the windowsill, he put it on and strode up the garden path with suitable dignity. He nodded at Alex.
“G’mornin’, young feller, an’ wot can we do for you, eh?”
The gig pulled up and Mackay dismounted. “It’s all right, Constable, the boys are with us.”
The policeman tipped a finger respectfully to his helmet brim. He had always been slightly in awe of Mackay, feeling that solicitors and lawyers were a cut above normal folk.
“Mr. Mackay, sir, wot brings you up ’ere, summat wrong?”
The lawyer straightened his black cravat. “No, no, Constable. Everything’s in order. I merely want to ask you a question.”
The policeman’s chest buttons almost popped as he stood erect, pulling in his stomach. “Question, sir? At y’service!”
“What happened to the original Chapelvale prison, which, according to my survey map, stood near this site?”
Constable Judmann jabbed a fat thumb over his shoulder to the greystone building. “Nothin’ ’appened, sir. There ’tis. Of course, it’s been a police station for long as anybody can recall. No need for a lockup prison ’ereabouts for many a long year now.”
Mr. Mackay nodded solemnly. “But it was once a prison, and an execution ground, so I’m led to believe.”
The constable brushed a finger over his handlebar mustache. “Sergeant Patterson says it was, sir, but that were long afore my time—or his, for that matter.”
The lawyer looked from side to side with a quick, bird-like movement. “I wonder where the executions took place?”
Again the constable’s thumb jabbed back over his shoulder. “Sergeant Patterson reckons it were in the yard, be’ind the station ’ouse. Says murderers were ’anged back there.”
Eileen climbed from the gig, pulling her skirts up, and, smiling at the policeman, she stepped down. “You must be awful brave, Constable Judmann, livin’ so close to a place where murderers were ’anged. I’d be far too afraid.”
The constable’s ruddy face turned a shade redder at the compliment, and his chest puffed out a bit further.
“There’s nough
t there to worry about, marm, just a backyard with a plot o’ garden. I sees it from my back bedroom window every day, tends the garden m’self. I like t’keep it tidy.”
“I’ll wager you do, Constable. D’you think we could take a look at it?”
The policeman appeared disconcerted at Eileen’s request. “Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mrs. Drummond. That’s official police property. The public ain’t allowed in there. ’Twould be more’n my job’s worth if Sergeant Patterson found I’d let folks go wanderin’ willynilly ’round the station.”
This announcement was followed by an awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of the sergeant himself on his bicycle.
Patterson was a cheerful man in his mid-thirties, very tall and lean, with curly red hair and narrow sideburns. His voice carried the faint trace of a Scottish border accent, from Coldstream, the town of his birth. He touched his peak cap to the small assembly and smiled.
“Mornin’ to ye, looks like another warm ’un today, eh!”
Sergeant Patterson nodded to the constable, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “Ah’ve just come from yon railway station. There’s three truckloads o’ machinery an’ buildin’ materials arrived there. They’ve been sent to Smithers, from Jackman an’ Company of London. Aye, all shunted intae a sidin’ for unloading an’ cartin’ tae the village square, where they plan on stackin’ et! So ah told the stationmaster tae put a stop on the operation.
“Your man Smithers was there, too. Weel, ah soon put a flea up his nose! Told him he’s not allowed tae unload a single nail until the morrow, when the court order comes intae force. Auld Smithers roared like a Heeland bull, so ah read him the riot act an’ said that if he disobeyed the law, ah’d arrest him an’ lock him up! Ah cannae take to the man, he’s a pompous windbag, if ye’ll pardon mah opinion, Mr. Mackay.”
The lawyer nodded. “That is my observation of Smithers also, Sergeant.”
Patterson parked his bicycle against the garden wall. “Mah thanks tae ye, sir. Constable, ah want ye tae go down tae the railway station an’ stand guard over those wagons, d’ye ken? Oh, an’ take a Prohibition of Movement order form. Pin it tae the delivery. Mind now, make sure et all stops right there!”
The constable saluted needlessly. “Right away, Sarn’t. Leave it t’me! Permission to borrow your bike?”
Patterson looked as if he was trying to hide a smile. “Permission granted, Constable, carry on!”
They stood watching Constable Judmann wobble ponderously off down the lane. The sergeant chuckled.
“Will ye look at the man go! Och, he loves ridin’ mah old bicycle. Weel now, an’ what can I do for you good folk?”
Eileen answered. “We wanted to have a look at the old execution place, but the constable didn’t seem too happy about it.”
Will swelled out his chest and stomach, in a passable imitation of Judmann. “Invasion of police property, if I ain’t mistaken, Sarn’t. Sort of a peasant’s revolt!”
The sergeant pretended to look grave. “Och, sounds serious tae me! Ye’d best all come in, ah’ll put the kettle on for tea, an’ we’ll discuss the matter. Just hauld yer wheesht a moment!”
Patterson took an apple from his pocket and fed it to the mare, rubbing her muzzle affectionately. “Stay out o’ this revolt, bonny lass. Mah gaol couldnae cope with ye!”
The walls inside the police station were covered thick with countless applications of whitewash on the top, and equally heavy layers of bitumen and tar on the bottom. All the woodwork had been painted dark blue many times over the years, some of it showing blisters around the black-leaded iron fireplace. A notice board by the window was crowded with official-looking posters, old and new. Patterson made tea, seating Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, Will, and Eileen on tall stools at the charge office desk. Amy and her brother sat on a long bench with Jon and Ben.
Ned lay under the desk, gnawing a thick, gristly mutton bone, making his thoughts known to his master. “Good man, Sergeant Patterson, what d’you think, pal?”
Ben returned the thought, sipping tea from a brown pottery mug. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t feel right in here. I’m starting to go cold and sweating at the same time.”
The Labrador crawled from under the desk, carrying his bone. “Hmm, you don’t look too good. This is a creepy old place. Let’s go outside and sit with Delia in the sun.”
Amy saw the pair leave, she followed them out. “Are you all right, Ben? You look rather pale.”
He leaned on the garden wall, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I’m all right now, thanks. There was something about the atmosphere in there. Don’t know what it was, but I didn’t like it.”
She patted his hand. “There’s no need to go back in if you don’t want to. We’ll stay out here and let the others talk to the sergeant.
“You’re a strange one, Ben, not like anyone in the village, and certainly not like me or my brother. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but where were you born? What other places have you lived in, before you came here?”
Avoiding the girl’s face, he looked off into the distance. “I’d like to tell you, Amy . . . but . . .”
She watched her friend’s fathomless blue eyes cloud over. It was like looking at a faraway sea when a storm broods over it. Without knowing why, a wave of pity for the strange boy swept through her mind. “Ben . . . I’m sorry.”
When he turned and looked at her, his eyes were clear, and the color had returned to his cheeks. Best of all, he was giving her the smile she had come to like so much.
“You’ve no cause to be sorry. You’re my friend, that’s what counts.”
The old ship’s carpenter provided most of the story, but Patterson let his gaze rove from Alex to Eileen, to Will, Mr. Braithwaite, and Mr. Mackay, as they put in their contributions to the intriguing narrative.
The sergeant sat gazing into the dregs of his mug before speaking. “Ah was posted tae this village four years ago, as ye know. ’Tis a grand wee place. Ah’ve come tae like it fine. But tomorrow modern progress is due tae move in here. Och, they cannae turn us out of the police station, ’tis Crown property ye ken. Though who in their right mind would want tae stay here, amid a dusty great quarry an’ cement factory?
“Judmann’s auld now, he’ll take his pension an’ move. As for me, och, I’ll prob’ly put in for transfer tae another post. Though ’twill sair grieve me to go. Friends, if ah can help ye in any way, then ah will. D’ye want tae take a look ’round the auld hangin’ ground out back, eh? Then be mah guest!”
Jon was like a big child on a Sunday school outing. He dashed out of the station, rubbing his large, tattooed hands together gleefully, calling to Amy and Ben. “Come on, mates, away boat’s crew! We’ve got permission to search around the back—in fact, we’ve got the sergeant’s blessing!”
His two young friends seemed glad, but not overimpressed. “You go, mate, we’ll go around the outside of the building. See you there later.”
The ex-ship’s carpenter’s craggy face showed concern. He ruffled the boy’s tow-colored hair. “D’you feel all right, son?”
Ben managed a cheery grin. “Never felt better, shipmate!”
The old seaman stared oddly at the pair for a moment. “Righto, see you two ’round there, eh. Hah, look at Ned, snoozin’ away like an old grampus there!”
The black Labrador was curled up in the gig, asleep under the shade of a seat. Amy wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “He’s keeping Delia company, poor old boy. He must be tired in this heat—let him sleep.”
36
IT WAS SHADY TO THE POINT OF BEING gloomy in the walled courtyard at the back of the police station. The wall enclosing the ancient execution site was over twelve feet high, totally covered by dark green clinging ivy, giving the impression it was built of vegetation and not limestone. It had a heavy timber door for access to the outside, the wood layered with countless coats of dark blue paint. Jon had to work vigorously on the rusty
latch and bolts until the door creaked open to admit the two friends.
The feeling of dread Ben had experienced about the station returned, much stronger this time. He had an urge to run a mile from the drear, forbidding place. However, the presence of the girl at his side and the sight of Eileen, the policeman, and the rest of his companions was reassuring. Bracing himself, he strode in over the moss-grown cobbles. Sergeant Patterson was addressing the party.
“Ah’m afraid the history of this auld place is a mystery tae me. When ah first arrived here, I discovered that damp an’ mildew had ruined the auld records. My orders were tae clean up the station, so ah made a grand wee bonfire o’ the soggy documents. Och, ye should’ve seen Constable Judmann’s face. He never spoke tae me for a fortnight. Mr. Mackay, will ye read out yon poem again, sir?”
The lawyer donned his pince-nez and coughed officiously.
“ ’Twould seem at the wicked’s fate
that bell ne’er made a sound,
yet the death knell tolled aloud
for those who danced around.
The carrion crow doth perch above,
light bearers ’neath the ground.”
Braithwaite shrugged apologetically. “So, er, as you see, Sergeant, we’re searching for, hmmm, a gibbet. That is, er, a hanging place, as it were. Hmm, yes, very good.”
Eileen shuddered, rubbing at her upper arms nervously. “Well, I don’t see any sign of where they ’anged folk. Brrr! I feels it, though. Ma would, too, if she were ’ere!”
The dairyman nodded his agreement as he took stock of the courtyard.
An indefinable air of doom did seem to hang over the place. Snails and slugs had left their glistening silver trails over a border of smooth limestone blocks, which separated a garden area running around the walls on three sides. The soil was mainly clay, oozing damp. A few straggling shrubs were struggling to survive, overhung by a sickly laburnum and two purple rhododendrons. The whole atmosphere was hemmed in, dark and claustrophobic, eerie and silent.
[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 20