The sergeant smiled wanly. “Nae much tae look at, is it? ’Twas over a hundred years since the last man was hanged here. Ah took a glance at the auld records before burnin’ them. All written in curly, auld-fashioned script, an’ very hard tae decipher. Here now, young Somers, d’ye ken how they used tae execute murderers?”
Alex shook his head dumbly, swallowing hard at the thought.
Patterson explained the process, his Scottish brogue severe as he told of the manner in which legal sentence was carried out. “Weel now, a magistrate, priest, sergeant, an’ constable had tae be present, an’ the auld hangman, o’ course. Yon door, the one Jon opened, they let the public in through there tae watch—as an example of what happened tae criminals an’ evildoers. Then the condemned man was brought out in chains, from the holdin’ cell.
“Aye, ’twas a terrible ceremony. The shiverin’ wretch was made tae stand on a box ’neath the gallows tree, while the hangman put the noose ’round his neck. That was when the magistrate read out the death sentence, then he stood aside for the priest tae pray with the condemned man. When the reverend was finished, they usually allowed the man tae say a word tae everyone watchin’. The doomed man’d tell them what a wicked fellow he’d been, an’ how sorry he was tae suffer the penalty for his crimes. He’d then tell everyone tae live good lives an’ profit from the sight of his punishment.
“When all that was over with, the magistrate tipped the hangman a nod, the executioner kicked the box from under the unfortunate wretch, an’ the deed was done!”
Amy clapped both hands over her eyes as if she had witnessed it. “Ugh! It sounds so horrid and cruel!”
Eileen placed an arm about the girl’s shoulders. “Indeed it was, my dear. From what I’ve read, it was quite primitive in small villages . . . they never died instantly. I suppose that’s why the poem says they danced around. Sometimes it took as long as ten minutes before their legs stopped kicking. What a dreadful sight. I can’t think why folks wanted to watch!”
Will clapped his hands, breaking the spell. “Enough of all this! Let’s get searching, friends. Is there a gibbet, tree, or post around here? If there isn’t, we’re stumped!”
37
LOUD BARKING AND SCRATCHING ON the yard door sent Jon hurrying to open it. The big, black Labrador dashed in and straight across to his master. Nobody had noticed the towheaded boy not taking part in the discussion. He had quietly sat on the step of the station house. That was where he now slumped in a faint. The dog licked his master’s face furiously, transmitting thoughts. “Ben, Ben, wake up, pal. Open your eyes. Oh, please!”
Jon sat down on the step and took the boy’s head in his lap. Eileen bustled past and returned with a mug of cold water and a damp cloth, which she applied to the strange boy’s forehead, while Jon patted his cheek lightly, murmuring, “Come on, me old shipmate.”
Ben’s eyelids fluttered, then he came around. Amy seized his hand and rubbed it. “Jon, get him out of here. It’s this place that’s caused him to faint, I know it is!”
Ben pointed to the corner of the garden, right by the angle of the wall. “No . . . wait . . . it’s there!” Struggling from Jon’s grasp, he made his way over to the corner, with the girl still holding his hand. He made a mark in the soil with his heel. “Here . . . dig here!”
Leaning on his dog and holding on to Amy, with Alex hovering anxiously behind, Ben allowed himself to be led outside.
Eileen followed out with the glass of water, and found them seated on the pathside by Delia. “Good ’eavens, you poor lad. What ’appened in there?”
Ben took a sip of water and began feeling better. “I felt dreadful when I walked into the yard, so I sat on the step. Couldn’t trust my legs to hold me up. It was while the sergeant was talking, all that stuff about how they used to hang murderers. I suddenly felt myself drawn to look at the corner of the garden. There was a dark shape there. I found I couldn’t stop staring at it, and the longer I gazed, the clearer it became. . . .”
The younger boy shuddered and cried out shrilly. “What was it, Ben?”
“It was a man, dressed in tattered, olden-day clothes, chains around his hands and ankles. He was hovering about two feet from the ground, neck all on one side, his face horribly twisted, tongue sticking out. He was kicking as if he was dancing a silly jig. The man was looking straight at me. His hands kept twitching and pointing down to the ground beneath his feet . . . I’ve never seen anything so horrible. That must have been when I passed out.”
He stroked Ned, leaning his head against the dog’s neck. “Good old boy, you were the one who rescued me. I felt you coming to me, barking from far off.”
Eileen clapped a hand to her cheek in wonderment. “You felt that, Ben? But how did the dog know?”
Before he could answer, Jon’s voice rang clear over the wall to where they were sitting. “We found it. Here ’tis, lad, we’re comin’ out!”
Will and Jon came running, waving their spades, followed by Mr. Mackay and Mr. Braithwaite, their clothing stained with soil and clay, bearing between them a bright green bucket. Sergeant Patterson was bent double, supporting the bottom lest it burst and fall. They flopped down on the grass with Ben, and he touched the object.
“What is it?”
Sergeant Patterson passed a forearm across his brow. “Och! ’Tis heavy, that’s what it is. Auld bronze pail, either bronze or copper. See how green it is? Must’ve been very thick, because it’s only gone through in one or two places. Ye’d be surprised at the weight of it!”
Amy chuckled. “Probably because it’s filled with tallow.”
Will lifted the pail and turned it upside down on the grass. “Well, we’ll soon see. Loosen it off, Jon.”
The old seaman began hitting it gently with the side of his spade, all around the sides. He tapped the pail’s bottom sharply and lifted it off, just like a child making sandpies with a bucket at the seaside. The solid tallow wax was dark and dirty from soil and clay leaking into it.
Will spoke to the sergeant. “Have you got a big knife? Jon’s old clasp knife ain’t big enough to slice through this lot.”
The sergeant hurried into the station house and was soon back with a large, fearsome-looking blade.
“Russian Crimean War bayonet, a souvenir brought back by Private Judmann. Ye should hear the tales he tells of how he came by it, a different one each time!”
The bayonet was more than adequate. In Jon’s capable hands it sliced through the tallow, until he brought forth two slender objects with heavy, spreading bases, still caked with the stuff.
Mr. Mackay identified them immediately. “ ‘Light bearers ’neath the ground.’ A pair of candlesticks!”
The three young friends searched through the shorn-off tallow, Mr. Braithwaite hovering anxiously around them.
“No, er, sign of any, er, further clues, scraps of, er, er, parchment and so forth?”
Amy looked up. “None, sir. Maybe the next clue is scratched on the bottom of the candlesticks, same as the cross.”
Jon handed the candlesticks to the sergeant. “Put these in a basin of hot water. It’ll clean ’em off, then we can take a proper look.”
Mr. Braithwaite followed Sergeant Patterson into the station house, his dusty black scholar’s gown flapping. “Very good, very good, go, er, careful now, Officer. Don’t, er, drop them. Precious objects, yes, er, precious indeed!”
When cleaned up in soap and hot water, the candlesticks were things of great beauty, gold-fluted columns spreading to broad elegant bases, each of which was inset with three of the bloodred, pigeon-egg rubies, to complement the chalice and crucifix. Mr. Braithwaite was ecstatic, running his fingertips over the fine Byzantine tracery patterned onto the heavy gold pieces. However, when he looked at the bases of both candlesticks, they were smooth and untouched by any messages scratched on either one.
The only noise in the still midday air came from Delia’s hoof as she struck it against the ground. The six sat staring at the trea
sure of St. Matthew glittering in the sun, the rubies shining as if they were afire.
Ben broke the silence by announcing to his crestfallen friends, “Listen, we can sit here all day looking at the candlesticks, but that won’t get anything solved. We’ve worked too hard and long to let this thing defeat us!”
The dairyman farmer got up to strap Delia’s nosebag on. “You’re right, lad, but what’s our next move?”
Mr. Mackay, who had been brushing clay from his clothing, rose smartly to his feet. “I suggest we go carefully back over all the evidence. Search the hole where we found the pail, inspect the pail, and sort through that tallow again. One of us will stay here and go over the candlesticks with a fine-tooth comb. If we’re all agreeable, of course!”
Eileen took a pail from the gig to fill with water for Delia. “Good idea! Nothin’ worth havin’ is come by easy, I say. Ben, you take the candlesticks. Will, take Jon and the sergeant an’ check that ’ole you dug. Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, see if you can find any message in that old copper bucket. Alex, you ’n’ me will rummage through that tallow again.”
Amy pointed to herself. “What about me, Miz Drummond?”
“Oh, I’d forgot you, m’dear. Stay ’ere with Ben an’ help with the candlesticks. Keep an eye on him in case he tries to faint again. Come on, you lot, stir your stumps!”
The Labrador threw Ben a thought. “The lady forgot about me. I’ll stay here, too, with you and Amy. Be with you in a moment, I’ll just get a quick drink from my pal Delia’s water bucket.”
38
FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF THE POLICE station a small boy was trudging along a country lane toward the farmhouse where he lived. The boy, a small, sturdy lad of about eight years, stopped to witness a strange sight. Weaving from side to side and honking furiously, a machine was coming toward him. It was one of the new petroleum-driven motorcars, a bright green one, with its leather hood down.
He scurried to one side, hugging the hedge as it rumbled past him and ground to a halt with a screeching sound. There were four men in the car. One of them, wearing a long duster coat, gauntlets, and a cap, with the peak backward, climbed from the vehicle. He had on a pair of light-brown-lensed goggles, which he pushed up onto his cap as he approached the boy. The lad shrank further into the hedge as the man stooped and thrust his face forward.
“G’mornin’, sonny boy. Is that there Chapelvale?”
The man pointed to a church spire in the distance. The boy shook his head.
The man scratched his coarse, stubbled chin. “Oh, I see, well, wot’s that place called?”
The boy spoke a single word. “Church.”
This seemed to exasperate the man. “I know it’s a church, sonny, but wot’s the name of the village where the church is, eh?”
The boy considered this for a moment. “It’s not Chapelvale.”
Another man emerged from the car, dressed in a suit of very loud green checkered material. He sported a pencil-thin mustache, his hair was plastered into a center part. He shouted out to his companion, “Come on, Gripper, the kid don’t know nothin’. Let’s get goin’!”
Gripper was about to shout back an answer, when a farmer appeared at the gateway of a farmhouse further up the road. He was a giant of a man, his sleeves rolled up to expose two brawny arms. Slamming the gate open, he marched aggressively up to the one called Gripper, whom he pointed a thick finger at.
“Hoi you! Gerraway from my lad an’ leave ’im be!”
Gripper backed off hurriedly. “I don’t mean the kid no ’arm. I was only askin’ him where Chapelvale is.”
The boy ran to his father and clung to his leg. The man ruffled his son’s hair as he replied, “Chapelvale. ’Ow’s Georgy supposed to know, eh, ’e’s only a child!”
Gripper tried a friendly smile, it looked more like a leer. “Then p’raps you can tell me where Chapelvale is, eh, mate?”
The farmer did not like strangers. His big fists clenched. “No I can’t, an’ I’m not your mate. Now, get on your way, quick!”
Gripper drew himself up in a dignified manner and strode back to the motorcar, which was still running. He shouted back, “Stoopid big lump. Bet you’d ’ave trouble findin’ your own be’ind with both hands!”
The farmer picked up a stone from the roadside. Gripper shoved his loudly garbed associate into the vehicle, leapt in after him, and accelerated off down the lane.
Gripper was the driver. The flashy one in the front with him was, aptly enough, named Flash. The two backseats were occupied by Chunk, a massive, unintelligent specimen who wore a suit three sizes too small and a pearl-grey bowler hat perched on his shaven skull; and Chaz, a small, weaselly type, dressed in a frock-tailed morning coat and pin-striped pants, a size too large. In lieu of a shirt or collar he wore a knotted scarf of once-white silk. He was perpetually sniggering at anything and everything, which was what he did as soon as they were out of stone-throwing range.
“Heeheehee, we’re lost! I told yer, didn’t I, Gripp. Hee-hee!”
Gripper clenched the brass steering wheel tight, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Shut yer gob, Chaz, or I’ll belt yer one ’round the ’ead, on me oath I will!”
But Chaz would not be silenced. “Why go onna train, ’e sez, let’s keep the money an’ steal a motorcar. Leave it to me, ’e sez, I’ll find Chapelvale. When’re yer gonna find it, Gripp, eh? Next week? Heeheehee!”
They all lurched to one side as Gripper threw the car around a hairpin bend, bumping off the high-banked grass verge. He snorted aloud in frustration. “Shut ’im up, willyer, Chunk; give the flamin’ nuisance a smack fer me!”
Chunk took Chaz’s scrawny neck in one huge paw, rendering him helpless. “Where d’ya want me to biff ’im, Gripp? In the eye?”
Chaz pleaded. “No no, ’e doesn’t want yer to biff me anywhere!”
“Ho yes I do!” replied Gripper. “Biff ’im where y’like, Chunk.”
In biffing people, Chunk always preferred the nose. Chaz had quite a big beaky nose, so Chunk biffed it enthusiastically. Chaz squealed and fell back in the seat, his nose bleeding profusely. He held the dirty silk scarf to it.
“Wot didjer do dat for? Be dose is broke!”
Chunk felt no sympathy or enmity toward Chaz. “I did it ’cos Gripper tole me to. Ain’t that right, Gripp?”
Gripper carried on watching the road. “Right, Chunk, now per’aps ’e’ll stop makin’ smart remarks!”
Flash had noticed a milestone. “It said arf a mile to Church ’aven on that stone, Gripp. Must be wot that place is called.”
They drove into the village of Church Haven and stopped outside the post office. Gripper went in to ask for directions; a kindly, old, silver-haired postmistress came out onto the street with him to explain things.
“Chapelvale, sir, my goodness but you are a long, long way from there. Where have you come from?”
Gripper was losing patience, but trying to stay polite. “London, marm, but which way is it to Chapelvale?”
The old lady shook her head wistfully. “I’ve never been to London, but I hear ’tis a wonderful city, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham Palace. It must be so nice to live there. Do you ever see Her Majesty Queen Victoria?”
Flash leaned out of the car. “Lots o’ times, me ole darlin’. We seen ’er only last week, didn’t we, Gripp.”
Gripper shot him a murderous glance, but he carried on. “Oh yes, we’re special messengers for ’Er Majesty the Queen. That’s why we got ter get to Chapelvale. So could you tell us the way?”
The postmistress was only too willing to help royal couriers. “Most certainly—head straight down the High Street and take a left turn at the bottom, where you can’t go any further. Then you’ll be on the road to Great Sutley. You’ll pass through there and on to Little Sutley, then Sutley-on-the-Marsh. Take a right there and make for Vetchley-on-the-Wold. Now, when you get there . . .”
Gripper got into the motorcar. “That’ll do, we’ll find i
t from there. Thanks, marm!”
She caught sight of Chaz in the backseat. “Oh dear, your poor friend’s nose is bleeding. Has he been injured?”
Gripper pulled the motoring goggles over his eyes. “No, he’s all right, marm. Sometimes ’e gets the nosebleeds with motorin’, speed of the car, y’know. We been traveling at twenny-five miles an hour most o’ the way.”
She gasped at the thought. “Twenty-five miles an hour! It’s a wonder you aren’t all dead. Wait there, I’ll get him a clean, damp cloth and a drink of water.”
She scurried inside the post office. Gripper drove off with Chunk complaining from the backseat. “Why didn’t ya wait, Gripp? I coulda done wiv a drink o’ water.”
They clattered off down the cobbled High Street in a cloud of exhaust fumes, arguing among themselves.
“Look, never mind the water, we can’t ’ang about all day!”
“I’b bleedin’ to death through be dose, you should ob waited an’ let ’er see t’me.”
“Shut yer mouf, Chaz, or I’ll stop the motor an’ give you annuder one. Where did she say to turn left, Flash, Little Sutford on the Wold or Vetchley in the Marsh?”
“I dunno, I thought you was lissenin’ to ’er. Pass us one o’ those sandwiches yore missus made, willyer, Chunk.”
“She made those sangwiches fer me, not youse lot. Any’ow, I et am all. That’s why I’m firsty for a drink o’ water.”
“Big fat greedy pig, didyer ’ear that, Gripp. ’E’s scoffed all the sandwiches, the rotten ole lard barrel!”
“Sharrap, the three of youse! I’m tryin’ t’think. Sharrap!”
“Are you finkin’ why there’s a fence acrosst the road, Gripp? Well, that’s ’cos the lady tole yer to turn left an’ you turned right. You’d better back the motor up.”
“No I won’t, ’cos I don’t know ’ow to. You lot’ll ’ave to get out an’ push it backward. Cummon, out, youse three!”
[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 21