[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (29 page)

“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 nought 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.”

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.

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.

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.