[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (35 page)

Will shook his head. “Oh no we won't, friend. I recall trippin' over that stone an' sprainin' my ankle one evening as I was runnin'.”

Amy chuckled. “Were you chasing after Eileen?”

Will's big, jolly wife gave Amy a nudge, almost knocking her over. “No, it were I who was chasin' after Will!”

Mr. Mackay coughed officiously to dispel any more talk of the romantic escapade. “Harrumph! Yes, well, we're going to need spades, lanterns, and so on. Shall we get started? Our time is short now.”

The black Labrador passed a thought to his master, who was sitting stroking him. “Pity the poor girl who ever tries to chase that dry old stick.”

The gig was loaded up, ready to go. Ben stood at the door with Mrs. Winn. The old lady looked very tired, he hugged her affectionately. “You go back inside and have a nice nap, Miz Winn. Leave this to us. I promise we'll come back here with anything we find, straightaway!”

She kissed Ben's cheek. “I'll have breakfast ready for you.”

The dog was obviously holding a mental conversation with Horatio. As they climbed into the gig, Ben eyed the Labrador. “What was going on between you two, Ned?”

The black Labrador laid his chin on Ben's lap. “I told him to keep an eye on things while we were gone.”

The boy scratched the back of his dog's ear. “I suppose he gave you a lot of nonsense about sardines, butterflies, and mice. Poor old Horatio, he's got a bit of a one-track mind.”

Ned shook his head. “No. Surprisingly, he said he'd watch over the house and if anything happened he'd track us down and let me know. I think that Horatio's finally come to his senses. Just in time—can't go around with a headful of sardines and butterflies all his life!”

Delia trotted dutifully through the darkened village, passing the almshouse and heading up the overgrown path. It became very dim, overshadowed by an archway of overhanging trees. Ben was imagining what it had been like all those years ago: stagecoaches laden with passengers and mail, carriages bearing merchants and gentry, carts laden with produce. All of them fearful to be traveling such a lonely and shaded path, where highwaymen and thieves might lurk. The strange boy glimpsed the crescent moon, struggling to cast its light through the leafy canopy. Unwittingly his mind wandered back to the
Flying Dutchman
, Vanderdecken, and his villainous crew—they would probably have reveled in the highwayman's trade.

Amy bumped against him as the gig lurched to a stop. “Don't go to sleep, Ben, I think we've arrived at the place!”

Three lanterns had been brought, the seaman lit them and gave one to each of his young friends. “Here y'are, mates. You're in charge of lightin' and the maps. Stay close to 'em, Mr. Mackay. Me an' Will can do the digging. Where is Will?”

Eileen had unharnessed Delia from the shafts, allowing her to rest and crop the grass. She pointed. “Over yonder, t'other side o' the path, with Hetty.” She raised her voice. “You found it yet, Will?”

The dairyman called back to his wife. “No, not yet, my dear. Ouch!”

The maidservant Hetty could be heard giggling. “You found it now, Will. Tripped straight over it. Like as not sprained your ankle again!”

Will was thankful the darkness hid his furious blushes. “No harm done. Bring some light over here, you young 'uns!”

 

 

A massive ancient oak tree overshadowed the path at that point. Beneath the shade of its outstretched limbs a half-buried milestone had been standing for centuries. Ben held his lamp close to the stone. “This is it! Look. ‘Chapelvale One Mile.' See, beneath the letter
M
of Mile, there's the arrow pointing downward!”

The Labrador passed him an observant thought. “Or is it supposed to point outward, like the one on the tree at the ruined smithy?”

Ben looked up at the lawyer. “What d'you think, sir, do we dig down, or is the arrow meant to point outward to another spot?”

Adjusting the glasses on his nose, the solicitor peered at the stone. “D'you know, I'm not too sure. What's your opinion, Jon?”

The old seaman put down the spades and pickax he had brought from the gig. “Who's to say, sir. There ain't no clues tellin' us what number o' paces we should tread if we were to dig in another place.”

Hetty settled the argument by taking a penny from her apron pocket. “Trust to luck, sez I. Toss a coin. Tails, we digs down, 'eads, we digs somewheres outward from the arrow.” She spun the coin, Alex held the lantern over where it fell. “It's tails!”

MORNING SUNLIGHT FILTERED INTO the bedroom as Maud Bowe sat at the bedroom mirror, inserting a last clip into her elaborate hairdo. The Smithers household had grown peaceful and quiet since that young horror Wilfred had departed for boarding school, accompanied by his mother. Mrs. Smithers would take up lodgings close to the school, until her dear Wilfred was settled in, as she put it.

Maud smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Today was the last day she would have to spend in Chapelvale, dreadful rural backwater!

“Hetty! Hetty! Where the blazes are you, I want my breakfast!”

Arriving downstairs, Maud found Mr. Smithers red-faced and irate. “Ah, Miss Bowe, have you seen the maid, is she dusting upstairs?”

Maud swished by him on her way to the kitchen. “No, she's not, though if she'd been anywhere within a mile of the house, she'd have heard you bellowing, sir!”

Smithers followed her out, watching as she put the kettle on and buttered a slice of brown bread. “What're you doing, miss?”

Cutting the bread into triangles, she placed it on a plate. “Making my breakfast, obviously. It must be clear, even to you, that Hetty can't come for some reason.”

Smithers waved his hands uselessly. “But the table isn't laid, my dress clothes haven't been brought out of the wardrobe. Nothing's been done—wineglasses, sherry decanters, side trays, and clean linen. Where are they? I'm supposed to be holding a reception this afternoon for the county planners, a magistrate, business associates arriving from all over to begin our plans!”

Maud spooned tea leaves into the pot. “Then you'll just have to change your arrangements. I'm not your maid of all work.”

Smithers wiped sweat from his reddening brow. “Piece o' bread 'n' butter an' a cup of tea is no breakfast for a man to start a full day on, eh?” He blinked under Maud's frosty stare.

“Then cook something for yourself—this is my breakfast!”

Having made tea, Maud put it on a tray with the bread and butter and retired to the garden with it. A few moments passed before Smithers emerged, eating a thick slice of bread with strawberry jam slathered on it and holding a beer tankard filled with milk. He plunked himself moodily down next to her at the wrought-iron table.

“That maid, Hetty, she's sacked, finished, bag an' baggage!”

Maud curled her lip in disgust as milk spilled down Smithers's chin from the tankard. He wiped it off on his sleeve.

“What're you turnin' your nose up at, little miss high 'n' mighty? All very prim an' proper, aren't you, eh, eh? What happened to your bullyboys from London? Never turned up, did they? Well, whether or not, things'll go ahead today. You'll see, I've got it all organized on my own, without your help, missie!”

Maud was about to make a cutting reply, when a carter, wearing a burlap apron, appeared at the gate and shouted, “Hoi! Mr. Smithers, we've 'ad the stuff that you 'ired brought over from 'Adford. Been waitin' in the village square since six-thirty. Wot d'yer want us t'do with it?”

Smithers yanked the oversized watch from his vest pocket. “Twenty past seven already, I'd better get movin'. Listen, you'd best get down t'the station at nine-ten an' meet the officials. Don't be late, now, d'ye hear me?”

Maud shooed a sparrow away from her plate. “I'm hardly likely to be late meeting my own father.”

Smithers stopped in his tracks. “Your father? You never said anything about him arrivin' today!”

Maud considered her lacquered nails carefully. “He'll be traveling up from London with some investors just to check on the amounts of money paid out to the villagers. They'll arrive on the eight-fifty. To meet up with the magistrate and county planners coming down on the nine-ten. I'll show them the way to the square—you'd best have things ready there.”

Maud thought Obadiah Smithers looked about ready to take a fit. He stood scarlet-faced and quivering. “Check on the money? What's the matter, doesn't the man trust me?”

Maud was satisfied her nails were perfect. She replied coolly, “When it comes to business, my father trusts nobody!”

 

 

At eight-fifteen Blodwen Evans opened the front door of the Tea Shoppe and began sweeping over the step with a broom. She stopped to view the activity in the square. Directly in front of the notice board post, two wagons had pulled up. Men were unloading a table, chairs, and what looked like a small marquee with an open front. Smithers was directing two other men to put up a large sign, painted on a plywood board. Shopkeeper Blodwen called to her husband, “Dai, look you, see what's 'appenin' out 'ere!”

Dai Evans emerged, wiping flour from his hands, and gave a long, mournful sigh. “Whoa! Look at that, now, will you. Our village square full of strangers. Read me that notice, will you, Blodwen, I ain't got my glasses with me.”

Blodwen read it aloud slowly. “ ‘Progressive Development Company Limited. Payments made here for all land and properties within the Chapelvale area. All persons wishing to receive the stipulated compensation must be in possession of legal deeds to their land and property or payment cannot be made.' ”

Blowing her nose loudly on her apron hem, Blodwen wiped her eyes on it. “There's sad for the village, Dai. I never thought I'd see this day!”

Dai put an arm about his wife. “There there, lovely, you make a cup of tea. I'll go an' look for the deeds to our shop.”

Blodwen stood watching Smithers approaching, she called over her shoulder to Dai, “You'll find 'em in the blue hatbox on top of the wardrobe!”

Smithers had a spring to his step and a happy smile on his face. He touched his hat brim to Blodwen cheerfully. “Mornin', marm, another good summer's day, eh. Am I too early to order breakfast and a large pot of tea?”

Blodwen Evans drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, and stared down from the front step of her shop. “Put one foot over this step, boyo, and I'll crack this broom over your skull!”

Smithers beat a hasty retreat back to the square, where he began finding fault and bullying the workmen. Blodwen held her aggressive pose for a moment, then sighed unhappily and leaned on the broom. Chapelvale, the little village she had come to love so much, was about to be destroyed. In a short time, the drapers, butchers, post office, general shop, and the ironmongers, those neat, small shops with their wares gaily displayed behind well-polished windows, would stand empty, waiting for demolition, their former owners gone off to other places.

Even the almshouse, with its tall, shady trees in the lane behind, would be trampled under the wheels of progress. Children dashing eagerly into her Tea Shoppe, pennies clutched in their hands for ice cream cones, old ladies wanting to sit and chat over pots of India and China tea, with cakes or hot buttered scones. They would soon be little more than a memory to her. But such a beautiful memory. Blodwen Evans lifted an apron hem to her face and cried for the loss of the place she knew as home.

IN MR. MACKAY'S OFFICE WINDOW, THE clock stood at half past nine. A lot of people had gathered in the square at Chapelvale. It was, as Smithers had predicted, a good summer's day, with hardly a breeze stirring and the sun beaming out of a cloudless blue sky. However, the square was still and silent, despite the large gathering of villagers.