Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

“‘Turn as a third Gospelmaker would to the house named for the rock,’ ” Alex read out loud. “Now I’m really stumped. I don’t know any Gospelmakers.”

The old carpenter drew a silver watch from his pocket and consulted it. “Well, we can all go home and think about it. You’ll be wanted for dinner soon. I say we meet back here tomorrow, same time?”

Alex grumbled a bit; he was certain they were on to something, but Jon was right. Ben and his dog stood with Amy on the other side of the wall, waiting while her brother bid his newfound friend good-bye. Alex held forth his hand.

“See you tomorrow morning, then, Jon. Don’t worry, we’ll solve it. We’re doing something to save Mrs. Winn’s village for her. Not like some of the dead and alive types around Chapelvale, eh, mate?”

Alex’s hand vanished inside the old carpenter’s huge grasp. Jon’s eyes crinkled into a fond smile as he shook it. “Aye, mate, we won’t go wrong with you helpin’ us!”

Dinner had already been served at the Smithers house. Maud Bowe retired outside to the garden, where she sat, perusing the illustrated pages of a book entitled Fashion Hints for the Lady about Town. Though she gave the impression of enjoying her country stay, Maud was longing to be back among her friends in London. Young Wilf slouched out into the garden, a heavy bandage and splint on his right arm, which was resting in a sling. He scowled at Maud and slumped down into a cast-iron chair, drumming his heels hard against the legs. Maud glanced over the top of her book at him.

“Wilfred, do you have to make that din?”

He drummed his steel-tipped boot heels louder, staring defiantly at her. “Name’s not Wilfred, it’s Wilf!”

Closing the book, she stared primly at him. “All right, then. Will you cease that infernal noise, Wilf?”

He stopped, smiled maliciously, and started drumming again. “I can do what I like ’round here. I live here, you don’t!”

“I’ll tell your father!”

“Go and tell him, I don’t care.”

Maud massaged the side of her forehead daintily. The noise was really getting to her. Finally she stamped her foot.

“Why don’t you go up to your room? I thought you were supposed to be injured. You should be in bed!”

Wilf was enjoying tormenting her and beat his heels faster. “Mother says I need fresh air. You go up to your room!”

Maud knew she had lost the battle of wills. Before she retired to her room, she stood over Wilf, hissing nastily. “Stupid village clod! Wilfred, Wilfred, Wilfred!”

Wilf continued drumming, grinning smugly at her.

“Miss Maudy toffee nose!”

She stalked off without another word, her thoughts racing. Maybe when her father’s toughs came up from London, she could find a reason for one of them to give Wilf an accidental cuff across the ear. They were good at things like that.

When she had gone, Wilf produced pencil and paper from his sling and began laboriously writing, trying to use his left hand. It was useless, Regina would write for him. This time he would fix Ben for good, without violence or fighting. He sat waiting for his gang to visit.

26

DUSK WAS TAKING THE PLACE OF DAYLIGHT. Outside the lace-curtained windows, a nightingale’s melody was punctuated by an owl-hoot, and dusty moths beat their wings on the windowpanes, in an effort to reach the interior light.

It was just before Mrs. Winn’s bedtime. She sat at the kitchen table with Ben, trying to help him with the riddle. He had told her of the discoveries that he, Amy, Alex, and Jon had made so far. The old lady seemed tired and despondent. “Do you really think any of this will help me and the village, Ben? Time’s growing shorter by the day now. This all sounds a bit airy-fairy, compared to the way Smithers and his London firm are forging ahead. I looked at one of those clearance notices posted in the square. It’s so official, so full of legal jargon. All ‘wheretofore’ and ‘hereinafter’ and ‘clause B subsection D,’ it made my head spin. Oh, I wish we could come back at them with something more solid instead of a few ideas based on guesswork.”

Ben saw the old lady was close to tears. She was plainly scared and worried by the entire situation. He took her hand. “Stop fretting, Miz Winn, everything will turn out for the best, you’ll see. Now come on, help me with this problem. ‘Turn as a third Gospelmaker would to the house named for the rock.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Winn went to warm some milk. “There were four Gospelmakers: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They’re always referred to in that order, so Luke must be the third Gospelmaker. Does that make any sense?”

Ben watched her spooning cocoa and sugar into a jug. “Yes, yes. You’re right! So which way would Luke turn, north, south, east, west; left, right, backward, or forward?”

The black Labrador, who was lying with his chin on both front paws, chuckled. “That’s a question—which way would Luke look. Luke look, get it?”

Ben looked sternly at the dog. “This is no time for jokes. If you can’t help, then take a nap.”

Ned closed both eyes, thinking, “Luke looks left.”

Ben answered the thought. “How d’you know that?”

The dog opened his eyes. “I can’t explain it, but it sounds right, doesn’t it? Luke looks left.”

Ben said it aloud. “Luke looks left. What d’you think, Miz Winn?”

She paused from stirring warm milk into the mixture in the jug. “Hmm, Luke looks left. . . . Of course, L is for left, R is for right. Luke starts with L, so that must be it. Well done, my boy!”

Ned snorted aloud and closed his eyes again. However, he soon opened them again when the old lady filled his bowl with hot cocoa. She poured warm milk for Horatio.

“He’s never been fond of cocoa, so I give him warm milk.”

Ned threw out a thought as he slurped cocoa noisily. “Huh, foolish old feline!”

Mrs. Winn was far too tired to continue clue-solving. Ben took her arm and walked her through to the downstairs room where she slept. When he returned to the kitchen, Ned was standing alert, watching the door. He communicated a thought to his master.

“Keep quiet, mate. There’s somebody outside!”

The patter of receding footsteps sent Ben hurrying to the door. He opened it in time to see the fat form of Tommo, scurrying through the gateway. A note had been fixed to the door with a tack. After allowing Ned out to check the garden for other intruders, Ben took the note in and read it. Wilf’s hand was useless for writing, he had dictated it to Regina, but her spelling and grammar were no better than his. Ben smiled as he perused the untidy pencil scrawl.

I carn’t fight you cos my hand is dammiged, but I want to talk too you. Be outside Evans’s shop tomorrow night, ten minnits before midnight.

W. S., Grange Gang Leader.

P.S. You better be their!

Ned trotted in from the garden, shaking his head. “No sign of anyone out there, Ben, what’s in the note?”

The boy folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “Just another of Wilf’s little games, tell you tomorrow. What say we go to bed now, eh, pal?”

The Labrador wagged his tail lazily. “Good idea. Oh no, look who’s at the window!”

It was Horatio. He had followed the dog outside and Ben, not knowing, shut the door on him. The cat stood tapping the windowpane and meowing plaintively. Ben let him in by the window, and Horatio cleared the sink in one smooth leap. Landing lightly on the floor, he glared accusingly at Ned.