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

Ben sipped his cocoa and winked at Alex. “Wait’ll they find out tomorrow that you faced the Mad Professor and lived to tell the tale. I don’t think the Grange Gang or Wilf will ever bother you again, Alex. It was great to see how you went at the bully and had him bawling in front of his own gang. They’ll respect you and your sister from now on.”

Alex put his empty mug down. “But only because of you, Ben.”

The blue-eyed boy patted Alex heartily on the back. “Nonsense, mate, all I did was suggest a thing or two. The rest was you, having confidence in yourself. Isn’t that right, Ned?”

The dog nodded. Jon looked over the rim of his cocoa mug at him. “I suppose that was his collar itching him again, eh, Ben?”

The strange boy’s eyes twinkled. “You supposed right, mate.”

Alex was beginning to feel sleepy; he blinked. “Supposed what?”

The black Lab leaped to the window frame, followed by Ben, who chuckled. “Supposed to meet at the library first thing in the morning, so we can have a word with Mr. Braithwaite. G’night, pals. Jon, will you see Amy and Alex get home all right?”

Ben and Ned vanished into the night like twin shadows.

Amy stared at the empty window space. “There’s something rather odd about Ben. It’s almost as if he and Ned are magic. What do you think, Jon?”

The ex-ship’s carpenter wiped the last of the lampblack off with a damp rag. “Ben’s no more magic than you, me, or Alex. He’s just good, aye, and clever. He’s certainly taught me a thing or two, as old as I am. Come on, mates, I’ll walk you as far as your house.”

“Not quite as far,” Alex replied. “Leave us at the end of the lane, we’ve got to sneak in by the pantry window.”

Jon’s craggy face broke into a smile. “See, you’re learning fast, pal!”

At breakfast next morning Hetty the maid brought the post into the dining room. She placed it next to Obadiah Smithers’s plate, bobbed a brief curtsy, and left.

Mrs. Smithers cast a worried glance at Wilf’s empty chair. “Poor Wilfred, perhaps he’s stayed in bed because he’s still feeling poorly. I’ll tell Hetty to take him a tray up.”

“No, you won’t, madam!” Smithers slit an envelope vigorously with his egg-stained breakfast knife. “Let the young whelp stay abed until he’s hungry enough to get himself down here and take his place at table. Confounded fool, punchin’ a wall of all things, losing to a lad half his size. Oh, I’ve heard all about it from Reggie Woodworthy, Regina told him. Can’t hold my head up in the village! Man with a great, strappin’ son who doesn’t know the difference between the other fellow’s nose and a schoolyard wall. Huh!”

Maud Bowe helped herself to a boiled egg and tapped the top daintily with her spoon, remarking caustically, “About what anyone could expect from that silly oaf.”

Smithers slammed the letter down on his side plate, cracking it in the process. He glared at Maud.

“Keep your opinions to y’self, missie. It’s not your place to criticize my family while you’re a guest in my house!”

Sensing another verbal battle, Mrs. Smithers withdrew from the room quietly. She would take Wilfred a tray herself.

Maud thrust her chin out defiantly at the older man. “Sir, an oaf is an oaf, in any circumstances, more so when he is a bad-mannered oaf. That is my opinion, like it or not!”

Smithers, pretending not to hear, sorted a letter from the small pile of mail and tossed it across the table. “This is for you, young lady, from your father by the writing.”

She took a nail file from her pocket and slit the letter neatly open, her eyes blazing at Smithers. “Sir, I give you your proper title. My name is Maud, you may address me as Maud, Miss Maud, or Miss Bowe. I resent being called missie or young lady. I trust you will refrain from such expressions in future!”

Smithers pretended to read his letter; he tapped it with his knife. “From the county planning office, final approval of compulsory purchase of Chapelvale lands two days from today. Providing, of course, that no majority property holder turns up with deeds to more than one section. Huh, even old Mrs. Winn can’t argue with that, she can only prove the ownership of her own house. She has no papers for that almshouse ruin, or any other land. I’ve made sure of that, got a friend in the official search office, y’know. Look, there’s a formal notice with this letter, to be posted in the square. I’ll remove the old one an’ put this one up, eh. How’s that for progress? Well, what’s your father got to say?”

Maud folded the letter carefully and placed it on the table. “He says that the four men I asked for should be up by the evening train tomorrow. He has paid them expenses and money for the train tickets—”

Smithers’s explosion cut her short. “Well, I’m damned if I’d pay ’em a bent penny, missie. I’ve already told you what I think of your proposal, sending toughs and blaggards up from London. What’ll happen if they’re found to be connected to this venture? I’ll be ruined, and so would your father and his fancy London partners. Then where’ll we all be, eh? Answer me that, m’dear!”

Maud’s normally sallow pallor grew ashen with temper. “I’ll tell you . . . Smithers! You’d be sitting out here at the end of some rural backwater with your fiddling little business. This is a big venture, that’s why you’re in with a proper London company, and doing quite well out of it, too. My father’s company often uses the methods he needs—legal or not—that’s the way you get things done in this modern age. And don’t look so self-righteous—you had children trying to get things done for you, that oaf you call a son and his gang. What were you paying them, eh, sweeties, pennies?

“Well, that’s all changed, you’re in the game now for better or worse. It’ll be worse if we listen to your piffling ideas, but better all ’round if you leave it to experts. That old lady Winn, she’ll be shifted sooner than you think and for good, thanks to my suggestion to my father, so stop acting like a silly oaf, though the habit seems to run in your family!” Maud’s ankle-length taffeta dress rustled stiffly as she swept out of her chair and vacated the room.

Smithers sat openmouthed at the girl’s impertinence, his heavy features flushing dark red. He gave vent to his ire with a bellow that would have done a stricken water buffalo credit, sending crockery and cutlery flying as his outstretched arms flailed across the table.

Sitting up in bed, Wilf heard the roar and the ensuing crash. He started with fright, upsetting his breakfast tray. A glass of milk, toast, lemon curd, and two soft-boiled eggs spilled into his lap. He sobbed, floundering about in the mess, his mind running riot. Had his father found out about last night, his second foolish scheme gone astray? It wasn’t his fault if the Somers boy had gone and got himself murdered by the Mad Professor. Had the police found out yet, would they come around asking questions? Regina and the gang wouldn’t take the blame, they’d lay it on him, their leader. Then what? Court, imprisonment . . . ? Regardless of the breakfast mess, Wilf pulled the coverlet over his head, wishing fervently that it would all go away. Tears, egg, milk, and lemon curd mingled on his face. He jumped as a timid knock sounded on the door.

“Finished with your tray, Master Wilfred?” It was only Hetty.

A muffled scream broke from beneath the stained counterpane. “Go ’waaaaaay!”

31

MRS. WINN’S LAWYER, MR. MACKAY, WAS a man of small stature, exceedingly neat in appearance. Dressed in knife-creased pin-striped trousering, an eight-button black vest (complete with silver watch and chain), a crisp white shirt, with starched wing-tip collar and a dark blue stock with a modest peridot stickpin, he sported spring-clipped pince-nez. A snowy peak of white linen handkerchief showed from the top pocket of his black fustian tailcoat. Mr. Mackay had a center part in his dyed black hair and a small, precisely trimmed mustache. He shaved twice daily and had about him an aroma of macassar pomade. The consensus of village opinion had marked him as a dry little stick of a man, his movements quick and bird-like, his speech clipped and precise, peppered with legal jargon. Now Mr. Mackay sat looking at the chalice on his desk. He had heard the story of its discovery from the old lady. Taking the pince-nez spectacles from his nose, he let them dangle by their black ribbon.