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

He did as she told him. “M-a-t-t-h-e-w. Matthew! Very clever, Amy, I been staring at this for hours, but I never saw that. How did you come to notice it?”

Amy shrugged airily. “It’s called an inclusion—we did it as a word game in school last term. You look for words among words.”

The blue-eyed boy nodded admiringly. “Well done, pal!”

Amy jumped down from the bench. “Not so well, Ben, I couldn’t fathom out any more of the puzzle. Could you?”

“No, I had other things to think about, which I’ll tell you later. I bet Mr. Braithwaite’s managed to solve it.”

Jon tossed the last of his sandwich to Ned. “I went over there earlier, but he didn’t seem to be in the library. Maybe he’s arrived by now—let’s go and see.”

Exiting the almshouse by the front door, they saw the gig with Delia standing patiently in the shafts outside Mr. Mackay’s office. Amy ran across to stroke the mare.

“What’s Will doing in Mr. Mackay’s office this early?”

The door opened partially, and Eileen popped her head around it. “I was about to go’n see if you were up an’ about, my dears. Come on in, we’re all here!”

Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, and Will were gathered around the desk, and the lawyer greeted the newcomers. “Good morning, friends. Mrs. Drummond was about to go and see if she could locate you. I arrived here early to look up some old survey maps and see if I could throw any light upon our search.

“Mr. Braithwaite and the Drummonds have been helping me. I think we’re close to a solution, that’s why I was sending for you. By the way, did any of you manage to solve the thing?”

Jon spread his copy on the desk. “Amy did, she figured it was the first Gospelmaker, St. Matthew, whose treasure we’re after. But that’s as far as any of us got. Look at this first line.”

The librarian inspected the line of words, scratching away at his frizzy hair. “St. Matthew, eh. Well well, good, er, heaven, a simple inclusion. Hmm, and none of us, er, er, noticed it. Very good, Amy, yes, very good, very good!”

Amy could not conceal her impatience. “Mr. Mackay, you said that you were close to a solution. What have you discovered?”

The dapper little solicitor coughed importantly. “First we thought we were looking for a bell—does not the second line say ‘that bell ne’er made a sound’? But if we look at the next line we see that the bell in this case is a mere figure of speech, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud.’ This death knell means in reality that something is finished. For instance, we could say, if Caran De Winn’s title deeds to Chapelvale are not found, that signals the death knell for the entire village, you see? However, the rhyme does not speak of a place, but of people, ‘yet the death knell tolled aloud for those who danced around.’ ”

Will could not stop himself from blurting out. “Wait! I remember my ole granddad singin’ a song when I was a little boy, something about a villain who ended up dancing around ’neath a gallows tree! Sorry for buttin’ in on you, sir.”

Mr. Mackay merely smiled over the top of his nose glasses. “Quite all right, sir. Mr. Braithwaite, would you like to tell them our conclusion?”

Mr. Braithwaite clasped the edges of his scholar’s gown. “Indeed, thank you, Mr., er, hmmm. We also have come to that same gallows tree. We put emphasis on the word ‘those,’ er, yes, ‘for those who danced around.’ This, er, would lead us to believe that more than one, er, person, miscreant, or whatever, was hung at this gallows place. . . .”

Recognition suddenly dawned on Ben. “So we’re looking for that place of execution; what d’you think, Jon?”

“Right, mate!” the old carpenter agreed. “Places of execution, or gallows trees, as they were called, and they always had those ’orrible birds nearby, like in the next-to-last line, ‘the carrion crow doth perch above.’ But what about the final line, ‘light bearers ’neath the ground’?”

A quiver of eagerness entered Eileen’s voice. “That’s what we’ll find out by diggin’ on the exact spot. You got your little paper with the ’oles in it, Jon? We’ve got our map.”

Between them they matched up the paper with the four holes to the ancient map from the farmhouse.

“It says here, ‘prison,’” Will murmured. “The likely spot for a gallows tree. But I don’t know of any prison in Chapelvale, do you, Eileen?”

Will’s wife shook her head. “Must’ve been knocked down long since.”

Mr. Mackay took out a large survey map and compared it to the old map, looking back and forth from one to the other. “I’d say the old prison was right about here!” He made a pencil mark on the survey map. “Right where the police station stands.”

Ben and Alex were already making for the door. “Well, what are we waiting for?” the younger boy said.

35

THE POLICE STATION WAS A SMALL greystone building, sandwiched between two houses built at the turn of the century. One house was for the station sergeant, who often traveled to outlying communities, the other for the station constable, who attended to village matters and kept the station house ledger up to date.

Constable Judmann was tending to the rosebushes in his front garden; he was an enthusiastic gardener, a big, beefy fellow close to middle age. Seeing the two boys running ahead of the dairy cart, he wiped his hands on a cloth, and donning a uniform jacket, he buttoned it up from his ample stomach to a bull-like neck. Taking his helmet from the windowsill, he put it on and strode up the garden path with suitable dignity. He nodded at Alex.

“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.