“Poor old Edmond, eh, Ned, a son and seven daughters. Quite a few mouths to feed.” Ben closed the giant book. “This doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere.”
The dog leapt up. Placing his front paws on the desk, he began frantically nosing at the Bible beneath Ben’s hand. “What’s the matter, boy?” Ben tried to push him away.
“What’ll Miz Winn say if you slobber all over her family Bible?”
But the dog persisted, sending out urgent thoughts. “The back of the book! I could see it from where I was lying. The back, Ben. Down inside the spine, something’s there!”
Ben quickly shut the book and stood it on edge. He peered down the space between the spine and the pages. “You’re right. It looks like a folded paper. Wait!” He took an ivory pair of chopsticks (one of the captain’s souvenirs) and delicately fished the object out.
As Ben carefully unfolded the paper, the black dog looked on. “A piece of torn parchment, with two tiny holes burned in it. There’s some wording on it. Read it, Ben, read it!”
The boy scanned the writing awhile. “It starts off strangely. Listen: ‘Re, keep safe for the house of De Winn thy treasure.’ ”
Ned’s tail wagged furiously. “Treasure! I think we’re on the right track. But what does ‘re’ mean?”
Ben continued staring at the scrap of parchment. “That’s where the parchment was torn. ‘Re’ is probably the end two letters of a longer word. But well done to you for spotting this in the Bible’s spine.”
Ned’s tail wagged. “Hah! Who said horses were man’s best friend? What about us dogs, eh, shipmate?”
Ben put the parchment down. He leapt upon the big dog and wrestled him all over the floor, knowing this was his favorite sport, but the Labrador got the better of Ben. Pinning him to the carpet, he began licking his face. “What other way can your poor hound serve you, O master?”
Ben giggled as the dog’s tongue tickled his ear. “You can let me up, you great, sloppy hound!”
Though they searched high and low, there were no other clues to be found. It was late by the time Ben had tidied the room up and put everything back in its place. He folded the torn parchment and put it in his pocket. “Well, at least that’s a start, though I don’t know what the message means, or the two burnt holes in the paper. But it’s something definite to begin with. Let’s hope we can solve the problem before time runs out for Miz Winn and Chapelvale. Right, mate, bed for us, I’ll just go to the bathroom and wash my face.”
Ned looked indignantly at Ben. “But I just washed your face for you a moment ago, there’s base ingratitude for you!”
The blue-eyed boy gave his dog a glance of mock severity. “One more word out of you and I’ll wash your face for you, with soap and a scrubbing brush!”
20
SUNDAY MORNING, BEN ACCOMPANIED Miz Winn to church services, dressed in his new clothes. He felt rather self-conscious in the new outfit, his unruly hair wetted and brushed into a part. The black Labrador had stayed home to keep Horatio company. Mrs. Winn brought her walking stick, as it was quite a walk to the church on top of the hill. At the churchyard gate they met up with Alex and Amy Somers, together with their parents. Mrs. Winn knew the Somerses, and she stood and chatted with them.
Alex caught Ben staring up at the spire, looking rather nervous. “It’s only a church steeple, Ben, what are you looking for?”
There was a trace of perspiration on Ben’s forehead, and his face was slightly pale as he answered. “The bell, has this church got a bell?”
Mr. Braithwaite wandered close by, still in his scholarly gown. He scratched his frizzy hair as he peered over his glasses. “Er, what’s that? Oh, a bell y’say, hmmm? ’Fraid not, young er, er, fellow. The, er, bell of St. Peter’s church was, er, donated to the cause by the clergy and parishioners during the, er, er, Napoleonic Wars. Yes, hmmm, indeed, to make armaments for the Duke of, er, Wellington’s army. Bell metal, useful stuff, very good very good!”
The feeling of whirling waters, angel voices, and the Flying Dutchman out somewhere plowing the misty main passed. Ben felt an immediate surge of relief. At least he did not have to worry about a church with a mute bell-tower. Amy tugged his sleeve to go inside, the service was starting.
St. Peter’s, for all its size, was comparatively small inside. Beneath the arched wood ceiling, supported by eight plain limestone columns, were two main aisles. There was an odor of lavender furniture polish on the benches, kneeling hassocks were of frayed chenille. Morning sunlight poured through the few well-preserved stained-glass windows, capturing myriad dust motes in slow swirls. Ben sat with his two friends whilst Reverend Mandel, a severe grey-haired man, delivered a sermon on the merits of charity to one’s fellow creatures. Ben felt as if someone was watching him. He turned his head and took a quick glance at the pews behind. There was Wilf Smithers, with his mother and the girl from London. Obadiah Smithers was not given to attending church on Sunday, or any other day for that matter. Ben smiled at Wilf. Surprisingly, Wilf smiled back.
When service was over, Mrs. Winn stopped to drop a coin in the box for the new bell fund. Wilf came up behind Ben and jammed a scrap of paper into Ben’s pocket.
“Bet you won’t be there!” he muttered in Ben’s ear and moved away to join his mother and Maud Bowe at the lych-gate outside, where a pony and cart were waiting to take them home.
Walking back downhill, Mr. Somers kindly assisted Mrs. Winn, offering her his arm. Ben walked ahead with his two friends, who saw him take the paper from his pocket and read what had been written on it. He laughed.
“Wilf slipped me this outside the church. Listen.” Ben read out the badly written message: “‘You meet me this afternoon at four behind the liberry if your not scared. Do not bring your dog cos I only want to talk. I will be alone. If you do not come your a cowerd.
“‘Singed by W. Leader of the Grange Gang.’”
Ben sat down on the grassy slope, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He passed the note to Amy, who read it again, smiling at the childish scrawl.
“Somebody ought to teach Wilf Smithers to spell library and coward. Oh, hahaha! He’s put the letter g in the wrong place, instead of signed, it’s singed. Written with a fiery pen, eh. Hahaha!” But Ben’s young friend did not find it the least bit funny.
“Of course you’re not going. Are you, Ben?”
Summer breeze took the part out of Ben’s unruly hair, and he flicked it out of his eyes. “Why not?”
Alex had a number of reasons. He stated them all, anxiously. “Well, for a start, Wilf won’t be alone. He’ll have his gang hiding nearby. He doesn’t just want to talk. You’ll get beaten up, that’s why he says not to bring Ned along. We know you aren’t a coward, Ben, you don’t have to go!”
Ben’s strange blue eyes were smiling, but the younger boy could see something icy behind his careless merriment. It sounded in his voice as he stood up and continued walking. “Four o’clock, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for anything!”
“Then we’ll be there, too!”
Ben turned to Amy. “I’d rather you left this to me, but if you really want to be there, you’d be best doing what Wilf’s gang will do. Hide yourselves and keep an eye on my back. I’ll shout if I need you, promise I will.”
Amy’s fists clenched at her sides. “We’ll be there, won’t we, Alex?”
Ben could see her brother’s legs trembling as he replied. “You can count on us. We won’t run off and leave you!”
Ben threw an arm about his shoulders and squeezed lightly. “Thanks, pal, I’ll feel safer with a friend like you around. Thank you, too, Amy. Well, I’m off for lunch and a nice nap in a deck chair on the lawn. See you two at four. Oh, sorry, I won’t see you because you’ll be hiding, but I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re there. ’Bye, pals!”
They watched him turn off to the house with Mrs. Winn on his arm. Alex gritted his teeth. “I won’t run away this time, Amy, I’ll stay and help Ben!”
Amy took the hand o
f her normally timid brother. “You never ran last time, Alex, you’re getting braver by the day, just like Ben.”
At midday Mrs. Winn took lunch on the lawn with Ben, Ned, and Horatio. It was a soft summer Sunday, and they had a pleasant time, basking in the quiet, sunny garden. Walking to and from church had tired the old lady out. Her eyes flickered as she watched two white butterflies circling, weaving interminable patterns around the lavender-blue blossoms of a buddleia bush. Bees droned lazily between dark crimson roses and purple-yellow pansies, the fragrance of flowers lay light upon the still early noontide. Within a short time she was lying back in her deck chair, sleeping peacefully.
Ben and Ned held a thoughtful conversation. “So then, ancient hound, what are your plans for the day?”
The big dog rolled luxuriously over on the grass. “Think I’ll take a tour of the area with my feline friend.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve finally got through to Horatio, then. A good talker, is he?”
Ned’s ears flopped dolefully. “Not really. Sometimes he makes sense, but most of the time his thoughts are pure nonsense.” He dabbed a paw at the cat’s tail. “Isn’t that right, pal?”
Horatio turned his staring golden eyes upon the dog.
Ben watched; it was obvious they were communicating. “What’s he saying, Ned?”
The Labrador shook his great head. “I’ll translate word for word his exact thoughts at this moment. He’s saying, ‘Miaow miaow! Butt’fly, mouse, birdie, nice. Mowwwrrr! Winnie Winn give ’Ratio sardine an’ milky milky tea, purrrr nice!’ ”
Ben chuckled. “Keep at him. I’m sure Horatio will improve.”
The Labrador stared forlornly at the cat. “Little savage, scoffing butterflies, mice, and birds. Ugh! What are you going to do for the rest of the day, Ben, sit out here and snooze?”
The boy rose quietly from his deck chair. “No, I’m off to do a bit of exploring by myself. . . . See you back here . . . shall we say about six?”
Ned waved a paw. “Six it is. Dinner will prob’ly be about seven. Mind how you go, Ben. Shout if you need me.”
Ben walked briskly to the gate. “Righto, and you bark out loud if you want me for anything. See you later, mate.”
21
CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SQUARE LAY DESERTED and still in the summer afternoon, Ben was the only one about. Crossing the square, he strolled up to the almshouse fence. Only the unruly lilac and privet bushes held the rickety, sagging palings upright. He stood at the gate, weighing the ancient building up. A poor jumble, its thick hanging thatch, long overdue to be rethatched.
Ben unlooped a faded noose of cord that kept the gate fastened, which creaked protestingly as he opened it, and started down the weed-scarred gravel path. A gruff voice cut the air with thunderous power.
“Out! Get out, you’re trespassin’! Out, out!”
Ben stopped and held his arms out sideways. “Excuse me, I was only—”
The voice from behind the almshouse door roared threateningly. “Out, I said! I’ll give you a count of three. I’m loading my shotgun! Out, d’ye hear. . . . One! . . . Two!”
Ben ran then, clearing the gate with a leap. Behind him he heard the click of shotgun hammers being cocked.
The voice called out in menace-laden tones. “Ye’ll get both barrels if ye come back! Be off now!”
Ben knew it was little use arguing with a double-barreled shotgun. Thrusting both hands deep in his pockets, he walked off across the square.
Dropping into the alley alongside Evans Tea Shoppe, the boy cut around the back of the stone buildings, circling the square furtively until he arrived in the shade of some hawthorn trees behind the almshouse. He stood still and silent there for several minutes, checking that his presence was unnoticed. Then, with a silent bound, he cleared the back wall, sinking down in a crouch amid the long grass and weeds. Three warped and weatherbeaten wood shutters covered the almshouse rear windows, with neither glass nor blinds behind them. Ben moved stealthily on all fours, over to the center window. He found it was not difficult to spy inside through the ancient elmwood planks, which were riddled with knotholes and cracks.
A high, circular stained-glass window let in a pool of sunlight in faded hues. The rest of the illumination was provided by two storm lamps suspended from a crossbeam. A tall, heavyset, elderly man with a full grey beard, wearing bell-bottom pants and a close-fitting dark blue seaman’s jersey, with a spotted red-and-white neckerchief, was seated at a table. Upon it was a welter of cardboard filing boxes and books, parchments and scrap paper. Around him, the interior appeared to be covered in dust and draped with cobwebs. The man was poring over a document on the table, leaning on one elbow, holding a pencil poised.
Suddenly he sat upright, moving a much-repaired pair of glasses from his face. He looked to the front door, as if he had heard a noise from outside. Rising slowly, he crept to the door and placed an ear against it. From his pocket he took a child’s toy, a cheap green metal clicker in the shape of a frog, and taking a deep breath he bellowed out angrily, “I know you’re still out there! Shift yourself quick! I never miss with this shotgun! Ye’ll get a full blast through this door if ye don’t move, I warn ye!” He clicked the tin frog twice. Ben wrinkled his face in amusement—it sounded just like a shotgun. The old fraud!
Satisfied the intruder had fled, the big man went back to his table, where he lit a small paraffin stove and placed a whistling kettle upon it. From a box under the table he brought forth a large enamel mug, brown cane sugar, and a can of condensed milk. Whilst doing this, he sang in a fine husky baritone. Ben recognized the song as an old sea shanty he was familiar with. He listened to the man sing:“I thought I heard the cap’n say,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
Tomorrow is our sailin’ day,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!”
The big fellow paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, obviously having forgotten the rest of the words. With the danger of being shot no longer a threat, Ben could not resist supplying a verse to help the singer’s memory. So he sang out through a knothole in a raucous voice.
“And now we’re wallopin’ ’round Cape Horn,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
I wish t’God I’d ne’er been born,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!”
The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a verse.
“There’s only one thing botherin’ me,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!”
He paused. Ben knew what to do, he sang out the rest.
“To leave behind Miss Liza Lee,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!”
Then they both sang the last two lines lustily together.
“O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!”
The old fellow banged a huge callused hand against the shutter, causing Ben to jump. He banged it again, laughing. “Hohohoho! That weren’t no Chapelvale bumpkin singin’ a good seafarin’ shanty. They’ve all got one leg longer’n the other from walkin’ in plow furrows ’round here. Ahoy, mate, what was the first ship ye sailed in?”
Ben shouted through a knothole. “The Flying Dutchman , mate. What was yours?”
Placing his back against the shutters, the man slid down into a sitting position, overcome with laughter.
“Hohoho, if I’m as big a liar as you, ’twas the Golden Hind, with Sir Francis Drake as skipper. Hahaha!”
The boy laughed with him, shouting back a typical seafarer’s reply. “And did you bring your old mother back a parrot from Cartagena?”
Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own. With a tattooed hand
the man indicated a thick gold earring dangling from his right ear.
“Tell me, lad, why I’m wearin’ this, ’tain’t for fashion, is it?”
Ben shook his head. “No sir, that’s in case they find your body washed up on a foreign shore, to pay for the burial.”
The old fellow helped him through the window and shook his hand vigorously. “Jonathan Preston, Jon to my mates. Ship’s carpenter, man an’ boy, for fifty years. Served in both Royal and Merchant Navies with not a day’s loss of pay on my discharge books.”
“Ben Winn, sir, visiting the village for a while, stopping at my aunt Winifred’s house.”
Jon produced another mug and wiped it clean. “Ho, then, better be watchin’ me manners, seein’ as you’re the owner’s nephew. Kettle’s boilin’, mate. Time for tea, eh!”
They sat together at the table, sipping hot sweet tea. Jon watched the boy thoughtfully. “Ye seem to have a fair maritime knowledge, m’boy. How d’ye come to know things only an old salt would know, eh?”
Ben had to resort to lies again, knowing the truth was too incredible for a normal person to believe. “Did a few trips along the coast, Jon. I read a lot, too. Ever since I first picked up a book, I always liked to read about sailors and the sea.”
Jon’s craggy face broke into a grin. “Well, now, ’tis the other way ’round with me, lad. Here’s me been at sea nigh on fifty years and I like studyin’ the land an’ its history. It was Cap’n Winn who gave me a berth. When I gave up seafarin’, he let me stay here, rent free. I’m a sort of caretaker, just keepin’ an eye on the old place. After a while I got bored, so I took myself ’round to the library. Mr. Braithwaite got me interested in local history, I’m very keen on it now. Studying Chapelvale’s past an’ so on.”
Ben cast an eye over the debris of papers and books on the table. “Aye, Jon, so I see. Perhaps you could give me a few pointers. I’ve become quite interested, too, since staying with my aunt.”