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.
He stared around at the faces of Will and Eileen Drummond, Mrs. Winn, the old ship’s carpenter, Amy and Alex Somers, and Ben. “I take it, madam, that you require information regarding the location of the old stable and smithy from Mr. Braithwaite? Then so be it. You boys, run and fetch Braithwaite here. However, I think that I may be of some help in that direction—I acted on behalf of the Railway Company in conveying the land for the station and retained a copy of the paperwork for my own files.”
Ben and Alex left the lawyer’s office with the big, black dog in their wake.
Talking out of the corner of his mouth, Ben murmured to Alex, “See, over in Evans’s alley, there’s some of the Grange Gang. They’re watching the almshouse, probably to see if your mangled body gets flung out the door. They haven’t spotted us yet. Why not give them a wave?”
Alex strode off toward the alley. “I’ll do better than that, Ben, I’ll pop over and have a word with them.”
Alex shouted, “Hello there, you lot! Hang on a moment, I want to see you!”
They fled like startled deer.
Ben shrugged. “That’s odd, don’t they like speaking to the ghost of a murdered boy?” The two friends laughed uproariously.
They brought Mr. Braithwaite back to Mr. Mackay’s office, where the librarian stood scratching his wiry mane, dandruff sprinkling like tiny snowflakes on the shoulders of his black scholar’s gown. “I, er, can’t stop very, hmmmmm, long. Library, er, business, I’m afraid . . .” His voice trailed off as he sighted the chalice on the desk. Ignoring everybody around him, he picked the chalice up with great reverence. No hesitancy showed in his voice as he spoke.
“Calix magnificus! Magnificus magnificus! Byzantine tenth century. Crafted by the skilled goldsmiths and lapidaries of a bygone age. What a perfectly beautiful specimen. These pigeon-egg rubies, jewels beyond price. This tracery and engraving, exotic, fabulous! Who came by such a remarkable chalice as this? Where was it discovered? Oh, tell me!”
The grizzled old seaman related the tale in full. Omitting no detail, he brought Mr. Braithwaite up to strength on even the latest development. The old scholar scratched his frizzy head. The initial gusto of seeing the chalice was wearing off, and he returned to his customary self.
“Hmm, very good, very good! So I take it, you, er, er, wish to know the, ah, exact location of the, er, ancient stables and, er, blacksmith’s forge, er, as it were?”
Mr. Mackay held up a sheaf of leg
al-looking documents. “They’re not far from the station, according to my records, sir!”
Mr. Braithwaite raised his bushy eyebrows, staring at Mr. Mackay’s small, dapper figure as if seeing him for the first time. “Not so, sir! I, er, that is, my, er, researches show, the, ah, smithy, stood on the, er, er, precise spot where the station was built, hmmm, yes indeed!”
Mr. Mackay was not one to bandy words. Drawing himself up to his sparse height, he spread the documents on his desk, tapping a neatly manicured finger on a map diagram. “Then look for yourself, sir. My records are undeniable!”
Mr. Braithwaite pored over Mr. Mackay’s map, showering it with dandruff as he scratched his hair in bemusement. “Well I never, well I never, my, er, calculations were wrong, it, er, seems. I defer to your technical knowledge, sir. I, er, must consult you more often, in my, er, historical location studies. If I, er, may make so bold as to, er, suggest such a thing.”
“Of course you may, sir!” replied Mackay in his clipped, precise manner. He rolled the papers back into a scroll.
Mrs. Winn liked her lawyer, despite his somewhat pompous attitude, and could see his interest was aroused by the search. “Would you care to take a look at the site, Mr. Mackay? We’d be glad of your expert opinion.”
A faint smile appeared on the lawyer’s face. “An intriguing invitation, marm. I accept!”
The old lady turned to Mr. Braithwaite. “We’d value your help if you’d like to come, too, sir.”
Scratching his head and pointing to himself, the old scholar grinned like a schoolboy. “Who . . . er, me? Oh, I say, rather, lead on, er, good lady, lead on, er, please do!”
It was a curious team that trooped out of the solicitor’s office, heading toward Chapelvale Station. Obadiah Smithers and his wife, Clarissa, had emerged from their carriage in the village square, she intent on shopping and he intending to go to Mr. Mackay’s office. Seeing the lawyer piling into Will Drummond’s cart with the others, Smithers hastened across to him, waving the latest compulsory purchase notice, whilst holding on to his top hat.
“Hold up there, Mackay. Where the deuce d’you think you’re going? I was just about to consult you!”
Mr. Mackay did not like Smithers. He considered the fellow an overbearing bully, and he stared officiously down from the gig at him. “Consult me without a prior appointment, sir? I’m afraid it’s out of the question. I’ve got other business!”
Smithers waved the order. “But what about this, it arrived in this morning’s mail. I want it to be pinned up in the square.”
Mr. Mackay glared at Smithers over the top of his pince-nez. “Then fix it up yourself, sir, you look capable enough. There’s a nail and a post for the purpose. You can either leave the present order up, or tear it down to make room for the new one. As you can see, I have other matters to attend, I bid you good day. Drive on, please, Mr. Drummond!”
Smithers was left standing red-faced and at a loss for words as the gig pulled off smartly. Mrs. Winn and Eileen stifled laughter with their kerchiefs. Not so with the other occupants of the dairy cart, they guffawed aloud.
“Well, that put him in his place, eh. Hahahaha!”
“Aye, did you see the face on him, like a beetroot!”
“Look, he’s still standing there waving his silly paper. Hahaha!”
Mr. Mackay did not join in the merriment. Polishing his pince-nez, he blinked sternly at his traveling companions. “I would have liked to see the contents of that order. I fear it will be no laughing matter for Chapelvale, or you, Miz Winn. We must take a look at it on our return!”
They took the road past the station and over the level crossing. Ned passed a thought to his master as he allowed Amy to stroke him. “Whatever we’re looking for, bet I’m the one who finds it. By the way, what exactly are we looking for?”
The boy answered. “I don’t know, Ned. It’s a large, overgrown area near the station we’ll have to cover probably. With an old, carved piece of stick as our only clue. We’ll need the help of a good sniffer.”
Will halted Delia at Mr. Mackay’s command, on what appeared to be a piece of common land, about twenty yards away from the railway tracks. Jon and Will spread the old map from the farmhouse cottage alongside the railway property map that Mr. Mackay and Mr. Braithwaite were studying. Eileen, who had left her baby at home with Will’s ma, sat in the gig watching the two boys, while Amy and the black Lab ranged out across the gorse-covered area. Mr. Mackay pointed to a corner of his boundary map.
“You see, here is the boundary line of the railway property. It ends ten feet away, where Will halted the gig on that bit of disused path. So this is all common land.”
Mr. Braithwaite looked from one map to the other. “Hmmm, this has got to be the, er, place, very good! See the, er, tree, in the same place on both, er, maps, yes.”
Jon pointed to the only tree left standing, on the far side of the common. “What, do you mean that one?”
Mr. Mackay shook his head doubtfully. “Your map is dated 1661. Surely that scruffy old tree hasn’t been there that long?”
Braithwaite was glad to prove himself, not only as a history scholar but as a botanist. “I, er, must take issue with you on that, sir. Er. Let us take a look at this, hmm, tree.”
They trooped over to where Ben and his friends were standing beneath the tree. It was a twisted and venerable old specimen with a huge, untidy crown of thin leaves that sported red berries. The trunk, a gnarled column, was very thick, seeming to consist of several thinner trunks welded together by age.
Jon instinctively knew what it was. “This is a yew, there’s two growin’ back o’ the almshouse.”
Mr. Braithwaite became very schoolmasterish, wagging a finger at the young people as he lectured them. “Quite right. Taxus baccata, the common English yew, specimens have been recorded of up to one thousand years old. The branches of this old tree may have provided the wood for English longbows to fight the French at the Battle of Agincourt. Jon, hand me that carved piece of wood and your clasp knife, please.”
Mr. Braithwaite scraped away at the uncarved side of the wooden stick until clean wood showed, then he shaved a small section of bark from the trunk to reveal the wood beneath.
“Both common English yew, you see!”
Will smacked his open palm against the tree. “All sounds very good so far, but what’re we lookin’ for and where do we search?”
Amy placed both hands on her hips. “Around this tree, I suppose.”
Ben sprang and grabbed a spreading limb. “Or maybe up in the tree!” He climbed into the branches.
The others started to search around the base of the yew. Alex soon got tired of the hunt below and with Ben’s help climbed up into the boughs, too. The dog looked up, communicating with his master. “If you fall and break a leg, don’t come running to me!”
After more than a half hour of scanning the trunk and the ground around it, Mrs. Winn gave up and went to sit in the gig with Eileen.
Will straightened up, holding his back. “Ain’t so easy as it first looked. See anything up there, Ben?”
Ben clambered down. “Nothing, Will. As you said, it would help if we knew what we were looking for.”
Being shorter than Ben, Alex found descending a bit difficult, but he made his way to the other side of the tree and found a low branch. Edging onto it, he hung there by both hands, facing the trunk.
The seaman stood beneath, reaching up with both hands. “Come on, mate, let go an’ I’ll catch ye.”
But Alex hung on to the branch, his face toward the trunk, shouting, “I found it! Here it is!”
Ben shot back up the tree like a monkey. Making his way across to Alex, he leaned downward, peering at what looked like tiny knots sticking from the bark. He gave a joyous whoop. “It’s the same pattern as the stick. Well done!”
Will shouted across to his wife. “Eileen, drive the gig over here, beneath this tree!”
32
STANDING UPRIGHT IN THE L
ITTLE cart, the four men could easily make out the pattern of marks. Jon traced them with his finger, then touched the point of his clasp knife to one. “Metal! They’re old horseshoe nails driven into the trunk. The bark has grown over them, but the pattern remains.”
Mr. Mackay dusted dead grass from his trouser knees fussily. “But with one difference, sir, there’s an arrow shape pointing down. That must mean we have to dig down at the yew base, directly where the arrow indicates.”
The dairyman backed Delia away from the spot. Grabbing a spade, Will began cutting away the top grass. “Right about here!” The old ship’s carpenter spat on his hands and grabbed another spade from the gig.
But Eileen had different ideas. “I think ’tis a waste o’ time diggin’ there, Will. Surely the girth o’ the tree has growed bigger since sixteen hundred an’ whatever. If you were lookin’ for somethin’ buried ’twould be right under that trunk now! Don’t waste your energy. You either, Jon Preston.”
Will threw his spade down dispiritedly. “You’re right, m’love.”
Ben watched Ned go off with small, dainty paces, sniffing hard at the ground. He sent a thought to the dog.
“What are you doing, mate?”
The big, black dog did not answer for a while, but kept sniffing and going forward. When he stopped, he sat down a short distance off. “Tell them the arrow is probably pointing not down, but out from the tree, to somewhere around here.”
Ben stared at the Labrador. “You could be right, but why there, why not further out?”
Ned nosed the grass, turning up a soggy, moss-covered length of board and sniffling. “Because this is where the old smithy once stood!”