[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

“What an intelligent boy, he recognized quality right off!”

Ben cut across the Lab’s thoughtful remark. “We’re straight off the train, never been here before. I’m Ben, which is Neb backwards, short for Nebuchadnezzar. This fellow is Ned, which is Den backwards, short for Denmark. Bit of an odd name for a dog, ain’t it?”

The girl, who had dark hair and brown eyes, was very pretty, even prettier when she smiled. “Nebuchad . . . what? Sorry, my name’s Amy, Amy Somers. This is my brother Alex. I’m quite nice, but he’s fairly dreadful sometimes. What is it you want, Ben?”

“Er, someplace we can get something to eat. We’re absolutely famished, aren’t we, Ned?”

The dog nodded. Alex looked startled.

“Ned, your dog . . . he just nodded his head?”

Ben scratched Ned’s neck roughly. “It’s just his collar, it bothers him on warm summer days. Now, is there anywhere we can buy some food?”

Alex thought a moment, frowning. “I think you’ll be out of luck, Ben, shops are closed today, but take a stroll around the village square. Maybe you’ll find something, though I doubt it. Good luck anyway.”

Ben and Ned moved off.

Amy called after them hopefully. “Will you be staying in Chapelvale, Ben?”

He winked at her and smiled secretively. “Who knows, maybe.”

Alex called out rather anxiously. “Be careful, Ben, watch out for the Grange Gang!”

The strange boy shrugged carelessly. “Who are the Grange Gang?”

“A gang of rotten bullies who go about trying to make people’s life a misery. Particularly strangers and old people.”

Amy warned, “I’d steer clear of them if I were you.”

Ben turned to look at Amy. She felt her skin prickle at the sudden iciness in his strange blue eyes. Then it was gone, and he chuckled quietly.

“Don’t worry about us, pals. We’ve met gangs before!”

Amy watched Ben and his dog wander off down the lane. “I’ll bet they have, too. He’s the oddest boy I’ve ever seen, but I like him.”

Alex found himself agreeing with his older sister. “I do, too, I don’t know why. And that black Labrador . . . I wish we had a dog like it. I hope they stay. D’you think they will, Amy?”

His sister repeated the strange boy’s words. “Who knows, maybe.”

Alex had been right—all the shops in the market square were closed for the afternoon. It was as if Chapelvale were taking a long siesta in the summer heat. The worn cobble-stone paving, whitewashed walls, and heavy black beams, combined with blue-grey slate roofing and dark green roller blinds in shop windows, accentuated the lazy noontide stillness and the absence of folk out shopping.

The boy and his dog crossed the square together and made their way up the big, sloping hill behind the village. Shops thinned out, and so did the houses after a while. Ned gave Ben a sad look. “Please tell me we’re not looking for another barn to spend the night in.”

Ben passed his thoughts back to the Labrador. “We never asked to turn up in this village. I’m sure the angel has guided us here. Just thank your lucky stars it’s a peaceful little country place.”

The dog raised his eyes mournfully. “Oh, it’s peaceful enough.”

Ben tickled his ear fondly. “Stop grumbling, a barn is better than a dry ditch beneath a hedge. We’ll get a good breakfast tomorrow morning, as soon as everywhere is open. Bacon, sausage, toast, eggs . . .”

Ned let his tail droop. “D’you mind, my tummy’s rumbling!”

12

A FAT PEAR, BROWN WITH ROT, SPLATTERED against the parlor window, causing the black cat inside to leap down from the sill, where it had

been sunning itself. Old Mrs. Winn watched the overripe pulp slide down the glass, then heard the chanting begin. It came from behind the thick fringe of purple-and-white rhododendron bushes growing at the bottom of her sloping lawn.

“Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch! Winnie the Witch and her big black cat! Winn Winn, Winnie the Witch!”

This was followed by barely stifled giggling and the hollow boom of a wet earth clod striking the old lady’s front door.

She spoke to the cat, who was her only companion. “Those children are back again, Horatio. Why do they persecute us? We’ve never harmed them, have we?”

Horatio jumped lightly into her lap, staring at his mistress with magnificent amber eyes, meowing faintly as he stroked his head against her open palm. Mrs. Winn sighed.

“If Captain Winn were still alive, they wouldn’t be so quick to bother us then, eh, Horatio?”

She stared sadly at the oval framed portrait hanging above the fireplace mantelpiece. Captain Rodney Winn, R.N., stood frozen in time there, dapper as a new pin in his number-one dress uniform, complete with medals, braid, and bars. His peaked cap was tucked under one arm, a strong right hand resting on a table that contained a potted aspidistra and a Moroccan leather-bound Bible. Not a hair of his white goatee was out of place. Square-jawed and resolute, the captain had steady blue eyes that commanded all he surveyed, a man among men. Hero of the Sevastopol blockade and many other naval encounters in the Crimean War of the 1850s. Now sadly deceased.