[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

It was just before Mrs. Winn’s bedtime. She sat at the kitchen table with Ben, trying to help him with the riddle. He had told her of the discoveries that he, Amy, Alex, and Jon had made so far. The old lady seemed tired and despondent. “Do you really think any of this will help me and the village, Ben? Time’s growing shorter by the day now. This all sounds a bit airy-fairy, compared to the way Smithers and his London firm are forging ahead. I looked at one of those clearance notices posted in the square. It’s so official, so full of legal jargon. All ‘wheretofore’ and ‘hereinafter’ and ‘clause B subsection D,’ it made my head spin. Oh, I wish we could come back at them with something more solid instead of a few ideas based on guesswork.”

Ben saw the old lady was close to tears. She was plainly scared and worried by the entire situation. He took her hand. “Stop fretting, Miz Winn, everything will turn out for the best, you’ll see. Now come on, help me with this problem. ‘Turn as a third Gospelmaker would to the house named for the rock.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Winn went to warm some milk. “There were four Gospelmakers: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They’re always referred to in that order, so Luke must be the third Gospelmaker. Does that make any sense?”

Ben watched her spooning cocoa and sugar into a jug. “Yes, yes. You’re right! So which way would Luke turn, north, south, east, west; left, right, backward, or forward?”

The black Labrador, who was lying with his chin on both front paws, chuckled. “That’s a question—which way would Luke look. Luke look, get it?”

Ben looked sternly at the dog. “This is no time for jokes. If you can’t help, then take a nap.”

Ned closed both eyes, thinking, “Luke looks left.”

Ben answered the thought. “How d’you know that?”

The dog opened his eyes. “I can’t explain it, but it sounds right, doesn’t it? Luke looks left.”

Ben said it aloud. “Luke looks left. What d’you think, Miz Winn?”

She paused from stirring warm milk into the mixture in the jug. “Hmm, Luke looks left. . . . Of course, L is for left, R is for right. Luke starts with L, so that must be it. Well done, my boy!”

Ned snorted aloud and closed his eyes again. However, he soon opened them again when the old lady filled his bowl with hot cocoa. She poured warm milk for Horatio.

“He’s never been fond of cocoa, so I give him warm milk.”

Ned threw out a thought as he slurped cocoa noisily. “Huh, foolish old feline!”

Mrs. Winn was far too tired to continue clue-solving. Ben took her arm and walked her through to the downstairs room where she slept. When he returned to the kitchen, Ned was standing alert, watching the door. He communicated a thought to his master.

“Keep quiet, mate. There’s somebody outside!”

The patter of receding footsteps sent Ben hurrying to the door. He opened it in time to see the fat form of Tommo, scurrying through the gateway. A note had been fixed to the door with a tack. After allowing Ned out to check the garden for other intruders, Ben took the note in and read it. Wilf’s hand was useless for writing, he had dictated it to Regina, but her spelling and grammar were no better than his. Ben smiled as he perused the untidy pencil scrawl.

I carn’t fight you cos my hand is dammiged, but I want to talk too you. Be outside Evans’s shop tomorrow night, ten minnits before midnight.

W. S., Grange Gang Leader.

P.S. You better be their!

Ned trotted in from the garden, shaking his head. “No sign of anyone out there, Ben, what’s in the note?”

The boy folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “Just another of Wilf’s little games, tell you tomorrow. What say we go to bed now, eh, pal?”

The Labrador wagged his tail lazily. “Good idea. Oh no, look who’s at the window!”

It was Horatio. He had followed the dog outside and Ben, not knowing, shut the door on him. The cat stood tapping the windowpane and meowing plaintively. Ben let him in by the window, and Horatio cleared the sink in one smooth leap. Landing lightly on the floor, he glared accusingly at Ned.

Ben chuckled. “What’s he saying?”

Ned translated the cat’s thoughts. “The usual gobbledygook: sardines, milk, butterflies, mice, and so on. Says he likes being out of a night, but prefers to finish his milk inside.” The big dog drained his cocoa bowl.

“Sensible cat. Come on, Ned, bed for us. Good night, Horatio.”

Ned followed his master upstairs, chuntering to himself. “Sensible cat, my paw! Great, foolish furball, more like it!”

27

EARLY-MORNING SHOPPERS WERE drifting into Chapelvale village square, and shop-keepers splashed pails of water about, cleaning their section of walkway and entrance. A market gardener was delivering fresh vegetables and flowers to the green-grocers; the gardener’s horse clopped its metal-shod hoofs against the cobblestones, causing sparks to fly.