[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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!”

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