[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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 legal-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.”