[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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?”