[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

The old ship’s carpenter provided most of the story, but Patterson let his gaze rove from Alex to Eileen, to Will, Mr. Braithwaite, and Mr. Mackay, as they put in their contributions to the intriguing narrative.

The sergeant sat gazing into the dregs of his mug before speaking. “Ah was posted tae this village four years ago, as ye know. ’Tis a grand wee place. Ah’ve come tae like it fine. But tomorrow modern progress is due tae move in here. Och, they cannae turn us out of the police station, ’tis Crown property ye ken. Though who in their right mind would want tae stay here, amid a dusty great quarry an’ cement factory?

“Judmann’s auld now, he’ll take his pension an’ move. As for me, och, I’ll prob’ly put in for transfer tae another post. Though ’twill sair grieve me to go. Friends, if ah can help ye in any way, then ah will. D’ye want tae take a look ’round the auld hangin’ ground out back, eh? Then be mah guest!”

Jon was like a big child on a Sunday school outing. He dashed out of the station, rubbing his large, tattooed hands together gleefully, calling to Amy and Ben. “Come on, mates, away boat’s crew! We’ve got permission to search around the back—in fact, we’ve got the sergeant’s blessing!”

His two young friends seemed glad, but not overimpressed. “You go, mate, we’ll go around the outside of the building. See you there later.”

The ex-ship’s carpenter’s craggy face showed concern. He ruffled the boy’s tow-colored hair. “D’you feel all right, son?”

Ben managed a cheery grin. “Never felt better, shipmate!”

The old seaman stared oddly at the pair for a moment. “Righto, see you two ’round there, eh. Hah, look at Ned, snoozin’ away like an old grampus there!”

The black Labrador was curled up in the gig, asleep under the shade of a seat. Amy wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “He’s keeping Delia company, poor old boy. He must be tired in this heat—let him sleep.”

36

IT WAS SHADY TO THE POINT OF BEING gloomy in the walled courtyard at the back of the police station. The wall enclosing the ancient execution site was over twelve feet high, totally covered by dark green clinging ivy, giving the impression it was built of vegetation and not limestone. It had a heavy timber door for access to the outside, the wood layered with countless coats of dark blue paint. Jon had to work vigorously on the rusty latch and bolts until the door creaked open to admit the two friends.

The feeling of dread Ben had experienced about the station returned, much stronger this time. He had an urge to run a mile from the drear, forbidding place. However, the presence of the girl at his side and the sight of Eileen, the policeman, and the rest of his companions was reassuring. Bracing himself, he strode in over the moss-grown cobbles. Sergeant Patterson was addressing the party.

“Ah’m afraid the history of this auld place is a mystery tae me. When ah first arrived here, I discovered that damp an’ mildew had ruined the auld records. My orders were tae clean up the station, so ah made a grand wee bonfire o’ the soggy documents. Och, ye should’ve seen Constable Judmann’s face. He never spoke tae me for a fortnight. Mr. Mackay, will ye read out yon poem again, sir?”

The lawyer donned his pince-nez and coughed officiously.

“ ’Twould seem at the wicked’s fate

that bell ne’er made a sound,

yet the death knell tolled aloud

for those who danced around.

The carrion crow doth perch above,

light bearers ’neath the ground.”

Braithwaite shrugged apologetically. “So, er, as you see, Sergeant, we’re searching for, hmmm, a gibbet. That is, er, a hanging place, as it were. Hmm, yes, very good.”

Eileen shuddered, rubbing at her upper arms nervously. “Well, I don’t see any sign of where they ’anged folk. Brrr! I feels it, though. Ma would, too, if she were ’ere!”

The dairyman nodded his agreement as he took stock of the courtyard.

An indefinable air of doom did seem to hang over the place. Snails and slugs had left their glistening silver trails over a border of smooth limestone blocks, which separated a garden area running around the walls on three sides. The soil was mainly clay, oozing damp. A few straggling shrubs were struggling to survive, overhung by a sickly laburnum and two purple rhododendrons. The whole atmosphere was hemmed in, dark and claustrophobic, eerie and silent.

The sergeant smiled wanly. “Nae much tae look at, is it? ’Twas over a hundred years since the last man was hanged here. Ah took a glance at the auld records before burnin’ them. All written in curly, auld-fashioned script, an’ very hard tae decipher. Here now, young Somers, d’ye ken how they used tae execute murderers?”

Alex shook his head dumbly, swallowing hard at the thought.