[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Sergeant Patterson passed a forearm across his brow. “Och! ’Tis heavy, that’s what it is. Auld bronze pail, either bronze or copper. See how green it is? Must’ve been very thick, because it’s only gone through in one or two places. Ye’d be surprised at the weight of it!”

Amy chuckled. “Probably because it’s filled with tallow.”

Will lifted the pail and turned it upside down on the grass. “Well, we’ll soon see. Loosen it off, Jon.”

The old seaman began hitting it gently with the side of his spade, all around the sides. He tapped the pail’s bottom sharply and lifted it off, just like a child making sandpies with a bucket at the seaside. The solid tallow wax was dark and dirty from soil and clay leaking into it.

Will spoke to the sergeant. “Have you got a big knife? Jon’s old clasp knife ain’t big enough to slice through this lot.”

The sergeant hurried into the station house and was soon back with a large, fearsome-looking blade.

“Russian Crimean War bayonet, a souvenir brought back by Private Judmann. Ye should hear the tales he tells of how he came by it, a different one each time!”

The bayonet was more than adequate. In Jon’s capable hands it sliced through the tallow, until he brought forth two slender objects with heavy, spreading bases, still caked with the stuff.

Mr. Mackay identified them immediately. “ ‘Light bearers ’neath the ground.’ A pair of candlesticks!”

The three young friends searched through the shorn-off tallow, Mr. Braithwaite hovering anxiously around them.

“No, er, sign of any, er, further clues, scraps of, er, er, parchment and so forth?”

Amy looked up. “None, sir. Maybe the next clue is scratched on the bottom of the candlesticks, same as the cross.”

Jon handed the candlesticks to the sergeant. “Put these in a basin of hot water. It’ll clean ’em off, then we can take a proper look.”

Mr. Braithwaite followed Sergeant Patterson into the station house, his dusty black scholar’s gown flapping. “Very good, very good, go, er, careful now, Officer. Don’t, er, drop them. Precious objects, yes, er, precious indeed!”

When cleaned up in soap and hot water, the candlesticks were things of great beauty, gold-fluted columns spreading to broad elegant bases, each of which was inset with three of the bloodred, pigeon-egg rubies, to complement the chalice and crucifix. Mr. Braithwaite was ecstatic, running his fingertips over the fine Byzantine tracery patterned onto the heavy gold pieces. However, when he looked at the bases of both candlesticks, they were smooth and untouched by any messages scratched on either one.

The only noise in the still midday air came from Delia’s hoof as she struck it against the ground. The six sat staring at the treasure of St. Matthew glittering in the sun, the rubies shining as if they were afire.

Ben broke the silence by announcing to his crestfallen friends, “Listen, we can sit here all day looking at the candlesticks, but that won’t get anything solved. We’ve worked too hard and long to let this thing defeat us!”

The dairyman farmer got up to strap Delia’s nosebag on. “You’re right, lad, but what’s our next move?”

Mr. Mackay, who had been brushing clay from his clothing, rose smartly to his feet. “I suggest we go carefully back over all the evidence. Search the hole where we found the pail, inspect the pail, and sort through that tallow again. One of us will stay here and go over the candlesticks with a fine-tooth comb. If we’re all agreeable, of course!”

Eileen took a pail from the gig to fill with water for Delia. “Good idea! Nothin’ worth havin’ is come by easy, I say. Ben, you take the candlesticks. Will, take Jon and the sergeant an’ check that ’ole you dug. Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, see if you can find any message in that old copper bucket. Alex, you ’n’ me will rummage through that tallow again.”

Amy pointed to herself. “What about me, Miz Drummond?”

“Oh, I’d forgot you, m’dear. Stay ’ere with Ben an’ help with the candlesticks. Keep an eye on him in case he tries to faint again. Come on, you lot, stir your stumps!”

The Labrador threw Ben a thought. “The lady forgot about me. I’ll stay here, too, with you and Amy. Be with you in a moment, I’ll just get a quick drink from my pal Delia’s water bucket.”

38

FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF THE POLICE station a small boy was trudging along a country lane toward the farmhouse where he lived. The boy, a small, sturdy lad of about eight years, stopped to witness a strange sight. Weaving from side to side and honking furiously, a machine was coming toward him. It was one of the new petroleum-driven motorcars, a bright green one, with its leather hood down.