[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

The old woman moved the paper back and forth across the flame confidently. “When I was a little girl, me ’n’ my pals used t’send messages to each other, invisible notes. All you need is some white vinegar or lemon juice to write with, even an egg white’ll do. See! I knew I was right, somethin’s showin’ on the paper. Here!”

Heat from the candle flame had caused markings to appear! They were rather faint, but still discernible.

The excited maidservant hugged the younger girl with a sob in her voice. “Oh, I ’ope it’s somethin’ that’ll put a spoke in ole Smithers’s wheel. What does it say, Mr. Braithwaite, sir? What does it say?”

Scanning the paper, the old scholar shook his head. “Er, nothing really, just shapes and, er, dots, so to speak!”

The women gathered around the table to view the odd markings.

Hetty was both angry and disappointed. “I never learned to read or write, but that ain’t no writin’. I can see that. An’ it ain’t nothin’ a body could read, I’m sure!”

Will’s ma glanced at Mr. Braithwaite. “What d’you think, sir?”

He stared at the markings blankly. “I, er, tend to agree with Miz, er, hmmm!”

Sarah turned her attention to Amy. “An’ you, girl, what d’you make of it, eh?”

Amy picked up the thin sheet of paper with the lines and dots on it.

“I’d place this paper over that paper and see if it matches up.”

The dairyman’s wife clapped her hands. “So would I, m’dear, try it!”

Amy placed the thin paper over the thicker one, lining up the first dot over the one beneath.

Mrs. Winn kissed Amy. “Thank you, you clever, pretty girl!”

The black Labrador stood with his paws upon the table, passing a thought to Horatio, who had prowled in. “We mustn’t forget to thank good old Edmund De Winn, too, eh?”

“Mrrrowr! Sardine, milk, waaiow! ’Ratio hungry!” Ned stared down his nose at the cat. “Don’t think too hard—you’ll damage that amazing brain of yours!”

The librarian-schoolteacher flopped down in an armchair, shaking his head. “Thin paper over thick paper and join up the marks. Well, I, er, never. Hmmm, must be getting, er, er, old if I can’t see that, er, ah yes . . . old.”

42

WITH THEIR WINDOW BLINDS PULLED down, the village square shops looked as if they were sleeping. Dust had settled on the leaves of the hawthorn trees, without even the faintest breeze to stir it.

In the window of Mr. Mackay’s office, the clock showed ten minutes after midnight. Dark clouds obscured a pale, crescent moon; the air was still and warm from the long summer’s day.

A villainous-looking man, his matted beard showing beneath a battered slouch hat, sat holding the reins of a horse and gig in the shadows. He turned this way and that, watching every possible entrance to the village square.

Concealed in some bushes at the side of the Hadford Road, Ben and Alex were first to hear the distant chug of a motorcar. Without a word, side by side, they ran back to Chapelvale.

The villainous man looked up as the boys came panting up to him. “Did you see them?”

“No, but we heard the motorcar!”

“It’s coming in on the Hadford Road, be here soon!”

The man nodded. “Good, boy, collect Mr. Mackay from Station Road. Alex, get Will from School Lane. Make your way up to the police station, see you there. Now go, an’ remember, lads, keep out of sight!”

Gripper stopped the motor just short of the square. Flinging off his gauntlets and goggles, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and sighed thankfully. “Chapelvale at last!”

Chunk sounded slightly doubtful. “You mean we’re ’ere, Gripp? ’Ow d’yer know that?”

Flash shook his head in amazement at Chunk’s ignorance.

“ ’Cos we passed a sign on the road that said Chapelvale. But I suppose you was kippin’ again.”

Chunk straightened his bowler and stretched. “Nuffin’ wrong wid sleepin’, is there? It is nighttime, y’know. I got pains in me guts wiv ’unger. Where d’we get sumthin’ to eat? You promised us, Gripp.”

Gripper massaged his temples with both hands. “Chunk, give it a rest, willyer. Forget yer stummick for a minute. Chaz, you ain’t asleep, are yer?”

“Huh, ’ow cad I sleeb wid be dose bleedin’ like a tap? You shuddena told hib to hid be, Gripp, id hurds!”

Gripper raised a single finger in warning. “One more word outta you, Chaz, just one more!”

Flash began tugging at Gripper’s sleeve. “Gripp, Gripp!” Gripper shook him off. “I’m ’ere. Y’don’t ’ave to tear the coat off me. Wot is it?”

Flash pointed. “Some ole geezer sittin’ watchin’ us, wiv an ’orse an’ cart. Over there, look!”

Gripper got out of the vehicle and nodded to his crew. “There’s four of us an’ one of ’im, let’s see wot ’e wants.”

The villainous-looking man, who was in reality the old ship’s carpenter wearing a disguise, stared down from his perch on the gig at the four toughs. His voice held a sneer. “So, yew got ’ere finally. Wot time d’yer call this t’be rollin’ up fer the job, eh?”

“We got los . . . Oof!”