by the evening train tomorrow. He has paid them expenses and money for the train tickets—"
Smithers's explosion cut her short. "Well, I'm damned if I'd pay 'em a bent penny, missie. I've already told you
what I think of your proposal, sending toughs and blaggards up from London. What'll happen if they're found to be
connected to this venture? I'll be ruined, and so would your father and his fancy London partners. Then where'll we all
be, eh? Answer me that, m'dear!"
Maud's normally sallow pallor grew ashen with temper. "I'll tell you... Smithers! You'd be sitting out here at the
end of some rural backwater with your fiddling little business. This is a big venture, that's why you're in with a proper
London company, and doing quite well out of it, too. My father's company often uses the methods he needs—legal or
not— that's the way you get things done in this modern age. And don't look so self-righteous—you had children
trying to get things done for you, that oaf you call a son and his gang. What were you paying them, eh, sweeties,
pennies ?
"Well, that's all changed, you're in the game now for better or worse. It'll be worse if we listen to your piffling
ideas, but better all 'round if you leave it to experts. That old lady Winn, she'll be shifted sooner than you think and for
good, thanks to my suggestion to my father, so stop acting like a silly oaf, though the habit seems to run in your
family!" Maud's ankle-length taffeta dress rustled stiffly as she swept out of her chair and vacated the room.
Smithers sat openmouthed at the girl's impertinence, his heavy features flushing dark red. He gave vent to his
ire with a bellow that would have done a stricken water buffalo credit, sending crockery and cutlery flying as his
outstretched arms flailed across the table.
Sitting up in bed, Wilf heard the roar and the ensuing crash. He started with fright, upsetting his breakfast tray.
A glass of milk, toast, lemon curd, and two soft-boiled eggs spilled into his lap. He sobbed, floundering about in the
mess, his mind running riot. Had his father found out about last night, his second foolish scheme gone astray? It
wasn't his fault if the Somers boy had gone and got himself murdered by the Mad Professor. Had the police found out
yet, would they come around asking questions ? Regina and the gang wouldn't take the blame, they'd lay it on him,
their leader. Then what? Court, imprisonment. . . ? Regardless of the breakfast mess, Wilf pulled the coverlet over his
head, wishing fervently that it would all go away. Tears, egg, milk, and lemon curd mingled on his face. He jumped as
a timid knock sounded on the door.
"Finished with your tray, Master Wilfred?" It was only Hetty.
A muffled scream broke from beneath the stained counterpane. "Go 'waaaaaay!"
31.
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, hanging around his neck on a black silk ribbon. 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 Drum-mond, 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 lap-
idaries 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