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 Drum-mond?'
'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. He scurried to one side, hugging the
hedge as it rumbled past him and ground to a halt with a screeching sound. There were four men in the car. One of
them, wearing a long duster coat, gauntlets, and a cap, with the peak backward, climbed from the vehicle. He had on a
pair of light-brown-lensed goggles, which he pushed up onto his cap as he approached the boy. The lad shrank further
into the hedge as the man stooped and thrust his face forward.
'G'mornin', sonny boy. Is that there Chapelvale?' The man pointed to a church spire in the distance. The boy
shook his head.
The man scratched his coarse, stubbled chin. 'Oh, I see, well, wot's that place called?' The boy spoke a single
word. 'Church.' This seemed to exasperate the man. 'I know it's a church, sonny, but wot's the name of the village
where the church is, eh?'
The boy considered this for a moment. 'It's not Chapelvale.'
Another man emerged from the car, dressed in a suit of very loud green checkered material. He sported a
pencil-thin mustache, his hair was plastered into a center part. He shouted out to his companion, 'Come on, Gripper,
the kid don't know nothin'. Let's get goin'!'
Gripper was about to shout back an answer, when a farmer appeared at the gateway of a farmhouse further up
the road. He was a giant of a man, his sleeves rolled up to expose two brawny arms. Slamming the gate open, he
marched aggressively up to the one called Gripper, whom he pointed a thick finger at.
'Hoi you! Gerraway from my lad an' leave 'im be!'
Gripper backed off hurriedly. 'I don't mean the kid no 'arm. I was only askin' him where Chapelvale is.'
