Hydrofoil Mystery (7 page)

I looked down at my hands. I guess she knew more than I'd wanted her to know.

She put her hands on top of mine. “It'll all work out. You'll see. Why don't you just finish up your tea while I check to make sure things are all put away in the dining room.”

I took a sip and then remembered my letter. I pulled it out and ripped off the end. It seemed to me I was a bit too old to miss my mother, but I was still looking forward to hearing from her, and I hoped that the letter would bring a little comfort.

Dear William,

I know you're still probably angry with me about the arrangement for you to spend the summer in Baddeck. I am sorry but there is no choice. I felt, and still feel, that to be here for the summer would only result in you being led further down the wrong road. I know that in the back of your head you simply thought you'd try it out for a week or so and if it didn't work you'd return. But you cannot return home. You must make it work. You must listen to directions, mind your tongue and work hard.

If you are dismissed and asked to leave, then you may not return to my home or to Halifax. If you were to show up at my door before the end of August I would turn you away. I would then contact the police and make arrangements for you to be arrested as a vagrant. It would break my heart, and perhaps I would lose you, but I cannot risk your loss without a fight.

William, you are my son and I love you more than life itself. I cannot sit back and see you throw away your life. I know it's hard for all for us. Please, let's not make it any more difficult.

With much love,

 Mother

The shock I'd felt earlier in the day when I realized it was Bell I was talking to was nothing compared to what I now felt. I let the letter fall to the floor. What was she saying? How could she not let me come home? I could understand my father turning me away, but my mother? This made no sense. I stood up, grabbed the letter from the floor and rushed out of the room before Mrs. McCauley-Brown could return.

I
MOVED QUICKLY
along the path leading to the staff house. The moon was full and bright, but was almost completely blocked by the clouds that filled the sky. I hated the dark, but for once I was grateful because it let me hide so no one could see me.

“Darn!” I said out loud as I felt one of the cigars crunch against my leg. I reached a hand down my pants to retrieve them. One was broken completely in two, while a second was badly bent and the third was more or less intact. I knew I wouldn't be able to get to sleep right away, what with my mind being filled with the letter and all the things that had happened today. Maybe I should go and see what all the fuss was about with these cigars.

I looked around. This was definitely not the spot to smoke one of them. I remembered the vine-covered arbour that was across the field from the staff house. It offered protection as well as a place to sit. I left the path and crossed over the lawn. My feet quickly became wet from the dew clinging to the grass. The clouds parted and the whole landscape became illuminated, leaving me feeling exposed to any eyes that might be watching. I hurried my pace, feeling safe only once I had stepped into the shadows. I moved along the path. There were trees and bushes on both sides and the branches overhanging the top gave it the feel of a tunnel. The moon was visible through the branches but then suddenly disappeared once again behind the clouds, and the dark became darker. I went farther into the safety of the arbour until I reached a large, solid, wooden bench where I took a seat. My bottom was still a little sore from the horse, but it did feel good to be sitting.

I put the cigar in my mouth and dug into my pocket to remove a box of matches I'd lifted from the kitchen. I struck the match on the side of the box and it came to life, casting a light I hoped wouldn't escape the vines. I held it up to the end of the stogie and sucked in strongly to ignite
it. Nothing. I sucked harder and harder but couldn't get it to light. The match burned down close to my fingers and I blew it out and threw it to the ground. I pulled out another match and tried again. I could feel the sulphurous fumes of the match being drawn through the cigar and into my lungs, but it wouldn't catch. I'd been sucking so hard I almost felt a little light-headed.

I removed the cigar from my mouth. Why wasn't it lighting? Then I remembered how I'd seen the men tonight use a little clipper to take off the end of the cigars before they lit them. Somehow this step must be needed before it could be lit. Maybe if I bit the end off, which was now soggy, it would …

I heard a sound and turned toward the noise. Quickly I moved to hide the evidence of my crime. I stuffed the matches back into my pocket and threw the cigar into the bushes. It wasn't the noise of feet against the gravel path but the sound of somebody moving through the bushes. Why would somebody be walking through the bushes … or was it something? My mind was filled with the image of Bruno the bear, his massive black body pushing aside the brush, his nose to the ground searching for food. After being in the kitchen all evening, I was sure I smelled of whatever he was looking for.

As quietly as I could, I slipped off the bench and slid underneath it, pulling my legs out of sight. I held my breath and strained my eyes, listening for the approaching animal. There was nothing. Maybe I hadn't heard anything, or maybe it had just been the sound of wind rustling through the leaves, or a rabbit foraging for food. I was glad nobody was there to see me hiding under a
bench, afraid of a rabbit. What did I know about animals? I grew up in Halifax and had never left the city more than a few miles behind my whole life.

I reached my hands up to pull myself out from under the bench when the quiet was broken by the sound of a whistle. I turned my head toward the sound. A few seconds later a second whistle, a different tone and coming from the other direction, answered back. There was another pause of a half dozen seconds and then the first whistle repeated itself. What was going on? The night air was now rumbling with the sound of feet moving along the gravel walkway, toward where I lay under the bench. I couldn't be sure but it seemed to be coming from both directions. The sound of the crunching gravel became louder and louder, and then my eyes grew wide as I saw a pair of feet, and then a second set, stop directly in front of the bench. I drew myself back as far away from the path as I could.

I heard two male voices, and although they were talking quietly, it was just loud enough for me to hear. Instinctively I closed my eyes to try and make out the words. Both men turned and sat on the bench. It creaked noisily under the strain of their weight and for a split second I had a terrible image of it crashing down on top of me. They continued to talk, and I realized that while I could hear the words I didn't understand what they meant. They weren't speaking English. What language were they speaking?

I looked up and through one of the small gaps in the boards of the bench I could make out the shadowy outline of one of the men. I could see he was wearing some sort
of hat. I turned my attention to the only part of them I could really see, their feet. One man wore a pair of old and worn canvas work shoes. The second had on a pair of high boots. They reminded me of the ones Mr. McGregor had worn that morning when we were riding the horses, except these were shiny and expensive looking.

The voices became louder, and while I couldn't understand the words I knew that they were disagreeing about something.

“Please, please be quiet!” one of the men pleaded in English. “We must not be discovered!”

The other voice became silent and then started speaking much more softly in the foreign language. They continued their discussion, but in a much more gentle tone.

My mind raced, trying to figure out who these men were and what were they doing out here. Suddenly the back of one of the boots slid back and touched against my chest. I stifled the natural instinct to cry out. He didn't know I was there, he was simply shifting his feet.

Ever so slowly and silently I repositioned myself to move away from the boots. I inched sideways until my entire body was crunched down into just one half of the bench. I looked back up and could see a gap between where the two men sat, still talking. I saw a flash of white go from one man to the other.

They rose to their feet. They were standing only a foot or two apart.

“Do not fail,” a voice called out. Although it was English the words were said with a heavy accent.

“I will do my job.”

“We are counting on you to keep that promise. Promises must be kept.”

The boots turned and started away down the path, while the other feet stood still watching. The crunching of the gravel faded into nothing; it was completely silent, and I held my breath. Finally, after what seemed like a long time but was probably only half a minute, the second figure turned and walked away in the other direction. I listened for the sound of those feet to fade away as well.

Satisfied that I was alone, I continued to lie under the bench. I had no way of knowing how far they'd gone. All I did know was that something was going on here. Something a lot more serious than me stealing three cigars.

Chapter Six

“W
HAT'S GOING ON
?” Isaac yelled.

The group of men, some standing and the rest on their knees, parted slightly to allow Isaac, the foreman at Sheepville, through.

“Dice? You're playing dice?” he asked incredulously.

I scooped the dice off the floor, leaving the coins and a

couple of bills sitting in front of the players.

“And worst yet, gambling!”

People seemed to edge slightly away, as though they were trying to distance themselves from the action.

“This isn't what you're paid to do. All of you get back to work!”

“Come on, Isaac, it's our lunch break,” one of the men, Samuel, protested.

“Lunch break or not, you have to stop playing.”

“I'm down too much money to stop now,” Samuel said. “Me too!” added a second.

“And me as well!” a third voice complained.

“You can't all be losing. Somebody has to be winning.”

“Somebody is … the kid.”

Isaac looked at me with that look of disapproval I'd come to know so well during my week and a half
working at Sheepville. He was always on me, accusing me of “slacking off,” or not being “careful” or not taking enough “pride in my work.” What sort of idiot could take pride in shovelling sheep manure, or piling hay, or throwing feed to a bunch of mindless, bleating sheep?

“And how much is he up?” Isaac asked.

“Not that much … a dollar or two.”

Although I was careful not to count my winnings I knew it was close to nine dollars. I cupped my dice in my hands.

“Pretty lucky, aren't you, boy?”

“I guess so,” I answered.

Actually luck had nothing to do with my winning.

These dice were “loaded.” They were specially weighted so one would roll a three and the other a four for an unbeatable seven. When it was my turn to throw the dice, I used my “lucky” pair, and then when it was somebody else's turn I “palmed” this pair and exchanged them with an identical set. Well, identical in appearance but not in action; the second set was a real pair, which land equally on all sides.

The secret was to exchange them smoothly and effortlessly so nobody even suspected I was changing dice. I'd once heard of a guy in Halifax who was winning big time when the rest of the gamblers started getting suspicious. They could never see him make the exchange but he kept winning. Finally four or five of them grabbed him and started searching through his clothes. They didn't find the second set of dice until they'd pretty well stripped him down to his underwear. I heard how he then got a
“swimming lesson” off a pier, into the harbour, at night, in November. That thought made me shiver like I was feeling the freezing water myself.

“And whose dice are they, anyway?” Isaac asked.

I didn't like the tone of his voice or where this might be leading.

“Maybe I'm just an old fool, but my father always told me to never trust a winner when it's his deck of cards or dice.”

I swallowed hard.

“Come on, Isaac. Make sense,” Sam said. “Are you accusing the kid of cheating us?”

“I'm not saying anything,” he said, although obviously he was.

“Yeah, Isaac, you think we haven't been watching?” one of the others continued. “Besides, dice are dice.”

“Haven't you lads ever heard of fixed dice?” “Fixed?”

“Yes. Dice all done up to land on certain numbers.” “Like seven?” Samuel asked.

“Of course like seven. Nobody wants their dice to land on snake-eyes.”

Samuel looked at me hard. “So with special dice like that somebody could throw a seven three times in a row, is that right?”

I felt sweat start running down my sides. I'd just thrown three sevens in a row.

“ 'Course he could! Three, four or even five hundred times in a row,” Isaac answered with a cackle.

“But how come when we use the dice we don't roll sevens?” asked another man.

Half the eyes looked up at Isaac while the rest continued to stare at me. I couldn't risk exchanging the dice.

“Now, I'm not saying the boy is doing this,” Isaac began, although again it was clear he was saying exactly that, “but I've heard tell of people switching dice. They have two pairs on them, one for themselves to throw and a second set for the rest of the players.”

Now every eye was on me. I looked up at Isaac. He was enjoying seeing me twist in the wind like this. I was as good as dead.

“What a joke! What a good joke!” boomed a voice.

I turned around and saw Simon peering between two of the men. I was surprised to see him there because he didn't work in Sheepville. He was a gardener and lived in the staff house two doors down from my room. He was one of the few people who were friendly to me.