The Silver Casket (10 page)

Authors: Chris Mould

Beyond the Candlelight

The children were foolish to think they could avoid the adults forever, and that night Stanley had to endure a dreadful argument. He was in serious trouble, confined to his room.

Disappearing for days at a time! Nowhere to be seen! No messages left! Nothing! Mrs. Carelli couldn't cope with it. It would have to stop.

Daisy was sent home and suffered equally when she returned to her aunt and uncle.

Stanley knew he would have to weather the storm and wait until Mrs. Carelli's anger had blown over.

He spent hours looking over the intricacies of the silver casket. However closely he looked, there was always something new to see. Strange patterns and shapes; little heads of lions; the claws and tails of slinking lizards, each of them like a tiny silver gargoyle, winding their way around the casket almost as if they were alive.

The good thing about his confinement to the house was that he could closely watch over this ancient treasure. Besides, there were always adventures to be had inside. He could live there forever and still occasionally find a new doorway.

It was a perfect day. The sun broke across the harbor, and it was low tide. For once Crampton Rock really was peaceful.

Victor had taken up his new role in the
house marvelously. He was out pruning the trees and clipping the lawn while Mrs. Carelli was busy creating something in the kitchen.

“It's a nice day!” said Stanley, with his eyes gazing expectantly at Mrs. Carelli.

“Go on then,” she said, giving in. “You can go out. Just as long as you don't disappear.”

“I won't,” he answered. He decided he would take a little time to help Victor, and maybe get to know him better.

Picking up some pruning shears, he began to make a mess of things.

“Here, son,” came Victor's voice. “Like this.” In his gentle way he took the time to show Stanley what to do, and soon they were like old friends, chatting away and working together.

Mrs. Carelli looked out of the kitchen window. It was years since she had watched
Victor as he tidied the rose beds or raked the grass in their own little garden back in the village. His hair had turned to white in the time he had been missing, and he was much thinner than he'd ever been.

She shrugged off a single tear and went back to her work with a smile.

Out in the yard, Stanley and Victor were locked in conversation. “Have you always lived here?” Stanley questioned.

“My family have been here for years. My father, my father's father, and his father before him. All of us continued the business in the village, one after the other.”

“Were you fishermen?”

“Oh no, son. We were candle makers. The old shop still sits in the village, but the door has not been opened since I left the island all those years ago. Violet could not bring herself
to go there while I was gone, so she took the job as housekeeper for Admiral Swift Perhaps I will return there some day soon.”

“I see. And do you mind if I ask you about the pirates who attacked you?” asked Stanley.

“Well, I guess I don't mind. I haven't really talked about it too much.”

Stanley detected a note of sadness in his voice. “Perhaps we should talk of something else,” he suggested. He had no intention of upsetting poor Victor.

“Not at all,” said Victor. “It'll do me good to speak of it. I should not harbor the memory all to myself.”

And he began.

“I'd set out one afternoon when the tide had lifted the boats in the harbor, intending to go fishing. I had candles for a small island that sits north-west of here and I thought I would see what I could catch on the way. I had only reached the west coast of Crampton Rock, just short of Scarecrow Point, when they appeared.

“A real band of rogues they were. Their own vessel was bigger than mine, much bigger, and they saw that I was alone. I was an easy target. They approached me and when they found out what I was carrying they came aboard and took my stock.

“They abandoned me on the island and cannonballed my boat to smithereens.”

“I don't understand,” said Stanley. “Why would pirates be interested in your candles?”

“Good question, Stanley but there is sound reasoning behind it. Believe it or not, candle trading is dangerous business where pirates dwell.”

“Why on earth is that?” quizzed Stanley. “Well, when piracy was rife in these parts and treasures of one kind and another were passed from rogue to rogue and buried here and there, maps were hidden in all sorts of places.

“Many years ago, pirates knocked on the door of my father's shop in the dead of night. At gunpoint they forced him to make six candles. Each one concealed a rolled-up section of a large map.

“When they left, they were savaged by the werewolf as they escaped across the moor,
and the candles disappeared. They were never found. I can only guess where they are now.

“The pirates from their crew did not believe in the werewolf, and we were blamed by them for the murders and for stealing the map. It made life hard for us. Eventually the mystery of the Carelli candles became notorious, and many came in search of them. Your Uncle Bart was one of them, Stanley, and although he was never to find them, he gave up his pirate life and bought Darkling Hall, renaming it Candlestick Hall after his long search for the Carelli candles.”

Stanley stood with eyes wide open.

“I promised you that one day I would repay you for your kindness. I hope that what I have told you is of help,” Victor said, with a knowing look.

“Oh, it is, Victor. It really is.” Stanley smiled at him, then cleared away his tools and set off back into the house.

There was something he had to do.