The Wreckers by Iain Lawrence

guess. He’ll take the gold and sell your father for a nice reward. But if Caleb Stratton finds him first … Well, let’s say he’d better not.”
    “For heaven’s sake,” said Mary. “Just talk to Stumps. Offer him money, and he’ll—”
    “Can’t do that,” said Mawgan flatly.
    “Why not?”
    “Because Stumps has vanished. He hasn’t been seen at the blockhouse or anywhere else.”
    Mawgan sat back with the smug smile of a cat. He seemed almost happy at this new twist in my fate, whistlingthe notes of an odd little song as he took up his pipe and tobacco.
    Mary drew her legs up on her chair and sat on her ankles. “Uncle?” she asked. “Why were you looking for Stumps?”
    “What?” he said. A big pinch of tobacco hovered over his pipe. He stuffed it in, then pressed it down with his thumb. “I don’t care for your tone, Mary. I have no business with Stumps. If you must know, I was taking tea today with Parson Tweed. This is the talk in the village.”
    “And what has happened to Stumps?”
    “I have no idea. My guess is he’s hiding. Waiting for the moon.” Mawgan cracked another of the matches, scattering more glass around his chair. He lit his pipe and stared at Mary through a cloud of thick smoke. “Or are you suggesting that I know more about this than I’ve told you?”
    “Of course not,” said Mary.
    “Good. Now let me sit here and think.”
    We left Mawgan at the table, in his haze of sweet smoke, and went outside, Mary and I. It was a warm night, quiet in the valley, with not a breath of wind in the hedges, though high, shredded clouds oozed like ink stains across the stars. A little bite of moon seemed to balance on the rooftop, and then rose as I watched, as though leaping from there to start its flight across the sky.
    “The wreckers will be watching tonight,” said Mary.
    “It seems calm enough,” I said.
    “Here it does, yes. But along the cliffs, with the clouds coming in, there could be killing by dawn.”
    She said it sadly, in a low voice that was almost a whisper. “I’m ready,” she said. “If it comes to that.”
    I took her arm, and we walked by the front of the house. In the window, I could see Simon Mawgan puffing on his pipe.
    “Can he really help me?” I asked.
    “He’ll do what he can,” said Mary. We walked through the square of light that fell from the window, then down the long side of the house. “Uncle Simon gets angry sometimes, but he’s just as quick to forget.”
    “I saw him take a riding crop to Eli.”
    Mary scuffed her feet in the grass. “I’ve seen that, too. Uncle gets in a rage at Eli, but he never harms him.”
    “He was trying to tell me something,” I said. “Eli was. He drew a picture, like this.” I took her to the cart path and there, in the dirt of the ruts, I sketched the running man with my finger. “I think he was trying to warn me.”
    “Warn you of what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Mary peered at my drawing. “Oh, John, that means nothing,” she said. “That’s the man on the tomb.”
    I didn’t understand.
    “Come and I’ll show you.”
    We kept walking, beyond the house, between the stable and the cottage, all its windows dark. “You have to realize,” she said. “You don’t know the stories. You don’t know what’s happened before.” Her face was pale in themoonlight, and I could see she was trying to decide what to say, or how to say it.
    We left the buildings behind before she spoke again. “They’ve been like this ever since I can remember. Eli despises Uncle Simon.”
    “Then why does your uncle keep him here?”
    Mary looked puzzled. “He can’t run him off.”
    “Because he’s so old?”
    “He’s not so old,” said Mary. “Why, he’s only a year or two older than Uncle Simon. When I was very small I couldn’t tell them apart. Now you’d never guess they’re brothers, would you?”
    “Brothers?” I said.
    “Yes. He’s my uncle Eli, though I never called him that. He’s