The Smugglers' Mine by Chris Mould

1
    An Old Flame
    Night was drawing in on the island of Crampton Rock. The fishermen had finished work for the day and the harbor was emptying slowly. But some stranger’s boat was approaching in the lost light. An oil lamp hung off the bow and the small yellow glow spread itself across the rippling water ahead.
    A frail, hunched man in ragged clothes readied himself as the boat careened up to the
harbor. He threw a length of wizened rope onto the nearest post and pulled himself in.
    Turning to his passenger, he gestured at Candlestick Hall with a long, bony finger. “That’s it, sir. That’s the old place. I heard it’s a young lad that lives there now. Stanley Buggles. Inherited it from his great-uncle.”
    â€œThat don’t sound right,” the passenger said gruffly. “I ain’t looking for no young lad. Still, it’s late. Better take a look.”
    â€œAre yer sure, sir? Strange place, this island. Ain’t nowhere that’s safe to be out and about in the dark, that’s for sure.”
    â€œAhh, not to worry. It’ll take more than a black night to frighten old MacDowell.”
    The passenger gathered his things and made his way toward the Hall. Darkness had blotted out Crampton Rock and now only the street lamps showed the village.

    A large pair of feet arrived on the steps of Candlestick Hall and a skinny hand reached out for the door knocker. BANG, BANG, BANG.
    Stanley’s heart picked up its pace and fluttered
anxiously when he heard the knock at the front door. He did not like night-time visitors. They reminded him of sinister arrivals in the past. Pirates were the scourge of the Rock, and Stanley had had his fill of them. And then there were the Darklings, the strange family from the village who had recently tried to lay claim to his house, insisting that it was rightfully theirs. Edmund Darkling had plotted to be rid of young Stanley, and he was now awaiting trial for attempted murder.
    His trusty housekeeper, Mrs. Carelli, clomped across the floorboards, and her husband Victor poked an inquisitive head around the door and peered into the hallway. Both were fiercely loyal to Stanley and would not allow anyone or anything to put him at risk.
    â€œWho on earth could that be at this hour?” Victor said and raised an eyebrow.

    Stanley crept up behind Mrs. Carelli and prepared himself. His best punch was curled up neatly behind his back, and he was ready to leap in front of her.
    The familiar creak of the door announced its opening.
    â€œAah, good evening there madam, young sir. My name is MacDowell and I be lookin’ for a good friend o’ mine. Goes by the name o’ Bartholomew Swift. I had a feelin’ I was in the right place but something tells me I’ve taken a wrong turn.”
    The newcomer was ragged and thin, and wore a tattered patch over his left eye. A broad hat sat on trails of greasy unkempt hair, and a spiky chin of gray tufts showed that he hadn’t shaved for a while. A large gold earring hung from one lobe. He carried a modest bag of belongings over his shoulder and wore a droopy-eyed expression.

    A shocked silence fell upon Stanley and Mrs. Carelli, and Victor meandered slowly across the hallway to stand beside them. They all knew that any old friend of Stanley’s great-uncle, Admiral Swift, would be either a naval man or a buccaneer. And by the look of him it was more than likely that he had a skull and crossbones tattooed somewhere on his loose-limbed body.
    Stanley peered down. Stripy leggings were wrapped around a pair of bony legs, and a pair of huge, buckled shoes stuck out awkwardly at the ends.

    â€œAh, not to worry. I ’ad a feelin’ I was in the wrong place. Doesn’t matter. I apologize for disturbin’ yer evening.”
    The man began to wander down the path. The three looked at one another and hesitated. They knew nothing of this oddlooking stranger. What if he was a genuine good