From Across the Ancient Waters by Michael Phillips Page A

has it. She would never give it to me. It was she who found the body. She was just a little girl.”
    Enraged at what he took for another lie, the hysterical prodigal seaman clutched his prey by the throat. A loud whack sounded across the wrinkled cheeks. The blow sent the weak old man sprawling again to the ground.
    A few more wrathful attempts to coerce the information from him gave way at length to the full force of the younger man’s fury. The struggle was brief. Soon all that could be heard was the rhythmic inflow of Tremadog’s waters.
    Five minutes later a shadowy figure, alone now and unseen of human eye, scrambled across a few rocks and up onto the moor. It then hastened northward away from the village.
    Behind him, on the very shore whose secret had possessed him in vain for seventy-six years, lay the form of him who now followed the salty old pirate to a place it might be hoped was better than this.

E LEVEN
    Condemned to the Country
    T he first sensation to reach sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond’s ears the morning following his arrival in the Gwynedd foothills of North Wales was the sound of a bird chirping somewhere in a tree outside his window.
    He and his father had reached his uncle’s home by coach after dark the night before. A round of tedious reintroductions to relatives he had not seen for five years had been punctuated by looks from his two cousins, Courtenay and Florilyn, that did not invite optimism about his prospects. Boring conversation followed on stiff chairs with tea altogether too strong for the occasion. Mercifully he had finally been allowed to retire for the night to his new quarters.
    A prison cell would be a more apt description! Maybe he had been wrong—a Glasgow jail
might
have been better!
    How would he possibly live through the summer in this country wasteland?
    Perhaps after his father left, Percy thought, he could steal some money and make an escape. There might be some fun to be had out of this after all!
    He turned over sleepily, stuffed his pillow over his head, and did his best to go back to sleep. But it was no use. The blasted bird was too close, too loud, too persistent. If he had a gun, he would shoot the infernal thing. If it insisted on waking him every morning, he would see about getting one! His uncle surely had a well-supplied gun cabinet somewhere about the place.
    Reluctantly he climbed out of bed, dressed with the enthusiasm of one preparing for his own execution, and left the room. He descended to the main floor of the house. He heard voices coming from the breakfast room. The last thing he wanted was to see anyone.
    The gnawing in his stomach, however, reminded him that such a thing as food existed and that sixteen-year-old boys consumed great quantities of it. He therefore walked along the wide corridor toward the sounds and entered. He found his aunt and uncle and father seated about the table.
    “Ah Percival—good morning!” exclaimed his uncle.
    “Hello, Uncle Roderick,” he replied with an imperceptible nod. He did not offer much of a smile to accompany it.
    “Come, Percival,” said his aunt Katherine, beckoning him to one of the empty chairs. “The tea is just come.”
    Percy approached and sat down. Somberly he took the plate offered by his aunt and helped himself to generous portions from the contents of several platters on the table.
    “I see nothing to be gained by glossing over the affair,” said Edward Drummond as his sister poured tea into Percy’s cup. “I have been explaining to your uncle Roderick and your aunt Katherine exactly the nature of, shall we say, our
problem
with the authorities in Glasgow. Should you think to dupe them, Percy, rest assured that I have urged watchfulness. There are no false pretenses about your presence here. They know what you have done and exactly why I have requested that they take you in for the summer.”
    Percy busied himself with breakfast. He saw no advantage in making a reply. His father’s