The Wooden Mile by Chris Mould Page A

secret safely.”
    The pike spoke the words over and over. When Stanley eventually woke, it was the dead of night and he found himself standing in front of the pike’s glass case.
    What did it mean? The only secret Stanley held close at heart was the terrible business with the wolf.

    â€œI don’t have a secret,” he said sleepily. Confused by yet more senseless dreams, Stanley rubbed his eyes and went back to bed, where he slept until late morning.

10
    Making Plans
    The seed of an idea planted itself in Stanley’s head as he sat at the breakfast table. The idea grew and grew until, in a short space of time, it was a glorious foolproof plan that he was proud of.
    He knew that it wouldn’t be long before the pirates were on to him, one way or another. He’d made it safe for them to move
at night. He had a feeling they were waiting and watching from somewhere.
    First things first, thought Stanley, and without breathing a word to Mrs. Carelli, he set off to make devious arrangements with Mr. Grouse down at the harbor.
    An hour later he returned with a wicked grin on his face. “Phase two,” said Stanley, as he sat at the kitchen table with a large piece of paper and a clutch of pens and brushes.
    If there was one thing Stanley could do well, it was draw. He spent the rest of the day sketching a map. When he had finished he took what was left in the teapot, stained his artwork, and dried it out again. Then he crumpled it, folded it, stood on it, dragged it through the dirt, burnt the edges, and did anything else he could to it, until it looked like a perfectly scrappy piece of old parchment.

    Stanley looked out from his window across the harbor to enjoy the remains of the day. All was quiet. The fishing boats were back, and seagulls picked at scraps in the fading light. It was a crisp, clear evening and the onset of dusk had just about cleared the streets. In time, Stanley thought, people would realize there was no longer any danger.
    Three old ladies in cloaks and bonnets were heading along the harbor wall. One carried a basket of flowers. Another hobbled on a stick. Someone shouted to them from a look-out, “Hurry along, ladies.”
    â€œOh yes, thank you,” came a weak croak of a voice.
    The trio were making their way to the door of Candlestick Hall.
    Stanley ran downstairs, and had opened the door before they could knock.

    What a sight. Three ugly mugs with eyes bulging out of their bonnets, crooked teeth, and bad breath. Stanley realized it was them . Here already! They couldn’t even wait until it was safe to break in, such was their enthusiasm.
    Stanley knew he ought to be scared. But to his surprise, the overwhelming feeling of amusement at the three rogues dressed as women made him laugh out loud.
    â€œGood evening, young sir, we is from the church and would like to talk to you about our good work wot we ’as been doing,” said Jones in a feeble, high-pitched voice.
    â€œOh yes? Did you really think we wouldn’t know who you are?” Stanley chortled.
    â€œLet us in, Buggles. We still got business with yer,” whispered Jones, changing his tone back to a gravelly rasp.

    â€œAnd look, I brought flowers for the good lady of the ’ouse,” Timbers claimed, as he took a withered bunch of heather from his basket. Stanley could see the blade of the fish knife underneath. It caught a chink of light from the hallway and twinkled, glaring at him in warning.
    Stanley moved to shut the door, but in a flash Timbers swapped the bouquet for the knife and pierced the blade into the wood, pushing the door back.
    â€œAin’t no one quicker than old Bill Timbers with a knife, Stanley, so why don’t yer let us in before I ties you up with yer own gizzards.”
    The three pushed their way in and Stanley backed up into the drawing room. Timbers kept watch by the door to the kitchen corridor, peering nervously around.
Perhaps, Stanley thought,