Chapter Seventeen
Unknown Friends
"How can friends be unknown?"
Henry awoke with a possible answer.
The friends could be Quakers, and there were many Quakers he didn't know. Where do you meet Quakers? Obviously at the Meeting House, and the walls outside are covered with ivy. Couldn't that be the blind?
The boys timidly approached the entrance to the Meeting House. A sign on the open door invited all to enter and worship. After passing through a small hallway with clothes hooks on the wall they entered the Meeting Hall. It had a timbered ceiling, whitewashed walls and was sparsely furnished with several oaken benches. The small room was completely devoid of any decoration, unlike Henry's church, with its soaring columns,stained glass windows, and dangling gold chandeliers.
An old lady was dusting the speaker's lectern at the far end of the room.
"Can I help you, boys?"
"I hope so, Miss. We were wondering if you could help us with some stuff about Quaker history."
"Is this for school then?"
"Not really, Miss. It's sort of for general interest."
"Wait here for a sec, and I'll see if Mr. Hershey can attend to you. " With that, she disappeared through a door in the far wall behind the lectern. "Come this way, boys. Mr. Hershey has been expecting you."
Rev's brow furrowed.
The cleaning lady ushered the boys in to a room dominated by floor to ceiling bookcases and a huge central desk. Mr. Hershey, a wizened old man with sparkling eyes and an infectious grin sat at the desk in an antique swivel chair.
"Sorry I can't offer you seats, lads, but how can I help otherwise?"
"Well," said Rev, who was the usual spokesman under these circumstances, "we think we have found a key that's supposed to unlock a treasure chest or something. We think you might be able to help us."
"Can I look at the key?"
Rev handed it over. The elderly Quaker examined the key, stood and then turned to examine a display case supported on the bookcase behind the desk. It was filled with keys of every conceivable type, both ancient and modern.
"I hate to disappoint you, boys, but this isn't the key to a treasure box. It's one of my collection. I didn't even know it was missing. I know what it unlocks. Come with me."
Mr. Hershey led them outside and turned to face the ivy covered wall that fronted the Meeting House.
"I think you'll find what you're looking for beneath the ivy, just to the left of the telegraph pole. Here, haven't you forgotten something?"
Henry grabbed the key from the smiling Friend then joined his pals in ripping the ivy from its supporting wall. It didn't take them long to uncover a red letter box.
"Hundreds of years old you said. I should've known better than to listen to you, Henry. This letter box has to be less than one hundred years old."
"How do you know?"
"Just look at the letters on the box, "V.R." That means it's from the reign of Queen Victoria, sometime in the eighteen hundreds."
"So what?" interjected P.C. "Let's see what's inside anyway?"
The key, despite its rusted condition, fit snugly. An anticlockwise twist, a stiff pull, and the door creaked open to reveal a spider filled interior. Suspended amongst the myriad threads hung an envelope that looked quite new.
Despite his fear of spiders, Henry grasped the envelope. Something was written on the front.
For Henry, P.C. and Rev.
Henry recognised the familiar swirl on the capital H. "This is Uncle Steve's handwriting. What do you think, Rev? Do you think Uncle Steve found the heirloom already?"
"I think the whole thing is fishy. I'll bet the Americans, Uncle Steve and Mr. Hershey are all in on this. Remember they all met that night at the Sun Hotel and had plenty of time to concoct this crazy scheme."
"Con what?" said P.C.
"Make up this treasure hunt. You noticed that Mr. Hershey was expecting us and knew all about the key."
"Well, I don't really care if they have made the whole thing up. It's a lot of fun. Maybe this contains another clue," said Henry, waving the envelope.
"Well open it and see," yelled P.C. Henry tore open the envelope and pulled out an index card. It was blank."Turn it over, you dumb ox."
IT'S BETTER THAN BLACK MAGIC
"What the heck does that mean?" asked P.C.
No one answered him, not even Rev.