The Mystery of the Stolen Secrets

©2017 Richard Humphreys

It's going to be a white Christmas and Fatty's Uncle Harold comes to stay. However, before long Fatty begins to notice that his uncle is acting suspiciously. Why did he go out secretly in the middle of the night? Did he steal some keys from a local house agents' office? Who is the man with a limp? The Find Outers get on the case and are soon embroiled in a mystery that involves spies, stolen secrets and a dangerous chase along the river in the dead of night...

Chapter 3: Uncle Harold and the Strange Lady

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Fatty struggled through the gate and made his way to the garden door at the side of the house. He managed to open it without dropping the parcels and stepped inside, grateful to be back in the warm. Buster appeared from nowhere and threw himself at his beloved master almost knocking the parcels out of his arms. 'Steady on Buster,' Fatty said, carefully placing the parcels down on the hall chair and hanging up his coat. 'I've only been gone a couple of hours not a couple of months, there's no need to cause me serious injury!' He petted the excited Scottie and then above the sound of Buster's yelps of delight, he heard talking and laughing coming from the drawing room.

'Hello,' he said entering the room, 'am I a late arrival at the party?' He looked at Uncle Harold. 'Well, well, well, Uncle Harold, I presume,' he said.

Uncle Harold stood and shook his hand. 'Good gracious, Frederick, it's a pleasure to meet you at last,' he said looking Fatty up and down. 'You're certainly a chip off the old block. A Trotteville if ever there was one. I can see now why everyone thought I was you.'

This was news to Fatty and between them, the children and Uncle Harold related the events of the afternoon.

'No wonder Goon was so annoyed when I met him down by the front gate,' Fatty said with a laugh.

'Well, I was going to report him for his extremely unprofessional behaviour,' Uncle Harold said, 'but now that I know you kids are the bane of his life, I've decided to give him a second chance.'

'Hm, well that's more than he would ever give to you,' Fatty said. 'Being high-handed is second nature to our PC Goon, but I'm glad you sent him away with a flea in his ear. He'll be livid about that!'

They all had a pleasant chat before Pip suddenly jumped to his feet. 'Crumbs,' he said, 'Cook'll be waiting for the raisins. Come on Bets, Mother will be wondering where on Earth we've got to.' He looked at his watch. 'Those mince pies will be waiting for us too. Come on everyone, buck up. You coming Fatty?'

'I'll give it a miss, if that's all right, Pip,' Fatty said. 'I'd rather like to get to know Uncle Harold a bit better.'

The others said goodbye to Uncle Harold and Mrs Trotteville and went with Fatty to the front door. 'Give us a call tomorrow,' Pip said as they stepped out into the snow, 'and we'll arrange something.'

Fatty watched them hurry off down the drive and then returned to the drawing room where Uncle Harold was pouring himself another brandy.

'Well, I'll leave you two to catch up on things,' Mrs. Trotteville said. 'I have to pop out shortly to collect the Parish Newsletter. Frederick will show you where everything is, Harold.'

For the next hour, Fatty and Uncle Harold got to know each other. It turned out, that just like Fatty, when he was young, Uncle Harold had enjoyed disguising himself and trying to solve local mysteries.

'Unfortunately for me, the local policeman was on the ball and always seemed to solve the mystery before I did. I used to wish that my village Bobby was a complete buffoon, like your Mr Goon quite clearly is,' Uncle Harold said with a laugh.

They chatted on and then Uncle Harold said that he ought to change and freshen up before dinner.

'And you've decided to settle back in England?' Fatty said as they went up the stairs. 'You'll find it rather dull after all the excitement of Borovia.'

'Well, I'm looking forward to a little less excitement in my old age,' Uncle Harold said, 'and a quiet English village seems just the ticket.'

Fatty took his uncle up to his room and showed him where the bathroom was before leaving him to settle in. He went downstairs and met his mother in the hall.

'Oh Frederick,' she said, hanging her coat up. 'I've just collected the Parish Newsletters from the vicar and I wondered if you could deliver them for me? I wasn't expecting your uncle till Friday and need to get the dinner and everything sorted.'

'Yes, of course I will, Mother,' he said taking the pile of leaflets. 'You leave it to me.'

Fatty suddenly had an idea. He had promised Bets that he would disguise himself in the next few days, and this might be a good opportunity. After all, the others would think he was with Uncle Harold and certainly not out delivering the local parish news.

Taking the pile of newsletters, he put on his coat and went out into the back garden. It was snowing slightly and with Buster by his side, he made his way down to his shed at the end of the garden. It was chilly inside, so he lighted the paraffin heater before surveying the assortment of clothes he used for his disguises. He decided to disguise himself as a woman as that normally fooled the others, and having seen the vicar, Mr. Twit, earlier in the day, he thought it might be amusing to dress up as Miss Twit, the vicar's sister. She no longer lived in the village, so it would be pretty safe to assume her appearance and he was sure the others wouldn't remember her. After twenty minutes, Fatty examined his handiwork in the mirror. He was wearing a pleated tartan skirt, a pair of Wellington boots, thick cardigan underneath a rather tatty quilted jacket and a muffler round his neck. He had put on a wig of straggly, mouse coloured hair over which he tied a silk headscarf. 'Now, as I recall,' Fatty thought, 'Miss Twit is rather toothy.' He had a good look in his makeup drawer and found a set of large theatrical teeth, which he slipped over his own. He then carefully applied a little bit of make-up and placed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. Pleased with the result, he picked up a small wicker basket into which he put the Parish Newsletters. 'Now then, Buster, old son,' he said to the little Scottie. 'I'm afraid I can't take you with me as you'd be a dead give-away.' He went to a cupboard and took out a selection of Buster's favourite toys, which he placed on the floor in front of the decidedly unimpressed dog. Buster knew from the tone of Fatty's voice that he was going to be left behind, and although he was fond of his toys, they were no substitute for a brisk trot in the snow with his beloved master!

Fatty turned off the heater and left the shed, making sure the door was locked. Having satisfied himself that the coast was clear, he went out of the gate into the back lane. There was no one around, and by keeping to back lanes as much as possible, he made his way to Pip and Bets' house. On the way he decided that he would make out to have some kind of funny turn on arrival and they would ask him in.

As he approached the house he could see the lights were on in Pip and Bets' playroom. Good, they were all still there.

He walked briskly up the drive and banged on the front door. Just as the door opened, he pretended to slip on the step and landed with a bump letting out a raucous scream and scattering the Parish Newsletters everywhere. Hilda, who had answered the door, was astonished to see a rather large lady floundering in the snow, and rushed out to help. The scream had also been heard from the playroom and Pip flung open the window to see what had happened. Hilda looked up. 'Can you all come down and help me, this lady has slipped up in the snow and your mother's out,' she called.

'We'll be right there,' Pip shouted back.

'Are you hurt?' Hilda asked anxiously. 'You did land with quite a bump.'

'Only my dignity, my dear, only my dignity,' Fatty said in a high-pitched breathy voice. 'Perhaps a cup of tea might revive me.' He looked up at the other children who were now crowding round him. 'Darlings,' he said effusively, 'you wouldn't be so kind as to gather up the Parish Newsletters and pop them back into my basket, I appear to have sent them flying in all directions?'

Whilst they picked up the leaflets, Hilda helped Fatty to his feet and brushed the worst of the snow from his clothes, then led him into the sitting room.

'Who on Earth is she?' Larry asked quietly. 'I haven't seen her around before.'

'Isn't she the vicar's sister?' Daisy said. 'You remember her, she moved away a couple of years ago. She must be visiting for Christmas.'

'Oh yes,' Pip said, 'I remember her now. She was rather eccentric, as I recall.'

Bets finished picking up the leaflets and placing them into the basket, and then she and the others went into the house and joined Fatty and Hilda in the sitting room.

'Here you are,' Bets said handing over the basket. 'How are you feeling?'

'I'll survive, my darling child,' Fatty said in the same high-pitched gushing voice. 'This kind soul has offered to make me a cup of tea, for which I shall be eternally grateful,' he added gesturing to Hilda. 'That'll be two sugars, Ducky, milk in first.'

Hilda left the room and the others sat down.

'I'm so sorry to make such a fuss, it was very silly of me to slip up.' Fatty said. 'You see, I was startled when I saw that marvellous snowman in your garden. It's the living image of that stalwart of Peterswood, the wonderful P.C. Goon.'

'Wonderful?' Larry said in astonishment and looked at the others.

'Why yes,' Fatty said eagerly. 'Brave, charming, intelligent.' He put his hands together. 'A hero through and through, and if I may say, rather handsome.' He took a large polka dotted handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face whilst giggling with embarrassment.

Before anyone could say another word, Hilda returned with a cup of tea. 'Oh bless you, bless you,' Fatty said. 'Tea, the nectar of the gods, it revives the body and refreshes the spirit.'

'You are Miss Twit aren't you,' Bets said as Fatty began sipping his tea rather noisily because of the teeth he was wearing.

This came as a surprise to Fatty, because he had been sure no one would remember the Vicar's sister. He sipped his tea and thought quickly. He knew that when Miss Twit left the village some time ago, it was to do missionary work somewhere in Africa.

'Why yes, my dear,' he said between slurps, 'Miss Twit, I've been out in... er... Bangawongaland.'

'Bangawongaland!' exclaimed Daisy. 'Good gracious, where on Earth is that?'

'Africa, my precious,' Fatty said. 'Darkest Africa to be precise, so one needs to take plenty of batteries for one's torch.' He let out a shriek of laughter at this feeble joke and fanned his face with the handkerchief. 'Anyway, one goes up the Zambesi and then one turns left at Victoria Falls. Then one continues on through Nyasaland and Bechuanaland, following the Blue Nile, or is it the White Nile?' Fatty sniffed and took a sip of tea. 'Well, whatever colour it is, one follows it for a week or so and eventually one comes to Bangawongaland.'

'And what exactly does one do in Bangawongaland?' Larry asked with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

'Missionary work, young man, missionary work,' Fatty said with a flourish of his hand. 'Shedding a little light upon the darkness, you know.'

'And you've come back for Christmas?' Daisy asked.

'I have indeed, my dear, back to good old Peterswood for the festive season,' Fatty said and finished his tea with a final gulp. 'And now that I feel thoroughly revived, I can go out and face the elements once again.' He jumped to his feet, taking the basket of newsletters over his arm. 'Like giants refreshed we went down to the fray,' he announced loudly and rushed to the front door with the others following him. On reaching the door, Fatty took a newsletter from the basket and handed it Bets. 'For you,' he said and patted her on the head. 'Such a charming child,' he muttered, and opened the front door allowing in a gust of cold air. He gazed towards the snowman and let out a long sigh. 'One day one hopes he'll make one his,' he said wistfully.

'Make one his what?' asked Pip, unable to grasp what on Earth this peculiar woman was talking about.

'Sweetheart, dear boy,' Fatty said with feeling, 'make one his sweetheart.' So saying, he hurried off down the drive and disappeared through the gate.

Pip closed the door and they all went back into the sitting room. 'That woman was most definitely strange,' Larry said. 'She must be mad to think Goon's handsome. He's about as handsome as a bullfrog.'

The others laughed. 'Perhaps she thinks he's under a spell and might turn into a handsome prince?' suggested Bets with a giggle.

'To turn him back into a prince, she'd have to kiss him first. Ugh!' Pip said aghast at the thought.

'Do you think we should tell Goon that Miss Twit is besotted with him?' Daisy asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. 'I mean, it's only fair that he should know,' she added. 'After all, he might feel the same about her!'

'Well, stranger things have happened,' said Larry with a laugh. 'Next time any of us sees Goon, we must bring up the subject of dear Miss Twit.'

'I can't wait to let Fatty know,' Pip said. 'I wonder how he's getting on with Uncle Harold?'

'They'll be having a deep discussion about the political situation in Borovia, I shouldn't wonder,' Daisy said.

But, of course, Daisy was wrong, for at that very moment, Fatty was busily delivering the Parish Newsletters.

It was now after four o'clock and already quite dark, which Fatty was pleased about. For although he always enjoyed dressing up in disguises, it could prove awkward at times and he hoped that no one else would mistake him for the vicar's sister. But, what happened next was something that Fatty most certainly had not bargained for. He was just delivering one of the last newsletters, and having pushed it through the letterbox of a house a couple of doors away from his own, turned and came face to face with the real Miss Twit who was also out delivering the newsletter!

For a moment they both stared open mouthed at each other. Then they both leaned forward to get a better look at the other's face. It was the real Miss Twit who spoke first: 'Well, my giddy aunt, if I didn't know better, I'd say we were related.'

Fatty backed away slightly into the shadow of the porch. 'No, I don't think so,' he said.

Miss Twit reached out and grabbed his hand. 'Amelia Twit,' she said in a brusque voice. 'And you are?'

Fatty gulped and blurted out the first name that came into his head. 'Er, Twerp, Celia Twerp,' he said.

'That's an interesting name,' Miss Twit said sucking her rather prominent teeth. 'I know most folk in the village, but I've not heard of any Twerps.'

Fatty shook his head. 'No there aren't any,' he said wishing that the ground would swallow him up. 'As it happens, Twerp is my married name. I'm here visiting my mother.'

'Ah, that accounts for it, then,' Miss Twit said. 'And your mother is?'

'My mother is... yes, my mother is... er... expecting me,' Fatty said, 'so I'd best be off.' He hurried away down the path. 'Merry Christmas,' he called over his shoulder and disappeared through the gate.

'That was a close call,' he thought as he hurried up the drive of his own house. He managed to get past the kitchen window unseen and down to his shed. He changed back into his own clothes and wiped the make-up from his face, and with Buster at his side, made his way back to the house.

'All delivered,' he called to his mother as he entered by the garden door.

'Thank you Frederick,' came the answer from the kitchen.

Just then, he heard the sound of something being pushed through the letterbox. Buster went to retrieve it. It was a copy of the Parish Newsletter delivered, no doubt by Miss Twit. 'Crumbs,' Fatty thought, 'I hope the others don't tell Goon what Miss Twit thinks of him, that would be embarrassing for the poor woman. I don't know why I said all that stuff, I must be mad! I'd best get on the phone to Pip and let him know that their strange visitor was me all the time.'

He rang Pip's number and waited, his call was answered by Hilda, the house parlour maid, who told Fatty that all the children had gone out. He thanked her, put down the receiver, and ambled into the sitting room where he sat by the fire. Buster sat down at his feet. 'It's a bit of bad luck, them going out,' he thought. 'Well, I hope they don't bump into either Miss Twit or Goon and say something awkward. That would stir up a hornet's nest.'

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