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 7: Bumps in the Night

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Boris woke up feeling decidedly cold. His eiderdown had slipped to the floor and he felt around in the dark for it and tugged it back onto the bed. His hot water bottle had gone cold so he kicked it out and pulled the blankets up around his ears. He began thinking about the man he had seen in the stamp fair.

'He must be a gangster,' he thought, 'else why would he have a gun?'

The wind outside blew a gust and rattled the window. Boris shivered and curled himself up into a tight ball. Nan Boggs' house, it seemed, was much colder than his other Nan's and he was almost regretting his decision not to go there instead.

But his other Nan was too fond of giving him a clip round the ear, whereas Nan Boggs was only strict with him when Mr Goon was around. At all other times, Boris thought her a bit of a pushover. And anyway, his other Nan had gone away for Christmas to Butlins and would never have taken him with her.

His thoughts went back to the man with the gun. Should he tell Mr Goon what he had seen? He was in two minds about that. It was highly probable that Goon would not believe him, he would think it was just some tale he had invented. And Nan would probably stop all his pocket money this time.

'That man must have been doing a robbery,' he thought, 'and that means there'll be a reward.'

He turned over and immediately felt the cold sheet against his feet. 'Perhaps it would be better if I didn't tell Mr Goon, he'd be bound to take the reward for himself. I could tell a proper policeman instead, one that doesn't wear a uniform, a detective like the ones at the pictures.' He decided that he would listen to the news on the wireless and look through his Nan's newspaper every day and if there were any mention of a robbery, he would make his move. Boris liked the thought of being a hero and having a reward, and he let his mind wander onto all the things he would spend the money on.

The wind blew again, and again his window rattled. He decided to get up and see if it was closed properly and quickly climbed out of bed, hopping across the freezing lino. Parting the curtains, he could see that the catch at the bottom of the window was loose, so he secured it, then rubbed the ice from the glass with the sleeve of his pyjamas and looked out into the night. Mrs Boggs lived in a terrace of four small cottages in a narrow passage off the High Street in which one rather dim streetlight burned. In the light from the lamp Boris could see that the snow had mostly stopped falling and only a few flakes were being tossed about in the wind. He was just about to close the curtains when he noticed a movement on the street below. A man appeared from the direction of the High Street and stopped by the streetlight. He looked up at the cottages and Boris quickly closed the curtains, leaving just a narrow gap through which to observe the stranger. The man slowly walked along the opposite pavement staring up at the cottages as though looking for something. Boris watched him as he walked to the end of the terrace and back again. The man then crossed over the road and paused in front of the cottage next door. He shone a torch across the wall and the upper windows before disappearing into the shadows.

Boris climbed back into his chilly bed and looked at the fluorescent hands of the clock on his bedside table, it was half past one. He curled up into a ball once again and tried to sleep, but thoughts kept nagging at him. Why was the stranger outside looking at the cottages? What was he looking for at this time of night?

Boris knew that the cottage next door, which was at one end of the terrace, was empty and the windows were all boarded up. On the other side of Nan's cottage lived an old man called Mr Spiggot, who would sit in his front room smoking a pipe and talking to his cat, Boris had often heard him through the wall. In the cottage next door to Mr Spiggot, at the other end of the terrace, was old, deaf Mrs Gammon who was about ninety and played her wireless very loudly. From what he had gathered from his Nan, the old lady had only lived in the cottage for a few weeks and was fond of listening to the Third Programme, as Boris had heard the sound of posh orchestral music when passing by her front door. On another occasion, he had heard shouting and a gunshot, which he had immediately told his Nan about. Mrs Boggs had laughed and assured him that old Mrs Gammon was probably listening to the afternoon play on the wireless, and as far as she knew, the old lady was not in the habit of firing guns! 'The poor old thing, is probably a bit lonely,' his Nan had said. 'Her grandson lives there with her, but doesn't seem to be around much. I expect she's lonely and likes to listen to music and plays.'

'Perhaps he wants to buy the empty cottage next door,' Boris thought, his mind wandering back to the stranger in the street. 'If it's empty, it's probably for sale even if there's no 'For Sale' sign on it.'

He pulled the blankets up around his chin and heard the church clock strike two. From the bedroom next to his, his Nan grunted in her sleep and began snoring loudly, then shouted something about bread-pudding and oven gloves and fell silent. Boris too was drifting into sleep, when suddenly he was jolted awake by a noise and sat up. He was not sure what he had heard, but it seemed that it had come from above his head. He sat still and listened. It came again, a kind of creaking sound almost directly above him. Boris felt a prickle of fear run down his back and he switched on the bedside lamp and stared at the ceiling. There was another creak followed by a little bump and then silence. Boris remained sitting bolt upright for the next fifteen minutes, his ears straining to pick up any sounds, but there were no more. Eventually, he lay back down, still with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and tried to work out what could have made the sounds. After some considerable deliberation, he came up with two possible theories. One, that it was rats, and the other that it was a monster that had got into the loft and was now waiting for him to turn out his lamp before climbing down through the loft hatch and attacking him! Boris lay perfectly still praying that it was rats he had heard, until finally, he fell asleep and dreamt a complicated dream about rats with guns, monsters, damp prison cells, Mr Goon and brass police whistles.

It seemed to Boris that just a few seconds had passed before his bedroom door was flung open.

'Come along, Boris, up you get. Have you had that lamp burning all night? Do you think I'm made of money?' Mrs Boggs shouted. Boris lay completely still with the blankets over his head wishing his Nan would go away.

'I don't feel well, Nan,' he muttered plaintively. 'I must be ill.'

Mrs. Boggs laughed and pulled the bed covers down to his feet. 'You'll feel a lot better once you're up,' she said unfeelingly. 'Now hurry up and get dressed, you're porridge is on the table and we have to be at Mr Goon's by eight o'clock.'

Boris knew from experience that it was pointless protesting, so with chattering teeth, he hopped out of bed and quickly pulled on his cold clothes.

The kitchen was warm and steamy. As he entered, Mrs Boggs pushed Boris towards the sink. He picked up a damp flannel from the draining board and rubbed it over his face, then grabbed his bowl of porridge from the table and sat as close to the range as possible. The porridge was nice as Mrs Boggs was a good cook. She had sprinkled brown sugar on it and placed a dollop of cream in the centre.

'There are rats in the attic, Nan,' Boris said stirring his porridge.

Mrs Boggs stopped her fussing at the sink and turned round. 'Rats, did you say rats?'

'Yes, Nan, I heard them last night, right over my head they were. They must be bigguns, the noise they were making,' Boris said and began spooning the porridge into his mouth.

Mrs Boggs turned back to the sink. 'There are no rats in the attic,' she said dismissively. 'The pest control man was up there in September because of the squirrels, you were dreaming, that's all.'

Boris finished his porridge. 'I wasn't dreaming, Nan,' he said placing the empty bowl back on the table. 'I was wide awake and I heard them.'

'What you heard was snow sliding off the roof, you silly boy,' Mrs Boggs said, 'nothing more, just the snow. Now get your duffle coat and boots on.'

Boris sat down again by the range. 'It was rats, Nan, horrible great bigguns. Stamping around on the ceiling, they were,' he muttered.

'I'll stamp around on you, if you don't do as I say and get your coat and boots on,' Mrs Boggs said walking into the hall. 'Now stop being so daft. Rats, whatever next?'

Boris followed her into the hall with a sullen expression on his face. He sat on the bottom stair and pulled on his Wellington boots, then put on his duffel coat, scarf and gloves. Mrs Boggs opened the front door. The cold air pinched their faces. 'Brrr, roll on Spring,' she said closing the door behind them. They had only gone a couple of paces, however, when she suddenly remembered she had left her purse behind. 'You wait here,' she told Boris. 'I'll only be a moment.'

Boris stood on the snow-covered pavement, waiting. It was just about light now, although the street lamp opposite was still burning. Boris looked down at the pavement and noticed footprints in the snow, prints from the night before. They were the footprints of the stranger he had seen looking at the cottages, and they entered the passage from the High Street on the opposite side and then crossed over the road, just as Boris had seen him do. The prints led to the front of the cottage next door where he had seen the man loiter, but had not seen him walk away. The stranger had simply disappeared into the shadows. Now Boris could see why, for the footprints in the snow went up to the door and onto the step, and there were no other prints to indicate that he had left again. For some reason, the stranger had gone into the empty cottage but had not come out again.

'Is that cottage for sale, Nan?' Boris asked Mrs Boggs when she returned.

'Why, are you thinking of buying it?' she said stuffing her purse into her coat pocket. 'No dear, it's been empty for years. Should be condemned, it's an absolute disgrace.'

As they hurried along the pavement towards the High Street, Boris looked back over his shoulder at the old cottage with its boarded up windows and grimy, moss covered walls and wondered how many other people it had simply swallowed up!

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