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 8: A Burglary?

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Fatty sat eating his breakfast. He was alone at the table, as his father had gone to work early and his mother had gone off to see the Vicar. Uncle Harold had not yet made an appearance and Fatty was debating whether he should mention that he knew he had gone out during the night. He had tried to work out all the possible reasons why his uncle should have sneaked out of the house in the snow at one o'clock in the morning, and none of them satisfied him. He was sure that it had been completely innocent, but his natural curiosity required reassurance.

The door to the dining room opened and Uncle Harold appeared with a big smile on his face. 'Morning Fred,' he said, with a jovial wink and Buster dashed out from under the table to welcome him. 'And good morning to you as well,' Uncle Harold said patting the Scottie on the head before taking his seat.

'Good morning Uncle,' Fatty said, returning his smile. 'I hope you slept well.'

Uncle Harold poured himself some coffee. 'Like a log,' he said spooning some kedgeree onto his place. 'When I eventually got off, that is.'

'Oh, you had trouble sleeping, then?' Fatty asked giving his uncle the opportunity to explain his odd behaviour.

Uncle Harold tucked into his kedgeree. 'Always have had,' he said, 'especially in a strange bed. It was the same when I was at school. Insomnia always struck when I returned to school after the hols. You ask your father.'

They were quiet for a short while as Fatty buttered a slice of toast and spread it with marmalade. 'It said on the wireless this morning that last night was one of the coldest on record,' he said, and then added pointedly: 'I wouldn't have wanted to be out in that.'

'Well, it's seasonal, if nothing else,' Uncle Harold said, giving nothing away. 'In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan, and all that,' he added, quoting a line from a Christmas song. He looked across the table at Fatty. 'And what have you got planned for today?' he asked, changing the subject.

Fatty frowned. If his uncle did not want him to know what he was doing last night, then he, Fatty, would have to respect that. 'Oh nothing much, Uncle,' he replied. 'I thought I might get the others over for a meeting.' He paused for a moment and then added. 'See if any of them has noticed anything suspicious going on.'

'Suspicious?' Uncle Harold repeated. 'Oh, yes, of course, you have a reputation for being something of a local Sherlock Holmes, don't you?'

'That's high praise,' Fatty said with a laugh. 'But we have managed to solve quite a few mysteries in Peterswood. I pride myself on having a bit of a nose for suspicious behaviour.'

'Well, Peterswood seems like a pretty quiet place, filled with pretty ordinary people,' Uncle Harold said.

Fatty looked at him. 'You'd be surprised what seemingly ordinary people get up to in this seemingly quiet place. Robbery, burglary, embezzlement, the list is endless,' he said. 'But,' he added with a sigh. 'There's nothing happening at present it seems. Goon doesn't seem to be interested in anything, the Vicar's sister excepted, that is. You can always tell if something's up because he's forced to break out of his usual lethargy and starts dashing here, there and everywhere like the proverbial headless chicken.'

Uncle Harold laughed. 'Well, Peterswood sounds just like my kind of place,' he said.

'So it seems that this is going to be the first hols in ages that we haven't solved a mystery,' Fatty said finishing his coffee. 'Unless, that is, those missing scientists turn up in Peterswood.'

Uncle Harold looked at Fatty over the rim of his coffee cup. 'What scientists?' he asked placing his cup down on the table.

'The ones that disappeared from that army base near Amersham,' Fatty said. 'It's been in all the papers.'

Uncle Harold shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't read the papers, Fred,' he said. 'Unless I'm being paid to, I tend to avoid reading about politics and international shenanigans. That's the world I hope to leave behind for good.'

'Well, never the less, it's big news at the moment,' Fatty continued. 'The police think these scientists have probably defected, but could still be in the country because of the weather. So they must be hiding somewhere. It could be Peterswood, we're not that far from Amersham.'

'Well, if they are still in the country,' Uncle Harold said, 'there's probably a whole network of foreign agents that has whisked them off to somewhere in the countryside. Somewhere near a private airfield, where they can get them over to the continent without attracting any attention.'

Fatty sighed. 'You're probably right, Uncle,' he said standing up. 'Now I have to take this one out for his morning walk,' he added patting Buster on the head. 'I'll catch up with you later.'

'I'm off to London, today,' Uncle Harold said. 'I thought I'd take the opportunity to look up some old friends.'

'Well, I hope you have a nice time,' Fatty said as he left the room and got ready to go out. Buster had already read his mind and was jumping about excitedly. They went out through the garden door, the one used by Uncle Harold in the night. Outside, the snow lay thickly and the sharp frost had made its surface crunchy. Fatty instantly noticed Uncle Harold's footprints leaving and returning to the house. He followed them round to the drive, where they carried on towards the gate. Luckily, they were between the tracks made by his father's car when he left for work earlier that morning. He also made out his mothers prints and those of the postman arriving and leaving. 'I don't suppose it's possible to follow these into the village,' Fatty thought walking down the drive. 'There'll be too many other prints by now.'

He was right. He managed to follow Uncle Harold's footprints as far as the High Street, but there the snow on the pavements had been so trampled down, it was impossible to track them further.

'Well, at least I know he came as far as the High Street,' Fatty thought.

As he was passing the sweet shop, he decided to buy some bullseyes. Inside, Miss Twit, the Vicar's sister, was talking to the lady who ran the shop, Mrs Smedley. Fatty almost turned around and left when he saw Miss Twit, but thought it would look too odd, so he began looking around the rows of sweet jars, keeping his back towards the two women.

'That odious man, well I was shocked by his suggestion that I was carrying a torch for him,' Miss Twit was saying.

'Carrying a torch for him , he should be so lucky' Mrs Smedley replied. 'So what did you do?'

'I knocked off his helmet with a cucumber,' Miss Twit said proudly and swung her arm to emphasise the point. 'That should teach him to have more respect for law-abiding folk.'

'Well, I doubt that'll make any difference,' Mrs Smedley said shaking her head. 'He'll never change.' She leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. 'Always has been a bit peculiar, that one, just like all the Goons. I remember his father, awful man and very odd. He never took a bath! Anyway, Goon was in here at the crack of dawn this morning for his Victory Vs, and started telling me he'd had a call from one of the house agents, Featherstone's I think he said, to say they'd been broken into in the night and a bunch of keys stolen. He was laughing and saying that there hadn't been a burglary and that the agent himself had lost the keys.'

Fatty's ears pricked up at this.

Miss Twit nodded her head. 'What keys were they, the keys to the premises?'

'Oh no, they were keys to properties they have on their books, that's all. But Old Know it all, said he could find no evidence of a break in. So what are we to make of it?' Mrs Smedley shrugged her shoulders and then noticed Fatty. 'Hello Frederick,' she said. 'Looking for anything in particular, are you?'

Fatty approached the counter rather sheepishly and had no choice but to stand right next to Miss Twit. 'I'll have a quarter of bullseyes, thank you,' he said trying hard not to make eye contact with Miss Twit even though he could feel her staring at him.

She tapped him on the arm. 'You're not a Twerp are you?' she asked.

Fatty pulled down the peak of his cap a little and turned to her with a puzzled expression of his face. 'I'm sorry, are you talking to me?' he asked as innocently as possible.

'Yes,' Miss Twit said. 'I met someone the other night and you bear a slight resemblance to her. Her name was Twerp.'

'Oh, I see, I'm afraid not,' Fatty said desperately trying not to blush. 'I'm Frederick Trotteville, not, er, Twerp.'

'Trotteville, Trotteville, now let me think. Yes I know of a couple of Trottevilles, they would be your parents, no doubt,' Miss Twit said, still looking uncomfortably closely at Fatty's face. 'There's definitely a resemblance,' she said shaking her head, and then gave a little laugh. 'Ah, but of course, Twerp was her married name, she might have been a Trotteville before she wed. Do you have a sister called Celia?'

Mrs Smedley handed Fatty his sweets and Fatty handed her a sixpenny piece.

Stuffing the bag of sweets into his coat pocket, he turned on his heel. 'Sorry, I'm afraid not,' he said heading for the door and almost tripping over Buster in his haste. 'I'm an only child, you see.' So saying, he fled through the door and immediately slipped on the icy pavement outside. He had just managed to regain his balance, when he heard an all too familiar voice behind him.

'Nearly went flying then, eh? Pity you didn't. That would have wiped that smug look off your face.'

Fatty looked round and saw Goon approaching.

'I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted me to injure myself, Mr Goon,' Fatty said, quickly clipping the lead onto Buster's collar.

'Don't you be too sure,' Goon said. 'How's that so called uncle of yours?'

'My so called uncle is fine, thank you,' Fatty said restraining Buster who was pulling on the lead to get at Goon's ankles.

Goon looked down at the Scottie and sneered.

'So the house agents was burgled last night was it?' Fatty said. 'And a number of keys were taken.'

Goon was startled by this remark. 'What do you know about that?' he snapped, then noticed they were standing in front of the sweet shop and he remembered that he had mentioned it to Mrs Smedley. 'Oh, you've been talking to her in there have you,' he said.

'Only to ask for a quarter of bullseyes,' Fatty replied. 'I haven't spoken to her about the break in,' he added in all honesty. He had, after all, just overheard the conversation, not taken part in it.

'There was no break in,' Goon said in an exasperated voice. 'The silly man himself lost them keys, no one pinched them.'

'Oh, so that's what you think is it?' Fatty said rather darkly. 'No sign of forced entry, then?'

'Keep your nose out,' Goon said wagging one of his fat fingers and making Buster growl as a consequence.

'Why would I be interested in something that hasn't happened?' Fatty asked.

'I know what you're like, you pest,' Goon said. 'You're an expert at making mountains out of molehills, you are.'

'And what are you an expert at, Mr Goon?' Fatty asked.

'You just clear orf and mind your own business,' Goon said.

'I most certainly will,' Fatty replied politely, and then, remembering that Miss Twit was still inside, added: 'Now I'd advise you to go into that shop and tell Mrs Smedley to stop her tittle-tattling. After all, police business should be kept confidential, don't you agree?' he said pointedly.

Goon eyed the shop up and down. 'Well, for your information, I was going in there anyway and I don't need any advice from you,' he snarled and gave a snort: 'Now take that flea-ridden mongrel and clear orf!'

Fatty stepped aside as Goon swept past him into the sweet shop. The door closed behind him and Fatty waited, straining his ears. Two seconds later came the sound of shouting and Goon emerged with a red face. On seeing Fatty still standing on the pavement he glared at him with his huge bulging eyes.

'I'm glad to see you've still got your helmet on, Mr Goon,' Fatty said with a giggle.

'I'll knock your block off one day,' Goon snapped as he headed off. 'You see if I don't,' he shouted over his shoulder.

Fatty set off for home. 'So it's possible the house agents was burgled in the night,' he thought.

He knew that his uncle had been visiting the house agents, could Uncle Harold have burgled Featherstone's when he went out in the night, and if he had, why? Fatty was worried. Was Uncle Harold a burglar? He thought of the shame he and his family would feel if his uncle were arrested for a crime and the glee that would be written all over Goon's face!

He was still pondering these troubling thoughts as he reached the gate to his house.

'Or perhaps Goon is right after all and the agent simply lost the keys,' he thought, attempting to reassure himself. He opened the gate and walked up the drive but knew in his heart of hearts that something was going on, something involving Uncle Harold. It was all very strange and not a little worrying. Before he reached the door of his house, he had decided that the Five Find Outers would have to investigate this for themselves, and quickly!

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