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 5: A Visit to the House Agent

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Next morning, Fatty sat down to breakfast with his parents and Uncle Harold.

'Well, Harold, you look a little brighter this morning. Yesterday must have been a bit of an ordeal for you,' Mrs Trotteville said.

'Yes, it was rather. What with the customs formalities and then the completely disrupted rail services. It quite took it out of me,' Uncle Harold replied pouring himself some coffee. 'I must be getting old.'

'Well, Harold, we all are,' Mrs Trotteville said, 'but you're still very distinguished. And I like your moustache, it's called a walrus isn't it?'

'Er, yes,' he said and then laughed. 'I was hoping it would keep me warm. Doesn't seem to be working, though.'

'And how will you be spending your first day back in Blighty, Harold?' Mr Trotteville asked.

'Well, I was hoping that Fred, here, would show me around the village,' Uncle Harold said, smiling across the table at Fatty. 'Unless, that is, you have other plans.'

'No, I've nothing planned, Uncle,' Fatty said, 'and it would be a pleasure to give you a guided tour of Peterswood. But I'm afraid it's not the most exciting village in England. There's not much to see.'

'What do you mean, there's not much to see?' Mr. Trotteville interjected. 'There's lots to see. There's one or two interesting tombs in the churchyard belonging to members of the Fitzjames family. And there's the memorial of that artist chap, Harold, you know, the one that painted all those soppy looking cows and sheep, what was his name?'

'Cooper, dear,' Mrs Trotteville said. 'Sir Sidney Cooper.'

'Yes, well his grave's quite interesting, if you like that sort of thing. You know, sobbing cherubs and angels in white marble. And a couple of sobbing sheep, if memory serves,' Mr. Trotteville continued. 'And the crypt is interesting, it's over a thousand years old, dates back to Saxon times, apparently. And we've got the old stocks on the village green, though I'm not sure they're the original ones. And there's the museum, if it's open, that is. Oh yes, and the river path makes quite an enjoyable walk.'

'Yes, dear, in July perhaps, but not in the middle of December,' Mrs. Trotteville said. 'We don't want Harold to catch his death.'

'Do you have a local house agent?' Uncle Harold asked. 'Thought I'd get a feel for property prices round here.'

'We have two,' Mrs. Trotteville said. 'Frederick knows where they are.'

'Good, well after we've taken in the delights of the churchyard and I've given the village stocks the once over,' Uncle Harold said giving Fatty a wink, 'we'll take a look at the house agents.'

'There's Bromptons,' Fatty said, helping himself to a rather large spoonful of marmalade and spreading it over his toast. 'They're quite posh. And then there's Featherstone and Son.'

'We'll give them both a look, then,' Uncle Harold said. 'Now then, I think I'll try that delicious looking kedgeree.'

Having finished breakfast, Fatty told his uncle that he needed to make a quick telephone call. He went out into the hall and rang Pip's number. Mrs Hilton answered and after a brief chat with Fatty about Uncle Harold's encounter with Mr Goon, she called Pip to the phone.

'Morning Fatty,' he said. 'How's Uncle Harold?'

'He's fine, thanks,' Fatty replied. 'But I'm actually calling about your strange visitor yesterday afternoon,' he continued, lowering his voice.

'Who, Miss Twit?' Pip said. 'How do you know she was here?'

'Because it was me, you blockhead,' Fatty said.

'You're joking,' Pip exclaimed. 'But, it can't have been you.'

'It was me,' Fatty repeated. 'All that stuff about going up the Zambesi and Bangawongaland and what have you.'

'Crumbs, well you certainly fooled us, Fatty,' Pip said. 'You're a genius, I don't know how you do it.'

'Thanks for the compliment, Pip,' Fatty said, 'but I was phoning to warn you not to say anything to Goon about what I said. I don't want him to get the wrong idea about Miss Twit.'

Pip stayed silent.

'You don't mean to say, I'm too late?' Fatty asked in exasperation.

'Well, we went out after she, or rather you, left, and we happened to bump into Goon by the shops,' Pip explained. 'And, well, we did sort of mention that Miss Twit was rather keen on him. But it's all right,' he added quickly, 'I mean she's away in Africa, isn't she, Bangawongaland or somewhere?'

Fatty let out a long sigh. 'No Pip, she's not in Bangawongaland or Matabeleland or any other land, she's here in Peterswood, I spoke to her last night. It was all very embarrassing, actually, as I was still dressed up as her. It was like looking in a mirror!'

'I'm really sorry, Fatty,' Pip said, 'but we were all convinced she was the real thing.'

'Well, I'm gratified to know that I haven't lost my touch, where disguises are concerned,' Fatty said. 'And don't apologise, Pip, I take full responsibility,' he added generously. 'You weren't to know and I did go over the top rather. Look, I'm just going out with Uncle Harold, what say we all meet up here this afternoon down in the shed. I'll get it nice and warm and I'll see if I can scrounge something tasty from Cook. Let Larry and Daisy know and I'll expect you all about two o'clock, if that's OK?'

He put down the receiver. 'I'll just have to hope that Miss Twit and Goon don't bump into each other this Christmas,' he thought. He was, however, rather doubtful. After all, Peterswood was a small village and it was very likely that the two would meet at some point. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. 'Oh well, can't put the genie back in the bottle, can I,' he said looking down at Buster.

Uncle Harold joined him in the hall. They wrapped up warmly in coat, hat, scarf and gloves, and with Buster at their side, stepped out into the snow.

There had been further heavy snow in the night and all the footprints of the previous day had now well and truly disappeared. Buster loved the snow and hurtled around the garden like a mad thing leaving deep tracks in the even white surface.

'What would you like to see first?' Fatty asked as they stepped out into the lane, 'the churchyard or the museum?'

'Neither, really,' his uncle said. 'Perhaps we can give them a miss for the present. I'd rather cut straight along to the house agents if that's all right with you.'

'Of course, Uncle,' Fatty said cheerfully, relieved at the thought of not having to trudge around the churchyard, 'we'll try Bromptons first, they're just at this end of the High Street.'

Luckily, the pavements had now been gritted for which Uncle Harold seemed grateful, and they arrived at Brompton's house agents without too much sliding around. Fatty put Buster on the lead and tied it to the railings outside. He knew that the people who worked at Brompton's had no love of dogs.

'Now you be good, we won't be long,' he told the little Scottie, and he and Uncle Harold went inside.

A stern looking man was seated behind a desk. Fatty recognised him as the man he had questioned some time before when the Find Outers were investigating the mystery of the secret room.

Uncle Harold asked about properties to let in the village.

'Most properties in the village are for sale, these days, we have very few to let,' the house agent said rather stiffly.

'Then I'll have a look at the details of what you do have, Mr...?' Uncle Harold said.

'Mr Spencer,' the man said. 'If you'd like to take a seat, I'll see what we have.'

Uncle Harold sat down, took his hat off and placed it on the desk, whilst Fatty went to the window to keep an eye on Buster.

Mr Spencer pulled open a drawer in a filing cabinet and withdrew a number of folders, which he handed to Uncle Harold.

'At Brompton's, we only deal in exclusive properties, you understand,' he said, wrinkling his nose as he picked up Uncle Harold's hat with his finger-tips and hung it on a coat hook. 'Less expensive properties can be found at Featherstone's down the road.'

Uncle Harold began to look through the files.

'Do you require a long or short let, furnished or unfurnished?' Mr Spencer asked sitting down again behind his desk.

'Just a short let for the time being?' Uncle Harold said without looking up from the file he was reading.

'In my experience, most people in this area require long lets,' Mr Spencer said. 'We have very few requests for anything shorter than six months.'

Uncle Harold suddenly looked up. 'Had any requests recently?' he asked.

'None' Mr Spencer declared, and then added: 'But I can hardly discuss confidential matters with you.'

'Quite,' Uncle Harold said.

Suddenly, Fatty heard Buster barking and yelping with excitement and, through the window, saw Bets petting him. He went out to speak to her. 'Hallo, Bets,' he said.

'Hallo Fatty,' she said. 'Were you in the house agents?'

'Yes, I'm here with Uncle Harold, he's looking at the prices of houses in the village,' Fatty replied. 'That awful Mr Spencer is trying to be all snobby, but Uncle Harold can handle him.'

Just then the door to the house agents opened and Uncle Harold emerged. He smiled at Bets. 'Good morning, young lady, Bets, isn't it?' he said.

Buster jumped for joy when he saw Uncle Harold.

'Good morning,' Bets said rather shyly as she still felt a little embarrassed about what had happened the day before. She then laughed at Buster. 'He's certainly taken a liking to you,' she said.

'Yes, he has rather,' Uncle Harold said petting Buster. 'He's a nice dog.'

'Are you settling in?' Bets asked him politely.

'Yes, I am thank you,' Uncle Harold said. 'What say you and Fred, go off to a café and buy yourselves something nice to eat whilst I pop off to the other house agents? My treat,' he said taking a ten shilling note from his pocket and pushing it into Fatty's hand.

'Oh thank you, Uncle,' Fatty said. 'We'll go to the Copper Kettle café, it's at the other end of the High Street not far from the village hall.'

'I'll meet you there in about twenty minutes, then,' Uncle Harold said, before giving them a big smile and disappearing down the road.

'I didn't tell him where Featherstone's is,' Fatty said. 'Oh well, I'm sure he'll find it, I expect Mr. Spencer told him.' he added with a shrug.

They went into the cosy little café and ordered tea and toast whilst Buster curled up under the table.

'I didn't believe Pip when he told me it was you and not Miss Twit yesterday,' Bets said. 'You know, Fatty, you were so convincing.'

'Thanks Bets,' Fatty said. 'But truth to tell, I wouldn't have dressed up as Miss Twit and said all that stuff about Goon if I'd known she'd be in the village over Christmas. It'll be rather embarrassing for her if they meet,' he added

The waitress brought the tea and toast.

'I hope this doesn't spoil my lunch,' Bets said. 'It's lamb chops and I do so love lamb chops.'

'Well, it certainly won't spoil mine,' Fatty said spreading strawberry jam onto a slice of hot buttered toast. He looked up and saw that Bets was staring through the window. He turned to see what she was looking at and saw Miss Twit across the road chatting to Mr Brown, the greengrocer.

'You know, Fatty,' Bets said. 'You really were the living image of her. Perhaps, just a little plumper than she is, that's all.' Suddenly she gulped and choked on her toast. 'Golly, it's Goon,' she said through her coughing. 'Look.'

Fatty looked further up the High Street and saw the big policeman ambling along the pavement. Goon suddenly saw Miss Twit and having crossed over the road, slowly approached the greengrocers where he pretended to examine the vegetables and fruit displayed outside. Miss Twit had her back to him as she talked nineteen to the dozen to Mr Brown, who repeatedly looked at his wristwatch as she chatted on and on and on. Then, an assistant inside the shop, beckoned to Mr Brown through the window giving him the opportunity to escape, leaving Miss Twit at a loose end. She turned and saw Goon apparently admiring a large turnip and instantly began a conversation with him.

Fatty looked at Bets and grinned. 'I'd give anything to hear what they were saying,' he said.

But they never did find out what was said because Miss Twit, seemingly horrified by something Goon said to her, grabbed a cucumber and hit him twice over the head with it, knocking his helmet off. She then replaced the cucumber, rubbed her hands together and turning on her heel, stormed off. There was laughter from behind Bets and Fatty and they turned to see that the other customers in the café had enjoyed the spectacle as much as they had.

Sheepishly, Mr Goon retrieved his helmet and with as much dignity as he could muster, and a very red and bemused face, went on his way, no doubt thinking of what he would love to do to that gang of pestiferous lying kids.

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