‘At the sight of the treasure Domplagan became greedy,’ Don said. ‘He claimed the gold for himself. Not long after that, he abandoned the wildcats as his mascot and took up the Roman eagle instead. He built a huge castle where the fortress had stood. It was Domplagan, not the Romans, who began to destroy the wildcats’ habitat by building settlements. And it was he who told his warriors to hunt the wildcats down.’
‘But why,’ said Callie indignantly, ‘when the wildcats had helped him?’
‘Domplagan didn’t need them any more,’ Don said. ‘And he wanted to wipe the wildcats out before they could summon the Cat Sith against him.’
That was really, really mean, thought Atticus. He was glad he wasn’t a Dumpling. He wouldn’t want to be related to someone greedy and horrid like that.
‘He didn’t succeed,’ Don said. ‘In the dead of winter the remaining wildcats got together and summoned the Cat Sith for a second time. Domplagan thought the fortifications at the castle made him safe, but no door or window or wall is thick or strong enough to stop the Cat Sith.’
Atticus squeezed Mimi’s paw again. He had a feeling this bit was going to be really good.
‘The Cat Sith travelled across the moor and rampaged through the castle,’ Don went on.
‘It killed Domplagan and his men. And when the Cat Sith had finished, the wildcats went to the castle and hid the treasure to stop any other member of the Dumpling clan being corrupted by it like Domplagan had been.’
‘You mean the treasure’s still there?’ asked Michael.
‘According to local legend, yes,’ said Don. ‘But no Dumpling has ever found it and most of them daren’t look.’
‘Why not?’ asked Callie.
‘Because the legend says the wildcats set the Cat Sith to safeguard the moor. If any Dumpling ever tried to find the treasure, so the story goes, he or she would die at its paws. That is the Dumpling family curse.’
‘Did Great-Uncle Archie try to find the treasure?’ Michael guessed aloud. ‘Is that why he’s afraid?’
Don nodded. ‘He thinks he disturbed the Cat Sith.’
‘But Great-Uncle Archie’s still alive,’ said Michael.
‘He’s not a Dumpling, though,’ Callie pointed out. ‘He’s a McMucker.’
‘It wasn’t just Great-Uncle Archie who went in search of the treasure,’ explained Don. ‘It was him and Lady Jemima’s father, Lord Stewart Dumpling. The two of them were friends. Neither of them believed in the curse, or the Cat Sith, for that matter. They thought it was Domplagan who had defeated the Romans and taken the gold, and that it was Domplagan who hid it when he went off to fight another battle. Thirty years ago the two of them went treasure hunting together.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Shortly after that, poor Stewie Dumpling drowned in the loch.’
‘I bet it was just an accident,’ Inspector Cheddar said. ‘They do happen, you know.’
Especially to you! thought Atticus.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Don agreed. ‘But Great-Uncle Archie believes it was the work of the Cat Sith. He thinks he’s partly responsible for Lord Stewart’s death. That’s why he gets so upset about cats, especially if they’re black.’
‘Do you think the two of them actually found the treasure?’ asked Mrs Tucker.
‘I don’t know,’ said Don. ‘Great-Uncle Archie’s never breathed a word about it since the death of Lord Stewart.’ He finished his tea and held the mug out for a refill. ‘The only thing I do know is that he won’t let that walking stick out of his sight for a single minute.’
‘The walking stick?’ Michael echoed. ‘The one with the carving of the Cat Sith?’
‘It belonged to Lord Stewart,’ Debs explained. ‘He gave it to Great-Uncle Archie just before he drowned.’
SD – Stewart Dumpling! Of course, thought Atticus. He should have guessed that.
‘But if Debs and Dad are right and there’s no such thing as the Cat Sith,’ said Michael slowly, ‘what did Atticus and I see on the moor at the station?’
‘That,’ said Mrs Tucker, rolling up her sleeves, ‘is exactly what I intend to find out. There’s something fishy about these so-called Cat Sith sightings. And it isn’t just the smell coming from Herman’s pipe. I think someone’s after that treasure. The same someone who’s stirring up all these rumours about the Cat Sith, probably. And I intend to find out who.’
Atticus purred his agreement. In his experience, where treasure was involved, there were usually villains not far away.
‘I think we should go and see Lady Jemima first,’ said Inspector Cheddar, ‘and tell her that we’re on the case and that there’s nothing to worry about. I can ask her some questions about my ancestors while we’re there.’
‘All right,’ Mrs Tucker agreed.
‘I told you,’ Mimi whispered as the humans got ready to go out again.
‘Told me what?’ asked Atticus.
‘That this trip would be an adventure,’ she purred.
‘Blast it!’
At Biggnaherry Castle, Lady Jemima Dumpling threw the last of a thick wodge of used scratch cards in the bin.
‘I lost again, Peregrine!’
She was addressing a bright-eyed falcon with a cruel, hooked blue-and-yellow beak. The feathers on its head, wings and tail were a steely blue-grey. Its throat was white and its chest and legs were finely spotted all the way down to its long sharp talons.
It gave a rasping squeak in response, put its head on one side and stared at her balefully.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Peregrine,’ said Lady Jemima. ‘I know you disapprove of gambling, but I don’t get to have any other fun in this dump!’ She gestured at the damp walls of the sitting room. There was a bucket in one corner collecting drips. ‘Half of the castle’s in ruins and the rest of it’s wet through. I’ll have to ask Debs to get up on the ladder again later and check the roof.’
She went to the window and looked out across the moor. The sky was heavy with thick black clouds and the moor was shrouded in mist. Rain drummed persistently against the windowpane. ‘It’s raining AGAIN! I mean, can you remember the last time it didn’t rain here, Peregrine? No? Well, neither can I,’ she said bitterly. ‘Although I can tell you as a matter of record that it was June the 27th, 1976.’ She let out a deep sigh.
The falcon flew to a new perch on the faded brocade sofa and drew its talons along the arm. Stuffing burst from within.
‘That’s right, Peregrine, ruin the furniture, why don’t you?’ said Lady Jemima crossly.
The bird stopped mid-swipe. It regarded her coldly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Peregrine,’ said Lady Jemima, throwing her arms wide in a dramatic gesture. ‘It’s just the weather gets me down. You know how I hate the rain.’ She picked up a photograph frame from the desk and cradled it. It was a picture of Lady Jemima on holiday. She was standing beside a fruit machine with a big smile on her face holding two bulging bags of money. ‘I do so miss Las Vegas,’ she said. ‘Such a nuisance I couldn’t afford to go this year. I was sure I was going to win the EuroMillions in time.’ She replaced the photo in its spot and approached the falcon cautiously. ‘Will you forgive me, Peregrine?’
The falcon lifted its chin.
‘Good boy.’ Lady Jemima stroked the bird’s throat with a long, painted fingernail. ‘I didn’t mean to be cross. Of course it doesn’t matter about that silly sofa. Go ahead. Rip it up. Who cares anyway? When I’ve finished with this place you’ll have a thousand sofas to sharpen your talons on. We just need to find that gold. Then, as the only heir to the Dumpling fortune, I get to spend it all!’ She rubbed her hands in glee. Then her expression changed. ‘If only I could work out that wretched riddle.’
Lady Jemima sat down on the sofa beside the falcon. She picked up a little black book from the coffee table and started leafing through it. She found the page she was looking for and stared at it for a few seconds.
One to lock, another to open,
Until then not a word
be spoken,
Pretend to be what you want to be,
For that’s when the Cat Sith holds the key.
It was a riddle she had read many times. Lady Jemima knew it off by heart. She recited it at bedtime. She sang it in the bath. She warbled it when she put on her wellies for a wet and windy walk. She mimed it when she massaged back into place the face filler the American plastic surgeon had pumped into her cheeks to get rid of her wrinkles on her last visit to Las Vegas. ‘But what does it mean, Peregrine, that’s what I want to know,’ she said for the umpteenth time. ‘It would be so much easier if we knew! Then we could simply find the treasure map that Daddy made all those years ago and … BINGO!’ She let out a big sigh. ‘It would save so much trouble.’ She screwed up her face in concentration, muttering the words over and over to herself. After a few minutes she gave up.
‘It’s no good!’ Lady Jemima snapped the book closed and threw it on to the coffee table in frustration. ‘I’m never, ever, ever going to find that map. I’ve turned the whole place over a hundred times looking for it.’ She scowled. ‘That old fool Archie McMucker knows where it is. But I don’t see how we can get him to spill the beans. He’s completely barking. And I don’t want Don and Debs to suspect anything.’
She took up a magazine instead and started flicking through the fashion pages. ‘We’ll just have to stick with our knockout Plan B, Peregrine. How are the preparations coming along, by the way?’
The falcon puffed out its chest and let out another screech.
‘Good,’ said Lady Jemima. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’ She gave his throat another stroke. ‘I’m glad we’re friends again. And we should look on the bright side.’ She let out a peal of laughter. ‘No one will come near the castle at the moment thanks to my lovely new pet …’ She gave Peregrine a wink. ‘You know who I’m talking about? So at least you and I won’t have to endure that dreadful Hogmanay party again. Honestly, if I had to judge the hairiest sporran competition one more time, I think I’d scream!’
Something in the magazine caught Lady Jemima’s eye. It was a fur coat. She showed Peregrine the picture. ‘I’m desperate for a new one,’ she said. Her face brightened. ‘I think I’ll make a shopping list for when we’re rich.’ She picked up a pen and paper and started writing:
Just then from outside came the noise of tyres on gravel. ‘Who can that be?’ Lady Jemima demanded irritably. ‘I’m not expecting the McMuckers until teatime.’ She went back to the window and peered out. Don and Debs’ jeeps were both parked in the drive. Getting out of them were three cats, two children, a policeman, a man with a wooden leg and a hairy jumper (or was it a beard?), a woman with a basket and biker boots and another one with a clipboard. (And Don and Debs.)
‘What on earth?’ Lady Jemima hurried to the mirror to reapply her lipstick.
The doorbell rang.
‘I’m coming!’ She stomped down the stairs, re-arranged her angry features into a fabulous smile with a few upward strokes of the palms of her hands and threw open the door.
‘Lady Jemima?’ The policeman took his hat off and bowed.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Inspector Ian Larry Barry Dumpling Cheddar.’ He let the word sink in.
‘Did you say Dumpling?’ Lady Jemima blinked.
‘Yes.’ Inspector Cheddar beamed. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I think we might be cousins two hundred times removed.’ He whipped out the family tree and his new notebook to show her. ‘By the way, Don’s filled me in on the Dumpling family curse and there’s no need to worry,’ he added importantly. ‘We think the recent sightings of the Cat Sith are a hoax but I’m here to give you round-the-clock police protection just in case. I brought my bedsocks if you want me to stay the night.’
Lady Jemima’s mouth fell open. ‘But …’ she began.
‘It’s really no trouble,’ Inspector Cheddar insisted.
‘How kind,’ Lady Jemima said in a strangled voice. She turned to Mrs Tucker. ‘And you are …?’
‘Edna Tucker,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘Also known as Agent Whelk. And this is my husband, Herman.’
Mr Tucker gave Lady Jemima a cheery wave.
Lady Jemima looked at him in astonishment. ‘Why is he wearing his sporran on his chin?’ she asked Mrs Tucker.
‘It’s a beard-jumper,’ Mrs Tucker told her. ‘His beard got mixed up with his jumper when he was a baby. He’s been growing it ever since, except when it got minced by some magpies, but that’s another story.’
Lady Jemima digested this information. ‘Did you say you were an agent?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I wouldn’t normally tell you,’ said Mrs Tucker in a whisper, ‘as it’s a secret, but I’m on holiday this week so it doesn’t count. I’m planning to find out what this so-called Cat Sith creature is that people have reported seeing on the moor.’
Lady Jemima’s smile slipped down her face. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Jolly good!’
Mrs Cheddar stepped forward with the kids. ‘And we’re here to organise the Hogmanay party,’ she said. ‘So you don’t need to cancel it after all. Don said something about the hairiest sporran competition. That sounds like loads of fun.’
‘Yes, it’s an absolute hoot!’ Lady Jemima said sourly. Her smile was now upside down, like a clown’s. ‘What are they here for?’ She glared at the cats.
‘That’s Mimi,’ said Callie, ‘and Bones.’ She picked up Atticus. ‘And this is Atticus.’
‘He’s not a wildcat, is he?’ asked Lady Jemima, more brightly this time.
‘No. He’s the world’s greatest cat detective. He’s going to help Dad and Mrs Tucker with their investigation.’
Atticus and Lady Jemima stared at one another for a few seconds.
‘Well, that’s just dandy!’ said Lady Jemima. She was developing a tic in her right eye. She pretended to cough. ‘Blast it!’ she said under her breath. She pushed the corners of her mouth back up with her fingers. Then, to her visitors she said, ‘What a wonderful surprise! Why don’t you come in and meet Peregrine? Don can make us some tea.’
‘What was your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s name?’
Atticus yawned. Inspector Cheddar had spent the last hour and a half questioning Lady Jemima about her family tree. At the insistence of Lady Jemima, Atticus had been placed in a wicker basket in the corner of the drawing room under the watchful eye of Peregrine, where Atticus had no choice but to listen to the pair of Dumplings droning on.
The basket had once belonged to Lady Jemima’s dog (now dead). Atticus wondered gloomily if it had died of boredom, like he was about to. Even without Inspector Cheddar’s endless questions, the atmosphere at Biggnaherry Castle was stultifying. The tick-tock of the wall clock, the dark wooden furniture, the gloomy hiss of damp logs and the drip-drop of rain in the bucket were oppressive; not to mention the unblinking stare of Peregrine, who sat hunched on his perch, his eyes fixed on Atticus.
‘Hilary Blair Deuteronomy Dumpling,’ replied Lady Jemima.
Inspector Cheddar wrote the answer down laboriously in his new notebook.
‘What was your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-GREAT-grandfather’s name?’
‘Brian Ryan Fingal Dingal Dumpling.’
Atticus wondered if Lady Jemima was making it up. He’d never heard of half the names she mentioned. But then again, he hadn’t heard of many Scottish names.
‘How do you spell that?’ asked Inspector Cheddar.
‘Which bit?’ asked Lady Jemima.
‘Brian.’
‘It’s Brian with an i,’ said Lady Jemima, reapplying her lipstick, ‘or it might be a y.’
Atticus glanced at the big wall clock. It was half past three. I can’t stand this any more, he thought crossly. What he wanted to know was why he had been singled out for this particular form of torture. Mimi had been allowed to sit with Michael, Callie and Mrs Cheddar. They were poring over old copies of Biggnaherry Hogmanay party programmes beside the window where the lig
ht was better. And Bones had been shooed off down to the kitchen with Mr and Mrs Tucker to help Don prepare the tea.
He eyed Lady Jemima with suspicion. It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he was the world’s greatest cat detective, could it?
It hadn’t escaped Atticus’s attention that Lady Jemima Dumpling had not seemed very pleased to see them when they arrived on her front doorstep. Although it was completely understandable that she would rather have all her teeth pulled out than to have to talk about her ancestors for hours on end with Inspector Cheddar, you would have thought that she might be pleased to know that there was at least one other Dumpling in the world, even if it was Ian Larry Barry. Yet at the mention that they might be related, Lady Jemima had reacted like a scalded cat. Nor had she seemed very keen to accept Mrs Cheddar’s offer to help with the Hogmanay party. And at the news that Mrs Tucker planned to investigate the strange sightings of the Cat Sith on the moor with Atticus’s help, Lady Jemima had practically choked. For some reason she had also seemed disappointed that Atticus wasn’t a Highland Tiger.
Did she, he wondered, have something to hide?
He looked at her hard. Usually criminals had a shifty demeanour, but Lady Jemima’s was not just shifty it was actually shifting. Her face kept moving up and down. One minute she looked like a melted waxwork. The next she looked like a mannequin. It was all very odd.
Inspector Cheddar had prepared his next question. ‘Who’s your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-GREAT-GREAT-grandfather?’
Atticus threw back his head in despair. He’d rather help Debs mend the roof than put up with any more of his.
Luckily help was at hand.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Dad,’ said Callie, coming over, ‘but we’ve put together a list of events for the party.’
Atticus Claw On the Misty Moor Page 5