The King of Scotland's Sword

by Sir Steve Stevenson

  She immediately pointed it out to Chandler. “Didn’t the file say they weren’t going to notify the police of the theft?”

  “I don’t think they have, Miss Agatha,” he replied. “It’s a standard security detail. I suspect those two policemen out there know nothing about the missing sword.”

  “Right,” she said sharply. “And we certainly won’t be the ones to inform them.”

  When the hot-air balloon landed inside the square, maneuvered precisely to the last millimeter, the guests broke out in applause. Then a short, anxious bald man with glasses sent everyone back inside the manor house, leaving only the organizing committee to greet the new arrivals.

  “Welcome, Agent DM14,” said the bald man.

  Agatha gently elbowed her Granddad, who was busily shutting off gas valves.

  He turned around, waving his hat in greeting. “Thank you. And you must be Mr. MacKenzie, the castle director,” he replied, squinting shrewdly.

  “Aye,” said the bald man. “May I introduce these fine gentlemen?”

  “I’d be delighted!” Granddad Ian replied with a knowing smile.

  Agatha watched closely as her grandfather shook the hands of Professor Cunningham, the antiques dealer who organized the exhibition, and his two main investors. The haughty, red-mustached Earl of Duncan barely extended his hand, and portly oil millionaire Angus Snodgrass looked annoyed and impatient.

  They were all impressed by Chandler’s hulking stature, and barely noticed the two young apprentices. Everything was going according to plan.

  “Well,” Director MacKenzie said, “there’s no time to waste. Let me take you to the arms hall so you can begin your investigation.”

  The committee escorted them inside the castle manor, where the odor of fresh paint still hung in the air from the recent restorations. They passed through the arched entry hall and entered a high-ceilinged room full of weapons, shields, and suits of armor. There was an empty fireplace big enough to roast a whole ox, surrounded by displays of medieval artifacts and mannequins wearing traditional Scottish kilts.

  The guests stood in small clusters throughout the room, looking tired, unhappy, and restless. A few of them nibbled on tea sandwiches and reception hors d’oeuvres. They were probably fed up with waiting so long.

  It was a well-heeled crowd, including some noblemen wearing their family tartans, a few well-known artists and athletes, business people, and local politicians. There was a little girl with her aunt, a professional photographer, and a bored-looking bagpiper wearing a full-dress kilt with a tasseled sporran. Agatha noticed a young woman seated off to one side, looking distressed, and guessed this must be the professor’s assistant, Ms. Ross.

  Director MacKenzie led them to the center of the hall and stopped in front of an empty glass case.

  “This is where the king of Scotland’s sword was displayed,” explained Professor Cunningham. Tall and charming, with designer frames for his glasses, he looked to be in his late thirties. “As you can see, the thief got into the cabinet without breaking the glass,” he observed. “I advised the use of security cameras…but nobody listened to me!”

  “You weren’t footing the bill for them, were you, Professor?” The Earl of Duncan turned red with agitation. “I bet you’ve never had to fork out a penny in your entire life!”

  “All you do is blather and gripe,” Snodgrass snapped, raising the temperature of the argument even higher.

  “Calm down, calm down!” Director MacKenzie urged, sounding anxious. “We cannot continue to blame one another!”

  Granddad Ian gave a little cough, but the committee members didn’t stop bickering until Chandler loomed over them, cracking his knuckles and fixing them with a grim stare.

  “Let’s stay out of this,” Agatha whispered in her cousin’s ear. “We should get out of here ASAP and leave the questions to Granddad.”

  “You think he’ll be able to get any useful information?” Dash whispered back. “The only thing these guys seem good at is arguing!”

  “Don’t worry, they’re all scared of Chandler.” Agatha smiled. “He’s pretty good at keeping people in line.”

  She nodded to Granddad Ian. He stood in the center of the room, explaining how he intended to conduct the interrogations. A few guests protested, but he warned them all that complaints should be directed to his bodyguard.

  Chandler confirmed this with an intimidating grunt, and the room fell silent.

  In an authoritative tone, Granddad Ian announced that nobody would leave the room, except his apprentices. He thanked the guests for their patience, and headed into Director MacKenzie’s private office, where he planned to interview the suspects in order, one by one.

  The Mistery cousins could start on their mission at last!

  “Your plan’s working perfectly,” Dash gloated as they left the manor house. “Nobody will bother us for a while now.”

  Agatha was already scanning the nearby ruins with her investigator’s gaze. “Pass me the castle plans?” she asked.

  “Uh sure, here they are!”

  “And the satellite photos?”

  Dash pulled up a scan on his EyeNet and zoomed in on the image. “Let’s start with this crumbling building and then hit the tower,” he proposed.

  “I agree,” replied Agatha. “Keep your eyes open for clues.” she added as they entered a ruined chapel near the castle walls. Only a perimeter of loose stones remained between tufts of high grass.

  “Notice anything?” asked Dash, poking the soil.

  “The grass over here has been trampled,” replied Agatha. “But the tracks don’t look recent. I’m thinking the painters came through this way on their way to the arms hall. Look, here’s a scrape from a ladder they dragged in the mud.”

  “What’s significant about that?”

  Agatha shrugged. “The thief wasn’t the first person to walk on this grass. So we might find a lot of red herrings.”

  “Red herrings?”

  Agatha rolled her eyes. Didn’t her cousin know anything? “It’s mystery-writer slang for false leads.”

  Dash held up a small object. “You mean like this weird bamboo straw?”

  Agatha looked at it closely, stroking the tip of her nose. “Well done, Dash!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You’ve uncovered our first real clue!”

  He shook his head, stunned. “A clue? But it’s only a straw!”

  “Look closely.” Agatha covered the end with a handkerchief and blew into it, creating a deep whistling sound. “I should open my memory drawers more often,” she said, satisfied. “This little tube is a drone reed for bagpipes; I’m sure of it!”

  Dash scratched his chin. “There’s a piper inside, Griffin Mulligan. Are you suggesting he might have dropped it here?” he asked. “What would that prove?”

  “We can question him when we get back,” said Agatha, slipping the reed into a ziplock bag. She never left behind anything that might be useful later. “Come on, let’s use that intuition of yours to uncover more clues.”

  But it wasn’t Dash who found the next one.

  They were working their way along the wall toward an old stone well when they noticed Watson scampering around the lawn, batting something between his front paws.

  “Can’t you put that beast on a leash?” muttered Dash. “He does nothing but eat, sleep, and play!”

  Agatha glared at him and knelt down to pet her cat. It was only then that she noticed the golf ball between his claws. “Check the guest list,” she told Dash. “There’s a professional golfer on it, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re right,” he replied, running his finger down the page. “Jim ‘Cheetah’ Karp, an international champion!”

  Agatha picked up the ball with a tissue, careful not to leave fingerprints, and sealed it in another ziplock bag. “Two clues in three minutes,” she said, standing up. “This situation is more complex than I predicted.”

  “Why is it more complex?”

  “The more clue
s we find,” she replied drily, “the more suspects we have, and the more confused our ideas will get.”

  “What about this peacock feather?” Dash grabbed it off a thistle, where it was fluttering in the breeze. “I think there was a lady with a feathered hat inside…”

  “There certainly was,” grumbled Agatha, sticking the feather into yet another plastic bag. “But how did it get here?”

  “Maybe it blew off her hat when we arrived in the hot-air balloon.”

  “That lady is very heavy and walks with a cane. I don’t remember her coming outside to greet us.” Agatha strode toward the well, thinking hard. It was a large, octagonal basin, about sixteen feet deep and full of dark, slimy water with green algae floating on top. “This would be the perfect place to hide the sword,” she reflected.

  Dash leaned over to look, then pulled his head back fast. “It stinks like a sewer,” he groaned. “You don’t want us to scour the bottom, do you?”

  “Got your swimsuit?” joked Agatha. Then she turned serious. “To really check what’s down there, the well would need to be drained.” She tapped her nose and peered into the depths with her flashlight. “I think I can see something shiny,” she whispered, intrigued.

  But the gleam she’d spotted must have just been a reflection, because it did not reappear as she swept the light back and forth.

  Dash got impatient. “I don’t see a thing. Let’s move on to the tower,” he said. “I don’t know how long Granddad will be able to keep questioning witnesses.”

  Agatha glanced at his EyeNet. “You’re right, it’s nearly two,” she agreed.

  They zigzagged quickly between the ruined buildings until they reached the edge of the cliff, where a massive stone tower loomed.

  Its top floor was crumbling and riddled with holes from battering rams and cannonballs, but it still maintained its aura of grandeur.

  The two cousins went through the heavy door, moving silently as though the ancient stone walls might still be concealing an enemy.

  “We’re right in the heart of Dunnottar Castle,” whispered Agatha as they entered a circular chamber. “Do you know when the first stone was laid?”

  Dash shook his head, clueless.

  “Experts have dated it to the fifth century,” explained Agatha, sounding as if she were quoting one of the history books she was always reading. “It was built by the Picts as a fortress. Then it was invaded by the Vikings, and ever since then it’s been occupied by Scottish clans and English conquerors.”

  “Cool,” murmured Dash, shivering as they crossed into another dank room. Then he added, “Could I see that flashlight? It’s pitch-black in here!”

  Agatha turned on her flashlight and lit up their path. Not a moment too soon, because Dash was about to step into a hole!

  He jumped back with a cry of surprise and tripped over a pickax, sprawling across the stone floor.

  “Don’t touch anything!” shouted Agatha. “There may be precious clues!”

  Dash got up, brushing fresh dirt from his clothes. “Clues?” he hissed. “I almost fell into a hole!” Then his expression changed. “But why is there a hole here?”

  “Exactly,” said Agatha, shining her flashlight beam inside. “The thief could have dug this hole to get rid of the sword.”

  Dash joined her as they were hit with a gust of cold air from below. “Let’s check out the plans,” he said.

  They unfolded the map and immediately spotted a secret passageway under the floor. “This goes all the way down through the cliff and winds up on the beach,” said Agatha.

  “And our thief knew it!”

  “He must have broken through the floor at the weakest point,” continued the girl, casting an eye at the pickax. “But something’s not right.”

  “What?” asked Dash.

  Agatha moved the flashlight beam in a circle. “The hole is too narrow for a person to pass through,” she noted. “Unless the thief passed the stolen goods down to an accomplice below…”

  “Who could have escaped from the beach in a motorboat!” Dash finished.

  Just then, Watson appeared out of nowhere and jumped into the hole. “No, kitty! What are you doing?” cried Agatha in desperation.

  “That cat is insane!” yelled her cousin.

  Agatha called Watson’s name over and over. After a while they heard his meows echoing up from under the floor. Agatha began to pace back and forth, with no idea what to do next. Finally she stopped, grabbing hold of the pickax. “We have to go after him!” she declared.

  “But you said not to touch anything!”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind!”

  With powerful strikes of the pickax, Agatha knocked a few stones loose so that she and Dash could fit through. She explored the passage with her flashlight. “Luckily it looks like it’s still in good shape,” she said. “But the ceiling is very low.” She lowered herself down, shining the flashlight in front of her, then signaled to Dash to follow.

  As they crept down the long tunnel, she kept calling for Watson, and he answered with plaintive meows.

  It took half an hour to reach the beach at the foot of the cliff. When Dash and Agatha finally emerged, they blinked in the bright sunlight.

  Watson was chasing a fiddler crab and looked at them, surprised. “Bad kitty!” Agatha reprimanded him, cuddling him tight in her arms. “You scared me to death!”

  Despite himself, Dash breathed a sigh of relief, too. Then he tapped Agatha’s shoulder. “Look at the sand.”

  “The tide stripe’s still wet, so the tide’s on its way out,” observed Agatha. “If the accomplice fled in a boat…”

  “The high tide has erased his footprints for good,” finished Dash.

  They looked at each other. Agatha held up her cat, and they made their way back to the castle, discouraged.

  Agatha and Dash arrived back at the manor just after 3:00 and went straight to the director’s office. They nodded to Chandler, who stood at his post by the door like a guard outside Buckingham Palace, and went inside.

  As Dash laid the pickax and the other clues on the floor, Agatha noticed their grandfather’s dazed expression.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “These people are out of their minds!” Ian Mistery said, his voice shaking a bit. “I interviewed thirty people, and every single one of them told me something different. The details all contradict one another, and everyone blames someone else!”

  The unflappable hot-air balloonist was visibly shaken.

  “First things first,” Agatha said as she sat down beside him. “Did you take notes on the witness statements as I suggested?”

  “Of course,” he replied, pushing a notebook across the desk. “One page for each guest, with detailed accounts of everything they saw and heard before they fell asleep, and their crackpot theories about what happened.”

  “Did you find any common themes?” Dash intervened eagerly. “Do the witnesses agree on any key points?”

  “Do you want the truth?” their grandfather asked enigmatically. “Are you sure?”

  A little thrown by the question, Dash shrugged and said, “Um, it would be a good starting point…”

  “The answer is no!” Granddad Ian practically shouted. “Not in the least! It’s just random nonsense!”

  Agatha decided she’d better step in. She thanked Granddad Ian, gave him a reassuring hug, and skimmed through his notebook of statements. The handwriting was old-fashioned, tiny, and full of flourishes. The information was recorded in proper order, with the precision of an accountant. “You’ve done an excellent job,” she said gratefully. “Now, let’s line up the statements and weed out the ones that are useless.”

  “That’s how we detectives work,” confirmed Dash, suddenly hopeful again. “We narrow the field so we can focus on the most likely suspects.”

  Agatha flashed him a knowing smile and made room for him at the table. “Who should we start with, dear Granddad?”

  Feeling comfo
rted, Granddad Ian flipped through the notebook and pointed to a page. “This madman insists that he heard a gunshot. I had Chandler frisk all the guests, but he didn’t find any firearms.”

  “Why bother?” Dash said. “The witnesses were all out cold, so the thief wouldn’t have to resort to violence.”

  Granddad Ian turned the page. “This woman, a publicist with a nervous twitch, claims she saw a ghost walking upside down on the ceiling,” he said. “What do you think? Is she—?”

  “Next!” Agatha cut him off.

  “All right, how about the still-life painter who heard a wolf howl in the hall?” Granddad Ian continued, undaunted.

  “I’d say he’s got some kind of imagination!” Dash snickered.

  Agatha chewed on her lip, deep in thought. “Are we sure it’s just imagination?” she asked.

  “You don’t really think Castle Dunnottar has ghosts and wolves, do you?” Dash wondered.

  “Of course not,” said Agatha. “But I’m wondering what substance might cause such hallucinations.”

  “Maybe they were nightmares caused by the sudden sleepiness?” Ian Mistery wondered. “It can happen.”

  “Exactly,” said Agatha, tapping her nose. “But why were they suddenly sleepy? We need to find out how everyone fell asleep at the same time.”

  “So we’re not going to keep reading statements?” asked Dash. “Too bad. I was really enjoying them!”

  “Agatha’s right,” said Ian Mistery. “The main issue is what kind of substance was used to put all the guests to sleep instantly. Any ideas?”

  “Chloroform needs to be inhaled at close range,” reflected his granddaughter. “But there are other sleep-inducing substances that can be injected or swallowed. What do you think, Dash?”

  “I’d rule out injections,” replied her cousin. “Too hard to administer.”