Pages from Scottish History

Agaton watched what he could see of the crowd with interest and no little amusement. It was difficult to remain silent and immobile in the midst of such drama, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t fascinating to see the tour’s impatience grow to anger, to the increasing discomfort of the two crooks.

The arrival of the superintendent promised to take things to an even more fevered pitch. He marched into the room, tall and slender, his hands folded behind his back and a look of unquestionable authority on his face. His hair was dark and he wore a long beard, though impeccably groomed.

‘Now what appears to be the problem?’ he said; clearly meaning: ‘Why is a person of my importance being troubled in the middle of the day when he ought to be enjoying a nice cup of tea and a custard cream?’

The entire tour spoke at once, a cacophony of complaint. But the Superintendent took it all in his stride. He held up a hand for silence and to everyone’s surprise, he received it.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’m sorry that you are unhappy with the service you’ve received. The two attendants for this section of the castle have only just returned from sick leave, after the recurrence of an old war wound.’

‘What, both of them?’ came a voice from the back.

‘Yes,’ said the superintendent firmly. ‘It was a very long war.’

There was a moment of collective thought, followed by a domino chain of acceptance.

‘In that case, we completely understand,’ said the previously irate Ellen. ‘My husband was in the service. For ten years after he came home, he couldn’t lift as much as a bag of garbage.’

Kenton shuffled behind his wife and coughed.

‘We did, however, pay for a tour,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you could tell us something about the room, Superintendent.’

‘My pleasure, madam.’

The Superintendent moved into the centre of the room and cleared his throat.

‘Now, of course, if I told you all of the romantic and exciting stories that have occurred in this room, you wouldn’t believe me. It was from this very room, for instance, that King James I of Scotland eloped with Princess Smaragda of Inverness, tying a silken ladder to that very windowsill,’ he indicated a window at the far end of the room, just past Agaton’s hiding place.

‘But we’re on the ground floor,’ asked a tourist. ‘Why did he need a ladder?’

‘King James was a great romantic, but he was no scholar, I’m afraid. Thankfully, the Princess was as bright as she was beautiful. It was she who had saddled fresh horses, waiting for his arrival, and together they rode off to be wed at Stirling Castle.’

There was a general aura of swooning amongst the group and a spontaneous outbreak of applause. The superintendent, thought Agaton, certainly had a way with words.

And, it would seem, a love for the spotlight. The applause seemed to spur him to greater heights.

‘Now, if you like that one, kindly turn your attention to this suit of armour.’ The Superintendent began to move across the room. Agaton tried, if such a thing were possible, to remain even more immobile than he had been.

He could still see the two crooks at the back of the tour group. Why hadn’t they taken the opportunity to flee, in the confusion?

‘This very armour, you see,’ the Superintendent said, tapping the breastplate with one long, bony finger, ‘once belonged to an English king – a recent conqueror of the castle. The siege had been long and bloody and on the evening of his triumph, he threw a great feast, inviting the local chieftains so as to make a swift peace. They accepted the invitation too, keen to get a glimpse of the latest castle occupant.’

The superintendent paused for effect.

‘By way of a welcome to the Englishman, they brought with them their best pipers. After the meal, the pipers struck up. Unfortunately, the King had never previously encountered the sound of the bagpipes and, assuming he was under attack, he ordered his men to capture the musicians, setting the whole battle off again. Of course, even when the misunderstanding had been cleared up, word spread that he had insulted good, honest Scottish pipers and he spent the next eighteen months of his reign inside that suit of armour, night and day, for fear of reprisals.’

There was another round of applause and, to the great relief of both the crooks and Agaton Sax, the tour group finally streamed from the hall.

Which is when Agaton saw the Superintendent lean over and say something to the crooks before making his own exit.

Whatever it was that he said, it shook the crooks up almost as much as the presence of Agaton Sax had. They waited a few moments and then followed him out, looking sheepish.

There was a clatter as Agaton shed the armour and stretched his limbs. He fished the radio receiver from his pocket and switched it back on – having silenced it while hiding.

Had that been the contact the two crooks had expected? They didn’t seem to recognise him on their arrival. Yet it was clear he knew them.

This was all growing terribly complicated...

...which was just how Agaton Sax liked it.

He straightened his coat and followed the pulse from the receiver. He would have his answers yet.

***

The crooks had made their way to the edge of the castle grounds and a bright red telephone box. They crowded into it together and made a call.

Agaton tried to manoeuvre himself within listening distance, settling on a small bush which was thankfully more comfortable than the suit of armour had been.

Nonetheless, he could only make out a few words, the most important of which were ‘17:10’.

A time. For departure? For a bus or a train, perhaps?

The two men exited the phone booth and hailed a passing taxi. Once the coast was clear, Agaton did the same.

True to his musings, both taxis soon arrived at the railway station. Agaton checked his watch.

16:30.

There was still time. He trailed the men through the station, watching from behind luggage and book racks as they bought tickets and then slumped into a pair of waiting room seats.

With the criminals parked, Agaton took advantage of the breathing space to buy a timetable. He looked through it avidly, tracing the stations on a particular line with a forefinger. Then he looked up and grinned.

He’d thought as much.

‘Excellent,’ he whispered. His next steps were clear.

To celebrate his successful deduction, he bought a coffee and leant casually against a wall drinking it, one eye kept on the waiting room and its nefarious occupants.

He gave his watch another quick check, then moved to a phone box and dialled a very familiar number. It was answered cheerfully.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, Lispington?’ he said.

‘Agaton! My dear fellow. A pleasure to hear from you.’

‘You sound as though you’ve won the pools, Inspector.’

‘You’re not far off, Agaton. But it’s rather too soon to share the news.’

‘Even with me?’

The Inspector paused. Agaton Sax was his most trusted colleague and closest friend, and he was dying to tell someone his good news.

‘It’s a matter of national security, Agaton. I hope you understand. But I’ll speak to my government contacts. I’m sure we can get you the appropriate clearances. You’ve earned them, after all.’

‘You’ve made me curious, Lispington, so I appreciate that. When can I call you again? I’ve some business of my own to take care of at the moment that I’d also like to discuss with you.’

‘Can’t I call you?’

‘I’m afraid I shall be on the move, Lispington. Shall we say 10:00 tomorrow morning?’

‘Yes, yes, that will be fine.’

‘Until then, Inspector.’

‘Be safe, Agaton.’

‘I shall do my best.’

***

Agaton went straight from the phone box to the cloakroom, where he once again swapped clothes, re-cladding himself in his travelling disguise.

Having done so, he returned to the coffee shop and purchased a second cup. This time, he took a table and relaxed, confident that his plans were starting to come together. Lispington’s secret news interested him, strangely, but there would be time for that later.

It was then however he noticed from behind his dark glasses that he was being watched. From a table on the other side of the café, two men were staring directly at him. On feeling his attention being drawn, they turned away, pretending to be very interested in the behaviour of a passing waitress.

Agaton Sax was too experienced to fall for such a simple trick. He reached into his pocket and produced a miniature camera. Then, he picked up a discarded newspaper from the table and a fork, punched a hole in the paper, and then raised it to cover his face.

Behind the paper, he moved the tiny camera lens to the hole he’d made and quickly took two good snaps of the men. If he was right, they were from the same gang as the men he was following.

He was on the trail of two crooks and now two further crooks were on his. It seemed a fair balance. Besides, he had a plan and no number of criminals would interrupt it.

Agaton paid for his coffee and moved to leave the coffee shop. Reaching the door, he turned back to retrieve the newspaper. The crooks, thinking he was leaving, had already stood up to follow and were now forced to crash clumsily back into their seats.

Agaton decided to have a little fun for all of his pains.

He turned back to the door again, this time stepping halfway through before swinging back into the room for a box of matches.

This time one of the crooks walked straight into a waitress, who showed her displeasure by walloping him upside the head with her tray.

In the commotion, Agaton made his real exit, having bought himself a useful head start – just enough time to hail and enter a taxi.

‘Quickly, please!’ he said to the driver.

‘Of course, sir. Any particular direction?’

Agaton gave an address, seeing in the taxi’s rearview mirror that the two new crooks were attempting and failing to acquire transportation of their own.

A grin spread over the detective’s features as they sped away towards the home of one Professor Mortimer, stopping briefly at the hotel for a few supplies.

Agaton Sax did not know Professor Mortimer. They had never met. But he was aware of his work, having read many of his books, because the Professor was the world’s leading expert on the Cryptic language.

As we have already established, Cryptic is a rare and difficult language, spoken by very few. Agaton himself had only learned it on a seaside vacation in the South of England. Fourteen days of rain had given him plenty of time to spend on a Cryptic primer he had discovered on the bookshelves of the boarding house in which he was staying.

It fascinated him sufficiently for him to delve further into the language, finally taking on a private tutor in Yorkshire to perfect his accent.

As the taxi drove towards Dunbar, where the Professor’s home was located, Agaton ran through what he did know. Mortimer was not a Scot, but an American who had settled there upon his retirement, devoting his later years to writing books on the Cryptic language.

Agaton had long wanted to make his acquaintance but until now had been so busy fighting crime that the opportunity never arose. Now his vocation and his hobby had met somewhere in the middle, and he was looking forward, he hoped, to finally meeting the great man.

He also had a special reason for feeling happy – which will be explained later – and this reason required that he continued to travel in disguise. To this purpose, he carried a visiting card (one of the things he had picked up from his hotel room) introducing himself as Douglas B. White of 13 College Crescent, Cheltenham.

An hour and a half later, when he arrived at Professor Mortimer’s home he was carrying the second thing he had picked up en route: a small parcel, wrapped up in clean, white paper.

The house was not large but it stood alone, with a sizeable garden at both the front and back. On the front lawn there were three small stone statues of learned men in wigs, each carrying an armful of books.

It was a scholar’s home, most certainly.

Agaton made his way up the short flight of steps and rang the bell. Soon, from within came the tell-tale sound of slippered feet shuffling towards the door.

It might have been his imagination getting away from him, but they sounded exactly like the footsteps of an absent-minded professor interrupted in his work.