Atticus Claw Hears a Roar Read online

  Then I picked up the hammer and chisel.

  Yes, reader, I finished the work that Butterworth had started: I destroyed the hieroglyphs. But whereas Butterworth had acted from fear, I acted from greed and ambition. This was my chance to become one of the world’s most famous explorers.

  If I didn’t find the lost treasure of the jaguar gods, then no one else would.

  I ran back to the camp. Butterworth kept his notes in a carved wooden chest beneath his bed. I tore out the pages that I needed, threw them into the chest with my drawings, and left the rest of Butterworth’s work beside his bed for the other members of the team to find.

  Only then did I raise the alarm.

  The Voyage of The Pink Dolphin

  With the help of Butterworth’s notes, it didn’t take me long to work out what I wanted to know. According to the hieroglyphs, the valley of the jaguar gods lay approximately four hundred miles south-east of Pikan, deep in the unexplored jungle of Nicaragua. The train would take me three quarters of the way there.

  The last hundred miles could only be navigated by boat.

  Eventually the day came when I was ready for the final leg of my journey. I had purchased a small paddle steamer, The Pink Dolphin, which I named after the pale pink dolphins that inhabit the rivers there.

  I set my compass to the correct bearings and set off downriver.

  I will never forget that first morning. I felt as if I were an ancient Mayan journeying into the complete unknown. The jungle stretched before me as far as the eye could see. I could make out the peaks of distant volcanoes and the blue veins of rivers. The vegetation was thicker than anything I had come across before. It would have been impassable on foot. I had never seen such trees – they stretched into the air like giants reaching for the sun. High above me birds whooped and sang. Enormous butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. A troop of woolly monkeys swung happily through the branches after The Pink Dolphin.

  I felt on top of the world.

  So it was until dark. Then the jungle became a different place. The monkeys fell silent. So did the birds. Instead the air was alive with the sound of insects and the beat of bat wings. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a jaguar roar. I moored The Pink Dolphin as close as I dared to the bank without her running aground, ate a frugal supper and went to bed.

  It was then that the river creatures began their attack.

  What can I tell you, reader, of the horrors of that first night? Of the enormous crocodiles, the giant anaconda and the swarm of flying piranha fish that besieged The Pink Dolphin? Of the legion of sticky leeches that crawled up my trouser legs, the army of poisonous frogs that invaded my pants, and the infestation of mini tarantula-bats that nested in my beard?

  No, reader, I cannot tell you, for if I did you would never sleep soundly in your beds again.

  Somehow the journey passed. During the daytime I kept my spirits up by singing to the woolly monkeys and drinking cups of strong tea, but each night brought new terrors. Yet in spite of everything, I was excited. According to my calculations I was nearing my destination.

  The valley of the jaguar gods was tantalisingly close.

  On the fifth morning the river began to broaden out. At first I succeeded in keeping The Pink Dolphin close to the bank, where the current was weaker. But soon I lost control. The little boat was at the mercy of the river. Faster and faster we went, through the rocks and rapids. In the distance I could hear a thunderous boom. It didn’t take me long to work out that it was the sound of thousands of tons of water crashing over a cliff.

  We were approaching a waterfall!

  There was nothing I could do except pray. The Pink Dolphin bobbed towards its doom. I could see the edge of the waterfall but nothing beyond that through the spray. I closed my eyes and jumped clear of the little boat. I thought I should surely drown as I tumbled through the churning water and plunged into the lake below. But then I saw sunlight above me. Somehow I managed to swim to the surface.

  I had survived!

  The Valley of the Jaguar Gods

  I found myself in a great lagoon surrounded on all sides by lush rainforest. The lagoon was in a deep gorge that stretched for miles and miles in each direction – beyond the horizon. Ahead of me two volcanoes rose up into the clouds. Behind me the waterfall crashed and churned. I felt sure that this secret place must be where the ancient Maya had travelled a thousand years before me.

  I had reached the valley of the jaguar gods.

  I struck out for the shore. Butterworth’s wooden chest lay in the shallows, but there was little left of the brave Pink Dolphin. Hastily I constructed a raft from the debris, lashing it together with vines. With my penknife I fashioned a paddle from a piece of tree bark.

  As soon as I found the lost treasure, I would be ready to make my getaway.

  It was then that I saw the skeleton. It sat propped up against a tree. Beside it were two masks: one the face of a bird, the other the face of a jaguar. I picked up the masks to examine them. They were the sacrificial masks of the ancient Maya, that much I knew. But what were they doing here?

  My mind was racing. Had the jaguar gods left them with the skeleton as a warning for others who dared to enter their secret land? Was it true what Butterworth had said: that anyone who tried to reveal the secrets of the gods was doomed? No, I told myself. There must be some other explanation. There was no such thing as jaguar gods.

  Or was there?

  I glanced up. An enormous jaguar was sitting on a rock at the base of the waterfall at the mouth of a cave. From behind it, within the cave, I could see piles of precious stones sparkling against the torrents of water. My heart skipped a beat. The lost treasure! The jaguar was guarding it!

  As I watched, a second jaguar emerged from the cave, then a third and a fourth. Very soon the jaguars were seven in number, sitting in a line across the face of the waterfall. They opened their great jaws and roared together. The noise was shattering, as if the earth itself were breaking.

  Gods or not, I was in no doubt that these jaguars were warning me off their treasure and away from their valley.

  The memory of what had happened to Butterworth came flooding back. Terrified, I threw the masks into the chest with the notes, pushed the raft out into the lagoon, jumped aboard and paddled away from the waterfall as fast as I could. Then I drifted downstream. I remember little after that. Days blurred into nights. Nights blurred into dawn. I was weak with hunger and parched with thirst. But the river creatures did not trouble me. It was as if they no longer had any interest in me now that I had been cast out of the valley of the jaguar gods.

  Eventually I fell into unconsciousness. The next thing I remember was waking up on a mat of straw surrounded by villagers. Somehow my raft had found its way to the mouth of the river. A fisherman had found it floating in the sea.

  I do not know how it got there, nor for how long I was unconscious.

  What I do know is that the valley of the jaguar gods exists. And that one day I shall return and claim the lost treasure.

  ‘What a cheat!’ Callie said crossly.

  ‘To think Howard Toffly kept the chest hidden in Nellie’s attic so that no one else could find the lost treasure!’ Mrs Tucker said hotly. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from a Toffly!’

  Back at number 2 Blossom Crescent everyone was having a late supper of cheese on toast around the kitchen table. Nellie and Thomas were there too; Thomas as a treat for helping Atticus rescue Howard Toffly’s journal from Nellie’s shed before the thieves took it. They were all discussing the developments of the afternoon (except Atticus and Thomas, who were eating yummy sachets of cat food in gravy and listening in).

  ‘It’s a pity Howard Toffly’s dead,’ said Inspector Cheddar, ‘or I’d arrest him immediately and take him down to the police station for questioning.’ He did a few karate chops just to show that he meant it.

  For once Atticus agreed with him. Howard Toffly was a crook. He’d stolen a valuable s
ecret from the ruins at Pikan, destroyed the evidence with a hammer and chisel, and kept how to find the lost treasure of the jaguar gods all for himself. It was a rotten, mean, selfish thing to do.

  ‘What did Professor Verry-Clever recommend?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘He wants to mount an expedition to the jungle to find the treasure,’ Michael said, ‘so that we can return it to the people of Central America. He says he knows just the person to lead it.’

  ‘Bravo!’ said Inspector Cheddar. ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘All of us!’ Callie said.

  ‘I’m not sure I can spare the time,’ said Inspector Cheddar. ‘I’ve still got to identify the owner of that spoon we found in Nellie’s shed.’

  Atticus rolled his eyes at Thomas.

  ‘It was the Tofflys, Dad!’ Michael said. ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as obvious in the world of seaside potting-shed crime,’ Inspector Cheddar said sternly. ‘A good detective looks at all the evidence.’

  Callie giggled. ‘It’s not a murder investigation, Dad!’

  Just as well, Atticus thought. Inspector Cheddar would probably trip over the body without noticing it.

  ‘It’s a pity the burglars took the masks,’ Mrs Tucker said, changing the subject. ‘I would have liked to show them to Professor Verry-Clever.’

  ‘I told you they were sacrificial,’ Nellie remarked. She had finished her cheese on toast and was knitting a quick pair of bed socks.

  Inspector Cheddar snorted.

  ‘No, Dad, Nellie was bang-on about them,’ Michael told him seriously. ‘They actually were the sacrificial masks of the ancient Maya. That’s what Professor Verry-Clever said.’

  ‘And Howard Toffly,’ Callie pitched in. ‘He said so in his account.’

  ‘It was clever of you to know that, Nellie,’ Mrs Cheddar said, pouring the old lady a cup of tea.

  ‘Yes, how on earth did you?’ Mrs Tucker asked.

  ‘Please tell us, Nellie,’ Callie begged.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Nellie, ‘as long as you promise not to tell anyone else.’

  ‘We promise,’ the children chorused.

  Atticus tried to look as if he couldn’t care less what Nellie was going to say. He didn’t want her starting on all that witchy stuff again. He pretended to examine his claws.

  ‘I’ve got second sight,’ Nellie declared.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I can see things that are going to happen without actually seeing them, if you know what I mean. My mother had it, and her mother before that. The Smellie women have always had it, right back to old Esme Smellie who was burned at the stake for being a witch in the fifteenth century.’

  Atticus wondered briefly if Esme Smellie had had a cat and, if she did, what had happened to it. His chewed ear drooped.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Inspector Cheddar laughed. ‘Good one, Nellie!’

  ‘Shut up, Dad!’ Michael said. ‘That’s so cool, Nellie!’

  ‘Not for Esme it wasn’t,’ Nellie said sharply. ‘It was very hot. Luckily she made it rain and managed to escape.’

  ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ Inspector Cheddar held his sides with mirth.

  Mrs Cheddar dug him hard in the ribs with her elbow.

  Callie’s forehead screwed into a frown. ‘You’re not a witch, are you, Nellie?’ she asked in awe.

  ‘He, he, he!’ Inspector Cheddar tittered quietly.

  Now that was a good question. Atticus pricked up his ears. He wanted to hear what Nellie had to say. At the same time he yawned loudly as if the whole conversation bored him. He didn’t want Nellie to start reading his thoughts again.

  Nellie put down her knitting needles and fixed the children with a stern look. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she replied stiffly. Her gaze shifted to Atticus. She gave him a big wink. Atticus went rigid with shock. Nellie could see right through him. She knew he was only pretending not to listen!

  ‘Did you actually see someone being sacrificed yesterday when you put your hands on the chest?’ Michael asked her.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Nellie.

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ Callie squealed. ‘Who was it?’

  Atticus sighed. He couldn’t understand why children were so bloodthirsty. Thomas was too. The kitten was loving it. He jumped on to Callie’s lap so he could hear the answer. Atticus lay down in his basket in what he hoped was a dignified police-cat sort of way that suggested the whole subject was beneath him.

  ‘I don’t know exactly who it was,’ Nellie said. ‘I didn’t wait to find out. Although there was something familiar about them.’ She scratched her armpit with a knitting needle.

  ‘What did they look like?’ asked Callie.

  ‘They were the spitting image of your dad, as a matter of fact,’ Nellie said, peering at Inspector Cheddar with her rheumy eyes.

  Atticus lifted his head in surprise. Inspector Cheddar?

  ‘Me?’ Inspector Cheddar said, dumbfounded. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He was a dead ringer,’ Nellie declared.

  Atticus felt uneasy. The person Nellie had seen couldn’t be Inspector Cheddar, could it? True, on their adventures together so far Inspector Cheddar had been cursed by pirates, knocked out with a sleeping potion by a Russian criminal mistress of disguise, and almost pickled by a mad Italian art collector. But sacrificed by the ancient Maya? That sounded too bonkers, even for him.

  ‘But it couldn’t have been Dad, Nellie,’ Michael reasoned. ‘Because the ancient Maya died out over a thousand years ago. You must have seen something in the past, not the future.’

  ‘In which case it was just a slave who looked like Dad who was being sacrificed,’ Callie said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Nellie, getting back to her knitting. ‘I must have got mixed up.’

  ‘Look at the time!’ Mrs Tucker got up from the table and pulled on her biker boots. ‘I’d better get going. I promised I’d help Herman shampoo his beard-jumper tonight. I’ll drop Nellie and Thomas off on my way home.’ The three of them left. Mrs Cheddar took the kids upstairs to bed, while Inspector Cheddar loaded the dishwasher.

  Atticus settled down again in his basket. He’d had a tiring day on top of a busy night. Even so, he couldn’t seem to drop off. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Inspector Cheddar being dragged up the steps of a pyramid towards a stone altar by men in sacrificial masks. But Michael and Callie were right: it couldn’t have been Inspector Cheddar that Nellie had seen. The ancient Maya were history; what Nellie had seen must have been in the past.

  Atticus tried counting sardines instead. Very soon he was fast asleep.

  Meanwhile, in Nicaragua, the magpies were having an even worse nightmare of their own.

  ‘Of all the rotten luck,’ Thug said. ‘I mean, what are the chances of getting bird-napped by the Tofflys and ending up in Knicker-agua having to clean Pam’s poo bucket?’

  Slim as the chances undoubtedly were, that is exactly what had happened to Jimmy and his gang. The unfortunate trio had arrived in an overnight diplomatic bag at the British Embassy in Managua to find themselves confronted by a horrible group of people, and a revolting parrot they had hoped never to see again in their whole entire magpie lives, namely (in no particular order):

  • A short fat man with a fake beard (Lord Toffly)

  • A tall thin woman with a false nose (Lady Toffly)

  • A woman who looked like a cross between a warthog and a hippopotamus (Ribena)

  • A very large man with a very loud voice (Benjamin Posh-Scoundrel)

  • A rotund parrot with severe flatulence (Pam)

  And now they were engaged in scraping Pam’s droppings off the sides of the bucket with a packet of Thumpers’ Traditional Scrubbit and an old toothbrush.

  ‘Pam’s poo is even worse than I remember,’ Slasher said, hopping on to the rim of the bucket for some poo-free air.

  ‘That’s because she’s full of wind,’ Thug said, hopping
up beside him. ‘It’s since them doctors blew her up with the bicycle pump. She’s like a whoopee cushion. Push her and all the gas blows out of her bum: tthththththththththththththth –’ he gave a rude impression – ‘stop pushing her and she fills up with air again, ready for the next plop.’ He puffed out his cheeks in an imitation of an inflating Pam.

  ‘It’s the Boss I feel sorry for,’ Slasher said. ‘Imagine being married to that!’

  ‘I’d rather marry a whoopee cushion,’ said Thug.

  The magpies were in the Ambassador’s study. It was a palatial room with a very high ceiling from which hung an enormous chandelier. Attached to its walls were the stuffed heads of various unfortunate animals that Benjamin Posh-Scoundrel had shot before the Nicaraguan government had had a chance to protect them. On the polished wooden floor lay their skins. Apart from the stuffed heads, the room was dominated by the Ambassador’s desk; an imposing affair with numerous drawers and a green baize top, like a billiard table. It was piled high with important-looking papers. Besides the papers there was just enough space for a large red telephone, a blotting pad, a fountain pen, a glass inkwell, an abacus, a rubber stamp saying “TOP SECRET”, a book of Latin poetry, a pyramid of spherical chocolates wrapped in gold foil, and a pair of antique pistols. There was no sign of a computer. Benjamin Posh-Scoundrel preferred to do things the old-fashioned way.

  ‘How’s he getting on?’ asked Thug. ‘Has she still got him in a tail-lock?’

  Opposite the desk stood an ornate chaise longue covered with cushions. It was from here that a loud noise issued.

  ‘CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA!’

  ‘SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK!’

  ‘No, she’s just nagging him,’ Slasher said.