Henry T Dalrymple and the Golden Eye of Huni

HENRY T DALRYMPLE

and the

GOLDEN EYE OF HUNI

Christine Cuneo

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2016 © Christine Cuneo

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

Dedicated

to

Questers everywhere

Chapter One

Henry T Dalrymple burped politely behind his leather glove and frowned at the empty plate which moments before had been speckled with the pale golden crumbs of a honey-butter teacake. Once again, Cook had made it far too sweet for his liking and perhaps a touch too buttery. He patted his stomach a little anxiously and was relieved to feel the muscles were as taut and hard as always – the reward of constant exercise and a vigilant workout routine. Henry T glanced ruefully at the plate. He much preferred her savoury pumpkin gem scones, but scones were on Saturdays and honey teacake was on Thursdays and that was as unchangeable as Farmer Stone’s bad breath. Ah well … He sighed deeply and glanced over at the round, quivering and gently snoring figure of his friend and partner, Octavius Sinclair.

Octavius’ parents were history buffs and spent all their time in the library between the Ancient Roman Age and Greek Culture, which probably explained their son’s bizarre love of extremely salty white cheese and, of course, his unusual name. Octavius was the fourth of six brothers who were called Brutus, Flavius, Augustus, Cassius and Nero. As you can imagine, living with such a name was not at all easy. Add this to the fact that his parents came from strict Scottish stock (which meant the boys were all expected to wear kilts and tartan) and you will understand that none of them escaped embarrassment and the usual tortures of the schoolyard. These trials did however make for a very close and lovingly supportive family.

Henry T yawned widely, feeling a little sorry for himself. He was an only child and, unfortunately, an orphan. His parents had been killed by a vicious attack of food poisoning. Henry T had witnessed their end in utter horror and was very glad he had stubbornly refused to eat his greens.

Alone and heartbroken, he had been welcomed into the loud and boisterous Sinclair family and had taken refuge behind the dusty volumes of crime and mystery thrillers. And, of course, he and Octavius had become firm friends. Actually, they had become more than friends. They were Blood Brothers and partners in crime-solving. For you see, Henry T Dalrymple was a Private Detective. And not only was he the most intelligent and brilliant detective in the entire River Dell district, Henry T Dalrymple was also a mouse.

Henry T heard the slow heavy footsteps of Clunkhilda the maid as she lumbered up the passageway on her way to collect the tea-tray and, with one elegant movement, swooped up his hat, brushed off his coat and jabbed the snoozing Octavius in the ribs.

What on earth …? Octavius leapt to his feet, not an easy feat for one with such a vast waistline. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and peered about as if expecting an invasion of some sort.

Time to depart my dear Sinclair. It wouldn’t do to give poor Clunkhilda a heart attack. Although the sight of two very handsome and elegantly dressed mice might be the most exciting spectacle she will ever have the good fortune to see. And with that he somersaulted neatly onto the sofa and slid easily down the loose cover, slowing his descent by wrapping his tweed-trousered legs around the silky fabric and landing silently on the polished floor below.

Hoostibasticus!! Octavius exclaimed crossly (this being Greek for Bother). He landed with a heavy thud beside his friend. "All this subterfuge and sneaking about is undignified and extremely tiring. We’ve been hiding from the girl for years. Why can’t we simply explain …"

"Because nothing is ever simple in the human world, interrupted his partner. Besides, you wouldn’t get more than two words out before she’d be screaming and jumping on chairs. Remember last month when you tried to compliment Cook on her jam roly-poly? Total hysteria. And you didn’t even get to speak. All you achieved was a blitz of infernal mousetraps all over the house and didn’t that make you Mr Popularity? Nobody spoke to us for days. No, much better to go our way and let the humans go theirs." And with that, Henry T strode off towards the fireplace where he slipped through a small opening between the mantle and the brickwork.

Octavius grunted and followed his friend to the wall where he very carefully inched his rather round body through the crack, catching the sleeve of his wool jacket on a sharp splinter. "Oh double Hoostibasticus!!"

Well, now is probably a good time to tell you about the household where Henry T grew up and what is going on behind the scenes because, if by chance you’re like me, you’re a curious type and always want to know exactly what is happening every moment in every corner of the universe. So let’s get this out of the way and then we can continue with the more important part of the story, which is how Henry T Dalrymple helps the humans out of a very big pickle and, in doing so, discovers who he really is!

The River Dell district is one of the most beautiful places in the county, with round rolling hills of emerald green, speckled here and there with snowy white sheep and fields bordered with long rows of bushes that dress themselves each year in sunny summer flowers. The earth here is rich and chocolate brown and almost anything that grows in it is worthy of first prize at the County Fair.

Of course, the humans take great pride in this and are smug enough to think they are responsible. They never stop to wonder about the millions of creatures that live underground, working tirelessly day and night to achieve this marvel. The worms and beetles that tunnel endlessly, excavating oxygen and water supply lines to the hungry plant roots; the small burrowers, and those that amble through the grassy meadows, spreading seeds that stickily cling to their furry coats, so they might reach and colonise new areas. Not to mention the vast amounts of natural fertilisers these creatures contribute … Well perhaps it’s better not to! After all, we don’t know each other very well yet.

The house where Henry T and Octavius grew up is known by the curious name of Shangri-La and actually belongs to an extremely old gentleman called Mr Lucentius White. Mr White had spent a lot of his life wandering around a vast part of the world called Asia and so the rooms (and there are many of these as the gentleman was very well-off) are filled with the souvenirs of his travels. Some of these souvenirs are extremely beautiful, such as the giant black-haired dolls that stand beneath great glass domes so that their white painted faces and fantastic robes are not damaged by dust, and some are quite frightening, like the grinning masks with red-rimmed eyes and sharp white fangs and the statues of strange figures with many arms waving from their bodies. Henry T and the Sinclair boys would delight in scaring the smaller mouse children with dark tales of how these monsters stalked the halls at night searching for food and delicious snacks, particularly of the furry kind. Actually, this joke was so successful that it has always remained a mystery to mouse parents as to why it was so easy to get their offspring safely tucked into their beds as soon as it grew dark!

The other inhabitants of the human household consist of Clunkhilda the maid, who is a big clumsy sort of girl with a very kind heart, and Mrs Sneerk the cook, a thin shrivelled woman who has a most irritating nervous twitch in her left eye and mean lips that droop downwards – not at all the sort of person one would imagine filling delicate cupcakes with rich cream or serving up the great fruit pudding at Christmas.

Clunkhilda has wispy does nothing dirty-blonde hair pulled back in a tight elastic band which makes her big moon face appear even moonier. She wears a perpetually sad hangdog look and a small heart-shaped ring that almost disappears into the flesh of her dough-like white finger. Henry T always wondered if it was a memento of a lost love or a trinket from a pack of cereal. Whatever the story, there was definitely a mystery there.

With Cook, however, there was no mystery at all, unless you counted the amber liquid she kept in the big vanilla essence bottle, that wasn’t actually vanilla essence. Even Henry T knew that humans didn’t go around swigging vanilla at regular intervals. He often wondered if humans realised how many eyes were watching their every move and if they would act any differently if they did.

Both Clunkhilda and Mrs Sneerk live in two tiny rooms at the top of the house where they eat copious amounts of chocolate and sigh deeply over the latest so-called romantic novels, dreaming of handsome heroes arriving on white horses (although in Mrs Sneerk’s case it is almost always a sleek Rolls Royce). Unfortunately for them, the only eligible males in their rather humdrum, dull and dreary lives are Mr White who can hardly walk without his cane and Farmer Stone who works the farm.

Farmer Stone is a big beefy boisterous bully of a man who constantly scratches his enormous stomach and sucks air through the gap where a front tooth should be. This tends to make small whistling sounds which are very disconcerting. Add to this his other unpleasant dental problem which I have already mentioned at the beginning of the story and you will agree he is quite an unattractive personage. Farmer Stone lives alone in a small cottage beside the pig yard which is just the place for him. He once had a wife but she ran off to sunny Italy where she met an organ grinder from Verona and now makes pizzas in a tiny ristorante by the blue Mediterranean Sea. Farmer Stone is perhaps understandably a little bitter about all this.

Mr Lucentius White has never married, having had difficulty finding a lady ready to endure the harsh places to which his wandering soul has led him. He spends his days buried amongst the many books in his vast library burrowing out at irregular intervals to munch on meals of dry toast and crumbly cheese and the odd Sunday roast. His only weakness is cake and sweets which are served in the drawing room at four every afternoon without fail.

So now you have a few details about the human beings living at Shangri-La, I suppose you’ll want to know all about the almost-humans! Well, I’ve mentioned Henry T and the Sinclair family but there are literally hundreds of others (if you count the bird population. And the bugs, of course). Perhaps we’ll mention the others as we go rather than take up space now. It’s probably enough to say there is the usual assortment of rodents, cats, dogs and farm animals, although the plough horses, oxen, hens and milk cows nowadays prefer to be called farm labourers! It’s a union thing.

By now you are probably wondering if you had imagined me saying that Henry T was a mouse detective. Well no, actually, you didn’t and yes, actually, he is.

There are not many mouse detectives in the River Dell district where Henry T Dalrymple lives. In fact Henry T is the only one, I believe, and I am never wrong. After all, Private Detection is a thriving business in this age of increased crime and misdoings and there are many who will take advantage of grim circumstances. Henry T, however, did not go looking for business, business came looking for him.

The very first case that Henry T solved involved a lost rabbit named Phillip who had been missing from his burrow for two days. His frantic parents had searched everywhere with no success. It seemed that the unfortunate bunny had disappeared without a trace.

It was Octavius’ brother, Flavius, who brought the case to Henry T’s attention and he was instantly drawn into the mystery, questioning the unfortunate Flavius until he could take no more and rather rudely suggested that Henry T speak to the distraught parents himself.

Jolly good idea, Henry T muttered to himself. If you want a job done properly, you should do it yourself. He jammed his favourite detecting hat on his head and strode off towards the burrows, forcing poor Octavius to jog in order to keep up with him.

After interrogating the bewildered parents, Henry T asked politely if he could examine their son’s room. Phillip’s mother led the two friends to a small cubbyhole in the depths of the burrow and immediately started to snuffle and sob at the sight of her lost son’s stuffed teddy collection lined up forlornly on top of the pillow. It was left to Octavius to comfort the poor lady while Henry T looked carefully into all the corners, poking his cane into all the crevices and finally under the bed. Out it came with a rather dog-eared and torn restaurant advertisement attached to its point.

Well, well … what have we here? he exclaimed waving the paper accusingly under the mother’s whiskers.

Oh that! she sniffled. Phillip is obsessed with chocolate. It was his dream to one day taste a real Swiss chocolate fondue. You know, where you put pieces of fruit and marshmallows on a fork and dip them into hot melted chocolate. His father and I could never understand it. ‘You’re a rabbit,’ we’d tell him. ‘Rabbits are vegetarians. Strictly no dairy. Live with it!’

Ah but you see the unfortunate Phillip didn’t want to live with it. He wanted to experience life. To go where no rabbit has been before! Namely, The Edelweiss Swiss Restaurant in Brambly Oaks. To taste chocolate fondue or die! Henry T waved his cane with a dramatic flourish as Phillip’s mother screamed and fainted into Octavius’ arms.

Of course, not content with solving the mystery of young Phillip’s whereabouts, Henry T was determined to find the adventurous bunny and bring him home safely to his family, knowing himself how awful it is to lose a loved one. To this end he had dispatched Octavius to make suitable travel arrangements to the nearby township of Brambly Oaks where the magical restaurant was located. As he waited, he made lots of scribbly notes in a tiny black notebook his mother had given to him when he passed the sixth grade.

Octavius arrived at Henry T’s side puffing and wheezing but looking extremely pleased with himself. "It’s all arranged. Edward, the plough horse – excuse me, plough labourer – is taking the produce to market in Brambly Oaks tomorrow. We must be ready by 6 am and must hide in the potato sacks because they are unloaded last and nobody will be tempted to open them as they do the strawberry baskets. Are you listening to me, Henry T …? he demanded, standing with legs and arms akimbo, his sporran swinging wildly in front of his kilt. Why are you sucking on that pipe? You know you don’t smoke!"

"Of