The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes Read online

  “Yes, several colleges were started many centuries ago,” Fiona said. “The one at Borreraig trained the MacCrimmons, a clan of fine pipers for more than two hundred years!”

  “It’s thrilling to think that the bagpipe we know today has such a long and colorful history,” Nancy remarked as she guided the small convertible along the neat, hedge-bordered roads.

  “Oh, yes, and its history is not Scottish alone,” Fiona declared. “I understand the instrument first was played in Egypt as a simple chanter and drone. Later on, these were attached to a bag made of skin and fitted to a blowpipe.”

  “Egypt!” Bess exclaimed, then giggled. “Can you imagine King Tut playing a bagpipe?”

  Fiona laughed. “Perhaps you ought to imagine that Aristotle and Julius Caesar were pipers, too, for the Greeks and Romans played the bagpipe. Then the custom spread through Europe by the Celtic and Roman invasions.”

  “If that’s true, why do we think of it as a Scottish instrument?” George asked.

  Fiona explained. “The primitive instrument is still played in isolated spots of Europe. But in most places music became an indoor entertainment and people were interested in more subdued melodies and elaborate arrangements.”

  “Dinner music,” George suggested, and Fiona nodded.

  “But its history was different in the Scottish Highlands,” Fiona declared. “Our lusty people loved the martial spirit of the music of the pipes and used it for marching troops. It pepped them up when they were tired. Chiefs of the Highland clans were proud of their pipers.”

  “George, I wish you hadn’t mentioned dinner music,” Bess declared. “I’m getting hungry!”

  The girls laughed, and Fiona said that they were only a short distance from an attractive golf course and hotel where they could lunch.

  All the girls had healthy appetites by the time they entered the large dining room. They were intrigued by a long, flower-decorated buffet table in the center of which stood the two-foot-high statue of a golfer carved in ice.

  An hour later the girls took off once more. For several more miles the drive led through wooded hillsides as well as others covered with large patches of heather. In the pastureland cattle and sheep seemed to roam at will across the road and up and down the slopes. Presently Nancy reached a long, narrow body of water which Fiona told them was an arm of Loch Leven.

  At the small village of Ballahulish, Fiona said, “We’ll take a ferry from here into Inverness-shire rather than drive the long way around the arm.”

  Nancy’s car was the first to arrive at the landing. Shortly afterward, other vehicles came up and soon the ferryboat approached.

  The Americans had never seen a craft like this one. It was small and flat, with a single deck. There was a tiny cabin for the pilot and his assistants at the stern. Fastened to the deck behind the cabin, and reaching to the bow of the ferry, was a turntable with stout steel raised gangplanks at either end.

  Because of the strong tide, the ferry was moored alongside the pier. Slowly the turntable began to move until it was at right angles to the deck. The nearer gangplank was let down and the cars drove off. Then Nancy was waved aboard. Three cars followed and they were tightly packed in. Once more the turntable swung halfway around and the little vessel started its journey.

  “Isn’t this divine!” Bess remarked as the refreshing wind whipped the girls’ hair.

  The ride across the loch was short. When the ferry reached the opposite shore, the turntable swung around, the gangplank was lowered, and the guard motioned for Nancy to drive off. She found herself fairly close to the edge of the cobblestone roadway which led up from the water. There was no rail, and on either side below, a marshy growth of reeds protruded from the surface.

  “Look out!” Bess cried out.

  Nancy glanced in the mirror, just in time to see the man behind her put on a burst of speed. The red-bearded stranger! He was so close she could pull over only about six inches. The next moment he gave her car a hard shove. The steering wheel twisted in Nancy’s hands, and before she could do anything, the girls’ convertible shot off into space!

  All its passengers were catapulted into the water except Nancy, who clung to the wheel and managed to stay in her seat. The car landed upright in about four feet of water.

  Immediately there were shouts of alarm. Cars stopped and people jumped out to rush to the girls’ assistance. Completely soaked and muddy, Bess, George, and Fiona waded to shore. Nancy, wet to her waistline, stood up on the seat.

  “I’ll help you, lass!” called a man.

  Already he had removed his shoes and socks and rolled his trousers up above his knees. He jumped into the water and quickly reached Nancy.

  She had recovered from her fright, but still felt a little shaky as she took his hand. “This is very kind of you, sir. Thank you. I wonder how we’ll get this car out.”

  “Ye canna drive it out, that is certain!” the Scotsman said with a smile. “But it is not a heavy car. I will fetch a group of my friends and we can lift it ashore.”

  “I appreciate your helpfulness,” said Nancy, “but I don’t want to put you to so much trouble. Isn’t there a wrecker that could do it?”

  “Aye, and that there be,” the man replied. “If you like, I will get in touch with the owner.”

  Meanwhile, the other girls were fuming over the accident. “The red-bearded man caused it!” Bess declared.

  At that moment a woman walked onto the dock. She gave the three girls a motherly smile and introduced herself as Mrs. Drummond.

  “I am so glad you are not hurt,” she said. “But I am sorry about your car. My croft home is not far from here—just beyond the mountain of Ben Nevis—and I live alone. It would be a pleasure if you lassies would stay with me until tomorrow morning. I am sure the car will not be in working condition before then.”

  The girls returned the woman’s smile and thanked her. Bess added, “So far as I’m concerned, I’d love to come, but first we’ll have to ask our friend Nancy Drew—the poor girl out there.”

  The other automobiles from the ferry had begun to move. George posted herself at the pier exit and stopped each driver to ask if he knew the man who had pushed Nancy off the roadway, or had noted his license number. Neither had. They had been so horrified at the accident they had not noticed. One man did say, however, that the fellow had driven off at once.

  “How dumb of me not to have spotted him on the boat!” George chided herself.

  By this time Nancy had been helped ashore. “I’m all right,” she assured her friends. Upon learning of Mrs. Drummond’s invitation, Nancy said, “We’ll be happy to accept your hospitality.”

  The man who had assisted Nancy then brought the girls’ bags from the trunk. Fortunately the compartment was watertight, and the suitcases were only slightly damp. They were lifted up to the pier and several other men willingly carried them to shore.

  Mrs. Drummond had been looking at Nancy intently. She now turned to Fiona and said something in Gaelic. Fiona smiled and told Nancy that Mrs. Drummond had asked if Nancy was the American girl detective whose picture she had seen.

  Nancy laughed. “I’m surprised you recognized me in such a bedraggled condition!”

  As soon as the waterlogged convertible had been towed away, Mrs. Drummond led the girls to her own car nearby. The luggage was stowed, and the five climbed in.

  Mrs. Drummond’s croft proved to be that in name only. The original one-room building was now the living room of a house with many other rooms. All the quaintness of the original croft had been left—its large stone fireplace, with hanging crane and iron pot; the rustic wooden chairs; the wall bed, which was now an attractive built-in sofa; and even a baby’s cradle.

  “Oh, this is absolutely charming!” Nancy exclaimed.

  The girls were led to two bedrooms, each with a huge canopied bed and colorful hand-woven draperies and rugs. Nancy would room with Fiona.

  By the time all four girls had bathed and were dressed,
Mrs. Drummond had a substantial supper ready. It started with cock-a-deckie soup of leeks and a boiling hen. Then came mutton stew, filled with potatoes and small white turnips. There was kale as a side dish, and for dessert a bowl of steamed bread pudding filled with currants and topped with custard sauce.

  “That was a marvelous meal!” Bess declared. “I’m stuffed!”

  “But you must have a treacle doddie!” Mrs. Drummond insisted, and brought out a jar of brown sticky candy balls. Bess and her friends could not resist, and found the sweets delicious.

  The girls helped Mrs. Drummond clear away the supper dishes. Then there was conversation by a cozy fire and finally the visitors said good night. Tucked under the covers at the foot of their beds each girl found an enormous hot-water bottle, which Fiona said was called a pig.

  “Mm! Feels wonderful!” Nancy thought as she cuddled, giggling, down among the covers.

  She slept soundly until midnight, then was awakened suddenly by the sound of bagpipes. She realized the music was some distance away, but Nancy could hear it well enough to recognize the first phrase of Scots, Wha Hae!

  “That’s funny—someone playing the pipes at this time of night—and not playing the tune very well.” Instantly her mind flew to Mr. Dewar and the bagpipe playing in his hotel room.

  “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Nancy decided as the phrase was repeated.

  She dressed quickly, tiptoed from the room, and went outside. There was a full moon, and though heavy mist lay over the landscape, Nancy was sure the music had come from a hill in the distance.

  She decided to sit down on a bench near the doorway of the croft and listen. Just then she heard a truck speeding along the road toward the house. As the big closed vehicle passed by, Nancy was aware of a plaintive bleat from within, like that of a lamb.

  Lambs! Sheep! Trucks! The story Ned had told Nancy of the stealing of sheep in the Highlands of Scotland flashed into the young sleuth’s mind.

  Could this truck, by any chance, belong to one of the gang?

  CHAPTER XII

  Strange Midnight Whistle

  NANCY ran forward and strained her eyes to catch the license number and make of the mysterious truck. But just then two swiftly running figures dashed up, obscuring her view.

  Bess and George!

  “Nancy, you scared us silly!” Bess complained. “We heard you leave your room and not come back. Why are you out here?”

  The young sleuth quickly explained.

  “Stolen sheep!” George exclaimed.

  Just as she spoke, the girls heard a whistling sound in the distance. With intermittent stops, it continued for nearly a minute.

  “What in the world is that?” Bess queried.

  Nancy said she thought it was being made on bagpipes.

  “I didn’t know you could whistle on bagpipes,” said Bess.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell us it’s some kind of a signal!” George guessed.

  “I wish I knew,” Nancy said thoughtfully, and led the way back into the house.

  Neither Mrs. Drummond nor Fiona had awakened, so it was not until morning that Nancy could tell about the playing of the bagpipes and the truck with a bleating lamb inside. At once Fiona said that the reed for a chanter could be split to make any kind of sound one wished. “But I don’t see why anyone would want to go to the trouble of having it whistle.”

  Nancy did not reply but felt that there might indeed be a very good reason. If it were a sinister one, she certainly hoped to find out what it was!

  Mrs. Drummond was very much concerned about the possibility of the truck having contained stolen sheep. She hurried to the telephone and called several of her neighbors to report her suspicions. When she rejoined the girls, the woman said:

  “Shepherds will go out at once with their dogs to make an investigation. Perhaps you girls would like to hike around to watch.”

  “Indeed we would!” said Nancy. “And do you think we should notify the police?”

  Mrs. Drummond said she supposed so, but added, “You know, thieves, like lightning, rarely strike in the same place twice. Besides, since we have no good description of the truck, there isn’t much for the authorities to go on.”

  George added, “Nancy, you heard only one bleating lamb. Maybe there weren’t any others inside.” Nancy agreed, admitting they had no real evidence.

  As soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Drummond told the girls which direction to take to watch the shepherds and their dogs. After hiking to a hillside, they saw a shepherd dressed in clothes much like a hunter’s, working with a black-and-white collie. It was rounding up sheep and bringing them to the man’s side. Fiona said this was called shedding.

  The Americans found it particularly fascinating to watch the strays, especially those with baby lambs. Once, an argumentative ewe was trying to keep her lamb from obeying the dog. She and her baby were pure white except for their black noses and feet. The girls laughed as the dog won out and succeeded in leading mother and daughter to the shepherd.

  Bess, noticing a small daub of red paint just in front of the sheeps’ tails, asked Fiona what this was for.

  “It identifies the flock, which wanders all over,” the Scottish girl replied. “Another farmer will use blue.”

  They talked for a few minutes with the shepherd, who said his dog was one of the best in the country. “He has won prizes in contests of cutting out sheep. Would you like to see him do it?” the man asked.

  “Oh, yes!” the girls chorused.

  He asked them to stand off at a little distance. As the collie waited, the shepherd went into the center of the assembled flock and laid his hand on the head of one of the sheep. Then he walked back to where the girls were standing.

  “Trixie,” he said to the dog, “bring me that sheep! ”

  The dog was off at once. He wound his way in and out among the animals, pushing softly at various ones and nosing at the legs of a few, to make a path for the designated sheep to get out. Now he worried the chosen ewe, which gamboled quickly to the man’s side. The whole procedure had taken less than a minute!

  “That’s marvelous!” Nancy exclaimed.

  As she stood admiring the ewe, she suddenly felt a tug on her jacket and looked down to find that the sheep had a button in its mouth! Nancy laughed and extricated it.

  The shepherd grinned. “There’s almost nothing a sheep won’t try the taste of.”

  The girls thanked him for the demonstration, then hurried back to the Drummond croft. They learned from their hostess that during the night a large number of sheep had disappeared from one of the nearby farms.

  “A large number?” Bess asked. “Could very many stand up in that truck you saw, Nancy?”

  The young detective had a theory. “It’s my guess they weren’t standing up. The thieves put them to sleep, but one lamb had revived by the time I heard it. The unconscious sheep, no doubt, were piled in that truck!”

  “How cruel!” Bess cried out.

  Mrs. Drummond smiled ruefully. “Thieves are never kind, gentle people,” she remarked. “But your idea is a good one, Nancy. Perhaps we should report it to the police.”

  “They might think my idea farfetched,” said Nancy. “Let’s wait until I have some concrete evidence.”

  At that moment the telephone rang, and after answering it, Mrs. Drummond told Nancy that her car was ready. “I’d like you girls to stay for a while, though. I’m enjoying your company. But when you’re ready to go, I’ll drive you to the garage.”

  “Thank you,” said Nancy. “I think as soon as we help you tidy the house, we had better be on our way.”

  As the girls were about to leave, Nancy found to her embarrassment that Mrs. Drummond would not take a farthing from her guests. This proved to be the case also with the garageman. He insisted that Nancy’s being pushed into the water was bad enough treatment for the visitors, and the least the natives could do for the girls was to speed them on their way without charge.


  Nancy was about to insist on some kind of reimbursement when Fiona touched her arm and whispered, “Please do not say any more. These people will be offended.”

  Mrs. Drummond gave Nancy a little farewell squeeze and said, “If you can solve the mystery of the stolen sheep, that will be wonderful pay for all of us.”

  The girls climbed into the sports car, now clean and shiny, and took the road to Fort William. When they reached the attractive town with its colorful waterfront and many historic points of interest, they went sightseeing, then had luncheon at a hotel.

  Afterward, Fiona took them to a museum. The girls found the quaint objects on display interesting, but what fascinated them most was a unique kind of portrait.

  On a table lay a small, circular oil painting which looked like nothing else but daubs in various colors. At the center of the picture stood a cylindrical mirrored tube. When the girls looked into it, they could see the reflection of a handsome young man in Georgian clothes.

  “He is our famous Bonnie Prince Charlie,” Fiona explained, “grandson of King James II, and son of the Old Pretender, who lived in exile in France. In 1745 the young Charles returned to Scotland and gathered the Highlanders under his banner. He was badly defeated at the Battle of Culloden Moor and hid out in the glens and hills.

  “There were still many people in Scotland who would have liked him to win. One of these was a woman named Flora MacDonald. She had the prince disguise himself in her maid’s clothes, which enabled him to escape and return to France.”

  “How romantic!” Bess murmured. “And oh, isn’t he handsome!”

  Fiona giggled. “Yes, but history tells us he did not marry until he was fifty-two.”

  “Better late than never,” Bess said dreamily.

  As the girls walked from the building, Fiona said that since the Americans were now going to Douglas House, she felt she should say good-by and go on to the Isle of Skye. Instantly Nancy, Bess, and George urged her not to leave them.

  “If you’re not in a hurry to get home,” said Nancy, “I’d love to have you guide us around. That will be very helpful in our sleuthing.”