It was a favor he said, if they didn't mind, but when the Old Man asked, it really wasn't optional.
A friend from his younger days, the now Lord John Kirby had been experiencing odd events at his highland estate in the northern reaches of Scotland.
Several of his tenants had been injured by a mysterious beast, as well as having lost some of their sheep; the locals, thinking it was some sort of wolf.
Kirby's beloved pet dog had been found dead at the edge of the moors. It was a grisly sight with the beautiful purebred animal's throat torn open.
It was one thing to deal with a wild animal, but when a mysterious note was found tacked to the door of his home; that was when he contacted his old friend Alexander.
"It seems gentlemen, that Lord Kirby is being told to literally 'get out.' The note instructed him to abandon his estate or he would pay with his life. He's presuming that it is a disgruntled tenant, though he knows of none that are unhappy." Waverly took a long drag from his Briar pipe, puffing on it until he released a rather large smoke ring into the air.
Illya cleared his throat, anticipating the smoke would make him sneeze, but recalled the brand of pipe tobacco the Old Man was now using was less irritating to him. "Faust # 13." *
"No disrespect sir, but would not something like this be under the auspices of the local constabulary?" The Russian asked.
"Yes one might think that," Waverly smiled knowingly, but John Kirby is a dear friend who has asked for my help and he will indeed receive it."
Napoleon raised his eyebrows, looking at his partner as he took his minor reprimand without flinching.
.
They flew into Glasgow, beginning their 126 mile trek in a rental car to Stirling, through Perth and continuing on until they reached the Dalwhinnie turnoff. There they the stopped off at a brewery for a nip, before continuing on to Laggan, and at last, onward towards Spean Bridge until they reached the gate lodge on the left, leading to the estate, just before Loch Laggan,
The trip to Lord Kirby's spacious estate was an uneventful but scenic one, and they were welcomed with open arms. A butler led into them to a drawing room filled with antiques, with the walls covered by numerous deer antlers mounted as trophies.
An moustached man, looking to be a contemporary in age to Alexander Waverly stood in the middle of the room wearing a forest green smoking jacket.
"Thank you for coming gentlemen," Lord Kirby offered his hand to each of them, after which he poured them drinks. "Your assistance is most appreciated."
"Do you still have the note left on your door sir?" Illya asked, cutting to the chase.
"Why yes of course." Kirby retrieved a small folder from a nearby desk, handing it to the Russian.
Illya put on his reading glasses, examining the paper carefully before handing it back to Lord John, though he said nothing.
"Have there been any more threats or attacks my Lord?" Napoleon asked.
"My Gilly was attacked this morning. It was dark, before sunrise. The man was patrolling the estate, checking on the flocks as some of the tenants reported more of their sheep missing, near the moors. Damned if he didn't see what it was the pounced on him, though he knew it was some sort of animal. Heard it growl and barely got away from it. The creature disappeared into the mists, just as the sun was coming up. Luckily, my man suffered only bites to his forearms as he held them up protecting his throat and face."
"How many problems have occurred near the moors?" Illya asked.
"Come to think of it, nearly all."
Napoleon cast a glance at his partner, and from the look in IIlyas eyes, it was obvious he was thinking the same thing.
"Might we be able to speak to this...Gilly?
"But of course, Mr. Mac Leish is well enough to even take you to the spot where he was attacked, if that's what you'd like."
"Yes that would be helpful," Illya answered, downing the last of his drink.
"Gentlemen, I'm being a poor host. You've just arrived from a long trip; please let me have you shown to your rooms where you can freshen up, and rest for a bit. I think the investigation can at least wait until you've eaten."
The agents were led upstairs to their rather spacious rooms. Illya unpacked more quickly, and walked in on his partner as he just finished hanging up his clothes in the closet.
"Pretty ritzy place, enh Tovarisch?"
"Yes, but the term used here would be 'posh'. What do you make of this so far?"
"I think we're dealing with a wild animal and I think someone is taking advantage of the situation to scare Lord Kirby and that's about it. Did that note tell you anything? Think it was from a tenant?"
"Not unless the writer had formal education at university. The handwriting was cursive and the penmanship was far from being crude. That is what one would expect of country folk, herding sheep for a living. I have my doubts any of them would be doing that if they were able to afford the cost of a higher education."
"Interesting, the plot thickens my dear Watson." Napoleon smiled.
"Oh please, do not pretend to be Sherlock Holmes on this affair? And do not call me Dr. Watson." Illya warned.
"Fine, be a grouch."
"Perhaps my mood will improve after some sleep and a meal." Illya opened the door, leaving his partner's room without another word.
Several hours later, they were both refreshed from their afternoon naps and were escorted to the dining room.
A lovely woman sat to the right of Lord Kirby, her golden tresses catching the colors from the flames in the large fireplace behind her.
"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, may I introduce my wife. Lady Marie Domville-Kirby.
She stood offering her hand to Napoleon.
"Bonjour Madame, charmée." He flashed her his famous smile. "It's an honor to meet you."
He caught Illya rolling his eyes at him as the Russian nodded his head to Kirby's wife; as usual Illya was being a man of few words.
After a sumptuous meal and light conversation the agents departed the main house, heading out to where they were told the Gilly could be found, in the stables.
"Mr. Mac Leish?" Illya called out as they walked cautiously through the wide doors.
"Aye and hew wants ta knew?" A voice called back to them from the first stall.
"We're here to help solve Lord Kirby's problem, his friend Alexander Waverly sent us from New York." Napoleon answered.
"Och, t'will be gewd ta be rid o' the beastie. I told the Laird I could dew it maself, but he'd hear nothing of it." A middle aged man dressed in a utility kilt stepped out from the stall. He looked them up and down, dressed in their suits. "Och, mind the the shite, gentlemen. I was just muckin' tha stables."
Napoleon looked down, noting his new Italian loafers were in dangerous proximity to some horse droppings. He crinkled his nose in disdain, taking a sidestep to avoid it.
"Can you please tell us of your experience with this so-called beast?" Illya asked.
"T'was tha' most odd thing. I heard the grewl, deep it t'was, then the next thing ye knew I was flat on the ground, fightin' for me life. Yet I could nae see the beast, it was dark...but I fealt it. Gave me some deep nips it did, needed quite a few stitches."
Mac Leish held up his bandaged arms, showing them off like trophies.
"Could you show us where the attack happened?"
"Aye, I could, but'a won't. Yew'll nae get me near tha place for a while. I ken tell ye how ta find it."
After a brief explanation and handing them each a pair of 'wellies,' the agents headed off in the direction given to them by the Gilly. His last words of warning were to stay to the path if they ventured into the moors, as one could get lost easily and there were dangerous bogs there, a place where a man could lose himself as well as his life.
Napoleon and Illya wandered the area for hours, searching for any trace of the so-called beast, but detected nothing, not even a paw print in the soft ground.
They now found themselves wandering the moor as a light mist began to roll in. The sun had set, and a full moon helped them through the darkness along the well-trodden path, that and two flashlights they'd brought with them.
"Will you look at that," Napoleon pointed his flashlight to the ground, highlighting a crudely carved stone. "Is that a headstone?"
He bent down, reading the inscription that had been chiseled into the stone, lying flat on the ground, with two smaller stones standing upright at the head and foot of the marker.
The name on the little grave marker was 'Napoleon', the words in French, ici reposé, le plus celebré mon ami de l'ile...roughly translated to 'Here lies, my friend Napoleon. It was a memorial to a dog.
The Russian snickered. "Quite a coincidence do you not think?"
"Very funny." Napoleon snapped back at him. "Waverly did say Lord John's dog was killed. I wonder if this is where it happened, and they buried it here." He turned, finding the space occupied by his partner empty. "Illya?" There was no answer. There was an immediate knot of pain in Napoleon's gut. "ILLYA!" He raised his voice this time.
There was a muffled sound from his left, and he finally heard the Russian's voice.
"Down here!" Illya called anxiously."
Solo beamed his flashlight in the direction of the voice; locating him nearly submerged in a bog.
"A little help would be good," he called out, as I am somewhat sinking. You will have to find the path down to here."
"How did you get down there?"
"I took a step back, and went over the edge, now please, a bit of alacrity?"
"On my way tovarisch." Napoleon disappeared along with his flashlight, leaving the Russian as he tried to remain motionless, an prevent himself from not being sucked down.
That was when Illya heard it, a deep resonating growl. Standing there in the moonlight and mist was a dog, a rather large black dog. It was baring it's teeth and walking towards him.
"Nnnnice doggie," the Russian stuttered, fighting back the fear he had of canines,"Please do not eat me?" He tried moving carefully to reach for his weapon, but as he did, he sank farther. When his hand reached his holster, the Special was gone.
"Chyort voz'mi," he cursed under his breath. He suddenly wondered how, since it was bog beneath it's paws, the animal wasn't sinking.
"NAPOLEON!" Illya yelled loudly. "Get your gun out! Hurry! The beast is here!"
There was no answer.
Just as the creature was within striking distance, another dog appeared out of the mist. Grey and ethereal; it attacked the black dog just as it was about to pounce on the Russian.
There were snarls, growls, and yips as the the two animal fought each other rolling and circling; the grey one finally killing the black.
The winner of the battle cheerfully approached Illya, with it's short tail wagging and allowing him to grasp it's wiry fur, and pull himself up from the bog while holding onto it. Once he reached dry ground, it trotted off, turning back looking at him before it took off; Illya caught a flash of yellow reflecting in it's eyes.
Moments later Solo appeared. "Thank God, you got yourself out. I had trouble finding the path down here and I..."
"Napoleon did you see a grey dog run by?"
"I didn't see anything. You mean it was here? I thought the beast was black."
"It is, I mean it was. It is right there, the other grey dog killed it."
After helping his soggy partner to his feet, Napoleon swept the area with his flashlight. There was nothing. No paw prints...not a thing. "You sure you didn't hit your head?"
"I am telling you what I saw. A black dog with its sharp fangs bared was coming after me across the bog, and a large grey dog appeared from nowhere and after fighting, killed the black one. The beast was lying dead there," he pointed to the ground, "and the other dog ran off in the direction from which you just came. I am positive of it." He suddenly sneezed loudly as he began shivering.
"We'll talk about it when we get back to the house. You're soaked and we don't need you catching your death of cold out here. " Napoleon took off his jacket, draping it over his partner's shoulders as he led the way back out of the moor to the manor house.
Lord John was horrified when he saw Illya, calling for blanket and a hot toddy.
"Good God, what happened?"
"Not sure," Illya said, as he wrapped himself in the woolen blanket and sat next to the fireplace. "I was attacked by what I presumed was the so-called beast and out of nowhere, a large grey dog came to my rescue and I thought killed it. They both disappeared, mysteriously. It is most perplexing."
"A large grey dog you say?" Lord John said somewhat aghast. "It wasn't a giant poodle was it?"
Illya thought for a moment, recalling the build of the dog and it's wiry fur, and now that he thought more on it, the dog had golden eyes. "Yes I believe it was a poodle and it had rather odd golden eyes."
The look of shock on Lord John Kirby's face was most unexpected.
"What's wrong Lord John?" Napoleon asked.
"You just described my dog, killed a few weeks ago by that beast."
"Your dog?"
"Yes, my poodle. His name was Napoleon, he was a gift from my wife. I buried him on the moor, right where it happened...where he was killed.
Solo looked at his partner as he sipped his hot toddy; a wry smile hidden behind the porcelain cup.
"Yes, we found the headstone, and that was where Mr. Kuryakin fell into the bog and the dog incident occurred."
"By Jove, that's a treacherous bog there; you were lucky to get out of it alive." Lord Kirby was still in shock, wondering how his dog, or perhaps the ghost of his dog could have come back in the nick of time to save the U.N.C.L.E. agent from his death.
.
They remained at the estate for several weeks, with no other incidents occurring. Illya somehow surmised it was Lady Domville-Kirby who had written the note, threatening her husband. Her handwriting was similar to that of the note, but there was no positive proof that he could offer. He'd seen samples of her handwriting and matched a few of the letters, but that was all.
What she was up too was a mystery and he advised Lord Kirby of his suspicions before they left to return to New York, assuming the affair was finished.
.
Napoleon browsed through a magazine, drinking a cup of coffee a lovely stewardess had served. Illya leaned on his elbow, resting his head on his hand while he stared at the clouds out the jet window, seemingly lost in a daydream.
"I'm surprised at you Tovarisch; you never made one wise crack about Lord Kirby's dog being named Napoleon."
Illya turned to him. "Oh I thought it was too easy, sometimes it is better to let an opportunity such as that pass. By the way, I was looking at your hair this morning; I saw some grey, and I think you need a little grooming."
"Smart-ass Russian." Solo buried his nose in his magazine.