Chapter Text
It was a lazy noon. Tintin and Snowy arrived at the train station, stretching their legs after a long journey.
“Well, Snowy, here we are—back at Marlinspike!” Tintin said, glancing at his watch.
Snowy wagged his tail, clearly as eager as ever to see Captain Haddock. They walked down the familiar lane toward the old mansion, the sound of grumbling voices drifting from inside.
The young reporter grinned. His friend was certainly in one of his moods.
A few moments after Tintin knocked on the door, the thick wood panel swung open.
“Ah, Tintin!” Haddock boomed, sweeping his friend into a hearty embrace. “You’ve arrived just in time for the chaos!”
“Good to see you too, Captain. But what do you mean, Chaos?” Tintin patted Haddock’s back in response and asked. “Where’s Nestor? And Professor Calculus?”
Haddock sighed dramatically. “Oh, you know Calculus—he caused another explosion in the lab. Again!” He shook his head, exasperated. “Nestor’s busy cleaning up the mess. As usual.”
Tintin chuckled. “Some things never change.”
The Captain grunted in agreement and gestured for Tintin to follow him inside. “Come on, let’s sit down. I’ll tell you about the latest madness here. And what about you, lad? Where have you been these days?”
They made their way to the cosy living room. Tintin sank into his usual armchair while Snowy curled up at his feet, recounting his recent trip. Haddock poured some lemonade, clearly needing something refreshing after the day's chaos.
“I just finished an interview in the UK.” Tintin said, “It was quite something, Captain. I visited the archaeological dig at the Old Minster—an incredible place. They uncovered several antiques—gems, and swords that were centuries old, and some markings on the antiques suggest it might be connected to King Alfred himself.”
“The King Alfred?” Haddock asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes,” Tintin nodded. “It’s a remarkable find. And they also uncovered a bronze tablet, the entire surface was covered in rust though. They said it could take some time to clean it properly. Anyway, after all the artefacts were transported to the British Museum, I wrapped up my interviews with the experts and decided to come back.”
Haddock, who’d been listening with mild interest, suddenly froze. “Wait a minute… Did you say a tablet?”
Tintin blinked. “Yes. Why?”
“Wait here, lad!” Haddock slammed the glass on the table. “I was just reading something about it this morning!”
He jumped up, knocking over a stack of magazines as he stomped around the room. “Where’s that confounded paper? Nestor must’ve tidied it away—”
Haddock flipped through newspapers and muttered as if the chaos were everyone else’s fault. Finally, he threw his hands up in defeat. “No matter! Let’s see if it’s still on the radio!”
He fumbled with the radio knobs until it crackled to life. Static gave way to a clipped female voice:
“…and authorities in London are investigating a break-in from the British Museum’s restoration lab. The lab contained several artefacts, believed to date back to the Anglo-Saxon period, which were discovered during an excavation at the Old Minster. Officials report that the theft occurred two days ago. The intruder took only one artefact, a bronze tablet, which was waiting for the rust removal process…”
Tintin widened his eyes. “The tablet? Stolen?”
Snowy raised his head, his ears pricking up at the sudden tension. Captain Haddock turned to Tintin, jabbing a finger at the radio. “There you have it, lad! Blistering barnacles, this reeks of trouble!”
Tintin frowned, the gears turning in his mind. “Yes… But how could this happen? And who would steal it?”
The Captain muttered, waving his hands in exasperation. “Thief, robber, insider—you name it. What’s the world coming to, eh?”
The radio crackled on, the broadcaster’s voice as composed as ever.
“…Scotland Yard has called in additional investigators to assist in solving this mysterious theft. Among them are the well-known detectives Thompson and Thomson.”
The familiar, bumbling voices of the detectives echoed through the room.
“Er, yes, we are now officially on the case,” said one Thompson, his tone full of unwarranted confidence.
“To be precise, we will leave no stone unturned,” added the other.
“This was a premeditated theft, we assure you. As for the suspects,” the first Thompson began with a grand clearing of his throat. "Our investigation has identified several possibilities.”
“Yes, several,” echoed the other.
“First,” said the first Thompson, “the archaeologists involved in the dig…”
“…Second, the museum staff with access to the labs…”
“…Third, some well-known antique dealers suspected of underground dealings…”
“…And finally,” they both declared in triumphant unison, “a certain reporter—Tintin—who followed the entire discovery process!”
Tintin’s jaw dropped. “Me?”
Haddock, mid-sip of his drink, choked violently. “WHAT?!” he sputtered, thumping his chest as his face turned red. “You—? You’re a suspect?! What kind of joke is this?!”
Tintin finally found his voice, still stunned. “That’s ridiculous!”
Haddock leaned forward, recovering from his coughing fit. “I knew those two blithering bombardiers would make a mess of things sooner or later!”
The radio droned on, but neither of them was listening anymore.
“Well, lad, what do you make of all this? You’re the one under suspicion, so what’s your next move? Write a strongly worded letter to Scotland Yard?”
Tintin didn’t seem to hear Haddock right away. He was staring at the radio, his expression thoughtful rather than indignant. Finally, he spoke. “It’s not about clearing my name, Captain. What bothers me more is who stole the artefact—and why.”
“Tintin!” Haddock barked, throwing up his hands. “You’re being accused of theft, and you’re worried about the thief?”
Tintin nodded. “The thief’s goal was clear. But that tablet has been buried for centuries. It is impossible to know what was written on it until the rust removal work was completed. I don’t understand why this artefact can attract someone’s attention.”
Haddock frowned, rubbing his chin as Tintin’s words sank in. “Hmm. You think there’s more to this tablet than meets the eye?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Tintin replied, his gaze sharpening. “This isn’t just a simple theft.”
Haddock sighed, reaching for the jug. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Tintin suddenly stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. “I have to go back.”
Haddock stared at Tintin, blinking in disbelief. “Go back? You’ve lost your mind!”
Tintin, already heading for the door, turned back with a determined expression. “I need to find out what’s going on before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what, exactly? To join the suspect list in person?” Haddock barked at Tintin’s direction. “You’re walking straight into the lion’s den, laddie! You heard those two bunglers on the radio—the Thom(p)sons will have you in handcuffs before you can say ‘Old Minster!’”
Tintin’s expression didn’t waver. “All the more reason to act quickly. If I sit back and do nothing, the truth could disappear along with the tablet.”
Haddock groaned loudly, slumping back into his chair. “Thundering typhoons! Why do I even bother? Go on, then—throw yourself into the jaws of chaos!” He muttered darkly under his breath, “And don’t think I’ll come dragging after you this time!”
Tintin smiled faintly, already reaching for his coat. “Of course not, Captain.”