by Darrell Pitt
‘England is being held to ransom,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘And we have to do something about it.’ He removed a note from his pocket and laid it flat on the table before them. ‘This was pinned to Paul Harker’s chest.’
They peered at the piece of paper. It read:
The Josephine Diamonds will be delivered to me at a time and place to be later specified.There will be no tricks. I have the bomb and I know how to detonate it. If the diamonds are not delivered as ordered, I will kill Lucy Harker and reduce the city of London to rubble. Instructions will follow.
M.
‘The Josephine Diamonds?’ Jack said.
‘It’s a necklace,’ Scarlet said, ‘made up of six huge diamonds. I saw it on display once. It’s very beautiful.’
‘It was once owned by the Empress Josephine, the first wife of Napoleon,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘It came into British hands early last century and is under lock and key in the Tower of London.’
‘And who is M?’ General Churchill inquired.
‘He is known as Professor M,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘He has been the greatest criminal mind in England for some time. He has no name. He has no face. Even his nom de plume—Professor M—is spoken of in whispers. Few people have ever seen him and those that have never survive. Yet his hand has steered countless criminal enterprises over the last ten years.’
‘Are you sure he’s real?’ Joseph Bell queried.
‘He is real. Others do his dirty work while he hovers in the shadows like a ghost. He has been behind the deaths of dozens of people. He is my nemesis.’
Scarlet frowned. ‘So how will we track him down?’
Mr Doyle pursed his lips. ‘We have a number of clues. Jack and I will begin the investigation once we land.’
The airship had begun to cross the English countryside. The city of London lay ahead.
‘You can’t do that alone,’ General Churchill said.
‘They will not be alone,’ Scarlet interjected. ‘I will be with them.’
‘What?’ Mr Bell said. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘My dear, that’s not possible,’ Mr Doyle said.
Scarlet turned to her father. ‘I believe I have acquitted myself well in this situation,’ she said. ‘You would probably be dead if I had not sought out Mr Doyle’s assistance.’
‘That’s true,’ her father admitted. ‘But rushing into danger is foolhardy. And no place for a young girl.’
‘You have always encouraged me to follow my own path,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that correct?’
He admitted it was.
‘Then it is time I took those first steps.’ Scarlet turned to Mr Doyle. ‘And surely a female perspective would help?’
‘That is true,’ the detective said.
‘Father.’ Scarlet turned to Mr Bell. ‘Emmeline Pankhurst, the suffragette, has said that men make the moral code and expect women to accept it. That men are encouraged to fight for their rights and liberties, but women are not. I must make my own way. I must be my own woman. I know there are dangers. But aren’t there always dangers in life? And I will not face them alone. Jack and Mr Doyle will be at my side.’
Jack felt proud and afraid at the same time. He was honoured to know a girl such as Scarlet. But he was also afraid for her. Professor M was a dangerous criminal. He had already murdered Mr Harker. He would not hesitate to kill any of them—including her.
Mr Bell turned to Ignatius Doyle. ‘What are your thoughts?’
The detective sighed. ‘Women have always been a mystery to me,’ he said. ‘My own wife said I was ignorant when it came to the workings of the female mind.’
‘Then it’s settled,’ Scarlet said. ‘So where do we begin?’
Jack could tell that Mr Bell was still worried about his daughter, but Scarlet had made a good case.
Mr Doyle donned his goggles to examine the note. ‘The writer of this note is right-handed and well educated. Notice the curves on the upswinging letters. The paper is rare: it contains a high percentage of linen. I have done a study of such papers and believe there is only one stockist of this paper in Britain, a shop in the East End. The pin used to attach this note to the body is largely unremarkable, barring the tiny speck of blood running along its length. A partial fingerprint is etched into the pin, but not enough to be of assistance to us.
‘The murderer of Mr Harker is of slim build with a height no greater than five feet and six inches. The culprit is also right-handed and well versed in the martial arts. In addition, the assassin was on board the Jeanne d’Arc with us on our journey to the tower.’
‘How do you know?’ Mr Bell asked. ‘Surely the killer could have been a native of the Berlin Metrotower?’
‘There were no signs of a struggle in any of the assaults. The killings happened in a matter of seconds. Judging by how easily the soldiers and Mr Harker were disposed of, I must assume they either knew the killer, or the killer used some subterfuge to gain their trust.’
‘So is M the killer?’ Jack asked.
‘There is no evidence to suggest he is. Most likely he is not. Professor M is like a spider at the heart of a web,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘He has a multitude of strands in play at any one time. Many people work for him. It is unlikely he ever does his own dirty work.’
The airship descended. Their landing ground was a field close to the heart of London. The group disembarked and made their way to two steamcars. A man hurried up to General Churchill.
‘I have been summoned to the Prime Minister’s residence,’ Churchill said, turning to them. ‘Joseph Bell, will you accompany me?’
‘Of course,’ Mr Bell said. ‘I am at your disposal during this crisis.’
‘We will return to Bee Street,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘From there we will pursue our lead regarding the paper.’
They all bade farewell. Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle climbed into the other steamcar. A few hours later Jack found himself on the pavement in front of Mr Doyle’s home at 221 Bee Street. Gazing up at the old building, it seemed to Jack that a lifetime had passed since he’d moved here from Sunnyside.
‘Why have we come back here?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be faster to just go straight to the paper shop?’
‘I fear our clothing has become rather soiled over the last few days,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘And one of us is decidedly putrid,’ Scarlet teased.
‘Talking about yourself again?’ Jack asked.
‘Now, now,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘A wash will do us all the world of good. And we need to eat.’
On the top floor, Gloria greeted them pleasantly. When Mr Doyle explained Scarlet would be joining their team, the receptionist was delighted at the news. She took Scarlet to a guest bedroom to help her freshen up while Jack changed clothing. When he returned, he found Gloria had assembled plates of sandwiches and cakes in their sitting room. Scarlet appeared at his side. She gave him a smile and his heart soared.
The detective directed them towards the food as he went through the mail. Jack realised he was starving. It seemed Scarlet felt the same. They wolfed down most of the feast in minutes. Mr Doyle did not seem to mind; he continued to trawl through the pile of correspondence.
Falling back into her chair as she wiped crumbs from her mouth, Scarlet turned and came face-to-face with a jar marked ‘Belly Button Fluff’. She shot Jack a horrified look.
‘You’ll get used to that,’ Jack told her as he glanced about to see another bottle labelled ‘Toe Nail Clippings from Sussex’. ‘Maybe.’
‘Wonderful.’ Mr Doyle discarded the mail. ‘There is nothing here that requires our urgent attention.’
‘So we’ll go to the paper shop now?’ Jack said.
‘We will indeed.’
‘I am an honorary detective?’ Scarlet said, adjusting her hair. ‘A woman cast in the same mould as Monsieur Dupin! Mr Doyle, have you ever investigated a crime similar to Mr Poe’s story? The one where the killer is an orangutan with a switchblade?’
‘Where the killer was an ape?’ Mr D
oyle said. ‘No, but I did have a case involving a monkey with a very sharp paperclip.’
A cry came from beyond their chamber.
Mr Doyle stood. ‘What was that?’
The door burst open and a huge man entered. Over six feet tall, he had thinning black hair, an unshaven face and wore workman’s clothing. He gave Jack the impression he drowned kittens for a living.
Gloria appeared behind him. ‘I told him he couldn’t enter, Mr Doyle,’ she said, looking furious.
‘That is not a problem,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘Mr Flint will not be staying.’
‘How do you know me?’ Flint asked, scowling.
‘Yours is a familiar visage in the gutters of London. I imagine most of the police force knows your name.’
‘I have a message for you,’ the man snarled.
‘And who is the message from?’
‘You know who it’s from.’
‘I assume you’re speaking of our friend, and your employer, Professor M?’
‘Don’t worry about names.’ Flint glanced at Jack and Scarlet. ‘And we don’t want to go spreadin’ rumours, do we?’
‘Then state your business,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I detest having vermin on the premises.’
‘You’re to keep your nose out of this,’ Flint threatened. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’
‘I’ll place my nose where I wish,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘Noses can be removed.’ Flint glanced at Jack and Scarlet and grinned. ‘These kids’ noses would make a pair of pretty baubles.’
Almost quicker than lightning, Mr Doyle strode up to the ruffian and jabbed him with a pointed finger.
‘These young people are in my care!’
Flint made a grab for Mr Doyle’s hand. The detective countered by grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. He delivered a punch to the man’s kidneys and frogmarched him from the chamber.
Bazookas, Jack thought. Mr Doyle can hold his own.
Scarlet gave him a huge smile.
Blimey, she’s enjoying this!
They followed Mr Doyle as he delivered Flint to the waiting elevator. Gloria dragged open the door and Mr Doyle pushed the man inside. The thug went sprawling. He turned with fear and fury in his eyes.
‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ Flint said.
‘I already am,’ Ignatius Doyle replied. ‘I dislike germs and I suspect you’re covered in them.’
Flint pointed at Mr Doyle. ‘You’ll keep your nose out of the boss’s business! Or else!’
The detective reached in, pressed the button for the ground floor and slammed the door shut.
‘Good day, sir,’ he snapped. ‘Tell your lord and master I will not rest until I see him in jail.’
The elevator started to descend.
‘Quickly,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We haven’t a moment to lose.’
He raced back to the apartment with the others in pursuit. He secured the door behind them. Back in the sitting room he started rooting through a box.
‘Jack, do you still have your rubber nose?’ Mr Doyle asked.
Jack pulled it from his pocket. ‘Here it is.’
‘Scarlet,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time to disguise you.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Gloria said, grabbing Scarlet’s hand. She dragged her away, disappearing behind a mound of books, stuffed animals and something that resembled the interior of a giant clock.
Mr Doyle applied some spirit gum and jammed the rubber proboscis over Jack’s real nose. It stuck. Next a large black pad appeared in Mr Doyle’s hand. He pressed it against Jack’s face. A cloud of soot went everywhere. Jack sneezed.
‘You’ll find a set of clothes in your room in a drawer marked 7B,’ Mr Doyle instructed. ‘Get changed. Grab any cheese you see lying around. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. We’ll meet back here in sixty seconds.’
As Jack went racing down the hall to his bedroom, he heard Mr Doyle yell out to Gloria, ‘How is Scarlet progressing?’
‘Her own father wouldn’t recognise her!’
‘Then to your position on the roof, my dear.’
‘The telescope?’
‘Indeed!’
Jack dragged off his clothes and found 7B. He pulled out the gear. It included torn pants, a stained shirt and jacket, old shoes and a scarf and hat. Putting it on, he transferred his compass, picture and other belongings into the pockets. He left his room just in time to see an old tramp and his son racing in the direction of the balcony.
‘Quickly, Jack!’ the tramp yelled.
It was Ignatius Doyle and Scarlet!
Jack followed them outside. The great detective looked completely different. He had applied a false nose and a scar, and changed his clothing. His coat was long and ragged, his pants checked and worn. His boots had holes in the toes. He wore a pork pie hat with a ripped brim. His hands were soiled as if he had been shovelling coal all day.
But it was Scarlet’s transformation that was most amazing. Gone was the pretty young girl. In her place was a boy with grubby features, ragged clothes and a dusty top hat pulled down low over his eyes.
‘Whacha’ lookin’ a’?’ she demanded in a rough voice.
‘Blimey,’ Jack said.
They climbed up the ladder to the roof where the Lion’s Mane was moored.
‘Not bad for a rush job,’ Gloria said, admiring her work. ‘Vagrants à la carte.’
‘Gloria! Do you still see him?’ Mr Doyle asked.
Gloria peered into a telescope.
‘He’s on foot. Three blocks away, heading east.’ She drew back from the telescope. ‘You’d better hurry.’
Mr Doyle led Jack and Scarlet to the edge of the building. A device that resembled a small elevator ran down the side. Mr Doyle climbed into the compartment.
‘Squeeze in, team,’ he said. ‘There’s not a lot of room.’
Jack and Scarlet climbed on as Mr Doyle gripped a handle.
‘Hang on,’ he said.
The elevator dropped like a stone. Jack gripped the centre column. About fifteen feet from the bottom, it abruptly slowed and settled onto the footpath.
‘We’re in a back lane behind the building,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We need to follow Flint.’
‘We’re shadowing a suspect?’ Scarlet said.
‘Indeed,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘With any luck he’ll lead us straight to the professor—and the bomb.’
Scarlet clapped her hands together with glee. They raced down the road, dodging pedestrians and carriages. Jack and Scarlet ran with Mr Doyle, who was struggling to keep up. A large steamtruck drew across the road, blocking their way. With a cry of anguish, Mr Doyle strode around the van.
‘Can you see him?’
Jack’s eyes searched the busy road.
Where are you?
It took him a moment, but Flint’s height gave him away. Jack sighted him just as he rounded the corner. They hurried after him. Once again they spotted his head bobbing above the others in the crowd. Jack glanced to his left and saw a dirty ragamuffin peering back at him in the glass.
He was staring at himself!
‘And you were such a handsome young fellow when I first met you,’ Scarlet said.
‘Thank you, Scarlet.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘There he is,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘He’s heading into that building.’
They slowed. The house was derelict with its windows boarded up. The remains of a burnt-out shop stood next to it.
‘What’s he doing in there?’ Jack asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Mr Doyle replied.
‘I suggest we engage the ruffian,’ Scarlet said. ‘There was a Brinkie Buckeridge novel where a man was tortured with a corset bone. I have one available if you need it.’
‘Thank you for the suggestion,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘But we might take a less direct approach. Follow my lead.’
They mounted the steps and eased open the front door. A water-damaged hallway lay ahead of them.
Wallpaper sagged like molten wax. Dust and grey-green mould tainted every surface. Rooms led left and right.
Mr Doyle held his finger to his lips as they inched along the hall. A door flew open to their left and the hulking form of Flint filled it. Jack felt complete terror as Flint’s eyes swept from him to Mr Doyle.
‘Sorry guv’nor,’ Mr Doyle said in a cockney accent. ‘We’re just ’oping for somewhere to stay.’
‘This place is taken,’ Flint snapped.
Jack glanced past him into the chamber. He caught sight of peeling paint, broken glass and scattered floorboards.
‘What’re you looking at?’ Flint asked Jack.
‘Nuttin’,’ Jack replied, putting on an accent and hoping the man would not recognise his voice.
‘Then clear off! The lot of you!’
‘Ay guv’nor,’ Mr Doyle said, pretending to be afraid and dipping his cap.
They scampered out of the place, not looking back as the front door slammed behind them. Mr Doyle led them across the street to a small park. They sat, lounging as if they had nothing better to do with their time.
‘What do we do now?’ Jack asked breathlessly.
‘Now we wait,’ Mr Doyle replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The afternoon dragged by. Whoever thought detective work could be so boring?
Jack found himself squirming despite Mr Doyle’s calm urgings that he needed to exercise patience. Scarlet filled in time by chatting to Jack about life with her father. Her mother had died when she was a baby. Joseph Bell had raised her to be a lady, but he had also cultivated in her an interest in science and the arts.
‘Did you know that Beethoven was almost deaf when he composed his Ninth Symphony?’ she asked Jack.
‘Really?’ Who was Beethoven and what was a symphony? ‘Is that a salad? Like with beetroot?’
‘A salad? No, I mean the classical composer.’
‘Like music?’
‘Absolutely.’
To Jack, classical music always sounded like the musicians had taken their instruments and thrown them down a flight of stairs. Jack’s tastes ran more along the lines of something you could sing to. ‘I know a few songs,’ he said. ‘There’s one about a boy with a drum. There’s another about a girl who goes into an alley with a man she’s just met and...’
