THE BOY DETECTIVES

by Adrian Wright

  ‘I’m worried about Miss Frobisher,’ said Gordon. Grasping a torch and beckoning for Francis to follow him, he set off across the lawn with Francis close behind. As they turned the corner of the main building towards the rear of the premises, the wind cut sharply into their faces, and towering trees shook massive branches angrily in their faces. For a moment it took their breath away, but subsided almost as quickly as it had begun. Through smarting eyes, they saw a pinprick of light in one of the upper windows.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ whispered Francis.

  ‘First on the list,’ Gordon replied, ‘is a drainpipe.’

  Having found one, he tested its steadfastness. Against the slightly sheltering North-facing wall, Francis cupped his hands to make a stirrup for him to start his ascent. Clinging closely to the ice-cold iron, Gordon climbed up and up, only stopping when Francis shone the torch on him to show the way.

  ‘Switch it off,’ called Gordon. These were anxious moments for Francis, left standing on the ground while his cousin slowly disappeared heavenwards. As his vision cleared, Francis could see that the room from which that single light was shining had a balcony beyond its window. Just as well that Gordon, who was much the more sporty of the two boys, was the one best equipped to be like Jack climbing the beanstalk! He had reached the underside of the balcony, and by gymnastic twists and turns wound his arms around its parapet, looking as much like a monkey as a boy. Francis could not imagine why Gordon was making such an effort.

  At that moment Gordon himself wondered if this whole business was nothing more than a folly, but having reached the balcony he felt he had nothing to lose. He steadied himself, glad to feel the cemented base beneath his feet. If Miss Frobisher or the ancient Mr Parsons discovered him outside one of the rooms at the top of the building he would certainly have some explaining to do. He was probably outside Miss Frobisher’s bedroom. Imagine the stories that would get into the newspapers if he were found to be spying on her at this time of night. Indeed, the sight of a young boy outside the window of her third floor bedroom would very probably result in the elderly woman suffering serious medical repercussions.

  As silently as he could, Gordon moved closer to the window. Now that he was on a level with them, he saw that the heavy velvet curtains had not been fully closed against the night, and the light that from the ground had seemed little more than a glow shone clearly from what appeared to be a strong bulb suspended from the middle of the room. By pressing his back against the part of the window obscured by the curtains, and turning his head sharply to one side, Gordon could see into one of its corners. He could see a bed, and by its side a small table on which stood what looked like various bottles of pills and potions. By altering his position, he could make out the bottom of the bed, on the bars of which a medical chart had been hung. His first feeling was one of relief. This wasn’t Miss Frobisher’s bedroom at all. It must be the sick bay where the unfortunately ill girl was being cared for over the half term holiday.

  Gordon felt a bitter disappointment. He had been wrong, ridiculously wrong. He had wanted to show Francis that he was just as capable as his older cousin of solving a mystery as he was. His theory that Miss Frobisher’s patient was a figment of her imagination was in shreds, for there was her sickly pupil, resting and apparently fast asleep in bed. The best thing was for him to get back down to Francis as fast as he could, the same way he had come up.

  Just as he turned to make his descent, he took one last quick look into the room. A slight movement in the bed caught his eye. Surely … yes, the patient was stirring. Her head, which Gordon had not been able to see at all, cocooned as it was with pillows and blankets, slowly rose from the sheets. Although he couldn’t make out the features, Gordon could see at once that all was not as it was supposed to be. He had met blonde girls, red-headed girls, girls with mousey coloured hair, girls with locks as black as a raven’s … but never grey!

  Then, just as he moved away from the window to make a quick descent, he was aware of a great burst of light. Turning back, he saw that the velvet curtains had been pulled apart, and before he could make his escape the French windows of the room were almost savagely wrenched open. The curtains blew angrily out into the night, and framed between them was a dishevelled Miss Frobisher, her face surprised and furious.

  ‘You!’ she shouted.

  There was no doubt of it; Gordon was trapped. For a split second, he looked once more, deeper this time, into the room, at the bed. It must have been the shock, but for one mad moment he could have sworn that its occupant was … it couldn’t be … another Miss Frobisher.

  Then everything went black, and Gordon jumped.

  *

  ‘On behalf of the Norfolk constabulary,’ said the Chief Constable.

  Those gathered around Gordon’s bed at Bundler’s Cottage were each, in their ways, glowing with pride. Although it had been made clear to Uncle Billy, and to Mr and Mrs Jones, that the exact nature of Gordon’s adventure was a matter of national security and could not be divulged, each felt the sense of occasion. In the same room were the Chief Constable of the county, Miss Maude Frobisher, and the Reverend Challis.

  ‘On behalf of the Norfolk constabulary,’ the Chief Constable continued, ‘I have to thank you, Gordon, and you, Francis, for bringing this problem at St. Mildred’s to a successful conclusion. If it hadn’t been for your persistence and your willing co-operation with one another to solve the mystery, the county would have been faced with a security crisis of the first order. You have earned the gratitude of the whole force.’

  ‘And I,’ said Miss Frobisher, a kindly smile folding over her features, ‘ would have been, well …’

  ‘Up the creek without a paddle?’ suggested Uncle Billy.

  The party laughed heartily.

  ‘More probably I would have been disposed of,’ said Miss Frobisher, introducing a morbid tone.

  The Chief Constable turned to Gordon and, seated at the end of the bed, Francis. ‘Now, boys, tell us how you came to realise that, far from having been solved by the appointment of a new headmistress, the spy ring was still operating at the school?’

  ‘It was Gordon who was responsible,’ said Francis generously.

  ‘At the beginning, of course, when Mr Challis told Francis about the case, it seemed that the whole matter had been cleared up, and Francis and I agreed to go to see the new headmistress in an effort to bring St. Mildred’s more into the community.’

  ‘Miss Frobisher seemed a very pleasant person,’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gordon, ‘ but even at that meeting there was something that didn’t seem quite right. Remember the racquets in the corner of the room?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She said something about the girls being very keen on tennis.’

  ‘But that’s just it. They weren’t tennis racquets at all. They were lacrosse racquets. Any genuine headmistress would not have made such a mistake.’

  ‘Why didn’t I notice that?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Because I’m the one who does sports,’ said Gordon. ‘Although you might just win an egg and cup race!’

  Everyone laughed easily again, pleased that Gordon was so much recovered after his fall.

  ‘And another thing. I’ve got my cycling proficiency certificate. It was only afterwards I realised that on that day when I almost collided with Miss Frobisher’s car outside the gates of St. Mildred’s, it wasn’t my fault at all.’

  ‘I told you to be more careful, and not wander about on public roads,’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes, but the fact was, it was the car that was at fault, because when it came around that corner it was on the right hand side of the road.’

  ‘So what?’ said Uncle Billy.

  ‘Miss Frobisher, or the woman who was pretending to be Miss Frobisher, had only picked up the car that morning from the local garage a few streets away. Don’t you see, when she came around that corner, she was driving on the wrong side of the road. And they do that in foreign countries.�
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  ‘What have I always said?’ said Mrs Jones, pulling an ominous face.

  ‘And afterwards, when she came up with that story about having been a nurse, I remembered that when she got out of the car and found me knocked to the ground, she asked if she should get medical assistance. It seemed a strange thing to say for someone who told me afterwards she was a qualified nurse.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘This is text-book stuff.’

  ‘And there was something odd about that day I went to the post office,’ said Francis, ‘to post that brassiere for mother.’

  Mrs Jones cast a worried glance at the Reverend Challis, whose face did not flinch at the mention of modern corsetry.

  ‘Miss Simms told me that on the day the new headmistress had come for her interview, she had called into the post office and spent an hour chatting.’

  ‘Chatting!’ The Chief Constable snorted. ‘Obviously, pumping Miss Simms for local information, to give her more ammunition to succeed at the interview.’

  ‘And probably finding out all sorts of stuff about employees at the Power Station!’ said Uncle Billy.

  ‘She was casing the joint,’ said Mr Jones, and regretted it because the Chief Constable might think he consorted with the criminal class.

  ‘Except that she wasn’t attending for interview anyway. The real Miss Frobisher...’

  The real Miss Frobisher beamed up at the Chief Constable.

  ‘The real Miss Frobisher,’ she said, lifting up her cup and saucer in salute, ‘was trussed and bound as soon as she arrived to take up her duties. It was an extraordinary occurrence. Imagine how I felt when a woman who looked exactly like me – wigs, make-up and a natural talent for mimicry – overcame me, took me up to the third floor sick bay, and imprisoned me, while she took my place. If Gordon and Francis had not acted as they did that night, she would have been forced to take desperate measures. With the girls and staff returning to the school the following day, I would have had to be …’

  ‘Disposed of,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘So you said.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Mr Jones, ‘is why the police did nothing about it. We’re talking about a spy ring here, but everything was left in the hands of our boys.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true,’ said the Chief Constable with a playful smile. He turned to the Reverend Challis. ‘Is it, Mr Parsons?’

  An electric shock might have gone through everyone in the room. The Reverend Challis got to his feet and then stooped, his face gnarled, his eyes squinted. ‘Don’t you young whippersnappers leave them there lawnmowers there!’ he said.

  Francis and Gordon were as amazed as everyone.

  ‘Then, you were working at the school ?’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Reverend Challis, ‘working undercover. We had our suspicions that the spy ring would still try to go on operating, but I was unable to do much as the new Miss Frobisher would not let me into the premises.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you, sir,’ said Gordon, ‘I might have been in a really bad scrape.’

  The Reverend Challis gave Gordon’s shoulder a reassuring touch. ‘I was keeping a look out from the workman’s hut in the grounds when I saw you boys arrive. I was aware that because the school was returning the next day, the spy – for I strongly suspected she might be one – would have to act decisively that night.’

  ‘When I might be spirited away?’ asked the genuine Miss Frobisher.

  ‘Exactly. But I had no hard evidence. And I suspected that Francis and Gordon might know much more than myself. So I followed you across the lawn, and when I saw Gordon climbing the drainpipe, I was alarmed. This might be very dangerous. Being M15 trained, and running the scouts, I was prepared. I ran back to the workman’s hut and pulled out an old tarpaulin and hurried back to where the boys were. I was just in time to see Gordon reach the balcony, and just before he jumped I leapt out at Francis and got him to help me stretch the tarpaulin.’

  ‘Thus breaking my fall,’ said Gordon.

  The sherry had been provided by Miss Frobisher. Mr Jones was alarmed to see how expertly she tossed back her head and emptied her glass in one. As she did so, he could have sworn the headmistress winked at him.

  ‘No nibbles,’ said the Chief Constable, looking around disconsolately.

  ‘We don’t hold with nibbles,’ said a voice from the kitchen, and there was Mrs Jones, triumphantly bearing a magnificent Bramley apple pie. The party broke into spontaneous applause.

  ‘Not too much of that pie for the boys, Mrs Jones,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘They will need to be fighting fit for the grand sports tournament St. Mildred’s will be arranging, or St Mildred’s will win all the trophies! We will also be holding a celebration at St. Mildred’s. It is the very least we can do to thank you. And now, I would ask you all to lift your glasses to Francis and Gordon … the boy detectives!’

  The Pearl of Thalia

  ‘May one ask the contents of the parcel?’ asked Miss Simms.

  Mrs Jones didn’t like the look of the village postmistress at the best of times, and when Mrs Jones was attempting to post a black satin basque to the Lord Mayor’s wife under cover of a plain envelope was not the best of times.

  ‘Essential apparel,’ replied Mrs Jones. A phrase she perhaps had heard in the war, two words that would surely guarantee access to the British postal service.

  ‘We have to be so careful nowadays,’ said Miss Simms, stamping the parcel with such ferocity that Mrs Jones feared for her delicate rib-work. ‘People try to sneak all sorts of things through letterboxes.

  Mrs Jones smiled benignly as she opened her purse.

  ‘Morality has gone to the wall,’ Miss Simms continued, her voice ringing through the shop. ‘We hear nothing but, at Gospel Hall. No doubt we shall be advised of fresh horrors at tonight’s tambourine practice.’

  Miss Simms turned the parcel once again, jabbing at it with a finger. Mrs Jones’s reputation as an inventive corseteer had excited comment in the village. Disappointed that she could find no reasonable excuse to force her customer to reveal the parcel’s dubious contents to the listening queue, Miss Simms moved to a surer plane.

  ‘Take this new show that’s coming to the Hippodrome, Ladies Without. Without what, you may ask. According to what I’ve heard, without a stitch of clothing. Nudity on stage. The temple of womanhood with the doors wide open.’

  The post office was quiet as a grave, as the queue strained to hear every word. Mrs Jones was equally appalled. The Hippodrome was a draughty old building, and she was sure that ‘ladies without’ would catch their deaths of cold.

  ‘Well I never,’ said Mrs Jones, relieved at last to see her Parisienne garment drop into the mail sack. ‘Still, I suppose we have to move with the times.’

  Miss Simms, grasping this god sent opportunity and turning purple, replied ‘If they move, Mrs Jones, the show will be closed down. By the Watch Committee, of which I of course am honorary secretary.’

  ‘You haven’t booked then?’ asked Mrs Jones.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Simms. ‘I shall be attending the opening performance in an official capacity with my fellow committee members to ensure that there is no hint of impropriety, and make no doubt of it, my pencil will be sharpened.’

  ‘This change is sixpence short,’ said Mrs Jones.

  *

  Mrs Jones enjoyed the walk back to Red Cherry House, contemplating the making of a Bramley apple pie in her steamed up kitchen as she listened to the wireless: perhaps Wilfred Pickles visiting a rissole factory in Rochdale, or one of those Paul Temple serials that Francis enjoyed. Of course, her son had what might be termed a professional interest in such matters, what with his being known as a boy detective, along with his cousin Gordon, and getting their names in the local papers and being photographed shaking hands with the Chief Constable of the county.

  Most recently, there had been that strange business at St Mildred’s School, and then the night
when Francis and Gordon had stopped the express train to London and prevented a catastrophe that might have led to the loss of many lives, not to mention the extraordinary disappearance of Lady Morton’s tuning fork.

  A mother’s intuition told Mrs Jones that Francis was never happier than when he and Gordon were hot on the trail of a mystery that to others seemed utterly mystifying. In the fallow periods between cases, Francis kept up his spirits by studying the methods of Sherlock Holmes, from which much could be learned. Today, however, Francis had set aside the adventures of 221B Baker Street and was seated at the kitchen table deeply engrossed in Professor Challenger’s lost world. The likelihood of finding extinct dinosaurs in Branlingham might be remote, but Francis delighted in the clarity of Arthur Conan Doyle’s imagination. Clear thinking, sharp observation and wide reading were the cornerstones of good detecting, as he often reminded Gordon, who preferred the open air to books, and Francis soaked up the ambrosia of Doyle’s crystalline prose.

  Mrs Jones had no sooner taken off her hat and gloves when her husband excitedly bustled into the kitchen waving his hand in the air.

  ‘What a fuss!’ she cried. ‘Just as I’m setting off on an afternoon of making gooseberry jam and damson preserve, lemon curd, coconut tartlets, shortbreads, an assorted assortment of fancies, date surprises, and a leaf patterned Bramley pie with scalloped edging.’