by Anthony Read
He was roused from his daydreaming by a fat, elderly man plonking a large foot on his stand so his shoe could be polished. As Shiner looked away from the train, he suddenly caught sight of a broad-brimmed black hat, rising above the heads of the passengers coming out of the gate to platform 4. Deserting his customer, Shiner dropped his brushes and darted across the station concourse, threading his way nimbly through the crowd, until he had a clear view of the streaming passengers. Beneath the hat was the scarred face with the dark moustache, the curly, black fur collar and the heavy coat. The man was carrying a carpet-bag in one hand – and the walking stick with the silver knob in the other. Yes, it was their man. Shiner tailed him as he strode through the station to the cab rank, climbed aboard a hansom cab and was driven away.
“Wiggins! Wiggins! I seen him!” Shiner panted, completely out of breath as he arrived back at HQ. His curly hair clung damply to his thin face, and his dark eyes shone with excitement.
“Whoa, young Shiner!” Wiggins grinned at him from his chair. “Hold your horses! What’s up?”
“I just run all the way from Paddington … to tell you.”
“To tell me what?”
“The big geezer – he’s back!”
“Yeah, I know. Beaver beat you to it. He just saw him getting out of a cab at his house.”
“Oh. Did he?” Shiner was deflated.
“Never mind, eh? Can’t win ’em all, can you?” Queenie said, giving him a hug of consolation. But he perked up at once. “Bet Beaver don’t know where he’s been, though, does he?” he said, cocky as ever.
“No. Where?” Wiggins sat up instantly.
“Bristol. He got off the 11.55 express from Bristol Temple Meads.”
Rosie was still in position near the alley when Wiggins arrived.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not bad. I sold three nosegays and two posies, and…”
“I meant with keeping watch.”
“Oh, that,” she said, grinning. “Not a dicky bird.”
“Nothing?”
“Nobody’s gone in. Nobody’s come out. Quiet as the grave.”
“Very good,” he told her in his best commanding-officer tone. “Stick at it.”
Wiggins marched purposefully to the alleyway, eager to give Mr Holmes Shiner’s latest information. He was sure he would be pleased with it, whatever it might signify. But as he turned the corner he stopped in surprise. The narrow passage was empty. There was no sign of the disguised detective. He had completely disappeared.
A Disguised Detective
“I never moved an inch away from my pitch,” Rosie insisted. “If anybody’d come out of this alley I’d have seen ’em.”
“I believe you,” Wiggins reassured the little flower girl, seeing that she was upset at the thought that she had let him down.
“Anyway,” she said defiantly, “what’s so special about an old tramp?”
Wiggins looked carefully over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “That weren’t really no old tramp,” he whispered. “That was Mr Sherlock Holmes. In disguise.”
Rosie’s blue eyes opened as wide as carriage lamps. “Well I never!” she exclaimed. Then, sniffing the air, she asked, “’Ere … can you smell somethin’?”
Wiggins sniffed, then shook his head. “No. Can you?”
“Just a whiff. Sort of like a hospital…”
“You sure?”
“I got a very good sense of smell. Comes of working with flowers. The nicer they smell, the better they sell.” She grinned. “Hey, that rhymes! I’m a poet, and I don’t know it.”
Wiggins grimaced, and scratched his head in bewilderment.
“Wiggins,” Rosie asked, “was that old man – Mr Holmes – was he sellin’ matches?”
“Yeah.”
“Look!” Rosie pointed to the ground.
“What?”
“He’s left a trail.”
And sure enough, there was a trail of unused matches on the ground, starting at the spot where Mr Holmes had been standing. They followed it along the alley and round the corner. It stopped at the iron door, with its array of locks and bolts. Wiggins stared at the door, thinking hard. Although Mr Holmes had told him not to go near it, he reached out and pushed, testing the locks again. They were as secure as ever.
“Wiggins, I don’t like it here,” Rosie said, with a shiver. “It’s scary.”
Wiggins nodded. It felt spooky to him, too, as though invisible eyes were watching them from somewhere. He put a protective arm round Rosie’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “It’s all right,” he told her. “I’ll take care of you.”
She gave him a brave little smile.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back home. Nothing more we can do here.”
“Oh, no. Not you again,” Billy the pageboy sniffed at Wiggins. “I already told you – Mr Holmes is not at home.”
“I know that. I gotta see Dr Watson.”
“Have you got an appointment?”
“Course I ain’t.”
“Well, then…”
“Just tell him I’m here. It’s urgent.”
“He’s not back yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Not on our doorstep. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have it.”
“Listen, you toffee-nosed—”
“What’s going on here?” a familiar voice interrupted.
Wiggins turned to see Dr Watson standing just behind him, carrying his black doctor’s bag.
“This boy wants to see you, Doctor,” Billy said in his most officious voice. “He hasn’t got an appointment.”
“Wiggins!” said the Doctor with a friendly smile. “What is it?”
“I gotta talk to you, Doctor.” Wiggins glared at Billy. “In private.”
“Ah. You’d better come inside,” the Doctor replied, and he led him into the house, past a glowering Billy, who was forced to stand and hold the door open for them.
Dr Watson bent beside the coal fire, warming his hands over the flames.
“Now, Wiggins, my boy,” he said. “What is it that is so important it can’t be said in front of Billy?”
“It’s Mr Holmes, sir,” Wiggins replied. “He’s disappeared.”
“Yes.” Dr Watson nodded. “I know.”
“You do?” Wiggins was astonished.
“Yes. Nothing unusual, old chap. He’s always doing it.”
“Disappearing?”
“Absolutely. He dons one of his disguises, and simply drops out of sight.”
“No,” Wiggins said. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Amazing transformations. Even fools me sometimes, and that takes a bit of doing, I can tell you.”
Wiggins was not so sure about that, but he pressed on. “What I mean is, he’s really disappeared. I saw him this morning, dressed up as an old beggar selling matches. But when I went back, he’d gone. The only sign that he’d been there was a trail of matches on the ground.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, my boy. He’ll show up again when he’s good and ready. Why did you want to see him?”
“I had something to tell him.”
“Why don’t you tell me? And if I see him first I can pass on the message for you.”
“Right. This big bloke we’ve been keeping an eye on, he’s back. And he’s been to Bristol.”
“Bristol?” Dr Watson looked blank. “Are you sure?”
“One of the Boys, young Shiner, saw him getting off the Bristol train.”
The doctor still looked blank. “Why should he go to Bristol?”
“I dunno. I thought you might.”
“Beats me.” He scratched his head. “Now, if Mr Holmes were here…”
“But he ain’t, is he?” Wiggins was impatient. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He ain’t just dropped out of sight. I reckon he’s been kidnapped!”
Dr Watson smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said calmly. “Mr Holmes is well able to take care of
himself. It would take a very good man to kidnap him.”
“Or a very bad one,” Wiggins retorted. “Like Professor Moriarty!”
Dr Watson looked shocked. “What do you know of Moriarty?” he asked.
“Only what Mr Holmes told me this very morning. That he’s his most dangerous enemy.”
“Was. Moriarty is dead, I’m pleased to say – although I know I shouldn’t.”
“No he isn’t. I’ve seen him. Right outside your front door.”
Dr Watson turned pale.
“Does Mr Holmes know this?”
“Yes, it was him what told me who he was.”
“Then that explains where he is. He will be following Moriarty’s tracks.”
“P’raps Moriarty’s been following Mr Holmes’s tracks, and now he’s trapped him.”
“I hardly think that is likely.”
“Yeah, but if Mr Holmes didn’t even know Moriarty was still alive… I reckon we should go to the police. Tell Inspector Lestrade.”
“Tell him what, exactly? That Mr Holmes has been missing for a couple of hours? And that you think he is being pursued by a dead man?”
“But I know…”
“You know nothing. Haven’t you learned anything from Mr Holmes? You must never assume anything, isn’t that what he says?”
“Right.” Wiggins nodded reluctantly.
“I know his methods. I’m sure he has some secret plan. We may ruin everything if we interfere.”
“We’re not gonna do nuffink, then?”
“Anyfink,” Dr Watson corrected him. Then corrected himself, “Er, I mean anything. We’re not going to do anything. Except wait.”
As evening approached, Wiggins sat hunched in his special chair, where he had been all afternoon, thinking hard. To help him concentrate, he had put on the old deerstalker hat he kept especially for such times, and was sucking on the empty pipe.
“Wiggins!” Queenie scolded him. “D’you have to make that awful noise?”
The younger Boys, who were sitting around HQ on the floor or on boxes and chairs, tittered as Wiggins sat up and took the pipe from his mouth.
“It’s no good,” he announced. “I can’t just sit here waiting. I gotta do something.”
“We could go to the coppers,” suggested Beaver.
“No. If Dr Watson don’t believe us, then Inspector Lestrade won’t.”
“Course,” said Queenie, “Dr Watson could be right.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Maybe Mr Holmes ain’t been kidnapped.”
“What about the trail of matches he left?” Rosie piped up.
“You don’t know he did.”
“Yes, I do!” Rosie insisted, getting heated. “I seen ’em.”
“Hold your horses!” Wiggins held up a hand to silence Rosie. “Queenie’s right. What was it Dr Watson said? ‘Never assume anything.’ All we can say for sure is that Mr Holmes might’ve left them matches as a trail. But he might not’ve.”
“Exactly!” Queenie looked smug. “For all we know, Mr Holmes might’ve just moved on to somewhere else. And them matches might’ve just spilled out of his pocket.”
“No!” Rosie cried. “He couldn’t have moved on.”
“He might’ve been followin’ somebody,” Gertie chipped in.
“But…” Rosie was close to tears.
Wiggins moved quickly to calm her. “I know,” he told her. “You’d have seen him. But at least this gives us something to do.”
He stood up and clapped his hands for attention. “Listen, everybody,” he said. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna split up and go out on the streets, and look everywhere for him and ask everybody we know if they’ve seen him. Only don’t forget, we don’t tell nobody who it is we’re really looking for. We’re looking for an old geezer with a straggly, grey beard and a floppy hat, selling matches and bootlaces. Got it?”
“Got it!” the Boys chorused, glad of the chance to be active. They clambered to their feet and began heading eagerly for the door. Only Sparrow held back.
“What’s up, Sparrow?” Wiggins asked him.
“Can’t do it,” Sparrow replied.
“What’s up?” Shiner mocked. “Scared of the dark?”
“No. I gotta go to work.”
“Can’t the music hall do without you for one night?” asked Wiggins.
“No. They depend on me. I can’t let ’em down.”
“Quite right,” said Queenie. “I’m surprised at you, Arnold Wiggins, for even suggestin’ it.”
“Sorry.”
“’Sides,” Sparrow continued, “they got Little Tich toppin’ the bill tonight.”
“Ah,” Wiggins grinned. “Now we’re getting the real story. He’s your favourite, ain’t he?”
“He’s the best comic in the whole, wide world. And you know what? He’s only about four foot tall. He’s even smaller than me! I can’t wait to see him.”
“Go on, then,” Wiggins said, with a smile. “I dare say we’ll manage – there’s enough of us.”
Shiner scowled, and began complaining that it wasn’t fair for Sparrow to get out of things. But Queenie grabbed him by the back of the neck and bustled him out the door.
The Boys fanned out into the streets, hunting for any sign of Sherlock Holmes in his disguise. They asked everyone they knew if they had seen the old matchseller: young crossing sweepers, lads holding horses’ heads outside hotels, the friendly muffin man who sometimes gave them left-over muffins, messenger boys, flower girls. None of them had seen him.
It was getting dark when Shiner met the old lamplighter, and by that time he was feeling that it was all a waste of time.
“Now then, young Shiner,” the old man greeted him, his friendly eyes twinkling. “What you so down in the mouth about?”
“I’m fed up with looking for somebody what ain’t there.”
“That don’t sound very clever,” the old man chuckled, stopping beside the next lamppost and lifting the long pole that he carried over one shoulder.
Shiner watched as he poked the brass end with its little flame burning inside it through the bottom of the lamp and lit the gas, as he did every night.
“Who is he?”
“Mr Sher—” Shiner stopped himself just in time. “An old geezer with a grey beard and a floppy hat, selling matches and suchlike.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the lamplighter said.
“Why? You seen him?”
“Outside Baker Street Station, not a half-hour since. You get a move on, young ’un, he might still be there.”
Shiner’s face lit up like the streetlamp. This was his chance to show the others. He would be the one to track down the elusive detective. Barely waiting to thank the lamplighter, he dashed off at full speed. When he arrived at the station a few minutes later, however, at first he could not see the man among the crowds hurrying to catch their trains home. There was a man selling baked potatoes, two or three newsboys shouting the names of their competing papers, and a fat, old woman sitting on a stool among baskets of flowers, singing out, “Violets. Lovely violets!” But no matchseller.
Shiner was about to turn away when he saw the man hobbling out of the station entrance, leaning heavily on a crutch. Shiner let out a little whistle of admiration: it was a really good disguise. He waited until the man had settled himself against a wall to one side of the entrance and put down his tray of matches. Then he sidled up to him, and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Psst! Mr ’Olmes!”
The man took no notice of him.
Shiner said it again.
The man looked at him suspiciously. “What d’you want?” he asked harshly.
Shiner was even more impressed: Mr Holmes could obviously disguise his voice as well as his appearance. “It’s me – Shiner.”
“Clear off!” the man snarled. “Leave me alone.”
“It’s OK,” Shiner whispered. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know who you really
are.”
The man let out an angry roar, picked up his crutch and hit Shiner with it, knocking him to the ground. Lying in the gutter, Shiner watched as the matchseller made off down the street, surprisingly fast, carrying his crutch in one hand and his tray of matches in the other. The newsboys guffawed at Shiner’s plight.
“You all right, son?” the baked-potato seller asked sympathetically.
Shiner nodded.
“What’d you do?”
“I think I made a mistake.”
The potato man laughed. “You can say that again, sunshine. That’s Basher Brannigan. He’s just been in prison for robbery with violence. It don’t pay to upset Basher.”
Shiner clambered painfully to his feet. “This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I’m goin’ home.” And he stomped off towards HQ in a thoroughly bad temper.
The Great Gandini
It was going to be a special performance at the Imperial Music Hall that night, in aid of charity. Sparrow felt a thrill of excitement as he entered the theatre through the stage door, and caught the familiar smell of greasepaint and the sight of scenery and arc lights. He knew that every artiste on the bill was a star, and that as call boy he would be looking after them – including his personal hero, Little Tich, the biggest, and smallest, star of them all. Usually, Little Tich only played at the smartest theatres in London’s West End. But this evening, for one night only, he and the other stars were gracing the stage of the Imperial, which for all its grand name was, in fact, more than a bit shabby.
“Wotcha, me little cock Sparrow,” Bert, the stage doorkeeper, greeted him warmly. “You’ll have to be on your toes tonight.”
“I will be,” Sparrow said happily.
“Can’t have nothing go wrong tonight. Not with who we’ve got coming.”
“I know. You ever see him, Bert?”
“Not in the flesh, no.”
“They say he’s no taller than me.”
“What?”
“Little Tich – he’s only about four foot tall.”
“I was talking about His Royal Highness – the guest of honour.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sparrow replied. “Him and all.”
