The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Disappearing Detective

by Anthony Read

  “Like this?” Wiggins picked up a short piece of cord.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Only there was a lot more. All coiled up, it was.”

  Wiggins looked very serious. He fingered the cord and sniffed at it, examining it carefully. Then he reached for a match, struck it, and held it against the end of the cord. The cord caught alight. It did not flame, but fizzed and sparked. The Boys watched, fascinated, as it burned down. Wiggins licked his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the spark.

  “That ain’t lamp wick,” he announced solemnly. “That’s a fuse. And them cardboard tubes you saw, Sparrow, they wasn’t fireworks. They was sticks of dynamite.”

  Six pale faces stared at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

  “That’s your bomb,” he told them. “And wherever them villains have gone, they’ve took it with ’em.”

  Three Halves to Windsor

  The Boys now knew that the Professor and his two henchmen were going to blow up something or somebody. But who or what, where and when remained a mystery. Wiggins wondered what Mr Holmes would do in this situation. He’d probably get his violin out, he thought, and start playing. Mercifully, Wiggins had no violin, so the rest of the Boys were spared that. In the storeroom he didn’t have his chair either, or his pipe, or even his deerstalker hat, to help him think. Instead, he paced the floor, holding the piece of charred fuse in his hand. And as he paced, he muttered to himself, going over and over everything they had discovered so far, trying to work out what the villains were up to.

  The other Boys watched and waited quietly, taking care not to disturb him.

  But after several minutes Wiggins was no nearer to finding an answer. He turned back to Sparrow. “Let’s go over it all again,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve remembered everything you heard?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. They was goin’ on about the widow, and a train and somethin’ about over the water…”

  “They’re gonna kill somebody,” Queenie said, “and when they do, his wife will be a widow. Right?”

  “Well, they couldn’t be talkin’ about Mr Holmes, then,” Beaver replied. “He ain’t married.”

  “No, he ain’t,” Wiggins agreed. “It’s gotta be somebody else.”

  Sparrow felt a twinge in his leg. He stood up to rub his sore calf muscle, and as he did, the pain reminded him of the cramp he’d had when he was inside the packing case, and what he’d heard the men saying then. “Hang on,” he cried excitedly. “There was somethin’ else. I just remembered.”

  Wiggins stopped pacing. “Yes?” he asked.

  “What was it, now? Oh, yes, I got it. They said ‘That’ll make the grand openin’ go with a bang!’ and then they laughed.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough,” Queenie said. “A bomb makes a bang, don’t it?”

  Wiggins held up his hand. “Never mind the bomb,” he said. “What about the rest of it? The grand opening? That’s gotta be a clue.”

  “It would be if we knew what was bein’ opened,” Beaver said, gloomily.

  There was a moment of silence as they all pondered this.

  Then Shiner piped up. “The Queen’s openin’ a new railway station today,” he said. “It’s a present to her from the Great Western, for her jubilee.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say before?” Wiggins asked impatiently.

  “’Cos it ain’t at Bristol, it’s at Windsor. Right by her castle.”

  The others sighed with disappointment. But Wiggins’s face lit up.

  “That’s it!” he shouted, very excited. “They was talking about the Queen! She’s the widow. That’s what people call her: ‘the Widow at Windsor’.”

  “Oh, my oath!” Queenie exclaimed. “They’re gonna blow up the Queen!”

  “And Mr Holmes with her,” Rosie added, deeply shocked, like all the Boys.

  They were speechless for a moment, before Shiner broke the silence.

  “But what about Bristol?” he asked.

  “P’raps they’re gonna escape that way,” Gertie suggested. “Catch the train to Bristol and then a ship over the water to Ireland or America or somewhere.”

  Wiggins’s forehead furrowed as he tried to solve the riddle. Suddenly his face cleared as he thought of the answer. “Bristol ain’t got nothing to do with it!” he cried.

  “But what about the big man and the train?” Beaver asked.

  Wiggins turned to Shiner. “How d’you get to Windsor by train?” he demanded.

  “Paddington to Slough, then change onto the special branch line to Windsor,” Shiner answered promptly.

  “Right. And where do the trains from Bristol stop on the way back to London?”

  “Bath, and Swindon, and Reading and… And Slough!” Shiner yelled, excited at seeing the light. “Last stop for the Express – Slough!”

  “Precisely, my dear Shiner,” Wiggins replied, sounding exactly like Mr Holmes. “Our man never went to Bristol. He went to Windsor – and he got on the Bristol to London train at Slough!”

  The other Boys gazed at Wiggins in admiration.

  “Brilliant!” Beaver told him. “That settles it.”

  “Yeah, but what we gonna do about it?” Queenie asked.

  “We’re gonna stop it, of course,” said Wiggins.

  “How?”

  “Dunno yet. But I’ll think of something.” He turned to Shiner again. “Now then, when’s this grand opening of yours?”

  “Tomorrow mornin’ sometime.”

  Wiggins pulled his watch from his pocket and consulted it. “It’s tomorrow morning already,” he announced. “Come on, everybody. We got no time to lose.”

  Queenie grabbed him by the sleeve as he headed for the door. “Hang on!” she said. “Where we goin’, and what’s the plan?”

  “Plan. Right. The plan…” Wiggins was transformed into the commander briefing his troops. “Right. Listen, everybody, this is what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna split into two parties – Queenie, Beaver and Rosie, I want you to go to Baker Street, wake up Dr Watson and tell him what’s going on.”

  “Why us?” Queenie demanded.

  “’Cos he’ll believe you three. And just in case he don’t – here, take these to show him.” He picked up Mr Holmes’s floppy hat, wig and false beard, and handed them to her.

  “Right,” she said, tucking them away in the pocket of her pinafore. “Don’t worry – I’ll make him believe us.”

  “That’s the stuff. Then get him to take you to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Lestrade will listen to him.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” Beaver wanted to know, upset at the thought that he might be missing out on the most exciting part of the action.

  “The rest of us – that’s Shiner, Sparrow, Gertie and me – are going to Windsor. We’ll need Inspector Lestrade to telegraph the coppers there, to warn ’em. That’s real important, Beaver. Matter of fact, it’s vital. Life and death. Right?”

  “Right. You can rely on us.”

  Queenie and Rosie agreed enthusiastically, and they all hurried to the door.

  Outside, it was already quite light. But when Queenie, Beaver and Rosie arrived at 221b Baker Street, the house was still asleep. Even on the street itself there were few people about, only the lamplighter with his pole, putting out the gas lamps, and two or three shopkeepers returning from the markets at Covent Garden, Smithfield and Billingsgate, with the day’s supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish.

  As Queenie tugged at the brass bell pull beside the door, a sweeper came round the corner with his handcart, brush and shovel, clearing up the manure dropped by the horses that had passed that way the previous day. He stopped to look at the unusual sight of three ragged urchins trying to get into a respectable house. They could hear the jangling of the bell in the hallway, but no sound of anyone coming to answer it. Queenie pulled again, and went on tugging urgently, so that the bell kept on ringing without a pause, until the door was finally opened. They were faced by a bleary-eyed Billy, wearing a nights
hirt and with his hair standing up in messy spikes.

  His face fell as he saw who was there. “Oh, no! Not you lot!” he said crossly. “I told you before, Mr Holmes is not here.”

  “We know that,” Beaver told him, pushing past into the hallway.

  “Oi!” Billy protested. “What you doing? You can’t come in here.”

  “Dr Watson. We gotta see Dr Watson,” Rosie cried, following Beaver in through the door.

  “Now!” Queenie added firmly, following Rosie.

  “He ain’t up yet,” Billy replied snootily. “He’s still in bed, like all decent folk oughta be at this time of day.”

  “Then go and wake him up,” demanded Beaver.

  “I can’t do that. You’ll have to come back later.”

  “No! It’ll be too late,” Beaver shouted. “Go on!”

  “I can’t. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  “It’ll be more than your life’s worth if you don’t,” Queenie threatened him.

  “Listen – if you’re not out of here in one minute,” Billy threatened in reply, “I’ll call a policeman.”

  “Good!” she replied. “Just make sure you get Inspector Lestrade. We need him.”

  Billy gawped at Queenie in surprise as she headed for the stairs.

  “Come on,” she said to her companions, “we’ll find him ourselves.”

  Queenie was stopped by a stern voice from the landing.

  “What’s going on down there?” It was Dr Watson, wrapping his dressing gown round him as he peered over the banister. “Don’t you know what time it is?”

  “Doctor! We gotta talk to you!” Beaver called out breathlessly.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, Doctor,” Queenie said. “It’s urgent.”

  “It’s Mr Holmes,” Rosie added. “Matter of life and death.”

  “Ah! You’d better come up at once,” the Doctor said. He watched them climb the stairs, then called down, “Billy! Bring us a pot of tea, if you please.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Oh, and Billy – get some clothes on, there’s a good chap.”

  Wiggins led Sparrow, Shiner and Gertie back to HQ as fast as they could go. When they got there, he grabbed Dick Turpin from the shelf and tipped the jug’s contents out onto the table. It made a small pile of pennies, halfpennies and farthings; a few sixpences, threepenny bits and shillings; and a solitary half-crown.

  “I hope there’s enough,” Wiggins said, as he scooped up the coins and put them into his pocket. “D’you know how much it is to Windsor?” he asked Shiner.

  Shiner knew a lot about trains, and even about the timetables into and out of Paddington, but he had never thought about fares. When he was an engine driver, he wouldn’t need to buy a ticket. He shook his head. “Dunno,” he said. “I know I’m hungry, though.”

  “You’re always hungry,” Wiggins replied.

  “And me,” Sparrow joined in. “I’m starvin’. I need some brekker.”

  “No time,” Wiggins said. He opened the food cupboard. It was empty apart from two rusty tins and the end of a loaf of bread. He picked up the bread, tore it in two and gave one piece each to the two boys.

  “There,” he said. “That’s all there is. You’ll have to eat it as we go. Come on.” And he headed for the door.

  Shiner bit into his crust at once, grumbling that it was stale, and dashed out after Wiggins. Sparrow hesitated, then tore his crust in two and gave half to Gertie, who hadn’t said anything but looked hungry. She rewarded him with a smile. They followed Wiggins and Shiner out, down the passage to the street, and off, running, towards Paddington Station.

  Billy brought a pot of tea and four cups on a tray, which he placed carefully on the table in front of Dr Watson.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken a while, sir,” he apologized. “I had to get the fire going.”

  He did not look happy to be serving the Boys, and was not his usual smart self. He had dressed hurriedly, and had missed one of the many buttons on his jacket, so that it was fastened crookedly across his chest. He had tried to comb his hair, but it still stuck up untidily, and there was a black coal smudge on the end of his nose.

  “Ah, Billy,” Dr Watson greeted him. “No time for that now, I’m afraid.”

  “Sir?”

  “We need to get to Scotland Yard as quickly as possible. Not a minute to lose. Run down to the street and get us a cab. Fast as you can!”

  Pausing only to look daggers at the Boys, Billy did as he was told, and a short while later was holding open the door of a four-wheeler for them.

  “Thank you, Billy,” Queenie said, as she climbed aboard, nodding graciously to him like a grand lady.

  Billy scowled and slammed the door behind her, and then they were off, bowling through the streets towards the police headquarters, with Dr Watson urging the driver to make haste.

  Paddington Station was already starting to get busy with the morning traffic as Wiggins and his group arrived, panting and breathless, at the ticket office.

  “Four tickets to Windsor, please,” Wiggins gasped.

  The clerk regarded him over his glasses. “Are they for you?” he asked sternly.

  “Yeah, course they are,” Wiggins said. “I got the money – look.” He dug the coins out of his pocket and piled them on the counter.

  The man stared at the money, then at Wiggins. “How old are you?”

  “I don’t— Fourteen?”

  “Pity,” the man said. “Under fourteen you only need a half fare.”

  Wiggins thought hard. “They ain’t fourteen yet,” he said, indicating the others.

  “I can see that.”

  “And I might only be thirteen. I ain’t sure.”

  “Then you might be fifteen. If I sold you a half-fare ticket and you were fifteen, I could be in trouble with the inspector.”

  “Never mind, then. Just give me the tickets.”

  Wiggins pushed the money across the counter.

  “Right. One and three halves it is,” the clerk said, and started to count the money. “Going to see Her Majesty the Queen?”

  “Yeah. We’re in a hurry.”

  The man finished counting. He looked up and shook his head. “There’s only enough here for three halves.”

  Wiggins was stunned. He didn’t know what to do, and time was running out.

  “Well?” the clerk asked. “Do you want them? I haven’t got all day, you know.”

  While Wiggins tried to make up his mind, Shiner pushed forward. The man recognized him and even managed a small smile.

  “Hello, young Shiner. What are you doing here? Having a day off with your chums?”

  “Yeah,” Shiner answered. “We’ll take the three halves.”

  Wiggins started to protest, but Shiner shut him up with a swift kick on the shin. He picked up the three tickets and the few pennies change, then grabbed hold of Wiggins’s sleeve and pulled him away.

  “What you playing at?” Wiggins demanded furiously. “You can’t go without me.”

  “Nor will we. This way. Quick!”

  He led Wiggins and the others out of the ticket office and round the side of the station, past a line of luggage trolleys.

  “In here,” he told Wiggins, pushing open a door. “You two stop here and keep cavey, right?”

  “Where we going?”

  “Porters’ room. Come on.”

  They were only inside for a few moments. When they came out again, Wiggins had swapped his billycock hat and old coat for a porter’s cap and jacket, which they had found hanging on a hook. He grabbed one of the trolleys.

  “Right,” said Shiner, grinning. “Platform 7.”

  They hurried across the station concourse, Wiggins following a little behind the others. While they were having their tickets clipped at the barrier, he pushed his trolley purposefully through the gate, like a real porter. Halfway down the platform, he paused and leant on the trolley, watching as the other Boys found an empty compartment
and piled in. A minute later, the guard blew his whistle and waved his green flag to the driver. As the train began to pull out, Shiner and the others held open the door. Wiggins jumped aboard, and they were on their way.

  A Race against Time

  Just being on the train was so exciting that for the moment the Boys quite forgot how urgent their journey was. Luckily they had been able to get a compartment to themselves, so they were free to explore and investigate it. They bounced up and down on the padded seats. They stared in wonder at the framed photographs of seaside resorts screwed to the walls above the seats, and at their own faces in the narrow mirrors fixed between the pictures.

  Wiggins thought he looked very good in the porter’s cap, and the others laughed when he tilted it rakishly over one eye, like a fashionable young man-about-town. Gertie, however, was so shocked at the sight of her shaggy, scraggy, red hair and the hundreds of freckles on her nose and face that she screwed her eyes tight shut and refused to look again.

  Sparrow was not interested in how he looked – he had seen himself many times in dressing-room mirrors at the theatre. He was having fun climbing up into the luggage rack, which was like a long net above the pictures and mirrors. When he lay down in it, he could pretend to be a sailor in a hammock, though it really wasn’t very comfortable.

  Shiner was the most excited of them all. He could hardly believe that he was on a train at last, and he pressed his face against the window, staring out at the railway world sliding past. First they passed other trains steaming slowly into the station at the end of their journeys. Then the goods yard and the sidings, where small shunting engines huffed and puffed and pulled carriages and freight wagons. They steamed past the tall signal box, where Shiner could see men heaving at long levers to operate the signals above the track, and the “points” that moved whole sections of rail to switch trains from one line to another. For Shiner, this was heaven.

  As the train picked up speed, the sound of the wheels changed to a regular “clickety-click, clackety-clack”. Shiner discovered how to lower the window in the door by releasing the leather strap that held it up, and stuck his head out to try and see the engine. He was thrilled by the feel of the wind on his face, and the sight of the trailing plume of smoke and steam. Suddenly there was a loud “whoosh”, and the whole carriage shook as another train roared past in the opposite direction. Shiner let out a yelp of pain and fell back into the carriage, clapping one hand over his left eye.