The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Disappearing Detective

by Anthony Read

  “What happened?” Gertie asked, rushing to his side. “Did it hit you?”

  “If it had,” Wiggins laughed, “it would have knocked his block clean off.”

  “Ow, ow! Don’t laugh – it hurts!” Shiner moaned.

  “Here, let’s have a look.” Wiggins gently pulled Shiner’s hand away, and peered into his eye. “You’ve got a speck of dirt in your eye from the engine.”

  “A speck? Blimey, it feels like a dirty great rock.”

  Wiggins pulled out his handkerchief, rolled one corner into a point and used it to fish out a tiny piece of black grit. “There you are,” he said, showing it to Shiner. “There’s your rock. You ain’t gonna go blind yet awhile. Next time, just be more careful, right?”

  He pointed to a sign painted over the door: “DO NOT LEAN OUT OF THE WINDOW”.

  Shiner, whose reading was not very good at the best of times, nodded miserably, clutching his sore eye, which was red and watering. There were obviously plenty of things he still had to learn about trains.

  Soon they had left the outskirts of London and were passing through open country. The last traces of the city’s fog vanished and the air was clear and fresh. Shiner and Sparrow had never seen green fields before, and were completely amazed by them. The biggest open spaces they knew were Regent’s Park and Hyde Park in London, but this was something very different. These fields seemed to go on for ever, with just an occasional farmhouse or village sitting quietly amid the peace of the countryside. The few people they saw were all at work, usually with giant carthorses pulling wagons or strange pieces of agricultural equipment, and not strolling at their leisure, like the people in the parks.

  When they saw herds of black and white cows and the flocks of woolly sheep, the two boys shrieked with delight. But Gertie stayed very quiet, gazing out of the window with a sad face.

  “What’s up, Gertie?” Wiggins asked, noticing a tear rolling down her cheek.

  “Reminds me of me dad,” she sniffed. “We used to live in the country when I was little.”

  Shiner and Sparrow stared at her in awe. Gertie had never said much about her past. Almost the only thing any of them knew about her was that her father was an Irishman, who’d had to go away.

  “In the country?” Sparrow asked. “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “What was it like?” Shiner asked. “Was it scary? All them animals?”

  Gertie laughed. “No,” she said. “There was lots of trees to climb, and rivers and lakes to swim in. It was smashin’.”

  “Did you live on a farm?”

  “No, in a caravan. We was always on the move.”

  The two younger boys were green with envy.

  “Why don’t you still live in a caravan, then?” Sparrow wanted to know. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would give up such a life.

  “The coppers took me dad away and locked him up in prison. They wanted to lock me up as well, in an orphanage. So I run away.”

  The others nodded sympathetically. This was something they could understand. But before they could think too much about it, they were interrupted by a shout from Wiggins.

  “Look!” he cried, pointing through the window.

  There, on the distant skyline, they saw the outline of a great building. A wide, circular tower, with roofs and turrets stretching away to either side of it behind a long stone wall. They could just make out a flag, flying above the tower on a tall flagpole. Windsor Castle!

  A few minutes later, the train pulled into a station and stopped.

  “Slough. This is Slough,” a man’s voice announced. “Change here for Windsor!”

  “This is us. Everybody out!” Wiggins opened the door and they all poured out onto the platform. Wiggins grabbed the first porter he saw – a large man with a red face.

  “Windsor. Where’s the train for Windsor?” he asked.

  “There ain’t one, mate,” the man replied. “Not this morning, anyroad.”

  “But we gotta get there. Quick. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Oh, is it?” The man grinned at Wiggins’s eagerness. “You’ll have to run, then. Line’s closed till the Queen’s opened the new station. Ain’t you heard about that?”

  “Course we have. That’s why we gotta get there! Somebody’s trying to blow her up!”

  “And you’re gonna stop ’em? A porter and three kids?” He started laughing. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years!”

  “I ain’t a porter.”

  “And we ain’t just kids,” Shiner shouted.

  “We’re the Baker Street Boys,” said Sparrow.

  “And we work for Mr Sherlock Holmes!” Gertie added.

  The porter laughed even harder. “Ooh,” he cackled. “And I’m the prime minister. This gets better and better. ’Ere, Charlie,” he called to another porter, “come and ’ave a listen to this. Fair beats the music hall, this does.”

  “It’s true. It’s all true, I tell you,” Wiggins protested. “If we don’t get to Windsor Station in time, they’ll kill the Queen.”

  “And Mr Holmes,” Sparrow cried.

  When the porter laughed again, Shiner screamed with frustration and kicked him on the shin. Hard. The man let out a yell of rage and tried to grab him.

  He was stopped by a loud voice, full of authority. “Biggs! Stop that at once!”

  The speaker was a middle-aged man with curly, grey side-whiskers, wearing a shiny top hat, a black frock-coat and striped trousers. He was advancing along the platform, accompanied by two burly policemen, one of them with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

  He pointed at the Boys and beckoned them imperiously. “You!” he ordered. “Come here.”

  “Oh, blimey,” Shiner muttered. “The Stationmaster! Now we’re for it. They know you never had no ticket, Wiggins.”

  “And pinched that uniform,” Sparrow chipped in.

  “Borrowed,” Wiggins corrected him.

  “Quickly, now!” the Stationmaster continued. “Is your name Wiggins?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought so. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard telegraphed me. He’s coming on the next train, and we’re to give you every assistance.”

  “They did it!” Wiggins beamed at the other Boys. “Beaver and Queenie and Rosie – they did it!”

  “You need to get to Windsor, right?”

  “Yeah. And fast. But that porter says there ain’t no trains.”

  “That’s right. We can’t get you there by train. It’s a single-track line, you see, and the royal train is already in the new station.”

  “We’re done for, then. We ain’t got time to walk.”

  “Never mind that,” the Stationmaster said firmly. “Come along with me. Hurry now. Right, Sergeant, Constable.”

  He turned on his heel and marched out of the station as briskly as his dignity would allow. The Boys and the policemen followed. Outside, the Boys’ mouths dropped open in amazement. Standing at the entrance were two gleaming motor cars, each with a driver wearing peaked cap and goggles at the wheel. The car engines were ticking over, ready to go.

  “Don’t stand there gawping!” the Stationmaster bellowed, waving them forward with both hands. “Have you never seen a horseless carriage before? Get aboard! No time to lose! Get aboard!”

  The Boys needed no second bidding. What a day this was turning out to be! They scrambled into the first car – Wiggins in front by the driver, the other three in the rear seat – while the Stationmaster and the two policemen climbed into the second car.

  “Full speed ahead, drivers!” the Stationmaster shouted, exchanging his top hat for a baggy cap with flaps, which he fastened under his chin. “To Windsor – and don’t spare the horsepower! A sovereign for the first across the bridge!”

  The drivers tooted their horns and engaged forward gear, and the race was on. Through the little town they sped, forcing pedestrians to leap on to the pavements for safety, scaring old ladies, frightening horses
and rousing sleeping dogs who rushed into the road after them, barking furiously. For the Boys, this was even more exciting than the train ride. They clung on for dear life as their car rattled and shook over the cobbled streets.

  Once they were clear of the town, they trailed a huge cloud of dust behind them from the unmade road. As the car following had to drive through this, the policemen’s uniforms quickly turned from blue to grey. Coughing and spluttering, the Stationmaster grabbed the top of the windscreen, half stood up in his seat and urged his driver to overtake. But the road was too narrow and the Boys’ driver too determined, and so they stayed in front. Ahead of them, the distant bulk of the castle grew steadily bigger and bigger as they got nearer. To one side, across the fields, they could see the railway line, raised on a long row of brick arches, leading to the foot of the castle.

  Soon they were entering another small town. The castle towered over the far end of its High Street, divided from it by a wide river. To the Boys’ astonishment, the streets were filled with boys, wearing shiny top hats, striped trousers, short black “bum-freezer” jackets and big, stiff, white collars. They were all heading towards the bridge that crossed the river. The cars had to slow down to avoid hitting them.

  Wiggins leant over to the driver. “Is this Windsor?” he asked.

  “No,” the man told him. “Windsor’s the other side of the river. This is Eton, where the toffs go to school.”

  “Cor, fancy having to dress up like that every day to go to school!”

  “Out of the way! Get out of the way!” the driver yelled, tooting his horn frantically. But the large number of schoolboys and other people in the street slowed the car to a crawl. By the time the cars had reached the tollgate on the other side of the bridge, they were forced to stop.

  “It’s no good,” the driver said. “Too many people going to see the Queen.”

  The other car had pulled up behind them. The Stationmaster and the two policemen jumped out, dusted themselves down and hurried over.

  “It’ll be quicker on foot!” the Stationmaster shouted. “And anyway, the motors would never make it up the hill. This way! Come on!”

  The Boys clambered out and followed him onto the bridge, pushing through the crowd.

  “What’s this river?” Wiggins asked as they crossed.

  The Stationmaster looked at him as though he were stupid. “Why, the Thames, of course,” he said.

  The Boys stared over the side of the ancient stone bridge at the clear water running below. It did not look much like the great, grimy waterway that flowed through London, bustling with tugs and barges and river traffic. Led by the Stationmaster and the policemen, all puffing heavily, Wiggins and the Boys hurried across the bridge, then along the promenade that ran alongside the river. The boats here all seemed to be pleasure craft – launches and skiffs and dinghies. A hundred yards upstream another, more modern, iron bridge with two boats moored underneath it carried the railway across. It made a peaceful scene, but there was no time to stand and admire it.

  The little party turned into the steep street that led up from the river, under the shadow of the immense outer wall of the castle. The shops facing the castle were gaily decorated with bunting and flags. So, too, was the entrance to the new station at the top of the slope, where guardsmen in their red tunics and tall, black bearskin hats lined the pavements. The Boys felt very important as they hurried between them onto the station concourse, where a military band was playing rousing tunes.

  “Well, we’re here,” the Stationmaster said. “What now?”

  “I dunno,” Wiggins replied. “I don’t… Wait a minute – yes, I do. Look!”

  He pointed to a tall figure among the crowd. It was the American with the broad, black hat and the heavy moustache.

  “Sergeant,” he said urgently. “That’s our man. That’s the leader of the gang.”

  “Is it indeed?” the Sergeant replied. “Right.”

  The Stationmaster drew in his breath sharply. “He looks a nasty piece of work,” he warned. “You’d best take care.”

  The Sergeant nodded. “You stay here,” he told the Boys. “Out of harm’s way. I’ll get reinforcements.”

  He and the Constable moved quietly to the edge of the crowd, summoning two other policemen from the pavement to join them. The Boys watched as they slipped behind the spectators, then approached the big man from either side. A moment later, they had seized his arms and were leading him away to the station office.

  “Excellent!” the Stationmaster declared. “Very well done. Come along, boys. Let’s see what the villain has to say for himself.”

  In the station office, the big man, who was now in handcuffs, was protesting vigorously in a strong American accent, “Lemme loose, you numbskulls! You don’t know what you’re getting involved in!”

  “Oh yes, we do,” said Wiggins. And then continued in his best Sherlock Holmes voice, “The game’s up! You might as well come clean.”

  The man stared at him as though he were mad. “Who is this kid? And what’s he talking about?”

  “We know you’re in league with the Professor to blow up the Queen and Mr Holmes.”

  “Mr Holmes? Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Exac’ly. Now, where’s the bomb?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, stupid! I’m not a terrorist – I’m a detective.”

  They all stared at him in complete disbelief.

  “My name is Thaddeus T. Judd, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the United States of America. Kindly feel in my inside pocket, Sergeant – and look sharp about it.”

  He raised his hands to show that he could not do it himself because of the handcuffs. The Sergeant did as he was asked, and produced a small, black leather wallet, which contained a silver badge and an identity card, which he read quickly.

  “He’s telling the truth,” he said.

  “You’re not a terrorist?” Wiggins asked, amazed by this sudden turn of events.

  “No, I’m not. Your terrorists are still out there – with their bomb.”

  Saving the Queen

  “I’ve been tracking these guys all the way from Boston, Massachusetts, in the US of A,” Thaddeus T. Judd explained, as the sergeant released him from the handcuffs. “The Boston police chief called in my agency to help catch them. They are Fenians and they’ve come over here to cause mischief.”

  “What are Fenians?” Wiggins asked.

  “It’s another name for the Irish Brotherhood,” Judd explained. “They’re revolutionaries and crooks.”

  “And murderers,” the Sergeant added meaningfully.

  “And they want to kill Her Majesty the Queen?” the Stationmaster asked, deeply shocked.

  “Looks like it,” Judd replied.

  “And Mr Holmes,” said Wiggins.

  “I don’t know about that. But I sure wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Then we must stop them!” the Stationmaster exclaimed. “Where are they now?”

  “That, sir, is the hundred-dollar question. I’ve hunted through every inch of this station, and I can’t see any trace of them, and no sign of any bomb, either.”

  “But they must be here somewhere,” the Sergeant said, pushing back his helmet and scratching his head. “Where else would they be?”

  Wiggins had begun pacing up and down the room, thinking hard. Now he stopped and held up one hand. “Half a mo,” he said sharply. “Sparrow, tell me again what you heard ’em saying. Besides the bit about the grand opening going with a bang.”

  “Well,” said Sparrow, “there was all that about a train and the widow…”

  “Yes, yes. Go on!”

  “Oh, yeah, there was that bit we couldn’t work out, about over the water…”

  “That’s it!” Wiggins’s face lit up. “Over the water – over the river, more like!”

  “I don’t get it,” Judd said.

  “What goes over the river?” Wiggins yelled excitedly.

  “Why, a bridge, I
guess.”

  “Exac’ly!” Wiggins turned to the other Boys. “When we was running along the river from Eton, there was another bridge close by.”

  “Yes. The railway bridge,” the Stationmaster said.

  “Right. And I saw two boats under that bridge. One was a posh steamboat with a funnel and all; the other was a rowing boat. And I noticed there was a bloke sitting in it, on his own.”

  “So?”

  “When there’s all this going on up here, with the Queen and everything, why would anybody want to sit in a boat, underneath the railway bridge, where you can’t see nothing?”

  “By golly!” Judd gasped. “The kid’s right! They’re going to blow up the bridge as the royal train passes over it.”

  “We gotta get down there!” Wiggins yelled. “Quick! Come on, everybody!”

  “The quickest way is along the track,” the Stationmaster cried, flinging open the office door.

  With Wiggins and the Boys leading, the whole party rushed out and raced past an astonished line of dignitaries who were waiting by the royal train, its sparkling green and gold locomotive gently letting off steam in readiness. At the end of the platform, they hopped down onto the track and ran along it. Behind them, they heard the band strike up the National Anthem, a sign that the Queen had arrived at the station.

  The Boys, being younger and fitter, soon left everyone else behind. The track curved sharply to the right, and they could see the river and the metal bridge about two hundred yards ahead, where the town gave way to fields and the towpath was lined with bushes. The bridge looked like two giant silver coat-hangers laid above the water on brick pillars, carrying the track between them. The tops of the two metal arches were decorated for the occasion with Union Jack flags and golden crowns.