by Anthony Read
For the Blagden Bunch and the Lewis Lot
Mystic Marvin and Little Mary
Sparrow was happy. In fact, he was so happy that he had to keep pinching himself to make sure he was awake and not dreaming. Only a few days earlier, Mr Trump, the manager of the Imperial Music Hall, had fired him from his job as call boy and general dogsbody. It was only a part-time job, helping out when the theatre needed an extra pair of hands, but to Sparrow it was a passport to paradise, a doorway to a magic kingdom. When he was dismissed, he felt as though his whole world had collapsed. He would have been inconsolable if he had not been so occupied with other things.
It was those other things that had lost Sparrow his job. He had been fired when a stage magician had accused him of trying to steal his secrets – an unforgivable sin in the theatre. But those secrets had helped Sparrow and his gang of young friends to foil a deadly plot to murder not only Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, but also Queen Victoria herself.
Sparrow and his friends were street urchins, all either orphaned or abandoned, who lived together in a secret cellar which they named HQ, short for headquarters, just off Baker Street in London. They called themselves the Baker Street Boys – although in fact three of them were girls. Sparrow was the youngest and smallest of them all apart from Rosie, the flower girl, who was a bit shorter than him but probably slightly older. Only probably because few of the Boys were sure about exactly how old they were.
The Boys supported themselves by doing a variety of jobs, such as holding horses’ heads for their owners to stop them straying while their carriages were parked at the kerbside, or by shining people’s shoes, running errands, sweeping horse droppings from street crossings, selling flowers or newspapers, or, in Sparrow’s case, helping out backstage at the Music Hall. But their most important occupation, under their leader, Wiggins, was helping Sherlock Holmes with his investigations.
It had been while they were assisting Mr Holmes that Sparrow had got into trouble at the theatre. But after they had saved his life, and that of the Queen, Mr Holmes’s friend Dr Watson had called on the theatre manager and, after swearing him to secrecy, explained that Sparrow was a hero and must be given his job back at once. So now here he was, walking through the familiar door that led to the backstage area, the happiest boy alive.
“Wotcha, me little cock sparrer!” Bert, the stage doorkeeper, greeted him as he entered. “Nice to ’ave you back again.”
“Ta, Bert,” Sparrow replied with a broad grin. “Nice to be back.”
“Learned your lesson, ’ave you?”
“Oh, er, yeah. Yeah, I s’pose so.”
“Never thought Mr Trump’d take you on again. Comes of havin’ friends in high places, eh?”
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
“No?” said Bert. “Ain’t no secrets from old Bert in this ’ere theatre. I knows everything and don’t you forget it.” He pushed back his official peaked cap and tapped the side of his bulbous red nose. “Ears like a hawk, me.”
“I thought it was eyes what a hawk had.”
“Yeah. Eyes and all.” Bert nodded, blinking through his thick, steel-rimmed glasses. “’Ere, you better put this on and get started.”
He reached back into his cubby hole and produced the call boy’s jacket. Sparrow grabbed it eagerly, pulled it on and fastened the many buttons on its front, excited and proud to be wearing it again. He sniffed hard, taking in the familiar smell, a combination of dust and canvas and paint and hot lights and make-up, which to him was better than any perfume. Then he took a deep breath and pushed his way in through the swing doors.
He had barely taken two steps when he found himself facing the imposing figure of Mr Aloysius Trump, resplendent in his tailcoat and white bow tie.
“Ah, Sparrow,” Mr Trump harrumphed, stroking the sharp point of his waxed moustache. “Kind of you to honour us with your presence.”
“Yes, sir, Mr Trump. Here I am, back again.”
“Like the proverbial bad penny.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“That’s what they say, Sparrow, my lad. A bad penny keeps turning up.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I hope you realize,” Mr Trump went on, glaring down at Sparrow with one eyebrow raised menacingly, “what a serendipitously fortuitous juvenile you are?”
Sparrow looked blank.
“You’re a lucky lad,” Mr Trump translated, with a heavy sigh. “Affirmative?”
Sparrow gulped and nodded.
“Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Now then, young man, just listen to me. Out of the kindness of my heart and contrariwise to my discriminatory sagacity, I have graciously assented to reinstate you in your pre-existing position. But it is incumbent upon you to appreciate that this is by way of being a probationary appointment. Understood?”
Sparrow shook his head, gawping at him in bewilderment. Mr Trump bent down until his face was level with Sparrow’s and spoke quickly and quietly.
“You can have your job back, but you’re on trial. Put one foot wrong, and you’re out on your ear. Got it?”
Sparrow grinned. “You can rely on me, guv’nor.”
“Just don’t upset the artistes, right? Especially Stanley the Strong Man – he can bend iron bars with his bare hands. Or Marvin the Mystic – he’s got psychic powers. You never know what he might do to you. Turn you into a real sparrow and set the cat on you, I shouldn’t wonder.” Chuckling at the thought, Mr Trump turned on his heel and marched off through the pass door into the auditorium.
In an instant Sparrow was back in the old routine. He hurried around the dressing rooms, asking the artistes if they needed anything. He brought them refreshments from the theatre bar to lubricate their vocal chords, and sandwiches and buns to keep up their strength. He reminded them when they were due on stage. And as each one started, he took a large card with the number of the act and placed it on an easel at the side of the stage so that the audience knew who they were watching and who would be on next.
Sparrow loved the hustle and bustle backstage, the good-natured banter of the “artistes”, as the performers liked to call themselves. He loved their gaudy costumes, their garish make-up and their nervous excitement as they waited to go on stage. He loved the sound of the band from the orchestra pit on the other side of the big red velvet curtain, the rattle and boom of the drums, the tinny blare and deeper oompahs of the brass instruments, the screech of the strings and the tinkling of the piano. He knew that as orchestras went, the Imperial’s band was not particularly good. But, like the artistes, it was loud and lively and it suited the brash vitality of the music hall perfectly. Most of all, though, Sparrow loved the sound of the audience, laughing, singing along and enjoying themselves. Their applause, he thought, was the best music of all. One day, he told himself, it would be played for him.
The evening passed quickly for Sparrow as he scurried around behind the scenes without a moment to spare. He had no time for more than a quick glance at most of the acts. He managed to catch a brief snatch of song from Madame Violetta, the operatic soprano, which was so shrill it gave him a pain in the head. He saw Stanley the Strong Man heave one enormous weight above his head, and Signor Macarelli the Knife Thrower start to pin his plump wife to a board by flinging stilettos across the stage. He caught half a joke from Cheerful Charlie Chestnut, the cockney comedian – it sounded like a good one but he would have to wait until the next night to hear the punchline. Then, almost before he knew it, it was time for the last act: Mystic Marvin and Little Mary.
Marvin and Mary had stayed
in their dressing room with the door closed, so Sparrow had not seen them until they were ready to go on-stage. When he caught sight of them, he was quite bowled over. Marvin was nothing unusual: a sharp-faced American with a thin moustache and slicked-back dark hair. But Mary was a golden-haired vision, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Sparrow gazed at her as she stood waiting to go on-stage, nervously smoothing her red velvet dress, and thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. When she turned her wide blue eyes on him and gave him a small smile, he felt his cheeks burning into a deep blush.
While Marvin and Mary went through their act, Sparrow stood at the side of the stage, enthralled. He watched wide-eyed as Marvin went through the motions of hypnotizing the girl, taking a small golden locket from around her neck and swinging it gently to and fro before her eyes.
The mystic turned to the audience and raised a finger to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “I must ask for complete silence while I induce an hypnotic trance in Mary. Any disturbance at this time – any disturbance whatsoever – could be highly dangerous to my little girl.”
The audience, usually so boisterous, became so quiet that every tiny sound was magnified. When someone coughed, all those around him hissed “Sssshhhhh!” – though this made a louder noise than the original cough. Even the bored barmaid at the back of the stalls stopped serving drinks and clinking glasses. Marvin turned back to little Mary, sitting upright on a small golden chair in the centre of the stage, and began swinging the locket again, like a pendulum.
“Now, Mary, my dear,” he intoned. “I want you to focus on this locket. Clear your mind of everything else … everything … let it go completely blank. Your eyelids are getting heavy … heavy … they are drooping … you are going to sleep … sleep … sleep…”
The girl’s eyes closed, and her head dropped onto her chest. She was breathing deeply, as though fast asleep.
“Are you asleep, Mary?” Marvin asked.
“I am asleep, master,” she replied in a strange voice.
Marvin turned to the audience and bowed slightly. There was a ripple of uncertain applause. He raised one hand to stop it, then drew a long, shiny hatpin from his lapel and held it up. Moving swiftly across the stage, he walked down the steps, approached a large lady sitting in one of the front seats, and handed her the pin.
“Madam,” he said, “would you care to test this pin? See if it is sharp?”
The woman felt the tip, tried it carefully on one fingertip, and let out a little “Ouch!” before nodding vigorously and handing the pin back to him.
“Thank you, madam,” Marvin said. “Don’t worry,” he joked as he bounded back onto the stage, “the bleeding will cease shortly.”
Raising one of Mary’s hands, he held up the pin and plunged it into her palm. Or at least, that was how it looked to the audience, who let out a collective gasp of shock. From his position at the side of the stage, however, Sparrow could see that the pin did not pierce Mary’s skin at all, but slid harmlessly up between Marvin’s fingers. So it was no surprise to him that the girl felt no pain, or that there was no blood to be seen when Marvin apparently withdrew the pin and held up her unblemished hand for all to see.
Sparrow grinned when Marvin claimed that this proved Mary was now in a deep trance and ready to continue with a demonstration of mind-reading. Since this was the last act of the evening, the young call boy had time to stand and watch as Marvin covered Mary’s eyes with a blindfold, then climbed down into the audience. From the top gallery of the theatre, a spotlight picked him out, following him as he moved up the aisle between the rows of seats.
“I am now about to demonstrate to you the amazing powers of mentalism,” the American announced. “If someone would care to hand me an object – any object that you have about your person – I will endeavour to transmit its image to my little girl, who cannot possibly see what it is, except through the marriage of our two minds.”
A ginger-haired man in a green suit took a fountain pen from his pocket and passed it to Marvin, who held it aloft so that everyone could see what it was before closing his eyes and pressing the fingers of his other hand to his temples.
“Are you ready, Mary?” he asked.
“I am ready, master,” the girl replied mechanically.
“Right, then. Concentrate your thoughts… Can you tell me what this object is?”
Mary frowned under her blindfold, paused dramatically, then said, “I believe it is a pen. Yes, it is a fountain pen.”
There was a burst of applause. Marvin acknowledged it, then went on collecting other things, all of which Mary identified correctly. Coins, watches, rings, handkerchiefs, wallets – nothing defeated her. She could even tell the difference between a copper penny and a golden sovereign.
Sparrow knew that it must be a trick, but he couldn’t see how it was done, only that it was done very well. His admiration for the girl grew – not only was she pretty, she was also a real artiste! Which made him all the more surprised when, passing her dressing-room door after the show, he heard her sobbing her heart out.
He was just about to knock on the door when Sparrow felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Marvin, glaring at him angrily.
“Hey, you!” Marvin snarled. “Whaddya think you’re doing?”
Sparrow staggered as he was pulled violently away from the door.
“Nothin’,” he stammered. “I just wondered if you or Miss Mary needed anythin’.”
“Why?”
“That’s my job.”
Marvin glowered at him for a moment. “We don’t need anything,” he snapped.
“Is there something amiss, Mr Marvin?”
Mr Trump had suddenly appeared behind Sparrow, looking threateningly at him. “Is the boy bothering you?”
“Nah. No problem.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. The performance was extremely satisfactory tonight. Please accept my congratulations.”
“Sure. Thanks. Now pardon me, but we gotta be somewhere else.” He flung open the door and shouted, “Mary! Get out here now!”
Mary emerged from the dressing room, wearing a hooded velvet cloak over her stage costume. She was dabbing at her red eyes with a tear-soaked handkerchief.
“Oh, my!” Marvin shook his head at her. “Just look at you!”
He looked towards Mr Trump and sighed, “Kids!” Then he grabbed Mary’s arm and hustled her through the stage door. “C’mon,” he hissed at her, “we got work to do.”
Sparrow watched them go, then looked up at Mr Trump.
“I reckon there’s somethin’ wrong there,” he said.
Mr Trump frowned. “If there is, it’s none of your business. Don’t forget what I told you. One mistake, and you’re out – for good.”
Sparrow nodded glumly, but as Mr Trump marched away he hurried to the swing doors, pushed them open a little way and looked out. In the street he could see Marvin pushing Mary into a smart carriage that stood among the hansom cabs that were always waiting there to pick up the artistes and whisk them off to other theatres: some of the more successful ones performed at two or three theatres each night and needed fast transport to get them there in time. As the carriage moved off, the gaslight from the street lamp picked out something bright on its side. A simple monogram, painted in gold. It was the letter “M”.
A Message from Moriarty
“Moriarty!” exclaimed Wiggins, his eyes shining with excitement.
The other Boys, sitting around the big table in HQ, gasped at the name. Professor Moriarty had been the criminal mastermind behind the plot to murder Sherlock Holmes and Queen Victoria: Mr Holmes had described him as “the Napoleon of crime”. What could he be doing with Marvin and Mary?
“We don’t know it’s him,” Queenie, the oldest girl in the gang, said. “Not for sure. After all, Marvin’s name starts with an ‘M’, don’t it?”
“Queenie’s right,” Beaver agreed, sucking his big front teeth thoughtfully. “Cou
ld be his own carriage.”
“Nah.” Wiggins dismissed the idea. “He don’t make that sort of money. I mean, the Imperial’s not bad, but it ain’t exac’ly the Alhambra nor none of them other fancy gaffs in Leicester Square, is it? No offence, Sparrow…”
Sparrow looked up from the plate of Queenie’s stew that he was ravenously devouring for his supper and nodded. As always, Wiggins’s reasoning was excellent.
“None took,” he mumbled through a mouthful of potato and gravy. “You’re right, he ain’t such a big star. Leastwise, not yet.”
“Nor will be,” Shiner butted in, “even if he has got Goldilocks makin’ eyes at all the blokes.”
“She don’t!” Sparrow snapped back, stung. “She ain’t like that.”
“Sure and what is she like then?” Gertie teased him, her green eyes twinkling. “Sugar and spice, and all things nice?”
“She’s … she’s lovely,” Sparrow stammered.
“He’s stuck on her!” Shiner crowed. “Sparrow’s got a sweetheart!”
The others laughed as Sparrow blushed crimson, though Rosie, who was sitting next to him, put her hand on his arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“You pay no heed to ’em,” she told him. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ a sweetheart.”
“But I ain’t,” Sparrow protested. “She’s just a nice girl what I think is in trouble.”
“She is if she’s in the clutches of Moriarty,” Wiggins said.
Queenie held up a hand. “Hold on, we still don’t know that,” she said.
Wiggins delved into one of the pockets of his baggy old coat and produced a stub of pencil. Concentrating hard, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, he drew a curly “M” on the table top.
“Was it like this?” he asked.
“That’s it!” Sparrow cried. “Exac’ly!”
Wiggins sat back, grasped the lapels of his coat in his two hands like a lawyer and nodded solemnly. “I rest my case,” he said.
Sparrow tugged at the brass bell pull by the shiny, black front door of 221b Baker Street. He grinned at Wiggins and Beaver as they heard the jangle of the bell deep inside the house, then the sound of hurrying footsteps, before the door was opened with a flourish by Billy, the pageboy. Billy, who was about the same age as the Boys, was employed by Mr Holmes’s landlady, Mrs Hudson, to admit visitors and run messages for her and her tenants. The expression on his shiny face swiftly changed from a welcoming smile to something like a sneer as he saw who it was.
