by Holly Webb
Maisie grabbed the broom again. She thought it might be good to have a weapon, just in case. She fixed on her silly smile, and sweeped the broom busily across the floor.
“Did you forget something, Mr Grange, sir? You only just went out.”
“You were reading those papers,” he said coldly, shutting the door behind him and coming to stand over her. She hadn’t realized quite how tall he was until now. Eddie let out a low growl, and tried to push himself in between Maisie and Mr Grange. But he was only a very little dog.
“I was dusting the desk, sir, that’s all.” Maisie tried to sound natural, but her voice wobbled. He knew quite well what she’d been up to. And what would a master art thief do to someone he caught nosying about in his papers?
“Do you know what it is, that list you were reading?”
Maisie tried to back away, but Mr Grange caught her arm and she panicked. There was no point pretending that she didn’t know who he was. “It’s a list of paintings!” she shouted, and Eddie barked angrily. “Paintings you stole! You’re a thief – you’re Charlie Sparrow, or one of his men. And if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scream! There’ll be a police officer here in seconds. Seconds!”
Fred Grange – or Charlie Sparrow – let go of her at once, his mouth falling open in surprise, and Maisie scuttled back against the wall, getting as far away from him as she could. Eddie darted from her to the lodger and back again, growling and whining.
Why is Mr Grange looking so shocked, Maisie wondered. He must have realized she’d worked out he was part of the gang, or why would he threaten her like that?
Then, infuriatingly, he began to laugh, his plain, boring face going scarlet as he laughed so hard he struggled to breathe.
Maisie scowled at him. “I will call a police officer,” she said angrily. “I don’t care if you think it’s funny. Where have you put all those paintings? Where are they?”
The man stopped laughing and gazed down at her grimly. “I only wish I knew.”
“Have you lost them?” Maisie nibbled her bottom lip. He wasn’t behaving like a criminal. Had she made a mistake?
“What makes you think I’m Charlie Sparrow?” He flung himself down into an armchair and looked thoughtfully at Maisie. Eddie sniffed at his trouser legs, and the lodger leaned down and stroked the little dog. He suddenly didn’t look quite so threatening…
But he had definitely lied. Maisie folded her arms and glared back at him. “You’ve got a list of the stolen paintings. You were adding up how much you’d get for them.”
“And that’s your proof? What were you doing snooping around in here anyway?” he demanded.
Maisie sniffed. “You lied to Gran. And me. You said you worked for Libbey’s Biscuits, and you don’t.”
“How on earth do you know that?” The lodger sat up straighter in the armchair, frowning.
“You don’t know what a Garibaldi biscuit is. And you said digestives were your favourite.”
“I do like digestives,” he told her. “So you were trying to catch me out, were you? Wittering on about biscuits like that?”
Maisie nodded. “I saw you hanging about with a suspicious character, and then you were covered in mud when you shouldn’t have been. And when you came home this afternoon, your coat was soaked through. People who work in offices don’t need to go out in the rain in the middle of the afternoon, Mr Grange – if that’s really your name, which I don’t believe for a minute.” She eyed him, noting the way he was sprawled in the armchair. He really didn’t look like an art thief who was about to be reported to the police. “Although maybe you aren’t Charlie Sparrow, either,” she admitted reluctantly. “But you’re definitely a liar, and probably a criminal, and I shall tell Gran so! She’ll give you your rent back and ask you to leave. She only chose you because you were—” Maisie hesitated.
“What?”
“Boring,” she told him, with a shrug. “Gran thought so anyway. Boring and quiet, and she thought you’d pay the rent on time.”
“I will,” the lodger said quickly, sitting up again and staring at her. “I will, Maisie, I promise. Look, you can’t tell your grandmother. I need this room. And I’m not part of the Sparrow Gang, or any sort of criminal at all.”
“You’re not still trying to tell me your name’s Fred Grange and you really do work for Libbey’s Biscuits,” Maisie said with a sigh.
“Not quite… Fred Grange is my real name, that part’s true. But you’re right, I don’t know a thing about biscuits.” He glanced up at her again and sighed, obviously deciding to trust her. “I’m a policeman. Detective Constable Grange.”
Maisie gave a disbelieving snort, but he nodded at her.
“Go and find a police officer, if you like. They’ll vouch for me. But do it quietly, Maisie. Don’t make it too obvious.”
Maisie narrowed her eyes. “Are you undercover then? You’re not very good at it, are you?” That wasn’t much of a surprise, to be honest. The police investigating her previous case, the theft of Professor Tobin’s rare feathered mask, had been completely useless, she thought. But that had actually been quite lucky, since it had turned out that the professor knew the thief – a boy called Daniel. Once they had discovered what was going on, the professor and Maisie had conspired to help Daniel escape back to South America right under the noses of the police.
“What, because I didn’t know enough about biscuits?” Fred shrugged. “Yes, I admit it. I should have made sure there weren’t any holes in my cover story. But it all had to be done in a bit of a rush. We’d heard there was a room going spare on Albion Street, you see.”
“What, so it’s not just by chance that you’re lodging in our house?” Maisie came closer, her eyes widening. “Why here?”
Fred chewed his lip, but then he obviously decided he didn’t have a lot of choice. Maisie already knew so much that he had to trust her. “Because of who you’ve got living next door, lodging with Miss Barnes. Charlie Sparrow’s little brother.”
Maisie gaped at him. “Really? But Miss Barnes, she’s so respectable!” She giggled. “Oh, I wish I could tell Gran.” Maisie’s gran and Miss Barnes had been keeping up a polite rivalry for years. Gran would be very smug if Miss Barnes turned out to have been harbouring a dangerous criminal.
“You can’t tell anyone!” Fred snapped, and Maisie just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She knew that!
“I won’t.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “But in return, you have to tell me what’s going on.”
“What?” Fred shook his head fiercely. “You’re a little girl!”
Maisie did roll her eyes this time. “A little girl who spotted you,” she pointed out. “So –” she plumped herself down on the hearthrug – “tell me about this brother. I must know him,” she added, frowning, “if he lives next door. But I don’t think there’s a Mr Sparrow…”
Fred nodded, rather reluctantly. “They’re half-brothers. Bert Dodgson, he’s called.”
Maisie gasped. “But he’s nice, Mr Dodgson! He works at Baker Street station, selling tickets. We saw him just the other day – he was worried about Gran when the smoke made her cough.”
Fred shrugged. “He’s definitely Charlie’s brother. But you’re right, he doesn’t look suspicious. He’s never been in trouble – or not much anyway. He’s never been caught, let’s put it that way. He’s respectable. And he’s why I’m here. We’re sure he must know something about what his brother’s doing, even if he isn’t actually part of the gang. So it’s my job to watch him. To look out for anything strange going on in the house next door. Odd visitors. Bert popping out and about at strange times. You see?”
She nodded, fascinated. An undercover policeman, in her house! Even if he wasn’t a very good undercover policeman, it was still exciting. Particularly as it was perfectly clear to Maisie that Fred Grange was going to need her help…
“Sorry, Maisie!” Fred Grange raced down the stairs, struggling into his jacket as he went, and Maisie flattened her
self against the wall.
“Whatever’s the matter?” she gasped. “Are you going out? You haven’t had breakfast!”
“Another picture gone!” he hissed. “Early this morning, just reported. I’ve been called to a meeting at the Yard.”
New Scotland Yard … the home of the detective branch. Maisie sighed as the front door banged behind him. At least she was planning to do her own detecting today too. Gran was still cross about the washing, and she’d told Maisie at supper the night before that she’d spoken to one of their neighbours while she was waiting to be served at the butcher’s. The same thing had happened to Mrs Ferrars a couple of weeks earlier – washing taken, and a man’s old nightshirt left in its place. It must be going on up and down the street.
Maisie had decided to go and talk to Miss Barnes next door, and ask her exactly what had happened. From what George said, Miss Barnes had been furious when the washing was taken, so maybe she wouldn’t mind Maisie doing a little bit of sniffing around. And, of course, if she happened to catch a glimpse of Bert Dodgson at the same time, she wouldn’t complain.
After she’d finished washing up the lodgers’ breakfast things, Maisie nipped out into the alleyway behind the back yard and went in through the neatly painted wooden door to number 29. Miss Barnes was in the yard, hanging out some washing, and she spun round at once, glaring at Maisie fiercely.
“Oh, it’s you, Maisie! I thought it might be one of those dratted boys again.”
“The ones who’ve been messing about with the washing lines?” Maisie asked sympathetically.
“You heard about it, did you?” Miss Barnes nodded grimly.
“I came to ask you about it – the same thing happened to us.”
“It’s getting beyond a joke. The first time it happened I thought I was mistaken. That I’d mixed up the laundry, perhaps. But then it happened again.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it had happened twice,” Maisie said, surprised.
“Twice?” Miss Barnes snapped. “Five times, Maisie! Our nice things taken, and then those scruffy horrible garments hung on the line in their place. I’ve reported it to the police, even! And it was most embarrassing, describing exactly what had been taken.” She lowered her voice to a ladylike whisper. “Petticoats, and … drawers. I swear that young officer was sniggering behind his notebook, and no one’s done a thing about it.”
“They took the professor’s combinations off our line. But they left them behind the outhouse.” Why has Miss Barnes had so much washing taken? Maisie wondered. Perhaps it was because she was grumpy and always telling children off for shouting in the street. Was someone trying to get their revenge? “They left an old flannel petticoat instead,” Maisie added.
“Humph. Would you like another one to go with it?” Miss Barnes gestured at a pile of garments in the corner of her yard. “I wouldn’t give house room to any of them, I’m waiting until the rag man comes round.”
Maisie went over to look. “This has all been left on your line, then?” she asked, crouching down to turn over the faded heap – two grubby shirts, and three red flannel petticoats, all flounced and embroidered in a very old-fashioned pattern. “They’re all red. Well, reddish… That’s odd.”
Miss Barnes sniffed. “I suppose it is.”
“Maybe it’s part of some game,” Maisie suggested. “Always to put red things on the lines. But the petticoat on our washing line was white.”
“Game! If I ever catch any of them, I shall drag them down to the police station by their ears.”
“I’ll come and tell you if I find anything out, Miss Barnes,” Maisie promised.
She walked back along the alleyway, wondering about that pile of red clothes. Where had they come from? It seemed a lot of effort to go to for a silly game. If it was local lads – or girls – messing about, wouldn’t they just swap the washing around between the different lines in all the yards?
The way someone had been putting red clothes on Miss Barnes’s line made it seem more important than a game, somehow. More as if it meant something. Maisie paused with her hand on the gate latch, thinking of Gilbert Carrington, and the murderer’s coded messages that had sent him running off to New York. Maybe the red clothes were like a code too, or a signal.
Later that morning, Maisie happened to look out of the back window, over the yard. She was polishing Professor Tobin’s furniture, and she had noticed that his rooms smelled stuffy and too much of parrot. She was fighting with the stiff sash window, trying to pull it up, when she saw it. The washing flapping about in next-door’s yard.
She was too bothered with the stupid window to notice it at first, but then a few seconds later the window slid up with a sudden lurch, and Maisie realized what she had seen. Someone taking washing off the line! Someone in a dark jacket – a man’s jacket, so not Miss Barnes or her maid, Rosa. Stealthily, she leaned further out of the window, trying to see who it was. But he was hidden behind Miss Barnes’s flapping washing…
A sudden screech from Jasper made Maisie jump and nearly hit her head on the underside of the window.
The parrot made the man in next-door’s yard jump too. He turned round and looked up towards the noise. Maisie gulped. She shook her apron out of the window as though it was dirty, pretending that dusting it off was all she’d been doing, and then turned away.
“Shh, you dratted bird, you gave me a fright,” she called back into the room. She waved her feather duster around, and hummed a little tune to herself, rather shakily, acting as though she hadn’t been looking at the yard at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man stop staring up at the window and quickly pin something red on to the washing line, then dart away out of the back gate.
It was Bert Dodgson.
Maisie hurtled down the stairs and into the kitchen, with Eddie scurrying after her. Luckily, Gran was snoozing by the stove, and Sally was on her afternoon off, visiting her mother and little sister. No one would notice that she’d gone to follow Bert from next door – not for a while, anyway.
The problem was, Bert would notice her. She had recognized him at the station, and he’d have seen her around Albion Street. If he was part of the gang, he would be keeping a careful eye out and he’d spot her following him. Maisie muttered crossly to herself, looking around the kitchen for something she could use as a disguise. Curly red hair was not ideal for a detective. It was far too conspicuous.
She didn’t have time for anything elaborate. Maisie pulled off her boots and stockings, and stuffed them into the broom cupboard. Then she snatched Gran’s old shawl from the hook behind the door. Gran only used it when she had to nip out into the yard, and it was raggedy and fraying. Maisie wrapped it round her head to hide her distinctive hair and hurried out into the yard, bending down to dip her hand in the dust then smearing a dark streak across her face. Now if someone glanced at her they’d see a scruffy little waif, too poor to afford boots or a coat.
“Try and look hungry!” she muttered to Eddie. “Actually, don’t worry, you always do.”
She edged out of the gate into the alleyway, and hurried down to the larger road at the end, wondering how far ahead Bert Dodgson was. It had only taken her a minute or so to grab her disguise, but he could be a couple of streets away by now, lost in the city. She was sure that the strange behaviour with the washing must mean something. Maybe he was part of the Sparrow Gang, however well he had hidden it up until now. And now she might have missed her chance to see him meeting with the rest of the gang! She couldn’t go very fast to catch him up, either – she wasn’t used to not wearing shoes, so her feet were soft and delicate compared to those of a real street child. She had to step carefully.
But Maisie was lucky. As she slunk down the street, trying to look inconspicuous, she saw Bert coming out of a tobacconist’s shop, not far ahead of her. She and Eddie fell in step behind him as he set off down the street.
It only took Maisie a couple of corners to work out where Bert was going – and she sighed. Of course –
Baker Street station. All her dreams of finding Charlie Sparrow, and perhaps even the stolen paintings, slipped away. Bert was just going to work. Now that she got close, she could even see that he was wearing his dark uniform suit, with the brass buttons.
She watched as he entered the station, and then turned away with a sigh. “That was useless,” she muttered to Eddie, as they plodded back the way they’d come.
Eddie whined sympathetically. He was used to Maisie talking to him, and even though he didn’t understand what she was saying, he could tell that she wasn’t happy.
“You’re a very good and faithful assistant,” Maisie murmured, leaning down to rub his flyaway ear. “I wish we’d found something useful just now. Mr Grange thinks I’m a silly little girl who’s getting in his way. And I don’t think we’re going to change his mind by telling him that Bert Dodgson likes messing about with washing lines.” She frowned. “But that must mean something, mustn’t it? It can’t just be that he likes annoying old ladies. I know lodging with Miss Barnes must be horrible, but would he really go around stealing clothes to get back at her?” Maisie sighed. “If that’s what he’s doing, then maybe he isn’t part of the gang. He wouldn’t put them all at risk to do something so silly.”
Then she stopped, so suddenly that Eddie kept going for a few steps, until he realized she wasn’t with him any more. “It isn’t silly!” Maisie whispered. “Eddie, it’s not silly at all! What if it is like Gilbert Carrington’s case? The red clothes are a message! But what do they mean?” Maisie frowned to herself, as she opened the gate to the yard behind number 31. She was sure she was on the track of the mystery at last, but she couldn’t quite pin down how everything fitted together.
She had only been out for about quarter of an hour, and Gran was still dozing when Maisie walked into the kitchen and hung up the shawl. She quickly washed her feet – in freezing cold water, though, she couldn’t risk waking Gran by heating it on the stove – before putting her stockings and boots back on.
