by Holly Webb
Then she sat at the kitchen table with her little notebook open in front of her, trying to work out what was going on. Eddie flopped down lovingly over her feet.
“If Bert’s signalling with the red clothes, perhaps it’s to tell someone else that a painting’s been taken…” Maisie whispered, scribbling Red Signal in her book. “Or perhaps it’s to say danger? What does white mean, though? And why has he put five signals on Miss Barnes’s line, and only one on other people’s? It’s as if they aren’t as important. Oh!” Maisie dropped her pencil, and it went rolling off across the table.
Gran snorted and shifted in her chair, and then drifted back off to sleep with a ladylike snore.
“The other people aren’t important, Eddie! I bet they don’t mean anything. It’s a cover, that’s all!” Maisie thumped her fist lightly on the table top. “There’s been a red signal five times, for five paintings… And now a sixth time, this afternoon – the very same day that Mr Grange went racing off to New Scotland Yard, because there’s been another theft! If I went back and asked Miss Barnes, I’m sure I’d find out that every time someone messed with her washing line, it happened just after a painting got stolen. Bert Dodgson’s signalling to the rest of the gang, trying to tell them something about the paintings. That’s why he puts red clothes on the line – because red’s easy to see.”
Maisie laid down her pencil, grinning triumphantly. “But if he only used Miss Barnes’s line, she might get suspicious. So he steals things up and down the whole street, to cover up that it’s only one washing line that really matters!”
Maisie couldn’t wait for Mr Grange to get back, so she could tell him what she’d worked out. But he stayed away till late in the afternoon – obviously busy investigating the latest theft by the Sparrow Gang.
“I’m sure it would be useful to know about the gang’s signals,” Maisie said to Eddie, as she carried Miss Lane’s tea tray downstairs. “Maybe whoever Bert’s signalling to lives close by! Someone else in the gang. They could do a search… Perhaps I should have gone to New Scotland Yard and asked for Mr Grange. But he’s undercover, I don’t want to get him into trouble. Oh!” She squeaked joyfully as she heard a key turn in the front door. She dumped the tray on the side table in the hall, next to a china vase.
Fred Grange came in, looking weary. “Hello, Maisie,” he muttered. He sounded dispirited, as though the investigation was not going well. “I may not be here much longer – I’d better warn your grandmother. The chief inspector thinks watching Bert Dodgson is a wild goose chase, as he’s never gone anywhere near any of the scenes of the crime. Maybe it’s not even the Sparrow Gang stealing the paintings. Who knows? Not us, certainly…”
“Bert Dodgson is part of the gang, and he doesn’t need to go near the scenes of the crime,” Maisie said, catching Fred’s sleeve as he made wearily for the stairs. Eddie danced excitedly around his feet.
“What?” He turned and blinked at her. “What are you talking about? Look, could you fetch me a bowl of hot water, please? I need to wash.”
“Bert Dodgson is signalling to the rest of the gang using the washing line in the back yard of 29 Albion Street,” Maisie told him. She was trying to sound calm and sensible, but she couldn’t help a gleeful note creeping into her voice. She had uncovered an important clue!
“What? Is this what your grandmother was complaining about? Someone stealing washing? I thought it was the local children.”
“That’s what the gang wanted everyone to think!” Maisie explained. “But there have been six painting thefts, including one this morning. And then I saw Bert Dodgson putting a red flannel petticoat on next-door’s washing line this afternoon! It’s already happened five times, always with red clothes. The white things on the other lines are just a red herring.” Maisie giggled at her accidental joke, then hastily straightened her face, trying to look serious. “He’s sending messages, I’m certain of it. You said the police were sure that Bert must be involved, and he is.”
Mr Grange was looking at her very thoughtfully. “This all sounds a bit far-fetched, Maisie, but if you definitely saw him messing about with the washing line…”
“I did!”
“Perhaps I’d better get back to the Yard and tell them,” Mr Grange said.
Maisie sighed. “I really didn’t want him to be a thief. He was so nice when we saw him at the Underground station. And I don’t understand why he works there, either,” she added. “It can’t be for the money, can it, if he’s part of the Sparrow Gang?”
Mr Grange was pulling his coat on hurriedly. “As a cover, I suppose. Tell your gran I won’t be in for dinner.”
“It would be a good place to hide things, down there in the dark,” Maisie said
suddenly, as Mr Grange made for the door. Slowly, he turned to stare at her, his eyes wide and appalled. “In the Underground tunnels? Why didn’t we think of that?” he murmured. “We’ve been going about this all the wrong way. I must go back to the Yard! There’s no time to lose, especially now, with the duke coming to London.”
“What duke?” Maisie frowned.
“Haven’t you heard? I thought you read your gran’s newspaper. Duke Leopold, the German prince? He’s some sort of cousin to the queen, though she has so many cousins, I wonder she can remember them all. He’s coming to London to hold a show of his paintings – great treasures, some of them. Hundreds of years old. The queen will come and visit. The chief inspector is terrified. I swear to you, Maisie, his hair’s gone two shades greyer since he heard the duke was coming. We can’t let the Sparrow Gang get near those paintings, but we don’t know how to stop them. Charlie Sparrow seems to be a master of disguise. He sneaks in, somehow, and the paintings simply disappear.”
“Can’t they tell the duke not to come?” Maisie suggested.
“What, tell him that the whole of the London police force can’t protect him and his paintings? We’d look like fools!”
Maisie couldn’t help thinking that would be better than looking like fools after the duke’s paintings had been stolen, but Mr Grange obviously didn’t agree.
“It would cause a diplomatic incident,” the policeman muttered. “It just can’t happen. I must get back to the Yard, and tell them about the signals, and the Underground tunnels.”
“Can I come with you?” she started to say, but Mr Grange was gone, banging the door behind him before she’d even finished her sentence. She was left standing alone in the hall, with Eddie and a tray of dirty tea things.
“It isn’t fair, Eddie,” Maisie murmured, as she dried the china. “I worked it out! I bet he won’t even mention me, when he tells his inspector all that new evidence!”
Eddie looked up at her over the huge marrow bone that he’d dug up from the corner of the yard.
“And here I am, washing up! I should be tracking the gang, not them. It isn’t fair!”
“Life isn’t, Maisie,” Gran told her, as she hurried by from the larder. “Now have you finished that drying up yet?”
“Nearly.” Maisie sighed. She supposed it was better not to be chasing down Charlie Sparrow. George had said he was fearsome and huge, and had killed at least two men who’d double-crossed him. But it was so frustrating to be stuck at home, not even knowing how the police investigation was going.
“Good. Go and take that dog for a run, and blow the cobwebs away. You’re so cross your hair’s practically sticking out sideways. And I don’t want to know what the matter is, Maisie! I know quite well I shan’t like it.”
Gran usually turned a blind eye to Maisie’s detecting. She didn’t really approve, because she thought it was unladylike to be so nosy. But she’d had to admit that it could be useful sometimes.
“Thanks, Gran!” Maisie pulled off her apron and reached up to give Gran a kiss, before she snatched her shawl and darted out into the yard. It was a chilly day for March, she’d noticed that earlier on when she’d followed Bert, and it was getting dark now. The yard was full of shadows thrown by the strange h
alf-light of dusk, and she kept Eddie close as she marched along the street. Gran had been right to send her out, even though it was getting dark. She had been stewing over the unfairness of it all, and the brisk, chill air was helping to calm her down.
“One day,” she muttered to Eddie, as they reached the gates of Regent’s Park and she turned for home again. “One day, I shall be a proper detective, like Gilbert Carrington. And the police will come and consult me for help. Not run off and do all the interesting part of the investigation on their own.”
Eddie trotted along next to her, snuffling happily through piles of rubbish and sniffing at fascinating lamp posts.
“We should practise,” Maisie told him. “Look, there’s a man up ahead of us, we’ll track him, hmmm? We’ll try following without anyone noticing us. We were lucky with Bert Dodgson earlier on, we’d have lost him if he hadn’t come out of the tobacconist’s at just the right time. Tracking is an essential skill for a detective – and I don’t have your nose, Eddie.”
Maisie felt herself walking differently as soon as she decided that she was detecting. Her shoulders tightened, and her head went forward – just like Eddie’s did when he was on an interesting scent. “Stop it,” she said to herself, forcing her feet into a slower, more natural sort of walk. If she caught up with the man, he’d look round and notice her, and the whole point was to track him without being spotted.
She glanced at the figure up ahead, trying to memorize what the man looked like. Dark jacket. Dark trousers. Boots that looked like anybody else’s boots. He had a cap on, rather shapeless and battered, so he wasn’t a grand gentleman. He didn’t have a walking stick, either, or a neatly folded umbrella against the rain that was just starting to fall. Just an everyday sort of person, then, walking along, whistling a tune. Maisie grinned, stopping herself from humming along with him. Miss Lane had taught her that song, “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay”!
The only interesting thing about the man was his hair, which coiled out from under the cap in curls that were almost as springy as Maisie’s, though a lot darker. The curls shone as he went under a street lamp. Perhaps he was wearing hair oil. But other than that he was really quite boring.
“Doesn’t matter,” Maisie whispered. “I should think most criminals look just like everybody else.” She wasn’t going to be able to follow him for much longer. She would have to go home soon. But luckily the man seemed to be heading in much the same direction as Maisie. She kept waiting for him to turn off a different way, but it was as though he was going all the way to Albion Street.
He was in Glentworth Street now, the road which ran parallel. Maisie hurried after him, suddenly more interested, and gave a gasp as he turned determinedly down the narrow side road that led to the alley along the back of Albion Street. It was an odd little road, which didn’t even have a proper name. Gran called it Albion End, but there was no sign up on the wall. Maisie always thought the road might have been a mistake. It didn’t really go anywhere, but against the wall halfway down was an old stone drinking fountain. It looked as though people had expected the road to be busy, once upon a time.
It was getting darker now, but Maisie hung back as the man hurried round the corner into Albion End. It was likely there’d be no one else in the narrow little road, and she didn’t want him hearing her footsteps. As she got to the turning she peered cautiously around, wondering if he was far enough ahead for it to be safe to follow him.
But he wasn’t there.
Maisie stood at the end of the road, her secretive pose forgotten, and simply gaped. Where had he gone? There were no gates opening into the alley. Had he realized she was following him, and sped up into a run as soon as he’d turned the corner? But Albion End was paved. She would have heard his running footsteps on the stones. Especially as she’d looked quite carefully at his perfectly normal boots – they didn’t have rubber soles for quietness, she would have spotted those.
So how on earth had he disappeared so quickly?
And more to the point, why?
“You look peaky, Maisie. Overtired. Here you are.” Gran set a steaming mug of cocoa down in front of her. “Not that it tastes the same, of course. I can’t get used to this new kind – I told Mr Jessop in the grocer’s so. It isn’t nearly as good. I still can’t see why Bartram’s went out of business – theirs was quite the best cocoa. And this new one is tuppence more a tin!”
Maisie sipped carefully at the hot cocoa. “It’s still nice, Gran. Thanks.”
But the cocoa didn’t make it any easier for Maisie to sleep that night. She couldn’t stop thinking about the man in Albion End – the way he had disappeared. And then there was the Sparrow Gang. She had hoped to stay up until Mr Grange came back, so he would tell her what was happening. She wanted to know what the police were doing with the evidence she had found. But Gran made her go to bed straight after she’d finished her drink.
Fred Grange had come back eventually, very late, as Gran had pointed out disapprovingly the next morning. Then, as Maisie was wearily setting out the professor’s breakfast tray, Mr Grange popped his head round the kitchen door.
“No breakfast today, thanks. I’ve got to get over to the … er, the factory. Got an emergency on!”
“A biscuit emergency?” Maisie muttered, scowling at him. Couldn’t he see she wanted to ask him about the case? But he was already gone. She thumped the professor’s plate of egg and bacon down on the tray.
Gran glared at her. “Careful, Maisie! Are you sickening for something?”
“No, Gran.” Maisie tried to smile brightly. She didn’t want to be forced to take cod liver oil. It was disgusting, and Gran swore by it for any sort of illness.
“What’s the matter?” Professor Tobin asked, as she set his breakfast down on the little table in his room – next to a stuffed dormouse and some strands of seaweed.
“How do you know something’s the matter?” Maisie asked, surprised.
“You’re not the only detective in the house,” the professor joked. “You haven’t said a word, Maisie. And look at Eddie’s face – he can tell there’s something wrong as well.”
“Oh…” Maisie sighed. “I can’t tell you – I promised. There’s a case, you see, and I helped, but it isn’t really mine to investigate. The police are involved. And now I don’t know what’s happening. No one’s telling me anything!”
“Ridiculous,” the professor said, his huge eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “The police. Useless lot. But this all sounds most interesting, Maisie. Couldn’t you keep investigating by yourself? Or did you promise not to?”
Maisie looked at him thoughtfully and smiled. “No … actually, no, no one said I couldn’t. That’s a very good point, sir. Thank you!”
“Just be careful,” Professor Tobin said. “Don’t take any silly risks. And I want to know all about it, when you’re done.”
Maisie went back downstairs to eat her own breakfast, wondering what would be the best thing to do. She didn’t want to get in the way of the police investigation, of course she didn’t. But surely she could do something useful? Something that it would be hard for policemen to do?
She nibbled at her toast, frowning to herself, and feeding Eddie crusts under the table. Fred Grange was truly terrible at being undercover, she had proved that. And the police were busy trying to guard the duke’s paintings. So perhaps she could help out, watching the main suspect. Maisie was sure it must be important that Bert Dodgson worked at the Underground – all those tunnels were perfect for hiding things. And Baker Street station was a public place – no one could complain if she visited it. She probably wouldn’t see anything, but at least it would feel like she was still part of the case. And she might be able to spot one of the gang…
Maisie hurried through her work, hoping to slip away in the afternoon, but Gran kept finding errands for her, and it was after supper before she got the chance.
“What are you up to?” Sally asked her, laughing, as Maisie whisked the dishes away.
> “Are you wanting to go and visit Alice?” Gran asked.
“I haven’t seen her for days,” Maisie said, crossing her fingers in the folds of her apron, and telling herself that detectives had to bend the truth sometimes. She didn’t like lying to Gran, but she hadn’t actually said she was going to see Alice…
“Oh, go on, then. But don’t be back too late!”
“I won’t!”
Maisie fetched her shawl and a covered basket. She had a feeling that dogs might not be all that welcome on the Underground – not scruffy little dogs, anyway. She might need to hide Eddie away. And the basket was useful too, she thought, slipping a woollen scarf and an old hat of Sally’s into it, just in case she needed a disguise.
Maisie entered the station cautiously, keeping an eye out for Bert Dodgson. She wasn’t sure exactly what his hours were. She wanted him to be there, of course – so she could watch him and hopefully spot something important. But she didn’t want to have to buy a ticket from him in case he recognized her.
Luckily, there were two ticket windows, and a crowd of people were milling around the booking hall, all heading home from work, Maisie supposed, or perhaps they were out for the evening. She was able to buy her ticket – third class, for a penny – from the other ticket clerk. Bert Dodgson was at the second window, helping an old gentleman work out what ticket he needed, and Maisie was fairly sure he hadn’t seen her. She loitered in the ticket hall, watching him patiently deal with the old man, who now seemed to have lost his coin purse, and was patting distractedly at his pockets. Perhaps Bert Dodgson was just too nice to be a criminal?
