by Brian Ball
Mr. Merriman was so agitated that he was unable to decide what should be done.
“You can stop blowing that whistle,” Rosie told him. “There won’t be any coppers around now—they’ll all be in the pub up Baker Street. Here, listen to this toff’s heart—is he a goner?”
“A goner?” cried Mr. Merriman, hurrying to where Rosie bent to listen at the elderly. gentleman’s chest. “I hope not, indeed I hope not! That’s Sir Alfred Connyngham, one of my regulars. Is that blood?”
“’Course it’s blinking blood,” said Rosie, accustomed to the violence of London’s streets. “And if you don’t get a doctor to him soon, he’ll be a goner for sure, dead as mutton, that’s what.”
“A doctor?” whispered Mr. Merriman. “Where am I going to find a doctor for him? And look at this poor lady too! She’s fainting clean away, what with that brute’s hands on her neck. Look at her! I don’t know what to do!”
“You take her inside your shop, Mr. Merriman, while I see to this toff here—what did you say his name was?”
Sir Alfred Connyngham groaned just then.
“Whoever he is, he’s still wiv us,” Rosie went on, as Mr. Merriman dithered and moaned. “Go on—get the old girl inside. And just you keep still, your lordship or whatever you are—can you hear me?”
Again Sir Alfred groaned, and Mr. Merriman saw the sense in getting one of the victims off the street.
“You’re all right,” Rosie assured the elderly gentleman. “You’ve been bashed by a bully, but you’ll live, and the old girl’s all right too that you tried to help—there, old Merriman’s took ’er inside, so stop worrying, will yer?”
Slowly and painfully, the old woman was half-supported into the shop, clutching her shopping-basket, her umbrella, and Merriman’s arm; however, her dress was askew, and as she passed beside the half-conscious nobleman and Rosie, a handkerchief slipped from her pocket.
“Here,” began Rosie, but the woman didn’t hear her, so Rosie dabbed at the wound on Sir Alfred’s forehead with it. “Don’t want to hurt you,” she told him, “but it’s a nasty sight—no, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been hit hard—and you don’t deserve it, a kind old gent like you.”
“Rosie?” called a familiar voice through the yellow gloom. “You there, Rosie?”
“Yeh—and you can get busy, Sparrer,” called Rosie back, as first Sparrow, then Beaver, and finally Shiner puffed and panted into view.
“Lost him!” cried Shiner. “We was right up to him and he just vanished!”
“Like magic, it was,” agreed Sparrow. “Beaver nearly had his coat-tails when—”
“When you lost him, and that’ll do for now about him,” said Rosie. “We’ll see to this gentleman now he’s coming round a bit—Sparrer, you hop it and fetch Dr. Watson smart now—go on!” she cried, and Sparrow ran off without argument, which was unusual for him, while Beaver and Shiner helped prop up Sir Alfred.
“Can we get him inside?” said Beaver. “It’s miserable cold out here. You ready to move, sir?” he asked the semiconscious nobleman.
“Where’s Mr. Merriman, Rosie?”
“He’s in too much of a dither to help,” she told Beaver. “Let’s get you up, sir,” she said to Sir Alfred. “Beaver’s right—you’ll freeze out here. What’s that?” she went on, hearing a faint inquiry from the injured man. “The old girl, you say?”
“Poor lady—what happened to her?” whispered Sir Alfred, who was slowly recovering his senses.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Sir Alfred!” called Merriman, who reappeared from inside his shop. “I’ve settled her into the snug before a fire, and she’s taken care of. But we must see to you, Your Lordship—here, give a hand, will you?” he said to Beaver and Shiner. “This is Sir Alfred Connyngham, you know, a member of the Government!”
“Is he now?” said Shiner, who was deeply impressed by the news.
“Easy, Your Lordship!” cried Merriman, who had managed to control his initial panicky reaction. “The police will be here before long—and a doctor! Did you send for a doctor, girl?” he asked Rosie.
“’Course I did,” said Rosie. “Dr. Watson from Baker Street!”
“Ah, of course!” said Merriman. “Why didn’t I think of him?” There was a groan from the injured nobleman then.
“Give a hand here!” ordered Merriman.
“Lean on me, sir,” said Beaver, offering a solid shoulder to the tottering man, and slowly they walked through the dense fog towards the shop.
They were able to see the brightly-lit shop-window as a hazy beacon in the gloom, and just as the two boys and Merriman—and Rosie, adding her wiry strength—supported Sir Alfred towards the open door, a member of the London police answered Merriman’s urgent summons.
“Who blew that whistle?” demanded PC Boot, clattering towards them. “Here, what’s happening—Mr. Merriman, who’s these here ragamuffins?”
“Good Samaritans, all of them!” answered Merriman sharply. “You took your time, my man, for I blew I don’t know how many times on my whistle—where were you, Boot? This is your beat, isn’t it?”
Boot began to apologise for the delay when Merriman found another subject for his nervous anger.
This time it was a short, slim-built, middle-aged man with bushy side-whiskers and a plaid cape and hat, who was clutching a large holdall of the kind termed a carpet-bag, and, to Merriman at least, he seemed to be an intrusion on the scene, for the tobacconist said:
“I’m sorry, sir, I have not a moment to spare for you—not a single moment, sir! I can’t serve you, no matter who you may be, for Sir Alfred needs my attention!”
The man turned and left and the mystery took another turn, for Sir Alfred was then reminded of his own possessions.
“Merriman!” he cried, suddenly recovering. And then he recognised the presence of a policeman too. “Constable?” he said, puzzled momentarily. “I was attacked—yes! I had my despatch case—Do you have it, Officer?”
“Me, sir? I only just arrived this instant, sir, and I’m afraid I know nothing of—”
Once more, Boot was cut short, for with a loud cry Sir Alfred Connyngham realised the extent of his loss.
“Let me go!” he cried to the two boys and to Merriman. “Who’s this? Why, it’s the flower-girl. Yes, you helped me, I recall it now. My things—where are they?”
“Here’s your stick, sir,” said Shiner. “And your tobacco parcel from the smell of it—and here’s the flowers, not much to say for them, I’m afraid—”
”But my despatch case!” cried Sir Alfred. “It’s black, and it has the insignia of the Crown. It must be here,” he said, staggering and almost falling to the ground once more.
PC Boot might have been slow in arriving, and he certainly had been slowwitted in allowing himself to be criticised by the tobacconist, but at the mention of official matters he immediately understood his duty.
“I believe I am addressing Sir Alfred Connyngham, am I right, Your Lordship?” he said, and he put one burly arm below the nobleman’s elbow and helped him towards the shop.
“Yes,” mumbled Sir Alfred. “Indeed you are, Officer,” he went on as he struggled to remain conscious. “You must find my despatch case immediately! It contains important Government papers—”
He did not finish his remarks as he blacked out once more, and Boot had to take the whole of his weight.
Boot settled the nobleman into the shop, and addressed Merriman briskly, for at the mention of Sir Alfred’s loss he immediately understood his duty.
“You look after His Lordship,” he said to the tobacconist. “You,” he told Beaver, “get yourself up the road to the police-station as if seven devils was after you—bring the Duty Officer and some men, and say Sir Alfred Connyngham’s hurt—hop it! And you two,” he told Rosie and Shiner, “you two help me look for this case.”
Beaver ran off as he was told. The evening had begun with a fight, which in itself was exciting enough, followed by a chase that had r
esulted in a mystery. And now he was acting on behalf of a Government Minister—it was almost as good as being employed by Mr. Holmes himself!
Rosie and Shiner were less happy.
“It’s gone,” said Rosie, after she and Shiner and PC Boot had searched every inch of the area.
“It can’t have,” said Boot. “Are you two sure he had it with him? I mean, the poor gentleman isn’t feeling quite himself just now, what with the crack he had.”
But Rosie was sure that Sir Alfred had had the despatch case when he bought the flowers from her; she recalled seeing him hitch it under his arm when he reached for his pocket to pay her.
Boot looked unhappy too as they returned to Merriman’s shop. “This,” he said, “will be a bad business. It has all the hallmarks—here, that’s Dr. Watson in with Sir Alfred, ain’t it?”
“Yeh,” said Shiner. “Now if he’d got Mr. Sherlock Holmes wiv him we wouldn’t be in such a tizzy. But he’s not here, or he’d have it all puzzled out in half a tick.”
“Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t,” said Boot, entering the shop. “But this is a job for a professional. Now, keep back and hush. ’Evening, sir,” he said to Dr. Watson.
Dr. Watson looked up and grunted as he finished inserting a stitch into a long wound on the unconscious nobleman’s forehead.
“PC Boot at your service,” went on the constable. “It’s a nasty business. Matter of an attack on an old woman and Sir Alfred Connyngham intervening on her behalf and losing his important State documents, sir.”
Dr. Watson looked up and nodded to the Baker Street Boys, who kept discreetly in the background, their eyes shining with excited interest.
“I heard from Sparrow what had happened, or part of it anyway,” he said. “It was smart of him to think of me—Sir Alfred needed instant attention. Merriman told me a little too, but so far no one’s mentioned an old lady. I know about a red-bearded brute who can walk through brick walls, and I know from Sir Alfred’s ramblings that some extremely important documents were contained in his despatch case, but what’s this about an old lady being injured? I should look at her too—good grief, Merriman, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded, for the tobacconist was acting in a strange manner.
“Where is she?” the tobacconist was bleating, as he pointed to the inner room he used as a snug.
It was a small room, with one tiny window and no outside door. And it was obvious to all those who could see inside that it was quite empty.
“Where is who?” snapped Dr. Watson.
“The old girl,” said Shiner.
“What was being strangled,” added Rosie.
“What Merriman brought in here, sir,” finished PC Boot.
“The old lady who was the subject of the red-bearded brute’s attack?” said Dr. Watson.
“Yes, Doctor,” said Merriman, who had recovered his wits by now. “Didn’t you see her come out, sir?” Boot asked Dr. Watson.
“No, my man, I didn’t. Merriman too will tell you that no one passed through his shop from the time I arrived to attend to Sir Alfred,” Dr. Watson told him.
“And I’d have seen her from down the street if she’d gone while we were searching for the despatch case.” said Boot.
“And us,” said Shiner.
“That’s another one what’s disappeared,” said Sparrow. “Just like magic.”
“Only nastier,” said Rosie.
Just then, Boot heard the clatter of a hansom arriving, followed by loud calls from a commanding voice.
PC Boot turned pale, but he tried to sound reassuring.
“I hear Inspector Lestrade calling,” he said. “Excuse me, sir, I’m sure we’ll have the villain arrested shortly, and the rest of this business cleared up.”
With that, he left to greet Inspector Lestrade.
“Lestrade?” grunted Dr. Watson. “I fear it will take more than Inspector Lestrade’s brains to puzzle out tonight’s mystery.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Then what happened?” said Wiggins.
Rosie and Shiner, together with Beaver and Sparrow, were wolfing down the Irish stew that Queenie had made from four-pennyworth of scrag-end of mutton and some vegetables she had picked up from the litter around the stalls at Covent Garden that morning.
Wiggins felt slightly peeved that this was his first news of the night’s adventure since, at fifteen, he was the oldest of the street urchins who lived in the cellar of the derelict house near Baker Street.
He looked up at the framed picture of Sherlock Holmes and told himself that patience was one of the Master’s qualities; but the effect of his warning to himself didn’t last long.
“Can’t you stop eating for a minute and talk?” he demanded.
“I likes my stew hot,” announced Sparrow.
“Queenie’s stew’s too good not to eat hot!” agreed Shiner.
“I’ll tell you,” said Beaver, mopping his plate with a crust. “Inspector Lestrade told us to hop it and let him get on wiv the case.”
“That’s right,” agreed Rosie. “‘Hopkins,’ he says to Hopkins. ‘Get a statement from those ragamuffins and clear them out of my way. There’s important State documents gone missing, and I can’t be interrupted by a crew of would-be child-detectives.’ That’s what he says to Sergeant Hopkins.”
Rosie had reported Lestrade’s words with great faithfulness, and you may as well know how I knew. It is here that I, Sergeant Hopkins, must reveal myself, just as Dr. Watson recorded the exploits of Mr. Holmes, so I have attempted to leave a record of those adventures and incidents in which the great man was involved only to a limited extent; I mean, of course, the activities of the Baker Street Irregulars, who, at the time I speak of were being questioned by their leader, Arnold Wiggins.
“He called us what!” demanded Wiggins of Rosie. “‘Would-be detectives?’”
“That’s what he said,” agreed Sparrow.
“Cheek!” growled Wiggins. “Why, Mr. Holmes said to us only a few weeks back that we’re more use than a dozen of the bobbies, each one of us! As for Lestrade, he wouldn’t know a clue if it bit his ankle for him.”
“And he said to Merriman he was glad Mr. Holmes wasn’t around too,” announced Beaver.
“Did he tell you that in the cab?” said Wiggins, who was practically fuming by this time.
“In the cab!” laughed Beaver. “He didn’t take me along in the hansom—I ran alongside. No, I heard him say to Hopkins and Merriman that it wasn’t a case for amateurs like Mr. Holmes and us.”
Wiggins and Queenie gasped with rage.
“And what did Dr. Watson say about that?” asked Queenie.
But Lestrade had been more circumspect than to allow his remarks to be overheard by Dr. Watson, as I can confirm. Inspector Lestrade had his faults, but he would never wittingly offend a man of influence—he kept his criticisms of Mr. Holmes and the Irregulars to his subordinates, myself, and the unfortunate PC Boot, and to Merriman. Poor Boot came in for an ear-shaking tirade immediately afterwards, but that was Lestrade’s way—he would bully his inferiors whilst sucking up to his superiors.
“Amateurs!” fumed Wiggins. “We’re not amateurs—if Mr. Holmes was here we could have this case solved in a jiffy!”
“But he ain’t,” pointed out Shiner. “Poor Mr. Holmes is near death’s door, after he got stabbed by Moriarty.”
“So he is,” said Wiggins, and he stared at the picture of the world’s foremost detective for so long that the others began to feel restless.
“What are you staring like that for?” said Rosie. “You’re making me feel all unnecessary, Wiggins.”
“I was thinking,” said Wiggins, “that Mr. Holmes is in that clinic in Switzerland, ain’t he?”
“Yeh?” said Shiner.
“Yeh,” said Wiggins. “And we’re here.”
Queenie sighed. “And we know what Wiggins means, don’t we?” she said to the others.
“Elementary, my dear Queenie,” said Wiggins. “
We’re going to show Inspector Lestrade he’s wrong. We’re going to solve the case of the missing documents—here, what’s that?” he said, as Rosie slowly drew out the handkerchief which had been dropped by the old lady at the scene of the attack.
Sparrow took it from her. “Urgghh! Blood!” he said.
“Sir Alfred’s blood, that’s what,” agreed Rosie. “I mopped him up wiv it—I couldn’t give it back to the old girl, not when she’d done a bunk, could I?”
Wiggins pointed to a monogram which had been partially concealed by the congealed blood.
“That’s an ‘O’,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not a ladies’ handkerchief, it’s too big. What’s ‘O’ for?”
“’Orace,” said Shiner. “’Orrible ’Orace,” Rosie said.
“’Orrible ’Orace from ’Ounslow,” Sparrow went on. “It’s a clue, Wiggins!”
“It might be,” said Wiggins, who was getting ready to go out into the cold night. “But just now I’m going off to do what he’d do,” he said, indicating the picture of Sherlock Holmes.
Queenie, Shiner, and Beaver also decided to go with Wiggins, but Rosie said she was too tired to face the icy fog, and Sparrow had his own plans.
“Not coming, Sparrer?” Beaver asked him.
“Nah,” said Sparrow, but he didn’t elaborate, so the four others left him behind with Rosie.
“How about you?” yawned Rosie as she saw that Sparrow was putting on his coat and ragged cloth-cap.
Sparrow lifted the silken handkerchief from the table.
“See this, Rosie girl,” he said, slipping his hand into the silk, which parted to reveal a pocket.
“Funny kind of handkerchief,” agreed Rosie.
“I’ve seen one like it once,” Sparrow told her. “Down at the Alhambra.”
“What? Down at the music-hall? Did some toff have it?”
“Nah,” said Sparrow. “Some magician. And I’m going to ask about him.”
“’Orrible ’Orace from ’Ounslow?” said Rosie, but Sparrow had slid out of the door into the yellow fog. “Magic again,” she said, settling beside the fire. “Nasty magic too—I hope Sparrer don’t run into that big bloke with the red beard.”
