by Anthony Read
He held out his hand and Beaver passed it to him. Mr Holmes looked at it and smiled.
“Well done, everybody. I congratulate you all on an excellent piece of detection … wait a moment, though.”
His smile turned to a frown as he looked at the tiara more closely. Then he reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a small black tube with a lens in it, like the one the diamond merchants had used in Hatton Garden.
“What’s that?” Shiner wanted to know.
“It is what is known as a jeweller’s loupe. A small, high-powered magnifying glass.”
He held it up to one eye and examined the tiara through it.
“As I thought,” he said. “Paste.”
“Paste?” asked Wiggins. “What’s that mean?”
“It means, I fear, that these are not diamonds but pieces of polished glass. This tiara is a worthless fake.”
A NICE PIECE OF PIE
“If this tiara ain’t worth nothing,” Wiggins said, “then what’s all the fuss been about?”
“What, indeed?” said Mr Holmes.
“You mean we’ve all been chasin’ about lookin’ for bits of glass?” Shiner grumbled.
“Only if it was a fake all along,” said Beaver thoughtfully.
“Good thinking, Beaver,” said Mr Holmes. “Please continue.”
“Well, p’raps the tiara what Polly saw was the real thing. And that’s what was pinched.”
“Right,” said Wiggins. “What d’you reckon, Polly? What was it like?”
Polly thought for a moment, and her eyes became dreamy with the memory. “It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” she said.
“But what about the sparklers?”
“Yes, tell us about the sparklers – er, the diamonds,” Mr Holmes said.
“They was brilliant. When the light caught ’em, they flashed like … like … like bits of lightning in the sky.”
“Well said. An excellent description of first-rate stones. Now look at these.”
He held the fake tiara up to the candlelight.
“No.” Polly shook her head. “I can’t see no fire in them.”
“Exactly. I believe we may safely assume that this is not the tiara that was stolen, but a clever copy.”
The Boys all frowned at this new idea, which to most of them did not make any sense.
“I don’t get it,” said Gertie. “Why would anybody want a copy?”
“To swap it for the real one!” cried Wiggins.
“Precisely,” said Mr Holmes.
“But why?”
“Elementary, my dear Wiggins. Consider the matter carefully.”
Wiggins’s forehead furrowed as he thought hard, then his face cleared. “So they could sell the real one without anybody knowing!”
“Exactly. I understand that Lady Mountjoy is short of money.”
“That’s right,” piped up Polly. “She’s so hard up, she hasn’t been able to pay Mr Harper and Mrs Ford their wages for ages. I heard them talkin’ about it.”
“Oh, yeah,” grinned Shiner. “Listenin’ at the keyhole, was you?”
“No, I wasn’t. I don’t do things like that. But when you’re livin’ in the same house, and their rooms is right next to yours, you can’t help overhearin’ sometimes.”
“Course you can’t,” said Beaver.
“What happened to all the money, then?” Sparrow asked. “I mean, with her bein’ a lady and all, she must’ve had a bob or two after her old man kicked the bucket.”
“I expect she spent it all helping Mr Gerald,” said Polly. “He’s always getting into trouble.”
“I told you he was a bad egg, didn’t I?” Gertie said. “I can always spot ’em.”
“But if she’d got her jewels, why couldn’t she just sell ’em?” asked Rosie.
“Not allowed to,” said Polly. “I dunno why, really – I heard as they’d got tails on ’em or somethin’.”
Mr Holmes smiled. “Ah. You mean they are entailed.”
The Boys all looked at him, puzzled.
“It’s a legal term,” he explained. “It means they belong to the family and must be passed on to the next generation.”
“Master Maurice, you mean? He’s her ladyship’s stepson. He’s away at school.”
“Exactly. He will no doubt inherit them when he comes of age. Until then, they must be kept safe.”
“So the only way Gerald or Lady M could raise a bit of ready cash on ’em,” said Wiggins, “would be to sell ’em in secret and put the fakes in their place so nobody’d know!”
“Precisely, my dear Wiggins. I sense the hand of Professor Moriarty in all this. I suspect that Moriarty discovered Gerald was in serious trouble, with debts that he could not possibly pay. He may even have tricked him into those debts himself – it would not be the first time that evil genius has ensnared some foolish young man – and then offered to rescue him, at a price. And the price was…”
“The Mountjoy tiara!”
“Well done, Wiggins. Moriarty had a copy made – no doubt he has a hold on some poor unfortunate craftsman who is able to make such pieces for him. In fact, the very reason I was in Hatton Garden in disguise was to investigate the recent discovery of a number of similar forgeries. Now, thanks to you, my Boys, I have the answer.”
Everybody smiled happily – except for Sparrow, who scratched his head and looked puzzled.
“Somethin’ I don’t understand,” he said. “If Gerald went to meet Moriarty to do the swap, why didn’t he take the real tiara with him?”
There was a moment’s silence as the others all thought about this. Then Wiggins’s face lit up.
“’Cos he didn’t have it,” he said. “And he didn’t have it ’cos it wasn’t him what stole it! Somebody else beat him to it!”
Everyone stared at Wiggins, their mouths wide open.
“Who?” they chorused.
“And what they done with it?” asked Polly.
“I believe I know where it is,” Wiggins said, “and if I’m right, you’ll know who took it.”
“Where is it, then?” Sparrow wanted to know.
“It’s still in the house. Come on, let’s get round there.”
“One moment, Wiggins, if you please,” said Mr Holmes. “If you are about to unmask the villain, it would be as well to have the police there.”
“Good thinking, Mr Holmes,” said Wiggins.
Mr Holmes gave him a stern look, but the corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. He pulled a notebook and pencil from the pocket of his coat and quickly wrote a message in it. Tearing out the page and folding it in half, he handed it to Shiner.
“Run to the police station with this,” he ordered, “and give it to the officer in charge. Tell him to come to Mountjoy House at once and meet me there.”
“Gertie, you go with him. In case,” Wiggins added.
“In case of what?”
“Just in case, right? Go on – off you go, and look sharp about it.”
Violet opened the front door of Mountjoy House and stared at the gaggle of people standing there.
“Yes?” she demanded in a curt voice. “What do you want? Tradesman’s entrance is down the steps.”
“I am not a tradesman,” Mr Holmes informed her. “And I wish to speak to your mistress.”
“What about?” Violet asked suspiciously. Then she saw Polly. She turned and shouted into the house, “My lady! My lady! Come quick! They’ve got her!”
Lady Mountjoy appeared at the top of the grand staircase behind Violet. Mr Holmes and the Boys stepped quickly into the hallway.
“What is it, Violet? Who are these people?” Lady Mountjoy asked. Then, as she caught sight of Polly, she let out a little cry. “Oh! They’ve caught her! Quick, Violet. Send for the police.”
“The police are already on their way, Lady Mountjoy,” Mr Holmes told her.
“Who are you, sir?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Pray forgive the costume,
I had no time to change.”
“Mr Sherlock…? I thought for a moment … at first sight, you reminded me of Sir Henry Irving, when he played Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.”
“Thank you, madam. I am deeply flattered.” Mr Holmes bowed his head slightly at being compared to England’s greatest actor. “But when I perform, my audience is not usually aware that I am acting. Nor, I believe, is yours.”
Lady Mountjoy stiffened and her lips tightened. But before she could answer, Mr Harper came out of the drawing room.
“What on earth…?” he exclaimed.
“This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. He has brought back our thief.”
“No, madam,” Mr Holmes corrected her. “I am bringing back an innocent girl.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Mr Harper declared. “We all know she stole the jewels.”
“You know nothing of the sort. As my young associate, Wiggins here, will prove.”
Wiggins stepped forward. Lady Mountjoy peered at him curiously. Violet looked puzzled. Mr Harper’s jaw dropped and he pointed an accusing finger.
“I’ve seen you before!” he said. “You’re the chimney sweep!”
Wiggins took an exaggerated stage bow.
“Another fine performance, I have no doubt,” said Mr Holmes. “Now, Wiggins, where would you like to begin?”
“In the kitchen, if you please, sir.”
“Very well. Everyone down to the kitchen. Ah, Lestrade – just in time. Please join us.”
Inspector Lestrade had just arrived in the open doorway, with Shiner and Gertie and two uniformed constables. He recognized the familiar voice but stared at the strange figure.
“Mr Holmes?” he asked. “Is that really you?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll explain later. Come along, now.”
Lestrade signalled to the constables to stay on guard at the door while he followed everyone else down the stairs to the kitchen. Mrs Ford cried out in alarm as they all trooped in. Queenie was at the sink, washing-up yet again. She beamed at the Boys in delight.
“What’s going on? What are you all doing in my nice clean kitchen?” Mrs Ford grumbled. And then, catching sight of Wiggins, “And what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for a nice piece of one of your pies, Mrs Ford,” he replied. “Queenie, would you fetch one out of the larder, please? The big one at the back of the top shelf, if you don’t mind.”
Mrs Ford had suddenly turned pale.
“No, no. Not that one,” she cried. “That one’s special.”
“I thought it was,” said Wiggins as Queenie returned with the pie. “Just put it down there, Queenie, and we’ll take a look at the special filling, shall we?”
He picked up a large knife from the table and raised it high in the air, as if he was going to stab it into the middle of the pie. Mrs Ford let out a shriek.
“No! No, be careful…”
Wiggins lowered the knife and used it to gently lever off the pastry crust on the top of the pie. “He put in his thumb,” he chanted, “and pulled out … no, not a plum, a diamond tiara! Well, what do you know? It’s been hiding in there all this time, along with some rubies and emeralds and stuff. Oh, and one pearl earring. The other one was planted in Polly’s box, to make it look like she was the thief, weren’t it, Mr Harper?”
There was a gasp from everyone in the room, then the Boys burst into applause, as if clapping a particularly clever conjuring trick. Mrs Ford dropped heavily into a chair, covering her face with her hands and sobbing as though her heart would break. Mr Harper shuffled across and put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. He was no longer the proud and confident butler but a broken, beaten man.
“There’s your thieves, Inspector,” Wiggins said. “They was planning to use the money to buy a little hotel in Brighton.”
Mr Harper looked up, amazed.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“Easy,” said Wiggins. “When I was in here after I pretended to clear the chimney in her ladyship’s room, Mrs Ford made me spread a newspaper on the chair to stop it getting dirty with the soot from my trousers.”
“So?”
“I noticed it was the Brighton Echo, and you’d drawn a ring around an advert for a hotel for sale.”
“Well spotted, Wiggins!” said Mr Holmes.
“That started me thinking. But I couldn’t put two and two together till just now, after we got the fake tiara out of that jeweller’s workshop.”
“Go on. How did you get it out?”
“I chucked it through the window to Beaver – he was waiting outside to catch it. And I suddenly thought, that’s it! If I could chuck it out the window there, somebody could’ve done the same here. And I remembered that when I looked down out of Lady M’s bedroom window, it was the kitchen area what was underneath. And then I remembered something else. When I was down there, I’d noticed a white handprint on the wall, like somebody had leant on it to steady their self while they was looking up. It was flour. So whoever it was, had flour on their hands – and that could only be Mrs Ford, ’cos she’s always baking. And what was she baking? A pie. A big, round, pastry pie. This one! All she had to do was stand there and hold her apron out to catch the jewels, then pop them into the pie dish and stick the top on.”
The Boys burst into applause again. Inspector Lestrade shook his head in amazement. And Mr Holmes smiled and nodded proudly. “Well done, Wiggins,” he said. “You are an excellent pupil. I could hardly have done better myself.”
Lady Mountjoy stood still, looking very sad. She shook her head at the butler and the cook.
“How could you?” she asked.
“You hadn’t paid us for months,” Mr Harper replied.
“I would have done,” she said. “As soon as I was able.”
“We couldn’t wait. We wanted to get married and have a home of our own, before it was too late.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” said Inspector Lestrade. “You’re both under arrest.”
“I trusted you both,” Lady Mountjoy said. “And this is how you repay my trust.”
Wiggins cleared his throat.
“Erm … I got something else to tell you, Lady M. They’re not the only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“Violet’s been taking your frocks and selling ’em.”
To his surprise, Lady Mountjoy only smiled.
“I know,” she said. “She was doing it for me. To make a little extra cash in secret. Violet has always been loyal to me – even though she was hoping to run away with my brother one of these days.”
Violet blushed a deep scarlet. Mr Holmes nodded.
“Where is your brother now?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He went out this morning and has not yet returned.”
“No.” Holmes nodded gravely. “And I very much doubt he will. If he has any sense at all, he will run and keep on running for as long as he is able. Otherwise I shudder to think what will become of him – not from the law but at the hands of the villains he has crossed.”
“Oh, poor Gerald,” said Lady Mountjoy sadly. “What will he do? He’s not wicked, you know, just foolish. I blame myself for being too soft on him, but it was hard not to be. He was my little brother, and I had to be like a mother to him after our parents died.”
“You need not reproach yourself on that score, Lady Mountjoy. He will have to learn to stand on his own two feet, which will do him no harm. There is someone else in this room, however, to whom you should make amends. If it had not been for the efforts of my young irregulars, she would have been marked for ever as a thief.”
Mr Holmes gestured towards Polly. Lady Mountjoy nodded.
“I’m truly sorry, my dear,” she said. “I should have believed you. What can I do to put things right?”
“Well, you could give her her job back, for a start,” Queenie piped up. “That’s if she wants it.”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Polly. “I’d like that.”
“But what about you, Queenie?”
“Me? I don’t want it. I’ve got my own job to do, lookin’ after my little brother and all our friends.”
“You’re comin’ back?” asked Shiner, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Can we ’ave one of your stews tonight?”
Everyone laughed. Mr Holmes held up his hand.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “It has become our custom to celebrate your triumphs with a feast. What would you all like?”
“I’ll tell you what I fancy,” said Wiggins. “A nice, big, juicy steak and kidney pie – with real meat in it!”
Later that night, after stuffing themselves with pie followed by plum pudding and treacle tart with lashings of ice cream, the Boys settled into their beds ready for sleep. With Polly safely back at Mountjoy House, HQ was already getting back to its normal messy state and Beaver had to clear a space on the table before he could sit down with his exercise book and start recording the story of their hunt for the Mountjoy jewels. Queenie crept quietly over to him and looked down at the blank page.
“What are you going to call this one?” she asked. “How about ‘The Mystery of Bleeding Heart Yard’?”
“No, that’d give the game away too soon,” Beaver said, chewing the end of his pencil. “We want somethin’ simpler.”
“All right, then,” Queenie went on. “How about ‘The Stolen Sparklers’?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That sounds good. ‘The Case of the Stolen Sparklers’ it shall be.”
And he bent his head over the paper and began to write.
HATTON GARDEN AND
BLEEDING HEART YARD
Hatton Garden has been London’s centre for diamond trading and jewellery making for several centuries. Many dealers still trade small packets of diamonds on the street. Some of them are Hasidic Jews from Europe, who dress in black coats and wide-brimmed hats like those in our story.
Although it is now a busy street lined with jeweller’s shops, the area was originally a garden on the edge of the City of London, given by Queen Elizabeth I to one of her favourites, a rich merchant called Sir Christopher Hatton, in 1581.
