The Case of the Haunted Horrors

by Anthony Read

  “Can I ’ave a bun?” Shiner asked.

  “Or a piece of toast,” Gertie said wistfully. “I’d love a piece of warm toast with loads o’ butter and maybe a wee drop of jam like my da used to…”

  “Hold on,” Wiggins interrupted sternly. “We ain’t here to enjoy ourselves. We’re here to do a job.”

  “Right,” agreed Queenie. “Come on, you two. See you in a minute, Wiggins. D’you want us to send you out a piece of toast or somethin’?”

  Wiggins pulled a sour face at her as she pushed open the door of the café and went in with Shiner and Gertie. They were met with a thick fug of steam from a giant silver urn on the counter and clouds of sharp-smelling smoke from the cigars, pipes and cigarettes that many of the customers were puffing at. The place was only half full, but the noise was tremendous. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, gabbling and arguing at the tops of their voices in what sounded like several different languages. Those who weren’t talking sat hunched over newspapers printed in a strange alphabet, which not even Queenie could read. The papers were attached to wooden rods with a hook at one end, and more copies hung from a rack by the counter so that people could borrow them to read while they ate and drank.

  A bony woman in a black dress with a long white apron tied around her waist was collecting plates and glasses from the tables. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and a pair of metal-rimmed glasses was clipped on her nose. She looked at the Boys with suspicion, as though she were expecting them to make trouble, and she blocked their way in, setting her hands akimbo.

  “What you want?” she demanded in a thick foreign accent.

  “We’d like three cups of tea and some buns, if you please,” Queenie answered in her politest voice. “It’s all right, we got the money.” And she held up the two sixpences.

  The woman’s lip curled scornfully. She plucked one of the coins from Queenie’s hand and pointed at an empty table.

  “Sit!” she ordered fiercely. “There! No cup tea, no buns. This Russian tea room. You have glass tea and blini.”

  “What’s berlini?” Queenie asked nervously.

  “Blini is little pancakes. Is good. You will like.”

  The Boys sat down at the glass-topped table as the woman marched across to the counter. While she busied herself preparing their food and drinks, they looked around at the other customers. Two men at a corner table frowned in concentration as they hunched over a chess board. In another corner, Redman was talking urgently to a man with wild hair and an unruly black beard. They were speaking very quietly and glancing nervously round the room. They were clearly talking about the letter Wiggins had delivered, which Redman still held in his hand. Then he put it down on the table, smoothed it out and jabbed at it with his finger. The bearded man wiped his own fingers on his loose red shirt, then picked up the letter and examined it carefully. He shook his head, puzzled. After a few more words, Redman pulled out his watch, then got to his feet, quickly shook the other man’s hand and hurried out into the street.

  “We gonna follow him?” Gertie asked.

  Before Queenie could answer, the waitress arrived back at their table. She set down three saucers on which stood tall glasses in silvery metal holders with curly handles, a large plate piled with small round pancakes, three little plates and finally a bowl of strawberry jam. The glasses were filled with clear, steaming liquid, each with a slice of lemon floating on top.

  “Eat! Drink!” she commanded, and she stood watching to make sure they did.

  “What’s this?” Shiner asked, pointing to the glasses.

  “Tea.”

  “Where’s the milk?”

  “No milk. Russian tea with lemon. Very good.”

  “Lemon?” Gertie said. “Sure and that sounds too sour for me.”

  “You put in sugar,” the woman told her, pointing to a glass bowl filled with sugar lumps.

  Shiner needed no second bidding. He scooped up a handful of lumps, which he dropped into his glass and stirred with the long spoon from the saucer, then popped another into his mouth, crunching and sucking contentedly. Gertie quickly did the same. Queenie just managed to get the last two lumps before Shiner emptied the entire bowl. The Russian woman shook her head, stern-faced, as Shiner turned to the blini.

  “Is good, no? she asked, as he spread jam on the first one and took a bite.

  “Mmm,” he nodded vigorously, his mouth full. The little pancakes really were delicious, and in no time at all the plate was empty. The woman grunted her unsmiling approval and took it away.

  “What we gonna do about…?” Gertie whispered once she had gone, jerking her head towards the door through which Redman had left.

  “Wiggins’ll pick him up,” Queenie whispered back. “We’ll keep an eye on that one,” she said, nodding towards the bearded man in the corner. Then, to the Boys’ delight, the waitress brought them a second plate of blini. Relieved to see that the bearded man in the red shirt was showing no sign of leaving yet, Queenie, Shiner and Gertie tucked in heartily, wondering hopefully how many more platefuls the waitress might bring them before they had to go.

  Beaver had no trouble keeping up with Sir Charles’s cab. To begin with it was slowed by heavy traffic, and then it was stuck behind a troop of cavalry soldiers, their horses’ hooves making a deafening clatter as they walked steadily on. Beaver had no need to run and could enjoy looking at the white plumes bobbing on the Life Guards’ tall silver helmets, their breastplates gleaming in the morning sunlight above their scarlet tunics, white breeches and thigh-length black boots. He watched the curved sabres in the soldiers’ glittering scabbards swinging from their belts, and he shivered as he imagined them being used against the enemy in a cavalry charge.

  Sir Charles’s cabbie seemed content to sit behind the Life Guards, and Beaver was content to plod along behind them both, wondering why the cab didn’t try to overtake them or turn off. They passed in front of a grand, brown stone building that Beaver recognized as Buckingham Palace, and continued along the Mall through St James’s Park until they reached the open space of Horse Guards Parade.

  The horses and men of the old guard, who had been on duty since the day before, were lined up on the parade ground waiting, the horses’ heads tossing impatiently. As the new guard arrived and lined up to face them, a trumpeter sounded a silvery call and the ceremony of handing over began. Beaver watched, fascinated, as standards changed hands and swords flashed in salute. He imagined how good it would feel to be one of those proud soldiers. He was so fascinated, in fact, that he quite forgot what he was supposed to be doing until he suddenly realized that the cab had gone. He began to panic. What was he to do? He had lost Sir Charles.

  Wiggins had ducked into a doorway as Redman came out of the Russian tea room. The man looked anxiously at his watch and set off quickly, almost breaking into a trot as he hurried through the Soho streets past the restaurants, shops and cafés, sometimes having to hop sideways into the road as an owner swished a bucket of water across the pavement to clean it. Wiggins dropped carefully into step a few yards behind, making sure there were always a few people between them but never enough to lose sight of his target altogether.

  On they went, leaving Soho behind, then crossing Trafalgar Square. Still Redman hurried on, dodging through the traffic into Whitehall, a broad street filled with government offices, with Wiggins trailing a few yards behind. Finally, he turned off into the courtyard of an elegant red-brick building through a gateway with an anchor built into its arch. Wiggins tried to follow but was stopped by a uniformed marine, who asked where he thought he was going.

  “Er, I’m with him,” he stammered, pointing to Redman’s retreating back as he disappeared into the building.

  “A likely tale, I don’t think,” the marine scoffed. “On yer way, sunshine.”

  Wiggins shrugged. There was clearly no point in trying to argue. “What is this place, anyway?” he asked.

  “Don’t you know nothing?” the marine replied. �
��This is the Admiralty. Her Majesty’s Board of Admiralty, if you want the proper title.”

  “And what goes on here?”

  “Goes on?” The man stared at Wiggins as though he were an idiot. “Why, this is where they run the Royal Navy.”

  Wiggins sniffed and pretended to look around. “Where’s all the ships, then?” he asked cheekily. He peered past the sailor, as though looking for ships. He didn’t see any, of course. What he did see, however, was the back of a man standing in a tall first-floor window, consulting his watch. A moment later another man appeared beside him, looking flustered and apologetic. It was Redman. As the first man turned to greet him, Wiggins caught sight of his face and his jaw dropped. Sir Charles.

  In an instant, the two men had disappeared from sight inside the building. Wiggins stood wondering about what he had seen. Were they in cahoots? Could it be that they were both guilty? That both were spies and traitors?

  Wiggins was brought back to earth by the sentry, who asked what the matter was. “You look like you seen a ghost or something,” he said.

  “Something like that, yeah,” Wiggins replied distractedly. He moved off down the street, away from the marine’s gaze. A few yards further on, a mounted Life Guard in full uniform sat motionless on his horse, his drawn sword resting on his right shoulder. A small crowd of visitors to London stood looking at him. Among them, to Wiggins’s surprise, was Beaver.

  “What you doing here?” he asked.

  Beaver hung his head in shame. “Sorry, Wiggins,” he confessed. “I lost Sir Charles.”

  Wiggins shook his head slowly and tutted, unable to resist teasing Beaver. “That was very careless of you, Beav,” he reproached him. “Guess what, though? It’s OK – I just found him.”

  Outside the Mayfair house, Rosie was wishing she had brought her tray of flowers with her. It would have given her something to do, and she might have earnt a few pennies, too. Sparrow passed the time by practising card tricks with the pack he always carried in his pocket. He was halfway through trying to produce four aces from nowhere, when the shiny black door opened again and Fredericks came out, now wearing a square bowler hat and a short coat. As he marched off down the street, Sparrow nodded to Rosie, scooped up his cards and set off after him. Rosie followed on the other side of the street.

  Fredericks crossed Park Lane into Hyde Park and took one of the many footpaths towards the Serpentine, the big lake in the middle of the park. Without pausing, he strode past nursemaids with children and older people enjoying a gentle morning stroll along the bank. Unlike them, he obviously had a purpose in mind, and the two Boys found it hard to keep up without running.The manservant finally slowed down as he reached the embankment carrying the main road through the park onto a long stone bridge across the water. The footpath continued under the road, through a narrow, arched tunnel in the embankment. After looking carefully around him, Fredericks slipped into this tunnel – and out of sight.

  Sparrow didn’t dare follow him into the tunnel – he would be too easily seen. Instead, he hurried up the bank, crossed the road and waited for Fredericks to come out on the other side. But to his surprise there was no sign of the tough manservant. Could it be, he wondered, that there was a secret passage down there? After a few minutes, he gave up and began to cross back over the road – only to see the man reappear, heading up the slope to the parapet of the bridge. Ducking behind a bush, Sparrow watched, intrigued, as Fredericks seemed to lean against the parapet for a moment, then turned and marched back the way he had come.

  Sparrow scuttled across the road to rejoin Rosie. “What do we do now?” he asked. “Follow him, or wait till he’s out of sight, then go under the bridge to see what he was up to?”

  “Let’s wait. He looks like he’s goin’ home.”

  “’Spect you’re right,” Sparrow said. “Job done, eh?”

  “Yeah. But we gotta try and find out what that job was. And what he was doin’ when he was up there on top. Looked like he was writing somethin’ with a piece of chalk.”

  “Did it? I couldn’t see – he had his back to me. Let’s take a look.”

  Waiting until they were sure Fredericks had gone, Sparrow and Rosie clambered up the bank to the roadway. Sure enough, where he had been standing, something was chalked on the flat top of the parapet. It looked like two “V”s – or perhaps a “W”.

  “V V? W?” Sparrow said, puzzled. “What’s that mean?”

  “Wait a minute!” exclaimed Rosie. “Look at it the other way up.”

  “The other way… Oh, my word! It ain’t a ‘W’ – it’s an ‘M’!”

  “Right. ‘M’ for Moriarty!”

  A DEAD-LETTER DROP

  Sparrow and Rosie scrambled down the bank from the road and into the shadowy tunnel underneath. It was quite empty and they could see nothing that looked at all suspicious – no alcoves or gratings or doors that might have led to a secret chamber or passageway. Only plain stone walls.

  “Don’t look like many people come through here,” Sparrow said, looking at the moss growing on the footpath.

  “You can see where he walked,” said Rosie, pointing to where Fredericks’s feet had flattened it. The footprints showed that he couldn’t have gone far under the bridge before he had stopped and faced the wall.

  “Beats me what he was up to,” said Sparrow, scratching his head.

  “Yeah,” Rosie agreed. “Hold on, though. Take a dekko at this.” Crouching down to get a closer look, she pointed to a little pile of pale dust on the ground. She took a pinch of it in her fingers and showed it to Sparrow. “What d’you think that is?”

  “Mortar,” he said, examining it. Then he looked at the wall above. “Hello. What we got here, then? This bit looks like it’s loose.”

  The joint between two of the stones, which Sparrow was looking at, was about three feet above the ground. The edges of the strip of mortar between them stood out very slightly, and he got his fingers around it and wiggled until he could get a proper hold and ease it out. He laid it down on the ground and poked his fingers into the gap where it had been.

  “What you found?” asked Rosie impatiently.

  “There’s a space been hollowed out behind. And there’s somethin’ hid there.”

  “Let’s see, let’s see!”

  After a bit of scrabbling around with his fingers, Sparrow eventually pulled out a slim package wrapped in waterproof cloth. He laid it gently on the ground and unfolded it to reveal a sealed envelope.

  “It’s a letter,” he said excitedly. “A secret message!”

  “Now then, lads!” Sarge greeted Wiggins and Beaver as they arrived at his lodge. “Back from patrol, are you?”

  “Yes, Sarge. We’ve come to report.”

  “Right. Fall in, then!”

  “Fall in what?” asked Beaver, puzzled.

  “No, no! Not in anything. Get fell in!”

  “He means line up,” Wiggins explained, “like being on parade. It’s what they says in the army.”

  “No talkin’ in the ranks!” Sarge barked. “Stand to attention, there!”

  “Sarge,” Wiggins interrupted, “we’re on a secret mission. We don’t want nobody seeing us report to Mr Murray.”

  “That’s right,” added Beaver in a low voice. “It’s very hush-hush.”

  “Ah. Yes. I was forgettin’ that. Fall out. You’d better sneak through the Bazaar and go to him.”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “And try to make sure nobody sees you.”

  “Nobody sees you doing what?” asked a familiar voice behind them. Dr Watson was standing in the doorway of the lodge, regarding them curiously.

  “Doctor!” exclaimed Wiggins, wondering how much he had heard. “What you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question. I was passing by and thought I’d call in to see my old comrade Sergeant Scroggs.”

  “Well, fancy that,” said Wiggins. “That’s just what we’re doing!”

  “We’ve come to rep
ort— Ow!” Beaver stopped with a yelp as Wiggins kicked his ankle.

  “Report?” Dr Watson asked.

  “Report for duty,” Wiggins said quickly. “To see if there’s any jobs need doing around the Bazaar. Anything we can help Sarge with.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said the doctor.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” said Sarge. “They’re good lads. Don’t know what I’d do without ’em.”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes often says that.” Dr Watson smiled at the two Boys. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to persuade Madame Dupont to change her mind and withdraw her complaint?”

  “No, sir,” Wiggins replied. “Not yet.”

  “But we’re workin’ on it,” said Beaver. “Now we know Sarge wasn’t seein’ things, and that he wasn’t drunk.”

  “You may know it, but can you prove it?”

  “We can, sir,” Wiggins told him. “And we will. But we’re sworn to secrecy.”

  “Are you indeed?” Dr Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Yes, sir. Matter of national security,” Sarge explained.

  “Matter of life and death,” Beaver added dramatically.

  “Well, I’m dashed. Ghosts and state secrets and matters of life and death…” Dr Watson stared at them doubtfully. “Are you quite sure about all this?”

  Before Wiggins could say any more, there was the sound of running footsteps and Rosie and Sparrow arrived, hot and out of breath.

  “Wiggins!” Sparrow gasped. “We found a message – a secret message!”

  “Sir Charlie’s henchman left it under the bridge,” Rosie panted. “For Moriarty!”

  “Moriarty!” Dr Watson exclaimed. “What is that evil genius involved in now?”

  “Dunno, Doctor,” Wiggins shrugged, trying to put him off. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “But it’s true!” Rosie insisted, oblivious to Wiggins’s warning look. “Ain’t that right, Sparrow?”