The Case of the Haunted Horrors

by Anthony Read

  “As I live and breathe,” said Sparrow. “And here’s the message, to prove it.”

  He pulled the waterproof package from his pocket and held it out to Wiggins, who snatched it from him and tried to tuck it out of sight as quickly as possible.

  “I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on,” Dr Watson said, looking worried. “It sounds as though it could be very dangerous.”

  “But, we promised…” Beaver began.

  “Whatever your secret is, you can trust me to keep it. I give you my word.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Sarge. “You can tell him.”

  “I may even be able to help you,” the doctor added.

  And so, with Beaver chipping in a few extra details, Wiggins quickly explained the situation to Dr Watson, who listened very carefully, then blew out his cheeks with a low whistle.

  “My word,” he said. “If this is true…”

  “Course it’s true!” Wiggins protested.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to doubt you, my dear Wiggins.”

  “Good. You’d best come and meet Mr Murray and let him tell you hisself. We gotta give him this letter anyway.”

  With Sarge keeping watch, Wiggins led the other three Boys and Dr Watson through the Bazaar to Mrs Pettigrew’s boarded-up shop. He gave three short knocks on the door followed by another two, the signal they had agreed with Mr Murray, who let them in and closed the door quickly behind them.

  “I thought you promised not to tell anybody,” Mr Murray admonished when he saw the doctor.

  “This ain’t just anybody,” Wiggins replied. “This is Dr Watson. He works with Mr Holmes.”

  Murray’s face cleared. “Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “Then you are welcome, Doctor. I presume the Boys have told you about my situation?”

  “They have. It is a great pity Holmes is not here. He would have relished a case like yours. I shall do my best to contact him, but when he is working under cover he is almost impossible to locate.”

  “That is as it should be,” said Murray. “In the meantime, it seems the Baker Street Boys have something to report.” He turned to Rosie and Sparrow, who were bouncing up and down with impatience. “Yes?”

  “Yes!” Rosie cried. “We found a secret message!”

  “What Sir Charles’s henchman hid!” Sparrow added. “Show him, Wiggins.”

  Wiggins pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to Murray, who unwrapped the waterproof cloth and examined the envelope carefully.

  “There is no name or address written on it. And it’s firmly sealed. You haven’t tried to open this?” he asked.

  Rosie and Sparrow shook their heads.

  “Good. We shall need a little steam. Fortunately, I was about to make myself a cup of tea, so we’re halfway there already.” He pointed to a kettle which was heating up on a small spirit stove in a corner of the shop. “As you can see, the good Sergeant Scroggs has provided me with a few home comforts. Now, while we are waiting for the water to boil, tell me how you found this letter.”

  Rosie and Sparrow recounted all that had happened, and how they had seen Fredericks chalking a mark on the bridge and then discovered the hiding place.

  “Well done!” said Murray. “That’s what is known as a dead-letter drop. A hiding place where a secret agent can leave or pick up messages without risking being seen meeting the other person. The chalk mark would be a sign that there is a message waiting to be collected.”

  “That’s devilish clever, and no mistake!” exclaimed Dr Watson. Then he turned to Rosie and Sparrow, puzzled. “But how could you know it was for Moriarty?”

  “Because the sign that Fredericks chalked on the bridge was a letter ‘M’,” said Rosie.

  “‘M’ for Moriarty!” cried Wiggins. “Of course! Well done.”

  “Who or what is Moriarty?” asked Murray.

  “Professor Moriarty is an evil genius,” replied Dr Watson. “Holmes calls him the Napoleon of crime. He regards him as his most fearsome opponent.”

  “You have encountered him before?” Murray asked Wiggins.

  “We’ve crossed swords with him a few times.”

  “And won?”

  “Yeah. But he’s a slippery customer. Always gets somebody else to do his dirty work so you can’t pin nothing on him.”

  “Perhaps this time it will be different,” said Murray. “Now, let’s see what Sir Charles has got to say to him.”

  Steam was now puffing out of the boiling kettle. Murray held the letter over the spout and moved it to and fro.

  “What you doin’?” Beaver asked.

  “The steam will melt the glue on the envelope, and then we can peel it open without cutting the paper,” explained Murray. “D’you see?”

  “Be careful you don’t scald yourself,” Dr Watson warned. “Steam can be dangerous stuff. Hotter than boiling water, you know.”

  Murray picked up a knife and slid the blade under the flap of the envelope, working it gently along until he could peel it open. There was a note inside: a single sheet of paper folded once. He unfolded it and read aloud what was written on it: “Spaniards Sat 3.”

  “Spaniards?” asked Wiggins. “I thought it was Russkis we was after.”

  “So did I,” said Murray, frowning deeply. “This is confusing. Three what sat where?”

  “It might be a code,” suggested Beaver. “You know, when words mean somethin’ different.”

  “Very possible,” Murray agreed. “In which case we’re lost without the key or a code book. Unless it’s something else. There could be secret writing, perhaps…”

  He held the sheet of paper up to the light and looked at it very closely. “No,” he sighed. “Not even a watermark.”

  Next, he held it over the spirit stove. “Let’s try a little gentle heat,” he murmured, taking care not to scorch the paper. “No, nothing. If he has used a secret ink, it is not one that reacts to heat. I need to examine the surface more closely, to see if there are any tiny scratches from a pen. If only I had a lens…”

  “This any help?” asked Wiggins, digging into the inside pocket of his coat and producing his magnifying glass.

  “Good heavens,” said Murray, impressed. “You really are a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Mr Holmes give me that,” Wiggins said proudly.

  Murray peered at the note through the powerful lens, then shook his head and handed it back to Wiggins.

  “No,” he said. “This paper can tell us nothing more. We must get it back to its hiding place before anyone discovers its absence. Now – Mrs Pettigrew must surely have had some glue here, for doing up parcels…” He rummaged around a bit, found what he was looking for in a drawer in the shop counter, and sealed the envelope again with great care. Then he wrapped it in the waterproof cloth and handed it to Sparrow.

  “There,” he said. “Now hurry and put this back exactly where you found it. It must look as though it has never been touched. Off you go!”

  Sparrow and Rosie opened the door a little way, looked cautiously through the crack to make sure no one was watching, then dashed back towards the park.

  “I shall leave too,” said Dr Watson, “and see if I can locate Holmes. When I do, I shall inform him of your case, and I have no doubt he will wish to take it on.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Murray, holding out his hand gratefully. “But remember – not a word to anyone else.”

  Watson nodded, shook Murray’s hand, then slipped quietly out of the door and hurried away through the Bazaar.

  “Now,” said Murray, turning back to Wiggins and Beaver, “you have told me about Sir Charles, but what about Redman? Did you deliver my letter to him?”

  “We did,” Wiggins answered. “I give it to him myself.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “He looked bothered, then he went charging off to a caff in Soho.”

  “Do you know the name of this caff, er, café?”

  “Luba’s
Russian Tea Room.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Murray. “Luba’s! I know it. It is a meeting place for Russian exiles.”

  “What’s an exile?” Beaver asked.

  “A person who has been forced to leave his own country and live somewhere else,” Murray told him.

  “Who forces ’em?”

  “Their government, their police…”

  “Why?”

  “Usually because they’re dangerous revolutionaries.”

  “You mean they want to blow things up and kill people?” asked Beaver incredulously.

  “Some of them do, yes.”

  “Oh, crikey,” said Wiggins, worried. “I sent Queenie and Gertie and Shiner into that caff.”

  “It’s all right,” Murray reassured him. “Those revolutionaries only want to kill people from their own government.”

  “So they wouldn’t want to kill you? Or your brother if they thought he was you?”

  Murray looked serious for a moment. “Not unless…” he began, then stopped.

  “Not unless what?”

  “One of them might – if he wasn’t a real revolutionary, but an undercover agent working for the Russian secret police.”

  “You mean just pretending to be a real revolutionary so he could spy on the others?” said Wiggins.

  “Exactly. Such a man would not hesitate to murder anyone who could expose him to the people he was spying on.”

  “Like Queenie and Shiner and Gertie,” said Beaver. “If he sees ’em watching him, he’ll think they’re gonna blow his cover! And then…”

  Wiggins was already on his feet and heading for the door. “C’mon, Beav,” he cried. “We gotta get ’em outta there afore it’s too late!”

  A HORNET’S NEST

  Queenie, Shiner and Gertie had already left Luba’s Russian Tea Room. The bearded man had sat in his corner for a while, staring at the letter Redman had given him. Then, quite suddenly, he seemed to make up his mind about something. Folding the letter and stuffing it into his pocket, he got to his feet and crossed the room to where a woman sat alone at a table, her rich chestnut-coloured hair falling across her face as she scribbled intensely in a notebook. He leant down, whispered something in her ear and jerked his head towards the door. She looked up, startled, then quickly gathered her papers and followed him out, pulling a black cloak around her shoulders.

  Shiner went to stand, ready to dash after them, but Queenie laid her hand on his arm.

  “Take it easy, now,” she whispered. “We don’t want to look like we’re followin’ ’em.”

  Trying to look casual, the three Boys drained their glasses, then strolled to the door. As they passed the waitress, she reached out and pinched Shiner’s cheek between her finger and thumb.

  “You come back soon,” she said. “I give you more blini.” And she almost smiled.

  Blushing deep scarlet, Shiner escaped to the street. Queenie and Gertie couldn’t help giggling as they followed him out.

  “She’s taken a proper shine to you,” Queenie teased.

  “Taken a shine to Shiner, she has,” Gertie added with a chuckle.

  Shiner scowled furiously and stared past them at the bearded man and the woman, who were standing in a doorway a few yards away, talking hard. The man looked carefully over his shoulder, then took the letter from his pocket and handed it to the woman, who adjusted her spectacles and read it, then stuffed it into her handbag and hurried off down the street without a backward glance.

  “C’mon,” whispered Queenie. “Let’s see where she takes it.”

  “What about him?” Gertie asked.

  “I’ll stick with Blackbeard,” said Shiner, glad of the chance to be free from their teasing. “You two tail ’er. See you back at HQ.”

  As the two girls set off after the woman, the man walked back past them. For a moment Shiner was afraid he was going back into the café, but to his relief the man continued along the little street and out into a bigger one beyond.

  Shiner trailed after him as he turned under an archway, crossed the busy Shaftesbury Avenue and plunged into another area of small streets and ancient alleyways. When he turned into one of these, Shiner hung back for a few seconds, afraid of being seen, then hurried after him. But suddenly there was no sign of the man – he must have sped up and turned into another street. Wondering what to do next, Shiner was halfway along this road when a strong arm shot out of a narrow passage, grabbed him round the neck and pulled him into the darkness. A rough hand clamped over his mouth to stop him crying out.

  “Got you,” snarled a deep voice. “Why you spy on me? Who send you?”

  After running all the way from Baker Street, Sparrow and Rosie were quite out of breath by the time they got back to the bridge over the Serpentine. There were more people in the park than there had been earlier, and Sparrow had to wait a few minutes before he could enter the tunnel without being seen. Rosie kept a lookout while he slid the letter back into its hiding place and replaced the loose piece of mortar. Then they found a spot under a nearby tree where they could sit on the grass and watch everything.

  For what seemed like a long time, all was quiet and peaceful. A few people passed through the tunnel: a young couple strolling arm in arm; a nanny pushing a baby in a large wicker pram and a nurse pushing an old man slumped in a wheelchair; a constable on patrol from the nearby police station; two elegant ladies carrying parasols and walking a fluffy white poodle on a lead. None of them seemed at all like spies. Then Rosie spotted something that made her sit up.

  “Look!” she cried, pointing up at the bridge.

  Sparrow looked – and saw it too. A familiar black carriage had stopped on the roadway above the tunnel.

  “It’s him!” he gasped. “Moriarty!”

  They scrambled to their feet, but before they could even start to run up the bank, the coachman had whipped up the horse, and the carriage had sped away. By the time the two Boys reached the roadway, it was completely out of sight. They both knew they had no chance of catching it, and they turned back, feeling desolate. Rosie stopped to look at the chalk mark on the parapet.

  “Somebody’s rubbed it out!” she cried.

  “D’you think that means…?” Sparrow began.

  “Dunno. Let’s go and see.”

  They careered back down the bank and into the tunnel. Sparrow ran to the loose piece of mortar and eased it out. He poked his fingers into the hole and felt about. There was nothing there – the message had gone.

  The woman from the tea room strode through the streets, her black cloak billowing out behind her, clutching her notebook and papers under her arm.

  Queenie and Gertie had no difficulty following her – because she was tall, they could easily see her flowing chestnut hair above the heads of the other people, even when the street became quite crowded. After a short distance, she turned off into a quieter road and entered a tall block of flats. Through the glass of the door, they could see a uniformed hall porter greet her with a smart salute. Everything looked extremely respectable.

  “D’you think that’s where she lives?” Gertie asked.

  “Looks like it,” Queenie answered. “And there ain’t no way we’d get past that doorman. We’ll just have to hang about and keep our eyes open.”

  “Oh, not again,” Gertie groaned. “Watch and wait – that’s all we ever seem to do on this case.”

  “Ain’t much else we can do for now.”

  “I know. But it’s not very excitin’, is it?”

  They had not been watching and waiting for very long, however, when the woman came out again, still carrying her notebook. As they followed her this time, she strode back along the busy street, then went into the post office. Leaving Gertie on guard outside, Queenie pushed through the heavy swing doors and found herself among lines of people waiting to hand over letters and parcels to the clerks behind the long counter. At first she could not see the woman, but then she spotted her standing at a separate counter under a sign that said TELEGRA
MS AND TELEGRAPHS. She was writing a message on a form, which she handed to the clerk, who read it quickly, counted the number of words and held out her hand for payment. Queenie wished she could see who the telegram was for, but she couldn’t get close enough to look. Then she had to duck behind a line of people to keep out of sight as the woman turned from the counter and left the post office.

  Outside, Queenie signalled to Gertie and they both began tailing the woman again. She led them round the corner, past several rows of bookshops, to a huge stone building set back from the road behind high black railings. The two girls watched as she walked up the steps leading to the entrance and in through the great wooden doors.

  “Cor!” said Gertie, staring up in awe at the enormous stone pillars supporting a great portico filled with classical carvings. “What sort o’ place is that?”

  Queenie thought it looked like the picture of an ancient Greek or Roman temple which she remembered seeing in one of her mother’s books, but the sign on the railings said THE BRITISH MUSEUM. “I’ve heard of that,” she said.

  “Museum?” Gertie queried. “Now what on earth could she want in there?”

  “Dunno. Let’s go and find out.”

  “They’ll never let you and me in, will they?”

  “Don’t see why not,” said Queenie, pointing at a small group of schoolchildren who were following their teacher up the steps. “Come on.”

  They scurried across the forecourt, tagged on behind the children and soon found themselves inside the museum. Their mouths dropped open as they looked around them at the amazing objects on display. Straight in front was a white stone statue of a helmeted Greek warrior brandishing a sword and shield. To one side stood an Egyptian mummy in a brightly painted sarcophagus. Gold cups and plates gleamed and glistened in a glass-fronted showcase. Queenie would have loved to stop and look at everything properly, but they could see their woman disappearing round a corner and had to hurry after her.

  The woman clearly knew exactly where she was going, and she marched on with barely a glance at the wonders all around. Queenie and Gertie just about managed to keep pace with her as she passed by great pieces of marble carved into horses and chariots, and ancient Greek ladies dressed in flowing robes that were so lifelike it was hard to believe they were made of stone.