by Anthony Read
For my grandchildren, as always, with love
CONTENTS
THE BAKER STREET BAZAAR
THE CURSE OF THE RUBY
THE STRANGLERS
A BAG OF SUGAR
THE BIGGEST BADMASH IN LONDON
A PAIR OF WORN OUT BOOTS
A MURDER MYSTERY
AN INSIDE JOB
A SECRET PASSAGE
LIVING WAXWORKS
THE BAKER STREET BAZAAR
Wiggins climbed the rickety ladder with great care. It was old and wobbly and it creaked alarmingly as he ascended step by step, rung by rung, trying to keep his balance as he clung on with one hand. His other hand held a cord attached to one corner of a long canvas banner, whose weight kept pulling him sideways. When it flapped in the breeze, he almost lost his footing.
“Don’t look down!” Beaver warned, holding onto the ladder for all he was worth.
“Don’t look down?” Queenie echoed scornfully. “What you on about?”
“I heard that if you look down when you’re high up, you get giddy and fall off.”
“But he’s only four steps up.”
“Yeah, but … all the same … if he was higher up, and he was to look down…”
“Oi!” Wiggins shouted. “Never mind all that. Just keep hold of the ladder and stop this thing blowing about.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, Wiggins.” Beaver grinned sheepishly and grabbed the banner.
Standing behind Beaver and Queenie, Sarge, a large man in a dark-blue uniform, watched Wiggins carefully. He pointed to the post on the corner of the ornate iron arch with his one good arm – his other sleeve was empty, folded back and held up with a safety pin. Wiggins clambered higher and started to tie the cord round the post.
“That’s it,” Sarge called. “Tie it round there. Nice and neat, now. We don’t want no granny knots comin’ undone and droppin’ the banner on folks’ heads, do we?”
“No, Sarge,” Wiggins replied.
“Clove hitch and two half-hitches, like I showed you.”
“Right, Sarge.” Wiggins looped the cord in the simple knot that Sarge had taught him earlier, and pulled the end tight.
“There. How’s that?”
“Good lad. Now the other end, and we’ll be hunky-dory.”
Sarge was a retired soldier who guarded the entrance to the Bazaar, a large arcade with a high glass roof, in a side road off Baker Street. He lived alone in a small lodge alongside the big iron entrance gates, with a door that opened in two halves, like a horse’s stable door, so that he could look out over the lower half and keep an eye on anyone passing in or out. Or even simply passing by, which is how he’d got to know Wiggins and the rest of the gang of urchins who called themselves the Baker Street Boys (even though three of them were actually girls). They often helped him by running errands or doing little jobs that he found difficult with only one arm, when he would joke that they really were “lending a hand”.
Wiggins finished tying up the other end of the banner and was just climbing down when a woman’s voice rang out from inside the Bazaar.
“Sergeant! What’s going on there?”
A small, dark-haired woman, almost as wide as she was tall, marched towards them, shaking a finger at Sarge.
“Who are these children and what are they doing with my banner?” she demanded, quivering indignantly and looking as though she was about to burst out of the scarlet satin dress that strained to contain her ample figure.
Sarge stood to attention and snapped his hand to his cap in a smart salute that made the row of medals on his chest clink and the three gold stripes on his arm gleam in the pale sunlight.
“These, madam?” he asked. “Why, bless you, they’re me little helpers. Couldn’t have managed it without ’em.”
“Hmph!” she snorted. “Let’s have a look at it then.”
She stomped through the gates and turned to examine the banner, stretched tightly across the archway. THE JEWELS OF THE CROWN, it proclaimed in big red letters, and on the next line: MADAME DUPONT’S JUBILEE TABLEAUX. ADMISSION 1 SHILLING, CHILDREN HALF PRICE.
“Not bad,” said Madame Dupont. “Not bad at all. And you put that up, did you?”
She eyed the three Boys, sizing them up. Wiggins copied Sarge, standing to attention and raising his hand to his black billycock hat in a salute.
“That’s right, missus,” he replied. “The Baker Street Boys at your service.”
“Good.” She turned back to Sarge. “Reliable, are they, the Baker Street Boys?”
“Trust ’em with me life, madam.”
“And so would Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Queenie told her.
“Mr Holmes the famous detective?”
“The same,” said Wiggins, then dropped his voice conspiratorially. “We work for him sometimes, don’t you know.”
“I see. Carrying messages and such like, I s’pose?”
“Helpin’ him solve crimes, more like,” Queenie said.
“Well I never.”
“It’s true,” Wiggins assured her with all the confidence of his fourteen years. “Only don’t go telling nobody, will you? ’Cos sometimes we have to work in secret, like.”
“Don’t worry, dearie, I’m very good at keeping secrets.” She just managed to hide a smile, then beckoned to the three youngsters. “Now come with me.”
For someone so plump, Madame Dupont moved very quickly, and the three Boys had to hurry to keep up with her as she bustled her way back through the Bazaar. For many years, the Baker Street Bazaar had been home to Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, until they moved to their own new building half a mile away. The rooms they had occupied were now used for all sorts of exhibitions and shows. Madame Dupont’s was the latest. Her real name was Mrs Bridges, and she had been born and bred in London, but she thought her name sounded better in French, like her more famous competitor. Her waxworks were not as grand, or as good, as Tussaud’s, but they managed to attract quite a number of visitors – especially people from the country, who were more easily impressed than Londoners.
The rest of the Bazaar housed a row of small shops along one side, mainly selling hats and ribbons and buttons and fancy stuff. The other side was used as a carriage repository, where rich people stored their coaches and carriages – though not their horses, who lived with their coachmen in stables and mews behind the big houses. Wiggins, Beaver and Queenie trotted past the line of neatly parked carriages as they followed Madame Dupont to the entrance of her show.
“Come along, come along!” she called, pushing open the double doors. “Stay with me and don’t touch anything!”
As they stepped inside the doors into a small hallway, Queenie let out a scream and dived behind Beaver and Wiggins. Glaring at them was a Red Indian brave, complete with feathered headdress, his face fierce with war paint, brandishing a stone axe in his raised hand. Queenie was scared stiff. Even the two lads stopped short, their mouths dropping open.
“Keep him off me!” Queenie cried.
“It’s all right,” Wiggins reassured her, recovering fast from the shock of facing a savage warrior. “He can’t hurt you.”
“Look – he ain’t movin’,” Beaver added. “He ain’t real.”
Madame Dupont cackled with laughter, delighted at the effect of her model.
“Course he ain’t!” she crowed. “He’s made of wax. Ain’t you never seen waxworks afore?”
Queenie shook her head, still nervous. The Red Indian seemed very real until you looked hard.
“Ooh, that’s a good ’un, and no mistake,” Madame Dupont chuckled. “Fair put the wind up you, didn’t we!”
Queenie nodded.
“Good. That’s what he’s there for. To make people jump.”
“Hey, if you was to put a clockwork motor inside him,” Wiggins suggested, “you could make him move his arm and wave his chopper.”
“His tomahawk,” Madame Dupont corrected him. “That’s what they call it.”
“Yeah,” Beaver joined in. “If he was to wave his tommyhawk, that’d really make people jump.”
Queenie shuddered at the idea, but Madame Dupont nodded shrewdly.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she said, looking hard at Wiggins. “You’re a bright lad, ain’t you. I s’pose that’s why Mr Holmes employs you.”
“That’s right.” Wiggins grinned at her. “He knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“And so do I,” she continued, “which is why I’m going to employ you too. Come along now. No time to stand there gawping. There’s work to be done.”
She clapped her hands then marched briskly through the inner doors, waving at the three Boys to follow her. They did so, cautiously, fearful of fresh shocks, and found themselves in a very large room with a high ceiling and marble pillars. Gas-lit alcoves lined the walls. In each of them was a group of waxwork figures, dressed in exotic costumes from various parts of the Empire.
Two fierce Zulu warriors wearing leopard skins and brandishing spears and shields stood alongside a South African settler holding a nugget of gold in one hand and a sparkling diamond in the other. In the next alcove, a bearded Sikh in a silk turban held up another big diamond. Further along, two South Sea Islanders displayed a heap of pearls in a large flat shell, and other figures in colourful garments showed more precious stones: blue sapphires from Ceylon, green emeralds from Africa, milky opals from Australia, and so on.
The three Boys stared around them in amazement. Then Queenie let out a little cry and pointed to the other end of the gallery.
“Look!” she said. “Her Majesty!”
And indeed, there was Queen Victoria herself – or rather a wax model of her, wearing a black lace dress with a bright blue sash over one shoulder and a tiny crown on her head. There was something a bit odd about the eyes – one was almost crossed – and the cheeks were just a bit too red, but it was certainly the Queen.
Standing before her, bowing from the waist, was an Indian prince, splendidly dressed in a long embroidered coat, tight silk trousers and gold slippers with curly pointed toes. On his head was an elaborate turban with a jewel at the front from which sprouted a spray of peacock feathers. Beside him knelt an Indian boy, also wearing silks and satins and a turban. The boy was holding up a velvet cushion on which rested an enormous red jewel, which the prince was obviously presenting to the Queen.
“Cor,” said Queenie, gazing at the scene. “Ain’t that lovely?”
“Thank you, dearie,” Madame Dupont said. “I am proud of my latest tableau.”
“Low what?” Beaver asked.
“Tableau,” Queenie explained. “That’s like a picture, ain’t it?”
“Quite right, dear,” Madame Dupont told her. “A picture that tells a story without words.”
“And what story is this one telling?” Wiggins asked.
“Why, it’s the Ranjipur Ruby, of course.”
“What’s the Ranjipur Ruby?”
“That is,” Madame Dupont said, pointing at the jewel. “I thought you was a bright lad.”
“He is,” Beaver piped up loyally. “Everybody knows that.”
“And you ain’t heard of the Ranjipur Ruby? It’s the most beautiful ruby ever known. It comes from India, and the Raja of Ranjipur is going to present it to the Queen next week, as a loyal tribute.”
“Who’s the Raja of whatsit?” Beaver asked.
“He’s a sort of king,” Madame Dupont replied.
“And Ranjipur’s his kingdom?” asked Queenie.
“That’s right. It’s part of India.”
“Cor,” Beaver said, gazing in awe at the blood-red stone. “Ain’t you scared somebody might pinch it? It must be worth a fortune.”
Madame Dupont threw back her head and hooted with laughter.
“Why, bless you, dearie,” she chuckled when she had got her breath back, “it ain’t real. No more than my waxworks is real people. It’s just a bit of coloured glass.”
Beaver turned as red as the pretend ruby.
“Right,” he stammered. “But if it was real … if they was all real jewels…”
“Then I’d be as rich as Her Majesty and I wouldn’t be here with you lot!”
“Well, they look real enough, and no mistake,” said Wiggins, trying to save Beaver’s blushes.
“But whatever’s that?” asked Queenie. She pointed to a fearsome female figure standing in the background behind the Raja. She had six arms, wild hair and a black face with three eyes – except that the third eye, which had been in the middle of the creature’s forehead, was missing.
“That,” said Madame Dupont, “is the heathen idol what the ruby was in. See the hole in the middle of her forehead?”
Queenie shuddered. Even though she knew it was only a wax model, the idol was still very scary.
“Come on,” said Madame Dupont. “That’s enough of that. This way.”
She led them to a corner and pushed on what looked like part of the panelling on a solid wall. To their surprise, it turned out to be a hidden door into a dark room filled with boxes and piles of odds and ends. Reaching inside, she pulled out a bulging canvas bag, which she handed to Beaver.
“Here,” she said, “you look the strongest. You’d better carry it.”
Beaver took the bag and looked inside. It was full of printed leaflets. Madame Dupont pulled one out to show them.
“These are the handbills advertising my new exhibition. I want you to go along the streets and give ’em out to everybody you see. I’ll pay you sixpence apiece, all right?”
“How about a shilling each?” Wiggins asked with a grin.
“I knew you was a cheeky one, soon as I set eyes on you,” Madame Dupont grinned back at him. “You can have half a crown for the three of you. All right?”
It took Wiggins barely a second to work out that a half-crown – two shillings and sixpence – meant ten pence each. His grin broadened.
“Done.”
The bag full of leaflets was heavy even for Beaver, and after the three Boys had been handing them out in the street for half an hour or so his shoulder was starting to ache.
“This bag don’t get no lighter,” he puffed.
“How many has she put in there?” Queenie asked. “It’s gonna take us all day to get rid of ’em.”
“Why don’t you have a rest for a minute, Beav?” Wiggins said. “Then we can start again in another street.”
Beaver nodded gratefully and they turned off into a side street to find a good place to sit down. They were just settling into a sheltered doorway when they heard the sound of running feet. A moment later, a boy of about their own age raced past them. But this was no ordinary boy. This was one of Madame Dupont’s waxworks come to life, an Indian boy dressed in silk and satin like a smaller version of the Raja presenting the ruby to the Queen. He was being chased by two fierce, dark-skinned men in long grey shirts, baggy pants and untidy cotton turbans. Their eyes glittered cruelly, and their faces were twisted in evil fury. One of them had a livid scar running from his eyebrow to his chin.
Looking around frantically for a way of escape, the boy turned into an alleyway. But his pursuers spotted him, and followed. Wiggins leapt to his feet.
“There’s no way out of there!” he cried. “He’s trapped.”
“Come on, we gotta help him!” Queenie yelled.
They raced across the street and down the alley, Wiggins in the lead. Beaver, weighed down with the heavy bag, trailed in the rear. As they entered the alley, they saw the two men advancing on the boy, who was, as Wiggins had foretold, trapped in a corner of the courtyard at the end. One of the men grabbed the boy, whi
le the other threw a twisted scarf round his neck, ready to strangle him.
“Leave him alone!” Wiggins shouted, leaping onto the first man’s back.
The man swung round with a snarl of rage, trying to throw him off, but Queenie leapt at him too, kicking him hard on the shin. The second man turned angrily, and as he did so Beaver swung the heavy bag with all his strength, catching him on the side of the head and knocking him down. The first man was hopping with pain on one leg. When Wiggins gave him a shove he lost his balance and crashed to the ground on top of his partner. As he fell, Queenie took hold of the Indian boy’s arm.
“Come on!” she called. “Run for it!”
And run they did – as fast as their legs would carry them.
THE CURSE OF THE RUBY
“Where to now?” Queenie gasped as the three chums and the Indian boy dashed out of the alleyway.
Beaver had dropped his heavy bag after biffing the man with it. For a moment he considered going back for it, but he quickly decided against.
“They’ll be right after us,” he said.
“HQ!” Wiggins ordered. “We’ll be safe there.”
“Come on,” Queenie told the Indian boy, taking hold of his hand. “Stick with us.”
“We’ll look after you,” Beaver added.
Glancing back over their shoulders every few seconds to make sure the men were not behind them, they ran flat out until they reached the safety of HQ. They tumbled down the steps into the secret cellar and pushed the door shut, puffing and panting as they tried to catch their breath.
Most of the other Boys were out, trying to earn pennies for food. Only Sparrow, the youngest and smallest of the gang, was at home as Wiggins, Beaver and Queenie burst in with the Indian boy in tow. Sparrow was standing in front of the stove, shuffling a pack of playing cards, trying to master a trick that he had seen a conjuror perform at the Imperial Music Hall, the theatre where he sometimes worked as a callboy. Startled by their sudden arrival, he lost his hold on the cards and they spilled from his hands, scattering all over the floor.