by Brian Ball
“You in there!” bellowed a stern voice. “Hands on your heads and come out quiet-like, if you understand English, and if you don’t, look at this, what’ll blow you to Kingdom Come if you resists arrest!”
The snout of a large pistol was thrust through the door.
“Why, it’s a gang of street urchins!” bellowed a constable. “Sir, I think it’s those ragamuffins again!”
Inspector Lestrade poked his nose into the room above another large pistol. He sighed.
“I thought they’d be here,” he said. “Why am I plagued by amateurs when I’m in the middle of the most important case of my whole career? See to them, Sergeant,” he told me (for I was still on duty that evening). “And then get rid of them!”
CHAPTER FIVE
I pointed out to Inspector Lestrade that he was being unfair to Sparrow, but the Inspector became quite irate when I attempted to argue with him.
The way he saw it was that Rosie was in the wrong for tampering with evidence in the first place. Inspector Lestrade held that she shouldn’t have kept the handkerchief once Orlovitch—in his disguise as an old woman—had dropped it. It was my view though that, but for Sparrow’s quick-wittedness, the trail leading to Orlovitch and Bukovsky would have been impossible to follow.
“Nonsense!” Inspector Lestrade declared to me, when the Baker Street Irregulars had been sent off with a flea in their (not very clean) ears. “Routine police methods would have brought about the same results, but quicker! Now, don’t let me hear anymore about those wretched ragamuffins and their escapades! I have informed my superiors that I expect to arrest these revolutionaries before long, and I have Sir Alfred’s complete confidence. As for this nonsense about three tons of dynamite—whoever heard of such rubbish? Why, three tons of dynamite would be enough to blow up half of Central London, and to my certain knowledge these anarchists use only small bombs for their villainies!”
And so, as far as Inspector Lestrade was concerned, that was that.
He dismissed all that Sparrow had heard as so much nonsense—the product of his dreams while he slept in Orlovitch’s cupboard. The important thing, so far as the Inspector saw it, was to guard the Archduke who was the central figure in the plot.
There was no secrecy about the coming visit to this country of Archduke Alexander of Rosnia. All the newspapers had reported that he was paying a ceremonial visit to Her Majesty; of course, the real purpose of his visit had not been disclosed. Orlovitch and Bukovsky were now in possession of the secret reasons behind the Archduke’s stay at Windsor with Her Majesty, and they were determined to prevent him from fulfilling them.
“The Archduke’s the target of these anarchists,” Inspector Lestrade told me. “Where he goes, I go—that’s the way to do police work, Hopkins. Safety first!”
“And Orlovitch and Bukovsky, sir?” I said to Inspector Lestrade.
“Every officer in the force is on the lookout for them!” said the Inspector. “Photographs of the anarchists will be displayed at every station in London by this time tomorrow. I’ll have them in twenty-four hours!”
Wiggins thought otherwise. When he saw the late newspapers the following day, he said:
“Don’t they know they’re lookin’ for a couple of expert illusionists? Does Lestrade think they’re going to walk past his bobbies with a revolver in one hand and a smoking bomb in the other with a label on their hats sayin’ ‘Anarchists’?”
Beaver, who had provided the late edition of the morning’s news, gazed at the breathless account of the night’s adventures: ‘VICIOUS ASSAULT ON PEER OF THE REALM! TOBACCONIST SLAIN IN ANARCHIST PLOT! INSPECTOR LESTRADE SPEAKS OF IMMINENT ARREST!’
Together the rest of the Baker Street Boys read how the police had been summoned to the scene of the attack on Sir Alfred Connyngham, and then how Inspector Lestrade and his detectives had linked that outrage with the murderous attack on Merriman.
“’S’trewth!” whistled Wiggins when he had finished. “Not a word about the Archduke. Lestrade’s pursuing his enquiries amongst the theatrical fraternity, so it says here, but it don’t say it was Sparrer that found the Great Orlov. And not a word about any missing documents either.”
Nor was there any mention of a plot against the life of Archduke Alexander in the newspapers during the next few days. Wiggins and the others impatiently read every account of Lestrade’s progress—though that wasn’t much—and every day their annoyance grew.
“He still says an arrest is imminent,” said Wiggins. “What’s imminent? When he can’t think of anything else to say to the reporters.”
His gaze came to rest as it often did on the stern features of Sherlock Holmes.
“I wonder what he’d do?” he muttered.
Queenie was quite sure about it. “Well, for a start he wouldn’t let Lestrade warn him off, not when he’d got a bunch of clues like what we’ve got.”
“We ain’t got no clues,” said Shiner. “Only what Sparrer heard.
“And what’s those but clues!” blazed Sparrow. “We know when they’re going to blow up the Archduke—next Monday. And I did hear them gabble on about three tons of something and about chimneys!”
Wiggins was thoughtful.
“See how Lestrade looks at it,” he told them. “He thinks Sparrer’s barmy—didn’t he ask if we thought the Archduke was going to stand on a chimney while Bukovsky and Orlovitch stood around at the bottom ready to blow him sky-high with three tons of dynamite?”
“So he did,” agreed Beaver. “And it is barmy!”
Reluctantly, they agreed that they had nothing to go on. It seemed that for them anyway the case of the Missing Despatch Case was over, but the next day brought a summons that was to change matters completely. It came in the form of a note from Dr. Watson.
“I have important news for you,” the note read. “Bring the rest of the Irregulars and make sure they wipe their feet on the mat, or Mrs Hudson will be displeased. J. H. Watson, M.D.”
“Dr. Watson wants us?” said Queenie. “All of us?”
“With clean boots,” said Wiggins. “Or his housekeeper will be mad.”
“What does he want?” demanded Rosie.
Wiggins spent another moment or two gazing at the picture of Sherlock Holmes.
“I got just about half an idea,” he said, but he would say no more.
Mrs Hudson supervised the entry of the Irregulars with a careful and hostile eye, but they gave her no cause for offence.
“Ah—come into the study!” declared Dr. Watson. “It will be quite suitable in the circumstances,” and the children gazed about them in awe as they looked around the most famous collection of criminal relics in the world.
They saw Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s pipes, his microscope with a slide ready to be examined in it, his fencing-foils, his pistols on the mantelpiece, and even his slippers.
“Phew!” muttered Wiggins, who was almost overcome with awe, but not quite.
“I’ll be brief,” said Dr. Watson. “I have here a telegram from Mr. Sherlock Holmes—”
“From Mr. Holmes!” cried Wiggins. “But he’s on his death-bed, sir!”
“Poor Mr. Holmes!” wept Rosie. “He’s a goner, ain’t he?”
“Now, now!” cried Dr. Watson. “No tears, if you please. They’re quite unnecessary. I’m delighted to say that Mr. Holmes is making a steady recovery—”
“Smashing!” yelled Wiggins.
“Hurray!” yelled Shiner, with the others joining in delightedly.
Dr. Watson smiled at their enthusiasm, but his face became stern once more.
“Really, that’s quite enough interruptions,” he told the Baker Street Boys. “Mr. Holmes is still a very sick man, but when I heard lately that there was some improvement in his condition, I took it upon myself to inform him of the difficulties In the case you became involved in. And this is his reply. Listen.”
And Dr. Watson read out the message from Mr. Sherlock Holmes to the children:
“‘In the mat
ter of the disappearance of Sir Alfred Connyngham’s Despatch Case, kindly inform the Baker Street Irregulars that their instincts are right. Lestrade has not the imagination to follow up their valuable clues, so they must busy themselves in the matter. Be sure to remind them above all that in this case things are not always what they seem’.” Dr. Watson folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.
“I said it, didn’t I?” said Sparrow. “It’s all magic and faking, that’s what.”
“As Mr. Holmes points out,” agreed Dr. Watson.
“So we’re back on the case,” announced Wiggins, once more gazing around the room at the Master’s possessions.
“And so you should be,” said Dr. Watson. “Lestrade and young Sergeant Hopkins have been to see me more than once in the past few days, and it became clear to me that they were at a dead end. I took the liberty of informing Mr. Holmes of this case, and you have heard his reply. I can tell you that Inspector Lestrade is very worried at his lack of progress, and that meanwhile he travels everywhere with the Archduke to ensure his safety.”
“He’s got a hope, with Orlovitch and Bukovsky around,” said Wiggins.
“Those two are too crafty for Inspector Lestrade.”
“No doubt,” said Dr. Watson. “But where will you start, Wiggins?”
“Number 41 Park Lane, sir.”
“Where did you say? Ah, of course! At Sir Alfred Connyngham’s residence.”
“That’s right, sir,” said Wiggins. “We read as how Sir Alfred’s recovering at his London residence, and maybe he’s well enough to listen to a bit of sense now. Tomorrow’s Monday, and that’s when this Archduke bloke’s due to be murdered. We ain’t got no time to waste.”
“My sentiments exactly!” cried Dr. Watson. “It could be Mr. Holmes himself speaking!”
The Baker Street Boys were in a cheerful mood as they reached the railings in front of Sir Alfred’s Park Lane home, but their optimism was soon dampened. It was a murky evening once more, with a heavy fall of rain and sleet, and what they heard on their arrival made matters worse. “Here!” called a loud, authoritative voice. “You lot—get away from those gates—scarper, fast!”
A large police constable in a glistening cape loomed out of the darkness to confront Wiggins and the others. Another equally large policeman patrolled the grounds inside the railings.
“Who’s there?” called the second policeman. “Pack of kids!”
“What they after?”
“We’ve got to see Sir Alfred Connyngham!” called Wiggins.
“Who!” cried the first policeman.
“It’s true!” Queenie yelled. “It’s a matter of life and death!”
“They’re going to blow up the Archduke,” said Rosie. “And we know Sir Alfred—he bought some flowers from me the night he was attacked!” The second policeman now examined the urchins.
“What an ’orrible lot!” he said. “Get off—scarper!”
“But we helped wiv the investigation!” cried Wiggins, stung by this unpleasant remark. “We helped Inspector Lestrade after Sir Alfred got done by those two anarchists!”
“So you’re those meddling busybody kids!” said the first policeman. “I heard about you concealing evidence and getting in the way of the Law. And I’ll tell you this: if you don’t clear off in ten seconds, you’ll find yourselves in a cell for the night!” Wiggins led the others away.
Only Sparrow could find an answer for the two burly police-constables. “I hope that big foreign bloke comes round here!” he yelled. “Then you’ll know who’s telling the truth!”
A bellow of anger greeted this, and the Baker Street Boys took to their heels. Down one well-lit street they raced, and then Wiggins darted into a dark alleyway.
“Now what?” said Sparrow. “We’re finished, ain’t we?”
“Who says?” demanded Wiggins. “Here, Beaver and Queenie, you two come wiv me—wait here, you others.”
“Why?” they demanded.
“’Cos you’re too little to go where we’re going.”
“Where’s that?” said Queenie.
“Where the servants goes for a drink,” said Wiggins. “I saw a public house—just round the back here—it’s the nearest to Sir Alfred’s, so that’s where his staff’ll be drinking when they drinks.”
“And then what?” demanded Beaver, as they came to a brightly-lit and noisy public house called the Wheatsheaf.
“Dunno,” said Wiggins. “But it’s better’n being chased off by bobbies. Maybe we can get a message through to him, who knows?”
“And maybe we’ll get a thick ear for being nosey,” said Queenie. Wiggins grinned.
“Do you think Mr. Holmes would let himself be scared off?”
Sparrow, Shiner, and Rosie were not left long in doubt, for Wiggins and the others were back within minutes.
“Wiggins done it!” cried Beaver. “He’s gone and worked out the clue!”
“What, where Orlovitch and Bukovsky are hiding?” said Shiner.
“Nah!” said Queenie. “Where Sir Alfred’s gone!”
“But he’s round the corner in Park Lane,” said Sparrow. “Ain’t he?”
“No he ain’t,” announced Wiggins. “I saw one of the chambermaids; she’d had a few gins, and she let it slip before the underbutler could shut her up that Sir Alfred’s gone to his country residence.”
“So what’s the bobbies for if he ain’t in Park Lane?” demanded Shiner.
“All bluff!” Wiggins said. “The bobbies outside think he’s inside, but he ain’t—he’s at The Chimneys.”
“At the what?” said Sparrow. “Yeah!” he yelled suddenly. “It’s the name of a place—they calls big houses fancy names. Of course—it weren’t one chimney.”
“It was The Chimneys, near Newgate Village in Hertfordshire, more’n twenty miles on the train from here,” agreed Wiggins. “And that’s where we’re going!”
They had reckoned, however, without the train timetables.
* * * *
“First train out to Newgate?” they heard at Euston Station. “You’ll have a long wait. That’s the milk-train leaving here at five-thirty A.M.”
Sparrow groaned in dismay, and Shiner tried to argue with the ticket-clerk, but all he got was a threat of a call to the railway police; and so it was Wiggins who had to take the lead once more.
“Home, all of you, excepting Sparrer,” he said. “We’ll wait for the first train and get out to see Sir Alfred.”
There was a howl of protest from the others until Wiggins pointed out that their total wealth came to one shilling and tenpence, which was exactly the cost of two single fares to Newgate Village Station. Wiggins went on:
“I’m going ’cos I say so, and Sparrer’s coming with me ’cos—he knows the clues, that’s why,” and this had to satisfy the rest of the Boys.
It was an uncomfortable night for the two of them, but they were hardy and thought nothing of it. An hour before dawn the steam-train clanked into Newgate Village Station, they got out, and a sleepy porter gave them directions to The Chimneys.
“How long we been walking now?” said Sparrow, an hour later.
Dawn was breaking through low, hazy clouds, but fortunately there was no rain or snow. Wiggins consulted his watch.
“Dunno,” he said. “It’s stopped again. We’ve gotta be near, though, we been walking for hours along these lanes.”
They tramped on and rounded a narrow bend at the top of a steep climb. An imposing wall began beside the road, and a little way down the hill was a set of iron gates decorated with a coat of arms.
Through the trees, Wiggins and Sparrow saw their destination.
The Chimneys was an old, rambling mansion with Elizabethan timbers and red brick, but its most prominent feature was a remarkable number of high chimneys in its roofs. Getting over the gates presented no problems. “I hope their dogs isn’t savage,” said Wiggins, as be helped Sparrow down.
“And their servants isn’t too handy with guns,
” agreed Sparrow.
But they reached the huge porch without attracting any attention whatsoever. Before them was a pair of high wooden doors, again engraved with a coat of arms; and a bell-pull on a black iron chain.
“Here goes,” said Wiggins, pulling on the chain. There was a deep, sombre clanging from the house. Dogs woke up on the instant. A deep baying sound left the two boys wishing they were back in London; and they felt their knees turn to jelly when a pair of servants opened the doors and confronted them with wide-mouthed shotguns and the snarling teeth of half-a-dozen hounds.
“Who’re you two young villains!” demanded a burly, older man.
“We ain’t villains or any such things!” cried Wiggins. “We got a warning for Sir Alfred Connyngham—”
“Don’t you come with threats for Sir Alfred!” cried the second man. “We got dogs for your kind!”
“But we got clues about the Archduke!” Sparrow called, seeing that they were being totally misunderstood. “We came to help—we’re the ones what looked after Sir Alfred when he got done on Monday last!”
“Was you?” said the second man, but the other one didn’t want to hear anymore. “Some ragamuffins did help his Lordship, that I know.”
“You two knows too much,” he decided. “Lock ’em up, Yates, and send for the bobbies like Inspector Lestrade said we should if there was trouble—come on, you two, I’ve got a storeroom with iron bars till the Law arrives! Sir Alfred ain’t here, so we’ll do what seems best.”
“But it”s a matter of life and death!” Wiggins tried to say. “We know these anarchists is goin’ to try to kill the Archduke!”
A growl from the older man was his only answer, but another voice came through the sullen snapping of the dogs, and it was obviously someone who expected to be obeyed:
“What’s this about the Archduke?” called a young man. “Wait, Roberts—who are these boys?”
Roberts wasn’t given a chance to explain. In a few short sentences, Wiggins was able to convince the young man—who wasn’t much older than he himself—that he was acting in good faith.
“Best put them somewhere secure, sir!” cried Roberts.
“In my father’s absence, I’ll decide what’s to be done!” cried the young man. “And you, Roberts, can make a start by bringing some breakfast. These boys look famished, and if I’m any judge they’ve walked from the station this morning. Yates, clear those confounded hounds away!” lie went on. “Now, you two—I’m Freddie Connyngham. Sir Alfred’s not here, as you’ve gathered, and I want an explanation from you both. But first let me tell you I know about last Monday’s attack. I’m grateful for what you did to help my father, but I realise that your business must be of the utmost urgency—so fire away, you have my entire attention!”