The Case of the Haunted Horrors

by Anthony Read

“Easy!” agreed Sparrow.

  “And it’d be quicker,” added Gertie.

  “Right,” said Murray. “Out you get!” He opened the door and called to the cabbie to stop. “Here,” he said, giving him a handful of money. “Good man. You did your best. Thank you.”

  The Boys tumbled out of the cab.

  “That way,” Murray shouted, pointing down a side street. “We can cut across the Heath.”

  It wasn’t easy going – the ground was uneven and hilly – but they dashed on towards the top, making good progress. On Murray’s advice, they headed towards the music and screams of pleasure which they could hear in the distance, since the fair was always held near The Spaniards. And so they pressed on. The Boys were fit and used to running, and they soon left Murray far behind as he stopped because of a stitch, holding his side in pain but waving them on.

  Soon they reached the first stalls and sideshows of the fair. Just in front of them on the other side of a narrow road, beyond a small toll-keeper’s cottage, they could see a white, three-storey building with a sign board on its front: THE SPANIARDS INN. They ran towards it, halting just in time before they were run down by a black coach that emerged from the inn’s yard and drove off at speed.

  “Look!” Sparrow shouted, pointing at the door of the carriage. It had a monogram painted on it, a curly letter “M”. As the carriage passed them, the Boys caught a glimpse of the shiny, domed head and sunken eyes of the man inside. And then it was gone, rolling down the hill and out of sight.

  “Did you see him?” cried Queenie. “I could swear he was laughin’ at us.”

  “We’re too late,” moaned Beaver. “He’s gone.”

  “Yeah, but what about the geezer he was meeting?” said Wiggins.

  “That’s right,” Gertie agreed. “He might still be in the pub.”

  “Stay here,” said Wiggins. “I’m going to have a dekko.”

  “But how will you know who he is?” Queenie asked.

  “Dunno. Have to wait and see.”

  Wiggins pushed open the door of the pub and went in. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, made even darker by heavy black beams overhead and low ceilings stained brown by centuries of smoke from countless cigars and pipes. Through the fug of smoke he could see that the main room which he had entered was half full of men sitting at tables or in alcoves, chatting and drinking. None of the people he could see as he walked through looked suspicious, and he was about to leave when he noticed a doorway at the other end. Putting on a cool face, he ambled nonchalantly over to it and stepped through.

  It was a small room with a table in the middle, on which stood a bottle of brandy and four glasses, one of them empty. Three men were sitting around the table, deep in conversation. One was a powerful-looking man with deep-set dark eyes, long, slicked-back hair and a pointed black beard, whom Wiggins had never seen before. The other two were Sir Charles White and his manservant, Fredericks.

  The man with the long hair glared at Wiggins and waved him away.

  “Clear off, boy!” he snarled in a heavy foreign accent. “Get out of here!”

  Sir Charles and Fredericks glanced round casually, then suddenly recognized Wiggins.

  “The messenger boy!” Sir Charles exclaimed, then snapped his fingers at Fredericks. “Get him!” he barked.

  Wiggins did not wait to be “got”. As the three men leapt to their feet and rushed towards him, he turned and raced back the way he had come, dodging between the drinkers in the bar and diving out through the door.

  “Run for it!” he shouted to the other Boys. “They’re after me!”

  “Who?” Beaver asked.

  “Where to?” Queenie wanted to know.

  “Them!” Wiggins yelled as the three men followed him out of the pub. “To the fair! Lose yourselves in the crowd!”

  “There are more of them!” shouted Sir Charles, pointing at the other Boys with his silver-topped black cane. “I want them all.”

  Without waiting to be told twice, the Boys ran from The Spaniards, crossed the road and headed into the fairground. The three men pursued them, with Sir Charles shouting instructions to the other two and directing them with his cane. Murray, having now got his breath back, arrived just in time to see the chase and hobbled after the men, unseen by Sir Charles or Fredericks. As it was only mid-afternoon, the fair was not really busy yet and the crowds were not thick enough for the Boys to lose themselves in.

  “We gotta keep ’em running round till the inspector and his men get here,” Wiggins panted.

  “And Blackbeard Ivan and his lot,” Queenie added. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “Just don’t get caught, any of you,” said Wiggins. “Now, scatter!”

  All seven Baker Street Boys ran in different directions. The three men split up and tried to follow. The chase wound in and out of hoop-la and roll-a-penny, hook-a-duck and skittles, and dozens more sideshows and stalls. They ran around the tall helter-skelter, where girls screamed and clutched their skirts to stop them flying up as they corkscrewed down the slide; they hopped on and off the gallopers and roundabouts and swing-boats; they ducked behind the huge wheels of traction engines that puffed out steam and smoke as they powered the rides and the lights and the organs blasting out merry music. They passed the little German band that they had seen near the Bazaar, marching and playing hopefully, trying to make itself heard above the general din. It was fighting a losing battle but was still managing to collect a few pennies from young men eager to impress their girls with a show of generosity.

  The Boys were starting to enjoy the excitement of what was turning into a great game of tag – but it was a dangerous game, with serious penalties. When the dark-eyed man finally outwitted Queenie and caught her, Beaver heard her scream and ran to her rescue. But although he was easily the strongest of the Boys, he was no match for the powerful foreigner. Without letting go of Queenie, the man shook Beaver off, threw him to the ground and was just lifting his foot to kick him when he was seized from behind. It was Ivan and a bunch of his revolutionary friends, including Luba and the chestnut-haired woman.

  “Orlov!” Ivan growled. “I should have known it would be you.”

  “You coward!” spat Luba. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?”

  She grabbed the man’s arm and Ivan delivered a hard punch to his solar plexus, then leapt on top of him and pinned him to the ground with the help of his friends.

  “Is he from the Okey-cokey?” Queenie asked.

  “Yes,” replied Luba. “I knew him in Russia. He is Okhrana agent and spy.”

  “And murderer,” added Beaver. “When the coppers get him he’ll be hanged.”

  “No, no!” gasped the man as he caught his breath. “I have killed no one!”

  “Yes, you have,” Queenie accused. “You killed Alwyn Murray.”

  “I am not assassin,” he protested. “Not murderer. It was not me!”

  “Well, who was it, then?”

  Gertie was still running nimbly through the fairground, but Fredericks had spotted her and was on her tail. As she passed the coconut shy for the second time, he stepped out from between two stalls and grabbed her by the arm. She struggled and tried to wriggle free, but it was no use.

  “Leave her be!” a loud Irish voice suddenly roared. “Take your filthy hands off moi girl!” The shout came from a big man with a mop of ginger curls who was running the coconut shy. Fredericks took no notice and tried to drag Gertie away, but the red-haired man snatched a wooden ball from his stall and hurled it with all his might. It flew like a rocket, with deadly accuracy, and hit Fredericks on the back of his head, knocking him out cold. He fell to the ground as though he had been poleaxed.

  “Every ball a coconut!” the Irishman bellowed triumphantly, running forward with his arms outstretched.

  Gertie spun round and let out a great shriek. “Da!” she screamed. “Oh, Dada, is it really you?”

  “It is, it is!” he cried, envelopi
ng her in a great hug. “Oh Gertie, my little Gertie! I been searchin’ high and low for you since they let me out of jail. I thought I’d lost you for ever!”

  And they hugged and kissed and held each other tight as though they would never let go, weeping tears of joy at being reunited.

  Unlike his two companions, who had rushed around the fair like maniacs, Sir Charles was hunting his prey by stealth. He was determined to catch Wiggins himself, and planned to take him by surprise. Keeping out of sight, he crept between the stalls and tents until eventually he spotted the leader of the Baker Street Boys by the massive, ornate facade of what looked like a full-size mobile theatre. Wide steps led up to the ticket booth and entrance, where a placard announced: Next performance 15 minutes. The gaudy sign over the front, surrounded by pictures of ghouls and spectres of all sorts, proclaimed it to be the Ghost Show.

  As Wiggins stopped before it, Sir Charles leapt out of hiding and confronted him. Before Wiggins could run, Sir Charles took hold of his cane, pulling it apart to reveal a gleaming steel blade, which he now pointed at him.

  “Blimey,” said Wiggins. “A sword-stick!”

  “Yes,” hissed Sir Charles. “And it is razor-sharp. So stand still and do exactly what I tell you.”

  “Not on your nelly!” Wiggins replied. And he spun round and bounded up the steps through the curtained doorway.

  Sir Charles let out a curse and rushed after him. As the theatre was between shows, the stage was empty and there was no audience in the auditorium. But it was filled with long benches and Wiggins was able to dodge Sir Charles by clambering over and around them more nimbly than the older man. Then one of the benches tipped over and Wiggins stumbled and fell. Before he could get to his feet again, Sir Charles was standing over him, the sword pointing at his chest.

  “Now,” he demanded. “Tell me – who sent you?”

  “I did!” boomed a new voice, echoing hollowly through the theatre.

  Sir Charles looked up to see Murray standing on the stage, glaring down at him with a face like thunder. All the blood drained from Sir Charles’s own face as he stared in terror.

  “No!” he gasped. “It can’t be! It’s not possible – you’re…”

  “Dead?” Murray taunted him.

  “Yes. I know you are. I… I…”

  “Killed me?”

  Sir Charles was trembling with fear as he answered. “Yes.”

  “Say it again. Louder.”

  “I killed you. You can’t be here… This is some sort of ghost show trick. Well this time I’ll make sure!”

  And with that, Sir Charles dropped his sword, reached into his pocket and pulled out a revolver. Raising it in front of him he took careful aim at Murray and squeezed the trigger.

  There were two loud bangs at almost the same moment. The first was the gun going off; the second was the shattering of a very large mirror. Suddenly the stage was empty apart from the shards of broken glass. There was no sign of Murray. Sir Charles spun round in disbelief as another new voice spoke up behind him.

  “Yes, Sir Charles. It was a ghost show trick. All done with mirrors. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take the gun.” It was the leader of the little German band speaking. But the voice was that of Sherlock Holmes. He reached out and took the revolver, then handed it to Inspector Lestrade, who was standing beside him.

  “Sir Charles White,” pronounced Lestrade, “I arrest you for the murder of Mr Alwyn Murray and his wife and child.”

  Sir Charles glared furiously at him, quite unrepentant. “It was a mistake,” he snarled, “a ghastly mistake. How was I to know—”

  “That I had a twin brother?” asked Murray, emerging from where he had been standing in the wings, with Sparrow by his side.

  “You!” hissed the murderer.

  “Yes. You thought I was rotting in a Siberian prison camp after you betrayed me to the Russians. But I escaped, to see you brought to justice – with the help of my young friends from Baker Street.”

  EUREKA!

  After Orlov and Fredericks had been arrested – with Fredericks nursing a painful lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on the back of his head – the Boys and their new Russian friends gathered outside the Ghost Show. Sir Charles glowered furiously at Wiggins as Lestrade and his men hauled him out of the show and marched him away in handcuffs.

  “How did you know we was in there?” Wiggins asked Murray.

  “Sparrow saw him chase you inside,” Murray replied. “We decided to go through the side entrance to take him by surprise.”

  “Well, you did that all right. But how did you know what to do? How did you know about the mirrors?”

  “I seen it afore,” said Sparrow with a big grin. “We had a ghost show at the theatre once. Dead good, it was.”

  Wiggins was impressed. “You did well,” he said approvingly.

  “You all did well,” said Mr Holmes as he removed his musician’s cap and peeled off the false nose, eyebrows and heavy moustache. “I have followed your progress with great interest.”

  Dr Watson, who had only just arrived with Shiner and Rosie, shook his head in amazement as he watched the transformation from German bandsman to internationally renowned detective.

  “Good heavens, Holmes!” he said. “I’ve seen many of your disguises, but this takes the biscuit. To think that I’ve passed you in the streets several times and never guessed…”

  “I know,” said Mr Holmes with a smile. “You even put sixpence in my collecting box on one occasion.”

  “So I did,” laughed Dr Watson.

  “Because we played your favourite tune,” added the detective.

  “Ha! And I wondered how you knew. But what were you doing?”

  “I have been on a secret mission for my brother, Mycroft, who as you know holds a high government post. He suspected that someone had been stealing plans to a secret new vessel – capable of operating beneath water – and selling them for a great deal of money to the agent of a foreign power.”

  “Russia!” exclaimed Wiggins.

  “Precisely.”

  “Orlov,” declared Luba. “He is secret agent. Now you have him.”

  “But we don’t have the plans,” said Mr Holmes. “We need to recover them in order to safeguard the secret and prove his guilt.”

  Throughout this conversation Gertie’s father had been standing to one side with his arm around his daughter, holding her tight as though afraid she might disappear again. He cleared his throat and spoke up.

  “Would you be talkin’ about that Russki feller with the little pointy beard?” he asked.

  “That’s him,” replied Mr Holmes. “It would appear that he has been living among your people, using the fairground as his cover.”

  “He has, he has! I always thought there was somethin’ fishy about him, but I couldn’t fathom what it was.”

  “P’raps he’s got the plans hid in his caravan,” said Beaver. “You could show us which van is his and we could search it.”

  “You could,” said Gertie’s father, “but I doubt you’d find anythin’ there.”

  “Exac’ly,” agreed Wiggins. “First place anybody’d look.”

  “Right. But I reckon I know where they might be. A couple of days back I was out on the Heath in the middle o’ the night, lookin’ to catch a rabbit or two for the pot…”

  “Not poachin’ again, Da?” Gertie teased.

  “This is no private estate,” he said defensively. “It’s public land and there’s thousands o’ rabbits runnin’ wild out there for the takin’. Anyways, I was settin’ my traps when I hear somebody comin’, tippy-toeing like a leprechaun in the dark—”

  “Orlov!”

  “Who’s tellin’ this story? You or me?” said Gertie’s da gruffly, but his eyes were twinkling as he spoke. “Aye, you’re right, it was your man. He didn’t see me, I made sure of that, but I seen him. He was carryin’ a spade and a smallish box. I saw him mark out a spot, then dig a hole and bury the box.”

&n
bsp; “You didn’t look to see what was in it after he’d gone?” asked Wiggins.

  “None o’ my business. And whatever it was, I didn’t want to get mixed up in it. I never liked the look o’ that feller.”

  “Well, like it or not, my friend, you’re mixed up in it now,” Mr Holmes said. “Do you think you could find the place again?”

  “Sure and don’t I always need to know where my traps are? I’ve got one set not three feet away from that very spot.”

  Gertie’s father fetched a spade from his own van and led them out of the fairground and across the Heath. To the Boys it seemed like a wilderness, but the Irishman knew exactly where he was going. Using various trees as markers, he eventually arrived at a secluded spot, where he pulled back the lower branches of a bush to reveal a newly turned patch of ground. Once he started to dig, it was only a few seconds before the clink of metal on metal could be heard. After a few seconds more he had pulled a black tin box out of the ground and was brushing the dirt from its lid.

  “It’s locked,” he announced. “Shall I smash it open?”

  He went to raise his spade, but Mr Holmes stopped him.

  “No need for violence,” he said. “If you will permit me, madam?” He stepped across to Luba, pulled a hairpin from her head and handed it to Wiggins. “Now, my young friend, let’s see if you can remember what I taught you about locks.”

  Wiggins took the hairpin, inspected it, then carefully bent it out of shape. Concentrating hard, his tongue peeping out from between his lips, he slid the end of the pin into the lock on the box and began to move it around, up and down and from side to side, wiggling and twisting it gently. At last there was a satisfying click and a smile spread across his face as he lifted the lid. Mr Holmes nodded his approval and bent over the open box to examine its contents.

  “Eureka!” he said, smiling.

  The Boys stared at him.

  “I reek of what?” Wiggins asked, sniffing.

  “No, no. You don’t smell of anything. What I said was ‘eureka’. It’s ancient Greek, meaning ‘I have found it’.”

  Wiggins laughed. “Eureka. Yes, we have eureka-ed it, ain’t we!”