The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Stolen Sparklers Page 4

  “I managed to get this from the baker’s,” he said, plonking it down on the table. “He said it’s only yesterday’s, so it ain’t too stale.”

  “Good lad,” said Wiggins. “We’re gonna need it.”

  Sparrow sniffed the air and pulled a face. “What’s that smell?”

  “Cabbage and turnip,” Beaver told him. “And a bit of marrowbone.”

  “It’s very good for you,” said Polly. “Honest.”

  Sparrow was not convinced. “I might be able to get somethin’ to eat at the theatre,” he said hopefully.

  “The theatre?” Polly asked, surprised. “What theatre’s that?”

  “The Imperial,” he replied proudly. “I’m the call boy.”

  “Gosh. Do you get to meet the actors and actresses?”

  “Course I do. It’s my job to look after the artistes and see they gets on stage at the right time and everythin’.”

  “Well, fancy that,” Polly said, impressed. And then, after a pause, she added, “Her ladyship used to be on the stage.”

  Wiggins looked interested. “What, Lady Mountjoy? An actress?”

  “That’s right. Only she wasn’t Lady Mountjoy then. She was Miss Belle Fontaine.”

  “That’s posh,” Beaver commented. “Sounds French.”

  “It’ll be her stage name,” said Wiggins.

  “That’s right,” said Sparrow. “You gotta have a fancy name if you’re gonna be a star.”

  “Her real name was probably Betsy Smith or something plain like that,” Wiggins went on.

  “Mr Gerald’s other name is Huggett,” said Polly, “and he’s her brother.”

  “Well,” Beaver joined in, “if he’s her brother, and his name’s Huggett, then Lady M’s real name, afore she was Lady M or Belle Fontaine, must’ve been Huggett too. That don’t sound so posh, does it?”

  “Well, there you are, then,” said Wiggins. “Lady M ain’t all she seems.”

  “No. She ain’t a proper lady,” Sparrow said.

  “Oh yes, she is,” Polly said, defending her former employer. “She’s a lady through and through. The finest lady you ever could hope to meet.”

  When he arrived at the theatre that evening, Sparrow asked Bert, the stage doorkeeper, if he knew anything about Belle Fontaine. Bert’s face took on a faraway look.

  “Belle Fontaine,” he sighed. “Oh, yes, I remember her. What a beauty! The stage-door Johnnies used to line up outside after the show, hopin’ she’d just give ’em a smile.”

  “What’s a stage-door Johnny?” Sparrow asked.

  “Why, a young toff what hangs about the theatre trying to click with the girls.”

  “Is that what happened to Miss Fontaine? Did a stage-door Johnny click with her?”

  “They all tried! But she could take her pick – and she did. Hooked herself a lord, didn’t she.”

  “Was that Lord Mountjoy?”

  “How d’you know that, you young rascal?”

  “Oh, I, er, know a girl what used to work for her.”

  “What, in service, like?”

  “That’s right. She was a maid.”

  “She’ll have been all right, then. Belle always treated people well – her dressers and such. Never forgot where she come from.”

  “Wasn’t she posh, then?”

  “Posh?” Bert chuckled. “Not when I first knew her, she weren’t. She never had two ha’pennies to rub together. Her dad was a cabbie and her ma took in washing. But she soon learned how to put it on like a lady.”

  “Was she good at acting, then?”

  “Good? She was a bloomin’ marvel. Whatever part she was playin’, you always believed every word. It was a sad day for the stage when she married a lord and gave it up.”

  Sparrow felt like a real detective. He was pleased with himself for finding all this out, and he would have gone on quizzing Bert but then he heard a voice calling his name.

  “Sparrow? Where is that young rapscallion? Sparrow!”

  It was Mr Trump, the manager of the theatre, who appeared at the end of the corridor, resplendent in his bulging evening suit, red-faced with indignation. He spotted Sparrow and bellowed furiously at him.

  “What are you dilly-dallying there for, boy? Have you not taken cognizance of the fact that there are artistes awaiting your ministrations? They require comestibles and beverages, toute de suite!”

  “The acts need food and drink, sharpish,” Bert translated dryly. “Better get a move on, eh?”

  Queenie was quite worn out by the time Inspector Lestrade and his policemen finally gave up their search of the house and left. She hadn’t stopped working all day, and by the time Mrs Ford called her into the kitchen for supper, she was almost too tired to eat. The cook told Queenie to sit down at the big table with Violet and Mr Harper, and put a big plate of food in front of her. The food was delicious – it was one of Mrs Ford’s steak and kidney pies, with lots of meat and a rich pastry crust – and Queenie was glad to eat something she had not had to cook herself. But her eyelids kept drooping and she had to blink very hard to stay awake.

  “Soon as you’ve washed these things up, you’d better get yourself off to bed,” Mrs Ford told her. “You have to be up at six in the morning. First thing, you’ve got to rake out the ashes from this range, clean it up and polish it with black lead. The brushes and dusters and stuff are all in that box under the sink. Then get the fire lit and a kettle of water on the hob so it’ll be boiling by the time I come down. I can’t start the day without my cup of tea, and neither can Mr Harper, so don’t you forget that.”

  “No, Mrs Ford,” Queenie answered. “What time does Lady Mountjoy get up?”

  “Never you mind about her ladyship,” Violet said sharply. “I look after her. You just try to keep out of her way.”

  “Her ladyship doesn’t rise until about ten o’clock,” Mr Harper said. “So that gives you plenty of time to dust and polish the drawing room and morning room and prepare the fires and be out of the way before she comes down. Do you understand?”

  Queenie didn’t really understand why she had to do everything before Lady Mountjoy got up, but she nodded and said, “Yes, Mr Harper.”

  “Right, then, off you go and get some shut-eye.”

  Queenie climbed wearily up the stairs to the attic. She was glad she did not have to carry a candle – there were gas lamps on the walls of every landing. They were turned down low, leaving large patches of dark shadow which made her nervous that someone might be lurking in them, but she could still see where she was going. The door to the drawing room was slightly ajar and, as she passed it, she could hear voices from inside. They belonged to Lady Mountjoy and Gerald, and they seemed to be raised as if in argument. Queenie stopped to listen, shrinking into the shadows and out of sight.

  “It won’t do, Gerald,” she heard Lady Mountjoy say crossly. “It has simply got to stop.”

  “I have to keep up appearances, sis,” Gerald replied in a whining tone. “How would it look if Lady Mountjoy’s brother couldn’t pay his debts?”

  “You can’t pay your debts!” she snapped back. “You expect me to pay them for you. And I don’t have the money.”

  “You could sell something.”

  “You know very well I can’t do that. When Henry died he left everything in this house to Maurice, to be held in trust until he comes of age.”

  “Maurice! I’m sick of hearing about Maurice. Your stepson can go to the most expensive school in England and have everything he wants, but your own brother has to suffer!”

  “Suffer? You live here for free and get fed and clothed by me without having to lift a finger – you don’t exactly suffer, Gerald.”

  “I will if I don’t pay what I owe.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ll see – if Bernie Blackstone doesn’t get his money. You’ve got to help me, sis, or I’m done for. Please. I’m begging you.”

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Lady Mountjoy sp
oke again, sounding even more vexed. “Oh, get up, Gerald. You look ridiculous on your knees like that. Get up and go to bed.”

  Queenie slipped away from the door before Gerald could come out and catch her, and climbed the stairs to the top landing as quietly as she could. She was so excited and puzzled by what she had overheard that her tiredness was quite forgotten.

  In the bedroom, she undressed quickly and slipped into her bed, pulling the blankets up under her chin. It was far more comfortable than her makeshift bed in HQ, and she knew that she would sleep well once she got to sleep. But for the moment her brain was racing as she thought over all that had happened during an eventful day. She would have plenty to tell Wiggins when she saw him, though she struggled to make sense of what she had seen and heard. Wiggins would be able work out what it all meant, she was sure.

  All was quiet and peaceful as the house settled down for the night, but Queenie was missing the other Boys and couldn’t sleep. As she lay wondering what they were all doing, and how they were getting on without her, she heard someone talking quietly on the stairs. There was a giggle that sounded like Violet’s, followed by a deeper, man’s chuckle. Curious, Queenie slipped out of bed and crept across the room. Easing the door open, she tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peered down to the next landing. Below, she could see Gerald standing with his arm round Violet’s waist, whispering something in her ear. Violet shook her head and pushed him away – though not very hard – as he tried to kiss her. Then she gathered up her long skirt and turned to climb the stairs, giggling again.

  Queenie just managed to duck out of sight and scurry back to bed before Violet came in. She pulled up the bedclothes and lay quietly while the older girl undressed, humming happily to herself. Queenie recognized the tune of the popular song, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do”. As she closed her eyes, more of the words ran through her mind: “It won’t be a stylish marriage, we can’t afford a carriage…” And then she was asleep.

  SWEEP! SWEEP–EEP!

  Queenie slept solidly until the alarm clock woke her at six the next morning. Sleepily, she turned it off and tried to remember where she was and what she was doing there. Seeing Violet still asleep in the other bed brought everything back to her in a rush.

  “Ooh,” she groaned under her breath, “the blinkin’ fires!”

  Fighting to keep her eyes open, she poured cold water from the big china jug on the washstand into the bowl and splashed it on her face. Then she struggled into the brown dress, stuffed her hair under her mob-cap and staggered downstairs to start her duties for the day.

  The kitchen was cold and dark in the dim early morning light as Queenie busied herself with cleaning out the ashes from the range and raking them through the bars into a bucket. The fine grey dust caught in her throat and made her cough, and she crossed the room to get a drink of water from the big brass tap. As she filled a mug at the sink, she looked out through the window. Someone was leaning on the black iron railings above, looking down into the kitchen. It was Wiggins.

  “What you doin’ here at this time of day?” Queenie asked him when she had unlocked the kitchen door and gone outside.

  “That’s a nice welcome and no mistake,” he grinned as he climbed down the stone steps from the street. “Polly said this was the only time I could be sure of finding you on your own to talk to.”

  “Did she, now? You can tell her she can swap places again any time she likes.”

  “You ain’t having a good time, then?”

  “I got a nice bed to sleep in. And the grub’s good – we had steak and kidney last night, and there’ll be bacon and egg and sausages for breakfast this mornin’. But I don’t like bein’ nobody’s servant, and I do miss the Boys.”

  “We all miss you.”

  “Miss my cookin’, more like. What did you have for supper last night? Anythin’ good?”

  “Wasn’t too bad, considering. Turnips and cabbage.”

  Queenie sniffed. “Bet my little brother didn’t like that. How’s he behavin’ his self without me to keep him in order?”

  “All right,” Wiggins grinned. “For Shiner.”

  “Hmm. How long you reckon this is gonna take? Only I don’t think I can stand too much of it.”

  “Depends. Have you found anything out yet?”

  “Yeah, I got a lot to tell you. But I’ll have to be quick.”

  “Go on, then. I’m all ears, as they say.”

  Queenie took a deep breath and told Wiggins everything that she had seen and heard the day before. He listened with great interest, and let out a low whistle when she finished.

  “Blimey,” he said. “Sounds like they’ve all got something to hide!”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “’Cepting her ladyship.”

  Wiggins shook his head. “Don’t be too sure about that. She ain’t all what she seems, neither.”

  “No!” Queenie was quite shocked. “How d’you make that out?”

  “Sparrow’s been asking about her in the theatre. Turns out she ain’t really posh at all – her old man was a cabbie.”

  “I can’t believe it. She’s a real lady through and through…”

  “It’s all an act. Honest. Going by what Sparrow found out, she used to be a wonderful actress when she was on the stage. Sounds like she still is. So keep your eyes open and watch out for her.”

  “Right, I will.”

  “That’s a good girl. Hello, what’s this?”

  He stared at the wall behind Queenie. Just above her head was a white handprint. He reached out and touched it, then examined his fingers.

  “What is it?” Queenie asked. “Looks like flour.”

  Wiggins considered it for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “Never mind that. Listen. I need to get inside the house to take a look-see for myself. There could be clues that Lestrade and his coppers have missed.”

  Queenie looked doubtful. “They was very thorough,” she said.

  “I don’t care about that. I gotta see for myself, like Mr Holmes would.”

  “How will you manage that, then?”

  “You’re gonna help me.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Oh, yes, you can. I’ve worked it all out. This is what I need you to do…”

  Shiner and Rosie took up their posts watching Mountjoy House again during the morning. Shiner grumbled that he was losing money because the street was so quiet that he hardly had any customers, but Beaver assured him they were doing important work. He reminded Shiner how he had helped to solve the mystery of the Ranjipur Ruby by spotting that the villain’s boots were old and needed mending. Pleased that Beaver remembered his part in that case, Shiner reluctantly agreed to stay put.

  Rosie was losing money too, but she was determined to do everything she could to help Polly. And in any case, she wanted Queenie back at HQ as soon as possible. She’d missed being seen off to Covent Garden in the early morning – and even one day of Polly’s cooking was one too many. So as soon as she had come back from the market and tied up her posies and buttonholes, Rosie had hurried out to the street. Beaver and Gertie were already there with Shiner, and Beaver quietly told her that Wiggins had a plan. They were all to be ready for it. In the meantime, Rosie was to go on patrolling with her tray of flowers, and keep her eyes open for anything suspicious.

  Nothing happened for an hour or more, and then the front door of the house opened and a youngish man came out, looked around and set off along the street. He was smartly dressed in a dark coat with a velvet collar, his hat tilted at a rakish angle, and he was swinging an ebony cane with a silver knob.

  “That must be Mr Gerald,” Beaver whispered to Gertie. “I’ll follow him and see where he’s goin’. You back me up so you can take over if he spots me.”

  Gerald walked past Shiner with barely a glance, which disappointed the young shoeshine boy, who prided himself on being able to judge a man’s character by his boots and had hoped for a chance to get
a proper look at this man’s. But the dandy stopped to look at the flowers on Rosie’s tray, and flashed his teeth at her in a smile.

  “What are you doing here, my dear?” he greeted her. “We don’t usually get flower girls in this quiet street.”

  Rosie thought fast. “No, sir,” she replied. “That’s why I thought I’d give it a go.”

  “Hm. Clever as well as pretty.” He treated her to another, rather oily smile, picked up a red carnation and sniffed it. “I’ll take this one.”

  He handed over two pennies, slipped the flower into the buttonhole on his lapel, and continued on his way. Keeping their distance from him and each other, Beaver and Gertie trailed after him as he sauntered along the street and round the corner. The three of them were hardly out of sight when Sparrow strolled round the corner at the other end of the street, wearing a very ragged jacket, and leant casually against the wall. When Queenie appeared briefly at a window on the second floor of the house, he gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up. She saw him, returned the signal and disappeared again. All was quiet for several minutes, then there were shouts from inside the house. Queenie reappeared at the window and flung it open. Clouds of thick brown smoke billowed out.

  Sparrow slipped back round the corner. A few seconds later a familiar cry rang out: “Sweep! Swee–eep!” and a barrow came into sight, piled up with brushes and sacks. It was pushed by a young chimney sweep, his too-big tailcoat hanging loosely from his shoulders, his face blackened with soot but still recognizable, to anyone who knew him, as Arnold Wiggins, leader of the Baker Street Boys. His even younger assistant, trotting alongside the barrow and clearly enjoying playing a part, was Sparrow.

  “Swee–eep! Sweep!” Wiggins cried again, very loudly, as he approached Mountjoy House. As he did so, the basement door opened and Violet came hurrying up the steps and called him over. Parking the barrow outside and leaving it in Sparrow’s care, he followed her down into the kitchen.