The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Stolen Sparklers (7 page)

“Yes, so I see,” said Wiggins, bending to examine the black fingermarks on the dressing table. He grinned and held up his own sooty fingers. “When you’re a sweep, you soon learn to keep your hands to yourself.”

He moved to the open window, leant out and looked down. Below him he saw Queenie come out of the kitchen and climb the steps from the basement to the street, where Sparrow was lounging against the barrow. He watched as they spoke, then he called down to Sparrow.

“A number two brush, lad! Yes, that’s the one – that’s all we’ll need. And a sack. Bring ’em up here, now! Quick as you can!”

Sparrow pulled a sweep’s brush from the bundle, took a sack from the barrow and headed back down the steps into the kitchen behind Queenie. Wiggins turned back to Violet.

“You say it was a girl what took the jewels?” he asked.

“That’s right. The skivvy.”

“Cor. Not her?” He jerked his thumb towards the window and Queenie. “What d’you call her, Victoria?”

“Don’t be daft. The girl what was here before her.”

“Oh, I get you. Did you see her take ’em?”

“Course I didn’t. I’d have stopped her, wouldn’t I?”

“Yeah. Course you would. Er, how d’you know it was her, then?”

“It had to be. I was only out of the room for a couple of minutes.”

“Why? Where was you?”

“With her ladyship in the bathroom, just down the corridor there.”

“You don’t think somebody else might’ve got in and nicked ’em, while you was gone?”

“No chance. Hey, you’re worse than the inspector, you are. Questions, questions…”

Wiggins stopped short. Had he given himself away? He grinned at her. “You sound just like my ma – she used to say I wanted to know everything. ‘Arnie,’ she used to say when I was little, ‘I don’t know what we’re gonna do with you, always askin’ questions.’”

“You haven’t changed much, then, have you? You ought to be a detective, like that Mr Whatsisname – Hemlock Bones, is it?”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“That’s the one. We could do with him round here now. To tell us what that wicked Polly’s done with her ladyship’s jewels.”

“You don’t need him,” Wiggins joked. “Give me a bit of time and I’d soon find ’em for you. P’raps she stuffed ’em up this chimbley…”

“You ain’t going to find ’em up there,” Violet laughed. “That was the very first place the inspector looked.”

Just then, Queenie returned with Sparrow, carrying the brush and sack.

“Violet,” Queenie said, “her ladyship’s calling for you. She’s in the drawing room.”

“Right,” Violet answered. “You stay here and keep an eye on this one. He’s too sharp for his own good. And make sure neither of them touches anything.”

As Violet hurried away down the stairs, Sparrow looked around the room with his mouth wide open.

“Cor,” he breathed. “Fancy havin’ a bedroom like this.”

“Nice, ain’t it?” Queenie said. “And all to yourself.”

“Yeah. I bet that bed’s real soft and comfy.”

Queenie just managed to stop him as he walked towards the big bed to test it.

“Don’t touch!” she warned. “Or I’ll be in real trouble.”

“Yeah,” Wiggins added. “We ain’t got time for that. Let’s get this chimbley cleared.”

“Try not to make a mess,” Queenie told him. “I’m the one what’ll have to clean it up.”

“I’ll do my best, miss,” Wiggins said with a grin. “Come on, Sparrow. Bring that sack over here.”

Wiggins reached in above the fireplace and pulled out the bundle of rags that Queenie had stuffed into the chimney to block it. He dropped it carefully into the sack which Sparrow was holding open. Some soot fell down too, but he managed to catch most of it.

“T’riffic!” Wiggins said. “Worked like a dream. Couldn’t have done it better myself. Well done, Victoria.”

He ducked as Queenie swung a slap in his direction. Sparrow looked puzzled.

“Who’s Victoria?” he asked.

“Never you mind,” she said. “Are we finished in here?”

“We are,” said Wiggins. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

“So you know who done it?” Queenie asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet. But I know who didn’t.”

“Who’s that?”

“Polly. She had coal dust all over her fingers, right?”

“Right,” said Queenie. “You can see the black marks she made on the dressing table.”

“Right. Now look at the black marks on the jewel box.”

“There ain’t none.”

“Exac’ly! Whoever lifted the jewels out of it, they had clean hands. So it couldn’t have been Polly, could it?”

“Cor, that’s clever,” said Sparrow. “Are you gonna tell the inspector?”

“Not yet.” Wiggins turned to Queenie. “What’s the room underneath this one?”

“The drawing room.”

“What, like an artist’s studio?” Sparrow asked. “Where they draw pictures?”

“No, silly,” Queenie answered. “It’s what the nobs call the parlour, only bigger.”

“I’d like to take a look at it,” said Wiggins. “There might be some clues there.”

Beaver and Gertie followed Gerald through the streets, watching his every move. Beaver noticed that as soon as they were out of sight of Mountjoy House, the easy smile vanished from Gerald’s face and he looked tense and worried. After a while they found themselves in a poorer area, where the men wore cloth caps instead of top hats and the women were wrapped in woollen shawls rather than smart coats. At last, Gerald stopped outside a shop and peered in through the window. After looking cautiously over his shoulder, as though afraid someone might recognize him, he slipped quietly inside. Beaver looked up at the sign over the shop door. Hanging there were three brass balls, two at the top and one underneath.

Beaver knew what that sign meant. “It’s a pawnbroker’s,” he told Gertie, who had caught up with him. “Where you pop things.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You give ’em things – like a watch or a coat or a ring or whatever – and they lend you money and hang on to your stuff till you pay ’em back.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“It is for the pawnbroker. You have to pay back more than they give you in the first place.”

“Oh. What happens if you can’t?”

“They keep your things and sell ’em.”

“What d’you think Mr Gerald’s doin’ in there? D’you think he’s poppin’ Lady M’s jewels?”

“I dunno. We’re gonna have to find out. You stop here, on guard. I’m goin’ in.”

The inside of the pawnshop was like an Aladdin’s cave, crammed with all sorts of things hanging from rails and heaped on shelves and piled up on the floor in glorious profusion. Hats and coats and plates and pictures, musical instruments – violins and trumpets and horns – vases and flowerpots, books and boxes, all waiting to be sold or reclaimed by their owners. At the far end of the shop was the counter. Gerald was leaning on it, speaking to an elderly man in a velvet jacket and an embroidered cap with a silken tassel hanging from it. When Beaver opened the door, a bell tinkled and the pawnbroker looked up at him through eyes as hard and shining as a hawk’s.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he croaked.

Gerald did not look round. He slipped his hand in the inside pocket of his coat, drew something out and laid it on the counter.

“It’s solid silver,” he said. “Look, you can see the hallmarks.”

Beaver crept round the side of the shop so that he could see what the object was. It was a cigarette case. The old man picked it up, examined it and sniffed scornfully.

“Not much call for something like this around here,” he said, opening it and looking inside.

“That’s what you always say,” said Gerald.

“Thirty shillings,” the man said.

“A measly thirty bob?” Gerald replied. “You can do better than that, surely? It’s top quality, you know.”

“Very well, two pounds, and that’s my last offer. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

The pawnbroker counted out coins from a drawer under the counter. While he wrote out a ticket, Beaver left the shop and rejoined Gertie outside.

“Did he have the jewels?” she asked.

Beaver shook his head. “No. I don’t reckon he’d bring ’em here anyway. The jewels is worth thousands and they was arguing over a few shillings. Come on – we might as well go back.”

Queenie knocked at the big double doors of the drawing room and then went in, followed by the two Boys. Lady Mountjoy was alone in the room, sitting hunched on a sofa. She had obviously been weeping – her eyes were red and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief that was wet with tears. But as Queenie entered, she raised her chin and sat up straight and proud.

“Yes, Queenie?” she asked.

“If you please, my lady, it’s the sweep.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled at Wiggins and Sparrow. “Have you fixed the problem in my bedroom?”

“Yes, missus,” Wiggins replied. “You won’t have no more trouble with that.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“He needs to inspect the chimney in here, my lady.”

“In here?”

Wiggins stepped forward and gave a little bow. “Just to be on the safe side, lady. It uses the same flue as the one upstairs, see.”

“I see. Very well.”

She waved her hand towards the fireplace and Wiggins went over to it, took off his hat and knelt down to peer up the chimney.

“Well,” he said. “That looks all tickety-boo, as we say in the trade. Be a shame to mess up a lovely room like this with a load of soot, wouldn’t it?”

“It would indeed.”

Wiggins took a good look round the room. His eyes lit up as he saw the portrait of Lady Mountjoy, and he crossed the room to stare at it.

“That’s you, lady, ain’t it?” he said. “Wearin’ your crown, and all.”

“My tiara, yes.”

“Lovely picture. Nearly as good as a photograph, that is.”

There was a muffled noise behind him as Queenie tried to stifle a laugh. Lady Mountjoy’s lips twitched as she suppressed a smile.

“Yes,” she said, “nearly as good.”

Wiggins pointed a sooty finger at the picture. “I hear tell as how it’s been pinched, that tiara.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it has. It’s very sad.”

“Worth a bob or two, is it?”

“It is. But it would be very hard for the thief to dispose of. It would be instantly recognizable by any jeweller.”

“Well, I’ll keep my ears open, and if I hears anything… Would you be offerin’ a reward for findin’ it?”

“The matter is now in the hands of Scotland Yard. But if you should hear anything on your travels… Now, if you’ll excuse me? Mr Harper will see to you. Queenie, take him down to the kitchen.”

As Queenie closed the door behind them, they heard Lady Mountjoy laughing quietly to herself. Queenie dug Wiggins in the ribs with her elbow.

“Wearin’ her crown!” she giggled. “Nearly as good as a photo! Honest, Wiggins, I don’t know what we’re gonna do with you.”

“Made her laugh, though, didn’t I?” he grinned. “Which is better than crying. And now that I’ve seen a picture of the tiara, I know what we’re looking for.”

In the kitchen Mrs Ford was preparing a meal, but she stopped as Queenie brought Wiggins and Sparrow in.

“Well, dearie,” she said, beaming at Wiggins like a fond mother. “Have you fixed it?”

“I have. All done and dusted, as they say. You won’t have no more smoking up there.”

“Good lad. What was the trouble?”

“Just like I said – birds. Pigeons, London starlings – they like a bit of warmth for their nests. Helps ’em to hatch their eggs quicker.”

“Well, I never heard that before. Is that right?”

“Would I tell you a story?” Wiggins said, straight-faced.

“He’s makin’ it up!” laughed Queenie.

“You rascal!” Mrs Ford chuckled. “I suppose you’d like a cup of tea, now? Or a glass of ginger beer, perhaps?”

“Ginger beer’d be nice, thank you. Wouldn’t it, Sparrow?”

Sparrow nodded enthusiastically. Mrs Ford smiled and pointed to two chairs at the table.

“Lovely. Come and sit down – only we’d better cover the chairs. Don’t want soot on the seat, do we?”

“There’s a paper here, Mrs Ford,” said Queenie, helpfully picking up a folded newspaper from the dresser. “Shall I spread that out on them?”

“Thank you, Queenie, that’ll do nicely. And I dare say this young man can manage a nice piece of veal and ham pie? Just reach one out of the pantry, will you?”

Wiggins took the newspaper from Queenie, glanced at it, then opened it out and spread two sheets on two chairs, one for himself and one for Sparrow, while Queenie went over to the pantry and came back carrying a large round pie in a dish. But as she put it down on the table, Mrs Ford let out a shriek.

“No, no!” she cried. “Not that one. I baked that special for her ladyship’s birthday – it’s her favourite recipe. Put it back very careful on the top shelf and fetch another.”

Queenie took the pie and exchanged it for a different one, which Mrs Ford cut open and served to Wiggins and Sparrow, who tucked in ravenously.

“My goodness,” Mrs Ford exclaimed. “Don’t you lads get anything to eat at home?”

“Not just lately,” said Wiggins. “We lost our cook.” And he gave Queenie a broad wink, which set her off giggling again.