The Case of the Haunted Horrors (10 page)

“You are very bad boy,” she scolded him. “You must thank your friends for saving you. They were very worried.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Luba shook her head in mock annoyance.

“I suppose that will have to do,” she said, and pointed to the table. “Now, sit. Eat.”

She pulled the blini from her coat pocket and piled them on the table in front of Shiner. This time he made no effort to hide his delight. As he tucked into the little pancakes – watched enviously by the other Boys – Luba smiled fondly at him, then turned back to Wiggins.

“You must tell Ivan everything,” she said. “He will help you. He has many friends.”

Wiggins hesitated. “I dunno,” he said. “I promised…”

“You can trust him. The Okhrana are his most bitter enemies.”

“They send secret agent here,” Ivan growled. “Assassin to murder me and my friends.”

“Have you told the police –
our
police?”

“They cannot help. They not believe us. We do not know who he is, or where he is. Only that he is very cunning.”

“Blimey,” said Beaver, “sounds like it could be the same geezer what killed Mr Murray’s brother.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“There has been killing?” Ivan asked. “Tell me.”

So Wiggins explained everything that had happened, and Ivan listened very carefully.

“This is our man. I have no doubt it is work of Okhrana,” he said when Wiggins had finished. “You have done well, but is not enough. We know there is to be meeting. We think we know where. But we do not know when.”

“If only we could work out what the rest of that message means,” cried Wiggins in frustration. “Three
what
, sitting
where
?”

He paced the room, deep in thought, then stopped in front of the calendar, hoping the picture of Saint Petersburg might give him some kind of inspiration. But it was not the picture that did it for him – it was the days and dates beneath it. He spun round in triumph.

“Got it!” he cried. “Look! Mon, Tues, Wed – it ain’t ‘three’ anything ‘sat’ anywhere. ‘Sat’ is short for
Saturday
!” He tapped the calendar with his finger. “And three can’t be the date, ’cos Saturday is the ninth. It’s got to be the time. So it’s three o’clock on Saturday, at the Spaniards pub on Hampstead Heath!”

“Brilliant!” shouted Beaver. “Wiggins – you done it again!”

The rest of the Boys cheered. Luba smiled. Ivan nodded, then held up his hands for quiet.

“Very clever,” he said. “Well done. There is only one problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Wiggins.

“Saturday is today. If we are to catch villains, we have no time to lose.”

“Right, let’s get moving, then!”

Leaving Ivan and Luba to collect up some of their friends, Wiggins and the Boys rushed back to Baker Street. As they arrived, panting, at the gates of the Bazaar, Sarge came out of his lodge, looking bewildered.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “What’s the rush?”

“We gotta get Mr Murray. We’re going to the fair!”

Selwyn Murray was startled when the Boys burst in on him without warning. He leapt to his feet, certain that his enemies had tracked him down and were about to murder him, so he was relieved to see Wiggins’s excited face appear round the door.

“Wiggins!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing? Someone might see you!”

“Don’t matter if they do,” Wiggins replied. “Not now.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know where they’re going.”

“Where?”

“The Spaniards – three o’clock this afternoon.
Saturday
at
three
. Get it?”

“Of course! Sat 3. Well done!” He pulled out his watch. “But it doesn’t leave us much time.”

“You’re right,” agreed Wiggins. “And if we’re gonna catch ’em red-handed we’ll need the coppers there.”

He turned to the other Boys, who were crowded behind him in the doorway, and rapped out his instructions: “Shiner, you know all about the Russians. Rosie, you know about the secret message. So you two go to Dr Watson, tell him where we’re going and ask him to get on to Inspector Lestrade. Off you go, now! The rest of you, come with me and Mr Murray.”

“How we gonna get to Hampstead?” asked Beaver. “It’s too far to walk, ain’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Murray answered. “And we don’t have time to wait for a train or an omnibus. We’ll go by cab. Run and tell Sarge to find us a four-wheeler, quick as he can.”

The driver grumbled at having to squeeze six people into his cab, but Murray pointed out that half of them were small and offered him extra money to take them all.

“And there’ll be another ten shillings for you,” he promised, “if you get us to The Spaniards Inn before three o’clock. It is a matter of national importance.”

“Make it a pound and I’ll have a go,” the man replied.

“Very well. A pound it is. Now drive!”

Encouraged by the idea of so much money, the cabbie whipped up his horse and soon had them careering through the streets, past Lord’s Cricket Ground and the elegant villas of St John’s Wood, towards the long hill that led up to Hampstead Heath. It was a bumpy ride, and the Boys had to hang on tight to stop themselves being flung about inside the cab, but they all found it exciting, if a little scary.

Before they reached Hampstead, however, the poor horse began to get very tired. Its flanks were soaked with sweat, skeins of white saliva hung from its mouth and it slowed down almost to a walk. When they saw a stone horse trough by the side of the road, the driver pulled over and stopped to give it a drink of cool water while Murray and the Boys waited in an agony of impatience. Wiggins pulled out his pocket watch.

“We ain’t gonna make it,” he groaned.

Murray checked his own watch, then leant out of the window. “This is urgent!” he called to the driver. “Matter of life and death. We’ve no time to lose.”

“I don’t care how urgent it is,” the driver replied. “It ain’t worth killing my Betsy.”

“He’s right,” said Gertie. “If she don’t have a drink we shan’t get there at all.”

At last the driver patted the horse’s quivering neck. “That’ll do, girl,” he said. “Not far to go now. Then you can have a rest.” He climbed back onto his seat and jerked the reins. The horse responded with a steamy snort and set off again at a smart pace.

Although it was on the edge of London, Hampstead looked and felt like a village. And because this was a holiday, it was full of people who had come out of the city to enjoy the fresh air of the Heath, an area of unspoilt countryside filled with trees and ponds and green hills that were perfect for getting away from the hustle and bustle. Unfortunately, there were so many people strolling through the streets that the cab containing the Baker Street Boys and Selwyn Murray had to slow down again to get through. As it passed the ancient church, the clock was already striking three.

“Listen!” Queenie cried. “We’ll be too late!”

“How much further is it?” Wiggins asked.

“At least half a mile. Maybe a mile.”

“We could run that,” said Beaver.

“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: T
HE
S
PANIARDS
I
NN
. 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.