The Case of the Haunted Horrors (6 page)

Fredericks crossed Park Lane into Hyde Park and took one of the many footpaths towards the Serpentine, the big lake in the middle of the park. Without pausing, he strode past nursemaids with children and older people enjoying a gentle morning stroll along the bank. Unlike them, he obviously had a purpose in mind, and the two Boys found it hard to keep up without running.The manservant finally slowed down as he reached the embankment carrying the main road through the park onto a long stone bridge across the water. The footpath continued under the road, through a narrow, arched tunnel in the embankment. After looking carefully around him, Fredericks slipped into this tunnel – and out of sight.

Sparrow didn’t dare follow him into the tunnel – he would be too easily seen. Instead, he hurried up the bank, crossed the road and waited for Fredericks to come out on the other side. But to his surprise there was no sign of the tough manservant. Could it be, he wondered, that there was a secret passage down there? After a few minutes, he gave up and began to cross back over the road – only to see the man reappear, heading up the slope to the parapet of the bridge. Ducking behind a bush, Sparrow watched, intrigued, as Fredericks seemed to lean against the parapet for a moment, then turned and marched back the way he had come.

Sparrow scuttled across the road to rejoin Rosie. “What do we do now?” he asked. “Follow him, or wait till he’s out of sight, then go under the bridge to see what he was up to?”

“Let’s wait. He looks like he’s goin’ home.”

“’Spect you’re right,” Sparrow said. “Job done, eh?”

“Yeah. But we gotta try and find out what that job was. And what he was doin’ when he was up there on top. Looked like he was writing somethin’ with a piece of chalk.”

“Did it? I couldn’t see – he had his back to me. Let’s take a look.”

Waiting until they were sure Fredericks had gone, Sparrow and Rosie clambered up the bank to the roadway. Sure enough, where he had been standing, something was chalked on the flat top of the parapet. It looked like two “V”s – or perhaps a “W”.

“V V? W?”
Sparrow said, puzzled. “What’s that mean?”

“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Rosie. “Look at it the other way up.”

“The other way… Oh, my word! It ain’t a ‘W’ – it’s an ‘M’!”

“Right. ‘M’ for Moriarty!”

Sparrow and Rosie scrambled down the bank from the road and into the shadowy tunnel underneath. It was quite empty and they could see nothing that looked at all suspicious – no alcoves or gratings or doors that might have led to a secret chamber or passageway. Only plain stone walls.

“Don’t look like many people come through here,” Sparrow said, looking at the moss growing on the footpath.

“You can see where he walked,” said Rosie, pointing to where Fredericks’s feet had flattened it. The footprints showed that he couldn’t have gone far under the bridge before he had stopped and faced the wall.

“Beats me what he was up to,” said Sparrow, scratching his head.

“Yeah,” Rosie agreed. “Hold on, though. Take a dekko at this.” Crouching down to get a closer look, she pointed to a little pile of pale dust on the ground. She took a pinch of it in her fingers and showed it to Sparrow. “What d’you think that is?”

“Mortar,” he said, examining it. Then he looked at the wall above. “Hello. What we got here, then? This bit looks like it’s loose.”

The joint between two of the stones, which Sparrow was looking at, was about three feet above the ground. The edges of the strip of mortar between them stood out very slightly, and he got his fingers around it and wiggled until he could get a proper hold and ease it out. He laid it down on the ground and poked his fingers into the gap where it had been.

“What you found?” asked Rosie impatiently.

“There’s a space been hollowed out behind. And there’s somethin’ hid there.”

“Let’s see, let’s see!”

After a bit of scrabbling around with his fingers, Sparrow eventually pulled out a slim package wrapped in waterproof cloth. He laid it gently on the ground and unfolded it to reveal a sealed envelope.

“It’s a letter,” he said excitedly. “A secret message!”

“Now then, lads!” Sarge greeted Wiggins and Beaver as they arrived at his lodge. “Back from patrol, are you?”

“Yes, Sarge. We’ve come to report.”

“Right. Fall in, then!”

“Fall in what?” asked Beaver, puzzled.

“No, no! Not
in
anything. Get fell in!”

“He means line up,” Wiggins explained, “like being on parade. It’s what they says in the army.”

“No talkin’ in the ranks!” Sarge barked. “Stand to attention, there!”

“Sarge,” Wiggins interrupted, “we’re on a secret mission. We don’t want nobody seeing us report to Mr Murray.”

“That’s right,” added Beaver in a low voice. “It’s very hush-hush.”

“Ah. Yes. I was forgettin’ that. Fall out. You’d better sneak through the Bazaar and go to him.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“And try to make sure nobody sees you.”

“Nobody sees you doing what?” asked a familiar voice behind them. Dr Watson was standing in the doorway of the lodge, regarding them curiously.

“Doctor!” exclaimed Wiggins, wondering how much he had heard. “What you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question. I was passing by and thought I’d call in to see my old comrade Sergeant Scroggs.”

“Well, fancy that,” said Wiggins. “That’s just what we’re doing!”

“We’ve come to report— Ow!” Beaver stopped with a yelp as Wiggins kicked his ankle.

“Report?” Dr Watson asked.

“Report for duty,” Wiggins said quickly. “To see if there’s any jobs need doing around the Bazaar. Anything we can help Sarge with.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said the doctor.

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Sarge. “They’re good lads. Don’t know what I’d do without ’em.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes often says that.” Dr Watson smiled at the two Boys. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to persuade Madame Dupont to change her mind and withdraw her complaint?”

“No, sir,” Wiggins replied. “Not yet.”

“But we’re workin’ on it,” said Beaver. “Now we know Sarge wasn’t seein’ things, and that he wasn’t drunk.”

“You may
know
it, but can you prove it?”

“We can, sir,” Wiggins told him. “And we will. But we’re sworn to secrecy.”

“Are you indeed?” Dr Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, sir. Matter of national security,” Sarge explained.

“Matter of life and death,” Beaver added dramatically.

“Well, I’m dashed. Ghosts and state secrets and matters of life and death…” Dr Watson stared at them doubtfully. “Are you quite sure about all this?”

Before Wiggins could say any more, there was the sound of running footsteps and Rosie and Sparrow arrived, hot and out of breath.

“Wiggins!” Sparrow gasped. “We found a message – a secret message!”

“Sir Charlie’s henchman left it under the bridge,” Rosie panted. “For Moriarty!”

“Moriarty!” Dr Watson exclaimed. “What is that evil genius involved in now?”

“Dunno, Doctor,” Wiggins shrugged, trying to put him off. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“But it’s true!” Rosie insisted, oblivious to Wiggins’s warning look. “Ain’t that right, Sparrow?”

“As I live and breathe,” said Sparrow. “And here’s the message, to prove it.”

He pulled the waterproof package from his pocket and held it out to Wiggins, who snatched it from him and tried to tuck it out of sight as quickly as possible.

“I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on,” Dr Watson said, looking worried. “It sounds as though it could be very dangerous.”

“But, we promised…” Beaver began.

“Whatever your secret is, you can trust me to keep it. I give you my word.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Sarge. “You can tell him.”

“I may even be able to help you,” the doctor added.

And so, with Beaver chipping in a few extra details, Wiggins quickly explained the situation to Dr Watson, who listened very carefully, then blew out his cheeks with a low whistle.

“My word,” he said. “If this is true…”

“Course it’s true!” Wiggins protested.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to doubt you, my dear Wiggins.”

“Good. You’d best come and meet Mr Murray and let him tell you hisself. We gotta give him this letter anyway.”

With Sarge keeping watch, Wiggins led the other three Boys and Dr Watson through the Bazaar to Mrs Pettigrew’s boarded-up shop. He gave three short knocks on the door followed by another two, the signal they had agreed with Mr Murray, who let them in and closed the door quickly behind them.

“I thought you promised not to tell anybody,” Mr Murray admonished when he saw the doctor.

“This ain’t just anybody,” Wiggins replied. “This is Dr Watson. He works with Mr Holmes.”

Murray’s face cleared. “Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “Then you are welcome, Doctor. I presume the Boys have told you about my situation?”

“They have. It is a great pity Holmes is not here. He would have relished a case like yours. I shall do my best to contact him, but when he is working under cover he is almost impossible to locate.”

“That is as it should be,” said Murray. “In the meantime, it seems the Baker Street Boys have something to report.” He turned to Rosie and Sparrow, who were bouncing up and down with impatience. “Yes?”

“Yes!” Rosie cried. “We found a secret message!”

“What Sir Charles’s henchman hid!” Sparrow added. “Show him, Wiggins.”

Wiggins pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to Murray, who unwrapped the waterproof cloth and examined the envelope carefully.

“There is no name or address written on it. And it’s firmly sealed. You haven’t tried to open this?” he asked.

Rosie and Sparrow shook their heads.

“Good. We shall need a little steam. Fortunately, I was about to make myself a cup of tea, so we’re halfway there already.” He pointed to a kettle which was heating up on a small spirit stove in a corner of the shop. “As you can see, the good Sergeant Scroggs has provided me with a few home comforts. Now, while we are waiting for the water to boil, tell me how you found this letter.”

Rosie and Sparrow recounted all that had happened, and how they had seen Fredericks chalking a mark on the bridge and then discovered the hiding place.

“Well done!” said Murray. “That’s what is known as a dead-letter drop. A hiding place where a secret agent can leave or pick up messages without risking being seen meeting the other person. The chalk mark would be a sign that there is a message waiting to be collected.”

“That’s devilish clever, and no mistake!” exclaimed Dr Watson. Then he turned to Rosie and Sparrow, puzzled. “But how could you know it was for Moriarty?”

“Because the sign that Fredericks chalked on the bridge was a letter ‘M’,” said Rosie.

“‘M’ for Moriarty!” cried Wiggins. “Of course! Well done.”

“Who or what is Moriarty?” asked Murray.

“Professor Moriarty is an evil genius,” replied Dr Watson. “Holmes calls him the Napoleon of crime. He regards him as his most fearsome opponent.”

“You have encountered him before?” Murray asked Wiggins.

“We’ve crossed swords with him a few times.”

“And won?”

“Yeah. But he’s a slippery customer. Always gets somebody else to do his dirty work so you can’t pin nothing on him.”

“Perhaps this time it will be different,” said Murray. “Now, let’s see what Sir Charles has got to say to him.”

Steam was now puffing out of the boiling kettle. Murray held the letter over the spout and moved it to and fro.

“What you doin’?” Beaver asked.

“The steam will melt the glue on the envelope, and then we can peel it open without cutting the paper,” explained Murray. “D’you see?”

“Be careful you don’t scald yourself,” Dr Watson warned. “Steam can be dangerous stuff. Hotter than boiling water, you know.”

Murray picked up a knife and slid the blade under the flap of the envelope, working it gently along until he could peel it open. There was a note inside: a single sheet of paper folded once. He unfolded it and read aloud what was written on it:
“Spaniards Sat 3.”

“Spaniards?” asked Wiggins. “I thought it was Russkis we was after.”

“So did I,” said Murray, frowning deeply. “This is confusing. Three
what
sat
where
?”

“It might be a code,” suggested Beaver. “You know, when words mean somethin’ different.”

“Very possible,” Murray agreed. “In which case we’re lost without the key or a code book. Unless it’s something else. There could be secret writing, perhaps…”

He held the sheet of paper up to the light and looked at it very closely. “No,” he sighed. “Not even a watermark.”

Next, he held it over the spirit stove. “Let’s try a little gentle heat,” he murmured, taking care not to scorch the paper. “No, nothing. If he
has
used a secret ink, it is not one that reacts to heat. I need to examine the surface more closely, to see if there are any tiny scratches from a pen. If only I had a lens…”

“This any help?” asked Wiggins, digging into the inside pocket of his coat and producing his magnifying glass.