The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Ranjipur Ruby (5 page)

Madame Dupont cut him short. “Never mind all that,” she said. “Did you say the Raja of Ranjipur’s dead? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” said Wiggins. “In Scotland.”

“Drownded,” Queenie added. “While he was fishin’.”

“What did he want to go and drown his self for?” Madame Dupont demanded peevishly. “Very thoughtless, that is. Ruined my best tableau. How can I show him presenting the ruby to the Queen if he’s dead?”

“I don’t suppose he could help it,” said Beaver.

“It was the curse,” said Queenie.

“The curse of the Ranjipur Ruby strikes again,” Wiggins declared in his deepest voice.

Madame Dupont stared at him for a moment, as if he were mad. Then suddenly her face cleared and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“That’s it!” she shouted. “Brilliant! I could kiss you, lad!”

Wiggins backed away nervously, wondering what on earth he had done to deserve such an awful threat.

“The public’ll pay good money to see a ruby that’s got a curse on it!” She rubbed her hands together in delight. “I’ll talk to the newspapers – they’ll love a story like that. Never mind about them leaflets. I’ll have some new ones printed.
Come back tomorrow and we’ll have ’em on the streets while the news is fresh.”

She dismissed the Boys and they trooped out of the gallery, heading for HQ and supper. With two shillings and sixpence in Queenie’s pocket, they would be able to afford a hot baked potato each from old Ant’s barrow, and still have money to spare for stale loaves from the baker’s and leftover bits from the grocer’s.

As they trailed back through the Bazaar, they were cheered up by the thought that they would not have to go to bed hungry. In high spirits, Gertie climbed up on one of the carriages parked along the side wall.

“Your carriage awaits,” she joked. “Climb aboard, and I’ll drive you all back home in style!”

The others started laughing, until Rosie suddenly pointed to the door of the next carriage. With a look of shock on her face, she cried out, “Look! Look there!”

Painted on the door was a familiar monogram. A curly letter “M”.

“Oh, my oath,” breathed Wiggins. “Moriarty!”

The Boys sat up late in HQ, talking about Moriarty. Could he have been involved in the attack on Ravi? Or even the death of Ravi’s father? Was it only by chance that he was around the Bazaar now? Or was he plotting something – like stealing the ruby? After all, how could London’s master criminal resist the temptation of such a rich prize?

Having no answers to these questions, the Boys agreed that there was only one thing to do: they must ask Mr Holmes. In any case, the great detective would want to know that his hated enemy was on the prowl again. And so next morning, while the streets were still wreathed in early mist and fog, they made their way to Number 221b and tugged at the brass bell pull. As usual, Billy opened the shiny black front door. And as usual, he tried to look down his snub nose at them.

“Oh, it’s you lot,” he grunted.

“Wotcher, Billy, me old mate,” Wiggins replied cheerfully, knowing that this familiar greeting always offended the pageboy. “Kindly inform Mr Holmes that his Irregulars have got something of importance to report to him.”

“Can’t,” Billy replied smugly. “He ain’t here. Good day.”

He tried to close the door on them, but Wiggins was too quick for him, and managed to jam his foot in the opening.

“In that case, we’ll see Dr Watson. If he ain’t gone with him.”

“No,” said Billy reluctantly. “He ain’t. Er, hasn’t.”

“Jolly good,” Wiggins grinned, putting on a posh voice. “Be a good chap and show us up, will you, old bean?”

Billy glowered at the Boys on the doorstep.

“Just you and you,” he said, pointing at Wiggins and Beaver. “Mrs Hudson wouldn’t want the rest of you trampling her stair carpet.”

Dr Watson was still wearing his dressing gown and slippers and finishing his breakfast when the two Boys were shown in. He greeted them with his usual warm kindness.

“I’m afraid Mr Holmes isn’t here,” he apologized. “He’s been called away suddenly to investigate a mysterious death in Scotland.”

Wiggins and Beaver looked at each other apprehensively.

“That wouldn’t be the Raja of Ranjipur, would it?” Wiggins asked.

“Good heavens, how do you know that?” asked Dr Watson, greatly surprised.

“Well, that’s sort of why we’re here. That and the Thugs and Professor Moriarty.”

“Moriarty! How on earth is he involved?”

“Well,” said Wiggins, “it’s like this…” And he proceeded to tell the doctor all that had happened. Dr Watson listened with great interest. When Wiggins had finished, he scratched his head and sat thinking hard.

“I wish Mr Holmes were here,” he said. “I’m sure he’d be able to make something of it, but I’m blessed if I can.”

“Was you ever in India?” Wiggins asked.

“Indeed I was. I have a couple of bullet scars to remind me of it. I served as an army surgeon in the Afghan war.”

“And d’you know anything ’bout the Thugs?”

“I’ve heard of them, of course. Who hasn’t? But all that was over and done with years ago.”

He got up, crossed to the other side of the room, selected a large book from the shelves on
the wall and began thumbing through it.

“Ah, yes, here we are,” he said, and began reading aloud. “The Thugs were a well-organized secret society of professional assassins who travelled in various disguises throughout India. They were suppressed by the government in 1840 thanks to the efforts of a British official, William Sleeman … hmm, hmm … strangled their victim by throwing a handkerchief or noose around his neck … plundered then buried him … all done according to ancient religious rituals including the sacrifice of sugar to their goddess, Kali…”

Wiggins dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the blue paper bag. “Look what I found in the alleyway!” he said.

Dr Watson took the bag, opened it and nodded solemnly.

“Sugar! If these fellows aren’t Thugs,” he said, “they’re giving a jolly good imitation. I’d say your friend Ravi is in grave danger.”

T
HE
B
IGGEST
B
ADMASH IN
L
ONDON

Inspector Lestrade regarded the paper bag with great suspicion. He sniffed at its contents, then licked one forefinger, dipped it into the bag and dabbed it carefully on his tongue.

“Sugar,” he pronounced.

“Exac’ly,” Wiggins agreed.

“Common-or-garden sugar,” the inspector went on, leaning back in his office chair. “Nothing illegal in a bag of sugar. I’ve got several in my pantry at home.”

“But yours ain’t a sacrifice to the goddess Kali, is it?”

“No, it’s to sweeten my tea, and put on my porridge and in Mrs Lestrade’s puddings and pastries. That’s what sugar’s for.”

“Not if you’re a Thug and you’re gonna
murder somebody in the name of Kali,” Wiggins said.

Beaver and Queenie, who had accompanied Wiggins and Dr Watson to Scotland Yard, nodded vigorously. Inspector Lestrade looked puzzled.

“We’ve got plenty of thugs in London,” he said. “I lock some of them up every day. But they don’t go around with bags of sugar in their pockets – not unless they’ve stolen them.”

“These ain’t that sort of thug,” Queenie said. “These are Indian Thugs.”

“What is she on about?” Lestrade asked, irritated.

“Thugs in India are, or were, ritual murderers. They were followers of a secret cult called Thuggee,” Dr Watson explained. “That’s where our word for a ruffian comes from.”

“Does it, indeed? And you’re trying to tell me they’re starting up over here?”

“Not exac’ly, no,” said Wiggins.

“So what ‘exactly’
are
you trying to tell me?”

“That somebody’s trying to murder Ravi, and steal the Ranjipur Ruby.”

“Who is?”

“Professor Moriarty.”

Lestrade let out a long sigh.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Not him again. How do you know?”

“We saw his carriage, in the Baker Street Bazaar,” said Beaver.

“And?” Lestrade looked at him expectantly. “What was the phantom professor doing this time?”

“Er … nothin’.”

“He wasn’t there,” Queenie said.

Lestrade sighed again. “He never is.”

“No, but his carriage was,” said Wiggins.

“Nothing illegal about parking a carriage in the Bazaar,” Lestrade said wearily.

“But he’s up to something,” Wiggins said. “He’s gotta be. I know he is.”

Lestrade got to his feet.

“You don’t know, lad. You only think you do. Haven’t you learned anything from Mr Holmes? Now get off out of here and stop wasting my time.”

“I say, steady on, Inspector,” Dr Watson intervened. “The Boys are only doing their
duty as good citizens and reporting suspicious circumstances.”

“Thank you, Doctor. But I’m a very busy man with lots of crimes to investigate. And all they’ve brought me is a bag of sugar, an empty carriage going nowhere, and some tale about an Indian lad being set upon in the street by two roughs – who were probably trying to rob him but got away with nothing, so no harm done.”

“Well, if you put it like that, Inspector…”

“I do. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do. Good day to you.”

The Boys were upset that Inspector Lestrade would not take them seriously. As they left Scotland Yard, Wiggins kicked the door frame in a temper.

“Why won’t he listen to us?” he demanded.

“He thinks we’re makin’ it all up!” said Queenie. “Ain’t that right, Doctor?”

“Perhaps he does,” Dr Watson replied. “After all, we didn’t present him with any real evidence, did we?”

“
You
don’t think that, do you, Doctor?” Wiggins asked.

“No, no, of course not,” the doctor replied quickly. But he didn’t sound very convinced.

“Tell you what,” Wiggins said. “Why don’t you come with us and we’ll show you Moriarty’s carriage?”

The doctor hailed a cab and they all piled in for the journey back to Baker Street. As it stopped outside the Bazaar, Sarge hurried to open the door. He stepped back in amazement as Wiggins climbed out, followed by Queenie and Beaver.

“What’s all this, then? Come into money, have you?” he asked, then raised his hand in a salute as Dr Watson emerged. “Oh, beg pardon, sir. I didn’t see they was with you.”

Dr Watson nodded, then looked harder at the commissionaire. Sarge stared back at him, a smile of recognition spreading across his face.

“Captain Watson?” Sarge asked. “Is it really you, sir?”

“Well, I never,” said the doctor. “Sergeant Scroggs!”

“
Captain
Watson?” said Queenie.

“Do you know each other?” asked Wiggins.

“I should say we do,” said the doctor. “This brave fellow saved my life when I got my first wound on the Khyber.”

“And the captain saved mine when I was hit. Even if he did have to cut me arm off to do it.”

“Yes, sorry about that,” said the doctor. “But there was no other way. Good to see you again, Sergeant. How are you keeping?”

“Well enough, thank you, sir. May I ask what you’re doing with these young scamps?”

“Dr Watson’s a friend of Mr Sherlock Holmes,” said Wiggins.

“He helps him and all,” added Queenie.

“Just like we does,” Beaver said. “We’ve just come from Scotland Yard.”

Sarge looked suitably impressed.

“Have you now?” he asked. “And what brings you back here?”

“We got something to show the doctor. This way, guv’nor.”

Wiggins led the way through the Bazaar to the parked carriages.

“Just over here… Oh!”

Moriarty’s carriage was no longer there. Where it had stood the night before there was now a smart coach, painted a shiny dark red. The Boys stared at it in dismay.

“It was right there! Honest,” said Wiggins.

“Yeah, right there,” Beaver confirmed.

They described the black carriage to Sarge. But he didn’t know anything about it, and couldn’t say how it had got out of the Bazaar since last night.

“Don’t see how it could have left without me seeing it,” he said. “That’s if it was here at all.”

“It was, it was!” Beaver protested.

“We all seen it last night,” Wiggins said, shocked that their friend could doubt them.

“In the dark, was it?” Sarge asked.

“It was getting dark, yeah,” Wiggins answered. “But not so dark that we couldn’t see the letter ‘M’ painted on the door.”

“That’s M for Moriarty,” Queenie explained.

But Sarge knew nothing about Moriarty, which was not surprising – the master criminal always did everything in the deepest secrecy. In
any case, Sarge explained, he hardly ever saw the owners of the carriages, only the coachmen who drove them.

“We seem to have drawn a blank,” Dr Watson told the Boys. “I fear there is nothing more we can do for the moment, so I must leave you. I have patients to visit.”

“Why won’t nobody believe us?” Beaver complained when they were back in HQ and telling the others what had happened. The four younger Boys had stayed behind while Wiggins, Queenie and Beaver had gone to Scotland Yard with Dr Watson.

“If you’d took me with you, I’d’ve made old Lestrade and the doctor believe us,” Shiner grumbled. He was cross at missing out on a ride in a cab and a visit to Scotland Yard.