The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Ranjipur Ruby (6 page)

“No you wouldn’t,” said Queenie. “You’d only have made it worse.”

“Trouble is,” Wiggins said, ignoring them, “Lestrade was right – I was forgetting what Mr Holmes taught me. We don’t
know
nothing. We only
think
we know.”

“We know what them Thugs tried to do to Ravi,” said Beaver.

“That’s right,” Queenie agreed. “We seen ’em trying to murder him.”

“No we didn’t,” Wiggins said. “We only
think
they was trying to murder him. They might have been trying to kidnap him.”

“Why would they want to do that?” Sparrow asked.

“To hold him for ransom!” Rosie cried.

“Exac’ly,” said Wiggins. “Well done, Rosie.”

“What’s ransom?” asked Gertie.

“It’s when you take somebody prisoner, and say you’ll only let him go if his people give you a lot of money,” Queenie explained.

“Or something very valuable…” said Wiggins.

“Like the Ranjipur Ruby!” Sparrow exclaimed.

“Exac’ly. If Professor Moriarty is after it, he could have sent them two Thugs to capture Ravi and hold him to ransom for it.”

The rest of the Boys gazed at Wiggins in admiration. Once again, he had proved how clever he was.

“Mind,” he cautioned them, “we don’t know
that, neither. They could still have been trying to kill him. Out of revenge.”

“What we gonna do, then?” Queenie asked.

“I dunno,” Wiggins admitted. “But I’ll think of something. First of all, we gotta warn Ravi. You young ’uns stop here. Queenie and Beav, come with me.”

“If the police don’t believe you, why should we?” Captain Nicholson asked.

He was standing with his back to the fireplace in the drawing room of Lord Holdhurst’s house, one foot resting casually on the tiger’s head. A wisp of blue smoke curled round his face from the thin cigar between his fingers. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at the three Boys, who were standing in a row facing him, like schoolchildren who had been hauled up in front of the headmaster.

“’Cos we’re tellin’ the truth,” blurted out Beaver. “Honest.”

“They’ve already saved my life once,” Ravi spoke up. “So I shall listen to what they have to say.”

He was sitting on a long sofa next to his Uncle
Sanjay, whose enormous moustache bounced up and down on either side of his chubby face as he nodded his head.

“I am being in complete agreement with Ravi,” he said.

The dewan, who was sitting slightly apart from the others, gave a scornful snort.

“As you wish,” he said. “Kindly proceed.”

Wiggins took hold of the lapels of his ragged coat, as he had sometimes seen Mr Holmes do. “Like I say, we can’t prove nothing – leastwise, not yet. But if Moriarty’s about, you’d best watch out. ’Cos you can bet he’s up to no good.”

“Who is this Moriarty?” the dewan asked. “Is he some kind of badmash?”

“I dunno. What’s a badmash?”

“A bad man,” said the captain. “What we’d call a villain, or a crook.”

“Oh yeah,” said Wiggins. “He’s the biggest badmash in London.”

“Mr Holmes calls him the Napoleon of Crime,” Beaver chipped in.

“Says he’s got a finger in everythin’ wicked in this city,” Queenie added with relish.

The dewan snorted again, even more scornfully. “Then why is he not in prison?” he demanded.

“’Cos he’s slippery as a serpent,” said Wiggins. “And twice as cunning. He ain’t a professor for nothing.”

“I take it you’ve had dealings with him before?” the captain asked.

“Once or twice, guv’nor. One time he nearly did for Mr Holmes his self, not to mention Her Majesty Queen Victoria. And would have done, if it hadn’t been for us. Only we’re not allowed to talk about that, you understand.”

“I see. It would seem that we’re lucky to have you on our side.”

“It would seem to
me
,” the dewan sneered, “that you are having a very strong imagination, young man.”

“Well, sir, if you means I can imagine what might happen if things go wrong, then p’raps I have. You need one if you’re a detective.”

The captain’s mouth twitched in a small smile under his moustache. Ravi grinned openly. The dewan scowled, his face dark as thunderclouds.

“And do you imagine that this Moriarty is a follower of Kali?” he asked derisively. “Practising the cult of Thuggee to murder Prince Ravi?”

“I wouldn’t put nothing past him,” Wiggins replied. “I hope you’ve got that ruby somewhere safe.”

“It is locked away. And only I have the key,” said the dewan. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a large key hanging on a cord around his neck. “You see? It is never leaving my person.”

“Good show,” said the captain. “Can’t say better than that, eh?”

Ravi grinned mischievously. “I’d say that having that round your neck would be jolly handy for anybody wanting to strangle you,” he teased.

The dewan was not amused. In fact, he turned so pale that Wiggins thought he was going to faint. But Ravi had not noticed. “I say,” he chuckled, “I’ve had a rather jolly thought. If this geezer Moriarty wants to steal the ruby so badly, why don’t we let him? Then he’ll bring the curse down on himself, and that’ll be him done for.”

The dewan’s face changed from pale to
purple, and he looked as though he was about to burst. The captain stepped in quickly. “Ravi!” he snapped. “That is not funny. How can you joke about the curse at a time like this?”

“Sorry, Ram Das,” Ravi apologized – although he did not look very contrite.

“Listen,” said Wiggins. “Are you certain sure the ruby’s still there? When was the last time you seen it?”

“There’s a point,” the captain said. “If this professor of crime is so dashed clever, who’s to say he hasn’t already nipped in here and taken it?”

“Exac’ly,” said Wiggins.

The dewan reluctantly agreed to show them the ruby. He led the way out of the drawing room and down a corridor to a room at the end, which proved to be a study. A leather-topped desk stood in the middle of the room, and the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, except for a space in which hung an oil painting of an imposing country mansion. The Boys could see no sign of the ruby anywhere.

To their surprise, the dewan walked over to the picture and swung it away from the wall, to
which it was fastened by hinges on one side, like a door. Behind it, set into the wall, was a steel safe. While the others watched, he took the key from round his neck, unlocked the safe and lifted out an ornate golden casket. Carefully, he placed it on the desk and lifted the lid. There was a sigh of relief from everyone. Inside the casket, resting on a bed of dark-blue velvet, was the ruby. It was as big as a small hen’s egg, and seemed to glow with a deep red fire. Everyone stared at it in wonder, as though hypnotized.

Uncle Sanjay broke the silence. “There,” he said. “The Ranjipur Ruby, all safe and sound.”

“At least for now…” said Captain Nicholson.

A P
AIR OF
W
ORN
O
UT
B
OOTS

“That ruby’s the most beautiful thing in the world,” Beaver enthused. “You should’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, we should’ve,” Shiner replied peevishly. “We young ’uns always get left out.”

“No you don’t,” Queenie said. “Only when we can’t all go.”

“Shiner’s right,” said Gertie. “It ain’t fair. You and Wiggins and Beaver get to have all the fun.”

“Tell you what,” Wiggins said, “why don’t we all go to the Bazaar and get Madame Dupont’s new leaflets? Then we can hand ’em out together.”

“That don’t sound like fun to me,” Sparrow grumbled. “Sounds more like hard work.”

“It is,” said Wiggins. “We’ll be keeping a
lookout for them two Thugs. Only nobody’ll know, because they’ll think we’re just handing out leaflets.”

“Good idea,” agreed Queenie. “If they’re really after Ravi, like as not they’ll be hangin’ about somewhere, waitin’ for a second chance.”

“Skulkin’,” said Beaver. “That’s what they’ll be doin’.”

“What they got to sulk about?” Shiner asked.

“No, not sulkin’ –
skulkin
’,” Queenie corrected him. “It’s like lurkin’, you know. Stayin’ out of sight in the shadows.”

“Well, whatever they’re doing, they’ll be keeping their eyes open for Ravi,” said Wiggins. “Waiting to do him in.”

“We can’t have that,” cried Gertie. “Come on. Let’s get goin’.”

There was no sign of Sarge as the Boys trooped past his lodge. He was busy inside and didn’t notice them.

“There you are,” Wiggins told the others. “He don’t see everything, not if he’s got something else to do.”

“So Moriarty could have slipped in and out without him knowing,” said Beaver.

“Exac’ly.”

They collected the bag of new leaflets from Madame Dupont, who was still so pleased at the publicity she would get from news of the curse that she agreed to pay them an extra half-crown. Then they headed back to the street. This time Sarge was leaning out over the half-door, putting a match to the black tobacco in his stubby clay pipe.

“Hey, where’ve you lot been?” he called. “I never seen you come in.”

“We’ve been to see Madame Dupont,” Wiggins told him. “You was inside when we passed.”

“Ah, right,” Sarge replied. “I was busy checking the keys. Just one of me many important duties.”

He took half a step back so that they could see a row of keys hanging on hooks inside his door. Each one was neatly labelled, to make sure they did not get mixed up.

“One for every shop and store in the Bazaar,” he said proudly. “In case of fire or burglary.
I’m responsible for guarding everything when they’re closed at night.”

He puffed hard at his pipe and almost disappeared behind a cloud of smoke that made the Boys cough and rub their smarting eyes as it reached them.

“You seen any sign of that carriage we was talking about?” Wiggins asked, peering through the smoke and fanning his hand across his face to clear it.

The old soldier shook his head. “Not a whisper,” he said. “But I’ll keep watching and if it shows up again I’ll let you know.”

Wiggins thanked him, and the Boys moved off down the street. When they reached the corner, Wiggins handed out bundles of leaflets to each of them and told them where to go. If they spotted anyone or anything suspicious, he said, they were to come and tell him.

It was a gloomy day with a hint of fog in the air. The sooty smell of coal smoke mingled with the stench of manure from the thousands of horses pulling the carts and carriages that packed the
main streets. The music from a hurdy-gurdy on a nearby corner was almost drowned out by the noise of wheels and iron-shod hooves on the cobbles. To Wiggins, its tinny melody sounded sad and almost tearful. He hoped this was not a bad omen for the Boys’ quest.

When he reached the corner, he saw the organ-grinder turning the hurdy-gurdy’s handle, an Italian man in a red velvet jacket and baggy pants. He looked as though he was missing the warm sun of his homeland. The man had a monkey on a lead, also wearing a little velvet jacket, and a tiny hat held on with elastic. When anyone walked past, the little creature held out a tin cup to them, to collect pennies.

Wiggins thought that both the monkey and its owner looked hungry. Knowing that he and the other Boys would eat well that night, he dropped a penny into the cup. He was rewarded with a flashing smile from the Italian and a chatter of teeth from the monkey, which made him feel better. As he walked away down the street, he heard the tune change to something more cheerful. His spirits rose, and so did his hopes.

By the time he had handed out all his leaflets, however, Wiggins had still seen no sign of the two would-be assassins. He had criss-crossed the streets, carefully inspecting every nook and cranny, investigating every doorway and alleyway, but had found nothing. And none of the people he spoke to – crossing-sweepers, window cleaners, messenger boys, cockney costermongers with their barrows piled high with fruit – had seen anything of the men either. It was as if they had simply melted into the crowds that packed London’s pavements. Even the fact that they were Indians wearing Indian clothes did not help. In this year of Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee, the city was filled with people from every part of her vast empire, many of them dressed in their national costumes. So there was nothing unusual about two Indians, nothing to make people notice and remember them.

Wearily, Wiggins trudged back to HQ. On the way he met Queenie and Rosie, also heading home. They had seen nothing either. Nor had Beaver and Sparrow, who were already back
at HQ. Sparrow said he had spotted an Indian man and had followed him because he looked suspicious.

“How suspicious?” Wiggins wanted to know.

“He kept lookin’ round, like he was scared there was somebody followin’ him.”

“And was there?”

“Only me, far as I could see.”

“What was he like?” Wiggins asked.

“Posh,” Sparrow answered. “He wasn’t dressed like an Indian. He was wearin’ a posh suit and hat, and he had a black cane with a shiny silver knob on top.”

“Don’t sound much like a Thug to me,” said Beaver.

“No,” agreed Wiggins. “Anything else special ’bout him?”