The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Stolen Sparklers (5 page)

For the rest of the day, Queenie was kept very busy by Mrs Ford, washing-up and cleaning in the kitchen and running up and down stairs fetching and carrying until she thought her legs would drop off. She took regular trays of tea to Inspector Lestrade and two detectives, who were searching the house again from top to bottom, so she was able to take note of what they were doing. They did not find anything.

Queenie was in the drawing room making up the fire and cleaning the hearth when the inspector searched it, watched by Lady Mountjoy and her brother, who both looked upset and nervous. Gerald stood by his sister, holding her hand to comfort her as Lestrade pulled books from shelves, opened drawers, peered behind pictures and curtains, tapped on walls to check for secret panels, tinkled a few notes on the grand piano to make sure nothing was resting on the strings, then lifted the lid and looked inside to make doubly sure. Finally, he stood in front of the life-sized oil painting of Lady Mountjoy, dressed in a beautiful ball gown and wearing all her jewels, including the tiara, that hung on one of the walls. He examined it and shook his head.

“I believe we can be certain, my lady, that the jewellery is not in this room,” he said. “It would be quite easy to hide a diamond ring, say, or even a small necklace – but not the tiara.”

“What could the girl have done with it?” Gerald asked.

“That, sir, is the question. And we must also ask if the theft was planned in advance.”

Lady Mountjoy looked doubtful. “I don’t believe Polly was bright enough for that,” she said.

“Then someone must have put her up to it,” said Gerald. “Told her what to do and how to do it.”

“That, sir, is a possibility. But some of these youngsters are sharper than they look, as I have discovered to my cost on several occasions.”

Queenie just managed to stop herself laughing – as she knew Wiggins and the others would do when she told them what the inspector had said. But she kept quiet and hoped that none of the grown-ups would notice she was still there, and listening, as she carried out her tasks.

“Am I correct in assuming that the jewels were normally locked in the safe in the library?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Lady Mountjoy replied. “They were.”

“And you alone had the key?”

“That is correct. I only brought them out when I was going to wear them for special occasions.”

“I see. So anyone wanting to steal them without breaking into the safe would have to do it on such an occasion?”

“Yes.”

“And plan it in advance.”

“Or they could just see them and grab them on an impulse,” Gerald said.

“And then look for a secret hiding place?” Lestrade asked. “I hardly think your maid had time for that, do you?”

At that moment, Lady Mountjoy caught sight of Queenie.

“Leave that, Queenie,” she told her, “and get back to the kitchen.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The inspector looked round.

“Queenie?” he said. “I thought your name was Victoria?”

“Yes, sir. It is. People call me Queenie, for short, like.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lady Mountjoy impatiently. “Run along, now.”

Queenie picked up the coal bucket and scampered out of the room. Lestrade’s brow creased in thought as he watched her go, then he shrugged and turned back to her ladyship.

It was getting dark by the time Wiggins returned to HQ. When he pushed open the door, he was greeted not by the appetizing aroma of one of Queenie’s stews, but the sour smell of boiled cabbage and turnips.

“Pooh!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. “What a pong.”

“Sorry, Wiggins,” Beaver apologized. “It’s all we could find.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Wiggins. “Ain’t nobody can get stuff out of the shopkeepers like our Queenie. Never mind. Better than nothing, eh?”

He looked around the room. It was remarkably neat and tidy.

“What’s been going on here, then?” he asked.

“Polly’s been cleanin’ up,” said Beaver. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I had to do something to pass the time,” Polly explained. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No, course not.”

“And it did need it.”

“We been meaning to have a clean-up for ages, ain’t we, Beav?”

“Have we?” Beaver asked, then yelped as Wiggins kicked his ankle. “Oh, yes. Yes, we have. For ages.”

“But we sort of never got round to it,” Wiggins went on. “Too busy solving crimes.”

“I might not be much of a cook,” Polly went on, “but I’m very good at housework. It’s what I’m used to.”

Wiggins found it hard to understand how anybody could actually
like
cleaning and tidying. But before he could say so, the door opened and Sparrow came in with a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

“I managed to get this from the baker’s,” he said, plonking it down on the table. “He said it’s only yesterday’s, so it ain’t too stale.”

“Good lad,” said Wiggins. “We’re gonna need it.”

Sparrow sniffed the air and pulled a face. “What’s that smell?”

“Cabbage and turnip,” Beaver told him. “And a bit of marrowbone.”

“It’s very good for you,” said Polly. “Honest.”

Sparrow was not convinced. “I might be able to get somethin’ to eat at the theatre,” he said hopefully.

“The theatre?” Polly asked, surprised. “What theatre’s that?”

“The Imperial,” he replied proudly. “I’m the call boy.”

“Gosh. Do you get to meet the actors and actresses?”

“Course I do. It’s my job to look after the artistes and see they gets on stage at the right time and everythin’.”

“Well, fancy that,” Polly said, impressed. And then, after a pause, she added, “Her ladyship used to be on the stage.”

Wiggins looked interested. “What, Lady Mountjoy? An actress?”

“That’s right. Only she wasn’t Lady Mountjoy then. She was Miss Belle Fontaine.”

“That’s posh,” Beaver commented. “Sounds French.”

“It’ll be her stage name,” said Wiggins.

“That’s right,” said Sparrow. “You gotta have a fancy name if you’re gonna be a star.”

“Her real name was probably Betsy Smith or something plain like that,” Wiggins went on.

“Mr Gerald’s other name is Huggett,” said Polly, “and he’s her brother.”

“Well,” Beaver joined in, “if he’s her brother, and his name’s Huggett, then Lady M’s real name, afore she was Lady M or Belle Fontaine, must’ve been Huggett too. That don’t sound so posh, does it?”

“Well, there you are, then,” said Wiggins. “Lady M ain’t all she seems.”

“No. She ain’t a proper lady,” Sparrow said.

“Oh yes, she is,” Polly said, defending her former employer. “She’s a lady through and through. The finest lady you ever could hope to meet.”

When he arrived at the theatre that evening, Sparrow asked Bert, the stage doorkeeper, if he knew anything about Belle Fontaine. Bert’s face took on a faraway look.

“Belle Fontaine,” he sighed. “Oh, yes, I remember her. What a beauty! The stage-door Johnnies used to line up outside after the show, hopin’ she’d just give ’em a smile.”

“What’s a stage-door Johnny?” Sparrow asked.

“Why, a young toff what hangs about the theatre trying to click with the girls.”

“Is that what happened to Miss Fontaine? Did a stage-door Johnny click with her?”

“They all tried! But she could take her pick – and she did. Hooked herself a lord, didn’t she.”

“Was that Lord Mountjoy?”

“How d’you know that, you young rascal?”

“Oh, I, er, know a girl what used to work for her.”

“What, in service, like?”

“That’s right. She was a maid.”

“She’ll have been all right, then. Belle always treated people well – her dressers and such. Never forgot where she come from.”

“Wasn’t she posh, then?”

“Posh?” Bert chuckled. “Not when I first knew her, she weren’t. She never had two ha’pennies to rub together. Her dad was a cabbie and her ma took in washing. But she soon learned how to put it on like a lady.”

“Was she good at acting, then?”

“Good? She was a bloomin’ marvel. Whatever part she was playin’, you always believed every word. It was a sad day for the stage when she married a lord and gave it up.”

Sparrow felt like a real detective. He was pleased with himself for finding all this out, and he would have gone on quizzing Bert but then he heard a voice calling his name.

“Sparrow? Where is that young rapscallion? Sparrow!”

It was Mr Trump, the manager of the theatre, who appeared at the end of the corridor, resplendent in his bulging evening suit, red-faced with indignation. He spotted Sparrow and bellowed furiously at him.

“What are you dilly-dallying there for, boy? Have you not taken cognizance of the fact that there are artistes awaiting your ministrations? They require comestibles and beverages,
toute de suite
!”

“The acts need food and drink, sharpish,” Bert translated dryly. “Better get a move on, eh?”

Queenie was quite worn out by the time Inspector Lestrade and his policemen finally gave up their search of the house and left. She hadn’t stopped working all day, and by the time Mrs Ford called her into the kitchen for supper, she was almost too tired to eat. The cook told Queenie to sit down at the big table with Violet and Mr Harper, and put a big plate of food in front of her. The food was delicious – it was one of Mrs Ford’s steak and kidney pies, with lots of meat and a rich pastry crust – and Queenie was glad to eat something she had not had to cook herself. But her eyelids kept drooping and she had to blink very hard to stay awake.

“Soon as you’ve washed these things up, you’d better get yourself off to bed,” Mrs Ford told her. “You have to be up at six in the morning. First thing, you’ve got to rake out the ashes from this range, clean it up and polish it with black lead. The brushes and dusters and stuff are all in that box under the sink. Then get the fire lit and a kettle of water on the hob so it’ll be boiling by the time I come down. I can’t start the day without my cup of tea, and neither can Mr Harper, so don’t you forget that.”

“No, Mrs Ford,” Queenie answered. “What time does Lady Mountjoy get up?”

“Never you mind about her ladyship,” Violet said sharply. “I look after her. You just try to keep out of her way.”

“Her ladyship doesn’t rise until about ten o’clock,” Mr Harper said. “So that gives you plenty of time to dust and polish the drawing room and morning room and prepare the fires and be out of the way before she comes down. Do you understand?”

Queenie didn’t really understand why she had to do everything before Lady Mountjoy got up, but she nodded and said, “Yes, Mr Harper.”

“Right, then, off you go and get some shut-eye.”

Queenie climbed wearily up the stairs to the attic. She was glad she did not have to carry a candle – there were gas lamps on the walls of every landing. They were turned down low, leaving large patches of dark shadow which made her nervous that someone might be lurking in them, but she could still see where she was going. The door to the drawing room was slightly ajar and, as she passed it, she could hear voices from inside. They belonged to Lady Mountjoy and Gerald, and they seemed to be raised as if in argument. Queenie stopped to listen, shrinking into the shadows and out of sight.

“It won’t do, Gerald,” she heard Lady Mountjoy say crossly. “It has simply got to stop.”

“I have to keep up appearances, sis,” Gerald replied in a whining tone. “How would it look if Lady Mountjoy’s brother couldn’t pay his debts?”

“You
can’t
pay your debts!” she snapped back. “You expect me to pay them for you. And I don’t have the money.”

“You could sell something.”

“You know very well I can’t do that. When Henry died he left everything in this house to Maurice, to be held in trust until he comes of age.”

“Maurice! I’m sick of hearing about Maurice. Your stepson can go to the most expensive school in England and have everything he wants, but your own brother has to suffer!”

“Suffer? You live here for free and get fed and clothed by me without having to lift a finger – you don’t exactly suffer, Gerald.”

“I will if I don’t pay what I owe.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see – if Bernie Blackstone doesn’t get his money. You’ve got to help me, sis, or I’m done for. Please. I’m begging you.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Lady Mountjoy spoke again, sounding even more vexed. “Oh, get up, Gerald. You look ridiculous on your knees like that. Get up and go to bed.”

Queenie slipped away from the door before Gerald could come out and catch her, and climbed the stairs to the top landing as quietly as she could. She was so excited and puzzled by what she had overheard that her tiredness was quite forgotten.

In the bedroom, she undressed quickly and slipped into her bed, pulling the blankets up under her chin. It was far more comfortable than her makeshift bed in HQ, and she knew that she would sleep well once she got to sleep. But for the moment her brain was racing as she thought over all that had happened during an eventful day. She would have plenty to tell Wiggins when she saw him, though she struggled to make sense of what she had seen and heard. Wiggins would be able work out what it all meant, she was sure.