The Case of the Racehorse Ringer (6 page)

“You’ve done really well,” she praised him. “I think you might be a natural.”

Sparrow thanked her, glowing with pride. He had become so engrossed in the lesson that he had quite forgotten why he was there. He was brought back to earth with a bump, however, when they arrived back at the main house. Standing outside was a familiar black carriage. The coachman hopped down to open the door as its owner came out of the house with Major Lee.

Maisie stopped, and Sparrow saw that she had gone pale.

“What’s up?” he asked her.

“That man,” she whispered.

“D’you know who he is?”

“No. But I don’t like him. And neither does my father.”

“What’s he doin’ with him, then?”

Maisie gave a sigh. “I wish I knew. I’m sure it’s something bad, but Pa won’t talk about it.”

Sparrow said nothing. He would have loved to tell her who Moriarty was and to warn her against him. But that would have meant admitting why he was there and what he was doing. He tried to hide behind Maisie and Patch as the arch-criminal descended the steps from the house and climbed into his carriage. Moriarty was so clever that he might well have recognized Sparrow as being one of the Baker Street Boys, and that would never do.

“What are you doing?” Maisie asked him.

“I don’t like the look of him either,” Sparrow said quickly. “He’s creepy.”

“Yes, he is. Come on, let’s put this saddle away and get Patch back in the paddock.”

As the carriage started up and turned to go, Fred came out of one of the loose boxes. Sparrow was surprised to see him touch his cap at Moriarty. Was he simply being polite? Sparrow didn’t think that very likely – so far, the head lad had not struck him as a very polite person. Or did he know Moriarty? What did it mean? Sparrow didn’t know, but it was something else to report to Wiggins. He was sure to know what it meant.

Sparrow’s bottom was so sore from his long afternoon of riding that he had to eat his tea standing up. The other lads laughed at this, but it was in good fun – they all remembered how they had felt when they started riding. When they had eaten, their last job of the day was to collect the horses from the paddock and shut them in for the night. Fred told Sparrow to fetch Blackie while he led in Silver Star. It was not hard. Both horses were well behaved and knew the routine – they went into their own stalls without being told and settled down quietly.

Fred inspected each horse carefully, looking it over and running his hands over its flanks and legs.

“Got to be sure they ain’t done theirselves no damage durin’ the day,” he explained to Sparrow. “We’re sendin’ ’em both out on Thursday.”

“Where to?” asked Sparrow.

“The races, of course. They’re both runnin’ in the Prince’s Cup at Ally Pally. That’s one of the biggest races in the calendar.”

“Ally Pally?”

“Short for Alexandra Palace. It’s near Muswell Hill in north London. So for once we ain’t got far to travel.”

“Will you be goin’ with ’em?”

“Course I will,” said Fred, and Sparrow could hear the pride in his voice. “I’m ridin’ Blackie.”

“You mean in the race?” exclaimed Sparrow. “Like a real jockey?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’ll be a jockey full time soon. When I’ve done a few more rides and had a few wins.”

“Must be great to ride a winner,” Sparrow said, trying to imagine what it would be like.

“Best feelin’ in the whole wide world,” Fred replied, his eyes shining. “When you come into the final straight and everybody’s goin’ flat out and the crowd’s shoutin’ and cheerin’… Magic!”

“How many winners have you rode so far?”

Fred looked uncomfortable.

“I’ve only just started,” he said. “I’m still learnin’.”

Sparrow nodded sympathetically. “P’raps you’ll win on Thursday,” he said brightly.

Fred stared at him warily and did not answer at once. Then he gave a little cough, as though he had something in his throat.

“What, on Blackie?” he said at last. “No chance.”

“Why ain’t you ridin’ Star, then?”

“Star’s a top horse,” Fred explained. “So he gets a top jockey. Willie Carforth, last year’s champion.”

“Cor. He’s bound to win, then. Eh?”

“Yeah. Bound to.”

“I bet you wish you was ridin’ Silver Star.”

“One of these days I will,” the head lad replied with a small smile. “
I’m
gonna be champion jockey. Just you wait and see.”

It had been a long, hard day and Sparrow was worn out. He ached all over and it wasn’t just his bottom and legs that hurt. His hands were sore too, from using the big fork to muck out and pushing the heavy barrow. As soon as he reached the hayloft dormitory he collapsed onto his bed, and before he knew it he was fast asleep.

He did not sleep for long, though. After a few minutes he was woken by a loud voice in his ear.

“Oi, Birdie! Tweet tweet! Wakey, wakey!” Fred shouted. “Ain’t time for you to go to sleep.”

“Go ’way!” Sparrow groaned. He opened one eye. Fred was leaning over him, shaking him by the shoulders. The other lads were all gathered round his bed, looking down at him and grinning.

“You’re a new lad,” Fred went on. “And when we gets a new lad, he has to be initiated.”

“Eh? Inishywot?”

“You got to do somethin’. It’s like a forfeit. Maybe you could take a dip in the water trough in the yard.”

The other lads laughed and made shivering noises. Sparrow was suddenly wide awake.

“Or eat a plate of horse manure – Cookie said you got a good appetite…”

The lads burst into raucous laughter.

“Tell you what,” said Fred, “why don’t you do a turn, eh?”

“A turn?”

“Yeah, you know – a dance or somethin’. Make us laugh. Or how about singin’ a song? A little birdie should be good at that.”

Sparrow brightened up. That was something he
could
do.

“OK,” he said, trying to look reluctant. “I’ll sing you a song.”

There was a disappointed groan from the other lads.

“Right,” said Fred. “Up on the table! And if we don’t like it, you can still eat horse muck.”

The table was cleared in an instant, and the lads watched expectantly as Sparrow climbed onto it. He took a deep breath, then started one of his favourites from the music hall:

He paused for effect, then launched into the chorus, complete with actions.

The lads stared at him in amazement and burst into laughter as he started a little comic dance along the table. Sparrow went on to sing half a dozen more verses, each one funnier than the last, and got the others to join in the choruses after he had called out “All together now!”. When he finished, they cheered and clapped and yelled for more.

“Where d’you learn to do that?” Ginger asked.

“I was a call boy in the Imperial Music Hall for a bit,” said Sparrow. “I got to see all the stars. Learnt their acts, watchin’ ’em every night.”

Fred was the only one who hadn’t laughed during Sparrow’s song and dance. “Why ain’t you still there?” he asked sourly.

“I, er, fell out with Mr Trump, the manager,” Sparrow said.

“Kicked you out, did he?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“What for?” asked Fred, his eyes narrowing. “Thievin’?”

“No! Nothin’ like that,” Sparrow cried indignantly.

“I bet I know,” said Jim. “I bet you was too cheeky. Ain’t that right?”

Sparrow shrugged. “Might be.”

“Well, make sure you don’t give Harry Hogg no cheek,” Jim told him. “He’ll have you out on your ear in no time.”

“Won’t stand for it at all,” Alfie agreed.

The other lads nodded seriously.

“Never mind all that,” said Ginger. “Have you got any more songs?”

“Yeah! More! More!” they all cried.

“What shall I do? I know… You’ll like this one.”

Sparrow jumped down from the table, opened his cupboard and grabbed the paintbrush that he remembered seeing earlier. The lads helped him back onto the table, and he began.

“This is a little number called ‘Slap Dab’,” he announced. “Are you ready? Right, here we go, then…”

And with that he proceeded to sing a song about a man whitewashing his garden fence, all the time doing a comic dance with the brush, singing faster and faster until the words tumbled into each other and he quite ran out of breath.

The lads enjoyed this even more than the first one, and they all clapped and cheered and whistled. All except Fred, who just stood there looking furious. He snatched the brush from Sparrow’s hand and thrust it under his nose.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“Out of Tommie’s cupboard. Why?”

“What d’you think you’re playin’ at?”

“I ain’t playin’ at nothin’,” Sparrow protested, taken aback. “Just singin’ a song.”

Fred stared at him for a long time, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. “I got my eye on you,” he snapped at last. “And don’t you forget it.”

It had grown dark in the woods. Wiggins and Gertie sat waiting on the steps of the caravan, hoping that Sparrow would come soon, but there was no sign of him. Wiggins began to worry. After all, a lad had been murdered in these very woods only a few days before. He knew he had sent Sparrow into danger, but the Boys were Gertie’s father’s only hope – if they could not prove he was innocent, he would be hanged.

As the shadows grew longer, the wood became more and more spooky. The ancient trees, with their weird twisted shapes, seemed threatening. Some seemed to have gruesome faces, others arms that could reach out and grab you, and it was easy to imagine that they were moving. There was a loud clatter, followed by an eerie wailing, like a ghost, and Wiggins almost jumped out of his skin. He was not used to the countryside, and the night-time sounds were strange to him.

“What was that?” he asked Gertie, trying not to let his nerves show.

“Sure and it was only an old owl,” Gertie reassured him. “They hunt at night, y’know. A lot of creatures do.”

“And so do a lot of criminals,” Wiggins retorted.

“I dare say Sparrow can’t get away. He’ll come when he can.”

“Yeah, course he will. He’s a good lad.”

They sat in silence for another minute or two, then Wiggins got to his feet.

“I don’t like it, Gertie,” he said. “I’m going to look for him.”

Gertie stood up. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I don’t fancy stoppin’ here on my lonesome.”

They closed the caravan door and set off together along the winding path through the trees. By now the moon was coming out, so they could just about see where they were going. But it cast another set of shadows, pitch-black holes in which anything could be hiding. Wiggins and Gertie were both glad when they came to the edge of the woods.

“Careful now,” said Wiggins. “We don’t want to be seen.”

Looking down the hill, they could see the stables below. There was a light shining in one of the bedrooms in the house, but the rest of the buildings were all dark.

“Looks like everybody’s asleep,” said Gertie.

“Yeah – including Sparrow.”

In fact, Sparrow was not asleep. He was so weary after his long, hard day that it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he knew that if he let them close he would go straight to sleep, and he would not be able to report to Wiggins. At last, when he was sure the other lads were all asleep, he slipped quietly out of bed and arranged his pillow under the blanket so that it looked as though he was still sleeping. Then he pulled his breeches on over his shirt and tiptoed across the room. To his relief, no one stirred.

Sparrow crept down the stairs into the barn and out into the yard. He was stopped by a deep warning growl. He froze. If the dog started barking it would surely wake everybody.

“Quiet, Satan,” he whispered urgently. “Good boy. It’s me. Sparrow. Remember me?”

The dark shape of the dog emerged from its kennel and crossed the yard towards him, still growling. Sparrow realized with a start that it was not chained up. It must be let loose in the yard at night, free to attack any intruders. With no chain to hold it back, it would reach him quite easily before he could get to the gate. Sparrow thought of those huge teeth and his own teeth chattered with fear.

“Good boy, Satan,” he repeated. “Friend. Good boy.” He held out his hand, palm down, as Maisie had shown him earlier. The dog sniffed at it, wagged its tail briefly, then sat down, its eyes fixed on him.