The Case of the Racehorse Ringer (11 page)

“Oh dear. That’s most inconvenient,” said the doctor. “Can’t you get a message to him?”

“Sorry, sir, but he’s taking care of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.”

“Would that be at Ally Pally?” Wiggins asked.

“How d’you know that?” the policeman said, surprised.

“The prince will be presentin’ the prize for the big race,” said Sparrow.

“The Prince’s Cup,” Gertie chipped in.

“That’s right,” the policeman said. “So you see, Inspector Lestrade won’t be able to talk to you. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Likely he’ll be here then.”

“Likely it’ll be too late then,” Wiggins answered gloomily. He turned to the others. “We’ve failed. Come on, we might as well get back to Baker Street.”

Wiggins threw himself down into his chair. His chin drooped onto his chest and he looked weary and depressed.

“D’you want your hat and pipe?” Queenie asked. “To help you think?”

“No use,” he replied. “There ain’t enough time for that. We’ve missed our chance.”

The other Boys were all gathered round in HQ, waiting for their captain to tell them what to do. But he was too tired to have any bright ideas.

“There ain’t no way we can get Lestrade round here afore the race,” Wiggins moaned.

“Well,” said Queenie after a moment’s silence, “strikes me there’s only one thing we can do.”

“Give up?” suggested Shiner.

“Don’t say that,” Queenie snapped at him. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that. We’re the Baker Street Boys and we never give up.”

The others nodded in agreement, but no one had any other suggestions.

“Go on then, clever clogs,” Shiner snapped back at his sister. “What we gonna do?”

“It’s obvious, ain’t it?”

“What is?”

“Like we said before – if we can’t get the inspector to come to the horse, we gotta take the horse to the inspector. Right?”

“Right!” the rest of the Boys chorused.

“We know where Lestrade is,” said Sparrow. “We just gotta get Star into Ally Pally.”

Mr Gorman steered his pony and trap into the yard behind his shop, glad to have finished his round for the day. He was uneasy about having a famous racehorse hidden in his stable. He had been happy to help the Baker Street Boys but couldn’t help worrying what the police would say when they found out. His horse, Betsy, stopped suddenly.

“Oh my word,” Mr Gorman said. “What are you lot doing here?”

All seven Baker Street Boys were waiting for him in the yard. Silver Star was looking out of the stable door, watching them with interest, wondering where he was and what on earth was going on.

“We’ve come to collect Star,” Gertie said.

“And to say thank you for havin’ him,” Queenie added politely.

“What are you going to do with him now?” Mr Gorman asked.

“We’re gonna take him to the races,” said Sparrow.

“What, at Ally Pally?”

“That’s right,” said Wiggins.

Mr Gorman shook his head and pulled a long face.

“They’ll never let you in,” he said. “They’ll take the horse off you and lock you up.”

“Not if they don’t know who he is,” said Shiner.

“Well, I suppose they’ll think he’s Black Velvet,” Mr Gorman agreed, “but that won’t make any difference. He’ll still be a stolen racehorse.”

“No he won’t,” said Wiggins. “I got a plan. But we need your help.”

“Oh no.” Mr Gorman groaned. “What is it this time?”

“We need to borrow your milk cart.”

The milkman listened, astonished, as Wiggins told him his plan. They would unhitch Betsy from the trap and put Star in her place. Wiggins and Gertie would drive the trap to the service entrance at the rear of Alexandra Palace, with Wiggins wearing Mr Gorman’s cap and apron. Wiggins would tell the gatekeeper that they were delivering milk to the restaurant, and they would be let in. Once they were safely inside, they could unhitch Star, find the inspector and reveal everything.

When Wiggins had finished, there was a long silence. The Boys waited anxiously to see what Mr Gorman would say. To their dismay, he slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I won’t let Wiggins and Gertie drive my trap to Ally Pally.”

“Oh please, Mr Gorman,” they pleaded all together. “
Please
. We’ll take good care of it, we promise. It’s the only way—”

Mr Gorman held up his hand to stop them.

“No,” he said firmly, interrupting them. “I won’t lend you my cart … I’ll drive you there myself. That way you’ll be sure to get in.”

The Boys cheered. “Oh thank you,” said Rosie, throwing her arms around him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Anyway,” Mr Gorman went on with a smile, “my cap would be far too big for Wiggins. He’d look silly in it. Now listen,” he added, serious now. “I can only take two of you at the most. There’s no room for more, and besides, I couldn’t roll up at the gate with half a dozen rapscallions on my cart. It wouldn’t look right. So what are the rest of you going to do?”

For a moment the Boys looked crestfallen. Then Queenie spoke up.

“Dr Watson!” she cried. “He’ll take us. We can go with him.”

“Good thinking, Queenie,” said Wiggins. “Gertie can go with Mr Gorman, ’cos Star knows her. And I’ll go too, ’cos it’s my plan.”

“What about me?” asked Sparrow.

“You need to be with the doctor, ’cos you know who the villains are. You can keep your eyes peeled for the major and Hoggy.”

“And Fred,” said Sparrow.

“And Moriarty,” added Beaver. “Don’t forget Moriarty.”

“Right,” said Wiggins. “All of you’d better get round to 221b straight away. We’ll see you at Ally Pally.”

“Extra milk delivery for the restaurant,” Mr Gorman told the gatekeeper. “They say they’re running short.”

“I’m not surprised,” said the gateman. “We got a good crowd here today.”

“All come to see Silver Star win the Prince’s Cup, I expect,” said Wiggins.

“You’re right, young ’un. Must be thousands and thousands of pounds bet on him.”

“Be funny if he lost,” Wiggins couldn’t resist adding cheekily.

“Ha! Funny for the bookies right enough.” The gatekeeper grinned. “They’d like that – make a fortune, they would. Go on, you’d best get going if you want to deliver your milk and see the big race. Not long now till the off.”

Mr Gorman twitched the reins and told Star to walk on, and they moved forward towards an enormous building that had to be the exhibition and entertainment centre, Alexandra Palace. The racecourse was further down the hill on the other side of the building, and when they turned the corner they could see it below them. The racetrack itself was a long loop of bright green turf with a white rail alongside it. Crowds of people lined the rail, jostling for a better view. Their excited shouts grew louder and louder, turning into cheers as a tight bunch of horses thundered past the winning post. Silver Star pricked up his ears and moved restlessly between the shafts of the milk cart, eager to be racing.

“Look!” Mr Gorman pointed to the centre of the grandstand that overlooked the finishing post. “There’s the prince, in the royal box.”

“Where?” Gertie asked. “Which one is he?”

“The fat one,” said Mr Gorman. “With the pointy beard.”

The prince stood in the centre of the crowded box surrounded by men in grey top hats and elegant women in silk dresses and large bonnets.

“And there’s Inspector Lestrade,” said Wiggins. “Can you see him?”

Lestrade was standing to one side, behind the prince.

“He’s got his best uniform on,” said Gertie. “He don’t usually wear that, does he?”

“No. Must be ’cos he’s on royal duty, protecting the prince.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to get near him,” said Mr Gorman. “He’ll be sticking close to the prince, and the prince won’t leave the royal box.”

Wiggins scratched his head, then his face lit up.

“Oh yes he will,” he said. “He’s got to.”

“When?”

“When he presents the cup to the winner.”

“True,” said Mr Gorman. “He’ll have to go down to the winners’ enclosure to do that.”

“But how we gonna get Star in there?” asked Gertie.

“Simple,” replied Wiggins with a broad grin. “He’ll go in automatic when he’s won the race.”

“But how…?”

Wiggins pointed down the slope. “There’s the others with Doctor Watson. They’re looking for us.”

“They’re headin’ for the stables area,” said Gertie.

“That’s where we gotta go too. Leave the cart here, Mr Gorman, and unharness Star. We need to saddle him up quick.”

“Right,” said the milkman. “I’ve got his saddle and reins in the trap – I had to take ’em off him to get the harness on.”

Gertie and Mr Gorman soon had Star unhitched and saddled.

“Now what do we do?” Gertie asked Wiggins.

“You get up on his back and ride him down to the stables, nice and easy. There’s horses coming and going there all the time. Nobody’ll take any notice of one more.”

“I gotta horse! I gotta horse!” The cry came from a strange-looking Indian man with a black beard and a large turban, who stepped in front of the gang of Boys and held out a folded piece of paper to Dr Watson.

“What’s he mean?” Rosie asked, puzzled. “Why does he say he’s got a horse?”

“He’s what they call a tipster,” explained the doctor. “Offering to sell inside information on the best bets.”

“Only one shilling for the best hot tip,” the man continued. “You want to know who’s going to win the 3.30? I got it! Only a bob, that’s all I’m asking, sir. One shilling.”

“No, thank you,” the doctor replied politely but firmly. He pushed past the man, who touched his turban in a salute. Queenie stared at him. There was something oddly familiar about the man, but she couldn’t quite think what it was. Seeing her looking, the man winked heavily at her and touched a finger to his lips. Then he was gone.

A few steps further on they met another tipster – and this time there was no doubt about who he was.

“This is Slippery Sam, Doctor,” said Sparrow.

“Sam Sneyd,” Sam corrected with a frown. “At your service, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” said the doctor. “I’ve heard about you from my young friends here. You’d better come with us. We may have need of you.”

“Er, I’m a bit busy right now…” Sam began, turning to run. Queenie gestured to Beaver and Shiner, who each grabbed hold of an arm. “But I’ll come and do what I can,” he stammered hastily.

As the little group entered the stables area, Maisie spotted Sparrow and hurried to meet them.

“Sparrow!” she cried. “What are you doing here? Are these your friends? The Baker Street Boys?”

“
He
’s not,” said Sparrow, pointing at Sam.

“Oh yes,” she said, “I remember Slippery Sam.” Her lips twitched as she tried to keep a straight face. “How’s your bum?” she asked him.

Sam’s face went bright red. He mumbled something about it being all right now.

“So this must be Dr Watson,” she went on. “I’m Maisie, Sparrow’s friend.”

“And Major Lee’s daughter, I believe,” the doctor replied. “I take it your father has not informed the police about Silver Star?”

“He couldn’t, could he?” said Sparrow. “Not without givin’ the game away.”

“He’s been in a foul mood since he discovered Star was missing,” said Maisie, “but there’s nothing he can do. Where is Star? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” said Sparrow. “Here he comes now, with Wiggins and Gertie.”

“Here? What’s he doing here?”

Maisie turned and saw Star approaching, led by Wiggins and with Gertie in the saddle. Her mouth fell open in surprise.

“It’s the only way we can get the inspector to see him in time,” explained Queenie.

Behind them, trainers and stable lads were getting their horses ready for the big race. Fred was helping the champion jockey, Willie Carforth, into the saddle on the disguised Blackie. The painted star and socks shone white in the sunlight, looking very realistic. Fred stepped back as Major Lee and Hogg led the horse away, heading for the parade ring.

As Blackie and the trainers left the area, Fred looked round and saw Star and the Boys. He let out a cry and came rushing across to them.

“What’s this?” he yelled. “You’ve found him! You’ve brought him back! Good lad, Birdie!” He grabbed at Maisie. “Quick, get the silks for me. I can still ride him in the race. I can win the Prince’s Cup! Go on!”

Maisie looked at Wiggins, unsure what to do. He nodded and waved her on, and she ran to collect the brightly coloured silk shirt and hat from her suitcase. Fred threw off his jacket and started to strip off his shirt.

All the time, Sam was staring at him intently. Then he let out a sudden shout. “Gotcha! It’s him! He’s the one!”

“What you talking about?” Wiggins demanded.

“It was him I saw in the woods that night!” cried Sam.

“The night Tommie was killed?” asked Gertie.

“Yes. I swear it. It was him!”

Fred swung round at Sam, his eyes blazing with fury.

“You shut your mouth,” he snarled. “Or I’ll shut it for you. Nobody’s gonna believe a lyin’ weasel like you anyway.”

“That’s quite enough,” the doctor said calmly. “We don’t need abuse like that.”