The Case of the Haunted Horrors (2 page)

“Only one thing you can do, lad,” the policeman replied. “Make him as comfortable as you can and let him sleep it off. Now, if you’ll excuse me, folks, I shall return to
my
duties.” And after touching his helmet in a salute to Madame Dupont and the others, he turned away and plodded off down the street.

From round the corner came the sound of one of the little German bands that could regularly be seen and heard on London’s streets, and soon afterwards the four musicians appeared, wearing military-style uniforms and playing a jolly oom-pah tune as they marched slowly along the pavement. Their leader paused to give the policeman a smart salute and held out his collecting box as he passed them, but PC Higgins kept his hands firmly behind his back.

The Boys just about managed to lift Sarge from the floor and onto his bed. He mumbled something in his sleep about a dead man walking, but he didn’t wake up and they decided to do what the policeman had suggested and leave him where he was.

“Can’t understand it,” said Wiggins. “I know Sarge likes a glass of beer or two, but I ain’t never seen him blotto. Not even a bit tipsy.”

“P’raps somethin’ upset him,” said Sparrow.

“You mean he was like drownin’ his sorrows, ain’t that what people say?” asked Beaver.

“My da used to do that sometimes,” said Gertie, “when he was thinkin’ about my poor ma and how much he missed her.”

“P’raps Sarge was missin’ his arm,” said Sparrow. “Or his days in the army, with all his mates.”

Later in the day, when they went back, the four Boys found Sarge awake and nursing a bad headache – and they discovered that the reason he had drunk a whole bottle of spirits was something quite different from what they had thought.

“I seen a ghost,” he told them. “In the Dungeon of Horrors. It was that chap what murdered his wife and done hisself in. Madame’s latest tableau.”

The Boys stared at him, open-mouthed.

“You mean the waxwork come to life?” Beaver asked.

“No! It weren’t the waxwork – it were
him
,” Sarge groaned, holding his throbbing head. “Standin’ right next to it. Large as life and no mistake.”

“But he’s dead … ain’t he?” asked Sparrow.

“And buried,” Sarge asserted. “And if he hadn’t done hisself in, they’d have hanged him for murder anyhow.”

“So you reckon you seen his ghost?” said Wiggins, thinking hard. “What exac’ly was he doing when you spied him?”

“Doin’? He weren’t doing nothin’. Just stood there, starin’ at me, like
he
was the one what’d seen a ghost.”

“I see. Then what?”

“Then he vanished. Like in a puff of smoke.”

“Cor,” Sparrow breathed. “No wonder you wanted a drink.”

“Trouble is, when I’d had one drink I wanted another. And my jug was empty.”

“You didn’t get like that on one jug of beer, though,” said Wiggins.

“No – I always keeps a bottle of brandy in the cupboard, in case of emergencies. Like if a lady or gent was to come over all faint.”

“And this was an emergency?”

“Well, it ain’t every day a chap sees a real live ghost, is it?”

“Or even a dead one,” Sparrow joked, then quickly shut up as the others glared at him.

“Well, live or dead, he’s done for me,” Sarge moaned. “Madame Dupont says as soon as Lord Holdhurst comes back next week she’ll get him to sack me. I’ll have no job and no home.”

“She can’t do that!” Beaver protested.

“She says I must’ve been seein’ things ’cos I was drunk. But I weren’t drunk when I seen that ghost. Only afterwards. I swear!”

“We believe you, Sarge,” Wiggins told him.

“Yeah, but will His Lordship?”

“We’ll tell him,” said Sparrow. “He knows us from when we saved Ravi and the Ranjipur Ruby.”

“It’s no good. He won’t listen to you.”

“Then we’ll find somebody he
will
listen to,” said Wiggins. “Don’t you fret – just leave it to the Baker Street Boys.”

Billy opened the door of 221b Baker Street and looked down his snub nose at the four Boys standing on the step.

“Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “What d’you want?”

“Hello, Billy. That’s a fine way to welcome your old mates what saved your bacon after them Chinamen pinched Mrs Hudson’s valuable ornament,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “I see it’s back in its rightful place,” he added, pointing at the jade dragon standing on the hall table.

The pageboy turned to look at it, and nodded.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” he said grudgingly. “Mrs H was pleased about that. Now, what can I do for you? Mr Holmes ain’t here. He’s away on a case.”

“Like he always is,” chuckled Wiggins. “But it ain’t him we’re after. We want to see Dr Watson.”

“Then you’re in luck. ’Cos he’s just got back from his rounds. I’ll see if he’s at home.”

“What you talkin’ about?” said Gertie. “You just said he was.”

“What I said was, he’s in the house. Being ‘at home’ means he’s prepared to receive visitors. That’s how it’s done in polite society,” Billy sniffed.

“Never mind all that,” said Wiggins. “Just go and tell him we’re here and we gotta talk to him about something, and it can’t wait.”

Billy trotted off upstairs and returned a moment later to usher them up to the rooms Dr Watson shared with Sherlock Holmes.

“Now, then, my young friends,” the doctor greeted them. “What is it you want to see me about that’s so urgent?”

“It’s Sarge,” Wiggins blurted out.

“Sarge?” The doctor looked puzzled. “Oh, you mean Sergeant Scroggs?”

“He’s in trouble. Big trouble. And we thought, seeing as you told us how he saved your life on the Khyber, you’d want to help him.”

“Indeed I would, if it’s within my power. Tell me what this trouble is.”

“They’re gonna sack him and throw him out of his home,” Sparrow blurted out.

“All because he seen a ghost,” added Gertie.

“But if he hadn’t seen the ghost, he wouldn’t have needed a drink,” Beaver joined in, his words tumbling out helter-skelter, “and if his beer hadn’t all gone he wouldn’t have needed the brandy what he kept in case of emergencies, and if he hadn’t—”

“Wait, wait!” cried Dr Watson, holding up his hands to silence them. “You’re making my head spin. One at a time, if you please.”

“Right,” Wiggins said, taking command. “You three be quiet and leave this to me. It’s like this, Doctor. When we went round the Bazaar this morning, we see Madame Dupont and all the shopkeepers and coachmen standing outside the gates, what was locked ’cos Sarge was still asleep. Only he wasn’t just asleep, he was spark out. Sozzled.”

“Ah, he was inebriated.”

“Eh?”

“Drunk.”

“That’s right. Like you say, Doctor. Inebrified.”

“A very serious offence for a soldier, being drunk on duty.”

“Yeah, we know that. But he had good reason.”

“He’d seen a ghost, you say?”

“That’s right. In the Dungeon of Horrors last night. The ghost of the bloke what murdered his wife then topped hisself.”

The doctor nodded. “I can understand a man needing to fortify himself after an experience like that. He might well find such an apparition somewhat unnerving.”

“Exac’ly. Only Madame Dupont don’t see it like that. She reckons he must have been drunk already and that’s why he was imagining things.”

“And we know he wasn’t,” Gertie burst in, unable to contain herself any longer. “He’s not like that, is Sarge. He never gets drunk and he never tells lies.”

Dr Watson stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I quite agree – it’s not like the Sergeant Scroggs I know.”

“If he had been drunk, he’d have owned up and took his medicine,” Sparrow declared. “It’s not right. We gotta help him.”

“Very well,” said Dr Watson. “I shall see what I can do. Perhaps I could have a word with Lord Holdhurst. I believe his family owns the Bazaar.”

“We tried that already,” said Wiggins. “We went round his house, but they said he was on his estate in Scotland till next week.”

“So we got till then to sort it out,” Gertie said, brightening up.

“We better had,” said Beaver. “’Cos if we don’t, when Lord H gets back he’ll give poor old Sarge the boot.”

Dr Watson agreed to go and see Sarge and also to talk to Madame Dupont and the shopkeepers. When he spoke to his old comrade, however, Sarge was adamant that he really had seen a ghost and that he had not got drunk until afterwards. Dr Watson gave him a thorough examination but could find nothing wrong, apart from a bad hangover. Knowing Sarge to be honest and trustworthy, the doctor believed him. But although he did his best to persuade Madame Dupont and the others, they refused to budge. The businessmen (and women) of the Bazaar were determined to report Sarge to Lord Holdhurst and demand that he be sacked. They could not trust a drunken man to guard their premises, they said – especially one who claimed to see ghosts.

Gathered in HQ that evening, the Boys were depressed and downhearted. Not even the fact that Queenie had managed to find some tasty scrag-end of mutton to go into her stew could raise their spirits. The idea that their friend was about to lose both his job and his home was too much to bear.

“If only there was
somethin’
we could do to help him,” wailed Rosie.

The others nodded glumly, then after a moment’s silence Wiggins suddenly perked up. “Hang on,” he said. “P’raps there is!”

“What?” asked Beaver.

“Well,” Wiggins began, “they all say Sarge
imagined
seeing that ghost ’cos he was drunk, right?”

“Right,” said Queenie. “’Cos they don’t believe there is a ghost.”

“But what if somebody else – somebody what was stone-cold sober – was to go in there at night and see it?”

The other Boys stared at Wiggins in admiration. Then doubt crept in as light dawned.

“You don’t mean…?” Rosie began.

“Us
?” Shiner concluded. “Oh, no. Ain’t no way I’m gonna spend the night in that dungeon with no spook.”

“You don’t have to,” said Wiggins. “It wouldn’t do for all of us to go. That might scare the ghost off.”

“Yeah, I dare say it would,” said Gertie, sounding relieved.

“But there’d have to be more than one, or nobody’d believe us. So that’s me and somebody else…”

There was a pause, then Beaver bravely volunteered. “Me,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

“Good lad. Come on, let’s get round there now.”

“You wouldn’t catch me spendin’ the night in there, not for all the tea in China,” Sarge told Wiggins and Beaver as he unlocked the door to Madame Dupont’s waxwork museum. “You’re very brave lads, and I appreciate what you’re doin’.”

“We couldn’t just let ’em kick you out and do nothin’, could we,” said Beaver.

“There’s a good many as would,” replied Sarge. “Maybe I should come in with you…”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Wiggins said firmly. “If we’re gonna prove there really
is
a ghost in there, and not just in your imagination, we gotta be able to say we seen it for ourselves, without you. Right?”

“I suppose so. But you take care. I’d never forgive myself if anythin’ happened to you.”

“Don’t worry,” Wiggins told him. “It’s only an old ghost, ain’t it? Anyway, there’s two of us. We’ll look out for each other. Right, Beav?”

“Right,” said Beaver, trying to sound confident, but the word came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat noisily.

“Come on, then,” said Wiggins, pretending not to notice. He checked his trusty bull’s-eye lantern and stepped through the door. Beaver followed, sticking close to him.

Inside, Madame Dupont’s Red Indian brave stood guard, threatening them with his tomahawk. The Boys were not afraid; they had seen him too many times before. But the main hall was dim and full of shadows, and the flickering of the gas jets, which had been turned down low for the night, caused some of the waxwork figures to look as though they might be moving. This made both Boys nervous, but they pressed on boldly towards the heavy barred doors of the Dungeon, wondering what horrors it would hold.

“That door could do with a spot of oil,” observed Beaver as it creaked open.

“It’s s’posed to sound like that,” Wiggins replied.

“It made me jump.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Oh, yeah. See what you mean.”

The gas lamps here had been turned down so low that it was very dark indeed, with big patches of shadow in which nothing could be seen and anything could be lurking. The Boys had never been inside the Dungeon before, and they looked around open-mouthed as the beam of Wiggins’s lantern picked out macabre scenes from the blackness.

They gasped at the gruesome sight of an old, rotten gibbet, from which dangled the skeletal body of a dead highwayman in a metal cage, its flesh long decayed away, its bones covered with the tattered remnants of clothing, its blackened teeth bared in a ghastly grimace beneath the empty eye sockets. They trembled at an ancient Egyptian mummy, swathed in bandages, which looked as though it were about to sit up in its painted sarcophagus. They shuddered at the sight of a Tudor executioner, his face half hidden by a black mask, holding aloft the head of a queen, which he had just severed from her body with his bloodied axe.