The Case of the Racehorse Ringer (10 page)

“Don’t worry about Star. We’ll take good care of him,” Gertie promised as she mounted the racehorse. “Nobody’s gonna hurt him while the Baker Street Boys are on the case.”

There was no sign of life as the little procession made its way along the dark lane from the racing stables. Sparrow was dozing in the comfortable saddle on Patch’s back, just managing to stay awake. Gertie was thrilled by the power of Silver Star. She could feel his muscles rippling as he moved. Secretly she wished that the journey would never end so that she could go on riding this wonderful creature for ever.

Wiggins, however, knowing how far they had to walk, couldn’t wait for the journey to end. He was leading Patch by the reins while Slippery Sam trudged alongside him in silence. But as they passed the pub in the village near the stables, Sam suddenly turned off.

“Oi,” Wiggins called. “Where you going?”

“I left my bike here,” Sam explained. “I’m going to collect it.”

He hurried round the back of the pub and came back a minute later wheeling a bicycle.

“You never said nothing about having a bike,” Wiggins accused him.

“Didn’t I? Oh well, I got it now, so I don’t have to walk back to London after all. I might see you there. Cheerio.”

With that, Sam swung his leg over the crossbar and set off down the road, pedalling furiously as he disappeared into the distance.

“I’ll get after him,” said Gertie. “Star’ll catch him up in no time.”

Wiggins stopped her. “No,” he said. “Let him go.”

“But I need him to give my da his alibi!”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure the coppers know him very well. They’ll soon find him.”

The streets of north London were deserted as the three Boys passed through. They had been travelling all night, and dawn was breaking as they reached the top of Highgate Hill. A fat policeman, patrolling his lonely beat, stepped out into the road and held up his hand to stop them.

“Whoa!” he ordered, producing a lantern from under his cape and shining it on their faces in the dim early morning light. “Where d’you think you’re going? And where did you get those horses?”

“That one’s mine,” Gertie told him. “She belongs to me and my da.”

“Oh yes? And what about the other one? That’s a fine-looking animal for a scruffy bunch of ragamuffins to have in their possession. It looks like a proper classy racehorse to me.”

“It is,” said Wiggins. “We’re taking him to Scotland Yard.”

“Don’t try to get clever with me, my lad,” said the policeman.

“It’s true,” Sparrow piped up. “We’re goin’ to see Inspector Lestrade. D’you know him?”

“No, I don’t. Inspector Lestrade’s a very high-up detective.”

“
We
know him,” said Wiggins. “And he knows us. We’re the famous Baker Street Boys.”

“Famous who? Never heard of ’em.”

“We work for Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Wiggins added.

“A likely tale! You’d best come along with me to the station. See if we can find out who this valuable beast belongs to and where you’ve stolen him from.”

“We didn’t steal him,” insisted Sparrow. “We rescued him.”

“Well, I’m sure the owner will be pleased to get him back.”

“No! You can’t give him back to the major,” Sparrow blurted out. “He’s gonna put him down!”

“The major, eh?” the policeman said. “Now which major would that be, I wonder?”

“Sparrow!” Wiggins shouted. “Shut up!”

“Oh, Lor’!” Sparrow groaned. “Sorry.”

Wiggins looked at the policeman. He was fat and had big flat feet in his heavy boots. It only took Wiggins two seconds to decide what to do.

“Run for it!” he cried. “He’ll never catch us!”

Sparrow and Gertie kicked their heels hard into their horses’ sides. Wiggins slapped Patch on the rump. She jumped forwards and lumbered into action, with Sparrow clinging on for dear life. Gertie crouched forward over Star’s neck as he took off in an electric burst of speed, as if it was the start of a race. Wiggins ran as fast as he could behind Patch. The fat policeman ran after them for a little way but quickly gave up. He pulled out his whistle and tried to blow it, but he was too out of breath. In any case, there was no one near by to hear. He stood puffing and panting as the Boys and their horses soon disappeared out of sight.

Further down the road, Gertie slowed Silver Star to a walk and pulled into a little park, where she let the horse graze on the grass while she waited for the others. They arrived a few minutes later, with Wiggins sitting on Patch’s back behind Sparrow.

“We can rest here for a few minutes,” Wiggins said after they had all dismounted. “But then we’ll have to be on our way again. It won’t take the coppers long to work out who the major is. And they know who we are, too, so they might come looking for us around Baker Street. We’ll have to hide Star somewhere till we can get to Lestrade.”

“We can’t hide him in HQ,” said Gertie. “He’d never get down all them steps.”

“We need a stable,” said Sparrow.

“Yes,” Wiggins agreed. “But where are we gonna find…? Wait a minute… Shh!”

“What?”

“Listen!” They heard the sound of hooves echoing through the quiet street. “There ain’t many people out at this time of the morning, is there?”

“Only market folk,” Gertie said.

Wiggins slapped himself on the forehead. “And milkmen!” he cried. “Of course!”

They hurried out of the park just in time to see a pony and trap approaching at a steady trot. In the driving seat was a familiar figure wearing a peaked cap and striped apron.

“Mr Gorman!” Gertie called out. “Mr Gorman! Stop!”

The milkman pulled up and stared at them in surprise.

“Oh my goodness,” he said. “Not you lot again. And what’s that?” He stood up in his trap and peered into the park. “It looks like a racehorse.”

“It is,” said Wiggins. “It’s Silver Star.”

Mr Gorman shook his head and laughed. “Oh no it’s not,” he said. “I can see that from here. Silver Star’s famous for the white blaze on his face. That’s where he gets his name from.”

“It’s a long story…” began Wiggins.

“I can’t stop now. I’m on my way to collect the day’s milk from the farm, and I can’t keep my customers waiting.”

“We’ll tell you all about it when you get back. In the meantime, we need somewhere to keep him safe and out of sight. Can we put him in your stable? In the empty stall next to Betsy’s?”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” said the milkman reluctantly.

“Please?” Gertie pleaded.

“It’s a matter of life and death,” Sparrow added. “Honest.”

“Is it now?” Mr Gorman pushed back his cap and scratched his head while he thought it over. “Oh, all right. Just till I’ve finished my morning round.”

Queenie was cutting slices of stale bread for Beaver and Shiner in the secret cellar that was the Baker Street Boys’ HQ. Rosie was not yet back from Covent Garden flower market. Suddenly there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Wiggins, Gertie and Sparrow burst in through the door.

“T’rific,” said Wiggins. “Brekker. I’m starving. Been walking all night.”

He grabbed a piece of bread, threw himself down in his special chair and started chewing hungrily.

“Well?” demanded Queenie. “Ain’t you gonna tell us?”

“Yeah,” said Beaver. “Where you been? What you been doin’? We want to hear everythin’!”

“I learnt to ride,” said Sparrow. “I rode Patch all the way home. Didn’t fall off once.”

“Who’s Patch?” Queenie asked.

“You find the murderer?” asked Shiner.

“Not yet,” said Gertie. “But we got my da an ali-baba.”

“Alibi,” Wiggins corrected her.

“That’s right. Proves he didn’t do it.”

“And we stopped a big crime, and rescued a racehorse,” Sparrow went on.

“Blimey.” Beaver gave a low whistle. “You ain’t half been busy.”

“Yeah, and we ain’t finished yet,” Wiggins said. “We gotta talk to Inspector Lestrade and give him our evidence so he can wrap it all up.”

“Where’s your evidence?” Queenie asked.

“In Mr Gorman’s stable.”

“Eh?”

Wiggins smiled at the look on her face. “It’s a horse,” he explained.

“A famous racehorse called Silver Star,” Gertie added. “Moriarty was makin’ the trainer do a ringer with him.”

“Moriarty?” Shiner exclaimed. “Don’t tell me he’s mixed up in all this.”

“He is,” Sparrow said. “He’s lyin’ low and pullin’ the strings, like he always does. I seen him with the major, and I heard him talkin’ ’bout doin’ away with Star, to get rid of the evidence.”

“And that’d be just terrible,” Gertie said. “We had to do somethin’ to stop it.”

“So we pinched him and brought him home,” finished Sparrow.

Beaver still looked puzzled. “What’s a ringer?” he asked.

Before Sparrow could answer, the door opened and Rosie bustled in, carrying her trayful of flowers. She gave a shriek of pleasure when she saw Wiggins, Sparrow and Gertie.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re back.” She plonked her tray down. “It’s good to see you safe and sound. What’s that horse doin’ outside?”

“Horse?” Queenie dashed to the door, followed by Shiner and Beaver. Patch was standing in the courtyard, waiting patiently, nibbling at a clump of weeds.

“That ain’t no racehorse,” scoffed Shiner. “That’s a gypsy nag.”

“No it’s not,” said Gertie. “That’s Patch. And she’s mine.”

“Well, where’s your racehorse, then?”

“I told you,” Wiggins said. “Safe out of sight in Mr Gorman’s stable. We gotta go and see Dr Watson and get him to fetch the inspector.”

When Billy opened the door of 221b Baker Street, Wiggins did not wait to be announced. Instead he pushed past the startled pageboy and charged up the stairs, followed by Sparrow and Gertie. This time Dr Watson had not even started his breakfast. He was in the middle of shaving, and half of his face was covered in lather.

“What on earth…?” he began, waving his open razor in mid-air.

“Sorry, Doc,” Wiggins said. “You gotta come quick. It’s urgent.”

“Has there been an accident? Is someone ill?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. But the big race is this afternoon, so we ain’t got much time if we’re gonna save Star and Blackie.”

The doctor looked completely bewildered.

“Hold on,” he said, lowering his razor. “I don’t understand. You’ll have to explain.”

“We got evidence of a murder and a swindle and we need Inspector Lestrade to come and see it. Afore the races this afternoon.”

“Whatever your evidence is, can’t you take it to him?”

“No. It’s too big.”

“And anyway, he won’t listen to us,” Sparrow joined in. “But he’ll listen to you.”

“I see. At least I think I… What is it?”

“A horse,” said Wiggins

“Ah… What sort of horse?”

“A racehorse.”

“Oh dear. And where exactly is this racehorse?”

“Just round the corner. In the stable behind Mr Gorman’s dairy.”

“It ain’t just any old racehorse,” Gertie added. “It’s Silver Star.”

“Silver…?” The doctor sat down heavily in a chair. “Silver Star’s the most famous racehorse in the country! And you’ve got him in a milkman’s shop?”

“That’s right,” said Wiggins, enjoying the doctor’s look of astonishment. “D’you know anything about racing?”

“I enjoy a little flutter – a small bet – every now and then,” admitted the doctor. “Silver Star’s the hot favourite to win the Prince’s Cup, I believe.”

“Exac’ly. Only the horse what’s gonna run as Silver Star ain’t what he’s s’posed to be.”

Dr Watson frowned.

“Are you saying that it’s…?”

“A ringer. Yes, Doctor. They’re gonna cheat people out of thousands and thousands of pounds if we don’t stop ’em.”

“And poor Tommie found out about it,” said Gertie.

“The stable lad who was murdered?”

“Yeah. That’s why he was done away with. To stop him telling.”

“So my da had nothin’ to do with it, y’see. They set him up because he’s a tinker and we was camped in the woods.”

The doctor got to his feet. “The fiends!” he declared indignantly. “We must go to Scotland Yard at once.”

He wiped the lather from his face, threw open the door to the landing and shouted to Billy to find a cab while he finished getting dressed.

As they trundled across London in the cab, the three friends told Dr Watson all that had happened.

“You’ve done extremely well,” he told them after listening with great interest to their adventures. “I’m most impressed – and Mr Holmes will be too when he returns from Germany.”

“We’ve still got a few loose ends to tie up,” admitted Wiggins.

“Well, perhaps Inspector Lestrade will be able to help you with them. We’ll see what he has to say.”

The cab stopped outside Scotland Yard. The doctor paid the driver, then led the Boys to the entrance.

“We’ve come to see Inspector Lestrade,” he told the policeman guarding the door. “My young friends have some important information to impart to him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the policeman said. “I’m afraid it will have to wait. The inspector’s not in today.”

“Can you tell us where we might find him? It’s rather urgent.”

“I’m afraid you can’t, sir. He’s on special duty.”