The Case of the Racehorse Ringer (12 page)

Fred screamed with rage and hurled himself at Sam. He moved quickly, but Beaver was quicker. Before Fred could reach Sam, Beaver grabbed the stable lad from behind, wrapped both arms around him and held him so tight he could barely breathe. When Fred tried to kick, Shiner grabbed his legs.

“Now what do we do?” asked Rosie.

“We lock him up,” said Wiggins. “Till after the race. Beaver, Shiner, put him in that empty loose box over there. See if you can find a bit of rope or some leather reins to tie him up with.”

“Get off me! Lemme go!” Fred squawked. “You’re gonna regret this. You—”

“’scuse me, Doctor,” said Queenie. She quickly tweaked the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and stuffed it into Fred’s mouth to shut him up. Beaver, always as strong as an ox, lifted Fred off his feet, and he and Shiner carried him across to the loose box. Just as they got him inside, Maisie came running back with the silks.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“He murdered Tommie,” Wiggins told her.

“Murdered…? Fred…?” Maisie gasped.

“That’s right. We’re locking him up till we can hand him over to the coppers.”

“But … but if he’s locked up, who’s going to ride Star?”

There was a pause, then Gertie spoke up.

“I am,” she announced. “Give me that shirt and cap. Quick!”

Sparrow looked every inch a stable lad in his breeches and flat cap as he led Star and Gertie into the parade ring. The other horses were already on their way out and Gertie was only just in time to join the line heading towards the start. The major and Hogg spotted them as they left the ring and their eyes widened in shock, but with thousands of race-goers looking on, it was too late to do anything about it. They could only watch helplessly, wondering what on earth was going on.

The official starter raised his flag and called the jockeys into line behind the tape stretched across the track. Gertie could feel Star trembling with excitement, raring to go as they took their place among the other horses. They found themselves alongside Willie Carforth on the fake Star. The champion jockey glanced at the horse, then stared at Gertie, looking surprised.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded. “Where’s Fred?”

“Er, he had a little accident,” Gertie replied, trying to make her voice sound deeper. “I had to take his place.”

“Huh!” Carforth snorted. “Well, I’ll tell you the same as I told him. This is
my
race and I don’t want no novice messing it up. So keep that carthorse out of my way. Understand?”

On the other side of the racecourse, the rest of the Boys, with Dr Watson, Maisie and Sam, crushed against the rail and looked across at the runners and riders in the line-up. Sam raised his binoculars and peered through them to get a closer view.

“Oh no.” He groaned.

“What’s up?” said Wiggins.

“Gertie’s talking to Willie Carforth. He’s bound to guess and it’ll all be over.”

“Now then,” Queenie admonished him. “Our Gertie’s not a fool. She won’t do nothin’ daft.”

“Don’t matter now,” Sparrow cried. “They’re off!”

The flag dropped, the tape shot up and the crowd roared. Star leapt forwards with a mighty bound. The race was on.

Down the back straight, Gertie found herself in the middle of the herd of horses, all bumping and jostling for position. The thunder of their hooves was so loud that it drowned out the sound of the cheering crowd. At first, all Gertie could do was hang on for dear life and pray she did not get thrown – if she fell off now she would be trampled under those pounding hooves. But she soon got used to it and started to feel in control, urging Star forwards. They were boxed in by other horses in front and alongside them, and Gertie knew that if she could not break free she would stand no chance of winning. She kicked her heels into the horse’s sides, tweaked the reins and shouted in his ear, and Star responded immediately. He began overtaking the horses ahead of him, threading through them and leaving them behind, one by one.

At the trackside, the other Boys and their friends were going wild with excitement, yelling until they were hoarse. But their excitement was nothing compared with Gertie’s. For her, this was the most thrilling moment of her entire life. They rounded the final bend and the home straight lay ahead of them. All the jockeys urged their mounts on, shouting encouragement in their ears. Some began using their whips to drive them harder. But Star needed no whip, just a light tap from Gertie’s heels. Only one horse was blocking their way to the front – Blackie – and Gertie steered Star between him and the rail. As they drew alongside, Willie Carforth glared at Gertie and raised his whip.

“I warned you…” he snarled, slashing angrily at her. “Get away!”

For one terrible moment it seemed as if he would knock her from the saddle. But then Gertie grabbed his whip, snatched it from his hand and threw it to the ground. At that moment Star saw the winning post ahead and effortlessly lengthened his stride. Suddenly he was clear of the rest and galloping smoothly for the line. No one could possibly catch him.

As Star passed the post the Boys cheered and leapt up and down, hugging each other in triumph. Even Dr Watson, usually so calm and staid, threw his hat in the air and shouted with the rest of them, while Sam was positively mad with delight. The strange tipster, who was standing near by, watched them with a secret smile. But the biggest, happiest grin, stretching from one ear to the other, was on Gertie’s face as she leant forwards, threw her arms around Star’s neck and hugged him.

The applause from the rest of the crowd was subdued: very few people had backed “Black Velvet” to win. The real Blackie finished third. Instead of cheers, he was greeted with groans by all the people who thought he was Star. It was enough to earn him a place in the winners’ enclosure, alongside the real Star, but his jockey, Willie Carforth, could only manage a scowl as he glared at Gertie, trying to work out how she and her “carthorse” had beaten him and “Star” so decisively.

As they took their places in the winners’ enclosure, the prince arrived to present the cup to Major Lee, who still looked bewildered by all that had happened. Before the presentation, however, the prince had a few words to say to the winning jockey.

“Well ridden, my boy,” he said to Gertie, waving his fat cigar in the air. “Congratulations on beating the favourite. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you in the future. I shall speak to my trainer about finding you a position. What’s your name, boy?”

“Gertie, Your Majesty.”

The prince coughed. “Gertie, you say? That’s an odd name for a lad.”

“Oh, but I’m not a lad, Your Worship. I’m a lass.”

The prince’s eyes popped and he swallowed hard. “Well, bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Whatever next? I’m not sure that’s allowed.”

“I … er … I knew nothing about this, Your Royal Highness,” the major stammered. “I understand the lad who was to ride Black Velvet met with an accident just before the race. Of course, I didn’t know…”

“But you did know that horse ain’t Blackie, didn’t you?” said Wiggins, emerging from the crowd and pointing. “
That’s
the real Blackie, there.”

The major turned a bright crimson. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spluttered. Then he saw Lestrade standing behind the prince. “Officer, I demand that you arrest this ragamuffin for slander.”

“One moment, gentlemen, if you please,” a new voice cut in. It was a familiar voice, and it carried the ring of authority. The Indian tipster had pushed his way to the front. He delved into his flowing robe and brought out a bottle and a rag. “Wiggins, my friend, you may find this useful.”

“Mr Holmes! What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you,” said the Indian, in what was undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes’s voice. “Here, take this and use it.”

“What is it?”

“Turpentine, my boy. It dissolves paint.”

“Ah, I get you,” said Wiggins with a grin. “Right.”

He pulled the cork from the bottle, poured some of its contents onto the rag and gently smoothed it on the front of Star’s nose, while Gertie stroked the horse’s neck and made soothing noises. Gradually the black paint began to wipe off, and the famous white star showed through, to gasps of astonishment all round.

“Well I never!” cried the prince. “Extraordinary! This is better than the conjuror we had at Windsor last Christmas. Inspector, do your duty. I think we all know who you need to arrest.”

“Beg y’pardon, Inspector,” said Wiggins, “but the major weren’t on his own. Mr Hogg there was in it with him. And Professor Moriarty was pulling their strings. Oh, and by the way, Inspector, we caught the murderer for you. We got him locked up in the stables. He killed Tommie the stable lad, so you can let Gertie’s dad go. He’s innocent. You said we had to prove it, so we have.”

Later that day, as had become the tradition on such occasions, Mr Holmes treated the Boys to a feast to celebrate their success in solving the case. They chose to hold it in the restaurant at Alexandra Palace, looking out over the empty racecourse. The prince had left, and so had Inspector Lestrade, but Mr Gorman and his wife were invited as special guests. So too was Maisie, though she was still shocked and upset at her father’s arrest. Slippery Sam had slipped away when he thought that the inspector might come back, so the Boys had not been able to find him to invite him, too.

Mr Holmes had changed out of his Indian disguise, though there were still traces of the dark stain he had used on his face and hands.

“Dr Watson said you was in Germany,” Wiggins told him.

“So I was. But I came back, and as I said, I have been keeping an eye on you. You have done very well. Sparrow, are you still sore after those riding lessons?”

“How did you know…?” Sparrow was puzzled. And then his face cleared. “The old knife sharpener!” he cried. “That was you!”

“A simple ruse.” Mr Holmes laughed. “But it enabled me to see what was going on in those stables. And after what you have told me now, I understand why Tommie was killed. Wiggins, perhaps you would care to explain the last piece of the puzzle.”

Wiggins stood up at the table. “Well,” he said, “the way I see it is this. Fred was going to ride Blackie in the big race anyway. He knew he had no chance of winning, but when they switched the two horses, he’d really be riding Silver Star and he’d be a cert to win the Prince’s Cup. He’d be a famous jockey right from the start. And that’s what he wanted more than anything else in the world. Only Tommie found out about the switch. He was going to tell Gertie’s dad and that would have spoilt everything. So Fred had to stop him talking – and the only way he could be sure of that was to bump him off.”

“Precisely. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Mr Holmes.

“That’s just brilliant. Brilliant!” a voice cried from the doorway of the restaurant.

“Da!” shrieked Gertie, dashing across the room and throwing herself into her father’s arms. “You’re free!”

“I am, so I am.” Patrick grinned. “And it’s all thanks to you and your friends. God bless you all! God bless the Baker Street Boys!”

Back in HQ that night, the Boys were all in their beds, sound asleep after eating their fill in the fancy restaurant. All, that is, apart from Beaver, who sat at the big table staring at a blank exercise book and sucking a pencil. Queenie was awake too. She crept across to look at the empty page facing Beaver.

“Don’t know what to call it?” she whispered.

Beaver shook his head dolefully. “I thought ‘The Big Race at Alexandra Palace’, but it’s not very catchy, is it?”

“No… I know – what do they call it again when you swap horses?”

“A ringer?”

“Yes. What about ‘The Case of the Racehorse Ringer’?” she suggested.

Beaver gave a big smile. “Thanks. That’ll do nicely.”

He licked the point of his pencil and started to write.

A
LEXANDRA
P
ALACE
, nicknamed Ally Pally, was originally built as “the people’s palace”. But when it was opened in 1873 it was named after Princess Alexandra of Denmark, who had just married the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII. Its racecourse was in use from 1868 until 1970 and was hugely popular with Londoners.

For many years Ally Pally was the home of BBC Television – in fact, its studios broadcast the world’s first public television service in 1936. It still stands in its own large park near Muswell Hill in north London. It is used for concerts and festivals and exhibitions, and now has an ice-skating rink among its many attractions.

Other Baker Street Boys adventures:

The Case of the Disappearing Detective
The Case of the Captive Clairvoyant
The Case of the Ranjipur Ruby
The Case of the Limehouse Laundry
The Case of the Stolen Sparklers
The Case of the Haunted Horrors