The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Ranjipur Ruby (2 page)

Queenie shuddered at the idea, but Madame Dupont nodded shrewdly.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said, looking hard at Wiggins. “You’re a bright lad, ain’t you. I s’pose that’s why Mr Holmes employs you.”

“That’s right.” Wiggins grinned at her. “He knows a good thing when he sees it.”

“And so do I,” she continued, “which is why I’m going to employ you too. Come along now. No time to stand there gawping. There’s work to be done.”

She clapped her hands then marched briskly through the inner doors, waving at the three Boys to follow her. They did so, cautiously, fearful of fresh shocks, and found themselves in a very large room with a high ceiling and marble pillars. Gas-lit alcoves lined the walls. In each of them was a group of waxwork figures, dressed in exotic costumes from various parts of the Empire.

Two fierce Zulu warriors wearing leopard skins and brandishing spears and shields stood alongside a South African settler holding a nugget of gold in one hand and a sparkling diamond in the other. In the next alcove, a bearded Sikh in a silk turban held up another big diamond.
Further along, two South Sea Islanders displayed a heap of pearls in a large flat shell, and other figures in colourful garments showed more precious stones: blue sapphires from Ceylon, green emeralds from Africa, milky opals from Australia, and so on.

The three Boys stared around them in amazement. Then Queenie let out a little cry and pointed to the other end of the gallery.

“Look!” she said. “Her Majesty!”

And indeed, there was Queen Victoria herself – or rather a wax model of her, wearing a black lace dress with a bright blue sash over one shoulder and a tiny crown on her head. There was something a bit odd about the eyes – one was almost crossed – and the cheeks were just a bit too red, but it was certainly the Queen.

Standing before her, bowing from the waist, was an Indian prince, splendidly dressed in a long embroidered coat, tight silk trousers and gold slippers with curly pointed toes. On his head was an elaborate turban with a jewel at the front from which sprouted a spray of peacock feathers. Beside him knelt an Indian boy, also
wearing silks and satins and a turban. The boy was holding up a velvet cushion on which rested an enormous red jewel, which the prince was obviously presenting to the Queen.

“Cor,” said Queenie, gazing at the scene. “Ain’t that lovely?”

“Thank you, dearie,” Madame Dupont said. “I am proud of my latest tableau.”

“Low what?” Beaver asked.

“Tableau,” Queenie explained. “That’s like a picture, ain’t it?”

“Quite right, dear,” Madame Dupont told her. “A picture that tells a story without words.”

“And what story is this one telling?” Wiggins asked.

“Why, it’s the Ranjipur Ruby, of course.”

“What’s the Ranjipur Ruby?”

“That is,” Madame Dupont said, pointing at the jewel. “I thought you was a bright lad.”

“He is,” Beaver piped up loyally. “Everybody knows that.”

“And you ain’t heard of the Ranjipur Ruby? It’s the most beautiful ruby ever known. It comes from India, and the Raja of Ranjipur is going
to present it to the Queen next week, as a loyal tribute.”

“Who’s the Raja of whatsit?” Beaver asked.

“He’s a sort of king,” Madame Dupont replied.

“And Ranjipur’s his kingdom?” asked Queenie.

“That’s right. It’s part of India.”

“Cor,” Beaver said, gazing in awe at the blood-red stone. “Ain’t you scared somebody might pinch it? It must be worth a fortune.”

Madame Dupont threw back her head and hooted with laughter.

“Why, bless you, dearie,” she chuckled when she had got her breath back, “it ain’t real. No more than my waxworks is real people. It’s just a bit of coloured glass.”

Beaver turned as red as the pretend ruby.

“Right,” he stammered. “But if it
was
real … if they
was
all real jewels…”

“Then I’d be as rich as Her Majesty and I wouldn’t be here with you lot!”

“Well, they look real enough, and no mistake,” said Wiggins, trying to save Beaver’s blushes.

“But whatever’s that?” asked Queenie. She pointed to a fearsome female figure standing
in the background behind the Raja. She had six arms, wild hair and a black face with three eyes – except that the third eye, which had been in the middle of the creature’s forehead, was missing.

“That,” said Madame Dupont, “is the heathen idol what the ruby was in. See the hole in the middle of her forehead?”

Queenie shuddered. Even though she knew it was only a wax model, the idol was still very scary.

“Come on,” said Madame Dupont. “That’s enough of that. This way.”

She led them to a corner and pushed on what looked like part of the panelling on a solid wall. To their surprise, it turned out to be a hidden door into a dark room filled with boxes and piles of odds and ends. Reaching inside, she pulled out a bulging canvas bag, which she handed to Beaver.

“Here,” she said, “you look the strongest. You’d better carry it.”

Beaver took the bag and looked inside. It was full of printed leaflets. Madame Dupont pulled one out to show them.

“These are the handbills advertising my new
exhibition. I want you to go along the streets and give ’em out to everybody you see. I’ll pay you sixpence apiece, all right?”

“How about a shilling each?” Wiggins asked with a grin.

“I knew you was a cheeky one, soon as I set eyes on you,” Madame Dupont grinned back at him. “You can have half a crown for the three of you. All right?”

It took Wiggins barely a second to work out that a half-crown – two shillings and sixpence – meant ten pence each. His grin broadened.

“Done.”

The bag full of leaflets was heavy even for Beaver, and after the three Boys had been handing them out in the street for half an hour or so his shoulder was starting to ache.

“This bag don’t get no lighter,” he puffed.

“How many has she put in there?” Queenie asked. “It’s gonna take us all day to get rid of ’em.”

“Why don’t you have a rest for a minute, Beav?” Wiggins said. “Then we can start again in another street.”

Beaver nodded gratefully and they turned off into a side street to find a good place to sit down. They were just settling into a sheltered doorway when they heard the sound of running feet. A moment later, a boy of about their own age raced past them. But this was no ordinary boy. This was one of Madame Dupont’s waxworks come to life, an Indian boy dressed in silk and satin like a smaller version of the Raja presenting the ruby to the Queen. He was being chased by two fierce, dark-skinned men in long grey shirts, baggy pants and untidy cotton turbans. Their eyes glittered cruelly, and their faces were twisted in evil fury. One of them had a livid scar running from his eyebrow to his chin.

Looking around frantically for a way of escape, the boy turned into an alleyway. But his pursuers spotted him, and followed. Wiggins leapt to his feet.

“There’s no way out of there!” he cried. “He’s trapped.”

“Come on, we gotta help him!” Queenie yelled.

They raced across the street and down the alley, Wiggins in the lead. Beaver, weighed
down with the heavy bag, trailed in the rear. As they entered the alley, they saw the two men advancing on the boy, who was, as Wiggins had foretold, trapped in a corner of the courtyard at the end. One of the men grabbed the boy, while the other threw a twisted scarf round his neck, ready to strangle him.

“Leave him alone!” Wiggins shouted, leaping onto the first man’s back.

The man swung round with a snarl of rage, trying to throw him off, but Queenie leapt at him too, kicking him hard on the shin. The second man turned angrily, and as he did so Beaver swung the heavy bag with all his strength, catching him on the side of the head and knocking him down. The first man was hopping with pain on one leg. When Wiggins gave him a shove he lost his balance and crashed to the ground on top of his partner. As he fell, Queenie took hold of the Indian boy’s arm.

“Come on!” she called. “Run for it!”

And run they did – as fast as their legs would carry them.

T
HE
C
URSE OF THE
R
UBY

“Where to now?” Queenie gasped as the three chums and the Indian boy dashed out of the alleyway.

Beaver had dropped his heavy bag after biffing the man with it. For a moment he considered going back for it, but he quickly decided against.

“They’ll be right after us,” he said.

“HQ!” Wiggins ordered. “We’ll be safe there.”

“Come on,” Queenie told the Indian boy, taking hold of his hand. “Stick with us.”

“We’ll look after you,” Beaver added.

Glancing back over their shoulders every few seconds to make sure the men were not behind them, they ran flat out until they reached the safety of HQ. They tumbled down the steps into the secret cellar and pushed the door shut, puffing and panting
as they tried to catch their breath.

Most of the other Boys were out, trying to earn pennies for food. Only Sparrow, the youngest and smallest of the gang, was at home as Wiggins, Beaver and Queenie burst in with the Indian boy in tow. Sparrow was standing in front of the stove, shuffling a pack of playing cards, trying to master a trick that he had seen a conjuror perform at the Imperial Music Hall, the theatre where he sometimes worked as a callboy. Startled by their sudden arrival, he lost his hold on the cards and they spilled from his hands, scattering all over the floor.

“Oooh,” he groaned. “Look what you made me do!”

“Never mind that,” Wiggins admonished him. “We got more important things to worry about.”

Sparrow stared at the Indian boy.

“Cor,” he exclaimed. “What show’s he in? Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves? Aladdin and his Magic Lamp?”

“Less of your lip,” Queenie scolded. “Can’t you see he’s Indian? And he’s had a very nasty shock, so you better be nice to him.”

“Oh. Sorry. Does he talk the lingo?”

The Indian boy was looking around the Boys’ hideaway in amazement, taking in the various bits and pieces with which it was furnished: the makeshift beds, the big table propped up with a block of wood, and Wiggins’s special armchair. Now he smiled, and spoke for the first time.

“I say,” he said, in perfect English, sounding like a lord, “what a spiffing place. Do you actually live here?”

The Boys stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Oh, forgive me,” he continued. “I haven’t thanked you chaps for rescuing me. I really am most awfully grateful.”

“That’s all right, old chap,” said Wiggins. “Who was them geezers anyway?”

“Geezers?”

“Yeah, you know, blokes. Chaps. Men.”

“Ah, geezers…” the boy rolled the word around his mouth, testing the sound of it. “Must remember that. Geezers…”

“Was they tryin’ to rob you?” Beaver asked.

“I rather think they were trying to murder me.”

Sparrow let out a whistle, and regarded him with more respect.

“Why?” asked Wiggins.

“Because of who I am, I suppose.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Ravindranatharam.”

“Crikey,” said Sparrow, “that’s a mouthful and no mistake.”

“Yes I know, it is rather. You can call me Ravi.”

“That’s better.”

“My father is the Raja of Ranjipur…”

“The ruby!” Wiggins and Queenie shouted together.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Heard of it?” Wiggins said. “We was looking at it, this very afternoon.”

Ravi looked shocked. “You mean it’s been stolen?” he asked. “Oh my goodness! Do you know who took it?”

“Nobody took it,” Wiggins told him. “No need to panic.”

“We seen a copy of it,” Beaver explained.

“In Madame Dupont’s waxworks,” Queenie
said. “Come to think of it, there was two wax people there that was likely s’posed to be you and your dad.”

“That’s right!” Wiggins said. “Presenting the ruby to Her Majesty.”

“You think that was really him?” Beaver asked, staring at Ravi with fresh interest. It was exciting to know someone who had actually had a waxwork made of them and put on public display.

Ravi looked puzzled. “But we haven’t presented it yet,” he said. “We have to wait for Queen Victoria to come back to London. I believe she’s staying in her house on the Isle of Wight at the moment.”

“That don’t matter,” Wiggins told him. Then he and Queenie explained about the waxworks exhibition, and the copies of all the precious stones that went into the crown jewels, and the places they came from.

“I say!” Ravi said when they had finished. “That sounds jolly interesting. Will you take me to see it?”

“Course we will, love,” said Queenie.

“Now? We could go now?”

“Er, hang on a minute, Ravi,” Wiggins chipped in. “Ain’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Them two blokes…”

“Ah, yes. The geezers.”

“That’s right. The geezers what was trying to murder you?”

“Yeah,” Beaver joined in. “They’re still out there.”

“And like as not,” added Queenie, “they still want to do you in.”

Ravi smiled trustingly at them. “But I have you to protect me now,” he said.