The Case of the Haunted Horrors Read Free Page B

rest easy, would he?”
    “You mean he’d want to come back from beyond the grave to set things straight, like?”
    “Exac’ly. Wouldn’t you?”
    Wiggins thought about this for a moment, then grinned. “Well,” he said, “if he comes back again tonight you can ask him.”
    Beaver wasn’t too sure that he’d want to speak to a ghost – or even that he’d dare to. So he said nothing, and the two Boys crouched down in a corner, out of sight behind the guillotine and the doomed French aristocrat. Wiggins closed the cover of his lantern and they waited, nervously, in the darkness. It was deathly quiet. Even the tiny squeak of a mouse and the skittering of its feet on the floorboards seemed to echo around the Dungeon like the noise of stampeding cattle. And when the clock in the main gallery struck the hour, it sounded to the Boys like Big Ben itself. Wiggins counted the chimes under his breath – ten, eleven … twelve.
    “Midnight,” he whispered to Beaver. “Watch out now. This is when ghosts walk.”
    Right on cue, they heard a faint noise outside. The sound of a muffled footstep. Wiggins held his breath. Beaver clenched his teeth to stop them chattering. Then came an eerie creak.
    “That’s funny,” murmured Wiggins. “I didn’t think ghosts needed to open doors. I thought they walked right through ’em.”
    He raised his head very carefully and watched as a dark shape materialized in the doorway. It moved across the Dungeon and stopped by the new tableau. There was the scrape and flare of a match being struck, and then a softer light as a lantern was lit. The Boys could now see that it was held by a tall man, who began inspecting objects in the make-believe room, starting with a leather-bound book that lay on the desk. When he half turned, Wiggins saw that his face was indeed that of the murderer in the tableau, but ghostly pale. Unable to help himself, Wiggins let out a gasp.
    The man spun round, raising his lantern higher. “Who’s there?” he called sharply.
    The two Boys stayed still as statues – or waxworks. They stopped breathing. They didn’t even blink. But it was too late. The man knew they were there.
    “Come out and show yourself, whoever you are!” he barked. “I warn you – I am armed.”
    Reluctantly, cautiously, the two Boys stood up. The man stared at them. They stared back at him. He was tall, well-built and dark-haired, and wearing a long black coat.
    “Children!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
    “’Ere, who you calling children?” Wiggins said boldly. “And come to that, what on earth are
you
doing here?”
    “You ain’t no ghost!” Beaver exclaimed.
    “Why should I be a ghost?”
    “’Cos … ’cos…” Beaver pointed a trembling finger at the waxwork figure.
    The man looked at it, puzzled. Then his face cleared. “Ah,” he said. “You thought I was…?”
    “And we weren’t the only ones,” said Wiggins. “Our friend Sarge did as well. It
was
you he seen last night, wasn’t it?”
    “Sarge? Oh, you mean the commissionaire. Yes, I’m afraid it was. I’m sorry if I gave him a fright.”
    “You did more’n that,” Wiggins said. “You cost him his job.”
    “In that case, I am truly, truly sorry.”
    Beaver stared at the man with deep hostility. “So you should be,” he said. “And where’s your gun?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You said you was armed.”
    “So I did. I was lying.”
    “Why? Don’t you know it’s wrong to tell lies?”
    The man shrugged.
    Wiggins smiled. “You was scared, wasn’t you?”
    “I confess I was. And that’s the truth.”
    “What of? It ain’t ghosts, is it?”
    “No.” He gave Wiggins a sharp look. “You’re a very astute young chap. And very bold, too. Who are you?”
    “My name is Wiggins. Arnold Wiggins. Captain of the Baker Street Boys. And Beaver here is my lieutenant.”
    “And what do they do, your Baker Street Boys?”
    “We’re special assistants to Mr Sherlock