The Mystery of the Scarlet Rose Read online

  This new adventure would take place the next morning at ten o’clock sharp at Waterloo Station. After I had finished sewing eyes on all of the dolls, by which time it was almost dawn, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

  * * *

  When I awoke a few hours later, I hardly thought of the sleep I’d lost. I returned the sack of rag dolls to the sitting room I had taken them from the night before. Then I waited until breakfast was over to tell my mother the work was already done — each of the dolls now had a pair of deep black eyes! Delighted by her amazed look, I got up and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “A promise is a promise, right?” I said. “And now I can focus on shopping for Christmas gifts. Yesterday I wasn’t able to find anything acceptable on Portobello Road! Today I’ll try again on Regent Street!” I said, imitating one of those posh girls from a good family that my mother so much wanted me to act like.

  Mr. Nelson heard what I said and was waiting for me at the door to the house with a carriage ready on the street.

  After saying goodbye to my mother, I hurried down to the street and got in the carriage. “Quick! To Waterloo Station!” I said to the coachman, not hesitating a moment.

  Mr. Nelson was sitting in front of me, watching silently, one of his sly smiles stretched across his face.

  “Well?” I asked, smiling, as the carriage left.

  “I should go to Regent Street, right?” he asked. “Shopping again, like yesterday?”

  “Are you against that, Mr. Nelson?” I asked.

  “Not at all . . . but I don’t really know what to think this time. The last time you and your friends began something like this, Miss Irene, I had to take care to be sure nothing happened to you.”

  “This time is different, Mr. Nelson . . . ” I replied.

  “Perhaps because before beginning this new ‘activity’ with your friends, you thought about keeping your mother happy?” he asked.

  “Not only that,” I stressed. “It’s different because there’s no danger of any sort in the investigations we’re undertaking.”

  “You said ‘investigations,’ Miss Irene,” he noted.

  I smiled, embarrassed. “I meant . . . activities.”

  “That’s better,” murmured Horatio Nelson, looking outside at the shop windows.

  * * *

  I said goodbye to Mr. Nelson and ran through the crowded arches of Waterloo Station. Lupin’s gaudy crimson coat helped me find my friends in the throng of travelers.

  “Hello, Irene!” my two friends greeted me in unison. Their two-voiced greeting was funny to me, and I allowed myself a brief laugh before replying.

  To hide his embarrassment, Sherlock pointed to the large board that showed the schedules and said, “If we hurry, we can catch the 10:08 train!”

  Lupin needed no repetition and sprang to a ticket counter that opened that very moment.

  Without batting an eye, he ignored the muttering of the whiskered gentleman he had nimbly beaten to the punch, purchased three tickets for Twickenham, and gave them to us hurriedly.

  “Thank you! Or should I perhaps thank that gentleman from Rotterdam?” I joked as we raced to get to our track.

  “What does it matter, in the end? What’s important is that we get where we’re going, right?” Lupin answered, with one of those smiles of his that made him look like a naughty child.

  Sherlock, though, said nothing. He simply led us toward the train that would take us to Twickenham. I realized my two friends must have reached some kind of unspoken pact: Lupin, who now had that large sum he had won gambling, paid for nearly everything without even being aware of it, and Sherlock let him do so without ever saying anything.

  I scarcely had a few moments to ponder what might be wandering through the boys’ minds before I had to concentrate on running to catch the train right away, its whistle already blowing, ready to depart.

  * * *

  We made it by a whisker. Lupin grabbed both my arms, helping me climb onto the steps of the train, and just then, I heard a puff of steam, along with the metallic clang of the wheels moving on the tracks. A few moments later, our train was leaving the station.

  It had stopped snowing for several hours, and now the rooftops of the city were all white. After at least a quarter of an hour of traveling southwest, we arrived in Twickenham, where a pale sun was trying to peek out from behind a thin layer of clouds.

  Although it had now become a suburb of London thanks to the railroad, Twickenham still had the tranquil look of a rural village stretched out on the banks of the Thames.

  Sherlock didn’t even need to consult the Furlong Street Guide. “This way!” he said, stepping in front of us on the sidewalk along a wide, paved road.

  After walking a few minutes, we found ourselves on Church Lane in an elegant area near the river. Along the sides of the road were the walls of several luxurious mansions. Bare tree branches rose over them here and there, veiled by a faint mist that rose from the Thames.

  After a few steps, we heard confused yelling, which was jarring in this ghostly scene.

  “Police again!” Lupin swore under his breath.

  A few moments later, in front of the entrance to one of the mansions, I, too, glimpsed the dark outlines in the fog of several Scotland Yard policemen, with their dark coats and distinct helmets. All three of us hid behind a coal wagon parked on the side of the street.

  “This must be the house of the victim, Peccary?” I asked.

  “I’m nearly positive that this is number four Church Lane,” replied Sherlock.

  “Perhaps there’s some news about the case!” Lupin suggested.

  “That would certainly be good luck . . . getting here right now,” I said.

  “Our luck ends here, unfortunately,” Sherlock said. “Whatever there is to discover is past the entrance, under police surveillance. And I don’t think I need to remind you how little Scotland Yard seems to appreciate the help of three children.”

  “Maybe not, but there’s nothing preventing us from at least taking a look,” Lupin observed.

  Sherlock and I agreed. Leaving our hiding place, we started walking along Church Lane again. When we passed by the mansion, we confirmed that Sherlock had been right. In front of the closed gate stood a crowd of policemen, who would thwart any attempts to get close to the house.

  Taking care to maintain the casual attitude of three everyday passersby, we turned toward the house, trying to see something. The Peccary mansion was a luxurious residence. It had a large garden surrounded by a number of manicured hedges.

  “Look at the column to the left of the gate!” Sherlock suddenly whispered. I did as he said, and only then noticed a small yellow circle drawn with chalk on the column of blackened bricks.

  Of course, it could have been an insignificant marking made by a bricklayer or some other worker. But to me, the thought that a murder had just been committed in this house gave that simple little yellow circle a disturbing air.

  As we were marching along the other side of the street, trying to go unnoticed, we heard voices shouting from the grounds of the estate. Looking at one another in agreement, we darted around the corner and crouched against the wall to see what was going on.

  I could actually see very little: two men, the younger one thin and with a neatly trimmed blond beard, and another, at least twenty years older. He had gray hair, a solid physique, and he seemed quite energetic. The two passed through the gate, engaged in what seemed like a heated discussion. The distance between us was too great for me to hear what they were talking about with such passion. But when I turned toward my friends, I saw a surprised expression on Sherlock’s face.

  “Did you see?” he asked, looking at us.

  “I only saw two fellows arguing,” I admitted.

  “Me, too!” confirmed Lupin.

  “Well, those ar
e by no means merely ‘two fellows,’” Sherlock explained. “The younger one must be the inspector in charge of the investigation while the other is Charles Frederick Field!” Sherlock spoke the name as if he expected Lupin and I would know whom he was talking about.

  Our two pairs of wide eyes let him know that was not so.

  “Field used to be the greatest detective in Scotland Yard,” he explained. “He retired about ten years ago and became a private investigator.”

  “A private investigator?” Lupin repeated.

  “In other words,” I began, “someone who investigates without a partner?”

  “Someone who investigates on behalf of whoever is ready to pay to find out the truth — if it can be found,” Sherlock said. “An interesting new profession, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m not sure it would be right for me,” Lupin said. “Anyway, the question now is: What the devil is Field doing here?”

  “One thing’s for sure. He’s not working amicably with Scotland Yard! Those two were screaming at each other like banshees,” I noted.

  At my observation, Sherlock grew silent, lost in his thoughts.

  Lupin, however, snorted. “Agreed,” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. “It’s time now to figure out something else.”

  Sherlock, realizing our friend was going back to Church Lane, grabbed his arm. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “If it’s a question of chess, secret codes, and the like, I’m not much help. But now I’m asking you to let me do what I do best,” answered Lupin, a smile on his lips.

  My two friends exchanged a long look. Sherlock released his grip on Lupin’s arm, watching him cross the street and disappear into an alley that ran alongside the Peccary mansion.

  When I saw Lupin’s head poking out in the distance, on the other side of the wall that encircled the mansion, I jumped and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm.

  “Won’t that be dangerous?” I asked.

  “The part of the wall Arsène chose to leap over is hidden by that greenhouse,” Sherlock said, pointing toward a glass and wrought iron roof that rose from the walls of the estate. “As long as he doesn’t make any noise, the police shouldn’t see him.”

  I tried to accept that cold, logical explanation, but my heart kept thumping wildly. I stood with my eyes glued to the small, distant speck that was Lupin’s head. I saw my friend vault over the wall and admired his agility, which I thought must have improved in the last few months due to more frequent training with his father, Théophraste.

  Taking off with another leap, Lupin clung to the branch of an oak tree, just like an acrobat grabs the trapeze bar. He balanced his weight nicely and jumped to the ground, disappearing from our sight past the wall.

  Our friend seemed to have vanished into the fog that shrouded the Peccary mansion. At first I thought that was a good thing — that Lupin had managed to sneak in without attracting the attention of the police. But with each passing minute, the calm surrounding the place began to give way to a more anxious atmosphere. I squeezed Sherlock’s arm while I searched in vain for a sign of Lupin.

  I was seriously beginning to think about running to the other side of the street to go look for him when I suddenly heard a voice behind us.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  I jumped up and turned around, my hand on my heart, which almost leaped out of my chest from such a fright.

  Before us stood Lupin, with a relaxed smile on his face. I shot him a nasty look.

  “I thought it would be wiser to go around the block. There really are a lot of policemen around here. Sorry I scared you,” he said.

  “I’ll forgive you if you give me some interesting news about what’s happening,” Sherlock joked.

  Lupin rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “It’s funny,” he finally said. “I haven’t come back with empty hands, but . . . I haven’t the foggiest idea what it all means.”

  Sherlock and I looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Perhaps it’s best if you tell us. Then we’ll see,” I suggested.

  Lupin nodded and started his tale. “As soon as I got in there, I realized there were many more policemen than I’d thought. Trying to get into the mansion was completely out of the question. Even the service entrance in the back was guarded. So my one choice was to follow a path behind the greenhouse, which was the only safe route. I found out it led to the stables. Did you know that Peccary had some valuable thoroughbreds?”

  “So now you’re going to tell us about horses!” I said, getting back at Lupin for scaring me a few minutes earlier.

  “No, sorry,” Lupin replied, smiling. “If I do say so myself, I know a lot about that subject. But no. I met a stable hand and told him that I’d been sent there by a friend of Peccary, because I was looking to work in the stables.”

  “Excellent, Arsène!” Sherlock said, admiring how shrewd our friend was.

  “I didn’t actually hear very much,” Lupin said. “He said I must have been given the wrong information, because they weren’t looking for anyone. And then he mentioned the tragedy that had just struck his employer. I could tell he was a gossip and that I wouldn’t have to pull the words out of his mouth. In fact, all I had to do was give him a bit of an opening, and he began talking on end —”

  “And what did he tell you?” Sherlock asked.

  “At first, nothing more than what we’d already learned from the newspaper. That Samuel Peccary, an apparently peaceful chap who minded his own business, was found in his study with a dagger in his back. But then, at a certain point, the stable hand looked around mysteriously, as if he was about to reveal the biggest secret on earth, and he whispered, ‘On his desk, right next to his head, they found a rose. A scarlet rose!’”

  That detail surprised me more than a little, and I gazed at my friend, wide-eyed.

  “I looked at the stable hand exactly that way, too, Irene,” Lupin said, frustrated. “Too bad that just as I was about to ask him to tell me more, I saw a pair of policemen appear, and I had to slip away!”

  “Maybe that fellow was nuttier than old Jarvis!” I commented.

  Lupin and I looked at each other, our eyes laughing. But when I turned back to Sherlock, I saw that his mood was completely different from ours. His eyes sparkled with a wild, shining light, as they did anytime something caught his attention. But what could have possibly struck him about what the stable hand had said?

  “A scarlet rose . . .” Sherlock repeated, mumbling.

  Without our noticing, the clouds above us had grown thicker. A freezing wind had begun to blow, bringing fresh snowfall with it. This time the flakes were fine and very dense.

  “I think I have something to tell you!” Sherlock suddenly announced, emerging from the thoughts that had absorbed him. “But I’m afraid it won’t be very pleasant in the midst of a storm . . . so follow me!” he finished, springing forward with his quick stride.

  Lupin and I looked at each other, confused. Then we followed Sherlock.

  Our friend retraced the route we had taken when we left the station until we reached an intersection. Then he stood there, looking around. “I thought I saw . . . there it is!” he exclaimed, pointing to a little old stone house at the end of the street, on the riverfront.

  I looked over that way, too. Through the white veil of snow, I saw a large black sign that was squeaking, pushed by the wind. On it, we glimpsed the outline of a black ship, under which was written in yellow paint, At the Sign of the Old Brigantine.

  Chapter 6

  AT THE SIGN OF THE OLD BRIGANTINE

  The Old Brigantine tavern was not much more than a big room filled with planks and stools, popular with fishermen and sailors. The fire burning in the large fireplace at the back of the pub and the small copper pots hanging from the walls made the tavern feel welcoming.

  We settled in at a
table near the hearth. After being outside in the cold, I enjoyed feeling the warmth on my skin.

  Sherlock ordered a pot of hot tea. The innkeeper, a big man with a graying beard, gave us a suspicious look. But when Lupin dropped a handful of shillings onto the table, it seemed to be enough to satisfy him, because we saw him smile and head into the kitchen.

  Sherlock waited until the man had served us the steaming tea. When it had steeped to a nice, dark shade, he poured it into all three of our cups and took a sip. Only then did he begin to speak. “That stable hand was in his forties at least, right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lupin confirmed. “The fellow looked fifty, more or less . . . but how did you know?”

  “Simple. He wasn’t a madman, as Irene suggested. He was just old enough to remember a few important events from the history of crime in this realm. Facts that, on the other hand, it seems you two are in the dark about,” he concluded, looking at Lupin and me mockingly.

  “Seeing that I’m not even a third the age of that man and have only lived in Great Britain for a few months, I believe my ignorance should be excused,” I retorted.

  “As for me, my knowledge of the history of crime is limited to the shining tradition of the Lupin family!” quipped Arsène.

  Sherlock laughed, appreciating the joke, and then had another sip of tea. “In any case, it won’t be too hard to remedy,” he continued. “The events in question date back about twenty years and have to do with an unusual group nicknamed the Scarlet Rose Gang. The name refers to the flower they would leave at the site of a crime as their ‘signature.’”

  “Oh. That explains the stable hand’s excitement!” said Lupin.

  “So why do you describe this gang of criminals as ‘unusual?’” I asked.

  “Great question, Irene,” Sherlock said. “I could answer by saying that the Scarlet Rose Gang pulled off many daring heists and always came away with lavish loot: gem, gold ingots, valuable works of art. But that would be a mistake. What actually distinguished their activities was the great care with which they prepared for them. On one occasion, for example, they made sure they would get away by using a forgotten, old tunnel under the Hebrew cemetery on Alderney Road. Another time they managed to steal a Moldavian countess’s priceless necklace by disguising themselves as agents from Scotland Yard. In other words, even though these gentlemen undoubtedly swung from the gallows, they are acknowledged as the first to have engaged in crime with a . . . scientific method.”