The Case of the Haunted Horrors by Anthony Read

crossed swords with him a few times.”
    “And won?”
    “Yeah. But he’s a slippery customer. Always gets somebody else to do his dirty work so you can’t pin nothing on him.”
    “Perhaps this time it will be different,” said Murray. “Now, let’s see what Sir Charles has got to say to him.”
    Steam was now puffing out of the boiling kettle. Murray held the letter over the spout and moved it to and fro.
    “What you doin’?” Beaver asked.
    “The steam will melt the glue on the envelope, and then we can peel it open without cutting the paper,” explained Murray. “D’you see?”
    “Be careful you don’t scald yourself,” Dr Watson warned. “Steam can be dangerous stuff. Hotter than boiling water, you know.”
    Murray picked up a knife and slid the blade under the flap of the envelope, working it gently along until he could peel it open. There was a note inside: a single sheet of paper folded once. He unfolded it and read aloud what was written on it:
“Spaniards Sat 3.”
    “Spaniards?” asked Wiggins. “I thought it was Russkis we was after.”
    “So did I,” said Murray, frowning deeply. “This is confusing. Three
what
sat
where
?”
    “It might be a code,” suggested Beaver. “You know, when words mean somethin’ different.”
    “Very possible,” Murray agreed. “In which case we’re lost without the key or a code book. Unless it’s something else. There could be secret writing, perhaps…”
    He held the sheet of paper up to the light and looked at it very closely. “No,” he sighed. “Not even a watermark.”
    Next, he held it over the spirit stove. “Let’s try a little gentle heat,” he murmured, taking care not to scorch the paper. “No, nothing. If he
has
used a secret ink, it is not one that reacts to heat. I need to examine the surface more closely, to see if there are any tiny scratches from a pen. If only I had a lens…”
    “This any help?” asked Wiggins, digging into the inside pocket of his coat and producing his magnifying glass.
    “Good heavens,” said Murray, impressed. “You really are a detective, aren’t you?”
    “Mr Holmes give me that,” Wiggins said proudly.
    Murray peered at the note through the powerful lens, then shook his head and handed it back to Wiggins.
    “No,” he said. “This paper can tell us nothing more. We must get it back to its hiding place before anyone discovers its absence. Now – Mrs Pettigrew must surely have had some glue here, for doing up parcels…” He rummaged around a bit, found what he was looking for in a drawer in the shop counter, and sealed the envelope again with great care. Then he wrapped it in the waterproof cloth and handed it to Sparrow.
    “There,” he said. “Now hurry and put this back
exactly
where you found it. It must look as though it has never been touched. Off you go!”
    Sparrow and Rosie opened the door a little way, looked cautiously through the crack to make sure no one was watching, then dashed back towards the park.
    “I shall leave too,” said Dr Watson, “and see if I can locate Holmes. When I do, I shall inform him of your case, and I have no doubt he will wish to take it on.”
    “Thank you, Doctor,” said Murray, holding out his hand gratefully. “But remember – not a word to anyone else.”
    Watson nodded, shook Murray’s hand, then slipped quietly out of the door and hurried away through the Bazaar.
    “Now,” said Murray, turning back to Wiggins and Beaver, “you have told me about Sir Charles, but what about Redman? Did you deliver my letter to him?”
    “We did,” Wiggins answered. “I give it to him myself.”
    “And how did he react?”
    “He looked bothered, then he went charging off to a caff in Soho.”
    “Do you know the name of this caff, er, café?”
    “Luba’s Russian Tea Room.”
    “Ha!” exclaimed Murray. “Luba’s! I know it. It is a meeting place for Russian exiles.”
    “What’s an exile?” Beaver asked.
    “A person who has been forced