Mischief in 'The Mousetrap'

By Duncan Watt

The Wallace Boys leave Africa and go to the United Kingdom. They immediately fall into an adventure in London, giving Scotland Yard a helping hand along the way! This story is set in the West End Theatreland of London and South Cornwall.

A leading actor in Agatha Christie’s world-famous, long-running play – The Mousetrap – helps ‘lost’ youngsters on the streets of London. But is he all that he appears to be? The Wallace Boys assist a young boy in finding out what happened to his elder brother who has disappeared under very mysterious circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Watt
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465801708

Duncan Watt

I was born in Africa where I grew up; but I have lived in countries like England, America, Papua New Guinea and Japan. I have now lived in Singapore for 35 years.When I was teaching in Zambia I wrote a couple of books in simplified English for my students and these were published by Oxford University Press. Since living in Singapore, where I have, among other things, appeared on the TV News for nearly twenty years, I have written 20 books in my Wallace Boys Series - 11 of which were published here in Singapore.Please visit The Wallace Boys Web Site to find out more about the books, and there is more about me too.

Book preview

Mischief in The Mousetrap

An Adventure of the

(Scotland Yard gets a helping hand!)

by

Duncan Watt

_

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Duncan Watt

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Maps by Duncan Watt

_

I would like to dedicate this book to my very good friend, Hanafi, who so patiently came to London and Cornwall, helping me with my research and taking photographs to accompany this book!

Thank you!

Table of Contents

Maps

1. A Stab in the Dark

2. On the Prowl

3. Timothy’s Tale

4. To London

5. Timothy’s First Day on the Streets

6. Timothy, Private Eye

7. The Perfect Host

8. Sightseeing Interrupted

9. Tyrone Blake is Put Under the Microscope

10. Back to the Theatre

11. Down to Cornwall

12. Clandestine Ops

13. Nigel is on His Own

14. What Happened to Bruce

15. The Secrets of Mousehole Grange

16. Boxed Up with No Room to Swing a Cat

17. A Cat among the Pigeons

18. The Colonel is Unmasked

Maps

Greater London

The West End

Theatreland - Charing Cross Road

Road Atlas of Land's End

1

A Stab in the Dark

I knew who the murderer was all the time. I could have told you it was…

Shh. Don’t say anything. Not a word. Someone could be listening. And don’t forget, we’ve been told not to tell anyone. It’s a secret and it’s got to be kept. No one is to know who he is. The speaker looked round anxiously to see if he had been overheard. "Or she is, he added in a slightly louder voice. I hope I haven’t given anything away."

I don’t think so. Nobody is close enough to hear us. You’re quite safe. But you’re right. We mustn’t talk too loudly. The secret mustn’t get out, must never get out. Lowering his voice to a whisper that couldn’t be heard above the noise of the traffic on the rain-slicked road and the hurly-burly of pedestrians, he continued, I knew it had to be the Colonel. He did it. He was just so obvious. I knew all along.

You liar. Earlier you said it was the wife. She was definitely guilty, you said.

Just throwing you off the scent.

And what was that you whispered to me when everything went black and there were those screams? You said something about a double bluff - ‘a remarkably clever double bluff’, if I remember your exact words. Then you said that a trick had been pulled and no one would ever fall for an obvious cliché. You said it was the butler that did it. ‘You bet your life on it’, were your words. ‘It was the butler wot done it! You mark me words.’ You can’t deny it, and by the way, your accent was terrible!

But that was very early on. You have to admit that.

All right, but all the time you kept whispering things in my ear; first this person was guilty and then that person.

I wouldn’t make a very good detective, would I? The speaker gave a broad grin. This was Bruce, Bruce Wallace, a boy in his late teens, stocky and well built with wavy, fair hair. He was very different from his brother who was striding out beside him down the busy road. Nigel was a year older, taller with dark hair. It was difficult to tell that they were actually brothers, they seemed so different. Their only common feature was their intensely blue eyes.

Gee, it’s cold. I’m glad I brought this raincoat, and this is supposed to be summer, you know. Bruce hugged his coat round him as he dodged along the crowded pavement.

That’s England for you, Nigel replied, but we don’t have far to go. We are going in the right direction, aren’t we? Yes, there’s the Coliseum Theatre - we passed that earlier, I remember, and that must be St Martin’s in the Fields. Yes, you can see the spire. Trafalgar Square is down there. I can see Nelson’s Column. We just need to cross the Strand and then down Villiers Street and that’s where our hotel is. Let’s hurry. I’m getting cold too.

From this is must be obvious that the two Wallace brothers were in the heart of London, and it must also be obvious that they were not completely sure of their environment. And this wasn’t really surprising, for it was only early that morning that they had landed at London’s Heathrow Airport on their first visit to England. The previous night had been spent flying from the Central African country of Zimbabwe where the two boys had grown up, and were attending the university in the capital, Harare. They had taken a year off from their studies for a very special reason. Their Uncle William, soon to retire from the Governorship of the lonely South Atlantic Island of St Helena[1], had bought a ten-metre yacht which was now lying at a berth in a lonely loch in the far North-West of Scotland. The boys had jumped at the chance to refurbish the craft, the Silver Spray, and then sail it out to the Pacific where their uncle hoped to spend his days of his well-earned retirement gathering coconuts and beachcombing, after a full life of public service.

Nigel and Bruce were now in London for a couple of weeks before heading off to Scotland. At this moment, they were walking down St Martin’s Lane in the West End, the area of London that includes perhaps the greatest collection of theatres in the world in so small an area. Within a radius of a one-kilometre circle of where the boys were now walking, you could probably count some twenty theatres. And that is where the boys had been that evening and what had given rise to their discussion about murder earlier.

They had decided on their first night in London - arguably the world’s most exciting city - to see something of a legend, a show that has created theatrical history, perhaps the most famous play in the world, a play that has run for more than fifty years. Starting back in the year 1952, a detective drama, a whodunit by the greatest of all crime writers, Agatha Christie, opened in London’s West End and has never closed. Of course, this is The Mousetrap, and to keep people guessing about whodunit, one the cast comes forward at the curtain call, requesting the patrons not to divulge the ‘secret’. And so we now know why the two brothers were keeping their voices low; for - who knows? - the next person you bump into could be going to a performance, and it would spoil their theatrical treat if they knew whodunit![2]

It’s getting colder. Can you believe it?

That’s England for you, Nigel repeated. We’ll just have to put up with it. And it’s starting to rain again and more heavily.

The boys were now passing the Coliseum, London’s home of opera, where the elegantly dressed theatre crowd were leaving the theatre. Cabs were being hailed but as is customary in London on a miserable wet night, none was in sight! Nigel and Bruce pushed through the throng in their formal evening dress, the rich and well heeled.

Hey, Nigel, we don’t have to go all the way down to Trafalgar Square. We can duck along this street and it comes out in the Strand opposite Villiers Street.

You sure?

"Of course I am. Trust me. I’ve studied the A to Z[3]. I know exactly where I’m going. Come on. Follow me. This way."

Having his doubts, Nigel followed. At least they had got out of the way of the crowds and there were only a few cars. They were going in more or less the right direction, he knew! Both boys were now jogging along, their raincoats streaming with water.

We should invest in a couple of umbrellas, if it carries on like this. Bruce shivered as he led the way. And this is summer, you know.

So you said. Hey, what’s the matter? Why’ve you stopped? Nigel narrowly avoided ploughing into his brother.

Shh. Bruce had his finger to his lip. Listen. Can you hear anything?

No, nothing apart from the traffic noises, the rain and my breathing and your teeth chattering. Come on, Bruce, let’s move it.

No. Shh. Keep quiet a sec. There. You heard it?

Yes. It sounded like a groan. Nigel looked round, but nothing was in sight. But I can’t see anything. Come on. It’s nothing.

There it is again.

This time it was slightly louder. It was like a cry of someone in pain, but someone who is trying to stifle his cries.

It’s coming from down these steps behind this iron railing. There’s someone down there.

Probably another drunk, said Nigel. Nothing to do with us. Don’t let’s get involved. They’re all over the place.

That was something the boys had discovered earlier that evening before going to the theatre. In nearly every doorway huddled the miserable flotsam of humanity as in any great city, ragged individuals, some holding bottles hidden in brown paper bags, asking for spare change. And by this time of night, many were hiding themselves away, tucked up for sleep with newspapers or housed in cardboard boxes, now rapidly dissolving into pulpy messes as the rain beat in at the doorways.

I suppose so, Bruce agreed. There are so many. What good…

Area steps

What do you think you’re doing? Nigel asked as his brother broke off and crossed to the railing that housed a half open gate leading to some iron stairs. They spiralled down into a gap between the building and the pavement, known as ‘the area’. Built in the time when all homes employed servants, the area steps led into a semi-basement which housed the kitchen and some of the servants’ quarters. This meant that the ‘lower orders’ could gain entry to the house without having to use the main entrance, something which, in those days, ‘was just not done’. So all over London one finds these area steps and this, though the boys didn’t at that moment know the term for such an architectural feature, was what Bruce began descending - the area steps.

Area steps

Cautiously, for who knows how a drunk or someone on drugs might react to being disturbed, Bruce spiralled down, slowly and silently. Nigel remained by the gate. As Bruce descended, the muffled groans continued and the boy paused, not so much because he feared what he might find but he needed to place a handkerchief to his nose.

It stinks down here and no mistake, he whispered to his brother. He could feel the bile rising in his gorge and he thought he was going to be sick, as his chest heaved.

Probably a convenient lavatory. Is there really someone down there? Whoever it is must have something badly wrong with his sense of smell.

I don’t know. I can’t see properly, but the sound is coming from under the steps and I can see some cardboard boxes.

Come on, Bruce. You’ll wake the old guy up just as he’s dropping off to sleep and he won’t be at all pleased. Let’s go.

But Bruce wasn’t listening. He was at the bottom of the area steps which was ankle-deep in litter that squelched unpleasantly underfoot. He dropped to a crouch and reached out to touch the person’s shoulder.

Speaking quietly so as not to alarm the individual, Bruce said, I heard you. I’m sorry to disturb you but can I help you in some way?

As he touched the shoulder it moved away roughly. The sudden movement must have caused a spasm of pain and the area was filled with a loud groan that was cut off as if the person clamped his jaws shut, pulling his face down into his chest.

When the spasm had eased, the figure relaxed slightly.

Can I help you? Bruce asked again. What’s the matter with you? Again Bruce reached out to touch the shoulder. With a sudden cry and a shudder of horror he jerked back.

What’s the matter, Bruce? What’s happening down there?

In the half-light from a street lamp Bruce examined his fingers. They were smeared in a dark fluid that was sticky to the touch.

This guy’s injured, Bruce called. He’s bleeding.

I’m coming down.

There’s not much room and watch out for the steps. They’re wet and slippery. There may be blood on them. Careful. Gently, Bruce began to ease the body over. As his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, he could see that the figure was wearing a tee-shirt and jeans. The face was covered in a mass of long tangled hair. Stay still. We’ll see if we can help you. Where’s this blood coming from? Where are you injured? Was it a car accident?

Reluctantly, a hand moved a few centimetres from where it clutched the waist just above the belt. As it did so, Bruce saw the blood well up, glistening blackly.

Here. Let me hold my handkerchief against it. Quickly Bruce folded the cloth into a tight pad which he pressed firmly against the wound. Try and hold this. Keep it tight. That’s the way. I’ll send my brother to find a policeman and he’ll call for an ambulance. You need to be in hospital.

No, not the police, came a low voice, almost a whisper but there was no mistaking the urgency.

But we must.

Please. Don’t call the police. I’ll be all right when the bleeding stops.

By this time Nigel too was squatting under the spiral steps.

Is it bad? he asked.

Difficult to tell. There seems to be blood all over the place, but he’s only wounded in his side, I think. Is that right? Only in your side?

There was a nod of the head.

What was it? A knife? Bruce queried.

Again a nod.

That means we must get the police, said Nigel.

No! This time it was almost a shout and both boys realized for the first time that they weren’t dealing with an adult; the cracked tone of the voice was that of someone who was quite young.

Who are you? Bruce leant forward to brush the matted hair from off the individual’s face. What he saw gave him a start. Under the dirt, grime and smeared blood was the frightened face of a boy in his mid-teens. "Gee, you’re only a kid - you cow’rin, tim’rous beastie[4], he whispered, a look of compassion for the boy crossing his face How old are you? What’s your name?"

Name’s Bert, came the rough reply, sounding more like ‘Burr’, with the final tee lost somewhere down the speaker’s throat. It’s Bert ’Iggins.

You come from London? You’re a Cockney? Although Nigel had only just arrived in London, he easily recognized the accent - the swallowed tee and the missing aitch.

Yer.

Well, can we take you home? Get you into a taxi and your mum can fix you up. We’ll come with you if you like.

Got no ’ome. Live in the streets, see.

Well, at least let us try and fix you up. But first let’s get you out of this hole.

It sure smells a bit, don’t it? That’s why I come down here, in’t it? I knew the geezer wot done this to me wouldn’t bovver to look for me ’ere. It’s too smelly for the likes of ’im.

Nigel looked across at his brother as if to say he hadn’t completely understood what Bert had said, but had got the gist, but Bruce, who had seen plenty of episodes of the TV serial Eastenders[5], didn’t seem to be having too many problems.

If it were me, agreed Bruce, I wouldn’t bother, either. You certainly picked a spot. Come on. Let’s get you out of here. Keep holding onto the hankie, keep it really tight. Let’s get you up the stairs. How old are you Bert?

Sixteen.

Bruce was surprised. You look younger.

Always look young for me age.

Together, Bruce and Nigel awkwardly guided the youngster up the stairs. It was clear he was favouring his wound, bent slightly to one side, not putting too much strain on it and not making any sudden movements. But every now and then the boys felt the body shiver with the cold.

Nearly there. Gee, you’re frozen, and you’re only wearing a tee-shirt. It’s soaking. Here, put my raincoat on. With the boy propping himself up against the railings, Bruce slid out of his coat and draped it over the other’s shoulders.

Nigel held the coat open. Not like that. Put it on properly. Put your arms through the sleeves.

But it’ll get blood all over it, Bert objected.

That’s all right, Nigel grinned. It’s not mine. It’s Bruce’s.

Easily washed, said Bruce. Now, what are we going to do? Nigel, have you got any ideas?

You say you live on the streets. Where’s that?

Up there. Not far away, near Charing Cross Road - you know, where ’Arry Potter ’as to go when ’e goes shopping for ’is school kit and ’is wizard gear. Though I’ve never found ’is exact street! Anyway, I ’ave a doorway nobody else wants near Charing Cross Road.

Does the guy who did this to you know where you stay, where you doss down? Bruce asked.

Yer.

Well, that settles it. You can’t go back there and, apart from the wound, we’ve got to get you warm; and are you hungry.

Too right I am. ’Aven’t eaten today.

Well, you’re coming back with us.

What’ll your old folks say?

We don’t live in London. We don’t come from England.

I fort your accent was funny.

Well, we fink your accent is funny too, Bruce retorted with an attempt at Cockney.

Wotcha mean? I speak proper. You don’t come from Australia - you don’t ’ave that whine in your nose. You sound sort of clipped. Is it South Africa?

Close enough - Zimbabwe, Bruce answered. He looked at Bert speculatively, surprised he could tell the difference between a South African from an Australian accent.

This is getting off the point, Nigel interrupted. You seem to have a plan, Bruce. What is it?

Let’s take him back to our hotel. We can smuggle him past reception. Sorry to say this Bert, but you’re not quite the usual clientele of the hotel we’re staying in. The good thing is that the hotel is not far away, about a couple of hundred metres, and if Nigel keeps reception busy, we can get you up the stairs - there’s no lift. It’s in the brochure. It says, ‘Regretfully, the hotel has no elevator and may prove unsuitable for persons with mobility difficulties.’ Let’s hope your lack of mobility doesn’t worry you, because we’re on the top floor. It’s the Royal Adelphi Hotel.

Yer, I know it. Nice little job; always fort I’d like to stay there. The one in Villiers Street, just next to Charing Cross Station? Right?

That’s it.

I can walk that distance all right and I’ll manage the stairs some’ow. It don’t seem so painful now that I’m standing. But I’ll need a bit of support.

Bruce looked up and down the street. It was completely deserted, but the traffic on the Strand rumbled past. There was no sign of anyone who might be Bert’s attacker. As they walked, both Bruce and Nigel peered into darkened doorways on the lookout, ready for trouble. The rain was now coming down fast and furious, and Bruce could feel the cold seeping through him. He wondered how Bert managed with just a thin tee-shirt. He gave a shiver. Nearly there, he said. Pretend you’ve had a bit too much to drink, but keep your head down.

Bert threw himself into the part and the three of them gained the Strand, waited for a moment at the lights of the pedestrian crossing and walked down Villiers Street to their hotel on the left. Nigel went in first, climbing the creaking carpeted stairs to the reception desk on the