THE BOY DETECTIVES Read online

  THE BOY DETECTIVES

  Adrian Wright

  from the notes of M E Pargeter

  Other books by M E Pargeter

  Francis and Gordon Jones: Boy Detectives

  Francis and Gordon Jones in Trouble

  Five Cases for Francis and Gordon Jones

  Francis and Gordon Jones and the Seaside Mysteries

  Francis and Gordon Jones and the Green Light Mystery

  Francis and Gordon Jones at Smuggler’s Cove

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Problem at St Mildred’s

  The Pearl of Thalia

  The Embers of Truth

  The First and the Last

  Introduction

  M E Pargeter always wrote a foreword to his Francis and Gordon Jones (‘Boy Detectives’) stories. Here is one from Francis and Gordon Jones and the Seaside Mysteries by M E Pargeter (Blackwood and Prescott, 1957)

  It may come as no surprise to my readers that even when Francis and Gordon Jones are spending the school holidays at the seaside, adventure and mystery await them there! Perhaps you, too, have experienced exciting and unexplained things when you least expect them, and then – like Francis and Gordon – you have become detectives to unravel the truth.

  Many of you will already be friends of Francis and Gordon from the earlier books I have written about them, although to some they will be new friends – and hopefully old ones, by the end of it! The boys are cousins who live in East Anglia. At sixteen, Francis is the elder. He lives with his mother and father at Red Cherry House in the village of Branlingham. Only two miles away at Strutton-by-the-Way, Francis’s fourteen year-old cousin Gordon lives with his Uncle Billy at Bundler’s Cottage. If you are ever down their way, you will probably see them riding their bicycles across the unending flatness of that ancient Iceni landscape, or searching the sky with binoculars for the arrival of migrating birds, or combing the woods for wild mushrooms … but they are never happier than when they are investigating strange goings-on!

  I sometimes wonder where the idea for Francis and Gordon came from. As a master at a preparatory school for boys I had always enjoyed telling stories to the pupils, but mostly these were stories I had read elsewhere. It was a day in spring, catkins drooping from young branches, when I took Form 4B on a nature ramble. We had been climbing steeply until we reached the summit of a hill from which we could see the whole of Gloucester. The sun beat down on us. The boys and I were weary from our walking. We unpacked our picnics there, and spread ourselves on the grass. It wasn’t long before one of the boys (tousled hair, I recall) asked me to tell them a story. For some reason not one of those I had stolen from real storytellers came into my head, and I found myself saying, ‘I am going to tell you about a boy called Francis Jones, a boy detective.’

  At that time, I had no idea that Francis would be calling on his cousin for assistance with his later cases, but soon the two boys were inseparable. Francis and Gordon are always on the look out for detective work, and I know they would encourage you to do some of your own! Observation and careful thinking are all that is required, and you never know when your skills will be needed. Let me give you an example.

  A stranger to London has attracted your interest because he speaks in a strange accent, or because the cigarette he smokes has a French smell, or because he wears a hat at an angle that no Englishman would adopt. The stranger has also been seen visiting a shabby tobacconist’s shop in Clerkenwell. Nothing odd in that, you may think. But you have never seen anyone else going into the shop, and he only visits it at twelve o’clock at night, long after the ‘Closed’ notice has been put up.

  One night, concealed in a darkened doorway, you see the stranger turn into the street towards the shop. A piece of paper falls from his raincoat pocket into the gutter. When he has slipped through the tobacconist’s door, you retrieve the piece of paper, only to find that – far from being evidence of spying or smuggling or the plans of a bank that the stranger and his colleagues are planning to rob – it is merely a list of addresses. Nevertheless, you memorise it. You are doing so, under a lamppost that is lending its light, when you feel the paper snatched from your hand. The man presses his face close to yours, and you see him for the first time. ‘I belieff,’ he says, ‘that theez belorngs to me. I need it to trace my route home.’

  An incident that means nothing at all, you may think. The poor man would never have got home without the information recorded on the piece of paper. But you would be wrong! It is only later, thinking over what you read on that piece of paper, that light breaks in.

  leave by Bus – Old Marylebone (Berners

  street), Pall Mall toFinsbury (Rail) - or Instead go straight to Draycott Avenue, and then on to see cousin Yvonne at the Midas Café, Aldgate.

  Reading it through, it begins to seem a little odd. It is certainly quite a journey, with many twists and turns! As that stranger assured you, it is an aide memoir to his journey, but taking note only of the words beginning with a capital letter and listing those letters, a message emerges.

  BOMB PM FRIDAY MCA

  Suddenly, the whole thing falls into place. That very morning you have read in the newspaper about the official opening of the new Men’s Church Association in the heart of London; to be opened by the Prime Minister himself, and on Friday, the day after tomorrow! Because of your dogged detective work, you are able to foil an international plot to assassinate the elected leader of your country.

  To tell you the truth, this in fact was one of Francis and Gordon’s adventures, although in the press their names were never mentioned in connection with it. No wonder they have gone for a relaxing time in the little seaside town of Medlington. The boys were hoping for long hot days of cycling through the nearby countryside, stopping off at churches to add more brass-rubbings to their collection, reading Sherlock Holmes stories as they sunned themselves on the dunes, and refreshing themselves in welcoming tea-rooms.

  But, as any boy detective will know (you probably know already) it cannot be long before certain words begin to suggest that their holiday will not be as restful as they imagined. Smugglers … hidden treasure … lights shining from a deserted mill … yes, Francis and Gordon Jones are at it again!

  The Problem at St Mildred’s

  Our beginning is in dark and wet weather in March 1956, somewhere in the East of England. It is a night when wind curls singing into chimneys and dogs have been recommended to stay indoors. Rex, a Labrador retriever, knows this time of year. His master, who also wears a dog collar, steps over him to put another log on the tremblingly low fire. He had been in his study at Branlingham Vicarage working on his sermon when the visitor arrived. The bicycle on which he had travelled now leans against the porch. Mindful of the delicacy of receiving an unchaperoned adolescent boy into the vicarage, the man looks out left and right before closing the door and showing his guest into the sitting room. If this were Colonel Bayliss arriving for his weekly game of chess the Reverend Challis would have wasted no time in pouring two large whiskies, but the etiquette of the youth club intrudes, and the reverend offers his glowing visitor lemonade and a slice of ginger cake.

  ‘It’s good of you to come to the house, Francis. I didn’t want to rouse the suspicions of anyone from the village by them seeing us together.’

  Francis sips at the cordial and puts down a hand to nuzzle Rex’s nose.

  ‘Do you have a case for me, sir?’ asks Francis.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ says the Reverend Challis. He stands, moves to one of the many items of oak furniture in the room and lifts a pipe to his mouth. Francis jumps up, finds a spill on the mantelpiece and stoops to light it among the embers of the fire. Mr Challis is unperturbed, for he prefers the
older, fuller figure. Only that morning he had slipped a photograph of Sydney Greenstreet between the pages of the latest Billy Bunter. Francis carries the lighted spill to the bowl of his host’s pipe.

  ‘Thank you, my boy,’ says the reverend. ‘There have been some strange things happening in the village, Francis. My suspicions have been aroused, but in my position there is precious little I can do without tittle-tattle breaking out all over.’

  ‘I see your predicament, sir,’ replies Francis. ‘It wouldn’t do at all for a man of the cloth to get involved personally in any sort of investigation.’

  ‘Quite so. It would, at least, be irreligious. Then, naturally, I thought of you. I know how you enjoy nothing more than a little detective work.’

  ‘I couldn’t do it alone, sir.’

  Mr Challis agreed unhesitatingly. He knew that Francis’s cousin Gordon would also be involved. The boys were seldom apart, although sixteen year old Francis lived with his parents at Red Cherry House and fourteen year old Gordon lived in the next village with his old uncle at Bundler’s Cottage. The boys had impressed Mr Challis at the village fete last summer, the way they had assisted the elderly and infirm on and off the roundabouts, made sure the children came to no harm, and helped peg down the tea-tent. Mr Challis sat close to Francis on the settle, his voice suddenly husky.

  ‘The fact is, Francis,’ said Mr Challis, ‘that I am not altogether what I seem.’

  Francis sat forward, eager to hear what this most respected of men had to tell him.

  ‘Before I became a vicar,’ continued Mr Challis, ‘I was involved in … certain activities. It eventually became necessary, because of developments in a far-off country with which our government had been experiencing difficulties, for me to leave that country and return to England, where I took on a new persona.

  ‘You’re not a vicar at all?’ asked Francis, unable for the moment to control his surprise.

  ‘Have no fear, my boy. After leaving the country of which I was speaking I went through all the necessary channels, theological college, and so forth. I am quite entitled to give the sacraments.’

  Francis was relieved to hear it. He didn’t fancy telling Mrs Shewin’s Elsie that she and Dan from the farm had been married two weeks ago by an impostor wearing his collar the wrong way round!

  ‘I had hoped,’ said Mr Challis, his voice even lower, ‘that my former life was quite behind me, but I’m afraid that is not so … In the last few months I have realised that there are those who know about my, shall we say, patriotic work. They have found out where I am, Francis, and they know that I am still the guardian of national secrets.’

  This was thrilling! Francis was seeing the reverend in quite a different light. Mr Challis had been a spy!

  ‘Clearly, it wouldn’t do for me to do anything …. unvicarly … but it is necessary for me to find out more about these people. They need to be watched, Francis. I need hardly say that much depends on their being uncovered and rooted out, and the intervention of anything so ostentatious as a man in police uniform would immediately alert their suspicions.’

  ‘Sending them back to that country and then hatching even more devilish plans?’ suggested Francis.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Mr Challis placed his hand on Francis’s knee.

  ‘I cannot say too much,’ said Mr Challis, ‘but your name has been hopefully mentioned in Downing Street.’

  ‘And Gordon’s?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Mr Challis. ‘We must not forget Gordon.’

  *

  ‘Well, I think it’s a crying shame.’

  Doris Jones slapped a wedge of pastry on the wooden table of the kitchen at Red Cherry House. Clouds of flour emphasised her displeasure.

  ‘After all the help our Francis has been to the local constabulary. An outright disgrace, I call it.’

  Two weeks after his son Francis had visited the Reverend Challis, Mr Jones was in the Windsor chair by the range, pretending to read the evening newspaper. With any luck, his wife’s attention would be drawn back to the completion of the Bramley apple pie she was planning for supper.

  ‘When you think,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘If it wasn’t for Francis and Gordon, the Countess of Marsham-Peckforth would be reduced to wearing imitation pearls at the Hunt Ball; poor Mr Carpenter at the funeral parlour would have buried the wrong man in Hemley graveyard and no one the wiser; little Toby Mallingering would have been smuggled out of the country covered in Cherry Blossom Boot Polish and passed off as the Heir Apparent to the throne of Narpithiia. And the police none the wiser, Constable Bigley plod hopping about the village and getting promotion for reporting old Ben Thropper for not having a light on his bicycle.’

  Mr Jones turned a page and made a business of concentrating on something of compelling interest.

  ‘And now this latest development,’ Mrs Jones snorted, giving the flour shifter a violent awakening. ‘Francis is being exploited, that’s what. Him and Gordon together, made to do the work of the police force and in the unpaid service of the British government.’

  ‘Steady on, Doris. Anyone would think the boys were working for the Secret Service. Once or twice, they’ve just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and been able to give the police information.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, George Jones. The whole village sleeps easier in its bed because of those boys, our boys. And I don’t like seeing our son so put down.’

  There was no hope of ever reading that newspaper. Mr Jones folded it noisily, pushed it away from him and folded his arms.

  ‘What are you on about, Doris? And you’ve got flour on your nose.’

  ‘Do something useful,’ said Doris Jones. ‘We’re plum out of custard powder, and Mrs Robinson doesn’t shut up shop till six.’ She smudged her nose clean with a movement of her elbow, and remembered her career as a part-time corseteer. ‘Don’t forget to remind her she’s got a fitting on Tuesday.’

  Mr Jones didn’t need telling twice. He was already putting on his bicycle clips. Salt of the earth, Mrs Jones thought but didn’t say, and turned to shaping the edge of the pie. Mrs Robinson’s circular stitched bra would be a challenge. If all went well, Mrs Jones would turn her into the village’s Jayne Mansfield.

  *

  ‘Mother’s making an apple pie,’ said Francis. ‘Always a bad sign, so I thought I’d come over to see you.’

  It was never a hardship for Francis to cycle the three miles to where his cousin Gordon Jones lived with his uncle in Strutton-by-the-Way. Gordon’s Uncle Billy had been in the Navy and kept Bundler’s Cottage ship-shape. Great logs were burning in the hearth, a welcome sight on such a bitter winter’s evening.

  ‘Come in and get yourself warm, Francis,’ said Uncle Billy. ‘There’s enough supper for three if you’re stopping.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Jones, but mother will be expecting me home for supper.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Jones, who knew his sister-in-law’s ways. ‘I expect this is one of Doris’s baking days. I’ll put the kettle on anyway.’ Something about the keen expression on Francis’s face told him that the boy wanted to talk with his nephew. ‘You two make yourself comfy by the fire.’

  As his uncle went through to the kitchen, fourteen-year-old Gordon packed away the Meccano set and looked up expectantly at his cousin. He ploughed his fingers through his tousled mop of red hair, pushed his spectacles more comfortably on to his nose, and made room on the hearthrug for Francis to sit beside him.

  It had been too long since they had set out to solve a mystery, and there was something urgent about Francis’s face that promised the start of a new adventure.

  ‘It’s a beastly night,’ said Gordon, ‘so you must have a good reason for coming.’

  Francis lowered his voice.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, and told Gordon about the unexpected summons to the vicarage and the Reverend Challis’s story.

  As he listened, Gordon’s face changed as
many times as the English weather! At first his green eyes began to sparkle, his cheeks glowed with anticipation when he sensed that a new extraordinary occurrence was about to be revealed, and then all hope faded from his expression. He couldn’t remember when he had last been so disappointed.

  ‘Fancy the Reverend Challis leading you on like that,’ he said. ‘I expect you were hoping he was going to ask for our help.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but it seems the mystery has already been solved, and we’re not going to be able to do any detective work on it.’

  ‘So, correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Gordon. ‘The Reverend Challis is a government agent and a vicar who has been keeping an eye on a foreign spy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Francis. ‘The spy was known to be working in East Anglia, wanting to infiltrate local power stations. The spy was masquerading as a member of the community, and eventually was tracked down to a most unlikely location.’

  ‘I should say it is unlikely!’ Gordon smiled. ‘St Mildred’s School for the Advancement of Deserving Girls is one of the most respected establishments in the neighbourhood. And the spy had infiltrated the school, had she?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Francis. ‘In fact, she was a local woman, recruited from the village, and had been employed at the school for several years to accompany the girls when they went off on fact-finding trips to nearby factories and industries.’

  ‘And power stations, no doubt!’ suggested Gordon.

  ‘Fortunately, the Reverend Challis had his suspicions, and the spy was removed from the school a few days ago, so the case is closed. The pity of it is that now the school has not enough staff to carry on taking the girls out to points of interest, and the Reverend Challis, being essentially a charitable man, thought we might be of help.’