But the man did not go down the Strand as Alfie had expected. After a minute he turned and began to go in the opposite direction, downhill, followed at a distance by the boys. He was staggering now and his pace was dead slow.
‘Going towards the river,’ whispered Alfie in Sammy’s ear. ‘He’s reeling and lurching just like he’s drunk.’
Sammy listened to the uneven footsteps, but he could hear something else as well. The man was breathing as though he had been climbing a steep hill, sucking in great mouthfuls of air.
‘Coming out by the river, now,’ whispered Alfie.
He sounded nervous, thought Sammy. Normally Alfie would not have bothered saying that. He would have known that Sammy would feel the damp air of the river on his face after emerging from that narrow lane enclosed by tall houses.
‘What’s he doing?’ Sammy whispered back.
‘He’s not going on the bridge; he’s just standing by the river and gulping. Hope he’s not going to throw himself in.’ Alfie sounded annoyed and added in a low whisper: ‘I suppose I’d have to go in after him if he did or I’d never know if he had anything to do with Jemmy’s death and that robbery. Come on. He’s half out of his mind. I’ll talk to him.’
Quickly he towed Sammy over towards the man. ‘Penny for a blind boy, mister?’ he said briskly in a loud voice.
‘Wa . . . wa . . . a . . . min . . . must get air.’ The man noisily gulped in mouthfuls of fog.
‘You’re not well,’ asserted Alfie. ‘Walk you back, sir. Where are you going?’
‘The p . . . ose . . . toffice . . .’ slurred the man.
Post office! Alfie translated the broken syllables in his mind and felt a tremor of excitement rush through him. This confirmed his suspicions. He had known of many people addicted to opium and, rich or poor, they had one thing in common. They would lie, steal or even kill to get money for their drug. It looked as though this man with his fancy post office badge did have something to do with the raid on the post office. Perhaps Alfie would be able to get out of him where the jewels were hidden and Alfie’s gang would be able to claim the ten-pound reward after all.
The man produced a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop his face. The river air seemed to be doing him good. His breathing had slowed down and the incoherent muttering had stopped.
‘Little blind boy,’ he said and his voice was almost normal. ‘You’ve got hair like a little angel in heaven.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sammy calmly. He was used to that sort of thing, but usually from pious old ladies outside churches.
Bristly Eyebrows swung suddenly around to Alfie.
‘Take him away,’ he hissed. ‘There’s evil in the air here. Don’t you smell it? Take him away immediately. Here,’ he fumbled in his pocket and produced a coin. Alfie caught a glimpse of silver as the coin glimmered in the light from a nearby gas lamp.
‘Just going, sir,’ he said reassuringly. He knew what these opium smokers were like – took little or nothing for them to throw a fit of hysterics.
‘We’ll wait here for a while and then when he’s forgotten all about you I’ll go back down and see if I can get some sense out of him,’ he whispered to Sammy once they had withdrawn into the dim opening of Hungerford Lane.
‘Wonder why he chose to come down to the river?’ whispered back Sammy. ‘If he always just takes one pipe, you’d think he would go home afterwards.’
‘Perhaps he comes down for the air. It seems to be doing him good. He’s walking up and down, now. Hang on a minute and I’ll have a chat with him before his senses come back completely.’
Alfie strolled back towards Bristly Eyebrows. ‘So you work at the post office in Trafalgar Square, do you?’ he asked briskly and held his breath while the man turned his head towards him.
‘That’s right.’
Alfie relaxed as soon as he heard the tone of the man’s voice. It was mellow, a bit fogged up – just right for getting information out of him. ‘That was a good trick that you pulled off, getting them jewels as well.’ He gulped nervously. Was he laying himself open to being killed? Still, he told himself, opium smokers were famous for not remembering anything that was said while they were still dopey with the drug. At least the man showed no interest in his words, just continued to gaze up the river. Alfie went on rapidly, ‘Shame about old Jemmy getting that bash on the head – killed him, you know. Still, I suppose he was asking for it, wasn’t he? Spying on you all? Asking for money? Or was it the post office raiders killed him? Maybe he got in their way?’
‘No!’ The man suddenly sounded more normal, just as if he were startled out of his opium dreams. ‘No, nobody touched Jemmy. I saw him myself, after the raid, when I was going home. He was talking to one of the engineers from Birmingham, the fellows that were examining the pump for the fountains.’
‘But . . .’ began Alfie and then stopped. There was a low whistle from Sammy and then his voice.
‘Boat coming,’ he whispered.
CHAPTER 18
WHERE ARE THEY?
The White Horse Inn had a reputation for good food and Sarah was busy serving breakfast to half a dozen tables when a voice said quietly in her ear:
‘Any sign of those two scoundrels?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir,’ said Sarah, neatly depositing the plate of sausages and eggs onto the small table in front of one of the Birmingham engineers while balancing the tray with his beer in her other hand.
Her heart thumped as she turned to see that it was the man with the red scarf. He still wore the scarf – it must be his trademark. Most of these flash thieves had something which made them stand out from the others.
‘A sharp girl like you; I’m sure you must remember me.’ The man’s eyes were fixed intently on her. ‘Came here the other night looking for a pair of young pickpockets,’ he continued. ‘You remember me now, don’t you? Stole my watch, they did, the two of them. Worth a pound it was; that’s a jailing matter. No wonder they’re keeping away from me. But a smart girl like you might hear something. You could tell me where to find them. There’s a shilling for you if you can tip me the wink. I’ll be in here again tonight and I’ll have that shilling in my pocket.’
‘A shilling!’ Sarah did not have to pretend to be surprised. A shilling was a lot of money for a little piece of information about two boys. She decided to probe a little more.
‘Oh, yes, I remember you now. You went down to the kitchen to look for them, didn’t you?’ Sarah cleared some emptied tankards onto her tray. ‘I’ll have a word with the scullery maid and see if she knows anything.’ She smiled at Red Scarf, trying to conceal her nervousness.
‘And you’re sure that you don’t know them?’ He was eyeing her narrowly with a shade of suspicion in his eyes.
‘Well,’ she said slowly. An idea had come to her. ‘I can’t talk here,’ she whispered with a quick look over at the landlord who, luckily, was staring in her direction. ‘I’ll meet you at two o’clock in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Too public,’ whispered the man. ‘Make it Monmouth Street, near to Seven Dials. You’ll be able to bring the young fellows with you, won’t you?’
Sarah nodded, gulping nervously. Seven Dials was a terrible place, full of criminals, murderers and cracksmen. She edged away from him.
‘Sarah, take a tray up to number fifteen,’ shouted the innkeeper, to her relief.
‘Is he still sick, then?’ she said, glad to find an opportunity to get away from the man with the red silk scarf and the penetrating eyes. ‘He’s very keen on his meals, for a sick man.’
‘Who cares how much he eats? Go on, girl, none of your business,’ said the innkeeper gruffly. ‘He’ll pay his bill on Saturday with the rest of them engineers before they go back to Birmingham. Nothing to us, if he eats his meals in the bar, or eats them in his bedroom.’
Nothing to you, thought Sarah. You’re not the one that has to climb up and down three flights of stairs carrying heavy trays laden
with food. Not to mention buckets of hot water in the morning so that the man could wash and shave. Still, at least the man in bed didn’t drink like the rest of the engineers!
He doesn’t look sick, she thought, although the words ‘come in’ in answer to her knock were just a croak. He never said much, never even thanked her, just lay on the bed with his face turned to the window.
‘Here’s your breakfast, Mr Batson.’ Sarah did not expect a reply and she got none, though apparently Mr Batson did talk to the boot boy in a hoarse whisper and sent down orders and requests by him. She attended to the fire – it wasn’t really her job, but the unfortunate scullery maid was very overworked and Sarah remembered what a dreadful task it was.
She would never want to be a scullery maid again, and she had resolved to do her work at the inn especially well. At first she had planned to stay only a few months and then to move on to a job in a private house, but now she found herself changing her mind. Private houses had bullying housekeepers and snobbish butlers and the owners of the houses despised their servants and treated them like slaves, expecting them to be at their beck and call for sixteen hours a day. Mr Pennyfeather, the landlord at the White Horse, was a bit grumpy sometimes, but she had a decent, well-furnished bedroom and was treated fairly.
And I do enjoy having time off every day, thought Sarah as she went down the stairs with the empty coal scuttle in one hand and the water pail in the other. The cook and the other servants were friendly, also.
‘You doing anything special this afternoon?’ asked Dora, the other parlour maid, when Sarah reappeared in the bar.
‘I have to go and see a friend,’ said Sarah promptly. She and Dora shared a bedroom and as they were the only parlour maids they had become friends. Sarah knew that Dora was going to suggest window-shopping in Oxford Street as usual, where they wandered from shop to shop planning the outfits that they would buy if they had the money. Sarah had enjoyed this for a while, but now she was getting tired of pretend shopping. Also, she had something else on her mind – the frightening man in the red scarf. She had decided to go and see Inspector Denham again.
Almost as though he had read her thoughts, the man turned around, gave her a wink and raised his glass to her. Sarah forced her lips to a polite smile, slipped rapidly behind the bar and began vigorously polishing the beer taps and wiping the counters clean of all the circles from the mugs and tankards.
As soon as Sarah had finished clearing the plates from the parlour, she set off for Bow Street police station.
As she had hoped, Inspector Denham was in his office when she arrived. He was very nice, thought Sarah, as she sat in the chair that he pulled out for her. He spent a few minutes asking about her new job and whether she was happy in it, and then she told him about the man with the red silk scarf.
‘He’s after Alfie and Jack,’ she said. ‘He tried to catch them two nights ago, just before the storm broke. He chased after them to the White Horse Inn, but they managed to get away.’ Sarah decided not to tell the inspector about the boys going down the sewers. That might be against the law. ‘And then he turned up today at the White Horse again, trying to get out of me whether I knew them. I told him that I would bring Alfie and Jack to Seven Dials at two o’clock,’ she finished. ‘You might be able to capture him then.’
‘Unlikely,’ said the inspector wearily. ‘That place is full of criminals. I’d need twenty men to go in there and the chances are that by the end of it all, I’d have a man shot or badly injured and no one would be captured.’ He saw her disappointment and added kindly, ‘But you would be of great use to us. We’re beginning to suspect that there might be two gangs involved. We know that Flash Harry’s gang is one of them, but this affair seems a bit clever for them.’ He stopped for a minute, thinking hard. ‘Would you be able to describe this man for someone I know?’ he asked. ‘This chap is very clever with his pencil and he might be able to make a drawing of him.’
Sarah nodded.
Inspector Denham left the office briefly and, five minutes later, a constable appeared with a man in a floppy hat with a satchel tucked under his arm.
Inspector Denham ushered the artist into his office and firmly shut the door on the policeman, but when the picture was finished and the artist had been paid and thanked, he invited the constable and another policeman in. Sarah watched their faces light up with excitement.
‘Sid the Swell!’ exclaimed PC27. ‘He’s got him dead to rights – good as if he sat for his portrait!’
‘That’s him, all right,’ commented PC32. ‘Do you see the way his nose turns to one side? He got that broken nose from the night watchman at the jewellery place in Burlington Arcade.’
‘Deals in jewels, does he?’ mused the inspector. ‘Well, well, well, now that’s interesting.’ He saw Sarah looking at him inquisitively and gave a nod.
‘There was a registered package of diamonds among the mail that was stolen from the Trafalgar Square post office,’ he said to her. Sarah nodded. She knew this already. ‘The jewels were being sent from a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden to an address in Holland. It seems likely that the raid was planned specially for that night because the thieves knew about the diamonds – I suspect someone from the post office itself gave them the information. It was a hugely valuable parcel – we are trying to get hold of it before it’s shipped abroad for the best price that can be got for it.’
‘And nothing has been found yet, has it?’ asked Sarah, thinking of the ten-pound reward that was still on the board outside the police station. She would use her share of the reward to go back to school, she thought. She would like to be more educated. The Ragged School, which was free, had been burned down, but there were other schools if you had the money to pay for them.
‘Shall we put the picture outside the door with a “Wanted” sign on it, Inspector?’ asked one of the constables.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Inspector Denham after a pause. ‘Sid the Swell on his own is not much good for us. We want to recover the diamonds, but above all I want to lay my hands on the traitor who tipped the gang off about what was in the Trafalgar Square mailbags that night. Thank you, Sarah; you’ve been very helpful, but I must ask that you leave this case to us now. And don’t, whatever you do, meet with Sid the Swell this afternoon. Go back to the inn and stay safe. Constable, see Sarah out.’
‘Leave it to us, now, Sarah,’ said the constable in a friendly voice as they stood together at the door of Bow Street police station. ‘Don’t start doing any investigations, not you nor any of the other kids. That Sid the Swell is a nasty piece of work. Best not to meddle with him.’
CHAPTER 19
BRISTLY EYEBROWS
Alfie and Sammy had retreated to the shadows at the top of Hungerford Bridge.
The river was very still, very silent, the weight of the heavy fog smothering all sounds. Alfie listened. For a moment he heard nothing but then a sound came, from under the bridge. It was unmistakably the clank of a chain being stealthily drawn through the water. And it was not the only sound.
Sammy was right. There was a boat there, also. Alfie could hear it drift in the water, occasionally bumping softly against the iron support of the bridge. It must have just glided up the river on the ebbing tide. The faint murmur of whispering voices came to him and then a short, hissed ‘Sh-sh-sh’ from one of them.
The chains clonked again, then came the sound of something large being hauled over the side of the boat. One man groaned softly with the effort of pulling it in. A second, unwieldly bulk was loaded into the boat in the same way. Then the sound of the chain being dragged in.
Suddenly the truth flashed on Alfie. On the night of the robbery, the post office raiders had driven off at high speed down Hungerford Lane. A couple of the gang must have jumped from the wagon with the mailbags and hidden them under the bridge, while the others led the police on a wild goose chase across the river. That was it, he thought. Tonight they were pulling the mailbags up and taking them away.
Where would they go? Would it be possible to follow them? The river bank was very dark and the fog was coming down thickly. Even without Sammy, it would be impossible for Alfie, running on the dark shoreline, to keep up with a boat rowing downstream on an ebbing tide. Alfie froze in an agony of indecision. The thought of losing that ten-pound reward made him want to scream with frustration.
The boat slid out from under the bridge. Just one man was sculling, moving the oar as silently as possible, towards the Hungerford Stairs where the Bristly Eyebrows stood, still muttering to himself. A second man reached out a hand and held him firmly while he stepped into the boat. No one spoke. It seemed this was not the first time they had seen him in this state. The boat moved back into the shadow of the bridge and Alfie could see nothing more. Then, quite suddenly, the toff began to sing in a strange, high-pitched voice.
‘Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck . . .’
Then there was a sort of groan.
And then silence.
The boat moved away; the men rowing strongly and smoothly down the Thames. Alfie let go of Sammy’s arm and went cautiously down towards the river’s edge, being careful to keep in the black shadow of the nearby boathouse. By now, the boat was well out into the middle of the river, going downstream towards the sea. And there was no sign onboard of Bristly Eyebrows.
He must be with them, thought Alfie, though when he looked out towards the moonlit boat he could still only see two heads.
Then both heads looked all around, as if they were making sure that no one else was near. And a minute later, Alfie knew why.
A large, heavy object was heaved over into the water, making a surprisingly small splash. ‘My God,’ thought Alfie, ‘they must have strangled Bristly Eyebrows!’
The Body in the Fog Page 8
