Death in the Devil's Den

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Oh, pipe down, Sarah.’ Alfie could feel himself exploding with exasperation.

  ‘I think,’ said Sarah, ‘that you should go straight to Inspector Denham. Tell him everything and let him sort it out. This business is dangerous. Sammy took quite a risk today for you.’ Her voice rose and shook slightly. ‘If he had been discovered, they might have put him in the workhouse. I was worried sick! I say that you should stop now – stop all this nonsense, climbing around roofs at night and breaking into schools. Go to Inspector Denham.’

  ‘I didn’t mind,’ said Sammy firmly.

  Somehow these few words from Sammy made Alfie feel worse than ever. However, he was determined to solve the problem and earn the promised reward of five pounds. He turned an annoyed gaze towards Sarah.

  ‘Well I’m not going to Inspector Denham yet,’ he said hotly. He went to the cupboard, took out an old rusty key, carefully re-wrapped the brown paper parcel with some twine belonging to his father, who had been a cobbler, and stuck some cobbler’s wax to fasten the twine and its dangling key securely to the paper. When that was done he gave a brief look around and said, ‘I’m off. Stay, Mutsy!’

  Westminster Abbey was quiet and dark, with only a few pinpricks of light showing through the stained-glass windows when Alfie arrived outside it. He walked around for a while before approaching the red pillar box with Victoria Regina in gold letters just below its slot. He gave one more glance around before dropping the small parcel, attached to the key, into it.

  Then he strolled for a while around the Abbey until he found a shadowy corner and began to climb up to the roof.

  It was funny, he thought, how much work the men who built the Abbey, all those hundreds of years ago, had put it into it. Not content with just building walls and roofs, they had decorated almost every inch with little twists and curls, stone heads, carved patterns, statues of saints and angels. Must have had a lot of time on their hands to give themselves all that work, he said to himself as he grabbed a head and inserted his toes into a stone flower. Still he was grateful to them. It made the roof a joy to climb.

  He looked up and down the long line of Westminster Abbey. He had walked around its pavements often enough, during all the hours that he had spent hanging around waiting for something to happen. The Abbey was about six hundred feet long, he reckoned. Where he stood now was about halfway between the little chapel at one end, and the Great West Door at the other.

  The roof over the little chapel was the place to be, thought Alfie. From there, he could look down over the Houses of Parliament and watch its members come out after a late night sitting.

  Tonight would be the night! He felt confident about that. Now he knew how everything worked, he would keep a sharp eye on that postbox and with luck he would soon find out which of the three men was the spy. He would be able to give his name and the name of Boris Ivanov to Inspector Denham.

  Inch by inch, Alfie made his way across the roof. There was a low parapet, high enough to hide a six-year-old child, but for a twelve-year-old like Alfie the only possibility was to crawl or to crouch. The razor-sharp edges of the slates cut into his bare knees, but it was better than the agony of walking bent double.

  The climb down was long and difficult and, when he was halfway down, the bells sounded and almost deafened him. And then Big Ben started chiming. The new belltower, Big Ben, was a great service to Londoners without watches, thought Alfie. Everyone could keep track of time now as its sound echoed all over the town. He looked across at the great clock face: eight o’clock. He hoped desperately that the MPs would finish whatever they were doing soon. He was cold and stiff, and yawns kept almost dislocating his jaw.

  At last he reached the roof of the chapel. This little chapel was no higher than an ordinary London house, and he was now only about twenty feet above ground level. In some ways he was glad to come down as the immense height of the Abbey had begun to make him feel dizzy.

  To his dismay the whole roof of the chapel had been covered with sheets of lead – soaking wet from the fog – and it was as slippery as ice. Once again Alfie had to go along on the inside of the parapet, but this was even more difficult as this parapet was lower still and the danger of being seen was much greater.

  However, it looked as though his wait would not be a long one. The MPs were streaming out, and there was a queue of cabs lined up, ready to take them to their town houses or to the coaching inns. In ones, or twos or threes they went off, chattering happily.

  Some of the last to come out were the three men on the rifle development committee. And there they were, just like before, the three MPs, standing under the gas lamp outside the Houses of Parliament. Alfie could see them quite clearly: two big men and one thin one. Although the air was still foggy, there were no clouds in the sky and, like the night before, a brilliant full moon lit up the whole scene.

  But there was a difference. No Russian lurked in the shadows of St Stephen’s Tavern; Alfie was sure of that. Boris was probably on his way, even now, to the Russian Embassy. Alfie bit his lip at the thought of the Russians coming to hunt for him, but stayed very still. He might be in danger, but he was determined to see this matter through.

  Yes! One of the men, Ron Shufflebottom from Yorkshire, was standing very close to the red pillar box. Unfortunately Roland Valentine was quite near to him, telling jokes as usual. Tom Craddock was at the edge of the pavement whistling for a cab.

  And then Ron Shufflebottom lifted a hand and pointed towards the gate into the Houses of Parliament. Roland Valentine turned his head in that direction. Immediately his companion turned back to the postbox and Alfie saw him seize the key and draw up the parcel from its depths. By the time Roland Valentine looked back, the parcel, its thread and its key were safely tucked into Ron Shufflebottom’s pocket and they had all piled into a cab together.

  The man from Yorkshire was the guilty one.

  Now Alfie knew almost the whole story.

  Now he could go to Inspector Denham and tell him what happened.

  But not yet, he said to himself . . .

  Only when the place was empty did Alfie slide down from the roof of the chapel and, after a quick glance to make sure that no one was around, he crossed the road and carefully examined the pillar box.

  But there was nothing there: no string tied to a key, no sign of anything left. And there was no sign of Boris Ivanov, the organist and spy.

  Alfie thought: even if the organist had gone to the Russian Embassy, Ron Shufflebottom would not know that yet. It would be sensible to go home now, but Alfie had lots of courage.

  And lots of curiosity.

  Where was Boris? Alfie was determined that when he went to Inspector Denham in the morning he would have the whole story for him.

  He made up his mind to go back into the school and to see Richard. With one last look around, he slipped across the road and made his way around the Abbey. He kept well into the shadow of that huge building until he reached the spot where he had climbed up last night when he had been rescued by Richard.

  It was funny how much easier it all seemed to him now. His feet instinctively found the foot of the stone saint; his hands easily grasped the short length of rope hung there by Richard. The moon was not quite as full as last night’s, but there was still enough light for him to make his way in between carved towers and ugly gargoyles and along parapets. When he reached the gap he jumped it almost without thinking. His mind was deeply engaged with the puzzle of why Boris Ivanov had not turned up to send or receive a message from the pillar box from his contact at the Houses of Parliament.

  Alfie slid silently along the roof ridge of the school, stopped in the shelter of a warm chimney to catch his breath, and then continued on. Most of the windows were dark, but there was a candle burning in one – that must be the room belonging to the organist.

  Cautiously Alfie peered down.

  The small square yard at the centre of Westminster School was paved in white stone and the moonlight filled it, illumin
ating the dark figure lying, face down, arms outstretched, in the middle of it. On the back of the head was a mass of clotted blood and beside the body lay a blood-soaked pole.

  Alfie did not hesitate. Grasping a pipe leading down from the gutter, he slid to the ground and approached the still figure.

  It was Boris Ivanov.

  And he was dead.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE BLOOD-STAINED CUDGEL

  Alfie bent down and picked up the cudgel. It was large and heavy, rounded and smooth at one end and jaggedly broken at the other. Boris Ivanov’s skull had been broken by a blow from about the centre of it; that was where the mess of blood and brains had smeared the wood.

  A tall man, and a powerful one, must have done this, Alfie thought. And a picture of Ron Shufflebottom, the MP from Yorkshire, came into his head. He was a big man, with wide shoulders and long arms. He could have swung the cudgel with enough power to have broken the man’s skull. Would he have been tall enough? Boris was quite tall, but it would perhaps have been easy enough to get him to bend down, to pretend that something had been dropped, perhaps.

  But when was Boris Ivanov killed? Could Ron Shufflebottom have got out from the Houses of Parliament, done the murder and then rejoined his friends?

  Alfie picked up the cudgel and gave it an experimental swing, holding it firmly in both hands.

  And as he did so, there was a sudden scream.

  ‘Murder! Murder! Catch ’im!’

  ‘In the yard!’ screamed another voice. ‘Look at ’im. ’e’s murdered the organ master!’

  A candle appeared in one window to the left, then one to the right and three in front of him. There was the squeak of bolts being drawn open on doors and yells of ‘Murder! Murder!’ came from every direction. Alfie’s head snapped from one direction to the next, like a dog who is being attacked from all sides. He gripped the cudgel with some idea of fighting his way out of the yard. His foot skidded on a piece of wet cardboard on the ground and he almost stumbled, but then recovered himself.

  Quickly Alfie ran in the opposite direction towards the stone archway that led out into Dean’s Yard. If he could just get out of this place he might be able to outrun them all. But the archway was blocked by a stout wooden door which fitted the archway so well that nothing bigger than a mouse could squeeze through the space beneath it.

  There was a large heavy iron bolt across it. Alfie tugged at it frantically, but it was no good. Through a loop in the bolt a massive padlock was fixed and locked securely.

  In desperation, Alfie lifted the heavy pole and, using two hands, aimed it at the padlock. At the first jolt the padlock jumped.

  ‘Come on, Bart!’ screamed a voice. ‘The murderer is escaping while you pull on your britches.’

  If only it were true. Alfie breathed a silent prayer that Bart’s britches were new and very, very stiff.

  ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’ The shrill cries split the quiet night air.

  Bang! For the second time Alfie hit the padlock. For the second time it jumped, but still it remained securely locked.

  ‘Here’s a gun, Bart! Shoot ’im, shoot ’im through the window.’

  A bullet rang out and bounced against the window of the gatehouse. More screams ran out – this time they had an excited note in them. Broken glass rained down.

  ‘Mind what you’re doin’, Bart Hegarty,’ roared a voice from above Alfie’s head. ‘You nearly shot me dead, you daft old man.’

  ‘I’m comin’, I’m comin’; give a man a chance to make ’imself decent,’ replied another voice, presumably Bart’s.

  Once again Alfie aimed his stout stick at the padlock, but this was a feeble effort. His shoulder was on fire with the jarring of the previous blows. Frantically he looked around. Was there anywhere that he could hide? He spotted a manhole, but it was gleaming in the full light of the moon. That was no good. And who knows where it leads? thought Alfie. No, there was only one chance for him now.

  Alfie dropped the stick – it was no protection against a gun. He moved out of the moonlight and into the shadows beside the first house on the left-hand side of the yard. Grasping the downpipe, he began to lever himself upwards. The flagpole had been broken off. So was that where the heavy cudgel had come from?

  ‘Where’s ’e gone?’

  Then there was an exuberant yell from the top-floor dormitory where the boys slept.

  ‘Tally-ho!’ roared thirty voices.

  ‘The fox has gone to ground!’

  ‘Hunt him out!’

  ‘Yay-hoo!’

  The excited sounds echoed through the little yard. All the boys were awake and cheering on the hunt from the dormitory windows.

  A shot was fired towards the wooden gate. Alfie heard it splinter the wood and there were more shouts. He shut them out of his head and concentrated hard, trying to control his breathing so that they would not hear him pant. Spread-eagled against the side of the house like this, he would make an easy target.

  Luckily the boys continued to scream and shout. They probably went fox hunting when they were at home in the country, thought Alfie. He remembered stories his grandfather used to tell him of how the rich people mounted their horses and took their dogs to chase one poor little fox. Alfie sent a quick prayer for help up to the heaven where he supposed his grandfather now lived and concentrated on pulling himself up, slowly, hand over hand, by Richard’s rope towards the roof.

  Now he could believe that his prayers were answered. There was a window open a few feet above him. And the wonderful thing was that there was no hint of candlelight from it. It would probably be one of those rooms for the boys, Alfie guessed. What was it Richard had called them? Studies. Yes, that would be it: the study of a careless boy who had left the window open before he had gone to bed. If he could only get in there, he would be able to make his way behind the wooden panelling and up to the attic. He could hide there until the hunt was given up and then make his way across the school roof and over onto the Abbey before dawn arrived.

  Another few feet, Alfie told himself and then his eyes widened at the sight of a splotch of yellow light on the wall only a few feet away from him. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Yes, someone had the brains to bring out a lantern, and he was using it to scan every inch of the wall.

  Alfie made one last superhuman effort, levered himself up the last few feet, edged his knee onto the windowsill and shot, head first, into the room.

  ‘Got you!’ said a voice.

  CHAPTER 16

  CAPTURED

  Alfie wriggled desperately but received a blow from a clenched fist that made his head ring. Dizzy and sick with the impact, he froze. This was often the best thing to do; he knew that from experience. His attacker might relax if he felt that Alfie was cowed. And in the meantime his head might stop spinning.

  It was no good, though. A hand crept around his neck, squeezing hard. Alfie coughed and almost lost consciousness. His attacker relaxed the pressure slightly and lit a candle from the embers of the fire.

  ‘Now let’s have a look at you,’ said a voice and Alfie found himself face to face with the choirmaster, Mr Ffoulkes, the man that Richard so feared.

  He had climbed into Mr Ffoulkes’ study and was now helpless in his hands.

  ‘I’ve got him! I’ve got the murderer!’ the choirmaster shouted out of the window and there was a great cheering from the dormitory above.

  ‘Good old Ffoulkes!’ shouted one.

  ‘Three cheers for Mr Ffoulkes!’ yelled another.

  The man just smiled dourly. Still squeezing Alfie’s throat with one hand, he reached across and slipped the cord from his dressing gown. In a moment, Alfie found that his hands were knotted behind his back with the cord. It bit into the skin of his wrists and there was little that he could do to free himself. So he did not try; he just waited grimly to see what would happen next.

  ‘Bart,’ shouted Mr Ffoulkes. ‘Get the headmaster, will you? I’ll keep the murderer here until he comes. It’s f
or him to decide what to do with him.’

  Alfie waited. He would say nothing until he was in the hands of the police. Then, in the morning, he could ask for Inspector Denham to be sent for. He could tell of Alfie’s mission to discover the Russian spy. He would be able to speak up for Alfie.

  Or would he?

  Could he?

  Westminster was under the rule of the police at Scotland Yard. They were more important than the police at Bow Street.

  Alfie felt the sharp edge of the cord bite into his wrists and thought of all that was against him.

  Not only was he found just beside the dead man’s body, but he was actually seen with the blood-stained weapon in his hand.

  Perhaps, despite all that Inspector Denham could say, he would be accused of the murder of Boris Ivanov and would be dragged off to Newgate Prison and kept there to await his trial. He had been in Newgate once before and had no wish to set foot in there ever again.

  ‘He’s just a boy!’ The headmaster burst through the door, followed by an elderly man.

  ‘That’s the fellow, sir,’ cried the old man. ‘That’s the fellow! I swear my life to it, sir. I aimed my gun at him, sir. Only just missed, sir.’

  ‘Quiet, Bart!’ exclaimed the headmaster. He looked closely at Alfie. He’s very thin,’ he said, half to himself. And then, solemnly, to Alfie, ‘Did you kill our organist, boy? Now tell the truth, boy, it will be better for your immortal soul. God hates a liar, you know.’

  He must think that I’m stupid, thought Alfie. Imagine getting yourself hanged if you could escape by telling a lie! Aloud, he said, ‘No, sir, I never. I wouldn’t do a thing like that, sir.’ He gulped a little, wondering how to account for his presence in the yard.

  ‘I was on top of the roof of Westminster Abbey, sir, listening to the sacred music and looking up at the moon in the heavens, sir,’ he said, making his voice sound as sincere as he could. By now there was a huge audience of boys, including Richard, all standing around outside the door in the corridor or else on the stairs. Every one of them was staring at him.