The Montgomery Murder

by Cora Harrison

  Cora Harrison is the author of many successful books for children and adults, including the Drumshee series set in Ireland. She lives on a small farm in the west of Ireland with her husband George, her German Shepherd dog called Oscar and a very small white cat called Polly.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Cora Harrison, 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by

  any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording

  or otherwise,without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Cora Harrison to be identified as Author of this work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 064 8 (paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 177 5

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  Cover design by Patrick Knowles

  Cover illustration by Chris King

  Cultural adviser: Jaspal S Grewal

  CHAPTER 1

  ALFIE’S GANG

  CHAPTER 2

  THE DEAD BODY

  CHAPTER 3

  GARROTED!

  CHAPTER 4

  JOB FOR ALFIE

  CHAPTER 5

  MIXED UP WITH MURDER

  CHAPTER 6

  ALFIE’S PLAN

  CHAPTER 7

  THE DIAMOND RING

  CHAPTER 8

  A FOUL AND WICKED MAN

  CHAPTER 9

  HOMELESS?

  CHAPTER 10

  A SPY IN THE HOUSE

  CHAPTER 11

  A MYSTERIOUS CONVERSATION

  CHAPTER 12

  THE SMELL OF FEAR

  CHAPTER 13

  FOOTSTEPS IN THE FOG

  CHAPTER 14

  ALFIE INVESTIGATES

  CHAPTER 15

  THE CRUMBLING HOUSE

  CHAPTER 16

  THE GATEKEEPER’S SLATE

  CHAPTER 17

  THE MASKED GAMBLERS

  CHAPTER 18

  WHERE’S SAMMY?

  CHAPTER 19

  STUMBLING THROUGH THE FOG

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BODY ON THE STEPS

  CHAPTER 21

  THE STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DOCTOR ARRIVES

  CHAPTER 23

  LIKE RATS FLEEING

  CHAPTER 24

  ALFIE RISKS ALL

  CHAPTER 25

  SARAH IN TROUBLE

  CHAPTER 26

  STRANGE SMELL

  CHAPTER 27

  A MOUTH LIKE THE DEVIL’S

  CHAPTER 28

  ENEMY TERRITORY

  CHAPTER 29

  THE MAN WITH THE GUN

  CHAPTER 30

  VICTORY!

  For Noah, Peter, Abe, Alexander, Joel

  and Reuben, grandsons of my very dear friends,

  Patricia and Doug Hawkes.

  Special thanks go to Peter who read and

  commented on an early draft.

  CHAPTER 1

  ALFIE’S GANG

  It was a foggy evening in late November. The gas lamps shone like misty balls of light and the horses slipped on the wet streets. Well-dressed Londoners wrapped mufflers over noses and mouths as they rushed home to supper in their warm houses. And four ragged boys, followed by a large dog, emerged from a filthy cellar below the pavement.

  The plan had been made . . .

  * * *

  Alfie grinned and the tight knot of fear in his stomach relaxed – Mutsy always made him laugh. His brother Sammy had just hit the high note of the song and the big, hairy dog joined in immediately, sitting on his back legs with his two front paws in the begging position, his nose lifted towards the sky and howling like a high-pitched fiddle. A crowd was beginning to gather – it always did when Sammy and Mutsy sang.

  On this dark and murky evening, Alfie was relying on dog and boy being the focus of all attention. He had set everything up very carefully. Sammy, with Mutsy beside him, was standing on the corner just outside the Covent Garden Theatre, while Alfie himself was about a hundred yards away. Jack and Tom, their two cousins, were also in place.

  ‘He’s blind, poor little boy,’ said a woman’s voice, and Alfie heard the chink of pennies into the tin plate at Sammy’s feet. Now was the moment to put his plan into action. The shoppers were gathered around Sammy and Mutsy; nobody would be looking at Alfie.

  And then he had a piece of good luck – there was a loud pop and a hissing sound, and a smell of gas floated down on the fog. One of the gas lamps had gone out. Great! Slowly and quietly, Alfie moved until he was underneath that lamp-post. This would be a good place to lurk unseen. The lamplighter had already shouldered his ladder and gone home, so the corner between Bow Street and Russell Street would now stay dark till morning.

  Alfie’s stomach was already empty, but it tightened even more with tension. This was his plan and he was the gang leader. It had to succeed. He licked his lips as he glanced around. Jack, his twelve-year-old cousin, was in his place, across the road, just ready to grab the horse’s head. Eleven-year-old Tom, Jack’s brother, was almost invisible, lurking in the shadowed doorway of a watchmaker. He would have his peashooter ready. Alfie could rely on him. Tom and Jack both had steady nerves and Tom never missed a shot.

  Now! The moment they were waiting for! The horse-drawn van turned from Russell Street into Bow Street and a mouth-watering smell of newly baked bread floated above the sour, coal-smoke stench of the fog. Alfie braced himself. He saw the horse rear and kick – Tom had done his task with the peashooter. Alfie didn’t even look towards Jack – his cousin could always handle horses. Instantly he dashed to the back of the van.

  It was all working. He could hear Jack’s voice shouting, ‘It’s all right, Mister, I’ve a hold of him.’ Now Alfie had his hand in the back of the van. The loaf was so soft and warm he could almost taste it. Tom was coming towards him. Between them, with luck, they would be able to snatch enough bread to last them for the next few days. No alarm was shouted; the crowd continued to listen as Sammy broke into his comic song, ‘The Catsmeat Man’.

  Suddenly Alfie felt an arm around his neck, throttling him. He dropped the loaf and wheeled around to see a navy-blue uniform with the number twenty-two on the collar.

  A gruff voice said, ‘You come along with me, lad.’

  The cops had nabbed him.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE DEAD BODY

  Alfie did not struggle. There was no point. The policeman had a firm grip of one arm now and was dragging him along the street. He tried a gentle wriggle – perhaps he could leave his jacket behind – but it was no good. Alfie knew where they were going. The Bow Street Police Station was next door to Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. He would probably be in front of the bench in less than half an hour. What would be the sentence? Most likely, three months’ hard labour – that was the usual. He had never been in prison himself, but he knew many boys who had. Hard labour meant breaking stones, running on the treadmill or sewing mailbags for twelve hours of the day, and no one was allowed to say a word to any other prisoner. That was the worst of all, one boy had told Alfie.

  And what would happen to Sammy, his blind brother, and to their two cousins who shared their cellar? Without Alfie, they might all starve. He was the one who organi
sed everything, who had seen the comic possibilities in Mutsy with his large paws and his fringe hanging over his eyes, and the one who, until this moment, had kept them all out of trouble.

  ‘In you go.’ The blue light outside Bow Street Police Station gleamed through the fog. ‘Bet you’ve stolen that muffler, you little thief.’ The constable jerked at the scarf around his neck. ‘And that waistcoat, too!’ By now they were inside and Alfie was pushed into an office. His bare feet felt the smoothness of the tiled floor.

  Carefully he removed his cap and smoothed down his dark curls. ‘It doesn’t matter about looking poor and having ragged trousers as long as you are polite.’ It seemed like yesterday that his mother had said that, but she had been dead for two years.

  The police station was a small, one-storey building. There was an outer room, where three constables stood at tall desks and made notes in books, and an inner room beyond a green painted door. A man with a newspaper came out of that door and immediately PC 22 grabbed Alfie by the arm and hauled him into the back room, giving a quick knock on the still-open door. Alfie felt his legs go weak. He would soon know the worst.

  ‘Caught stealing a loaf of bread from the evening delivery van, Inspector. Make a bow to Inspector Denham, you young ruffian. Shall I take him into the court? The magistrates are still sitting.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the inspector absent-mindedly. He was studying some papers on his desk, turning them over and knitting his dark bushy eyebrows over them. Then he waved his hand. ‘No!’ he said abruptly. ‘Just leave him with me, Constable, will you.’

  What did he want, wondered Alfie, looking at the inspector as the door closed behind the constable. He was a small man to be in charge of all of these burly constables who could be seen every day, patrolling Bow Street and Covent Garden. He was quick and decisive, though! He looked briefly down each piece of paper, before putting it into one of three neat piles on the desk and going on to the next.

  The room was cold in spite of the coal fire burning in a small metal grate. Alfie’s sharp eyes noticed that one of the sash cords was broken and the window was sagging down on one side, allowing the damp, freezing air to seep into the little room. He stayed very still, looking attentively at the inspector as he shuffled his papers. When he looked up, Alfie saw that he had a pair of keen eyes, as black as Alfie’s own.

  ‘Live around here, do you?’ The inspector’s tone was casual.

  ‘That’s right.’ Alfie wasn’t going to give any of his gang away.

  ‘Know the St Giles district?’

  Alfie nodded. This was unexpected, but welcome. St Giles, a district of tumbledown wood-built houses, where a single room could house up to four families, was a good five-minute walk from Alfie’s cellar on Bow Street itself.

  ‘Come with me.’ Inspector Denham was on his feet. He opened a door at the back of the office and led the way down a long, dimly lit corridor. There was a damp coldness in the air and a strange smell.

  ‘In here.’ Inspector Denham took a large key from the bunch at his waist and opened a door. The room was almost in darkness; there was just one small, high window. It showed as a pale rectangle on the wall, but gave little light. Inspector Denham clanged the door shut behind them and walked confidently forward. Alfie followed him, his heart thumping.

  ‘Ah, that’s better.’ There was a hiss and a sudden smell of gas, the noise of a match striking, and then the flame sprang up. Alfie took a step backwards, then recovered himself and stepped forward again.

  The room was a small one, but it had three occupants. All were lying on high narrow iron beds, covered by a sheet. All were very still. Alfie sniffed the air and knew that the smell was death. He had smelled it often enough. He swallowed once and felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands.

  Why had the inspector brought him in here with these dead men?

  CHAPTER 3

  GARROTED!

  Inspector Denham went swiftly to the bed at the far side of the room and turned back the top of the sheet from the face.

  Alfie took in a long breath as quietly as he could. ‘I know him,’ he said, trying to sound indifferent. ‘I’ve seen him before.’ He examined the purple, swollen face with its faded ginger moustache and sideburns.

  ‘Know his name?’

  ‘Mr Montgomery . . . Mr Montgomery from Bedford Square. Up Bloomsbury way.’ Alfie went a little nearer. He had been shocked at first to see a man that he knew, but he had recovered now. He had seen quite a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime.

  ‘When did you see him last?’ Inspector Denham was standing in front of the body, slightly blocking Alfie’s view.

  ‘Last night in Monmouth Street.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, he had a girl with him.’ Alfie winked, trying to look like a man of the world. He wanted to impress this inspector.

  ‘What’s the girl’s name?’ The question came quickly.

  ‘Don’t know.’ He did know, but Alfie didn’t think that he was going to tell it to Inspector Denham. Betty couldn’t have murdered this fellow – he wasn’t a very big man, but he was at least twice her weight. Alfie was sorry that he had mentioned a girl now, but no doubt the inspector already knew about this. Alfie edged a bit nearer to the body.

  ‘Been garrotted,’ he said. Might as well show the inspector that he wasn’t stupid. ‘Look at the mark of the wire, there under the chin.’

  ‘I had noticed,’ said Inspector Denham dryly. ‘We found him in Monmouth Street early this morning.’ He leaned over the man and pulled the sheet down the whole way. The body was still dressed: expensive frock coat, colourful waistcoat and over them both a greatcoat of heavy dark wool; check trousers and polished boots finished the outfit. A heavy walking stick was lying beside him. The pockets of the greatcoat were pulled out and protruded at right angles from the body, the clean white linings showing up brightly under the flaring gas lamp.

  ‘Robbed, as you see.’ Inspector Denham’s voice was neutral.

  ‘Nah.’ Alfie gave him a quick grin. He was beginning to understand this policeman. He was testing Alfie. ‘Never.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’ There was still no trace of expression in the policeman’s voice.

  ‘Why not?’ Alfie decided to play along, though he guessed that the inspector knew the truth as well as he did; the man didn’t look stupid. ‘Why take the stuff from his greatcoat pockets and leave the watch? I can see the chain. It’s still on him. Can I touch him?’

  ‘Just the clothes.’

  Alfie leaned over and, with the sensitive fingers of an accomplished pickpocket, he pulled out a heavy gold watch from below the man’s waistcoat.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. He stroked the rounded sides of the gold case, then turned it over and looked with interest at the marks on the back. ‘In his fob pocket, the usual place. Any thief would look there first. This is a good watch. He was quite a swell, always.’

  ‘Perhaps the thief forgot about the watch,’ suggested Inspector Denham with an expressionless face. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, they say.’

  ‘Nah! Never! In any case, why leave the boots? They were in sight. Why not pull them off and take them? I know plenty on Monmouth Street that would give me — Alfie suddenly remembered that he was talking to an officer of the law, ‘at least . . . I’ve heard that you can get a good price for a pair of boots like that. Nah, this were no thief; this were a toff that garrotted him and then wanted to pretend that he did it just to rob him. I’d lay a bet that Mr Montgomery had nothing at all in those greatcoat pockets. Most of the gents these days keep their money in their trousers or waistcoat pockets. It’s obvious to anyone that this were no thief that done this,’ he finished.

  The inspector said nothing, but Alfie could see an expression of satisfaction on his face. He searched his mind for more memories of Mr Montgomery. The man had returned from India a few months before and Alfie had taken a great interest in the stories about him that Sarah, the scullery maid in the Montgomery house, ha
d told the boys. But would it be safe to talk about these to the inspector?

  ‘What about the ring?’ Alfie asked suddenly. ‘He always wore a great big diamond ring. I’ve seen it flashing.’

  One hand was half-tucked under the body; ignoring the inspector’s order, Alfie reached across and pulled it out. The ring was still there.

  ‘It’s embedded in his flesh. He’d put on a lot of weight since he first had that ring,’ the inspector said indifferently, watching Alfie closely.

  ‘Most people that I know – most thieves that I’ve heard of, would have taken finger and all to get a ring like that,’ said Alfie firmly. ‘It would be worth a lot, that ring, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’d say so.’ The inspector sounded almost friendly.

  Alfie said no more, though, and Inspector Denham, having turned out the gaslight, ushered him through the door and locked it firmly behind them. Even when they were back in the office again, Alfie still kept silent, his mind busily working. What was the inspector up to?

  CHAPTER 4

  JOB FOR ALFIE

  ‘What do you know about Mr Montgomery and his household?’ It had taken a few minutes for Inspector Denham to make up his mind, but now his tone was sharp, and somehow different.

  Alfie sat up a little straighter and assumed a businesslike air. He had been about to deny knowing anything more about the dead man, but then changed his mind. It occurred to him that he had passed some sort of trial in there, in that room where the police kept their dead bodies, and he was anxious to retain Inspector Denham’s good opinion.

  ‘There’s him and his missus, and his son who’s a young toff – doesn’t do no work, I’ve heard – and they’ve got a butler, a coachman, a cook, a housekeeper, a parlour maid and a scullery maid – and some other servants, I suppose.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Alfie hesitated. Sarah often fed him on the leftovers from the Montgomery meals and he didn’t want to betray her, but after a quick glance at Inspector Denham he changed his mind. The inspector, he reckoned, might be willing to forget about the bread van if Alfie was able to assist him.