The Montgomery Murder

by Cora Harrison

  Sammy listened carefully, but not much was said. The conversation all seemed to be about the newspaper, plays at the Covent Garden Theatre, and Queen Victoria paying a visit somewhere. Nothing of interest.

  He wasn’t wasting his time, though – he would have something to tell Alfie. Both men were afraid. Dogs could smell fear, they said, but Sammy knew that he was almost as good as a dog – he could always hear tension in a voice, no matter how low the tone.

  What had they both to be afraid of?

  CHAPTER 12

  THE SMELL OF FEAR

  The morning passed slowly in the butler’s pantry. Sammy was uneasy. There had been some sort of blackmail attempt earlier; he was sure of that. He didn’t like to think what might happen if one or both of those men discovered that there had been a witness to their meeting,

  At twelve o’clock, Sarah came to fetch him down to the kitchen for his midday meal. This was a nice mutton hash pie and the cook was good to him, telling Sarah to put plenty of food on his plate and giving him a slice of cake and drink of milk to finish up with. Sammy felt as if he wouldn’t need to eat for a week.

  But when Sammy returned to work in the butler’s pantry he still felt troubled – and bored. He was glad when Sarah came in to whisper to him that he was wanted in the drawing room to help Mrs Montgomery choose a hymn to be sung at her husband’s funeral.

  ‘Can you check the knives first, Sarah?’ Sammy got thankfully to his feet and stretched. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go on too long with this knife cleaning. It was deadly dull compared to wandering around the streets, his hand on the loop of rope around Mutsy’s collar, stopping to sing from time to time, collecting money for the gang, or chatting to some of the street-sellers. Or else Alfie or one of the others would join up with him and get Mutsy to do some tricks. Sammy always liked to hear the people laughing.

  ‘They’re fine, all of them. You’ve done a good job. Come on, now,’ whispered Sarah. Her small rough hand led him down the back stairs – no carpet, there – too good for servants, Sammy supposed. ‘Here he is, Nora.’

  ‘You go off and finish those pans, Sarah, or Cook will be furious. I’ll take the boy upstairs.’ This was Nora. She sounded bossy, thought Sammy, feeling sorry for Sarah.

  ‘Don’t speak until you are spoken to in the drawing room.’ Nora was keeping pace beside him on the stairs up to the first floor. She sounded unfriendly, but she did take the edge of his sleeve when he reached the top step and guided him to the door, knocking gently on it.

  ‘Come in. Ah, Sammy. Well, how has he worked, Nora?’ Mrs Montgomery was a distance from him, probably sitting at the piano.

  ‘Very well, I believe, madam.’

  ‘Good. Sammy has been working away in the butler’s pantry cleaning the knives all day.’ Mrs Montgomery obviously gave this piece of information to someone in the room, but there was only a grunt in reply.

  ‘And now, Sammy, I want you to help me to select a hymn for my dear, dear husband’s funeral service . . .’

  Here there was an audible sniff and a slight rustle as if the lady had taken out her pocket-handkerchief. It all rang false to Sammy’s ear. He was fairly certain now that Mrs Montgomery had not cared too much for her husband. There was something forced and unnatural about the few sobs she produced.

  ‘I want to hear how the hymns sound in a boy’s voice. Bloomsbury church has a wonderful boys’ choir, though I’m not sure whether you haven’t a better voice than the chief chorister.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Sammy politely. He was interested to hear how natural and brisk her voice sounded once she had ceased sobbing into her handkerchief.

  ‘Denis, dear, are you paying attention? Mr Scott, I would value your opinion, also.’

  So the two of them were in the room. Neither man replied and that was annoying. Presumably they had just nodded. He wished that he could have had another chance to hear their voices, to work out which one of them had had that odd conversation with the butler. Sammy had sensed one man quite near to where he stood, but the other must have been at the end of the room, because footsteps approached. And there was the sound of a heavy body sinking into an armchair. A waft of some slightly odd smell too.

  ‘I can’t make up mind between “Abide with Me” and “Rock of Ages”,’ said Mrs Montgomery. ‘Let’s try “Abide with Me”. I’ll teach you the first verse and then we’ll try it out.’

  ‘I know it, ma’am,’ said Sammy respectfully. That particular song had been a great favourite of his grandfather, and it was always popular when sung outside the theatre when the late night crowd was milling around waiting for a cab.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Mrs Montgomery when he had finished. ‘Goodness, what a marvellous voice! I think this will be my choice. We’ll just try that again in a higher key. Nora, open the door so that everyone in the house can hear.’

  And then, less than one minute after the high C broke from Sammy’s lips, there was a scrabble and a skidding noise from the hallway, a thumping of paws on the stairs, a sudden pungent smell of dog in the scented room and an ear-splitting howl. Mutsy had joined in the hymn.

  Mrs Montgomery screamed.

  One man shouted and the other laughed . . . And then Sarah was in the room, stammering out apologies again and again. She had just opened the back door, she said, and the dog had got in, dashed up the passageway, passing through the swinging doors with ease and then up the stairs. Sammy had stopped singing instantly. Sarah sounded terrified. He had to do something.

  ‘Mutsy,’ he said sternly. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’

  Before the last word was out of his mouth, Mutsy hit the carpet with a thud. He would be lying on his back with his two front paws covering his eyes, Sammy knew. Alfie had taught him this trick; the big dog would peep out from time to time and then cover his eyes again.

  It never failed on the street and it didn’t fail now. There was a loud braying noise from one man, a deep laugh from the other, and a little trilling laugh, instantly suppressed, from Mrs Montgomery – even Nora gave a discreet little chuckle. Only Sarah didn’t laugh, and Sammy heard her catch her breath as if she were still panic-stricken.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ she said again.

  ‘It’s not Sarah’s fault,’ said Sammy. ‘Mutsy is used to looking after me; he heard me singing, I suppose, and he thought he should come to me. He sings with me in the street. He never leaves me. He was probably waiting outside the back door for me.’ Sammy knew that Tom was supposed to meet him, so Mutsy must have escaped from him.

  ‘So that’s what it was.’ Mrs Montgomery sounded amused, but then rapidly returned to the deeper, tragic tone of someone whose husband has just been murdered. ‘Well, Sammy, perhaps it would be best if you took the dog out. Go on, girl – take them downstairs. You’ve done enough for today, Sammy. You can go home now.’

  And then he, Mutsy and Sarah were going down the stairs slowly, while Nora ran down lightly ahead of them.

  ‘You can wait for Tom in the back kitchen,’ whispered Sarah in his ear as Nora’s footsteps disappeared down a long corridor.

  ‘Sarah, bring the boy in for something to eat. Cook says she’s just made some cakes – and she’s got a bone for the dog,’ Nora called back. She sounded friendlier now. Her voice had a little chuckle in it. She must have told the story in the kitchen to the amusement of everyone. For a moment, Sammy felt sorry for the dead man. It didn’t seem as if anyone in the house was particularly upset about his death. Obediently he followed Sarah, who had pushed open a door with a slight squeak.

  Sammy’s hand had just felt the baize lining – they must be going to the servants’ part of the house – when he heard a man’s voice – a harsh, menacing posh voice – from above on the landing. ‘Was that boy in the butler’s pantry all the morning?’

  Was this the man who talked with the butler? Sammy thought so. He could almost sense waves of hatred – or was it fear – coming down the stairs. His scalp prickled and, in sp
ite of the heat of the stove in the hallway, he felt a cold shiver go down his back.

  CHAPTER 13

  FOOTSTEPS IN THE FOG

  It was a relief to be out of that house, although he had enjoyed the cake and Mutsy, he knew, had enjoyed the bone. Sammy was tired of that closed-in, perfumed smell and he was worried about the man with the harsh voice – was he the murderer? The more that Sammy thought about it, the less he liked the thought of going back to the house the following morning.

  He patted Mutsy’s large head, took a deep breath of air and then coughed. There was a terribly thick fog out this afternoon, he reckoned. He jumped slightly as he heard an angry shout and the squeal of a horse that had been pulled up suddenly. The fog must be so bad that people crossing the road couldn’t even see the cabs. He grinned to himself – Tom must have got lost. This was one time when he and Mutsy were better off than the people who could see. Mutsy just needed his nose and he, Sammy, had his two ears that were twice as good as anyone else’s.

  Mutsy was going home by a short cut, Sammy guessed. Now they seemed to be in one of those small courts around St Giles church. Sammy could sense the tall buildings – rookeries, they were known as – all around him. Thousands of people lived crowded together in those rookeries. Despite the fog, the air was full of the usual screams and shouts and curses and bangs. Under it all, though, he could hear something else. The fog muted the sound; nevertheless it was definitely the clip-clop of a horse. And the strange thing was that the horse was not trotting, but was walking slowly – walking as if the owner was following something, rather than making his way home as quickly as possible through the fog. And it was walking just behind him.

  Sammy shrank in towards the wall, Mutsy’s solid body between him and the horse that was following so closely.

  There was a growl from Mutsy. Sammy acted instinctively and let go of the rope handle around Mutsy’s neck. If something attacked, he didn’t want to prevent Mutsy defending himself.

  But there was no barking or snarling, just a sharp crack, a whimper and the sound of something heavy slumping to the ground.

  And then a hand grabbed Sammy by the hair and unmercifully hauled him up. Sammy screamed. The pain from his scalp was unbearable, but it was terror that made him shriek. It was no good, though; he knew that as soon as the sound left his throat. No one in St Giles would ever notice a child screaming. Desperately he drummed with his heels. He was being pulled up on to the horse’s back. He could smell the leather saddle, the well-groomed horse smell and the smell of a man – a man who had washed and shaved with some sort of strange, exotic soap – but something else, as well. A strong, clean sort of smell . . .

  Then Sammy’s heart almost stopped. Around his throat was something sharp that dug into the skin and that choked the sound.

  Frantically he scrabbled with his nails to remove the razor-thin wire from his throat.

  He could feel his fingers bleed as the noose tightened. The warm blood ran down his neck. He leaned over to one side, trying to throw himself from the horse’s back. He would risk being trampled if he managed it, but he didn’t care. He knew that he was in deadly danger. And what about Mutsy? Poor Mutsy. As clearly as if he had have seen the whole thing, Sammy knew that Mutsy, his protector, had been hit on the head by a cudgel. Perhaps he was dead. Sammy felt the tears run down his face as he struggled with the wire.

  And then he got a sharp blow to the side of his face. The pain made him feel sick and giddy. His hands loosened. The man on the horse pulled them away. Now there was nothing to stop him being garrotted – just like Mr Montgomery had been garrotted.

  Perhaps in the same place, too! They were out of St Giles, now, Sammy reckoned, and were probably at Seven Dials. The paved road there had a hollow sound. People said that was because a great treasure was buried there before the tall pillar with its seven sundials had been built on this spot. Seven roads branched off from this central space, but the man on the horse went steadily ahead, so they must be going down Monmouth Street.

  Sammy felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. If Mutsy did not come quickly there would be no hope for him. His body would be dropped in a dark doorway, just like the body of Mr Montgomery.

  Then he heard the sharp shrill sound of a policeman’s whistle. Shouts of ‘Stop thief!’ echoed from the walls of the tall houses on either side. There was a banging of doors and a rush of feet coming up from the cellars where the shoemakers of Monmouth Street worked. The quiet street was instantly alive with people.

  Sammy’s heart thudded with excitement. Surely one of the policemen, or even one of the crowd, rushing to the scene, would spot him. Perhaps in another moment he would be on his feet . . .

  Suddenly a rug was flung over his head. Sammy gasped. Now even if the fog lifted a little, no one would be able to see him – he was just a lump under the blanket, between the man and the horse’s head.

  A sob tore Sammy’s throat. What was happening to poor Mutsy? He could not bear the thought that Mutsy might be dead. He must be alive, he told himself.

  If the dog were still alive, could he find Sammy? If he were walking, or the man just dragged him along the road; that would have been all right. Mutsy had a wonderful nose and Alfie had often played a game where Tom or Jack took Sammy out and Alfie released Mutsy five minutes later. The big dog never failed to track him down. That’s probably what he had done today – he had tracked Sammy to the Montgomery house and then run upstairs to join him once he began to sing. At the thought of the faithfulness of the poor dog, Sammy felt the tears welling up in his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. His throat swelled and the wire became almost more than he could endure.

  Mutsy would track him. If he were still alive, Mutsy would find him. Mutsy would kill this man; there was no doubt about that. He would kill him like a rat; seize hold of his throat and hold on until he was dead. Sammy concentrated again on the picture of Mutsy, getting up, shaking his poor sore head, and then putting his nose to the ground. Sammy cautiously moved his arm and shook his wrist so that his bleeding fingers were held free of the horse’s body. He had to make sure that he laid the trail for Mutsy to follow and that his blood would go drop by drop all along the pavement of Monmouth Street.

  And now the horse turned, turned to the left. Sammy curled and uncurled his fingers frantically to keep the blood flowing. His fingertips were wet, but was there enough blood to leave a trail?

  This was Long Acre. He could recognise the smell from the coachmaker shops that lined it – a smell of leather and polish and the sharp hot smell of melted metal from the yards behind the shops. Their cellar was near here. If only he didn’t have that wire around his throat. If only he could shout. Most of the people living around here – even those who worked in these posh shops – they all knew ‘blind Sammy’.

  Frantically he struggled, but it was no good. The man gave a sudden hard jerk to the wire and Sammy felt dizzy and sick. He was near death, he knew, and he forced himself to relax his throat so that more air could get in.

  Another turn. To the right, this time. Now Sammy was feeling a little better. He managed to get his two hands together. With the nails of his left hand he tore unmercifully at the open cuts on the fingers of his right hand. The blood flowed again and he managed to smear it over the handkerchief that Alfie had tucked into his pocket that morning . . . Would it work? The streets were wet and dirty and the smell of horse manure was overpowering. It seemed impossible that Mutsy should be able to follow him, but Sammy had confidence in his dog.

  ‘He seems to know if you’ve just passed down a street,’ Alfie had reported once. ‘Half the time, he doesn’t even sniff the ground. He just tears along.’

  Corners were the most important places, though. He had to show Mutsy that he had turned. Where was the man taking him? He was definitely turning the horse. They must be turning on to Drury Lane now. Sammy let the bloodstained handkerchief drop from his fingers. If Mutsy were still alive he might follow the clue.

&nb
sp; Drury Lane was full of people. Sammy could hear the voices – ordinary voices, complaining of the fog, talking about shopping, greeting each other, making jokes. He relaxed a little. Nothing would happen to him here. He risked slipping his left hand back underneath the rug. The grip on his neck had relaxed a little. Cautiously he inserted first one finger, then another, then another until he had three fingers between the skin of his neck and the sharp biting surface of the wire. If it were tightened now, he could resist for a while.

  And now they must be at the entrance to Russell Street. Sammy could smell the stench from the poor people’s burying ground at Drury Lane where the bodies were squashed in, one on top of the other. He tried not to flinch from the smell. Every movement he made brought a tightening jerk on the noose.

  They were going down the steep hill now. If he had not been held so firmly by the wire around his neck, Sammy would have tumbled over the horse’s head. They must be going into the Strand, he thought. This puzzled him. The Strand was always full of people. He could hear the hum as they approached. There were the shouts of the men selling hot pies, the noisy clopping of the horses’ hooves, the shrill, high voices of the newspaper sellers and once again the high-pitched squeal of a policeman’s whistle. Would the man turn left and go up the Strand towards St Paul’s Cathedral, or would he go in the opposite direction towards Charing Cross?

  But he did neither. He waited for a while, his horse at a standstill. Sammy’s heart beat fast. Perhaps the man was going to let him go. He would never dare to drop a dead body here, right under the noses of the crowd and of the police themselves; if he let him go, he would let him go alive. He hardly dared hope, but yet he did hope.