Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Make big circles around my eyes,’ ordered Alfie. ‘Giant-sized ones! Make me look like the devil . . .’ He tried to remember what the clergyman had said about the devil when he had gone to church with Sammy once. Something about him roaming the earth with a mouth like fire and eyes like smouldering coals – that would be the right look, he thought with satisfaction. ‘Make me a huge red mouth,’ he said, baring his teeth.

  ‘There,’ said Betty after a few minutes. ‘That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry, Alfie, I must go. You know what Grandmother is like. When Tom come I told her that he had a message to say that a place on Bloomsbury Street had thrown out some old clothes. She’ll be expecting me back any minute. I’ll have to tell her that it was all old rags.’

  She didn’t wait for his answer but seized her basket and slipped out of the door.

  After she had gone Alfie took up his father’s old cloak from the ground and put it around his shoulders. Then he put on the bowler hat. In spite of the hole, it would keep his head warm.

  But his bare feet were freezing. He crouched down upon the stone floor, tucked his feet under him, wrapped his two arms around him, hunched his shoulders, sank his chin down upon his chest – and shivered. And then, extraordinarily, he must have fallen asleep. He woke with a start. The bells of St Martin-in-the-Fields chimed the call to vespers.

  Alfie jumped to his feet. He had little interest in churches, but one thing every Londoner knew was that once one bell started then every bell in the neighbourhood followed. He had better get out of here, he thought, and grabbed the door handle.

  But he was too late.

  Heavy footsteps were tramping down the path. Voices raised.

  ‘No, constable, haven’t seen no boy around here. Ask the Punch and Judy folk. They’re just packing up now.’

  And then the door was pulled open.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER?

  Sammy knew that someone was looking at him. Nobody, not even Alfie, knew how Sammy could do this. He had been blind from the time that he was a tiny child, completely and absolutely blind, but somehow the sense that had been taken away from him had left him with his other senses sharpened to an almost supernatural degree. His sense of smell was extraordinary. His hearing was pin-sharp. He knew every step, every cough – and could identify most of the people around by some combination of hearing and smell.

  And, perhaps by some sixth sense, Sammy, like a dog, could tell whether someone meant harm, or meant good.

  And this person, he reckoned, meant harm.

  Who was it? A man, guessed Sammy. Somehow the restless movement seemed more like a man than a woman. He could hear something now, perhaps it was the creak of leather boots, and then the rubbing together of leather gloves, the faint whiff of cigar smoke – yes, decided Sammy, it definitely was a man.

  But what did he want? He was standing nearby – not too close. The song had ended. The man had not put anything in the cloth cap on the ground. Even if Sammy had missed the fall of a coin into the empty cap, Mutsy would have wagged his tail – he always wagged a polite thank you when anyone gave coins – and that would have been impossible to miss. Mutsy had a very long tail and it was fringed with tangled plumes of long hair. When Mutsy wagged his tail, it was like a storm wind rising and fanning everyone in the near vicinity.

  Why was the man interested in him? A blind boy singing? Was it the song? Sammy sang it again, hopefully. Perhaps now a coin would fall.

  But nothing happened.

  Sammy could not understand. He had begun to feel a little uneasy.

  And then he heard the man take a few steps towards him.

  For a moment nothing was said – none of the usual, ‘You have a beautiful voice, what’s the name of that song?’ or, occasionally, some charitable person, ‘Aren’t you cold singing out here in this weather?’

  This man said nothing. What did he want?

  And then he spoke, a strange voice. ‘Is that your dog?’ was what the man said.

  Sammy felt relieved. So the man was just admiring Mutsy.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said.

  ‘Clever dog.’ The man had come nearer now. The smell of fine cloth, good leather and of expensive cigars was more distinct. This was a toff; Sammy was sure of that.

  But he didn’t speak like a toff. He spoke like a cockney – like a cockney, but with a strange high-pitched voice. He puzzled Sammy.

  ‘Can do a bit of juggling, that dog, isn’t that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Sammy. He wished that Alfie were here. Alfie would have enjoyed this. The man was no more a cockney than Queen Victoria herself. A cockney would have said: ain’t that so, not isn’t that right?

  ‘I’ve seen him with another boy. Your brother was it?’

  And now, suddenly, Sammy knew who the man was. What had Alfie said: Funny voice – a bit squeaky, like. This was the mysterious stranger who had given Alfie the tickets.

  But why did he want Alfie? Was it just to give him the promised shilling? Or was there some other reason?

  Why had this man arranged a riot to happen minutes before Harry Booth was murdered?

  ‘You might as well go home. I’ll go with you. I want to see your brother.’ The squeaky-voiced stranger broke through Sammy’s thoughts. ‘No harm,’ the voice continued. ‘No harm to him, none at all. Just want to have a word with him.’

  And it was that expression, no harm that made Sammy’s mind up. Why say that?

  ‘Just going, sir,’ he said. He fumbled on the ground, felt Mutsy’s cold nose guiding his hand, picked up the cap, held it in front of his face and behind its cover, put his mouth close to Mutsy’s hairy ear and said in a whisper quieter than a sigh, ‘Smithfield, Mutsy’, then he straightened up and took a firm grasp of the knotted rope around Mutsy’s neck.

  ‘Don’t you have to give him some order?’ Did the man sound curious – or perhaps slightly uneasy, tense, maybe?

  Sammy laughed in a natural way. ‘Mutsy knows what to do,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll follow you, then,’ said the high-pitched voice.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sammy. Smithfield market with its hundreds of people, hundreds of stalls, hundreds of animals would be a good place to get lost.

  Sammy certainly was not going to lead this man to the cellar in Bow Street.

  Alfie had been seen on the stage; this man might be planning to hand him over to the police. Or worse.

  Sammy did some hard thinking. Could this man have anything to do with the murder on the theatre stage?

  Could he, perhaps, be the murderer?

  Sammy had once met a murderer and he knew one thing.

  A man who has murdered once will murder again.

  CHAPTER 7

  ON THE RUN

  Alfie knew there was no way that he could escape. Even if he could get past the bell-ringer, there was still the policeman outside – not far away. He shrank into the corner and turned his face towards the wall.

  And then a beam of light lit up the wall ahead of him. It was no good. He had been seen. He turned around slowly. The man had a bull’s eye lantern in his hand and he was shining it directly at Alfie.

  But the man did not call out. Why not?

  In a second, Betty’s story about the devil flashed through Alfie’s mind. He bared his teeth, picturing the effect of his huge red mouth and the black-circled eyes. He did not move, just stayed very still. The man backed away, and then turned and fled. Alfie was tempted to follow him, but didn’t. Surely the fellow would come to his senses if he saw Alfie run.

  Instead he reached out, seized the bell rope and slowly clanged out the hour – four strokes – that was what the bell from St Martin’s had pealed.

  When the echo from the last bell died away, Alfie peered out. There was no sign of the man. The devil ringing the church bell had just finished him off, thought Alfie with a grin. He slipped along beside the wall.

  ‘I saw him, your reverence! I saw him as plain as I see y
ou. And he rang the bell! I didn’t ring the bell! The devil himself did that!’ The man’s voice was trembling. Alfie grinned to himself as he crept silently along in the shadow of the wall.

  ‘Have you been drinking, man?’

  Alfie crammed a knuckle into his mouth to stop himself giggling. He saw the queue of clowns as soon as he rounded the corner. It was even bigger than last night’s. The news of the murder had not put anyone off. On the contrary, it had brought fifty or sixty others, all dressed as clowns and all eager to have a part in this notorious theatre. Alfie joined them. He looked nervously at the costumes and the face paint. Everything looked so much more professional than his. Even to himself, when he looked down, he thought that he looked pretty shabby.

  There were no policemen around, luckily. It was getting dark and in the vegetable market the stallholders were placing their unsold wares into carts, barrows and baskets. Alfie kept his father’s bowler hat pulled well down over his face; he had glimpsed an old enemy, a woman called Mary Robinson, and he had no wish to encounter her.

  A lot of the clowns were quite elderly, he thought. They would not be as good as Alfie when it came to turning somersaults and juggling. On the other hand, they might be better at telling jokes.

  Still, he had many times managed to hold an audience at a street corner on wet and foggy days, so surely he would be as good as these old fellows.

  That’s if he got a chance to perform. The queue seemed to move very slowly.

  He was beginning to get worried when the church bells chimed for the half hour. Would he even get a chance to prove how good he was?

  ‘Always had his nose in other people’s business; that was Harry Booth for you.’

  Two clowns, dressed alike except that one had green spangles and a blue wig, and one red spangles and an orange wig, were ahead of him in the queue. They had been chattering about various theatres – Drury Lane, The Royal at Haymarket and the Lyceum on the Strand. They seemed to know a lot about these places, but Alfie had lost interest and had stopped listening until he heard the last words.

  ‘That was Harry,’ agreed the clown with green spangles.

  Alfie held his breath and willed them to go on. What was it that Sammy had said? Might have been a blackmailer, mightn’t he?

  ‘Reckon that’s what done for him,’ the first clown said gloomily. ‘Pushed someone a bit too far, that’s what he did – he would always want the extra few shillings. You mark my words, Lucky.’

  ‘You’re right, Joey,’ agreed Lucky. After a minute’s silence he said with an air of surprise. ‘What would you say to that Francis Fairburn – they say that he was furious with Harry Booth on account of the fact that he stole his girl, Rosa . . . he’s working here and all.’

  Alfie feared that would be the end of the conversation – but Joey was still chewing over the sensational murder.

  ‘More likely that other business with that actor that done for him – you know that baby-faced cove – the fellow that used to act all the smart-young-man-about-town parts? What was his name, Lucky?’

  Some other clowns ahead in the queue turned around and listened with interest. They all seemed very friendly with each other – knew each other’s names and shared each other’s memories. The chatter in the queue was mostly along the lines of ‘Do you remember . . .’ or ‘What’s he doing now?’

  Lots of them were in pairs and each member of the pair was dressed similarly to the other, noticed Alfie, feeling rather depressed about his own outfit. One clown had short bright blue trousers, reaching just between the knee and ankle, a violently red blazer and a yellow shirt with an enormous bow tie and his friend was the same except his trousers were red and his blazer blue. Most had frilly sleeves peeping from under their jackets and all had fuzzy wigs and strange hats. It was a strange sight to see all of those blank white faces, red mouths and circled eyes listening so intently to the conversation about Harry Booth.

  ‘You talking about John Osborne?’ enquired Lucky.

  ‘That’s the one. You remember what happened. Harry Booth was supposed to come on stage and pretend to slash his face with a knife. Usual business. Harry slashes, John Osborne screams, John Osborne claps a handkerchief full of red stuff to his face, takes it away, drips blood, faints, young lady faints . . .’

  ‘All the usual routine,’ agreed a man in front.

  ‘Ah, but it wasn’t, you see,’ retorted Joey, who seemed to have become quite jolly with the audience that he had listening to his story. Even more clowns, from further up the queue, had now turned around and were listening intently. Joey looked from face to face and then hissed dramatically.

  ‘It wasn’t the same old routine at all, because the blood was real, the cuts on the face were real and the knife was not a wooden knife, painted grey. It was a real knife and it had an edge on it as sharp as a razor.’

  ‘Harry Booth denied it, of course.’ Lucky decided to lend a hand.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Joey. ‘Wouldn’t you? Swore that he didn’t know that the knife had been changed. He got someone to say that he hadn’t been near the stage after the props were put out, so it all stayed a mystery. The fact remained that John Osborne never got another chance to play the smart-young-man-about-town parts. A few of them went to Harry Booth, so I suppose he got some luck from the . . .’ He paused and then said in that strange high-pitched voice that all the clowns used, ‘. . . from the unfortunate mistake.’ And then he did a little dance and slapped hands with Lucky.

  Everyone laughed heartily. Alfie began to think that Joey, despite his long face and his lugubrious manner, might be one to get a job. He was quite a comic.

  What about himself? Did he have a chance? He looked down at his costume and blushed – perhaps it might have been better to have put the waistcoat under the jacket – but the waistcoat was made for an enormously fat man. It would just look silly. At least the jacket bulked it out a bit. He gazed dubiously down at the long baggy trousers and his bare feet. The other clowns did have ridiculous trousers, but they weren’t barefoot; they had enormous shoes tied with enormous laces. Perhaps he should give up the idea, he thought, pulling the over-sized cloak more tightly around him. Perhaps he should just slink away; lie low for a while.

  And then Lucky spoke again. ‘What happened to John Osborne, Joey?’ he asked.

  ‘Got a job here.’ Joey jerked his head at the theatre. ‘Stagehand.’ He looked around expectantly and Lucky obliged him. His voice was low and dramatic when he stated to his eager audience, ‘So John Osborne was here last night when Harry Booth fell dead on the stage.’

  CHAPTER 8

  A THEATRE FULL OF CLOWNS

  Alfie stood behind the curtain and peered through. He was standing in exactly the same place as the murderer had stood the night before, he thought. A policeman was poking around in the background, but Alfie ignored him. He had been a bit nervous in the beginning but then he realised that the man, by now, was sick of clowns and was quite uninterested in any of them.

  Joey and Lucky were in the middle of their act. Eight clowns had already been chosen and only two more places remained. Alfie felt worried. He hadn’t realised that clowns needed to be in groups. At least, all of the previous acts had been clowns in twos or threes.

  Joey and Lucky were not doing too well. It wasn’t much of an audience – just one man sitting out in the front stalls of the theatre – and that one man didn’t laugh, clap, or cheer. He just sat there and stared, in a bored way, at the stage. Alfie looked across the stage at him. He almost felt like going home. If the manager looked so bored by these two experienced clowns, then there would be no hope for him.

  And then suddenly an idea came to him. He thought about it for a second and then decided to do it. Already the manager had turned to take up the white handkerchief that was the signal for the act to stop and the next set of clowns to come on stage. Joey and Lucky were not going to get the job. He might as well try.

  And he would wear his cloak and his bowler h
at. He didn’t have the tall, pointed hat that the other clowns wore and now that he looked at his outfit – the man’s waistcoat with the blackened, tattered jacket showing though it, the man’s baggy trousers sliding down over his hips and displaying his own ragged trousers – well, the whole outfit was useless.

  Unless he was something different . . .

  He would be a tramp! A clown-tramp!

  Rapidly Alfie ran on to the stage.

  ‘Good evening, my masters,’ he said in Joseph Bishop’s rough, hoarse voice.

  Joey and Lucky both gave him furious glances, but he ignored them. As they carried on with their routine, he danced around behind them, copying everything they did, echoing everything they said, deliberately hitching at the too-big trousers, clutching at his bowler hat and falling over the too-long cloak. When they began to juggle, he kept throwing himself at the balls in the air. If he missed, he stuck his finger through the hole in his bowler hat and mimed despair, grimacing violently at the bars of the metal gantry overhead.

  When Joey threw a custard pie at Lucky, Alfie launched himself between the two men, caught it and immediately began to eat it. The pastry was rock hard and the custard lumpy, but to Alfie, who had not eaten for almost two days, it tasted fantastic. He was determined to finish it before he got thrown out. Joey gave an indignant shout and charged across the stage towards him, but Alfie took off his bowler hat and slung it hard. It hit Joey in the middle and he dropped to the ground, groaning loudly. Just fooling, thought Alfie as he hastily gobbled down the last mouthful. Joey had decided to go along with the new man in their act.

  And at that moment came a laugh from the manager and a shout of, ‘You’ll do! We’ll take all three of you for tonight.’

  And then he got to his feet and shouted, ‘David, tell the rest to go away. We’ve got enough now.’

  ‘Who do you think you are? Muscling in like that?’ Lucky rounded furiously on Alfie as soon as they were backstage.