‘Sorry about that,’ said Alfie, licking the remains of the custard from his fingers. Joey was the leader so he addressed himself to him. ‘I thought I’d have no chance unless I cottoned on to a flash act like yours.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Joey in a stately way after a few seconds where he seemed to be turning over matters in his mind. After all, thought Alfie, watching him hopefully, they had got the job and most of the others had been turned away.
‘That was a good idea, the custard pie one,’ said Lucky, cheerful again. ‘Never saw no one eat one of them things before. It’ll stick in your stomach like a bar of lead. Still, you’re young!’
‘Tasted good to me,’ said Alfie. If only they had another pie he would have eaten that too.
‘He’s a sour old so-and-so that manager, ain’t he?’ Lucky had turned away from Alfie and addressed himself to Joey.
‘Not surprising.’ Joey gave a quick look around but all the rest of the clowns had gone from behind the stage – even the policeman had moved away and was now prowling the gallery, peering under seats in the vain hope of discovering a reason for the murder.
‘Not surprising,’ he repeated. ‘They say that the theatre is going to go broke. If this rioting goes on for many more nights and audience numbers keep dropping off, then he’ll be bankrupt and that will be the end of him and of all his fine ideas. He’ll be locked up in a debtors’ prison.’
‘There are too many of them theatres, these days,’ said Lucky, shaking his head in a gloomy way. ‘Stands to reason they can’t all make money. Look at Drury Lane Theatre – only a stone’s throw from Covent Garden. One or other of them should shut down and then the other could make a decent living. I heard they’re in a bit of trouble too – that bloke at Drury Lane, that manager – he’s in bad trouble – that’s what I heard anyways.’
And then with a nod at him they both went off, leaving Alfie to sit on a box backstage and wait for the evening show.
Things were looking better for him. The custard and rock-hard pastry had filled his stomach and the theatre was packed with clowns. No one would notice him.
Even so, he wished that he were back in the cellar with his gang and his faithful Mutsy.
But this murder would have to be solved and Alfie had to put all of his brains to work. He now had the names of two people who might have murdered Harry Booth. There was Francis Fairburn, who was in love with this Rosa, but she preferred Harry Booth – and then there was the other fellow, John Osborne. That was more serious. Harry Booth had slashed his face with a knife and destroyed his good looks.
Or could the murder have anything to do with the sour-faced manager, who was worried about money? Could Harry Booth have had some responsibility for the riots that threatened to shut down the theatre? Was Harry Booth trying to make sure that no more seats were sold for Covent Garden Theatre? If that happened the manager would go bust!
Was going bankrupt and having to be locked up in a debtors’ prison enough reason to commit murder?
Alfie thought it was.
Prison was a dreadful thing. And that’s where he would be heading if the true murderer wasn’t found soon!
CHAPTER 9
SAMMY IS PURSUED
When Sammy walked through London with his brother, Alfie always described the route and they often played a game where Sammy guessed the name of the street and Alfie told him if he was right. A correct guess meant that Sammy got a point, and a wrong guess meant that Alfie got a point. So Alfie tried to lead him into all sorts of strange places and Sammy got better and better at guessing.
Temple Bar was one of the easy places. That was at the top of the Strand and Sammy always recognised it because he could hear how the horse-drawn carriages and hansom cabs all slowed down here.
Mutsy was taking him past Temple Bar now, and they were passing the Temple Inns. Even on this foggy day Sammy could feel the wind from the River Thames on his right – not so much a wind, perhaps, as an increase in the cold damp striking against his cheek wherever there was a gap in the buildings.
The man still followed. From time to time, he dropped back – Mutsy walked fast and Sammy, holding securely to the knotted rope around the big dog’s neck, kept to his pace.
Now they were turning. Going uphill; their backs were to the river. And that was good. The air from the river was behind them – not much of an air movement, not even a breeze. But it was enough for Sammy. The smell of leather, wool and cigars drifted up to him.
The man was still behind, still following.
Smithfield market was crowded as usual. The thunder of cartwheels, the neighing of horses, the squealing of pigs, the frantic bellowing of cattle, the cackle of geese, the crowing of cocks, the shouts, yells and continuous cries of ‘Come, buy! Come, buy!’ filled the air.
Smells, too! Smithfield was full of them. Thousands of animals dropped filth on the ground: there was an appalling stench from everything. There was no way that Sammy could either hear or smell the stranger with the squeaky voice. He would just have to hope that the man would be too repulsed by the place and would go away, or decide to try again on another day.
The problem was Mutsy.
Poor Mutsy – he was clever, but not as clever as his young master. Sammy grimaced. There was no way that he could make Mutsy understand that he wanted to lose himself among the great swathe of beasts. Mutsy was very protective of Sammy and carefully made sure that he kept him away from danger.
So he took Sammy away from the noise and confusion of the animal market and towards the stalls around the west side of Smithfield where no cattle, pigs or sheep were allowed. Sammy had to go along helplessly, not daring to let go of the knotted rope around Mutsy’s neck.
And then an arm seized his. A voice spoke in his ear. ‘I’m afraid that you are lost, young man! I don’t believe that you live anywhere near here at all. You are playing games with me, aren’t you? Come with me and I’ll get you out of here.’
The stranger had Sammy in his power!
Was there any way that he could get free of him?
Sammy didn’t know what to do. How could he make Mutsy understand that he didn’t want this man? Mutsy was used to charitable strangers taking into their heads that Sammy needed to be led across the road. Mutsy would obey any order from Alfie or Sammy. Sammy just had to say, ‘Seize him, Mutsy,’ and the dog would grab the man and hold him until ordered to let him go, but it was too dangerous.
The problem was that no one would listen to a poor boy. If a toff – and Sammy was sure that this man was a toff – spoke to a policeman in a posh accent and told him that Mutsy was dangerous, then the dog would probably be shot. He dared not risk it so he walked on silently, the dog on one side and the man on the other, allowing himself to be led. He would give it a few minutes, he thought, and after that he would twist suddenly, break free and start to run, relying on Mutsy to bring him safely through the crowds.
But then he suddenly became aware of something. Mutsy was on his right-hand side and the man on his left. This meant that it was the man’s right hand that held Sammy’s arm.
And there was something strange about that hand.
CHAPTER 10
SARAH LENDS A HAND
‘Are you telling me that Alfie has gone down to the theatre?’ Sarah gazed incredulously at Tom and Jack.
‘I wasn’t here,’ explained Jack. ‘Tom told me. Alfie got himself dressed up by Betty and his face painted and all that and then off he went.’
‘With that old cloak around him,’ supplemented Tom. ‘Sarah, you haven’t anything for me to eat, have you?’
‘No,’ said Sarah shortly. She didn’t get too much to eat herself. Today the food had been poor – burnt potatoes and a bit of watery gravy was all that was given to the scullery maid.
‘Well, I haven’t been able to get anything,’ complained Tom. ‘There was nothing that I could nick and everyone is just trying to get in out of the fog. I tried begging, but I didn’t get a halfpenny. I
couldn’t even borrow the crossing boy’s broom. He was hungry too. I’m fed up with this. I feel like going off and joining Maggie the Plucker’s pickpocket gang. At least she feeds them.’
‘And most of them end up in prison,’ said Jack. ‘And then she gets some new boys. She don’t care.’ He sounded irritable. Jack did not often argue with Tom.
‘Where’s Sammy?’ Sarah looked around the little cellar with concern. Sammy was usually comfortably tucked into the corner by the fire, but there was no sign of him.
‘Don’t know!’ Tom gave a shrug and then when Jack looked at him, he said reluctantly, ‘I had a look around but I couldn’t see him nowhere. I reckoned he had gone home by himself. He had Mutsy with him,’ he added hastily as he saw a look of anger on Sarah’s face. He addressed himself to his brother. ‘Jack, I’m hungry; goodness knows when Alfie will be back. He might kip down in the theatre for that matter. Bet he gets plenty to eat there! Can’t we take some money out of the rent box? We’ll put it back tomorrow.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘You know that Alfie says that must never be touched. Don’t let him do it, Jack. As for you, Tom, you should be ashamed of yourself. You go back out there and find Sammy. It’s time he was in, out of the fog. Anyway,’ she finished, looking at his furious face, ‘the chances are that Sammy has earned some money. You go and find him. Just keep asking if anyone has seen a blind boy singing with a big hairy dog beside him.’ There were plenty of blind boys in London, she knew, but Mutsy and Sammy made a fairly memorable pair.
After Tom had sulkily gone out, Sarah sat down and warmed her hands by the fire. She wasn’t too worried about Sammy – Sammy had plenty of initiative; if one place didn’t work, he would move on to another. Tom was so idle that he hadn’t bothered looking around, but made straight for home once he didn’t find Sammy immediately.
She was worried about Alfie, though. She, like he, had seen the posters. She, like he, realised the danger – that Alfie would be used as a scapegoat for a murder that happened right under the eyes of the Queen of England, herself.
But Alfie would not allow himself to fear. She knew his reckless nature. His disguise of a clown, she guessed, would not be very good. Betty was not too bright and she and her grandmother scratched a living by cobbling together some terrible old rags to make clothes that only the very poor would wear. No, sooner or later Alfie would be spotted. Even now he might be on his way to the cells at Bow Street.
How could she help? It wouldn’t do any good sitting by the fire sharing gloomy thoughts with Jack, or fighting with Tom, or, worse, going back to the small, dark, damp bedroom behind the scullery in the house where she worked. Inspector Denham had got her this job and he had persuaded the housekeeper to allow Sarah to stop work every day at six o’clock – in order to educate herself at the ragged school. The school was gone now, but Sarah still left every day at six. Often a sinkful of dishes would be there waiting for her when she returned, but it was worth it to escape for a while.
She would go down to Covent Garden Theatre. The performance would not start for another couple of hours. Judging by the state of the place last night they would need plenty of help to get everywhere spick and span by the time it opened.
It wasn’t hard. Sarah came to the back door, said that she was a scullery maid, and after being cross-examined on the name of her employer, their address and how many hours she worked and what sort of cleaning she was permitted to do, was offered sixpence for a couple of hours’ work.
‘You’d better start backstage,’ said a brisk woman. ‘The actors make such a fuss if the dressing rooms aren’t just so, but today all the regular staff have been too busy cleaning the boxes – you should have seen the mess on some of those beautiful carvings! Or the stalls, you wouldn’t believe it. Dreadful, it was! Disgraceful!’
Even more dreadful than murder? thought Sarah, firmly repressing a giggle. However, she silently picked up a broom, a mop and a feather duster and slotted them into a bucket. The woman followed her and watched for a while as she set to work cleaning the starring lady’s dressing room in as professional and efficient a way as she could.
After a few minutes the woman gave a nod. ‘I can see that you’re a good worker,’ she said. ‘If you want to come around tomorrow night, I can give you a couple of hours’ work again.’
‘What shall I do when I have finished the dressing rooms?’ asked Sarah meekly and was pleased when the woman told her to do the stage itself.
‘We’ve had the usual nonsense about clowns coming and doing their acts. What we want ten new clowns every night for, I couldn’t tell you! Anyway, one of the silly fellows let his custard pie slip down on to the floor and there’s that to clean up.’
Pity Mutsy isn’t here, though Sarah. He would enjoy cleaning a custard pie from the floor. Her mind went to Alfie. But she did not dare go to look for him. First of all those dressing rooms for the stars had to look as shiningly clean as she could make them.
By the time she got to the stage there was no sign of Alfie. He would have hidden himself, of course. Quickly she scrubbed the floor, praying that it would dry before the performance. At least it would be clean and no dust could rise up and spoil the throats of the singers. There were a few clowns sitting on the seats in the pit, talking quietly to each other. She wished that she could listen but the noise of her brisk scrubbing filled her ears and nothing could be heard above that.
And then her heart stopped for a moment.
Two policemen strode on stage, one carrying a small glass phial. The first policeman was saying something over his shoulder to the other. Sarah did not hear that but she paused, dipping her scrubbing brush into the bucket, and the reply was quite clear and distinct.
‘If we could just prove that he handled this, then he is as good as hanged!’
‘Nah,’ exclaimed the other man. ‘How could you prove a thing like that? These phials are ten-a-penny. Every chemist shop has a stack of them.’
‘Officer!’ There was a shout from the back and then a man appeared and walked down the aisle until he stood under the stage. It must be the manager, thought Sarah, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she wrung out the mop into her bucket. He had an air of authority and was very well dressed, in a shiny frock coat, tight black trousers strapped under his shoes and a snowy-white starched shirt.
‘Something interesting here,’ he went on, holding out a bundle of tickets. Each was just a half, torn off the night before, thought Sarah remembering Alfie’s tickets. ‘There’s been fraud,’ continued the manager. ‘Over half of the standing-place tickets given in for the pit and the gallery are not the right ones. Someone has printed fake tickets with our name on them. Come and see for yourselves.’
‘Well, that is interesting,’ said the first policeman. He seemed cheered at the prospect of something to do. ‘Come on,’ he said to the second policeman, who was still staring at the glass phial. ‘Leave that there.’ He looked after the manager who was now striding up the aisle, lowered his voice and said in an undertone that only Sarah could have heard, ‘For goodness’ sake, stop looking at that thing. You know our orders. Arrest that boy. He’ll be convicted as easy as anything. And when he’s hanged there’ll be one varmint less in London.’
CHAPTER 11
SILENT WITNESS
‘Sarah,’ said a voice cautiously.
Sarah whirled around. The dustpan slipped from her hand – most of its contents landing on the small table by the wall.
‘Alfie, you startled me!’ Sarah looked with dismay at the layer of dust now covering the table. Even Alfie’s strange appearance with his clown make-up, his jacket plainly visible under the patched waistcoat and worn-out shirt and the baggy trousers drooping down over his skinny hips did not draw a smile from her.
Anxiously and carefully, Sarah edged the dust back into the pan. She didn’t want the clean floor to get dirty again. In her job as a scullery maid a mistake like that would earn her a blow from an uppe
r servant. She gave a quick glance around; luckily there was no one watching. She just had to get everything shining again as soon as possible.
‘Sarah,’ whispered Alfie. ‘There are two people working here who might have had a motive to murder Harry Booth – two chaps that hated him. Harry Booth scarred the face of one of them – John Osborne was his name. The other was Francis Fairburn – Harry Booth stole Francis Fairburn’s girl and then there’s the theatre manager – he’s someone that we’ll have to investigate as well . . .’
‘Wait till I do this and then we can —’ Suddenly Sarah stopped.
The dust from the floor of the stage was made up of a mixture of grime and of varnish ground to a pale grey, fine powder by feet: feet striding the stage, feet fidgeting, feet walking, feet dancing and feet running. This fine powder from her dustpan had fallen on the table, but it had also covered the glass phial.
And outlined by the dust were the prints of greasy fingers; a broad thumb on one side and, on the other side, three fingers.
Sarah stared at the glass phial. She opened her mouth to speak and then turned her head in alarm at the sound of a door opening noisily.
‘Shh, they’re coming back,’ she whispered. ‘That’s a policeman. Quick, hide – go now.’
Alfie was gone in a flash, sliding between the two halves of the curtain, his bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. By the time the policeman appeared, she was alone on the stage.
Sarah was trembling. She was pleased to feel her knees shake and hoped that she looked even paler than usual when one of the two policeman came back down the aisle between the seats. Sarah did not try to hide, but waited for him with her head hanging. Now was the moment for her performance on stage. She hoped it would be a convincing one.
Murder on Stage Page 4
