Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

  That got them going. Alfie listened in dismay. No more shuffling – those clowns started thundering down the aisles, rattling at seats, banging doors, calling out excitedly. Who could blame them? A shilling for a night’s performance and a whole pound just for finding a boy hiding in the theatre!

  Alfie bit his lip. A tiny corner of him regretted that he would never get the chance, now, to go on the boards at Covent Garden Theatre and hear an audience laugh and clap at his performance, but most of his mind was occupied with plans of how to get away from the hunt.

  ‘Sarah,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Is there any way that you could close the curtains on the stage for a few minutes?’

  Sarah did not reply. She was clever, Sarah was. Someone might be looking at her. He was sure that she had heard him and would do her best. While he was waiting, Alfie discarded the ragged old cloak, the bowler hat and the too-long trousers. All of these would slow him down. Impatiently, he shoved them all under the drum platform. He was going to strip off the waistcoat too, but it began to tear as he endeavoured to pull the fragile material from over his bulky, ragged jacket. He remembered Betty’s fear of her grandmother and decided to leave it for the moment. He would ease it off later when he had more time and shove it into his pocket. He spat on his hands and scrubbed at the paint on his face and lips and at the lamp-black around his eyes. Now he wouldn’t attract too much attention if he managed to escape on to the streets.

  A second later he heard a heavy tread and then the voice of the manager. ‘You haven’t seen a boy hiding anywhere, have you, girl?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Sarah earnestly. ‘He’s definitely not backstage. I’d have seen him. I’ve been washing and dusting and polishing up there for the past half an hour.’

  ‘And she’s very thorough at her work.’ That was the second Scotland Yard man, Officer Grey. He sounded amused by Sarah. He lifted his voice now and shouted, ‘Try the boxes, lads. No point in going backstage. Flush him out. Hey, you, hurry up with those lamps! The more light we have, the quicker we’ll find him.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ said Sarah. She was addressing the manager, now, thought Alfie. ‘Would you mind if I closed the curtains on the stage, sir? I want to get the dust off them.’ She brandished a feather duster on its long bamboo. Alfie could see it waving. He hoped this would work. Everything was getting very bright. It was time that he got a better hiding place. He shrank further back into the shadow of the drum.

  ‘Yes, yes, go on, but take care. Those curtains are new.’ The manager sounded more irritable by the minute.

  Alfie waited. Sarah had gone; he knew that. He wished that he could see whether the curtain was closed but it would be madness to raise his head. It seemed a long, long time before he heard something, but when he did the noise was unmistakable. The heavy curtains were swishing across the stage.

  Instantly Alfie acted. In a second he was up the steps. He pushed the trapdoor open and flung himself out of the hole and on to the stage.

  But as soon as he landed a figure moved from the wings and a voice spoke. ‘I thought you might do that again!’ And Alfie looked up and saw the manager, who reached down, grabbed a fistful of Betty’s waistcoat and held Alfie tight.

  ‘You murdered one of my actors,’ he said. ‘You’ll hang for this!

  CHAPTER 14

  HUNTED DOWN

  Alfie froze. There was no escape for him now.

  The manager raised his voice triumphantly. ‘I’ve got him!’

  There was a sudden silence. Feet stopped pounding. No one spoke. Alfie stood perfectly still; he took a deep breath, inhaling power into his muscles.

  Now was the last moment for escape. Alfie eyed the gantry, the framework of iron bars which crisscrossed the stage above his head. He had seen men swing down from it, hand over hand, and land in the centre of the stage.

  The curtains were jerked back impatiently by a Scotland Yard policeman.

  ‘Ah, Inspector Cutting!’ the manager said with satisfaction. He started to drag Alfie over towards the policeman who was pounding up the steps to the stage, but Alfie was ready, every fibre in his body alert. He exerted all his force to wrench himself free. And, as he had expected, the much-mended silk waistcoat ripped in half, leaving the manager holding a torn piece of material.

  Suddenly free, Alfie grabbed the curtain, hauled himself up, seized the lowest bar of the gantry, swung his body and hooked his knees around the metal. Now he was above the manager’s head.

  ‘Shoot him, shoot him!’ shouted the manager.

  ‘After him, men!’ yelled the Scotland Yard policeman and four of the younger clowns started to climb across the gantry – two in front of him, one to the right of him and one behind, with Alfie directly above the centre of the stage.

  Alfie had not expected this. He had forgotten that lots of clowns were acrobats, also. These four certainly were at home on the vast framework of iron bars. It was like a nightmare, up there in the strange, hot dimness, surrounded by grinning mouths, painted-on faces . . . Trapped! He could not go back or go forward.

  ‘Don’t move, boy, or I’ll shoot!’ roared Inspector Cutting, pointing his pistol at Alfie. ‘Go on, men. He’s only a kid. Grab him!’

  Alfie waited, crouched and tense. He grasped the bar above him and allowed his feet to swing clear. The first man that approached would get kicked in a very painful place, he promised himself grimly.

  ‘Arrest that girl. Look! She’s trying to sneak over towards him.’ The manager sounded hysterical. ‘She’s an accomplice! She was screening him from us in the pit and then she drew the curtain to give him a chance to escape by the trapdoor.’

  ‘Arrest her, Officer Grey,’ said Inspector Cutting.

  As all eyes turned towards Sarah, Alfie looked quickly around.

  Tied to one end of the gantry he saw a strong rope, looped up to keep it out of the way. It was used, he supposed, for actors to suddenly swoop down on to the stage – but Alfie did not want to go back down on to the stage, with its fiercely white limelight.

  He looked out across the body of the theatre. The boxes, where the rich and famous took their seats, lined both sidewalls of the Covent Garden Theatre, each with its own gas lamp. Almost all of the boxes on the left-hand side had been lit by now, but those on the right-hand side were still in darkness. If only he could get over there, get into one of them, he could duck from one box to another and escape.

  But was the rope long enough?

  Alfie took hold of the end of the rope, waiting for the right moment. Everyone was watching him and the four clowns were getting dangerously close.

  On the other hand, the nearer they were, the less likely it became that the police inspector from Scotland Yard would shoot. Alfie made himself wait another few nerve-racking seconds.

  ‘We’ll get him!’ shrieked one clown.

  ‘We’ll split the pound with you and your partner!’ screamed another.

  Alfie clutched the rope and looked out across the immense space between himself and the first of the boxes – the royal box where Queen Victoria had sat . . . was it only last night?

  And then he jumped.

  He swooped through the air, his legs kicking wildly. His bare feet met the edge of the box, tried desperately to hook over the side and failed.

  He swung back and felt himself falling . . . and crashed back down on to the stage. There was a tremendous thud; some boards with painted scenes upon them smashed to the ground. The manager swore, the clowns shouted from overhead, the inspector called out an order to ‘give yourself up in the name of the law’, but Alfie was on the move again.

  Picking himself up from the ground, still clutching the rope with an energy born of despair, he leapt up and swung out past the manager, past the inspector, past Sarah . . .

  This time he landed on a seat just in the middle of the pit.

  The inspector fired a shot. Alfie ducked down and it whistled over his head. He crawled along the floor, squeezing under the seats and moving rapid
ly from row to row. His mind was working furiously. How could he get out of this building? The Bow Street constable was guarding the door at the top of the aisle. He looked under the seats and could see some legs walking up the aisle in between the seats. He knew what was happening – small black shoes and skirt beside large shoes and a frock coat.

  Sarah, her bucket, mop and brooms abandoned, was walking up the aisle beside a Scotland Yard policeman. He hoped she would be able to talk her way out of trouble, but there was nothing that he could do to help her. He had enough problems himself. He risked a quick peep above the seat.

  The inspector was walking up the middle aisle, holding his gun at the ready and scanning each row. The manager was beside him, shouting at the lamplighter to hurry up and get the rest of the boxes lit up. Alfie curled up under a seat, tearing off the remains of the colourful silk waistcoat and the white shirt and tucking it under him. Now he would be hard to see as his own clothes were the same colour as the grimy surface of the pit. He made himself lie with his face turned inwards and cautiously smeared some of the dust and grit from the floor over the remains of Betty’s face paint.

  ‘He can’t have got out!’ The inspector sounded furious.

  ‘No, sir,’ the anxious voice of the Bow Street policeman came down the aisle. ‘No possibility, sir! Not even a mouse could get by me, here.’

  ‘Sir!’ That was one of the clowns, Alfie knew. He was talking in the professional squeaky voice. ‘Me and Toby can help you. I’ll claim that pound from you, sir, in a few minutes, I will if he’s still in the building. Wait and see if I do!’

  There was an excited bark and Alfie’s heart fell. He knew those little dogs that clowns used. Very well trained for all sorts of tricks! But this was a job that any dog could do.

  ‘Rats, Toby! Rats!’ The clown squeaked the words and the dog squealed with excitement.

  And Toby came skidding down the aisle, running in and out of the rows, jumping on seats, sniffing so loudly that he could be heard from yards away.

  And then he gave a triumphant bark.

  Alfie felt a cold, wet nose against his bare leg. He put out his hand reluctantly and stroked the dog, feeling the tiny, thin tail wagging frantically.

  It was all up with him.

  He could hear the thunderous footsteps of one policeman in the row behind him and another running rapidly along the row in front of him.

  He stood up and silently held out his hands as the Bow Street constable, at a signal from the inspector, slipped handcuffs over his wrists.

  ‘It’s Newgate prison for you, my lad,’ said Inspector Cutting.

  CHAPTER 15

  LIFE OR DEATH

  Sarah was still with Officer Grey in the foyer of the theatre when Alfie was led out. He didn’t look at her and she did not look at him. She had just sworn solemnly to the Scotland Yard man that she had never seen Alfie before in her life.

  ‘And a good, hard-working girl like you would know how wrong, how very wrong, and sinful it is to tell a lie,’ he had said, looking at her closely.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She had tried to throw a great note of sincerity into her voice and he had nodded.

  He seemed quite a nice fellow, she thought – educated, too, from the way that he spoke. But someone like him wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever understand the life that people like she and Alfie had to lead: the continual need to lie and even to steal in order to keep alive. On the cruel streets of London where no one cared about poor children any more than they cared about stray dogs, sin wasn’t important: survival was everything.

  ‘Well, off you go then,’ he said. ‘You’d better scarper. Don’t let me see you around here again, or I’ll be in trouble. With a bit of luck, the boss will forget all about you.’

  She nodded, hesitated, looked back at the theatre. ‘No use my going back for my money, I suppose,’ she said, endeavouring to keep her tone light and to prevent a note of bitterness from coming to the surface.

  The police officer grinned. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he said. ‘Here you are.’ He put his hand in his pocket, took out a sixpence and gave it to her. He gave a cautious look around. There was nobody near, but he still lowered his voice so that only she could hear him saying, ‘I owe you something for noticing the finger marks. It would be interesting if it turns out to be a man with a missing finger that murdered that actor, wouldn’t it? Do my career no end of good if I could pin it on someone. It’s obvious that the boy was working for someone. What interest would a street boy like that have in murdering an actor? No, he was paid to go on stage and distract attention while our friend with the missing finger made his getaway.’

  What about Alfie? wondered Sarah. He didn’t have a missing finger, so why was it all right for him to be arrested? But she didn’t dare say her thoughts aloud. Even a decent man like Officer Grey would have little concern for a street boy. She nodded, smiled and left him with a few grateful words. It was nice of him to give her sixpence – you could buy a large loaf of bread for fourpence so that should be enough for the three hungry boys at Bow Street.

  Life for Alfie and his gang was a matter of surviving from day to day. But how would they manage now that their leader had been taken off to prison?

  CHAPTER 16

  AN OLD FRIEND

  Sarah walked slowly down the steps from the theatre. A sob escaped her. She clenched her hands. Crying was stupid; she knew that. She had to think of something to do. It was all up to her now. But what was she to do?

  ‘Here! You’re little Sarah, aren’t you? Little Sarah from the Foundling Hospital, that’s right, ain’t it?’

  Sarah shook the tears from her eyes and looked up. A very tall girl with masses of golden, curly hair stood above her. She was five or six years older than Sarah – probably about eighteen. There was something familiar about the voice – and about the hair, too.

  ‘You are Sarah!’ said the girl. ‘Don’t you remember me – Rosa? Don’t you remember me brushing your hair?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Sarah with a smile. ‘You’ve changed, Rosa.’ Rosa had been one of the big girls in the Foundling Hospital for abandoned children at Coram Fields. She had been very kind to Sarah, playing with her as if she was a doll, doing her hair but also making sure that none of the other older girls stole Sarah’s food.

  ‘Well, you haven’t changed,’ said Rosa cheerfully. ‘Still the same little skinny Sarah. I’d know those big green eyes anywhere. You haven’t grown much, either, have you? What are you doing with yourself these days?’

  ‘I’m in service,’ said Sarah, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I’ve a job as a scullery maid.’

  ‘Skivvy, eh – I tried that for a while. No future in it. Then a gentleman got me a place in the chorus here at Covent Garden and now I’m a leading lady, if you please.’

  ‘Oh, you were in the play last night! I saw it. I didn’t recognise you!’

  ‘Didn’t get a chance to do my solo act,’ said Rosa, ‘what with that murder and all. You see’d that murder, did you?’

  Sarah nodded and then thought of Alfie. Her eyes began to fill up again.

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you hungry? Come on, we’ll have a cup of hot chocolate at the stall there. I’m supposed to be meeting my young man, Francis, but he can wait.’

  Sarah sat up with a start. What was it that Alfie had said about Francis Fairburn, and Harry Booth taking his girlfriend away from him? Rosa must be the girlfriend! Now she could learn more about both men. She waited until Rosa had pressed the mug of hot chocolate into her hand then followed her meekly as Rosa moved away from the counter and sat down at a small table beside a brazier of hot coals.

  ‘Oh, Rosa, is Francis Fairburn your young man? He’s ever so handsome,’ said Sarah. She hadn’t ever seen Francis Fairburn, but even at twelve, Rosa had been eager to talk about handsome boys, and Sarah wanted to encourage her to speak.

  ‘He’s mad about me,’ said Rosa with a giggle. ‘For a while, Harry Booth – you k
now, the bloke that was murdered – for a while I went out with him, but then I went back to Francis Fairburn.’

  ‘Which did you like best?’ asked Sarah. It was easy to put on an innocent air with Rosa. As they sat there, side by side, sipping their hot chocolate, it was like being back in the Foundling Hospital again.

  ‘Oh, definitely Francis,’ said Rosa. ‘Harry Booth was a nasty piece of work. That’s a terrible thing to say about someone who’s dead, but he was always sneaking around and finding out things about people and then asking for money to keep quiet about it. No, I soon went back to Francis.’ She sipped her drink and gave a half-giggle. ‘It’s a terrible thing to say,’ she repeated, ‘but me and Francis were cuddling and kissing in the wings just at that very moment that Harry Booth was killed.’

  This seemed to put Francis Fairburn out of the picture, Sarah thought. Rosa wouldn’t bother lying to her little friend from the old days.

  ‘Who do you think did it, Rosa?’ she asked. ‘I heard someone say when I was cleaning the floor in there that a man called John Osborne did it.’

  Rosa pursed up her red lips. ‘Could be,’ she admitted. ‘But they say that someone sneaked in and put poison in the glass without anyone noticing it. Well, if you ever see’d John Osborne, you’ll never forget his face. Someone would have noticed him. No, I think it was probably one of them clowns. With the costume and all that make-up you can’t tell one from the other. They was all lined up there and moving about and changing places. No one would have noticed one of them slipping behind the curtains.’ She looked carefully at Sarah and then said sharply, ‘Here, why are you so interested?’

  ‘Everyone is interested in that murder,’ said Sarah, trying to smile, but Rosa continued to look at her suspiciously.

  ‘Don’t you lie to me, young Sarah,’ she said with authority. ‘Come on now, tell the truth. You’re holding something back, ain’t you?’