Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

  Sarah twisted her fingers together, trying to make up her mind. Her own mother had abandoned her when she was a tiny baby – left her outside the Foundling Hospital – and Rosa was the nearest thing to a mother that she had ever had.

  And she sounded just like a mother now, thought Sarah. She tried to give a casual smile but then the tears welled up again.

  ‘Oh, Rosa,’ she said, taking a large gulp of the hot chocolate in order to prevent a sob escaping, ‘the police have arrested a friend of mine, Alfie – the boy that ran on stage when Harry Booth died. Alfie didn’t do it, but now they’ve taken him off to prison. I have to find out who really did kill Harry Booth. Oh, Rosa, you know all of these people. Will you help me? Please, Rosa, for old times’ sake.’

  Rosa took a long drink of the hot chocolate, keeping both eyes fixed on Sarah’s face as she drank. Eventually she drained the last drops, put down the mug, looked carefully all around and then said quietly, ‘I’ll ask around to see who was near to the curtains at the time, but I’ll be keeping one thing in my mind, and you remember it too, young Sarah. Whoever killed Harry Booth will be having both ears open to see if anyone is asking questions.’

  Sarah nodded but Rosa hadn’t finished. Her voice sank even lower as she added slowly, ‘They say in St Giles that no one kills only once. The more you kill, the easier it gets – that’s what they say.’

  CHAPTER 17

  TREACHERY UNCOVERED

  The fog was still thick when Sarah came out of Covent Garden market. She hurried along Bow Street, feeling her way along the wall, keeping to the inside of the pavement. The few horses and cabs that were out were blundering around, unable to see the road and occasionally running up against pedestrians. The gas lamps cast no light on the pavements, but were just misty globes of glimmering yellow in the darkness above their heads.

  Sarah stopped at a shop and bought a loaf of bread and some milk. She felt a great sense of responsibility for the gang now that Alfie was gone. He was always careful to stop them from drinking water. His mother had died of cholera – a disease which had ripped through the neighbourhood from drinking water poisoned with the sewage that had seeped into it.

  The fire was glowing through the dirty window of the boys’ cellar. Suddenly she found her face wet with tears. Would Alfie ever come home again? She dashed the wetness from her cheeks, swallowed hard and then rapped on the door. Sammy was back, anyway; Mutsy’s deep bark had sounded as she came down the steps and now he was sniffing so loudly that it almost seemed as though he wanted to draw her in through the door on one deep intake of breath.

  Jack was absent, but Tom was there, a very subdued Tom who seemed almost disappointed to see her. Perhaps he was still sulking after her rough words earlier. She decided to ignore him and talk to Sammy.

  ‘So Tom found you, then, Sammy, is that right?’ Sarah sat down beside him. How would the blind boy manage without his brother? The thought would not go from her mind and she bit her lip to prevent a sob.

  ‘Nah,’ said Sammy in his peaceful way, ‘Mutsy and I got home by ourselves.’

  ‘I looked every place,’ said Tom defensively. There was something strange about his tone. Sarah glanced at him, but the fire was low and the room almost in darkness.

  ‘Where were you, then, Sammy?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Me and Mutsy went to Smithfield. I had to leave the Strand. There was a bloke, some sort of toff, I reckon – the same fellow as gave Alfie the tickets, I’d say, because he spoke the way that Alfie said, sort of disguising his voice – funny sort of voice. Well, he kept asking me where Alfie was and if I could lead him to my brother. I reckoned he was up to no good so I whispered to Mutsy to bring me to Smithfield – to throw him off the scent, like.’

  ‘Did he follow you, pester you any more?’

  ‘He followed me all right,’ agreed Sammy. ‘He had me by the arm, but then the chestnut seller came up and asked me to sing. He let go me then. He didn’t ask any more questions, but I could smell him there for a long time – watching me . . .’

  ‘What did he smell like?’ Sarah found nothing strange in this; she knew Sammy’s special powers.

  ‘Like I said, a toff – cigars, leather gloves, good cloak, good wool in it.’ Sammy was quite casual.

  There was a faint sound from Tom. Sarah turned to him. ‘Are you all right, Tom?’ He had crept over and was now sitting on the stone edge of the fireplace. She noticed that he was shivering. ‘Are you feeling sick?’ she asked with concern. By the light of the fire she could see that he looked white and hollowed-eyed.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ she asked.

  Tom nodded, suddenly seeming younger than his usual self. ‘A pie,’ he said, shuddering. ‘I sicked it all up.’

  ‘A pie!’ she echoed with astonishment. ‘Where did you get a pie?’

  He hesitated, shrugged and looked back into the flames before answering. ‘Someone gave it to me, same as someone gave Sammy a plate of chestnuts.’ His tone was bitter.

  ‘How did you know that I had chestnuts?’ Sammy sounded mildly surprised.

  ‘Saw you, didn’t I?’ Tom tried to sound aggressive, but the teeth were rattling in his mouth.

  ‘Was you in Smithfield, then?’ Sammy sounded mildly curious, but Sarah immediately became suspicious.

  ‘Who gave you the pie?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice even and indifferent.

  He shrugged again. Always trying to act the tough man, Sarah thought. Alfie was a bit hard on him, perhaps. In Alfie’s eyes, Tom should be like Sammy: sensible and hard-working. They were much of an age, but Tom seemed younger than Sammy in all sorts of ways. Alfie resented Tom, had always resented him. Alfie’s mother had taken her nephews Jack and Tom in when their mother had died, and it seemed she had always favoured Tom over Jack, and even over her own two sons sometimes. According to Alfie, Tom had never given up thinking that he was something special.

  Sarah thought hard. Perhaps she could get the truth out of him by acting a motherly part.

  ‘Who gave it to you, Tom?’ she said in a low, sympathetic tone. She reached out her hand and stroked his hair.

  He moved away, but she sensed that he had been pleased by her gesture. He probably missed a bit of mothering.

  ‘Swear you won’t tell Alfie,’ he said and she nodded.

  ‘I got it from the cove who wanted to know where Alfie was,’ he admitted. He took a quick look at her face and then said in a swaggering fashion. ‘I didn’t tell him nothing, of course. I took the pie and bolted.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sarah in a soothing manner. There was no point in saying anything else. She needed to get as much information as possible. If Alfie was ever to get out of Newgate, they would need to find out everything about the possible killer of Harry Booth.

  ‘So he gave you the pie and it didn’t agree with you, was that it?’ she asked softly. Sammy was listening, she thought. He had not turned his face towards them, but his whole body was alert. Mutsy also had not slumped down by the fire, but was sitting bolt upright, with his large intelligent head facing them.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Tom, sounding a bit more cheerful. ‘It was a great pie. If you smelt it, Sarah!’

  ‘But you couldn’t keep it down,’ said Sarah. ‘Perhaps it was bad, was it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Tom. But then his face darkened and he looked away from her.

  Sarah took a deep breath. She had to know the truth. ‘I suppose you felt upset that you told him about Alfie’s disguise,’ she said, keeping her voice calm.

  Tom stared at her. Sammy did not move, but Mutsy shifted his position, fixed his eyes on the blind boy’s face and put his paw on his lap. The dog sensed the blind boy’s distress. Sammy was prepared for the worst; Sarah knew that. She could go ahead and get the rest of the truth out of this stupid boy, Tom.

  ‘And he gave you a pie just for telling him about Alfie dressing up as a clown?’ she said, trying to make sure that her voice had a note of disbelief in
it.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t think there was any harm in it.’ He spoke with a self-righteous air which made her long to box his ears.

  ‘What did this toff look like?’ she said, and then, when he just shrugged, she said sharply, ‘Come on, Tom, Alfie is in trouble, we must do our best to help him.’

  ‘That’s Jack,’ said Tom and immediately bounded to his feet and rushed over to the door, anxious to get away from Sarah.

  ‘All right, Tom?’ Jack seemed to sense that something was wrong. He stayed a moment peering into his younger brother’s face and then hauled the quarter-filled sack of coal over to the fireplace. He was stone-cold and shivering. His bare feet were swollen with chilblains – his hands too, with monstrous fingers, where the knuckles were lost within the puffy red flesh. Sarah looked at him with pity. He was only a little more than a year older than Tom, but, like Alfie, Jack had been born with this sense of responsibility which made him take care of his younger brother.

  ‘Take my seat,’ she said to Jack. ‘Don’t put those feet of yours too near the fire. That will make them worse. I wish I had some ointment to put on them. They look really bad.’

  ‘They’re all right. I had to hang around the shoreline for ages. In this weather, every bit of coal seemed to have been picked up – even though I went into the river right up to the top of me legs. In the end, I had to wait for the evening boats.’ Jack’s voice was hoarse. He started to rub his itching toes, but then stopped himself.

  ‘Where’s Alfie?’ Jack looked all around. He looked worried.

  Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid there is bad news about Alfie,’ she said. ‘There were posters out saying that he was wanted for questioning about the murder. Scotland Yard were after him. Alfie dressed up as a clown – he thought he could pass as a small man acting the part of a clown and he went into the theatre.’ She paused and then said, picking her words carefully, ‘He might have got away with it, but someone laid information at Bow Street Police Station. They told the whole story – don’t know who did it – but whoever they were, they knew that Alfie had dressed up as a clown.’ She hesitated, but Jack had to know the truth. ‘The police took Alfie away.’

  Jack slumped down in front of the fire and put his head into his hands. Sammy was silent and Tom’s face drained of colour.

  ‘Where did they take him?’ Jack asked hoarsely.

  ‘To Newgate,’ said Sarah unsteadily. I won’t tell him about Tom yet, she thought. One piece of bad news at a time.

  ‘Newgate!’ Jack was on his feet. His croaky voice broke on the word. He coughed, gulped and looked at her imploringly. ‘What are we going to do, Sarah? There’s only two ways out of Newgate: transportation or the gallows.’

  Sarah swallowed a lump in her throat. He was right. Those were the sentences handed down to the prisoners at Newgate.

  A life of hard labour in a distant country, maybe Australia – a year’s voyage from London.

  Or death at the end of a rope.

  CHAPTER 18

  NEWGATE

  Alfie’s brain was numb. He could neither hear nor speak. He felt himself pushed and dragged by the Scotland Yard inspector. Shoved into a cab.

  Then pulled out of the cab.

  Awkward, stumbling.

  Cuffs on his wrists and irons on his legs.

  The cabman’s voice – ‘I go no further, governor. Not through Temple Bar. The fog’s too bad. You’ll just have to walk the rest of the way.’

  Curses.

  A few blows. The Scotland Yard man venting his anger at having to walk.

  Nothing much. Alfie had had worse.

  He just went on.

  Doggedly putting one leg in front of the other, dragging the heavy irons, holding his manacled hands out in front of him. He had a curious sense of being unable to balance, of needing his hands free to feel the way through this fog. But the Scotland Yard man, Inspector Cutting, had a tight grip on his collar. He was being pushed forward, down Fleet Street, going step by step to Newgate.

  And now they were in Newgate Street. The iron was burning through his ankles, rubbing the skin raw, but he hardly felt it. His arms were stiff, but he hardly felt that either.

  At the prison gate, the inspector spoke to the lodge keeper and a turnkey arrived, the man that looked after the prisoners. He took Alfie by the arm, marched him down the passageways. There must have been about a hundred of these stone passages! Continually they stopped while the turnkey took yet another enormous key from his bunch and opened yet another gate. The walls were dripping with green slime and the stench was almost unbearable. The covered lantern held by the turnkey made their shadows look like giant apparitions on the wall and the noise of his boots on the flagstones echoed like the beating of a giant hammer.

  ‘Like to see something?’ said the turnkey and Alfie started to hear the voice booming around and bouncing from stone wall to stone wall.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He didn’t suppose it mattered whether he said yes or no; the turnkey could do as he pleased with his manacled and shackled prisoner.

  ‘That’s the condemned cell,’ whispered the turnkey after a moment. His whisper sounded more threatening than any yell.

  ‘Condemned,’ hissed the echoes.

  The turnkey stopped and Alfie stopped. In front of them were iron bars, reaching from floor to ceiling. An iron gate, heavily padlocked, was set into the bars. Beyond the bars was the cell.

  The condemned cell was a small stone room, no bigger than cupboard. It had three walls and a stone bench that served for sitting or lying. There was no mattress, no cushions, nothing to bring any comfort. The green damp hung from the low walls and the tracks of slugs and snails glistened silver in the candlelight.

  On the stone bench sat a man dressed completely in rags. His head was buried in his hands and he neither stirred nor moved his head.

  In one corner of the cell was an iron candleholder which held a half-burnt candle. The draughts that whistled down the passages, and through the iron bars, blew the candle flame to one side and set the candle wax dripping down in a strangely lacy sheet. Alfie shuddered as he looked at it. A ‘winding sheet’ his mother used to call it and he had always hated the expression. A winding sheet for a corpse – something to wrap a dead body in.

  ‘Going to be hanged in two days’ time,’ whispered the turnkey and it looked to Alfie as if the man had already, in spirit, left this world.

  Alfie felt himself shivering violently. His teeth began to chatter noisily. He clenched them together, determined to show no fear, but it was too late. The turnkey had heard the clicking. He smiled maliciously. At that smile Alfie’s courage came back. He straightened his back, rubbed his hands in an exaggerated way, rather like a clown pretending to be cold, and then jumped up and down, his shackles clanking noisily.

  ‘I need a jug of hot brandy,’ he said briskly and this time the turnkey laughed.

  ‘You’re a game one,’ he said approvingly. ‘Come on, let’s get you locked up with the other chickens.’

  Alfie followed the turnkey down yet another long corridor. There were a few high windows where a misty light seeped through – from the street gas lamps, he guessed. From the distance came the sound of hoarse, raucous shouts and growled deep-toned warnings. Alfie had once heard sounds like these from caged lions being wheeled in for a performance in Drury Lane Theatre.

  ‘Animals!’ The turnkey broke into his thoughts. He pointed down the corridor ahead of them. ‘We found a dead man in there one morning – forty-nine men alive and one dead – and not a soul would tell us what happened during the night.’

  Alfie resolved to keep his head down – terrible things could happen in Newgate jail; he had heard that.

  ‘In here,’ the turnkey said as he unlocked yet another gate and then a door beyond it.

  In this huge room there was one tiny fire burning at the far end, half screened by some heavy, fearsome men with angry, belligerent faces. The fire did little goo
d. The room was as cold as out-of-doors and somehow the fog had drifted in here and swathes of mist hovered around the heads of the prisoners.

  ‘You take a mat down from there at night.’ The turnkey jerked a thumb at some filthy mats dangling from nails on the wall. ‘That’s if you can get there in time.’ He gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Supper at seven,’ he said and gave Alfie a little push toward a group of boys.

  ‘Some mates of yours,’ he said with a grin. ‘Every one of them appeared at the Old Bailey court today – all of them condemned to hang.’

  Even the oldest of the six boys looked less than fourteen. None of them took any notice of the turnkey’s words; none of them seemed to be thinking about the sentence that had been passed upon them. All six were smoking old-fashioned clay pipes and they looked up from their game of cards as Alfie went by.

  ‘Cheer up, mate!’ one of them called over to Alfie with a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘Next thing, he’ll be asking for a clergyman to sob his heart out to,’ sneered another.

  After that, none of them bothered about Alfie and he was glad. If he were ever to get out of this place he would need everyone’s good opinion and becoming friends with condemned criminals would not help. He moved away, sat down on the stone floor with his back to the wall and began to think.

  He had to get out of here – before he was put on trial at the Old Bailey.

  And there was only one way of getting out of here. The real murderer of Harry Booth had to be found.

  But what could he do about that, locked up in prison? Alfie slumped down, his head on his knees.

  The turnkey exchanged a last joke with the card-playing boys and turned to go away. As he heard their raucous laughter, Alfie sat up straight. The boys’ taunts had given him an idea. He struggled to his feet and reached the turnkey before he opened the door.

  ‘I want to see a clergyman,’ he said firmly.