Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

  ‘But he was the leader of them all!’ sang the two clowns.

  ‘Where would I find him? What’s his name?’ Tom’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

  ‘Hang on, Tom. Sit down a minute. Let the gentlemen finish telling us about this fellow,’ said Jack.

  There was a silence. When it came to it, the two clowns seemed reluctant to give more information about this mysterious man. Sammy decided to intervene.

  ‘My brother Alfie is in Newgate prison,’ he said, turning his face towards where he thought the clowns were sitting. He waited for a minute. Suddenly he had a huge lump in his throat. ‘He might . . .’ Now he had to force himself with all of his strong will, but the words had to be said. ‘He might hang, unless you help us.’

  Neither answered. Sammy could sense them looking at each other.

  ‘Why would he do a thing like that, Lucky?’ Joey’s voice was puzzled.

  Sammy held his breath.

  ‘Don’t know, Joey. Why would he murder Harry Booth?’

  ‘If he’s the one with the missing finger, well, he was the one that set the Scotland Yard on to Alfie. He bought me a pie and I told him where Alfie was.’ Tom gulped and Sammy felt sorry for him. It must be hard for Tom to keep on telling the terrible thing that he had done.

  ‘Must be him, mustn’t it, Lucky?’

  ‘But why? Not a nice fellow, but why murder?’

  ‘And him from Drury Lane Theatre. Why murder an actor in the other place?’

  ‘Drury Lane. He was from Drury Lane? What’s his name?’ Tom was on fire with impatience.

  ‘That’s right, sonny. He’s the manager there.’ There was a pause and then Joey seemed to make up his mind as he said quickly. ‘His name is Fred White. I’ve never seen his fingers myself, but I did hear a rumour that he’s missing a finger and that’s why he always wears gloves.’

  ‘Would you have noticed him there, that night? If he was dressed as a clown, would you have recognised him?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘We wasn’t there that night, was we? We got taken on the same time as your brother, after the murder. But you know who might know? Rosa. She could have been there. Nice girl, Rosa. You might have a word with her.’

  ‘Where would he have got the outfit?’ asked Sammy. ‘Wouldn’t someone at Covent Garden Theatre have to give him the clothes, make up his face – that sort of thing?’

  ‘No way,’ said Joey with a laugh. ‘We clowns, we all have our own outfits. Every man is different. They’re our trademark – we all do our own make-up, too. We’re supposed to arrive dressed up at the theatre. Managers like that. It gives a bit of free advertising. Whips up a bit of interest.’

  ‘So,’ said Tom slowly, ‘Fred White would have had to find his own costume.’

  At these words, the two clowns jumped up, clapped their hands in an exaggerated way, each turned a somersault and then sat down again, turning their smiling, painted faces towards Tom. Mutsy gave a quick bark and wagged his tail in appreciation.

  Life was a game to them, Tom supposed. But the information that they had given was of deadly serious consequence to Alfie. He thought about it for a few minutes and knew what he had to do.

  Tom’s voice was determined as he said, ‘I’m going to get that costume. If we can find someone at Covent Garden to remember it, we’ll prove that Fred White was there that night.’

  ‘And Sarah might go and see Inspector Grey – and tell him that she has found the name of the man with three fingers,’ said Jack.

  ‘And then we’ll be on the way to proving that Alfie is innocent,’ continued Tom. He paused for a moment and when he spoke again it was in a quiet low voice. ‘I’ll get that costume if it’s the last thing I do.’

  CHAPTER 27

  TOM’S QUEST

  There was nothing more boring than watching a play in a half-empty, silent theatre, thought Tom. He had got in easily enough to Drury Lane Theatre, had used some of their precious pence to buy a standing-only ticket for the pit. He had hardly noticed the performance. There were no clowns, there was hardly anyone in the boxes and the stalls were half-empty. No laughs, no shouts. It was all very dull.

  ‘Had lions and tigers a few months ago,’ said a hoarse man standing beside him. ‘Drew big crowds, but not enough to pay for them. I’ve heard that the manager still owes the circus people for them. If he don’t pay soon, they say he’ll go bankrupt. He don’t know what to do or where to turn; that’s what they say.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Tom, storing up the conversation in his mind. Could that be why the manager of Drury Lane wanted to start a riot in the Covent Garden Theatre? Did he want to stop people going there in the hopes that they would come to his theatre instead? But why was Harry Booth murdered? Perhaps Alfie could find a reason for that.

  And then he shook himself. It was no good relying on Alfie to solve this puzzle. Alfie was in Newgate behind bars. The gang would have to do without him. It’s up to me now, thought Tom. He pushed the information about the manager of Drury Lane to the back of his mind and began to wonder where he could hide when the performance eventually finished.

  ‘That’s right,’ the hoarse man continued to whisper in Tom’s ear. ‘They say that the ghost of Charles Macklin has been seen every night and that’s a sign of doom.’

  Tom stirred uneasily. He didn’t like ghosts. When he was younger, Alfie used to amuse himself by pretending to be a howling phantom and Tom had never managed to get away from the feeling of panic at the thought of seeing a ghost.

  He tried not to listen as the man poured into his ear the story of a bad-tempered actor called Charles Macklin who had killed a fellow actor. And then, luckily, the final curtain was dropped and the actors came on stage in a long line.

  ‘Where’s the manager’s office then so that I can ask for me money back?’ asked Tom, inwardly congratulating himself on his cleverness. He had intended asking someone how to find the office and now this had come up quite naturally.

  ‘Down by the ticket office,’ said his new friend. ‘You thinking of going in there? I wouldn’t, if I were you. That Fred White, he’s a funny man.’

  ‘Funny man?’ Tom asked quickly as they both prepared to move off with the rest of the people in the standing section of the pit.

  ‘I’ve heard that he’s bad-tempered.’

  Tom clapped his hand to his pocket. ‘Lost me handkerchief,’ he said. ‘I’d better have a look.’

  ‘Probably a pickpocket, always keep me hands in me pocket myself.’ The man didn’t even turn his head after Tom who was by now crawling around on the floor, looking under the seats to the side of where they had been standing.

  After a minute, he stayed very still. The theatre was emptying fast. The musicians had climbed out of their orchestra pit and had gone along the aisle, chatting to each other. The place would not be cleaned until the morning; Tom knew that from what Sarah had said about Covent Garden.

  He waited and stayed hidden. A man came down the aisle – Tom could hear his boots – and shouted ‘Anyone there?’ a couple of times and switched off the limelights at the front of the stage.

  I’ll wait until the other lights are switched off, thought Tom.

  It seemed ages before the lamplighter man came clumping down – the side aisle this time. Tom dared not look, but after a few minutes he could see the long, black shadow on the floor near to the stage begin to spread. The lights were being extinguished one by one and the darkness was growing minute by minute.

  And then suddenly Tom knew that something was going to happen that would give away his hiding place. The dust under the seats filled his mouth and nose with fine particles and the impulse to sneeze grew and grew. He held his nose firmly and tried to take in shallow breaths through his mouth. His face swelled, his head hurt and his ears felt as if they would pop off from the side of his head. Perhaps he could just give a tiny sneeze, he thought, just something that would relieve the pressure, but he knew that would be impossible. The force that built up inside him
was too vast – only a thunderous sneeze would relieve it.

  ‘That’s the lot, then,’ came a shout after a time that seemed endless to Tom. He peeped out cautiously. The man carried a lantern and his black shadow was coming up the aisle on the far side of the theatre.

  Give him a minute to get clear, thought Tom.

  The lamplighter shut the door with a bang. Tom sat up and knew that he could not hold in the sneeze any longer. Just a small one, he thought, but the sneeze burst out with an enormous crack and it filled the whole theatre with the noise of its explosion. Tom crouched down again, certain that a sound like that would be heard outside. He waited, heart thudding for a few minutes, but still all was quiet and dark.

  Now he could get on with the job that he had come to do. He counted up to twenty in his mind and then eased himself out from under the seat and stood up. The darkness was complete. Not the slightest glimmer of street gas lamps came through the heavy curtains. There was something almost frightening about this darkness, almost as though heavy, smothering soot was weighing down on him. He edged his way along the row, keeping his hand on the backs of the seats in the row in front of him.

  And then he had reached the end of the row. He must be in the middle aisle. He stepped out and became instantly disorientated, turning round and round and trying to grab something solid, something to hang on to. Tom had never experienced such blackness before – London streets were lit during the hours of darkness and their cellar always had a glimmer of light coming down from the gas light outside. Desperately, he got down on his knees, his right hand flailing around until it hit something solid.

  It was a seat. He felt it very carefully, checking the position of the chair back before moving up the aisle. He resolved to take everything very slowly – there might still be people outside and if he tripped and fell he would alert them to his presence. Step by step he moved in a careful shuffle and thought of Sammy who went striding out into a blackness like this every day of his life.

  Now, there was nothing left. No chair back as he stretched out his hand. For a moment he thought he had become disorientated again, but then he realised that he must have come to the end of the row and there would be a wide space of about six foot before he reached the door. He felt silly and cowardly, but he got down on his hands and knees and crawled towards the door. Once he felt its solid panels, he stood up, his heart beating hard with excitement and fumbled for the door knob.

  He found it easily enough. He found it and turned it. Pushed. Then pulled. Turned again. Pulled and pushed again. But nothing worked. He had known the truth in the first moment. The door had been locked.

  He would have to stay here until morning.

  CHAPTER 28

  DEADLY PERIL

  ‘Terrible smell of gas in here! Someone should do something about it before we are all poisoned.’

  The loud, cheerful voice woke Tom. A ray of light slanted down the middle aisle. Alarmed, he rolled back under the seat. He should have gone further down! This row was only second from the top and if anyone investigated he would be easily found. He had a splitting headache and he felt slightly sick. It had been a terrible night; he turned his thoughts away from the nightmares that had plagued him with visions of a one-eyed ghost.

  ‘Have a word with the management, old chap,’ said another voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll get a good hearing. Go and see the manager. He’s sitting in his office, groaning over his accounts. I’m sure that he would be delighted to have a little chat about the expense of getting the gas pipes looked at.’

  Both of them laughed cheerfully and then went off, leaving the door standing invitingly open.

  I have to do it, Tom told himself when they had gone. He stood up cautiously. No one was around. He needed to get out of the pit, go towards the entrance door, lurk there until the manager came out of his office, pop in, search his cupboard for clues.

  But it all seemed impossible now!

  It would be better just to slip out and go home before he got himself into any trouble.

  Another night imprisoned in that darkness would kill him, he thought.

  And then he thought of Alfie, and of Newgate prison and knew that he could not walk away.

  Suddenly he saw it. The perfect disguise.

  Leaning against the wall, next to the door, was a broom and below it a small dustpan and brush. Tom, with one final look around, slipped over, seized the broom and started to sweep.

  Just out in the passageway at first. Take it easy – don’t rush, he told himself. Then a trip to the large rubbish bin outside the back entrance. Empty the dustpan. Go back. Then a bit further up the passageway. More busy sweeping. And then the ticket desk came in sight. Someone was sitting there.

  A well-dressed gentleman came in and approached the man in the ticket office. Tom moved a little closer, still busily sweeping. No one seemed interested in this ragged boy working away.

  ‘Any possibility of a box? We’ll be a party of six.’

  ‘Just a minute, sir. I’ll have a word with the manager.’

  A small, fat man appeared. So this must be Fred White, manager of Drury Lane Theatre. Tom shuddered, remembering how the same small, fat man had bought him a pie at Smithfield. He kept his head well down and moved back into the shadows. Important people like managers seldom bothered looking at servants with brooms, he knew. All the same, he was relieved when the man’s eyes did not turn in his direction.

  What he needed now was to find the clown’s costume and to see whether anyone who was backstage on the night of Harry Booth’s murder remembered a clown dressed like that. A clown who had no business to be there at Covent Garden Theatre.

  Unless he was up to something.

  ‘I’d like to inspect the boxes if that’s possible. I want to choose one with a very good view of the stage,’ the gentleman repeated to the manager.

  The opportunity might be coming. Tom gripped his broom so tightly that the wood dug into his palm.

  ‘Just come with me, sir. We have quite few boxes on offer for Saturday night. You can take your pick.’

  ‘All right if I sweep in the manager’s office while he’s out of the way?’ Tom asked the man in the box office. It was taking a chance, but if it came off it would be worth it.

  ‘Be quick, then.’ The man hardly lifted his eyes from his work.

  Tom was quick, very quick. In a second he was through the door and looking around eagerly.

  No cupboard anywhere in the room.

  Just shelves and one bookcase.

  A desk – not there, the drawers would be too shallow to hold a costume.

  Not behind the door – his cloak hung there.

  But no top hat. Where did he put his top hat? Everyone wore a top hat in the street.

  Two doors in the room . . .

  Leaving his broom leaning against the desk, Tom turned the handle of the second door.

  It did not lead to a corridor, but to a huge, walk-in cupboard. The top hat was on a shelf there. Beneath it hung a few spare shirts, and a glossy black frock coat. Nothing else was in the cupboard except a large locked case. Tom tried to force the lock open, but it was no good. The case was old but the lock was sturdy. Tom went quietly to the door and looked out. There was no sign of the manager coming back. Quickly he went to the desk. Would there be anything there to help him?

  Immediately he found what he was looking for. On the desk lay an envelope and stuck into the flap of the envelope was a long, thin knife. The manager must have been slitting it when he was called to the booking desk.

  Tom slipped out the knife and went back to the cupboard. His hands shook. Would he be able to do this in time? Quickly he inserted the knife into the lock on the case. One of Maggie the Plucker’s gang had taught him how to do this. For a moment he thought it would not work and then suddenly there was a click. One of the locks snapped open.

  And then loud footsteps sounded in the corridor. The manager was coming back. Quickly and silently Tom pulled the door shut. H
e moved soundlessly behind the frock coat. If anyone came in and shone a light he was sunk, but still it was worth a try. The man might just take his hat from the top shelf, finding it by touch and by long habit.

  But he was in luck. The door to the cupboard did not open. A drawer was slammed shut and then another. And then a voice raised. He was shouting something to the box office clerk. There was no answer. The manager shouted again. Still no answer.

  ‘Deaf fool,’ he muttered and then left the room in a hurry, slamming the door shut after him.

  Tom acted quickly. One second to open the door a little and allow some light in, another second to insert the knife into the second lock.

  Nothing happened.

  Try again. He heard the words in his mind and they steadied him. Funnily enough they were spoken with Sammy’s voice.

  Lightly and almost carelessly he inserted the knife into the lock once more and this time it worked.

  And there was a clown’s costume – in black and white with a frilly-sleeved shirt and frills on the ends of the pantaloons. Beside it was a tall, cone-shaped clown’s hat and an orange wig. Tom picked up the frilly-sleeved shirt. The frills were edged with orange fur to match the wig. With trembling hands, he stuffed the shirt under his jacket.

  Replacing everything else as carefully as he could, Tom left the office and returned to the corridor. Quickly he dumped the broom and picked up the dustpan.

  ‘Just going to find the bin,’ he muttered to the man at the desk and flew down the steps, abandoning the dustpan at the bottom of them.

  The frilly shirt fell out as he bent over, but he picked it up in a flash and this time he squeezed the muddy garment into his pocket.

  It would be a mess, but perhaps he could rinse it under the Broad Street pump.

  The important thing was to keep the shirt safe until Joey and Lucky got a chance to show it around. That muddy, crumpled piece of material might be able to save Alfie’s life.