Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

  In his mind was a picture of the gallows outside Newgate prison.

  Only two more days to go.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE TRIAL

  The courtroom of the Old Bailey seemed to be filled from floor to ceiling with faces – strange, oval shapes that glistened white in the flaring light of the gas lamps.

  The noise in that place was terrible. Alfie stopped for a moment when he met the solid wall of sound and had to be pushed on by the warder who dealt him a savage blow in the small of the back and made him stumble. Roars, shouts, moans, laughs – how could anyone laugh in a place that gave out such savage sentences – in a place that meant death for some and a life-in-death for others?

  Alfie was pushed into the wooden dock, heard the door slam shut behind him and looked out at the scene, at all the faces and then he turned away, sickened. He stared down at the wooden floor of the dock where he stood, looked at the walls that caged him in, looked at his manacled hands and his shackled legs. Anywhere, except at that inhuman crowd. He clutched the wooden sides of the dock and tried to stiffen his knees. He hoped that no one was near enough to see how he trembled. Suddenly he thought of his grandfather who had a great belief in Heaven – who thought that the minute you died you shot straight up through the blue sky to this unknown place where no one was ever hungry, thirsty or cold. Was it true? Alfie hoped so.

  The jury were to one side of him, twelve men sitting on cushioned seats behind a glass screen in their own box. They looked at him suspiciously – almost as though he had already been found guilty and they were just waiting for sentence to be passed. Alfie raised his head and straightened his back. The boy before him, who had been sentenced to transportation for fourteen years, had been carried out screaming and calling for his mother. Alfie was determined that he wasn’t going to do that.

  ‘All rise!’ yelled a court official and most people stood up, though many in the gallery above did not bother.

  The judge came in, his long robes sweeping the floor behind him, the coarse white hair of his wig hanging on either side of his long face. He didn’t look at Alfie, but climbed the steps, seated himself and arranged his mantle around him – a dark red mantle, the colour of old blood. The usher seemed about to call for silence again, but the judge opened his mouth and all the noise died down as people leant forward to hear what he was going to say about this new case.

  ‘There has seldom been a more heinous crime,’ said the judge with emphasis. Alfie was not too sure what he meant by ‘heinous’, but he guessed by the shocked faces of the lawyers on the benches in front of him that it was pretty bad.

  He had no lawyer to defend him. The turnkey had told him cheerfully that he didn’t stand a chance without a lawyer.

  ‘All the world’s a stage, as the great William Shakespeare observed, but few people meet their death on a real stage,’ said the judge, looking hard at Alfie. He seemed to be very keen on this chap Shakespeare, as the next few sentences were all about him as well, but then he got on to Harry Booth. He seemed to be very upset about the fact that Harry Booth actually snuffed it on the stage in front of the Queen, instead of being knifed down a dark alley at night, or strangled with a wire and his body thrown into the river at dawn.

  Then the judge sat back, nodded to one of the bewigged lawyers and said, ‘Yes, Mr Witherington.’

  Mr Witherington rose and gave the judge an elegant bow, before throwing his gown back over his shoulders and sticking his thumbs under his armpits.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ he said solemnly. ‘As you would expect, Scotland Yard have been tireless in their endeavours to catch the man or men who planned this terrible murder.’ He paused for a moment and then said dramatically, ‘Unfortunately, because of the obdurate obstinacy of a boy, that boy whom you see before you, gentlemen of the jury, they have not been able to make any more arrests.’ He paused again and then continued. ‘So, shall Harry Booth go to his grave unavenged? Gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that Heaven, itself, would cry out for vengeance if no one pays the penalty for his murder.’

  And then all of the jury turned their faces towards Alfie and he read his fate in their accusing eyes.

  ‘This boy,’ Mr Witherington was saying, ‘was central to the plan. You could say, gentlemen of the jury, that he was the lynch-pin, that he was the —’

  ‘Mr Witherington,’ interrupted the judge, ‘get on with the case.’

  Probably wanted to get home for his dinner, thought Alfie. His life was at stake, and the judge just wanted this case over and done with quickly!

  ‘Yes, m’lud,’ said Mr Witherington obediently and went on to explain to the jury how Alfie came up through the trapdoor to divert the attention of Harry Booth and of the audience while poison was being poured into the glass. Alfie half-listened. Inspector Cutting from Scotland Yard had said all of these things many times to him and he had denied it until he was weary.

  Alfie had considered inventing a gang for them – a vicious, brutal leader who had bullied and beaten a poor innocent boy like himself until he did their bidding. However, he realised that he would do himself little good by a story like this. He had enough sense to know that nothing would satisfy them but to lay their hands on a man who could be hanged for murder.

  And failing that, a boy would have to do.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE WITNESSES

  ‘Any witness to good character?’ The judge sounded bored and contemptuous.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Alfie’s voice was low and husky. He cleared his throat.

  The warder standing behind him gave him another savage poke in the back. ‘Say, my lord,’ he whispered loudly.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ echoed Alfie. ‘I have a witness to good character.’ For a moment he panicked in case the judge would pretend not to hear him. This was probably his last chance. The message from Sarah had just come to him last night. It was a short note and just said, Ask for a witness to good character.

  ‘Witness of character of the prisoner, Alfie Sykes, accused of murder,’ bawled the usher, going to the door and raising his voice as if he was endeavouring to alert the whole population of London.

  Just one man entered, though. A neat, small man with dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. He gave a piece of paper – his name, thought Alfie – to the usher and then went into the witness box and laid his hand on the bible, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Inspector Denham looked quite at home, thought Alfie.

  ‘My lord, I can bear witness to the good character of this boy, Alfie Sykes. He is an orphan.’

  ‘They all are, Inspector, they all are,’ said the judge and his joke made the whole court laugh. Mr Witherington almost doubled up, he was so amused. Alfie’s heart sank.

  ‘He lives in Bow Street near to my police station and cares for his blind brother and his two cousins,’ continued Inspector Denham as the laughter died away. He didn’t seem bothered by it. He looked directly at the judge as he said with emphasis, ‘He has never been in trouble with the police – on the contrary he has been of assistance on many occasions.’

  The judge, Alfie was thankful to see, did not make a joke out of this. In fact, he looked sharply at the Bow Street inspector as if he were interested in that statement. It was a slight exaggeration, of course, to say that he had never been in trouble with the police, but Alfie supposed that you could say he had never been in bad trouble.

  ‘I am very glad to have the occasion to give this evidence,’ continued Inspector Denham. ‘Could I beg your ludship’s indulgence to present a few facts about this boy and the terrible murder? Facts,’ he added quickly as the judge opened his mouth, ‘which have only just come to my notice.’

  ‘Go ahead, Inspector.’ The judge sounded weary. He cast another quick glance at the clock. Alfie’s heart sank again.

  ‘The boy’s story, that he saw a hand wearing the frilly sleeve of a clown, come out from behind the curtain holding a phial and just rushed on stage to warn Harry Boot
h, has been disbelieved,’ said Inspector Denham in dry tones. ‘I have waiting outside a witness who is prepared to swear that this clown’s shirt . . .’

  Inspector Denham broke off, turned around, picked up the brown paper parcel from the bench behind him, gave one look at the court and began slowly to unwrap it. The crowd in the gallery stood up. Those in front craned their necks over the rails and those at the back started to shout: ‘Siddown! Hats off! Hold it up, Bobby!’ Suddenly the whole court was in uproar.

  The judge looked annoyed, the usher shouted for silence, the lawyers stopped yawning and whispering to each other behind their hands and some of them stood up also. Now there were shouts of ‘Hurry up! Wottcher doing?’

  Inspector Denham was purposely dragging out the moment, thought Alfie, looking at him with sharpened interest. He watched in astonishment as Inspector Denham took out of his brown paper parcel a frilly clown shirt and explained to the judge that it belonged to a man that had no business to be in Covent Garden Theatre that night. Alfie’s breath quickened. Had someone been investigating on his behalf?

  At that moment there was a huge laugh from the gallery and then a rustling movement. Alfie, looking up, saw that all heads had turned away from the scene below and were looking back at the door behind them. The crowd opened up and stood back as ten clowns, walking in pairs, came through the door and trooped down until they reached the rail. They squatted down there, the tall hats and white, painted faces just peering over the rail.

  ‘I ask your ludship’s permission to call a witness to this,’ said Inspector Denham politely.

  The judge nodded and then snapped something at the usher, who was gazing at the clowns in the gallery with an expression of stupefaction.

  The next witness was a surprise to Alfie. Sarah, watching from the gallery above, could see that he had an astonished look on his face. Of course, he would, like herself, have hardly noticed Rosa on that night at Covent Garden Theatre. In any case, Rosa was not dressed like an actress now, but wore a neat brown dress with a high neck and a plain white collar– all borrowed from the costume cupboard at the theatre. She had coiled and netted her exuberant golden curls into a demure knot at the back of her neck and carried a respectable-looking brown silk umbrella. She curtsied politely to the judge, was bowed into the witness box by Inspector Denham, laid her hand delicately on the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in a low, gentle voice, which nevertheless carried well. It was, thought Sarah, a great performance.

  ‘Your witness, Mr Witherington,’ said Inspector Denham, quite at home in the Old Bailey courthouse. He whispered something to Rosa, handed the shirt to her and then stepped back, standing at the side and watching intently.

  ‘I was present backstage in Covent Garden Theatre on the night when Harry Booth was murdered,’ said Rosa in refined, young-lady-like tones. ‘I was . . . was adjusting my costume when I heard a click from the door at the back. It’s always kept locked during performances and the key was missing that day. But now a clown came in with the missing key in his hand. I looked at him carefully because I thought all of the clowns were already there. He was wearing an orange wig, and he had orange fur to match the wig on the ends of the sleeves. He was wearing this shirt.’ Dramatically she held up the shirt with its orange trimmings. ‘And then I counted and saw that there were eleven clowns instead of ten.’

  The judge frowned and looked at Mr Witherington who rose to his feet.

  ‘Permission to cross-examine, m’lud,’ he said. Without waiting, he swung around and addressed Rosa angrily. ‘Is this some lie you’ve made up?’ he roared. ‘Are you an accomplice to that lad in the dock?’

  Rosa gave him a stunned glance and then burst into tears. Or at least she held a lace handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed delicately and averted her head. Although Sarah was shaking with nerves she felt herself smile. Rosa could always cry to order. She was a born actress.

  ‘Mr Witherington!’ protested the judge. ‘Moderate your language, please. You are upsetting the young lady.’

  ‘Sorry, m’lud,’ Mr Witherington seemed a little uncertain, but then he tried a new approach.

  ‘How do we know you are telling the truth?’ he asked, trying to make his voice sound gentle.

  ‘Because Mr John Osborne, the stagehand, was up on a ladder fixing one of the curtain rings and he saw the clown, also,’ said Rosa sweetly. ‘He will tell you that I am speaking the truth.’

  Sarah held her breath. It had taken all of Rosa’s skills to persuade John Osborne to give evidence. She clenched her hands. Would he be there? And if not, would Rosa’s evidence be useless?

  ‘M’lud, the police would like to call John Osborne to give evidence, if you have finished with this young lady,’ said Inspector Denham.

  ‘Call John Osborne!’

  And he was there with his ruined face and his beautiful voice. And he told the same story. But would it be enough?

  John Osborne was not as good a witness as Rosa. He kept getting flustered and allowing the lawyer to upset him.

  The time was going on. Several times Alfie saw the judge’s eyes go to the clock. It looked as though he was keen to finish the case and pass sentence.

  And then there was a sudden commotion outside. A voice, loudly raised. The clashing of iron shackles. A sharp knock on the door. The usher went to the door. Mr Witherington forgot where he was in the middle of a question and just stood staring. The people in the gallery stood up. Inspector Denham gave a smile of satisfaction and stopped watching the clock. The judge looked furious and scowled at the usher whose creaking boots tiptoed up the steps and stopped as he reached up to whisper in his lordship’s ear.

  ‘What!’

  There had been a sudden silence and the judge’s one word rang like a pistol shot through the room.

  More whispers from the usher, strained attention from the gallery, the lawyers whispered together, Inspector Denham studied his boots, Rosa smiled her sweet, gentle smile, and Alfie looked from one to the other with sharpened interest.

  ‘Admit the gentlemen from Scotland Yard and their witness,’ said the Judge.

  And in came Inspector Grey, and behind him, flanked by two policemen, a small round man, his shackles clanking on the stone floor.

  Inspector Grey had a glass phial held upright between finger and thumb. Alfie recognised it as soon as he saw it, but then . . .

  The gas lamp above the entrance flared up in the sudden draught. The light shone down upon the man and illuminated his manacled hands. He held them out stiffly in front of him.

  One finger was missing from the right hand.

  CHAPTER 31

  CHINESE LANTERNS

  ‘Well, I’m blessed! Same old foggy London!’ Alfie made his voice as casual as possible. He gripped Sammy’s arm hard and grinned across at Sarah. She wasn’t looking at him, though. Both she and Jack were looking over their shoulders.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ began Alfie. ‘Is . . .’ and then he stopped. The loud toot-toot of a tin whistle sounded and a group of clowns came out from the Old Bailey. They formed two lines, led by Joey and Lucky, walking on either side of Alfie and his gang.

  ‘There’s ten of them, no – eleven, counting the chap playing the music, and they’re all dressed up in their clowns’ outfits and they’re waving little flags.’ Alfie found that explaining things to Sammy helped him to feel less embarrassed. He was still reeling from the shock of the sudden release.

  Sarah was pouring into his ear all the details of how Joey the Clown had remembered that the manager of Drury Lane Theatre, Fred White, was rumoured to have three fingers. And how Tom, with great bravery had spent the night in the theatre and had managed to find and steal the shirt of the clown’s outfit.

  ‘And when Rosa saw the clown’s outfit that Fred White had been wearing, she remembered seeing it on one of the clowns backstage on the night of the murder,’ Sarah went on. ‘We all talked it over and worked out that Fred White was causing riots just to b
ankrupt Covent Garden Theatre so that his own theatre would sell more tickets. Harry Booth found out and blackmailed him. So Fred White murdered Harry Booth!’

  ‘And I had a chat with Inspector Denham,’ put in Sammy. ‘He took a cab to Scotland Yard, immediately.’

  Alfie had thought he would be interested in all this, but now he found that he didn’t really want to know. Not now. Not when all his worst fears were so fresh in his mind. He hoped no one would ask him questions, either. He didn’t want to talk about Newgate, above all he didn’t want to think about Newgate. So, though he had a voice like a crow, he joined in lustily when the clowns began to sing and even took a few dancing steps in imitation of the clowns.

  And then like a bolt of lightning, Mutsy tore down the Strand, threading his way through the crowds, and hurled himself against Alfie, almost knocking him to the ground. Alfie went down on his knees and hugged his dog, holding the massive paw, stroking the domed head, putting his cheek against the rough coat. He said nothing but breathed in deeply, and the pungent smell of wet dog seemed to blot out the stinks of Newgate. He looked up into Tom’s embarrassed face. His cousin didn’t know what to say and Alfie sought quickly for some joke, but could think of nothing and buried his head in Mutsy again.

  ‘Come on then, young shaver, no lagging allowed here!’ shouted Lucky, and all the clowns laughed in that strange, high-pitched tee-hee style of clowns.

  ‘Who are you calling an old lag? I’ve only been in prison once,’ roared Alfie. He carefully placed Sammy’s hand in Jack’s and then began to dance, darting in and out of the clowns and imitating their tricks. He took no notice of the people staring. He heard someone talking about him. One of the clowns was explaining to a man in a black coat that Alfie had just been freed from Newgate, that he had been wrongfully accused of murder.