Murder on Stage (14 page)

‘Leave him.’ Sarah grabbed Jack’s wrist. ‘He’ll be better on his own.’

‘He probably wants to be alone with Mutsy,’ said Sammy. There was a slightly bleak note in his voice, and Sarah, looking at him, wondered how often things got so bad for Sammy that
only the presence of a warmly loving dog could comfort him.

‘We’ll walk slowly then and give him some time,’ she decided. ‘At least we’ll have something to eat when we get back. The cook’s good; she always gives me a
basket of left-overs on my half holiday. I tell her that I am going to visit my Aunt Minnie who is bedridden. I’m beginning to believe in Aunt Minnie and her faithful dog myself.’

There was no response from either of the boys so she went on. ‘I tell the cook so many stories about Mutsy that now she always gives me a bone for him. Let’s hope that she never
decides to accompany me to see the poor lady.’ She tried to laugh but Jack didn’t respond and Sammy turned his head alertly in her direction as though he sensed something that was not
in her light-hearted words. He said nothing, though, and the three walked in silence down Fleet Street until they passed under Temple Bar.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Jack despairingly as they turned up towards Drury Lane. ‘I just keep thinking that we should be doing something. Should I go and see Inspector
Denham? He knows Alfie. He’d know that Alfie could have had nothing to do with the murder on the stage.’

Sarah thought about that for a minute. Alfie was waiting for his trial, but he was being treated like a criminal. Inspector Denham was the chief policeman at Bow Street Police Station –
and yes, he did know Alfie, had used him on occasions in his investigations, but would he interfere in Scotland Yard business? Sarah thought not. And perhaps he might be annoyed that they came to
him when it was not a Bow Street Police Station matter. On the other hand, Inspector Denham could probably tell them when Alfie would be tried. What would be the best thing to do? If Alfie were
here, he would tell them, but now it was up to her. Jack was a nice fellow, but he was a follower, not a leader.

‘Leave it for the moment,’ she decided. ‘It would be better to go to Inspector Denham when we have something to report. Some sort of suspicion. We have no real evidence
yet.’ She thought again about the glass phial with the greasy finger marks picked out by the dust. She clicked her tongue in exasperation at the idiocy of that Officer Grey from Scotland Yard
shoving it into his pocket where the rough wool would rub it clean after an hour or so.

The fire was bright when they got back to the cellar and Tom was looking a little less white. Perhaps ten minutes alone with Mutsy had done him good. The big dog came over,
tail wagging, sniffed each one of them carefully, looked at the door and then sank down, with a sigh, at Sammy’s feet. Alfie had never been absent from Mutsy for as long as this since Mutsy
had joined the gang in the Bow Street cellar. Sarah stroked the side of his face and he gave a subdued flip of his tail, but his eyes were fixed mournfully on the door and he did not even sit up
when Sarah opened her basket and took out a juicy bone wrapped in brown paper. She put it down in front of him and he just lay there gazing at it for a minute before beginning to crunch it. Sarah
blinked hard and returned to her basket.

‘Plenty for everyone,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. No one responded so she dug into her pocket and produced a twopenny piece – change from the sixpence given to her by
Officer Grey.

‘See if you can get some small beer with that, Jack,’ she said. ‘Tom, get out the mugs.’

Beer would liven up the boys, she hoped, and when Jack came back with a jugful, she made sure that Tom had a good share of it.

‘What about the prayer thing that Alfie gave you?’ asked Jack.

‘He must’ve given up,’ said Tom hoarsely. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Alfie would start saying prayers.’ He crashed his pewter mug on the table and
dropped to his knees, burying his head in Mutsy’s fur. ‘I wish . . . I just wish I’d never done it,’ he said brokenly. ‘I were that . . . I were that hungry! I just
didn’t know what I was doing, sort of. I were out of my head with hunger. The words just came out . . . I wish I were dead . . . I do . . .’

‘Alfie hasn’t given up, Tom, no way. That prayer – that’s just a trick, ain’t it, Sarah?’ cried Jack. ‘Come on, Tom. Have a sup of beer and you’ll
feel better.’

‘He’s right, Tom,’ said Sarah. ‘I bet it’s just a trick. We’ll have something to eat and then we’ll all put our heads together.’ She addressed the
words to Tom, but looked at Sammy. She could see how intently the blind boy listened and how his clenched hand opened and relaxed.

‘Let’s look at it, then,’ said Tom, raising his head. He drank a little beer and then pushed it away.

‘Eat first,’ said Sarah firmly. She waited until the last crumb had gone, before she looked down once more at the prayer that she held in her hand. ‘Look, you can see, Jack,
you can see that Alfie has underlined the words
clowns and actors
so he must want me to talk to one of the clowns or one of the actors. I know the two actors that he was talking about. But
which of the clowns?’

‘Read it out, will you, Sarah?’ asked Tom humbly. He still felt sick. The sight of Alfie in that terrible place would never leave him, he thought miserably. He tried to tell himself
that Alfie might have got caught in any case, but somehow he didn’t believe it. Alfie always pulled off anything that he attempted. The one thing that Alfie would never have thought of was
that he would be betrayed by one of his own gang.

Tom listened attentively to Alfie’s message – yes it was definitely about clowns and actors, but, as Sarah asked, which ones?

‘Can I look at it?’ Tom asked. He had very good eyes; Alfie had often said that. Perhaps there might be something that Sarah hadn’t noticed. He held the piece of paper to the
light of the fire and screwed up his eyes. ‘Light the candle, will you, Jack?’ He said the words without removing his eyes from the page.

Jack obediently lit a candle. They didn’t often bother with one – candles cost money – but this was an emergency.

‘I see something now,’ said Tom excitedly. The candle cast a great light on the page, a white light. ‘Did you see, Sarah? He’s put little dots under some of the words.
Read it out again. Slowly this time! Point to each word as you read it and I’ll show you where the dots are.’

So, slowly and carefully, like a learner reading the first primer, Sarah read, with Tom’s head looking over her shoulder, his eyes following each word that she pointed to.

‘Sister dear, when I was free,

I learnt to write, to count one, two, three.’

‘There,’ shouted Tom. ‘Look there’s dots under
one, two, three
.’

‘MY PRAYER TO YOU,’
continued Sarah,

Find in your heart the holy three

Mary, Joseph, the babe you’ll see,

You’ll be lucky if that you do

And shun all clowns and actors, too.’

‘Why did he talk about learning to count up to three?’ mused Sammy. ‘Don’t suppose he learnt that at school. He could always do that.’

‘I bet I know why he put that
one, two, three
!’ Sarah sounded excited. ‘It’s a clue. You have to pick out the first word on line one, the second word on line two
and the third word on line three.’

‘What are they, Sarah?’ Tom was almost bursting with impatience. ‘Go on, read them out!’

‘Wait.’ Sarah ran her finger along the lines. ‘
Find . . . Joseph . . . Lucky.
That’s the message.’

‘Lucky is the sort of name that a clown would have,’ chimed in Sammy.

‘
Joey the Clown
, I’ve seen that sign outside a booth – you know like one of the Punch and Judy things but full length in Clare Market,’ said Jack. ‘He had a
couple of those Chinese lanterns – pretty they were.’

‘That’s the message then,’ said Sarah. ‘Find those two clowns – they might be able to give us the information we need. We just want to know if one of the other
clowns has a missing first finger. Or perhaps it is one of them – either Joey or Lucky. Anyway, a missing finger should be noticeable to anyone who worked with him.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll go down to the theatre at Covent Garden tomorrow. I’ll ask for some work, hang around a bit . . .’

‘That’s right,’ said Sarah. ‘Take care, though – don’t stick your nose out too far. And always make sure that there’s an open door so that you can run
if necessary.’

She would have preferred to question the clowns herself – to question them in a way that did not arouse their suspicions. But what could she do? She dare not show her nose inside that
theatre again and she would lose her job if she took time off tomorrow.

And time, for Alfie, might be running out.

‘It’s up to us now,’ said Jack solemnly as he carefully divided the remaining hunk of bread into three equal pieces, placing one in front of Tom and guiding
Sammy’s hand towards the other one.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Sammy. He chewed his bread carefully and then said, ‘We all need to work. Tom is going to the theatre. That’ll be the most important thing,
but I think I’ll go and have a chat with Inspector Denham.’

‘Sarah said not yet,’ said Tom.

‘Sarah don’t know everything,’ responded Sammy tranquilly. ‘I’m Alfie’s brother and it makes sense that I’d be worried about him. Inspector Denham
won’t mind me coming. Anyway, being blind and all that, the constables won’t want to turn me out – like they might with either you or Jack. If Jack walks with me to the outside of
the place, Mutsy will look after me then. Not a bad idea to teach the old fellow the word
police
, anyway,’ he added. ‘Never know when I’d want that.’

‘What shall I do?’ To Sammy’s sensitive ear, Jack’s voice sounded strained and unhappy.

‘Why don’t you go to Scotland Yard? Ask for that Officer Grey. You might get thrown out on your ear, but then again, you mightn’t. Act like Alfie. Say you’ve information
of great importance about the Covent Garden murder. Can’t do any harm. Talk to him. Tell him what Sarah was telling us – about the other men who might want Harry Booth dead. Them clowns
mightn’t want to mention that to a policeman – they say that actors always stick together and the same would be for clowns – so the chances are that he knows nothing about
it.’

‘I’d just like to see Inspector Denham for a few minutes.’

It was a nuisance, thought Sammy, that he couldn’t see the face in front of him. He didn’t know whether the constable was on the point of saying yes or saying no. He could sense his
embarrassment though, so he waited peacefully and hoped for the best.

‘What about the dog?’ asked another voice, well lowered, but certainly easily heard by anyone with normal hearing.

‘He can’t walk without him,’ replied the constable in the same tone of voice.

Thinks I’m deaf as well as blind, and crippled, too, Sammy thought, and suppressed a grin. It didn’t matter to him what they said, or thought, as long as one of them brought him into
Inspector Denham.

‘Wait a minute, sonny. I’ll . . .’ Then there was a sound of a door opening and straightaway Inspector’s Denham’s voice.

‘You’re young Alfie’s brother, aren’t you? Come in. Go on, bring the dog too. That’s the dog that rescued you a while back, isn’t it? Clever fellow! Alfie
told me all about it. Constable, put that chair there so that the lad can sit down – Sammy, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Sammy putting his hand behind him to find the chair and then lowering himself into it. Mutsy’s warm bulk was beside him and he kept his hand on
the dog’s neck and hoped that things would go well.

‘Alfie’s in prison – in Newgate.’ He let the statement hang for a minute. He could feel the sympathy in the air, could sense the small, uneasy movements.

‘I just heard that this morning. I was away yesterday. I was very sorry, indeed, to hear the news. I’m afraid that it has nothing to do with me. It’s in the hands of Scotland
Yard . . .’

For a moment Sammy thought Inspector Denham was going to say something else, but after the silence had lasted a good ten seconds he said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and waited. There was more
to come, he knew.

And then the door shut. The inspector must have nodded to the constable to go out and to leave them alone. When he spoke next, his voice sounded different, less official, more friendly . . .

‘Your brother can call on someone to be a witness as to good character, Sammy,’ he said gently. ‘I will be happy to do this. I’ll send a note to the prison. I can
certainly bear witness to his hard work at school and how quickly he learnt to read and write and . . . and . . . well, I can mention that he has assisted the police once or twice . . . not make
too much of it, you understand. That might give him a reputation of being a police spy, or something like that – last thing that Alfie would want. Anyway, I’ll be there and I’ll
do my best for him. Don’t worry.’