Murder on Stage (15 page)

‘Thank you, sir,’ repeated Sammy. ‘I just wanted to ask you a question. Why is he in prison? Why have the Scotland Yard men arrested him? Alfie didn’t do
nothing.’

‘They think that he is part of a gang,’ explained the inspector. ‘Gangs are using children more and more these days. They send them through windows too small for grown men
– to open the front door to the thieves – and they use them for pickpocketing, and to distract attention from their crimes. Apparently Alfie came on the stage, through a trapdoor, and
the police think that the poison was slipped into the glass of port while Harry Booth and the audience were all looking at Alfie, popping up on stage like a jack-in-the-box.’

‘I see,’ said Sammy. ‘But Alfie just came on to the stage because he saw someone put the poison into the port. He tried to stop Harry Booth drinking it but he was too
late.’

‘It’s a possible story.’ Inspector Denham sounded dubious. ‘It just depends on what the judge thinks about it. And the jury, of course. There’ll be a jury of twelve
men when his case comes on. It all depends . . .’

The awkwardness in his voice was easy to hear, thought Sammy. Things were bad for Alfie. The Scotland Yard people thought that if he were put in prison he would come out with the name of the
gang, or the gang leader, and then when he didn’t they would be happy enough to see him take the whole blame. And the crime was murder . . .

‘Could you tell me, sir, when the trial will come on?’ He asked the question as steadily and calmly as he could, but was not able to stop himself starting when Inspector Denham said,
his voice heavy with sympathy, ‘I’m afraid it will be held on Friday.’

Friday! Sammy felt as if his heart had stopped.

Today was Tuesday.

Only three more days, and a sentence of death might be passed on his brother.

Tom was in luck. The man at the desk offered him two pence to pick up the rotten oranges, putrid old potatoes and the squashed tomatoes from the floors before the cleaners
started work.

‘Trouble again last night?’ queried Tom, accepting a cluster of buckets and picking up the broom in his other hand.

‘Worse than ever! Hardly anyone in the posh seats – no one wants to pay good money just to see a riot! It’s no good. You can’t run a theatre like this on the prices of
the cheapest seats. Lots of the rioters probably had faked tickets anyway, just like before,’ said the man. ‘Off you go, and do it quietly. The clowns are having their rehearsal in a
few minutes so keep away from the stage.’

Tom worked hard and fast, scouring the ground between the seats, under the seats and in the aisles. There was plenty to pick up. He filled three buckets and was about to go back to the desk to
get some more when suddenly a man came along and lit the limelights at the foot of the stage.

Suddenly a pair of clowns ran on to the stage, screaming with laughter, poking each other, telling jokes and turning cartwheels. Tom was so fascinated that he had to remind himself to carry on
picking up the rubbish that the rioters had hurled around the theatre the night before.

And then came another couple; these weren’t so good – they just threw water over each other and hurled custard pies, which the other always caught to prevent a mess. They were
followed by a pair of clowns with a small dog wearing a bridle, reins and harness, just like a horse, and pulling a tiny carriage behind him. Tom took careful note of this as it was a trick that
they could easily teach Mutsy. Jack was clever with his hands and always on the look-out for things thrown on rubbish heaps. A couple of wheels and a lightweight box made from some pieces of old
timber – that would make a showy sight with Mutsy pulling it, thought Tom.

But then everything went out of his head. The next two clowns were exchanging insults, calling taunts across the stage to each other.

And the names that they were shouting were Joey and Lucky.

Instantly Tom went into action. He picked up a few more tomatoes and oranges, gathered up his full bucket and went back out to the man at the desk.

‘Done that,’ he said cheerily. ‘All right if I go back stage? Saw an orange or two sticking out from under the curtain.’

The man barely nodded. He was busy sorting out the torn ticket halves, putting some aside and throwing the others in the bin.

Tom seized an empty bucket, transferred a few oranges into it while the man was not looking and moved off fast. He would try to be backstage before the clowns arrived.

‘That was a great act,’ he said breathlessly when they came off. He looked narrowly at their hands. Lucky was easing off an uncomfortable shoe and Joey was taking off his wig and
clown’s pointed hat. Both of them had all of their fingers.

Sammy was standing there in Covent Garden market, singing, when Tom came out of the theatre. The rain had stopped. It was foggy, but not as bad as some of the other days so
there were a few people around. Tom stood and watched while some people threw halfpence into Sammy’s cap.

I’ll wait until he finishes the next song, he told himself but he knew that he wanted to put off the moment when he had to break the truth to Sammy.

According to Joey and Lucky, there weren’t any clowns with missing fingers.

‘Any luck?’ Tom asked, as Jack arrived at Covent Garden market shortly afterwards.

‘Nah,’ said his brother shortly. ‘They wouldn’t let me go near the place. Said that Officer Grey was busy, that he was out on a case. Told me to get out and not to show
my face again.’

‘Well, Sammy has a bit of good news,’ said Tom, trying to be cheerful. ‘Tell him what Inspector Denham said, Sam.’

‘You tell him,’ said Sammy, fumbling on the ground for his cap. He sorted out the coins – counted them – threepence, took out the sixpenny coin that Inspector Denham had
given him and handed the whole ninepence to Jack. Jack was now in charge of the little gang. It looked like there was going to be no easy way out of Newgate for Alfie.

Sammy put on his cap and said, ‘Home, Mutsy,’ as bravely as he could.

As they made their way back to the cellar, Sammy could hear Tom telling Jack how Inspector Denham was going to speak up for Alfie. But Sammy did not share his cousin’s belief in Inspector
Denham. Tom had not heard the tone of the man’s voice, but he had.

And there wasn’t much comfort in it.

The shout came just as they reached the top of the steps. Jack had gone off to buy supper so only Sammy and Tom were there. This time the sound was unmistakable and they both
turned and waited.

‘Tom!’ yelled a voice.

‘Someone calling you.’ Sammy went on down the steps. He felt terribly weary, almost as though his legs would no longer carry him. As far back as he could remember Alfie was always
the one that he turned to when he needed help. And now Alfie needed his help and he had none to give him. This murder had to be solved and to be solved quickly. He turned the key in the lock and
went in, leaving the door open for Tom. There was little warmth coming from the fire – they were short of coal – but Sammy felt his way over and sat as near to it as possible. He buried
his head in his hands, conscious that Mutsy was leaning up against him.

He was roused by a harsh bark. There was a sudden rushing of air, a scrabbling of nails on the floor, and then the bark came again – loud and aggressive.

‘Great balls of fire!’ exclaimed a strange voice.

‘Mutsy! Down!’ yelled Tom.

‘Mutsy, here, boy.’ Sammy clicked his fingers and Mutsy returned to him.

‘Codlins and Short!’ said another voice, in a high-pitched tone. ‘I thought my last hour had come, Joey! Is that a dog, or just a small donkey?’

‘Are you a clown or a mouse, Lucky?’ asked the first voice, also in that strange, high-pitched tone.

Sammy heard Tom laugh and knew that all was well. ‘Say you’re sorry, Mutsy,’ he said cheerfully and listened with pleasure to the high-pitched laugh – a clown’s
laugh. He had heard them often enough at the markets and Alfie had often described their routine. He knew why they were laughing now – Mutsy would be going through one of his routines where
he sat on his back legs and hid his eyes behind his paws.

‘That’s no donkey, dunderhead!’ said one. ‘That’s a clown. Why isn’t he on the stage? That’s what I say, Joey.’

‘He can do hundreds of tricks,’ boasted Tom.

‘And who’s this young gentleman?’

‘I’m Sammy.’

‘I’m Joey the clown,’ Sammy felt his hand taken in a friendly squeeze, ‘and this is my partner, Lucky. So you live here by yourselves – four boys, no mother or
father, is that right?’ He sounded sorry for them.

‘That’s right. Do you know Alfie?’ Jack had arrived back in time to answer the last question. Sammy could hear a note of surprise in his voice.

‘It’s about Alfie that we came.’ From the tone of his voice, Sammy could tell that Joey had turned towards Tom. ‘You was asking us about a man with a missing finger and
we said that none of the clowns had a missing finger. But then we thought of someone after you had gone.’

‘But he doesn’t work in the Covent Garden Theatre,’ said Lucky.

‘No, and he isn’t a real clown, neither.’

They were acting as if they were on a stage, thought Sammy. Clowns had a patter like this – just like tossing a ball, one to the other.

By the sounds the two clowns were doing a little dance. Mutsy gave a small, sharp bark, more like a laugh than a real bark.

‘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.’