Murder on Stage (16 page)

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.’

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.

‘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.