Murder on Stage (18 page)

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.

‘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 bankrupt 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.

‘Newgate?’ The man took out a small notebook from his pocket. ‘What was that like, sonny? I’d like to interview you if you’ll give me a few minutes of your time. My
name is Charles Dickens. I write for the newspapers.’

Suddenly Alfie felt dizzy. The lights from the street gas lamps danced up and down in front of his eyes. He put out his hand, fumbling for something to hold on to and found his wrist
grabbed.

‘Hallo, hallo, hallo,’ said Joey’s voice. ‘Now then, my old covey, stick your snifter into this flower of mine. Have you ever smelled anything more
bootilacious?’

Alfie swallowed hard, but obediently moved his nose towards the cabbage-sized cloth flower that Joey wore in his buttonhole. The next moment he started back, a stream of water running down his
face. All the clowns laughed in their usual high-pitched ‘Tee-hee-hee’
.

Alfie blinked, wiped his face and laughed. The shock of the water had revived him.

‘How did you do that trick?’ he asked. But then he forgot about his question. Mutsy, once he had got over his joy at Alfie’s reappearance, had immediately made a beeline for
the clown just in front of him. Now he just stood there, sniffing the man’s pocket and wagging his tail.

The clown put his hand in his pocket. Alfie watched carefully. He expected another trick – a jack-in-the-box, or something like that, but the clown took out a tiny white dog, who
immediately began to walk around the pavement on his back legs. The clown placed a miniature pointed hat on the dog’s head. Mutsy stared at him in amazement and then began to wag his huge
tail.

‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Toby?’ asked Alfie, stroking the little dog. ‘You was the one that nabbed me, wasn’t you?’

‘Very sorry! Very, very sorry! Didn’t knowed them jacks wanted to top you!’ answered the dog Toby in a tiny voice.

‘How did you do that?’ screamed Tom, looking from the clown to the little dog, still trotting around on his back legs. ‘Sammy, the voice just came right out of the little
dog’s mouth. Can he really speak, Mister?’

‘Bless my soul,’ squeaked Toby, ‘I was born able to talk!’

‘Wish I could learn to do that,’ said Alfie, gazing enviously at the clown. He had seen ventriloquists with their dummies before now – there was one that used to do a routine
on the steps of St Paul’s church at Covent Garden, but having a real live dog as a dummy was so much better.

‘Look at Mutsy,’ said Sarah.

Mutsy was sitting in the middle of the pavement, staring at the little dog with a look of astonishment on his face.

The passers-by stopped to look and began to laugh at Toby’s performance, especially when, slowly and carefully, Mutsy minced around just an inch behind the tiny dog, carefully sniffing him
as the little dog danced along the pavement. Some people started to clap and more coins were dropped into Jack’s cap, which he had hastily snatched off his head and held out.

Well, thought Alfie, that will pay for the rent this week and hopefully there will be something left over for sausages and some small beer when we get home.

And then he just concentrated on enjoying himself, on copying the clowns, getting in their way, falling over in an exaggerated manner, singing in his tuneless voice.

It all passed so quickly that he was astonished when they turned into Bow Street.

It was getting dark now and the lamplighter was holding his flame up to the little gas jets overheard. It was slow work, going from lamp to lamp and he had still not got as far as the cellar
where the boys lived. That end of the street was dark.

But the pavement in front of their home was lit up.

An orange light burnt from behind the iron railings.

Alfie sprang forward, the song dying on his lips. He raced ahead, down the steps. The door was not locked. He pushed it open.