Murder on Stage (2 page)

‘Funny, though, wasn’t it? Do you think that he had loads of tickets, then?’ asked Sarah. ‘These things cost money. I’ve seen the prices written up. You pay a
guinea for a box, fourteen shillings and sixpence for the stalls, six shillings for the pit and four shillings for the upper gallery.’

‘Six shillings!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘For that!’

Alfie frowned. It did seem strange. ‘We didn’t have seats,’ he pointed out. ‘Perhaps it’s only a few pence if you’re standing.’

‘What was he like, the bloke that gave you the tickets?’ asked Tom.

‘Don’t remember him too well,’ said Alfie reluctantly. ‘Small fellow – small and fat. Came up to me when I was doing a spot of juggling. Funny voice – a bit
squeaky, like.’

‘Stupid!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Why didn’t you look at him, proper? Then you could have chased him up for the shilling.’

‘Who are you calling stupid?’ demanded Alfie.

‘What actually happened on the stage?’ asked Sammy. Though younger than Tom, he had more brains in his little finger than Tom had in his whole body. Being blind made him
extra-sensitive to voices: he sensed his brother’s discomfiture and annoyance and now he sat down beside the fire, put his arm around Mutsy and turned his sightless eyes towards Alfie.

‘It was really strange.’ Alfie sat beside him and Mutsy wagged his tail and sat back on his hindquarters, placing a large hairy paw on each boy’s lap. Jack put a few more coals
on the fire. He was the one that would have to fish some pieces of coal out of the icy waters of the Thames next morning, but no food meant that the fire was needed more than ever – an empty
belly made you shiver – that was the experience of the gang. Alfie gave him a nod of thanks and continued with his story, relating how he had seen the hand pour something from a phial into
the glass and how he had dashed on to the stage to try to prevent Harry Booth drinking whatever had been put in the glass.

‘Whatever it was, it killed him instant,’ he finished, conscious that his stomach was aching with hunger and wishing that, like Mutsy, he liked rats. There were more of them around
than there was food – if you were poor that was. If you were rich, the shops and public houses and eating places were full of delicious dishes.

‘Any way of finding out who killed him, Alfie?’ Sammy had a quiet smile on his face. ‘I was just thinking that Inspector Denham might be interested. Might give us a shilling or
two if we could help.’

It was true that Inspector Denham had rewarded them well in the past when the sharp wits of the gang had led to the solution of a crime. Alfie licked the corners of his lips as the saliva began
to flow at the thought of the wonderful meals that they had got with Inspector Denham’s money.

‘Did you see his face?’ asked Jack, but Alfie shook his head.

‘No, just the arm,’ he said. ‘Something funny about it, though . . .’

And then his mind went back to that moment at the theatre and suddenly he knew the truth.

The arm had a fancy sleeve – like a clown’s costume.

‘It was a clown,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’d bet anything that it was one of the clowns. The sleeve had that frilly end on it – just like the clowns have.’

‘Why should a clown murder an actor?’ Tom sounded scornful.

‘A clown is a man,’ pointed out Sarah. ‘He could have a reason for murder, same as anyone. And, what’s more, it would make a good disguise, what with all that paint on
the face and those fancy clothes. It would be hard to know your own brother if he were dressed up as a clown,’ she added slowly, thinking her way through the problem.

‘And there’s clowns coming out of your ears

around here since they put that sign up,’ said Alfie. He

had seen a queue a mile long at the back of the theatre

that very morning, behind a board saying:

CLOWNS WANTED:

TEN NEW CLOWNS ON STAGE

EVERY NIGHT,

A SHILLING A NIGHT PAID.

And that was on top of the two regular clowns at Covent Garden Theatre.

‘So it could be any of them,’ Jack said.

‘We have to look for someone who wanted Harry Booth dead.’ Alfie was finding that thinking about the murder reduced the terrible ache of hunger. He would keep his mind on that
problem.

‘Someone who wanted his job,’ suggested Tom.

‘Not likely,’ said Alfie and then changed it quickly to, ‘but it’s possible.’ He didn’t want Tom going into one of his sulks.

‘He might have injured someone once,’ said Sarah.

‘Or he might know something about someone, threatened him, like.’ Sammy was enjoying himself, Alfie knew by the look on his brother’s face. He had a sharp brain and loved to
use it.

‘Might have been a blackmailer, mightn’t he? What was Harry Booth like, Jack? You said that you and Alfie met him,’ said Sarah.

‘He was all right – a nice fellow – gave us a few pence for helping him to shift some of these big picture things that they put up at the back of the stage – scenery,
that’s it. What did you think of him, Alfie?’

Alfie thought. He had no very strong impression of Harry Booth, though he had recognised him instantly each time that he came on stage – not a particularly good actor – he was the
same in every one of the small parts that he played.

‘He was all right,’ he said in the end. It was strange, he thought, a bit sad perhaps – but Harry Booth dead seemed more interesting than Harry Booth alive. ‘I’ll
go down to Covent Garden Theatre tomorrow afternoon and do a bit of poking around,’ he went on. ‘They’re bound to need someone to do a bit of cleaning up. Them tomatoes and
oranges didn’t half make a mess.’

Who had murdered Harry Booth? Was it one of the theatre’s two permanent clowns, or one of the ten who came for one night’s performance and might never be seen again?

Whoever it was, they arrived at the theatre well prepared for the deed. Some fast-acting poison had been poured into that glass; Harry Booth had died within seconds of drinking it.

A murderer with a poison like that in his pocket was a very dangerous man!

It had been a frustrating morning for Alfie and Tom.

They had hoped to get some work at the butcher’s shop. Sometimes he wanted help in sweeping and scrubbing and was willing to give a few pounds of sausages in return for a couple of
hours’ work. He was a friendly fellow, and took an interest in the four orphan boys from the cellar near to his shop. But the heavy, thick fog meant that there were few customers and the
butcher preferred to do his own sweeping rather than stand around shivering.

When the bells from St Martin’s church sounded, Alfie decided it was time for them to go home. But when they reached the pavement by the steps to the cellar, Alfie stopped in horror.

A large poster was pasted to the lamp-post opposite the boys’ home. Alfie stared at it for several seconds. ‘What’s that?’ asked Tom. Tom couldn’t read, but Alfie
could.

And he almost wished that he had never learnt. In huge letters at the top were the words:

SCOTLAND YARD.

THE COVENT GARDEN THEATRE

MURDER

And underneath this in letters just as large were the words:

WANTED ON SUSPICION OF MURDER

A BOY AGED ABOUT TWELVE

WEARING A CAP AND A TORN JACKET

LAST SEEN YESTERDAY ON STAGE

AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ muttered Alfie. He hurtled down the steps, twisted the key in the lock, dived in and then slammed the door behind him.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tom.

‘Scotland Yard,’ said Alfie briefly. He wished that Tom would shut up and let him think, but Tom never gave up so he explained hastily. ‘They’re the high-up police
– they’d be more important than the lot at Bow Street Police Station – more important than Inspector Denham, himself. And they’re after me. I’ve been seen, seen on the
stage beside a dead man. I’m wanted for murder!’

‘What!’

The sight of Tom with his mouth open and his eyes full of terror calmed Alfie.

‘Nothing to worry about, old son,’ he said loftily. ‘I’ll sort things out. I need to think, though. Just keep your trap shut for the mo, won’t you?’

Tom’s eyes were enormous, but he said nothing.

Alfie thought fast.
A boy aged about twelve wearing a cap
wasn’t a good description, but Scotland Yard would send one of their high-up detectives and the high-up detective would
have a chat with the police in Bow Street and with the people who had been in the theatre. Sooner or later Alfie’s name would come up.

What could he do?

Run!

That was the obvious answer. Get out of London. Lie low! Go missing for a few weeks until the hue and cry died down. His eyes went to the rent box. There was barely enough to pay next
week’s rent. Would Jack be able to manage in his absence?

He knew the answer to that. Jack had no authority over Tom. He would allow his younger brother to persuade him to raid the rent box for food and once that happened it would go on. The rent
collector would arrive. Would give them seven days’ notice. Would call day after day, every day, but there would be no money to pay him. Soon the three remaining boys would all be on the
streets and would probably die on one of those nights of frozen fog. Plenty did. The first job the street cleaners had to do in the morning was to get rid of the bodies – dead children, dead
dogs, dead old tramps – women and men – dead bodies of the newly homeless. London was no place for those who could not care for themselves.

He couldn’t run away. He had to be there to look after them all, to ensure the rent was reserved, that he, his brother and his cousins were fed.

And there was another thing, also. If he left London, this murder might never be solved. Alfie thought highly of his own brains and did not think that most policemen could equal them. He needed
to stay around to find the true villain and clear his name. He couldn’t trust anyone else.

‘I need a disguise,’ he said after a minute.

‘Dress up as a woman,’ sniggered Tom with a look at Alfie’s rough hair and grimy face. ‘You’d look good, but where would you get the clothes?’

‘Wait,’ said Alfie slowly. ‘Let me think.’ Questions were crowding into his head.
Why had the riot been arranged? Was it really a protest about the rise in seat
prices, or was it perhaps a way of making sure that no one was looking at the stage while the poison was added to the drink? And who was that small fat man who had given him the free
tickets?

‘
Tom,’ said Alfie. ‘I think I know what to do. I’m going to look for a job at Covent Garden Theatre.’

Tom’s mouth fell open. ‘Covent Garden Theatre! But won’t they nab you there?’

‘I’m going to dress up as a clown,’ said Alfie firmly. ‘No one will recognise me then.’

‘A clown? You?’

Alfie glared at his cousin. ‘What’s so funny about that? The geezer that gave me the tickets, he told me that my juggling was good enough.’

Was it possible that the man who gave him the tickets was connected with the murder? ‘They’re going to have a show with clowns tonight after the opera has finished,’ the man
had said. ‘You should go and watch it. Here are some tickets for you.’ He had lots of tickets, Alfie had noticed, as he watched the man’s yellow gloves fumble in the pocket.

‘The police will get you if you go out,’ said Tom.

‘I told you that I’ll be disguised,’ said Alfie impatiently. ‘I’ll be disguised as a clown.’

‘How will you do that?’

‘Betty from Monmouth Street,’ said Alfie. ‘You know her grandma is the old clothes woman? Betty told me that she’d help me if I was ever in trouble – just like I
helped her. I’ll stay here and you go and get her. Tell her I want to be disguised as a clown. Go on, Tom, get her; go quickly.’

After he had gone, Alfie sat down on the cushion by the fireplace and put his head in his hands. He needed to do some hard thinking.

Why had the man who gave him the tickets wanted to start a riot? What was in it for him? And why was Harry Booth killed?

Alfie tried again to think what the man looked like. Heavy cloak, gloves, a top hat pulled down over his face.

Struggle as he might, Alfie could not remember the face. All the time the man was talking Alfie had continued with his tricks, continued his jokes, hoping desperately that some of the
passers-by, hurrying home out of the fog and heavy drizzle, would drop a penny into his cap.

So he had not looked.

He remembered the voice, though. A funny, high-pitched voice.

Perhaps this man had a grudge against the theatre manager; perhaps he was facing the sack.

But why kill Harry Booth? He wasn’t important. He just played lots of small parts, like a waiter, or a soldier or a man with a message, or so he had told Alfie the time that he and Jack
had helped him to move scenery.

However it happened, Alfie knew one thing: the police needed to arrest someone fast. The person who dared to commit murder in front of Queen Victoria must be brought to justice – and
hanged.