Murder on Stage (3 page)

And Alfie was their chief suspect.

‘You’re mad, Alfie!’ Betty was a plump, short, curly-haired girl, aged about seventeen. She edged nervously back towards the cellar door. ‘You
don’t want to get mixed up with murder. I’ve had a night in the cells myself, and I can tell you that it was the longest night of my life.’

‘He has to be disguised or they’ll pick him up the first time he shows his nose outside the door.’ Tom sounded nervous and unsure.

‘I’ll dress you up as a girl,’ said Betty. ‘I’ve got some stuff here in my bag. What’s the point of dressing as a clown? That’ll make everyone look at
you straight away. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb on the streets, that you will.’

‘I might on the streets,’ said Alfie with a grin. ‘But I aim to go into Covent Garden Theatre. Once I join the queue there at four o’clock, I’ll just be one of a
hundred clowns. I won’t stir outside the door until then.’

‘Covent Garden Theatre!’ Betty looked at Tom and then back at Alfie.

‘He’s mad,’ said Tom.

‘Worse than mad,’ said Betty. ‘Everyone’s talking about the murder. That place will be crawling with policemen.’

‘They won’t be looking for me there,’ said Alfie with conviction. ‘I won’t be a boy; I’ll be a small man. And I won’t sound like a boy. I’ve been
practising a voice while I was waiting for you. It’s the voice of Joseph Bishop, you know, the old codger that digs up the bodies from the burying ground.’

He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and took deep breath. ‘Good day to you, my masters,’ he said in the hoarse, rusty tones of the grave robber.

‘That’s good,’ said Tom admiringly, but Betty just shuddered.

‘Don’t do it, Alfie,’ she wailed. ‘You’re mad.’

‘I have to.’ Alfie was resolute. It was no good arguing with either Betty or Tom, but he knew that he could never get back to his normal life again until this murder was solved.
Suddenly he realised that he had forgotten about hunger. Life and liberty were more important. The secret of the murder of Harry Booth would lie in Covent Garden Theatre and somehow or other he had
to get in there and ask some questions.

‘Come on, Betty,’ he said. ‘Get that rouge and face paint out! Make sure that you do a good job.’

There were no looking glasses in the cellar, just a dirt-smeared window, so he would have to rely on Betty. Already she had taken scissors, needles and cotton thread from her bag. She had been
stitching for her bad-tempered old grandmother since she was a child of five.

‘How are you going to get out of here?’ asked Tom anxiously.

‘It’ll be dark by four and the theatre only opens around then,’ said Alfie carelessly. ‘Tom, old chap, see if you can get us something to eat – beg, borrow or
steal, as they say,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And bring Sammy and Mutsy with you when you come back.’

It would not be much good for Sammy to stay out too long in that freezing fog – he would lose his voice. As for Tom, at the moment Alfie did not care whether he begged, borrowed or stole
as long as he was careful. They all needed food and now Alfie needed to concentrate. The important thing was to think hard about the Covent Garden murder!

But before Tom could move there was the sound of heavy footsteps and then a thunderous knock on the door. And then a shout: ‘Open in the name of the law!’

Alfie’s eyes darted here and there. He knew now the feelings of a rat that had been driven into a corner. The cellar was no place to hide in. The police knew he lived there. They would not
leave before they had searched every inch of it. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he clenched and unclenched his hands. The window! Would it be possible to climb out of it and to bury himself in
all of the filth that accumulated in the small sunken area in front of it? He didn’t know if the window opened or not. He couldn’t ever remember anyone bothering to open it. The smell
would have been too bad.

And then as his mind scurried around like an animal in a trap, a miracle occurred! A shout of ‘Stop, thief!’ A woman’s voice screaming! Then the sound of a whistle blowing and
heavy footsteps pounding back up the steps to the pavement! Whoever the woman was, Alfie silently blessed her.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said rapidly. Where would he be safe? His mind scanned frantically through various places and rejected them all. He and Betty needed somewhere private;
somewhere Alfie could lurk until the light began to fade.

Alfie dashed to the cupboard, took out his father’s old cloak, rotten with damp and eaten into holes by moths, and slung it around his shoulders. It trailed on the ground, but not too
badly. His father had been a small man. He stood on his toes and groped around at the back of the shelf. First he thought that it had been thrown out, or sold long ago, but then his fingers touched
a slimy, mildewed surface. He pulled. It was an old bowler hat – once it had been black, but now it was a poisonous, mouldy green, bashed and with a gaping hole on one side. Alfie snatched it
out, clapped it on his head. It came right down over his forehead and rested on his ears. He went to the door and jerked his head to Betty to tell her to follow himself and Tom.

‘Meet you at the burying ground in Crown Court,’ he said rapidly and ignored her dismayed face. No one wanted to go near that ancient burying ground where dead body was piled on dead
body, where bones lay scattered on the surface and the ground oozed with a nameless substance.

But this was good; they would have it to themselves. Joseph Bishop, the grave robber, worked by night and everyone else avoided the place unless they had a body to bury.

‘Quick,’ he said to her. ‘Grab your bag. You go first. Stand on the pavement and look up and down. Just nod if it’s all clear. Then I’ll slip out and you can follow
me after a few minutes. Make sure that no one sees you go.’

‘Alfie, I’d be scared to go down that passageway on my own,’ whimpered Betty.

Alfie cast a desperate glance up at the street. It was empty. Now was the moment; he could not afford to waste time.

‘I’ll wait for you just around the corner,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just count up to sixty and if there’s no sign of the police coming, just follow me.’

Could she count up to sixty, he wondered as he edged his way along the soot-blackened buildings and disappeared around the corner of the passageway leading to the burial ground. Twenty would be
her limit, he thought.

Alfie had got as far as forty in his mind when he heard the voice of authority. It was the constable’s voice and he was shouting at Betty. ‘You just wait a minute, my
girl!’

Alfie held his breath; Betty wasn’t too bright, and she was terrified of the police. What would she say? Would she betray him?

‘Hey, you!’ shouted the constable. ‘Where’s that other boy, the oldest of you? What’s his name? Alfie?’

‘He’s not here. He’s gone away.’ It was Tom’s voice. Alfie didn’t know whether that was good or not. Still, Tom would be a better liar than Betty, he
supposed.

‘
Not – here – he – has – gone – away.
’

Alfie drew a cautious breath of relief. The constable sounded as though he were writing down the answer. That was a relief. He didn’t seem to be interested in hunting his prey. Quite
possibly the Bow Street Police resented being given orders by the Scotland Yard crowd.

‘Where’s he gone?’ He didn’t sound too interested, but once again Alfie held his breath. What would Tom say?

‘He’s gone to visit his grandmother,’ said Betty’s voice and Alfie smiled. It sounded good, he thought. Betty’s mind was always on her own unpleasant grandmother
who made a slave out of her and beat her whenever she was in a bad mood.
Grandmother
was obviously the first word that came into her head.

‘
Gone – to – visit – his – grandmother.
’

Alfie quivered with impatience. He could just imagine the policeman’s pencil laboriously tracing the words into his notebook.

‘Well, I’d better be off back to the station; keep out of trouble, you two.’

Alfie smiled. It sounded like PC 23, not a bad fellow. He hoped that Betty would wait until he was out of sight before she turned into Broad Court.

They should be alone there. Only a truly desperate person would choose to come down this grim passageway to the burying ground.

‘Come on,’ said Alfie impatiently when Betty eventually appeared. He kept well back from the Bow Street entrance, but by listening hard he guessed that there were
not many people passing by. The fog was bad and there were very few shops in that section of the street; the few people who had been around had not returned since the chase after the thief. Now was
the time for him to vanish.

The passageway to the burying ground was dark, hemmed in on either side by tall, windowless walls. It was very narrow and on a damp, foggy day it smelt of evil, nameless things. Alfie and Betty
walked silently side by side. The stench would get worse as they went along and Alfie knew that by the time they reached the burying ground it would become almost unbearable.

Even so, it was the only place that he could think of where the police would not choose to go; where the search would not be worth the unpleasantness. It was the only place where a boy who was
wanted for murder could be safe for a few hours before darkness fell.

Betty clutched his arm suddenly and he did not push her away. It was good of her to come so quickly, and good of her to risk trouble with the police by helping Alfie put on a disguise. And it
was extra good of her to brave the terrors of the Drury Lane burying ground.

But there was a sound of footsteps. Two sets of footsteps tramping up the alleyway. Alfie groaned to himself. Was nothing going right for him today? He knew what was happening. The lamplighter
was coming up from Drury Lane to light the gas lamp outside the burying ground.

And – what was worse – he would have a policeman with him. No lamplighter would brave that place without a police escort. Alfie could hear their voices now.

‘Come on, quick,’ he said to Betty as he turned back towards Bow Street. He would just have to risk it. Better to meet a policeman in a crowded street than an empty alleyway.

However, there was no sign of the constable when they came out. Where could they go? Suddenly Alfie had an idea.

‘Follow me,’ he whispered to Betty as he crossed the street and dived down another alleyway, then another and then another, pausing at each entrance only long enough to make sure
that Betty was following him.

Now they were out in front of the church of St Paul’s, the church near Covent Garden Theatre. There was a Punch and Judy show going on under the marble arches in front of the building and
a few people were watching it. Alfie slid along the side until he came to the belfry at the back. The bell was tolling – must be someone dead in the parish, thought Alfie, counting the
numbers – someone old. Would it ever stop? Betty was shivering with cold and with fright. Sixty-five, thought Alfie and then abruptly the bell stopped and the bell-ringer came out, slamming
the door behind him.

Once the man’s footsteps died away, Alfie stole forward silently. He turned the handle cautiously. No, the door was not locked. He grabbed Betty’s hand and pulled her inside. A dim
light came through the window from the gas lamp outside.

‘Oh, Alfie,’ whimpered Betty. ‘I’m scared of this place. They say it’s haunted. They say that the devil didn’t want the church to have a bell. Once he burnt
the place down with the fires from hell.’

‘Come on,’ whispered Alfie impatiently. ‘What did you bring me? Be quick and then you can go.’ She would forget about ghosts once she got the clothes out, he thought.
Betty was clothes-mad.

Betty had done her best. She had brought with her a much-darned silk waistcoat and a much-worn shirt with frilly sleeves. Both had been badly torn, but sewn together with several neat patches.
She handed them to him from her basket and then produced a pair of men’s long baggy pin-striped trousers. Alfie stared at them in dismay.

‘They’re too big,’ giggled Betty. She held them up. ‘Put them on over your own trousers,’ she advised and Alfie pulled them on while Betty held the shirt and
waistcoat. They reached down well below his own trousers and trailed on the ground. He rolled them up.