Murder on Stage (8 page)

And that’s where Sammy was. Tom could hear the high, sweet voice singing as he came nearer to the well-remembered place. There were a few people around and already the cap on the ground
glinted with copper coins and one piece of silver.

Mutsy looked across at Tom and wagged his tail hard. Tom grinned back. This was good. Just beside Sammy was a tin plate of cooling chestnuts. When the song ended he would join his cousin and the
dog. Sammy would share the chestnuts with him.

And then a hand came down hard on his shoulder. A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Do you know the owner of that dog, boy?’

Behind him was a man, a small fat man, warmly dressed, collar turned up, hat pulled over his eyes, hands gloved . . .

Tom stared at the man suspiciously. What was he after?

‘I saw that dog with another boy the last time, a dark-haired boy. I’d like to have a word with that chap,’ said the voice. ‘Could you take me to him?’

Tom hesitated, looking across at Sammy. Alfie was on the run. Was this a policeman after him, wanting to arrest him?

‘Are you hungry, boy?’ the voice went on. Tom twisted around, but the hat was pulled well down. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he thought the cloak and trousers
didn’t look like a policeman.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and for the third time that day his mouth watered.

‘There’s a pie shop over there,’ said the man, still keeping his hand on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom gave one glance at Sammy. He had just started a new song. Tom knew it well. It was a song with many verses. He would be back before it was finished.

The pie shop was very near – only a few steps away. The man let go of Tom and marched up to the counter. ‘Steak and kidney pie,’ he said.

Tom almost felt faint as the pie was slid on to the plate. His eyes were fixed on it as it came towards him. The man had to speak twice before he heard him properly.

‘I said you’ll get the pie when you tell me where the boy is hiding.’ That was what the man said.

And Tom heard his own voice saying, ‘He dressed up as a clown and he’s hiding in Covent Garden Theatre.’

And then he grabbed the pie and started to wolf it down, scared that it would be taken from him before he had eaten it.

But when he finished licking the plate and looked up, the man had gone.

Gone where? To Covent Garden Theatre?

Suddenly he vomited, spewing up all of that lovely pie. His stomach had rejected the food that he had wanted so badly.

He had betrayed his cousin.

And now it was all for nothing.

Sarah was the first to see the policeman. She was busily rubbing away at the chairs in the orchestra pit below the stage while Alfie lay on his stomach beside the drums and
they talked to each other in whispers, discussing possibilities. ‘John Osborne is the most likely,’ Alfie had just said in a low voice when Sarah hushed him.

It wasn’t one of the Scotland Yard policemen; they didn’t wear uniform. This was a local ‘bobby’ or ‘peeler’ from Bow Street Police Station. The man was too
far away to see the number on his collar, but Sarah could see the navy blue uniform, the shiny hat, the high leather boots – Wellingtons, they called them.

He was far away, but both of them heard his words distinctly.

‘Have you got a boy here? A boy called Alfie Sykes? Wanted for questioning about the murder last night?’

‘Boy, I’ve got no boy here.’ The manager sounded peevish and bad-tempered. No wonder, thought Alfie. If his theatre was losing money and he was facing bankruptcy, the last
thing he wanted was police swarming all over the place.

‘We’ve had a tip-off,’ persisted the Bow Street bobby. ‘Our informant says that the boy dressed up as a clown. Member of the public told us. Not ten minutes ago. Came to
Bow Street Police Station to lay information.’

‘I didn’t engage any boy . . . at least . . .’ The manager had begun by shouting, but now his voice tailed off.

‘But what, sir? You did engage some clowns earlier, didn’t you?’ This was a different voice. Sarah could see the two policemen from Scotland Yard come out from the door at the
back. They left the door open behind them and now all four men could be seen plainly in the light that came from behind them.

The manager removed his tall hat and scratched his head. ‘There was a small fellow – with two other clowns, he was. Perhaps he could have been a boy, now that I come to think of
it.’

‘Well, that’s easily settled.’ The first Scotland Yard policeman seemed to have taken over. ‘Are the clowns here?’

‘Some of them are hanging around, I suppose.’ The manager sounded impatient. It must be getting near to the time of the performance, thought Sarah. He had a note of anger in his
voice when he shouted, ‘Jimmy, if there are any of those new clowns back there tell them to come here.’

‘Can I get away, Sarah?’ Alfie kept his whisper down very low. He knew how sounds could travel in this tall-roofed building.

‘No,’ muttered Sarah, as she polished frantically. ‘Stay where you are.’ He was in the worst possible place, trapped in the tiny pit, but there was no possibility of him
climbing out without being seen. Just that very moment a man started to walk down the side aisle with a long pole, switching on the little gas nozzles and lighting them up. Bit by bit the whole of
the theatre was becoming as bright as a summer’s day.

Alfie, from his place by the drums, saw the light and knew that now only an extraordinary piece of luck could save him.

The clowns were coming out – he could hear the sound of shuffling feet. They all walked like clowns, off stage as well as on stage, he thought, trying to be calm.

Wait for the moment, and then run for it, he said to himself. He wondered whether the exit doors at the side of the theatre would be open, but decided not. They would never leave those unlocked
in case someone sneaked in there during the day. No, the only exit would be through one of the two main doors, the front door or the back door – and each of these had a man in front of
it.

‘Hey, you two, what are your names?’ The manager’s voice was high and impatient.

‘Joey and Lucky, sir.’

‘Where’s the third man in your act? The little fellow – where’s he gone?’

There was a silence for a moment and then Joey spoke. ‘Don’t know, sir. He just joined in. You saw yourself. He ran on to the stage and joined us. Wouldn’t know him from
Adam.’

‘Could he have been a boy?’

There was a long silence and then Joey said, ‘Perhaaaaps,’ drawing out the word in a theatrical way.

The Scotland Yard policeman made an impatient sound. ‘We’ll have to search the place. Come on, you men, you can help. A reward of one pound to the man who finds him.’

That got them going. Alfie listened in dismay. No more shuffling – those clowns started thundering down the aisles, rattling at seats, banging doors, calling out excitedly. Who could blame
them? A shilling for a night’s performance and a whole pound just for finding a boy hiding in the theatre!

Alfie bit his lip. A tiny corner of him regretted that he would never get the chance, now, to go on the boards at Covent Garden Theatre and hear an audience laugh and clap at his performance,
but most of his mind was occupied with plans of how to get away from the hunt.

‘Sarah,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Is there any way that you could close the curtains on the stage for a few minutes?’

Sarah did not reply. She was clever, Sarah was. Someone might be looking at her. He was sure that she had heard him and would do her best. While he was waiting, Alfie discarded the ragged old
cloak, the bowler hat and the too-long trousers. All of these would slow him down. Impatiently, he shoved them all under the drum platform. He was going to strip off the waistcoat too, but it began
to tear as he endeavoured to pull the fragile material from over his bulky, ragged jacket. He remembered Betty’s fear of her grandmother and decided to leave it for the moment. He would ease
it off later when he had more time and shove it into his pocket. He spat on his hands and scrubbed at the paint on his face and lips and at the lamp-black around his eyes. Now he wouldn’t
attract too much attention if he managed to escape on to the streets.

A second later he heard a heavy tread and then the voice of the manager. ‘You haven’t seen a boy hiding anywhere, have you, girl?’

‘No, sir,’ said Sarah earnestly. ‘He’s definitely not backstage. I’d have seen him. I’ve been washing and dusting and polishing up there for the past half an
hour.’

‘And she’s very thorough at her work.’ That was the second Scotland Yard man, Officer Grey. He sounded amused by Sarah. He lifted his voice now and shouted, ‘Try the
boxes, lads. No point in going backstage. Flush him out. Hey, you, hurry up with those lamps! The more light we have, the quicker we’ll find him.’

‘Please, sir,’ said Sarah. She was addressing the manager, now, thought Alfie. ‘Would you mind if I closed the curtains on the stage, sir? I want to get the dust off
them.’ She brandished a feather duster on its long bamboo. Alfie could see it waving. He hoped this would work. Everything was getting very bright. It was time that he got a better hiding
place. He shrank further back into the shadow of the drum.

‘Yes, yes, go on, but take care. Those curtains are new.’ The manager sounded more irritable by the minute.

Alfie waited. Sarah had gone; he knew that. He wished that he could see whether the curtain was closed but it would be madness to raise his head. It seemed a long, long time before he heard
something, but when he did the noise was unmistakable. The heavy curtains were swishing across the stage.

Instantly Alfie acted. In a second he was up the steps. He pushed the trapdoor open and flung himself out of the hole and on to the stage.

But as soon as he landed a figure moved from the wings and a voice spoke. ‘I thought you might do that again!’ And Alfie looked up and saw the manager, who reached down, grabbed a
fistful of Betty’s waistcoat and held Alfie tight.

‘You murdered one of my actors,’ he said. ‘You’ll hang for this!

Alfie froze. There was no escape for him now.

The manager raised his voice triumphantly. ‘I’ve got him!’

There was a sudden silence. Feet stopped pounding. No one spoke. Alfie stood perfectly still; he took a deep breath, inhaling power into his muscles.

Now was the last moment for escape. Alfie eyed the gantry, the framework of iron bars which crisscrossed the stage above his head. He had seen men swing down from it, hand over hand, and land in
the centre of the stage.

The curtains were jerked back impatiently by a Scotland Yard policeman.

‘Ah, Inspector Cutting!’ the manager said with satisfaction. He started to drag Alfie over towards the policeman who was pounding up the steps to the stage, but Alfie was ready,
every fibre in his body alert. He exerted all his force to wrench himself free. And, as he had expected, the much-mended silk waistcoat ripped in half, leaving the manager holding a torn piece of
material.

Suddenly free, Alfie grabbed the curtain, hauled himself up, seized the lowest bar of the gantry, swung his body and hooked his knees around the metal. Now he was above the manager’s
head.

‘Shoot him, shoot him!’ shouted the manager.

‘After him, men!’ yelled the Scotland Yard policeman and four of the younger clowns started to climb across the gantry – two in front of him, one to the right of him and one
behind, with Alfie directly above the centre of the stage.

Alfie had not expected this. He had forgotten that lots of clowns were acrobats, also. These four certainly were at home on the vast framework of iron bars. It was like a nightmare, up there in
the strange, hot dimness, surrounded by grinning mouths, painted-on faces . . . Trapped! He could not go back or go forward.

‘Don’t move, boy, or I’ll shoot!’ roared Inspector Cutting, pointing his pistol at Alfie. ‘Go on, men. He’s only a kid. Grab him!’

Alfie waited, crouched and tense. He grasped the bar above him and allowed his feet to swing clear. The first man that approached would get kicked in a very painful place, he promised himself
grimly.