Murder on Stage (9 page)

‘Arrest that girl. Look! She’s trying to sneak over towards him.’ The manager sounded hysterical. ‘She’s an accomplice! She was screening him from us in the pit and
then she drew the curtain to give him a chance to escape by the trapdoor.’

‘Arrest her, Officer Grey,’ said Inspector Cutting.

As all eyes turned towards Sarah, Alfie looked quickly around.

Tied to one end of the gantry he saw a strong rope, looped up to keep it out of the way. It was used, he supposed, for actors to suddenly swoop down on to the stage – but Alfie did not
want to go back down on to the stage, with its fiercely white limelight.

He looked out across the body of the theatre. The boxes, where the rich and famous took their seats, lined both sidewalls of the Covent Garden Theatre, each with its own gas lamp. Almost all of
the boxes on the left-hand side had been lit by now, but those on the right-hand side were still in darkness. If only he could get over there, get into one of them, he could duck from one box to
another and escape.

But was the rope long enough?

Alfie took hold of the end of the rope, waiting for the right moment. Everyone was watching him and the four clowns were getting dangerously close.

On the other hand, the nearer they were, the less likely it became that the police inspector from Scotland Yard would shoot. Alfie made himself wait another few nerve-racking seconds.

‘We’ll get him!’ shrieked one clown.

‘We’ll split the pound with you and your partner!’ screamed another.

Alfie clutched the rope and looked out across the immense space between himself and the first of the boxes – the royal box where Queen Victoria had sat . . . was it only last night?

And then he jumped.

He swooped through the air, his legs kicking wildly. His bare feet met the edge of the box, tried desperately to hook over the side and failed.

He swung back and felt himself falling . . . and crashed back down on to the stage. There was a tremendous thud; some boards with painted scenes upon them smashed to the ground. The manager
swore, the clowns shouted from overhead, the inspector called out an order to ‘give yourself up in the name of the law’, but Alfie was on the move again.

Picking himself up from the ground, still clutching the rope with an energy born of despair, he leapt up and swung out past the manager, past the inspector, past Sarah . . .

This time he landed on a seat just in the middle of the pit.

The inspector fired a shot. Alfie ducked down and it whistled over his head. He crawled along the floor, squeezing under the seats and moving rapidly from row to row. His mind was working
furiously. How could he get out of this building? The Bow Street constable was guarding the door at the top of the aisle. He looked under the seats and could see some legs walking up the aisle in
between the seats. He knew what was happening – small black shoes and skirt beside large shoes and a frock coat.

Sarah, her bucket, mop and brooms abandoned, was walking up the aisle beside a Scotland Yard policeman. He hoped she would be able to talk her way out of trouble, but there was nothing that he
could do to help her. He had enough problems himself. He risked a quick peep above the seat.

The inspector was walking up the middle aisle, holding his gun at the ready and scanning each row. The manager was beside him, shouting at the lamplighter to hurry up and get the rest of the
boxes lit up. Alfie curled up under a seat, tearing off the remains of the colourful silk waistcoat and the white shirt and tucking it under him. Now he would be hard to see as his own clothes were
the same colour as the grimy surface of the pit. He made himself lie with his face turned inwards and cautiously smeared some of the dust and grit from the floor over the remains of Betty’s
face paint.

‘He can’t have got out!’ The inspector sounded furious.

‘No, sir,’ the anxious voice of the Bow Street policeman came down the aisle. ‘No possibility, sir! Not even a mouse could get by me, here.’

‘Sir!’ That was one of the clowns, Alfie knew. He was talking in the professional squeaky voice. ‘Me and Toby can help you. I’ll claim that pound from you, sir, in a few
minutes, I will if he’s still in the building. Wait and see if I do!’

There was an excited bark and Alfie’s heart fell. He knew those little dogs that clowns used. Very well trained for all sorts of tricks! But this was a job that any dog could do.

‘Rats, Toby! Rats!’ The clown squeaked the words and the dog squealed with excitement.

And Toby came skidding down the aisle, running in and out of the rows, jumping on seats, sniffing so loudly that he could be heard from yards away.

And then he gave a triumphant bark.

Alfie felt a cold, wet nose against his bare leg. He put out his hand reluctantly and stroked the dog, feeling the tiny, thin tail wagging frantically.

It was all up with him.

He could hear the thunderous footsteps of one policeman in the row behind him and another running rapidly along the row in front of him.

He stood up and silently held out his hands as the Bow Street constable, at a signal from the inspector, slipped handcuffs over his wrists.

‘It’s Newgate prison for you, my lad,’ said Inspector Cutting.

Sarah was still with Officer Grey in the foyer of the theatre when Alfie was led out. He didn’t look at her and she did not look at him. She had just sworn solemnly to
the Scotland Yard man that she had never seen Alfie before in her life.

‘And a good, hard-working girl like you would know how wrong, how very wrong, and sinful it is to tell a lie,’ he had said, looking at her closely.

‘Yes, of course.’ She had tried to throw a great note of sincerity into her voice and he had nodded.

He seemed quite a nice fellow, she thought – educated, too, from the way that he spoke. But someone like him wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever understand the life that
people like she and Alfie had to lead: the continual need to lie and even to steal in order to keep alive. On the cruel streets of London where no one cared about poor children any more than they
cared about stray dogs, sin wasn’t important: survival was everything.

‘Well, off you go then,’ he said. ‘You’d better scarper. Don’t let me see you around here again, or I’ll be in trouble. With a bit of luck, the boss will
forget all about you.’

She nodded, hesitated, looked back at the theatre. ‘No use my going back for my money, I suppose,’ she said, endeavouring to keep her tone light and to prevent a note of bitterness
from coming to the surface.

The police officer grinned. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he said. ‘Here you are.’ He put his hand in his pocket, took out a sixpence and gave it to her. He gave a
cautious look around. There was nobody near, but he still lowered his voice so that only she could hear him saying, ‘I owe you something for noticing the finger marks. It would be interesting
if it turns out to be a man with a missing finger that murdered that actor, wouldn’t it? Do my career no end of good if I could pin it on someone. It’s obvious that the boy was working
for someone. What interest would a street boy like that have in murdering an actor? No, he was paid to go on stage and distract attention while our friend with the missing finger made his
getaway.’

What about Alfie? wondered Sarah. He didn’t have a missing finger, so why was it all right for him to be arrested? But she didn’t dare say her thoughts aloud. Even a decent man like
Officer Grey would have little concern for a street boy. She nodded, smiled and left him with a few grateful words. It was nice of him to give her sixpence – you could buy a large loaf of
bread for fourpence so that should be enough for the three hungry boys at Bow Street.

Life for Alfie and his gang was a matter of surviving from day to day. But how would they manage now that their leader had been taken off to prison?

Sarah walked slowly down the steps from the theatre. A sob escaped her. She clenched her hands. Crying was stupid; she knew that. She had to think of something to do. It was
all up to her now. But what was she to do?

‘Here! You’re little Sarah, aren’t you? Little Sarah from the Foundling Hospital, that’s right, ain’t it?’

Sarah shook the tears from her eyes and looked up. A very tall girl with masses of golden, curly hair stood above her. She was five or six years older than Sarah – probably about eighteen.
There was something familiar about the voice – and about the hair, too.

‘You
are
Sarah!’ said the girl. ‘Don’t you remember me – Rosa? Don’t you remember me brushing your hair?’

‘I remember,’ said Sarah with a smile. ‘You’ve changed, Rosa.’ Rosa had been one of the big girls in the Foundling Hospital for abandoned children at Coram Fields.
She had been very kind to Sarah, playing with her as if she was a doll, doing her hair but also making sure that none of the other older girls stole Sarah’s food.

‘Well, you haven’t changed,’ said Rosa cheerfully. ‘Still the same little skinny Sarah. I’d know those big green eyes anywhere. You haven’t grown much,
either, have you? What are you doing with yourself these days?’

‘I’m in service,’ said Sarah, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I’ve a job as a scullery maid.’

‘Skivvy, eh – I tried that for a while. No future in it. Then a gentleman got me a place in the chorus here at Covent Garden and now I’m a leading lady, if you
please.’

‘Oh, you were in the play last night! I saw it. I didn’t recognise you!’

‘Didn’t get a chance to do my solo act,’ said Rosa, ‘what with that murder and all. You see’d that murder, did you?’

Sarah nodded and then thought of Alfie. Her eyes began to fill up again.

‘What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you hungry? Come on, we’ll have a cup of hot chocolate at the stall there. I’m supposed to be meeting my young man, Francis, but he
can wait.’

Sarah sat up with a start. What was it that Alfie had said about Francis Fairburn, and Harry Booth taking his girlfriend away from him? Rosa must be the girlfriend! Now she could learn more
about both men. She waited until Rosa had pressed the mug of hot chocolate into her hand then followed her meekly as Rosa moved away from the counter and sat down at a small table beside a brazier
of hot coals.

‘Oh, Rosa, is Francis Fairburn your young man? He’s ever so handsome,’ said Sarah. She hadn’t ever seen Francis Fairburn, but even at twelve, Rosa had been eager to talk
about handsome boys, and Sarah wanted to encourage her to speak.

‘He’s mad about me,’ said Rosa with a giggle. ‘For a while, Harry Booth – you know, the bloke that was murdered – for a while I went out with him, but then I
went back to Francis Fairburn.’

‘Which did you like best?’ asked Sarah. It was easy to put on an innocent air with Rosa. As they sat there, side by side, sipping their hot chocolate, it was like being back in the
Foundling Hospital again.

‘Oh, definitely Francis,’ said Rosa. ‘Harry Booth was a nasty piece of work. That’s a terrible thing to say about someone who’s dead, but he was always sneaking
around and finding out things about people and then asking for money to keep quiet about it. No, I soon went back to Francis.’ She sipped her drink and gave a half-giggle. ‘It’s a
terrible thing to say,’ she repeated, ‘but me and Francis were cuddling and kissing in the wings just at that very moment that Harry Booth was killed.’

This seemed to put Francis Fairburn out of the picture, Sarah thought. Rosa wouldn’t bother lying to her little friend from the old days.

‘Who do you think did it, Rosa?’ she asked. ‘I heard someone say when I was cleaning the floor in there that a man called John Osborne did it.’

Rosa pursed up her red lips. ‘Could be,’ she admitted. ‘But they say that someone sneaked in and put poison in the glass without anyone noticing it. Well, if you ever
see’d John Osborne, you’ll never forget his face. Someone would have noticed him. No, I think it was probably one of them clowns. With the costume and all that make-up you can’t
tell one from the other. They was all lined up there and moving about and changing places. No one would have noticed one of them slipping behind the curtains.’ She looked carefully at Sarah
and then said sharply, ‘Here, why are you so interested?’