The Deadly Fire (7 page)

‘Get some food into him,' said Alfie. Most of the problems of life could be cured by good hot food, was his experience.

‘Four mugs of hot ale and five large pieces of pie,' he said in a lordly fashion to the pieman, handing over his precious sixpences. A few ragged boys hanging around looked at him enviously, but Alfie took no notice. His job was to look after his own gang; he couldn't feed the starving hordes of London. He held the steaming ale under Tom's nose until his young cousin's mouth opened. Then he poured some in.
Tom gave a few gulps and then took the mug in his own hand. A little bit of life and understanding seemed to have come back into his eyes. He took another gulp and then looked at Jack.

‘Was the other boy dead?' he asked.

‘What boy?' Jack stared at his brother in a bewildered way.

‘The boy from the brickworks. He was running away. I met him outside the school. After . . . after . . .'

‘After you had given Mary Robinson them leaflets,' said Alfie grimly. The words ‘Hope she gave you something for them' were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them. Tom was looking better, Jack was looking hugely relieved and what was done, was done. Alfie was never one to dwell on the past. ‘Go on about this boy from the brickworks,' he said.

‘He was running away,' repeated Tom. ‘He had
been in the workhouse, himself and his mother, and they apprenticed him to the owner of the brickworks on his eighth birthday. He said it was like being a slave. He never got a penny for himself and all the apprentices were just crowded into a shed and had to sleep on some straw and got hardly nothing to eat. He said that he had to get out of London because if the police caught him he would be put in prison.' Tom took a bite of his pie and added, ‘It's against the law for an apprentice to run away before his time is up.'

‘And he was with you?'

‘It was his idea to hide in the wagon. He thought that the farmer might take him on in the morning. God, my feet hurt.'

‘That's good,' said Alfie encouragingly. ‘That means that they are beginning to thaw out. Come on, Mutsy, let's go and see if that other fellow is still there.'

There was no sign of the farmer when Alfie cautiously approached the wagon. The tarpaulin was still securely tied, just as he had left it. He took a quick look around; there was no one near so he walked all around the wagon, sticking his hand in through the gaps as far as it would reach. He had got to the far side of the wagon when he heard the noise of a breath, quickly sucked in.

‘Don't worry,' he said in a low voice, still checking that the farmer wasn't anywhere near. ‘I'm Tom's cousin. I've come to get you. Come and have a piece of hot pie.'

The boy's head of tousled curls appeared. He did not seem in such a bad state as Tom, more used to sleeping in frozen conditions if what he told Tom were to be believed.

‘What's your name?' asked Alfie, giving him a hand down and then quickly retying the tarpaulin string.

‘I'm Charlie. Is your dog friendly?' He didn't wait for the answer. It was obvious that Mutsy was friendly – his tail was wagging so fast that it seemed to stir the veil of fog that hung over everything. The escaped apprentice bent down and put his arms around Mutsy's neck and buried his face in the big dog's comforting fur for a minute before looking up with a grin.

‘I like dogs,' he said as he followed Alfie. ‘I was born on a farm. My mother worked as a servant for the farmer. She was turned off when the Missus said that she had stolen some food. She hadn't, it wasn't her, but she was sent away with no references so she couldn't get another job. We came to London, but we were starving and sleeping rough and in the end my mother had to go into the workhouse. That was when
I was young and I don't remember it all too well. I remember playing with the dogs on the farm, though.'

‘Was your master at the brickworks a Mr Lambert?' asked Alfie, remembering the man who had wanted to buy the school.

Charlie shook his head. ‘Nah,' he said. ‘Mr Lambert is the rich gent who wants to knock down the whole of St Giles and build some posh houses there. My master is a brickmaker and he works for Mr Lambert on this job. When the houses on Bloomsbury Street are finished he will probably move on.'

Charlie yawned and then began to shiver. Tom put his arm around the boy's shoulders. Alfie looked from one white face to the other and made up his mind.

‘You're welcome to doss down with us for a while,' he said. ‘Now let's get home and get you two into the warmth. You look like a couple of ghosts.'

‘Hide!' said Alfie urgently, looking around the cellar fearfully. Jack had gone out to get some coal from the riverside and Sammy was sitting in the back of St Martin's Church, listening to the choir rehearsing, so he could learn some new Christmas carols. Tom and Charlie had been playing cards and chatting together
when Alfie heard the footsteps on the stairs.

‘It might be the landlord or the rent collector,' he whispered to Charlie, pushing the boy into a dark corner and pulling the old armchair in front of him. ‘He'd try to charge us extra if he thinks you might be staying here.'

It wasn't the rent collector or landlord, though. It was Sarah. She looked very white.

‘They've found Mr Elmore's remains,' she burst out as soon as she came in.

Alfie took a moment to swallow the lump in his throat before answering. ‘I knew that he must be dead.'

‘Are you coming?' Sarah was on the verge of tears.

‘Where?' asked Alfie, his voice hoarse.

‘They're carrying the body to St Giles Church this evening. It will be moved to the church at Ludgate Hill tomorrow.'

‘I'll come,' said Alfie. ‘We'll pick up Sammy on our way.'

Sarah's eyes were on Charlie, but Alfie did not offer to explain. He could easily fill her in as they went.

‘You'll stay here with Charlie,' he said to Tom, ‘and tell Jack where we've gone, won't you?'

Tom nodded. He and Alfie were still awkward with each other, but it would wear off. Alfie had
questioned him enough to make sure that yes, it was Mary Robinson outside the school that night, and it was Tom who had stolen the leaflets and given them to the woman (and only got a few pence in return), but all that he knew was that he went one way and she went the other.

Did she return and set fire to the school? wondered Alfie.

Night was beginning to fall by the time they arrived, after picking up Sammy. There was a coffin on a wagon under the lychgate outside the church. It was a very fine coffin, made from shining, exotic wood – ‘mahogany' Alfie heard someone say – and it was bound with strips of gold, or perhaps brass. There was no sign of the dead man's father or brother, the rich goldsmiths of Ludgate Hill, but all around there were about fifty mourning children, pupils of the Ragged School, and many women and men, their clothes in tatters, their faces full of sorrow.

‘I'd like to sing a hymn for him,' said Sammy quietly. ‘Would you ask the vicar, Alfie?'

Alfie cast a quick glance at the self-satisfied face of the vicar of St Giles. This was the man who had appointed the drunken, violent Thomas Orrack to
teach the poverty-stricken children of St Giles at the Ragged School, and who now stood amiably chatting with the disgraced teacher. Did Thomas Orrack, wondered Alfie, feel a hatred for the man who had dismissed him? Did he play any part in the tragic fire at the Ragged School at St Giles? And if he did, was the vicar aware of his actions?

‘You go ahead, Sammy,' he said softly. ‘You don't need permission. Sing out, now.'

Obediently, Sammy opened his mouth and the golden notes, each pure and perfect, streamed out:

‘
Glorious things of thee are spoken . . .
'

As Sammy sang, the poor of St Giles sighed and swayed, and knelt on the muddy cobblestones: the Ashkenazi Jews from Germany and Poland placed the ceremonial cap on their heads and the Catholics from Ireland made the sign of the cross on breast and face and a few passed rosary beads between their grimy, work-worn fingers.

By his side, Alfie was conscious that Sarah was sobbing, but he did not turn towards her. His whole attention was fixed on two very well-dressed men who had just dismounted from a carriage and walked towards the crowd. One was a very old, ill-looking man, walking with difficulty and holding
on to the arm of the other. Both held a snowy-white handkerchief in front of their nostrils in an effort to block the noisome smells of St Giles, and they were so alike that it was obvious that they were father and son.

Both faces bore a strong resemblance to the man whose charred remains lay within the ornate coffin in front of them. Neither face looked grief-stricken or even appalled, but there was a difference. The old man's face was blank of expression, pinched and blue around the mouth, and the eyes dull and expressionless. But the younger man's eyes were bright and restless, looking here and there around the crowd and at the derelict houses of St Giles.

The service at the lychgate was brief and the vicar of St Giles said a lot about the distinguished visitors from Ludgate Hill, and very little about the man who had given up riches in order to devote his life to the education of the ragged children of St Giles.

Alfie twisted his cap impatiently in his hands and hardly waited until the coffin was taken into the church before exploding to Sarah.

‘
A terrible accident!
That were no accident. He was murdered, that's what he was.'

Sarah stopped and looked aghast at Alfie. ‘You can't believe that. The building just went on fire.'

‘Very convenient, wasn't it?' sneered Alfie. ‘Very convenient for people like Mary Robinson and everyone else who wanted to get rid of Mr Elmore.'

‘Shh, keep your voice down,' said Sarah as a burly figure brushed past them, cloak pulled up around the face and hat pulled firmly down.

‘I suppose you don't care,' said Alfie angrily.

‘Of course I care!' Sarah stopped to face him. ‘I knew him long before you. Why should you think that I don't care? Thinking that he was . . . Thinking
that it wasn't an accident, that's a different matter.'

‘Sorry,' muttered Alfie. He felt a bit ashamed of himself. It wasn't fair to take his anger out on Sarah. Looking at her now, he could see how white her face was and how black shadows under her hazel eyes showed that she had slept little the night before. She had had to endure a day's work until she knew Mr Elmore's fate. All the time that she was scrubbing floors, scouring pots and pans, carrying heavy buckets and beating carpets she had probably swung between hope and dread – and then finally to hear the terrible truth!

‘Come back and have some supper with us, Sarah,' he said, thinking of her returning alone to the tiny cold, bare bedroom next the scullery of the big house where she worked. ‘We're going to have a good supper tonight. Jack is going to call in at the butcher in Drury Lane on his way back from the river. We've been promised some sausages by him and a bone for Mutsy. Mutsy is doing well today; he caught three huge rats under the wheels of the butcher's cart today at Smithfield.'

‘What were you doing at Smithfield?' asked Sarah.

Alfie told her the story of Tom and Mary Robinson and about Charlie, the runaway apprentice
from the brickworks. He spoke absentmindedly, though, and Sarah read his thoughts.

‘Are you thinking that there might be a connection between Mary Robinson and the fire at the Ragged School?' she asked.

‘What do you think?'

Sarah thought about it, frowning in concentration. ‘It seems a bit far-fetched,' she said dubiously after a minute. ‘So what if a few stallholders don't borrow money from her? Does she really make that much from them?'