Death in the Devil's Den Read online

  Cora Harrison is the author of many successful books for children and adults. She lives on a small farm in the west of Ireland with her husband, her German Shepherd dog called Oscar and a very small white cat called Polly.

  Find out more about Cora at:

  www.coraharrison.com

  To discover why Cora wrote

  the London Murder Mysteries, head online to:

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk/londonmurdermysteries

  The London Murder Mysteries

  The Montgomery Murder

  The Deadly Fire

  Murder on Stage

  Death of a Chimney Sweep

  The Body in the Fog

  Death in the Devil’s Den

  First published in Great Britain in 2012

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Cora Harrison, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Cora Harrison to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 248 2 (paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 254 3

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design by Patrick Knowles

  Cover illustration by Chris King

  This book is dedicated to Benedict Roberts, aged eight, who gave me the excellent idea of sending Alfie up in a hot-air balloon.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: THE RENT COLLECTOR

  CHAPTER 2: A DANGEROUS JOB

  CHAPTER 3: A MACHINE FOR KILLING

  CHAPTER 4: THE SHADOWS

  CHAPTER 5: THE HUNT

  CHAPTER 6: SUSPICION

  CHAPTER 7: REFUGE

  CHAPTER 8: SANCTUARY FOR ALFIE

  CHAPTER 9: THE TOFF

  CHAPTER 10: THE DARK CLOISTER

  CHAPTER 11: SAMMY SINGS

  CHAPTER 12: PERIL AT THE ABBEY

  CHAPTER 13: RISKS

  CHAPTER 14: TROUBLE

  CHAPTER 15: THE BLOOD-STAINED CUDGEL

  CHAPTER 16: CAPTURED

  CHAPTER 17: TRAPPED IN THE CELLAR

  CHAPTER 18: THE MYSTERIOUS SWEET

  CHAPTER 19: COURAGE

  CHAPTER 20: FLIGHT

  CHAPTER 21: SHUFFLEBOTTOM

  CHAPTER 22: BLACKMAIL

  CHAPTER 23: THE GANG

  CHAPTER 1

  THE RENT COLLECTOR

  ‘You find the extra money or you’ll all be sleeping on the street next week,’ the rent collector growled.

  Alfie stared back at him and said nothing.

  ‘Not too nice out there in the freezing fog,’ the man went on with a sneer. ‘You know the streets of London aren’t too safe at the best of times, but they’re downright dangerous for them that sleeps rough. That blind brother of yours, the singing bird, someone will get hold of him and put him in a cage when you’re not looking. So you just find that shilling and have it ready for me by this time next week. And don’t you let that dog of yours snarl at me, neither, or else I’ll be feeding him a dose of rat poison.’

  Alfie’s lips were white as he watched the rent collector turn on his heel and slam the cellar door behind him. He put his arm around Mutsy, smoothing down the rough fur on the dog’s back until the growls died away.

  He looked around. The cellar in Bow Street was a fairly miserable place – just the one small, damp room where Alfie, his brother Sammy and his two cousins, Jack and Tom, lived, cooked and slept. The rent was far too high already, but so far, in the years since his parents died, Alfie had never failed to scrape the money together to pay it. He would go without food rather than touch the tin box that held the rent money.

  But now the tin box was empty.

  CHAPTER 2

  A DANGEROUS JOB

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Alfie asked the question in a low voice. Although, at twelve, he was only a few months older than Jack, Alfie was the leader of the gang, the one that gave the orders. His brother and cousins expected him to know what to do. He didn’t meet their eyes but looked instead at Sarah.

  Sarah was a good friend of the boys. She worked as a parlour maid at the White Horse Inn and often came to visit them in the afternoon when she was free. She had a sharp brain, so perhaps she could come up with some way of earning money.

  But even Sarah was looking blank. She knew as well as he did that, with the air full of choking yellow fog, Londoners with money were rushing to get indoors as fast as possible. No one was going to hang around watching ragged boys performing tricks, and Sammy, a brilliant singer who earned more money than the rest put together, could not sing well in the fog. Sarah herself would not be paid until the end of the month.

  Alfie kept stroking Mutsy while his mind frantically searched for solutions.

  And then there was the sound of a footstep on the stone steps outside. Someone was coming down to the cellar, moving slowly, pausing from time to time. Someone who was checking that no one had seen him, thought Alfie.

  ‘I’ll kill him if he tries to do anything to Mutsy,’ whispered Tom hoarsely.

  ‘Shh,’ said Alfie, listening intently. The old wooden door to the cellar was worm-eaten and rickety. Every sound travelled through it. The man – and the footsteps were definitely a man’s – was very near to them. Alfie imagined that he even heard him draw in a breath.

  And then there was a knock.

  Not the rent collector’s knock – no bang on the door with a stick, no shout to open up. This was a small sound, just two gentle taps with a knuckle.

  Alfie took one look around, gestured to Mutsy to stay and went to open the door.

  The man wore his coat collar well buttoned up so that his mouth was hidden, and the brim of his hat was pulled down to his eyebrows. Underneath it, Alfie glimpsed a pair of shrewd brown eyes and gasped with surprise.

  ‘Inspector Denham!’ he said. ‘Come in, sir.’

  Inspector Denham stepped quickly in through the door, but he did not speak until Alfie had closed it behind them.

  ‘Good evening, Sarah,’ he said with a nod as he removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat collar, ‘Sammy, Jack, Tom. Thank you, Mutsy,’ he added as Mutsy wagged a welcome. Alfie held his breath. What had brought an important man like Inspector Denham to the cellar? Alfie and his gang had worked for him in the past, but then he had always sent one of his constables to bring Alfie to the police station. He fixed his eyes on the man, while Tom carried over the only chair that they possessed and placed it near the fire.

  ‘I need your help, Alfie,’ began the inspector, sitting down. ‘I’ve got a dangerous and difficult job. Someone is passing secrets about a splendid new gun to our enemies, the Russians. We think the spy is a Member of Parliament, one of three MPs who are investigating the new weapon for the War Office. The trouble is we’re not sure which of them is the culprit, and we just can’t get any evidence. He must know he’s being watched and he’s covering his tracks.’

  Alfie nodded but said nothing and the inspector went on.

  ‘We need to catch the spy passing secrets to his contact. This is where you can help us, Alfie. I’ll pay you sixpence a day to watch the MPs and there’s a five-pound reward if you find the evidence.’

  Sixpence a day! A five-pound reward! Alfie felt a rush of excitement. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
‘I’ll find the spy.’

  ‘Don’t be too confident,’ said Inspector Denham. ‘This spy has a lot to lose and if he finds you are after him, he’ll think nothing of killing you and dropping your body into the Thames.’

  Alfie’s eyes widened uneasily for a moment, but then he gave a shrug and grinned.

  ‘I’ll deliver him to you on a plate of hot toast, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  CHAPTER 3

  A MACHINE FOR KILLING

  The bullet whistled through the air and thudded against the wall. And then another and another; again and again with no pause between them.

  Alfie gasped as they whizzed below him. This carbine rifle could shoot these newly invented bullets without stopping to reload. An army equipped with guns and ammunition like that would win any war.

  Inspector Denham put a finger to his lips and Alfie nodded. He understood the need for stealth.

  Alfie and Inspector Denham were in a huge old building near Leicester Square, in the very heart of London. Hiding in a secret little room at the top of the building, they were looking down at the shooting gallery from a small curtained opening.

  Alfie, the spy to catch a spy, Alfie said to himself and grinned with satisfaction. Then he concentrated on watching from his hiding place. Down below were three MPs, and they were all reporting to the government about this new weapon.

  ‘That big one is called Ron Shufflebottom. He’s from Yorkshire,’ whispered Inspector Denham in Alfie’s ear. Alfie nodded, trying not to giggle at the name. Ron Shufflebottom was dressed all in black, rather old-looking clothes. He was a big, tall man with a red face and shrewd eyes. I’d know him again, thought Alfie. Not many men are as tall as that.

  ‘The one next to him is Tom Craddock from Cornwall.’ There was a slightly strange note in Inspector Denham’s voice, Alfie noticed, and wasn’t surprised when the inspector added, ‘Scotland Yard suspect him. He’s supposed to be a dangerous man, so keep well clear of him.’

  Alfie narrowed his eyes, memorising the details. Tom Craddock was not as tall as the Shufflebottom man, but he was above average in height and was wearing a colourful waistcoat of red and blue squares. He had taken the gun from George, the owner of the shooting gallery, and was squinting down the barrel, with one eye closed. After a minute he passed it to the small man beside him.

  ‘Who is the third one?’ whispered Alfie.

  ‘That’s Roland Valentine from Essex,’ said Inspector Denham. ‘He’s a country man. He has a very big farm there and is supposed to be a great shot. I’d say that he knows more about guns than the other two.’

  Roland Valentine was a very thin man with red hair turning white and a long scarf around his scraggy neck. As he tried out the gun, it was clear that he was almost as good at shooting this repeat rifle as the owner of the shooting gallery had been.

  Alfie stared at all three men carefully, looking intently at each face. Yes, he would know them again. He moved forward a little, leaning out through the opening, in order to be quite certain.

  At that moment Roland Valentine swung the gun and aimed upwards. ‘A rat on your ceiling, George!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s see if I can kill it.’

  And the bullet whistled past Alfie’s nose, missing it by a few inches.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE SHADOWS

  Alfie shivered. He had been waiting outside the Houses of Parliament in the cold for hours.

  Most of the MPs had already come out, taken cabs or walked away. But not the men Alfie was waiting for.

  But then, at last, there they were: the three men he had seen in George’s Shooting Gallery. They came to a halt under the gas lamp, their backs to a scarlet postbox: Ron Shufflebottom, Tom Craddock and Roland Valentine, who was so handy with a gun and had nearly put an end to Alfie’s life. Had he really thought he had seen a rat, or had he seen the face peering down at him and thought he was being spied on? Whichever it was, this man was dangerous.

  Alfie could see them quite clearly. Although the air was still foggy, there were no clouds in the sky and a brilliant full moon lit up the whole scene. The three men stood together looking for a cab. So far, Alfie had watched them for three nights, and each night they had shared a cab back to their apartment. Each night Alfie had followed them, running all the way behind the horses, down Whitehall, through Trafalgar Square, and then around to the place where they were staying by the river. But nothing strange had happened.

  And it looked as though nothing was going to happen tonight, either. By now, Mr Shufflebottom had succeeded in getting a cab and they were all piling into it, laughing and teasing each other and in a moment the horse was off, its hoofs clattering against the cobbled surface of Whitehall. Alfie gazed after them, too discouraged to follow them for a fourth night.

  Inspector Denham had set him up with a newspaper stand so he could watch the suspects and catch the spy. Who would notice Alfie, a ragged, bare-footed, twelve-year-old boy, selling newspapers?

  And so, every day, Alfie collected the first editions of the evening papers even before the ink was dry and took his place outside Parliament, and called out ‘Paper! Paper! Paper!’ in a voice made hoarse by the London fog.

  All for nothing, he thought bitterly and turned to go back and join his cousin Tom, who was waiting patiently a few steps away by the newspaper stand.

  And then something happened.

  A man who had been standing smoking a pipe at the door of St Stephen’s Tavern, opposite the Houses of Parliament, emerged from the shadows. He did not even look at Alfie and his bundle of newspapers, but began to cross the road.

  This man was a spy. Alfie was suddenly quite sure of that. A tall man, with a bushy black beard and a restless head that twisted and turned as his eyes darted here and there. He carried a silver-topped cane and he was wearing a long overcoat made of glossy black fur. His shining silk top hat was placed sideways upon his head and obscured half of his face. The man had been there for a long time, had watched all of the government ministers and backbenchers coming out of Westminster; but unlike them he had not called for a cab. He had stood in the shadows, a tense, alert figure, smoking a cigar and waiting.

  Then, when all the others had gone, he had emerged from the doorway, looked from left to right and behind him. He had carefully scanned the road before crossing over and stopping in front of the red postbox. Once again he looked all around him, but Alfie was now facing the railings and was busy tidying his pack of newspapers, carefully matching up their edges.

  But from the corner of his eye he could see what the man was doing.

  Alfie’s eyes were sharp and so were his wits. To a passer-by it would have looked as though the man in the fur coat was just posting a letter; but Alfie was near enough to hear a slight clink of metal and he saw what was happening.

  The man was not posting a letter. He was fishing a letter out of the red postbox.

  A dark thread had been tied to a heavy key. The man pulled on the key and on the other end of the thread was tied an envelope. The gas lamp shone on it for a few seconds, long enough for Alfie to see the creamy-white of the paper and the red of the sealing wax that kept it tightly closed.

  Alfie swallowed hard. By now this strange behaviour, this affair of the hidden letter, had convinced him. This was what he had been waiting for. He had to follow this man, stay with him, but stay unsuspected and unseen if possible.

  Alfie had been starting to get very tired of this job. Nothing was happening as far as he could tell. But tonight was different; tonight things were happening at last.

  But this man was not one of the MPs. He was not one of the suspects. Alfie glanced over towards the newspaper stand and hoped that his cousin Tom was observing too. He picked one newspaper off the pile and raised it above his head. That was the signal to Tom who stood shivering beside the newspaper stand.

  Tom’s job was to follow the man first and then, after a while, Alfie would catch up with him and Tom would hang back. In this way they would take turns so
that the hunted person would not notice the same boy behind him all of the time. Tom was good at this sort of thing and would be ready as soon as the man in the fur coat began to move. Alfie himself fiddled with his newspapers and tried to think what to do next. Who was this man? And where was he from?

  He had come out from the tavern, but he was not the owner, nor was he staying there. Alfie knew everything about St Stephen’s Tavern. He had haunted the place for the last four days and knew everyone who worked there and most of the customers who came and went. This man was not from the tavern and yet his shoes were bright and shiny, so he could not have come from far. He had not come by cab either: Alfie had checked every cab that had arrived in the last few hours. Where did he live? He was not the sort of man who would live nearby in Devil’s Acre. Devil’s Acre was a terrible place, with narrow, stinking streets and tumbledown houses. It was the home of thieves, criminals and people who did not own a penny. There were no respectable houses around. Where had this man come from?

  Alfie pondered over the puzzle while he watched the spy from a safe distance.

  ‘Don’t let him suspect you,’ Inspector Denham had said. ‘A dead hero is no good to me. Keep yourself safe. You have your brother and your cousins depending on you. I’ll give you sixpence a day for watching and there is a five-pound reward if you lead me to the spy.’

  Five pounds, thought Alfie. Five pounds would put to rest all his worries about finding the rent for the cellar. Five pounds would keep the roof over their heads safe for the time being. So he continued to watch.

  The next second, the man in the fur coat stripped the thread from the blob of sealing wax, broke the seal, tore open the envelope and put it, the key and the thread into his pocket. He looked quickly at the large folded sheets of paper and they also went into his pocket. Then he looked around once more and held a long, narrow strip of paper up to the gas lamp. He seemed to be reading its words over and over, almost as though he were trying to understand them. Alfie moved a little nearer and saw why the man was puzzled. There on the piece of paper was written in large black capital letters: