Murder on Stage Read online

  ‘Let’s look at it, then,’ said Tom, raising his head. He drank a little beer and then pushed it away.

  ‘Eat first,’ said Sarah firmly. She waited until the last crumb had gone, before she looked down once more at the prayer that she held in her hand. ‘Look, you can see, Jack, you can see that Alfie has underlined the words clowns and actors so he must want me to talk to one of the clowns or one of the actors. I know the two actors that he was talking about. But which of the clowns?’

  ‘Read it out, will you, Sarah?’ asked Tom humbly. He still felt sick. The sight of Alfie in that terrible place would never leave him, he thought miserably. He tried to tell himself that Alfie might have got caught in any case, but somehow he didn’t believe it. Alfie always pulled off anything that he attempted. The one thing that Alfie would never have thought of was that he would be betrayed by one of his own gang.

  Tom listened attentively to Alfie’s message – yes it was definitely about clowns and actors, but, as Sarah asked, which ones?

  ‘Can I look at it?’ Tom asked. He had very good eyes; Alfie had often said that. Perhaps there might be something that Sarah hadn’t noticed. He held the piece of paper to the light of the fire and screwed up his eyes. ‘Light the candle, will you, Jack?’ He said the words without removing his eyes from the page.

  Jack obediently lit a candle. They didn’t often bother with one – candles cost money – but this was an emergency.

  ‘I see something now,’ said Tom excitedly. The candle cast a great light on the page, a white light. ‘Did you see, Sarah? He’s put little dots under some of the words. Read it out again. Slowly this time! Point to each word as you read it and I’ll show you where the dots are.’

  So, slowly and carefully, like a learner reading the first primer, Sarah read, with Tom’s head looking over her shoulder, his eyes following each word that she pointed to.

  ‘Sister dear, when I was free,

  I learnt to write, to count one, two, three.’

  ‘There,’ shouted Tom. ‘Look there’s dots under one, two, three.’

  ‘MY PRAYER TO YOU,’ continued Sarah,

  Find in your heart the holy three

  Mary, Joseph, the babe you’ll see,

  You’ll be lucky if that you do

  And shun all clowns and actors, too.’

  ‘Why did he talk about learning to count up to three?’ mused Sammy. ‘Don’t suppose he learnt that at school. He could always do that.’

  ‘I bet I know why he put that one, two, three!’ Sarah sounded excited. ‘It’s a clue. You have to pick out the first word on line one, the second word on line two and the third word on line three.’

  ‘What are they, Sarah?’ Tom was almost bursting with impatience. ‘Go on, read them out!’

  ‘Wait.’ Sarah ran her finger along the lines. ‘Find . . . Joseph . . . Lucky. That’s the message.’

  ‘Lucky is the sort of name that a clown would have,’ chimed in Sammy.

  ‘Joey the Clown, I’ve seen that sign outside a booth – you know like one of the Punch and Judy things but full length in Clare Market,’ said Jack. ‘He had a couple of those Chinese lanterns – pretty they were.’

  ‘That’s the message then,’ said Sarah. ‘Find those two clowns – they might be able to give us the information we need. We just want to know if one of the other clowns has a missing first finger. Or perhaps it is one of them – either Joey or Lucky. Anyway, a missing finger should be noticeable to anyone who worked with him.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll go down to the theatre at Covent Garden tomorrow. I’ll ask for some work, hang around a bit . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sarah. ‘Take care, though – don’t stick your nose out too far. And always make sure that there’s an open door so that you can run if necessary.’

  She would have preferred to question the clowns herself – to question them in a way that did not arouse their suspicions. But what could she do? She dare not show her nose inside that theatre again and she would lose her job if she took time off tomorrow.

  And time, for Alfie, might be running out.

  CHAPTER 24

  A FIGHT AGAINST TIME

  ‘It’s up to us now,’ said Jack solemnly as he carefully divided the remaining hunk of bread into three equal pieces, placing one in front of Tom and guiding Sammy’s hand towards the other one.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Sammy. He chewed his bread carefully and then said, ‘We all need to work. Tom is going to the theatre. That’ll be the most important thing, but I think I’ll go and have a chat with Inspector Denham.’

  ‘Sarah said not yet,’ said Tom.

  ‘Sarah don’t know everything,’ responded Sammy tranquilly. ‘I’m Alfie’s brother and it makes sense that I’d be worried about him. Inspector Denham won’t mind me coming. Anyway, being blind and all that, the constables won’t want to turn me out – like they might with either you or Jack. If Jack walks with me to the outside of the place, Mutsy will look after me then. Not a bad idea to teach the old fellow the word police, anyway,’ he added. ‘Never know when I’d want that.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ To Sammy’s sensitive ear, Jack’s voice sounded strained and unhappy.

  ‘Why don’t you go to Scotland Yard? Ask for that Officer Grey. You might get thrown out on your ear, but then again, you mightn’t. Act like Alfie. Say you’ve information of great importance about the Covent Garden murder. Can’t do any harm. Talk to him. Tell him what Sarah was telling us – about the other men who might want Harry Booth dead. Them clowns mightn’t want to mention that to a policeman – they say that actors always stick together and the same would be for clowns – so the chances are that he knows nothing about it.’

  ‘I’d just like to see Inspector Denham for a few minutes.’

  It was a nuisance, thought Sammy, that he couldn’t see the face in front of him. He didn’t know whether the constable was on the point of saying yes or saying no. He could sense his embarrassment though, so he waited peacefully and hoped for the best.

  ‘What about the dog?’ asked another voice, well lowered, but certainly easily heard by anyone with normal hearing.

  ‘He can’t walk without him,’ replied the constable in the same tone of voice.

  Thinks I’m deaf as well as blind, and crippled, too, Sammy thought, and suppressed a grin. It didn’t matter to him what they said, or thought, as long as one of them brought him into Inspector Denham.

  ‘Wait a minute, sonny. I’ll . . .’ Then there was a sound of a door opening and straightaway Inspector’s Denham’s voice.

  ‘You’re young Alfie’s brother, aren’t you? Come in. Go on, bring the dog too. That’s the dog that rescued you a while back, isn’t it? Clever fellow! Alfie told me all about it. Constable, put that chair there so that the lad can sit down – Sammy, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Sammy putting his hand behind him to find the chair and then lowering himself into it. Mutsy’s warm bulk was beside him and he kept his hand on the dog’s neck and hoped that things would go well.

  ‘Alfie’s in prison – in Newgate.’ He let the statement hang for a minute. He could feel the sympathy in the air, could sense the small, uneasy movements.

  ‘I just heard that this morning. I was away yesterday. I was very sorry, indeed, to hear the news. I’m afraid that it has nothing to do with me. It’s in the hands of Scotland Yard . . .’

  For a moment Sammy thought Inspector Denham was going to say something else, but after the silence had lasted a good ten seconds he said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and waited. There was more to come, he knew.

  And then the door shut. The inspector must have nodded to the constable to go out and to leave them alone. When he spoke next, his voice sounded different, less official, more friendly . . .

  ‘Your brother can call on someone to be a witness as to good character, Sammy,’ he said gently. ‘I will be happy to do this. I’ll send a note to the prison. I can certai
nly bear witness to his hard work at school and how quickly he learnt to read and write and . . . and . . . well, I can mention that he has assisted the police once or twice . . . not make too much of it, you understand. That might give him a reputation of being a police spy, or something like that – last thing that Alfie would want. Anyway, I’ll be there and I’ll do my best for him. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ repeated Sammy. ‘I just wanted to ask you a question. Why is he in prison? Why have the Scotland Yard men arrested him? Alfie didn’t do nothing.’

  ‘They think that he is part of a gang,’ explained the inspector. ‘Gangs are using children more and more these days. They send them through windows too small for grown men – to open the front door to the thieves – and they use them for pickpocketing, and to distract attention from their crimes. Apparently Alfie came on the stage, through a trapdoor, and the police think that the poison was slipped into the glass of port while Harry Booth and the audience were all looking at Alfie, popping up on stage like a jack-in-the-box.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sammy. ‘But Alfie just came on to the stage because he saw someone put the poison into the port. He tried to stop Harry Booth drinking it but he was too late.’

  ‘It’s a possible story.’ Inspector Denham sounded dubious. ‘It just depends on what the judge thinks about it. And the jury, of course. There’ll be a jury of twelve men when his case comes on. It all depends . . .’

  The awkwardness in his voice was easy to hear, thought Sammy. Things were bad for Alfie. The Scotland Yard people thought that if he were put in prison he would come out with the name of the gang, or the gang leader, and then when he didn’t they would be happy enough to see him take the whole blame. And the crime was murder . . .

  ‘Could you tell me, sir, when the trial will come on?’ He asked the question as steadily and calmly as he could, but was not able to stop himself starting when Inspector Denham said, his voice heavy with sympathy, ‘I’m afraid it will be held on Friday.’

  Friday! Sammy felt as if his heart had stopped.

  Today was Tuesday.

  Only three more days, and a sentence of death might be passed on his brother.

  CHAPTER 25

  DISAPPOINTMENT

  Tom was in luck. The man at the desk offered him two pence to pick up the rotten oranges, putrid old potatoes and the squashed tomatoes from the floors before the cleaners started work.

  ‘Trouble again last night?’ queried Tom, accepting a cluster of buckets and picking up the broom in his other hand.

  ‘Worse than ever! Hardly anyone in the posh seats – no one wants to pay good money just to see a riot! It’s no good. You can’t run a theatre like this on the prices of the cheapest seats. Lots of the rioters probably had faked tickets anyway, just like before,’ said the man. ‘Off you go, and do it quietly. The clowns are having their rehearsal in a few minutes so keep away from the stage.’

  Tom worked hard and fast, scouring the ground between the seats, under the seats and in the aisles. There was plenty to pick up. He filled three buckets and was about to go back to the desk to get some more when suddenly a man came along and lit the limelights at the foot of the stage.

  Suddenly a pair of clowns ran on to the stage, screaming with laughter, poking each other, telling jokes and turning cartwheels. Tom was so fascinated that he had to remind himself to carry on picking up the rubbish that the rioters had hurled around the theatre the night before.

  And then came another couple; these weren’t so good – they just threw water over each other and hurled custard pies, which the other always caught to prevent a mess. They were followed by a pair of clowns with a small dog wearing a bridle, reins and harness, just like a horse, and pulling a tiny carriage behind him. Tom took careful note of this as it was a trick that they could easily teach Mutsy. Jack was clever with his hands and always on the look-out for things thrown on rubbish heaps. A couple of wheels and a lightweight box made from some pieces of old timber – that would make a showy sight with Mutsy pulling it, thought Tom.

  But then everything went out of his head. The next two clowns were exchanging insults, calling taunts across the stage to each other.

  And the names that they were shouting were Joey and Lucky.

  Instantly Tom went into action. He picked up a few more tomatoes and oranges, gathered up his full bucket and went back out to the man at the desk.

  ‘Done that,’ he said cheerily. ‘All right if I go back stage? Saw an orange or two sticking out from under the curtain.’

  The man barely nodded. He was busy sorting out the torn ticket halves, putting some aside and throwing the others in the bin.

  Tom seized an empty bucket, transferred a few oranges into it while the man was not looking and moved off fast. He would try to be backstage before the clowns arrived.

  ‘That was a great act,’ he said breathlessly when they came off. He looked narrowly at their hands. Lucky was easing off an uncomfortable shoe and Joey was taking off his wig and clown’s pointed hat. Both of them had all of their fingers.

  Sammy was standing there in Covent Garden market, singing, when Tom came out of the theatre. The rain had stopped. It was foggy, but not as bad as some of the other days so there were a few people around. Tom stood and watched while some people threw halfpence into Sammy’s cap.

  I’ll wait until he finishes the next song, he told himself but he knew that he wanted to put off the moment when he had to break the truth to Sammy.

  According to Joey and Lucky, there weren’t any clowns with missing fingers.

  ‘Any luck?’ Tom asked, as Jack arrived at Covent Garden market shortly afterwards.

  ‘Nah,’ said his brother shortly. ‘They wouldn’t let me go near the place. Said that Officer Grey was busy, that he was out on a case. Told me to get out and not to show my face again.’

  ‘Well, Sammy has a bit of good news,’ said Tom, trying to be cheerful. ‘Tell him what Inspector Denham said, Sam.’

  ‘You tell him,’ said Sammy, fumbling on the ground for his cap. He sorted out the coins – counted them – threepence, took out the sixpenny coin that Inspector Denham had given him and handed the whole ninepence to Jack. Jack was now in charge of the little gang. It looked like there was going to be no easy way out of Newgate for Alfie.

  Sammy put on his cap and said, ‘Home, Mutsy,’ as bravely as he could.

  As they made their way back to the cellar, Sammy could hear Tom telling Jack how Inspector Denham was going to speak up for Alfie. But Sammy did not share his cousin’s belief in Inspector Denham. Tom had not heard the tone of the man’s voice, but he had.

  And there wasn’t much comfort in it.

  CHAPTER 26

  UNRAVELLING

  The shout came just as they reached the top of the steps. Jack had gone off to buy supper so only Sammy and Tom were there. This time the sound was unmistakable and they both turned and waited.

  ‘Tom!’ yelled a voice.

  ‘Someone calling you.’ Sammy went on down the steps. He felt terribly weary, almost as though his legs would no longer carry him. As far back as he could remember Alfie was always the one that he turned to when he needed help. And now Alfie needed his help and he had none to give him. This murder had to be solved and to be solved quickly. He turned the key in the lock and went in, leaving the door open for Tom. There was little warmth coming from the fire – they were short of coal – but Sammy felt his way over and sat as near to it as possible. He buried his head in his hands, conscious that Mutsy was leaning up against him.

  He was roused by a harsh bark. There was a sudden rushing of air, a scrabbling of nails on the floor, and then the bark came again – loud and aggressive.

  ‘Great balls of fire!’ exclaimed a strange voice.

  ‘Mutsy! Down!’ yelled Tom.

  ‘Mutsy, here, boy.’ Sammy clicked his fingers and Mutsy returned to him.

  ‘Codlins and Short!’ said another voice, in a high-pitched tone. ‘I thought my
last hour had come, Joey! Is that a dog, or just a small donkey?’

  ‘Are you a clown or a mouse, Lucky?’ asked the first voice, also in that strange, high-pitched tone.

  Sammy heard Tom laugh and knew that all was well. ‘Say you’re sorry, Mutsy,’ he said cheerfully and listened with pleasure to the high-pitched laugh – a clown’s laugh. He had heard them often enough at the markets and Alfie had often described their routine. He knew why they were laughing now – Mutsy would be going through one of his routines where he sat on his back legs and hid his eyes behind his paws.

  ‘That’s no donkey, dunderhead!’ said one. ‘That’s a clown. Why isn’t he on the stage? That’s what I say, Joey.’

  ‘He can do hundreds of tricks,’ boasted Tom.

  ‘And who’s this young gentleman?’

  ‘I’m Sammy.’

  ‘I’m Joey the clown,’ Sammy felt his hand taken in a friendly squeeze, ‘and this is my partner, Lucky. So you live here by yourselves – four boys, no mother or father, is that right?’ He sounded sorry for them.

  ‘That’s right. Do you know Alfie?’ Jack had arrived back in time to answer the last question. Sammy could hear a note of surprise in his voice.

  ‘It’s about Alfie that we came.’ From the tone of his voice, Sammy could tell that Joey had turned towards Tom. ‘You was asking us about a man with a missing finger and we said that none of the clowns had a missing finger. But then we thought of someone after you had gone.’

  ‘But he doesn’t work in the Covent Garden Theatre,’ said Lucky.

  ‘No, and he isn’t a real clown, neither.’

  They were acting as if they were on a stage, thought Sammy. Clowns had a patter like this – just like tossing a ball, one to the other.

  By the sounds the two clowns were doing a little dance. Mutsy gave a small, sharp bark, more like a laugh than a real bark.