Murder on Stage Page 2

  He couldn’t run away. He had to be there to look after them all, to ensure the rent was reserved, that he, his brother and his cousins were fed.

  And there was another thing, also. If he left London, this murder might never be solved. Alfie thought highly of his own brains and did not think that most policemen could equal them. He needed to stay around to find the true villain and clear his name. He couldn’t trust anyone else.

  ‘I need a disguise,’ he said after a minute.

  ‘Dress up as a woman,’ sniggered Tom with a look at Alfie’s rough hair and grimy face. ‘You’d look good, but where would you get the clothes?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Alfie slowly. ‘Let me think.’ Questions were crowding into his head. Why had the riot been arranged? Was it really a protest about the rise in seat prices, or was it perhaps a way of making sure that no one was looking at the stage while the poison was added to the drink? And who was that small fat man who had given him the free tickets?

  ‘Tom,’ said Alfie. ‘I think I know what to do. I’m going to look for a job at Covent Garden Theatre.’

  Tom’s mouth fell open. ‘Covent Garden Theatre! But won’t they nab you there?’

  ‘I’m going to dress up as a clown,’ said Alfie firmly. ‘No one will recognise me then.’

  ‘A clown? You?’

  Alfie glared at his cousin. ‘What’s so funny about that? The geezer that gave me the tickets, he told me that my juggling was good enough.’

  Was it possible that the man who gave him the tickets was connected with the murder? ‘They’re going to have a show with clowns tonight after the opera has finished,’ the man had said. ‘You should go and watch it. Here are some tickets for you.’ He had lots of tickets, Alfie had noticed, as he watched the man’s yellow gloves fumble in the pocket.

  ‘The police will get you if you go out,’ said Tom.

  ‘I told you that I’ll be disguised,’ said Alfie impatiently. ‘I’ll be disguised as a clown.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘Betty from Monmouth Street,’ said Alfie. ‘You know her grandma is the old clothes woman? Betty told me that she’d help me if I was ever in trouble – just like I helped her. I’ll stay here and you go and get her. Tell her I want to be disguised as a clown. Go on, Tom, get her; go quickly.’

  After he had gone, Alfie sat down on the cushion by the fireplace and put his head in his hands. He needed to do some hard thinking.

  Why had the man who gave him the tickets wanted to start a riot? What was in it for him? And why was Harry Booth killed?

  Alfie tried again to think what the man looked like. Heavy cloak, gloves, a top hat pulled down over his face.

  Struggle as he might, Alfie could not remember the face. All the time the man was talking Alfie had continued with his tricks, continued his jokes, hoping desperately that some of the passers-by, hurrying home out of the fog and heavy drizzle, would drop a penny into his cap.

  So he had not looked.

  He remembered the voice, though. A funny, high-pitched voice.

  Perhaps this man had a grudge against the theatre manager; perhaps he was facing the sack.

  But why kill Harry Booth? He wasn’t important. He just played lots of small parts, like a waiter, or a soldier or a man with a message, or so he had told Alfie the time that he and Jack had helped him to move scenery.

  However it happened, Alfie knew one thing: the police needed to arrest someone fast. The person who dared to commit murder in front of Queen Victoria must be brought to justice – and hanged.

  And Alfie was their chief suspect.

  CHAPTER 4

  A TERRIBLE RISK

  ‘You’re mad, Alfie!’ Betty was a plump, short, curly-haired girl, aged about seventeen. She edged nervously back towards the cellar door. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up with murder. I’ve had a night in the cells myself, and I can tell you that it was the longest night of my life.’

  ‘He has to be disguised or they’ll pick him up the first time he shows his nose outside the door.’ Tom sounded nervous and unsure.

  ‘I’ll dress you up as a girl,’ said Betty. ‘I’ve got some stuff here in my bag. What’s the point of dressing as a clown? That’ll make everyone look at you straight away. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb on the streets, that you will.’

  ‘I might on the streets,’ said Alfie with a grin. ‘But I aim to go into Covent Garden Theatre. Once I join the queue there at four o’clock, I’ll just be one of a hundred clowns. I won’t stir outside the door until then.’

  ‘Covent Garden Theatre!’ Betty looked at Tom and then back at Alfie.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Tom.

  ‘Worse than mad,’ said Betty. ‘Everyone’s talking about the murder. That place will be crawling with policemen.’

  ‘They won’t be looking for me there,’ said Alfie with conviction. ‘I won’t be a boy; I’ll be a small man. And I won’t sound like a boy. I’ve been practising a voice while I was waiting for you. It’s the voice of Joseph Bishop, you know, the old codger that digs up the bodies from the burying ground.’

  He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and took deep breath. ‘Good day to you, my masters,’ he said in the hoarse, rusty tones of the grave robber.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Tom admiringly, but Betty just shuddered.

  ‘Don’t do it, Alfie,’ she wailed. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I have to.’ Alfie was resolute. It was no good arguing with either Betty or Tom, but he knew that he could never get back to his normal life again until this murder was solved. Suddenly he realised that he had forgotten about hunger. Life and liberty were more important. The secret of the murder of Harry Booth would lie in Covent Garden Theatre and somehow or other he had to get in there and ask some questions.

  ‘Come on, Betty,’ he said. ‘Get that rouge and face paint out! Make sure that you do a good job.’

  There were no looking glasses in the cellar, just a dirt-smeared window, so he would have to rely on Betty. Already she had taken scissors, needles and cotton thread from her bag. She had been stitching for her bad-tempered old grandmother since she was a child of five.

  ‘How are you going to get out of here?’ asked Tom anxiously.

  ‘It’ll be dark by four and the theatre only opens around then,’ said Alfie carelessly. ‘Tom, old chap, see if you can get us something to eat – beg, borrow or steal, as they say,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And bring Sammy and Mutsy with you when you come back.’

  It would not be much good for Sammy to stay out too long in that freezing fog – he would lose his voice. As for Tom, at the moment Alfie did not care whether he begged, borrowed or stole as long as he was careful. They all needed food and now Alfie needed to concentrate. The important thing was to think hard about the Covent Garden murder!

  But before Tom could move there was the sound of heavy footsteps and then a thunderous knock on the door. And then a shout: ‘Open in the name of the law!’

  Alfie’s eyes darted here and there. He knew now the feelings of a rat that had been driven into a corner. The cellar was no place to hide in. The police knew he lived there. They would not leave before they had searched every inch of it. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he clenched and unclenched his hands. The window! Would it be possible to climb out of it and to bury himself in all of the filth that accumulated in the small sunken area in front of it? He didn’t know if the window opened or not. He couldn’t ever remember anyone bothering to open it. The smell would have been too bad.

  And then as his mind scurried around like an animal in a trap, a miracle occurred! A shout of ‘Stop, thief!’ A woman’s voice screaming! Then the sound of a whistle blowing and heavy footsteps pounding back up the steps to the pavement! Whoever the woman was, Alfie silently blessed her.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said rapidly. Where would he be safe? His mind scanned frantically through various places and rejected them all. He and Betty needed somewhere private; somewhere Alfie coul
d lurk until the light began to fade.

  Alfie dashed to the cupboard, took out his father’s old cloak, rotten with damp and eaten into holes by moths, and slung it around his shoulders. It trailed on the ground, but not too badly. His father had been a small man. He stood on his toes and groped around at the back of the shelf. First he thought that it had been thrown out, or sold long ago, but then his fingers touched a slimy, mildewed surface. He pulled. It was an old bowler hat – once it had been black, but now it was a poisonous, mouldy green, bashed and with a gaping hole on one side. Alfie snatched it out, clapped it on his head. It came right down over his forehead and rested on his ears. He went to the door and jerked his head to Betty to tell her to follow himself and Tom.

  ‘Meet you at the burying ground in Crown Court,’ he said rapidly and ignored her dismayed face. No one wanted to go near that ancient burying ground where dead body was piled on dead body, where bones lay scattered on the surface and the ground oozed with a nameless substance.

  But this was good; they would have it to themselves. Joseph Bishop, the grave robber, worked by night and everyone else avoided the place unless they had a body to bury.

  ‘Quick,’ he said to her. ‘Grab your bag. You go first. Stand on the pavement and look up and down. Just nod if it’s all clear. Then I’ll slip out and you can follow me after a few minutes. Make sure that no one sees you go.’

  ‘Alfie, I’d be scared to go down that passageway on my own,’ whimpered Betty.

  Alfie cast a desperate glance up at the street. It was empty. Now was the moment; he could not afford to waste time.

  ‘I’ll wait for you just around the corner,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just count up to sixty and if there’s no sign of the police coming, just follow me.’

  Could she count up to sixty, he wondered as he edged his way along the soot-blackened buildings and disappeared around the corner of the passageway leading to the burial ground. Twenty would be her limit, he thought.

  Alfie had got as far as forty in his mind when he heard the voice of authority. It was the constable’s voice and he was shouting at Betty. ‘You just wait a minute, my girl!’

  Alfie held his breath; Betty wasn’t too bright, and she was terrified of the police. What would she say? Would she betray him?

  ‘Hey, you!’ shouted the constable. ‘Where’s that other boy, the oldest of you? What’s his name? Alfie?’

  ‘He’s not here. He’s gone away.’ It was Tom’s voice. Alfie didn’t know whether that was good or not. Still, Tom would be a better liar than Betty, he supposed.

  ‘Not – here – he – has – gone – away.’

  Alfie drew a cautious breath of relief. The constable sounded as though he were writing down the answer. That was a relief. He didn’t seem to be interested in hunting his prey. Quite possibly the Bow Street Police resented being given orders by the Scotland Yard crowd.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ He didn’t sound too interested, but once again Alfie held his breath. What would Tom say?

  ‘He’s gone to visit his grandmother,’ said Betty’s voice and Alfie smiled. It sounded good, he thought. Betty’s mind was always on her own unpleasant grandmother who made a slave out of her and beat her whenever she was in a bad mood. Grandmother was obviously the first word that came into her head.

  ‘Gone – to – visit – his – grandmother.’

  Alfie quivered with impatience. He could just imagine the policeman’s pencil laboriously tracing the words into his notebook.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off back to the station; keep out of trouble, you two.’

  Alfie smiled. It sounded like PC 23, not a bad fellow. He hoped that Betty would wait until he was out of sight before she turned into Broad Court.

  They should be alone there. Only a truly desperate person would choose to come down this grim passageway to the burying ground.

  CHAPTER 5

  HIDE!

  ‘Come on,’ said Alfie impatiently when Betty eventually appeared. He kept well back from the Bow Street entrance, but by listening hard he guessed that there were not many people passing by. The fog was bad and there were very few shops in that section of the street; the few people who had been around had not returned since the chase after the thief. Now was the time for him to vanish.

  The passageway to the burying ground was dark, hemmed in on either side by tall, windowless walls. It was very narrow and on a damp, foggy day it smelt of evil, nameless things. Alfie and Betty walked silently side by side. The stench would get worse as they went along and Alfie knew that by the time they reached the burying ground it would become almost unbearable.

  Even so, it was the only place that he could think of where the police would not choose to go; where the search would not be worth the unpleasantness. It was the only place where a boy who was wanted for murder could be safe for a few hours before darkness fell.

  Betty clutched his arm suddenly and he did not push her away. It was good of her to come so quickly, and good of her to risk trouble with the police by helping Alfie put on a disguise. And it was extra good of her to brave the terrors of the Drury Lane burying ground.

  But there was a sound of footsteps. Two sets of footsteps tramping up the alleyway. Alfie groaned to himself. Was nothing going right for him today? He knew what was happening. The lamplighter was coming up from Drury Lane to light the gas lamp outside the burying ground.

  And – what was worse – he would have a policeman with him. No lamplighter would brave that place without a police escort. Alfie could hear their voices now.

  ‘Come on, quick,’ he said to Betty as he turned back towards Bow Street. He would just have to risk it. Better to meet a policeman in a crowded street than an empty alleyway.

  However, there was no sign of the constable when they came out. Where could they go? Suddenly Alfie had an idea.

  ‘Follow me,’ he whispered to Betty as he crossed the street and dived down another alleyway, then another and then another, pausing at each entrance only long enough to make sure that Betty was following him.

  Now they were out in front of the church of St Paul’s, the church near Covent Garden Theatre. There was a Punch and Judy show going on under the marble arches in front of the building and a few people were watching it. Alfie slid along the side until he came to the belfry at the back. The bell was tolling – must be someone dead in the parish, thought Alfie, counting the numbers – someone old. Would it ever stop? Betty was shivering with cold and with fright. Sixty-five, thought Alfie and then abruptly the bell stopped and the bell-ringer came out, slamming the door behind him.

  Once the man’s footsteps died away, Alfie stole forward silently. He turned the handle cautiously. No, the door was not locked. He grabbed Betty’s hand and pulled her inside. A dim light came through the window from the gas lamp outside.

  ‘Oh, Alfie,’ whimpered Betty. ‘I’m scared of this place. They say it’s haunted. They say that the devil didn’t want the church to have a bell. Once he burnt the place down with the fires from hell.’

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Alfie impatiently. ‘What did you bring me? Be quick and then you can go.’ She would forget about ghosts once she got the clothes out, he thought. Betty was clothes-mad.

  Betty had done her best. She had brought with her a much-darned silk waistcoat and a much-worn shirt with frilly sleeves. Both had been badly torn, but sewn together with several neat patches. She handed them to him from her basket and then produced a pair of men’s long baggy pin-striped trousers. Alfie stared at them in dismay.

  ‘They’re too big,’ giggled Betty. She held them up. ‘Put them on over your own trousers,’ she advised and Alfie pulled them on while Betty held the shirt and waistcoat. They reached down well below his own trousers and trailed on the ground. He rolled them up.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Betty. ‘Leave them down. Now perhaps they won’t notice that you have no shoes. I’m sure that clowns shouldn’t have bare feet.’

  The shirt was better. It
was made from silk, he thought, and had fancy cuffs at the ends of the sleeves. They reminded him of the hand that had come from behind the curtain and dropped the poison into the glass of port. What was the odd thing about that hand? He shut his eyes and tried to visualize it.

  ‘Be careful with that shirt,’ warned Betty. ‘I’ve put hours of work into it.’

  Alfie pulled it over his head. It was extremely large. Although he had left his jacket on underneath, it drooped in folds down to his waist. The sight seemed to send Betty into a fit of laughing.

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Alfie. ‘Don’t make such a noise. You might rouse that devil.’

  ‘Alfie!’ wailed Betty, clutching his arm.

  ‘Only joking,’ said Alfie hastily. ‘Do my face now. You got any of that white stuff? I’d like to be one of them scary clowns – I’ve seen one once – big white face and black all around his eyes.’

  ‘You’ll have to make do with this.’ Betty showed him a small pot. ‘Got it from a gentleman friend of mine,’ she said proudly. ‘Ever such nice stuff. Shame to waste it on . . . oh my God, what was that?’

  ‘Just a bit of mist,’ said Alfie quickly. He himself didn’t like the way a strange clump of white mist seemed to be oozing through the opening high above their heads, but he did his best to make his voice sound casual. He didn’t want Betty running off before she finished the job of turning him into a clown.

  ‘I should have washed your face first,’ said Betty as she applied the creamy stuff to his dirty skin. ‘It’s all turning grey.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Alfie. ‘That stuff looks too biscuity-coloured. Grey will look better. Now do my eyes. What have you got for them?’

  ‘Got a pot of lampblack, here,’ said Betty. ‘I just rub a bit on my eyelids, but you can have as much as you like. That’s free. Grandmother’s eyes are getting bad and she is always fussing me about cleaning the soot off the inside of the lamp.’