Death in the Devil's Den Read online

  ‘Oh my sainted aunt,’ he said under his breath. ‘I know who that is. I can’t be wrong. I know those hunched-up shoulders – I should do. I spend enough hours staring at them while we’re rehearsing in the Abbey. He’s disguised himself, though. He doesn’t really have a beard, or a scar, or those bushy eyebrows. He must be wearing some sort of mask.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Alfie in a whisper.

  ‘Boris Ivanov, the organ master at the choir school. I’d stake a penny on it. Never seen that fur coat before, but I’m sure that it is he. I’m in terrible trouble if he finds me on the roof in the middle of the night. He’ll flog me if he catches me.’

  ‘He’ll certainly kill me,’ whispered Alfie back; but his heart was beating hard with excitement as he followed Richard along a gulley that lay between two sections of the roof.

  ‘Boris Ivanov . . .’ Alfie tried the words on his tongue. ‘Sounds funny!’

  ‘Oh, he’s Russian,’ Richard replied.

  Alfie’s eyes widened. What was it Inspector Denham had said?

  ‘ . . .passing secrets and plans about a new weapon, a splendid new gun, to our enemies, the Russians.’

  And the man had been to the Russian Embassy. Things were starting to fall into place!

  CHAPTER 8

  SANCTUARY FOR ALFIE

  ‘Yes, he’s a Russian. He’s always talking about Russia; tells us that he had no parents, no brothers or sisters – just Mother Russia,’ whispered Richard over his shoulder as he led the way. ‘Funny old cove – great musician, though. You should hear him play the organ. Be careful here, this roof is very slippery.’

  ‘Anything the matter, sir?’ The voice rang out clearly in the foggy air.

  Alfie groaned to himself as Richard muttered, ‘The copper! Now we’re in trouble. Edge up here; careful of that gutter – it’s broken. Don’t put any weight on it. Get behind this chimney.’

  Alfie did what he was told. His bare feet were proving to be more useful than Richard’s gleaming black leather boots.

  And then the shrill note of a policeman’s whistle split the air and Richard moaned. ‘That’s torn it. The coppers will surround the Abbey. Quick, follow me. Boris will have some explaining to do and that will give us a few minutes’ start on them.’

  ‘It’s a boy, a boy selling newspapers, stole my purse.’ The Russian organist sounded flustered.

  Alfie clambered over the head of a stone lion and crouched down beside Richard, whose white teeth flashed a grin in the moonlight. A cool customer, thought Alfie admiringly.

  ‘That boy over there?’ asked the policeman. ‘Come back, you young villain; come back, I say!’

  The policeman was shouting at another boy, down below, and Alfie recognised Tom! He realised that his cousin must have come back to Westminster, instead of going back to the cellar in Bow Street. So now Tom was making a run for it – and, knowing Tom, he would be trying to take the newspapers with him.

  Alfie’s heart lurched. Tom could be annoying, but Alfie’s mother had been very fond of him and she had told her son to look after his cousin when she died. He imagined her above in the heaven of his grandfather’s tales and he winced as a picture of her reproachful face flashed in front of his mind’s eye.

  You were always a troublemaker, he could hear her say. And now you’ve got your little cousin into trouble.

  I’m doing my best! The words were in his mind, but they didn’t help. He would feel guilty for ever if Tom was caught and dragged off to Newgate prison. The penalty for stealing a gentleman’s purse could be death by hanging.

  ‘Good,’ said Richard calmly, breaking into Alfie’s thoughts. ‘They’ve found someone to occupy them. Careful here; grab onto that saint’s hand. Put your foot on his foot. It’s quite firm. I’ve been up here hundreds of times.’

  Alfie did as he was told, fitting his bare toes around the carved stone beneath the statue’s feet and then stepping up onto the foot itself. The voices of several policemen moved nearer. Had they given up on the chase after Tom? They seemed to be talking to the Russian now.

  ‘Come down from that ladder, sir, if you please. It’s an offence to scale a building like the Abbey.’ The constable’s voice was polite: the man was obviously a toff, wearing a fur coat and a silk top hat, but there was no doubt that he was behaving suspiciously.

  ‘This is a tricky bit,’ whispered Richard. ‘We have to make a jump here. Don’t look down.’

  Alfie’s mouth was dry as he watched the boy, hand on hat, coat tails flying up, make a leap from the roof to a wall. For a moment it looked as though he would fall, but at the last moment he recovered his balance.

  ‘Come on,’ Richard said quietly. ‘You can’t go back down there. The place is swarming with policemen. They’re always around when the MPs sit late. They fetch cabs for them and things like that.’

  Alfie knew that he shouldn’t go back down for a while until the policemen had wandered off back to New Scotland Yard. Left to himself, he would have spent a few hours on the Abbey roof and then climbed down around dawn. Once more he glanced down at the distance that Richard had leaped so effortlessly. It must be at least thirty feet above the ground, he thought, feeling his breath shorten. He imagined what a fall would do to him, pictured himself splayed out on the pavement with his skull split and the blood oozing from him, like that steeplejack he had once seen fall from the roof of St Martin’s church in Trafalgar Square.

  From the other side of the Abbey, he could hear more voices and the strong Russian accent of the organist as he tried to explain to the policemen why he had been starting to climb onto the roof of Westminster Abbey in the middle of a winter’s night.

  ‘Don’t look down – look at me. Jump!’ Richard’s voice had a note of alarm in it. He could see something that Alfie could not.

  And then one policeman’s voice rose up, stronger and louder than the others.

  ‘You just stay down here, sir,’ it said. ‘Constable Davies will get him. ’e’s from Wales – ’e’s used to mountain climbing and ’e’s younger than you are, begging your pardon, sir. He’ll catch the little beggar what stole your purse, sir.’

  That settled it. A young, fit, mountain-climbing Welshman, armed with a truncheon, was after him. He had to trust Richard. After all, he told himself desperately, Alfie Sykes could do anything that a boy dressed in a tailcoat and wearing a hat and a pair of boots could do.

  The distance between the two buildings was only about four feet. That was not the problem; it was just that it was a very long way down if he happened to jump short. However, Alfie’s mind was made up. Clamping his teeth tightly together and pulling a deep breath into his chest, Alfie leaped across, clawing at the wall’s parapet with stone-cold hands. For a moment he fumbled, but then despair sent the blood flowing back into his veins and he felt the slightly rough surface through his fingertips.

  Richard did not say a word but slipped around a pillar and began to scramble up the slippery slate roof of a building joined to the wall. This was more difficult than the Abbey’s roof, but Richard twitched a rope and Alfie grabbed hold of it instantly. Quickly they came to a set of tall chimneys, hot to the touch and still smoking slightly. Once behind them, Alfie sighed with relief.

  They were no longer on the Abbey roof but on a building close by. Alfie looked down and saw the small yard that Richard had spoken of – Little Dean’s Yard, he had called it. It was shaped like a square, paved in two colours of soot-stained stone and was surrounded by tall, neat brick buildings on all sides. What took Alfie’s attention, though, was the archway. There was a stout wooden gate with heavy bars on it, blocking it at the moment; but he was sure that it would be opened when morning came and that he could get out through there and back into Westminster again. In the meantime, he would just follow his new friend along the narrow crest of the roof.

  Richard was lying down now, seeming to squash himself against the roof ridge, a hand on the slope on either side. It was a good precaution as the sky was
still unclouded and watery gleams of moonlight seeped through the fog. There was a danger that anyone looking out of one of the buildings opposite might see them. Eventually they came to another of the tall chimneys and, with a sigh of relief, Alfie was able to follow Richard’s example and to straighten himself against its bulk.

  ‘Don’t slip,’ whispered Richard. ‘I did once and I only saved my life by grabbing onto that flagpole down there by the gutter. It was a near thing, I can tell you. I tied the rope onto the chimney after that.’ Alfie looked down. The roof was a steep one and the fog-wet slates were incredibly slippery. More than ever he admired the nerve and courage of this Westminster schoolboy.

  ‘In here!’ Richard pushed open a casement window to the back of the chimney. He climbed over the windowsill into a small dark room. ‘This is my study. I share it with Smith Minor, but he’s been sent home with measles. You can sleep there and, in the morning, I’ll bring you breakfast. Here’s a box of matches if you want to find your way around. I’ll draw the curtains. Better go now before I’m missed from the dormitory. I’ll be flogged to death if I’m found out.’

  As soon as he was gone, Alfie lit a match, looked around rapidly, noting the position of the furniture and the cupboards, and then blew it out. Darkness was safer. He felt his way around and took a cushion from a chair and made himself a bed inside a large cupboard whose shelves were full of old books. Once he was settled there, he pulled the door almost shut. Now, if anyone chanced to look in before Richard came, there would be nothing to be seen. He determined not to move unless all was safe.

  Richard would be in trouble from the school authorities if they found out about his night on the roof of Westminster Abbey; but if Alfie were found by the Russian spy, it would be a matter of life or death.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE TOFF

  It was a long night for Alfie, stuck in an airless cupboard and listening to every sound. There were noises of mice – or at least he hoped it was mice, not rats – running up and down the wooden panelling behind his head. He tapped on it once and it felt hollow and a piece of board fell out across his knees.

  Cautiously he lit a match. Inside the cupboard there was little chance of the light being seen by anyone. There was an empty space behind the board, and beyond that a rough brick wall crossed by horizontal wooden beams. Carefully, Alfie worked a second board loose and then held up another burning match, peering into the darkness above. Using the horizontal beams as a ladder, Alfie climbed up. There was some sort of storage space above. Alfie came out into it and realised that he was in a large, bare attic. He could see cobweb-festooned trunks, suitcases, tuck-boxes and bags lined up there. And then came more scuttling sounds. Hastily he climbed back down, returned the two boards to their rusty nails and tried to sleep.

  ‘Alfie!’ The voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper, but it woke Alfie instantly. He waited for a second, but when his name was repeated he was certain that it was Richard. He pulled open the door and peered out.

  ‘Breakfast?’ He lifted his eyebrows enquiringly, his voice cool and undisturbed. The last thing he wanted to happen was for Richard to guess how lonely and scared he had been through the night.

  ‘I’ve got to go to choir practice first.’ Richard quickly pulled a black gown over his suit and wondered aloud where he had left his ‘lid’, eventually finding a flat hat, shaped like a square with a cap beneath it.

  ‘So that’s a lid,’ said Alfie with a grin. ‘Looks funny.’

  ‘It’s called a mortarboard, really.’ Richard sounded a little annoyed and Alfie suppressed the grin and said that perhaps he should leave while the boys were at choir practice.

  ‘I say,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve thought of something. Smith Minor has left his second set of togs here. Why don’t you put them on while I’m at the Abbey? It’ll make it much easier to smuggle you out when morning school is over. Luckily it’s Friday. We have a half-day on Friday and only one choir practice. You might as well stay until then and I’ll go out with you – piece of cake, really. No risk.’

  He pulled out a suit of clothes from the tall cupboard, found some underclothes and a stiffly starched white shirt in the drawers of a tall chest and a pair of boots from a chest beside the fireplace.

  ‘Light the fire, like a good fellow; I’m late!’ And then he was gone. Alfie turned the key in the lock and stood by the door for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of boys’ feet clattering down the staircase. Would he like a life like this? he wondered as he scrunched up bits of newspaper and put some sticks into the fire, adding small pieces of coal once it began to burn freely.

  These young gentlemen had everything provided for them, he thought and looked admiringly around at what Richard had called ‘his study’. There were two easy chairs by the fire, two desks and chairs on either side of the window that opened onto the sloping slated roof. There was a hook above the fireplace where a kettle could hang, a shelf full of books, a carpet on the floor, a clock, and even a mirror hanging over the fireplace.

  Alfie filled the kettle from a tall jug on a side table, set it above the flames and then studied himself in the mirror. He looked very dirty, he thought, and resolved to wash before putting on Smith Minor’s spotless shirt. There were some bars of strong-smelling soap and plenty of torn-up rags in the chest and he washed carefully, even his hair, before dressing himself in the starched shirt and black suit of clothes. The well-polished boots were a little too big, but that was just as well because, like every winter, Alfie’s toes were swollen by chilblains.

  ‘He was there – there in the abbey as usual!’ Richard had scratched gently at the door when he arrived back and Alfie had been pleased to see him. ‘I say, what a lark! You look quite like Smith Minor, too. He has black curly hair just like you. Wears it a bit shorter, though. Hang on, let me put the cheese and bread over on the table and then I’ll snip it a bit for you.’

  ‘Who was there?’ asked Alfie as Richard made the tea in a round brown pot.

  ‘Boris! Mr Ivanov. The organist. He was in a foul mood, too. Kept quarrelling with Mr Ffoulkes, the choirmaster. They’re usually the best of friends; but today the pair of them were so bad-tempered with each other that we all escaped. No one got beaten this morning. I even sang a false note and got away with it! Anyway, tell me what you were doing in Westminster last night. Why was Boris chasing you?’

  Why would a man who has a good job like an organist want to be a spy? Alfie wondered about that. Normally he would have kept his information to himself, but Richard had, after all, saved his life. As he began to tell the whole story, he pushed away the thought that he was trying to impress this young toff.

  ‘A spy!’ breathed Richard when Alfie had finished. ‘I say, what a lark! It’s like a book. I’m not surprised though. He’s crazy about Russia. We all keep muttering, Why don’t you go back there, then? But now I know why he doesn’t. He’s spying for his precious Mother Russia.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Alfie with satisfaction. It was good to understand. That was why the organist was taking all those risks. He took another big bite of the bread and cheese and washed it down with some tea. He had never tasted tea before; it was too expensive for him and his gang. He decided that he didn’t like it that much. Beer was better, he thought, but drank the tea politely.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Richard eagerly. ‘Between us we’ll catch him. We need evidence, though.’

  ‘He had papers on him,’ Alfie said, ‘the drawings of the new rifle and of the special bullet, I’d say. I don’t have any evidence – he gave them away. But he did get something in return. He had it in his pocket last night.’ And then he told Richard how Boris had eaten the note and posted the papers within a newspaper into the letterbox of the Russian Embassy and how a small package had been left for him to pick up.

  ‘If I could get into his room . . .’

  ‘I must be off!’ Richard suddenly looked at the clock on the mantelpiece with alarm. ‘Stay here until I get bac
k,’ he hissed and then he was gone.

  Alfie locked the door behind him and settled down to do some hard thinking. He could go to Inspector Denham with his suspicions, but how much better to have hard evidence! He had not actually seen the piece of paper that Boris had put in his pocket. Could they have been drawings of the invention? But there was the package that he had got in return and put into his coat pocket. With Richard as a witness, or better still, if he could manage to smuggle the package into Inspector Denham’s office that would definitely be proof. Then he could claim his five pounds’ reward for finding the spy who was betraying England and giving away its secrets.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DARK CLOISTER

  ‘Quick, all the seniors are coming down the stairs now! They won’t notice you. They never look at us juniors.’ Richard burst into the room as soon as Alfie had unlocked the door, gave him a quick look, brushed down the coat, straightened the necktie and then pushed him out onto the landing while he relocked the study door.

  Alfie took a deep breath. He would have found it easier to climb back out of the window and along the roof ridge towards the Abbey, than to brave the crowd of boys pouring down the stairs from their studies.

  They looked more like men than boys and it seemed strange to think that they were still at school. However, they were inky around the fingers and they wore the same necktie as Richard and he wore. Their deep, or half-broken, voices filled the stairwell with a sound like thunder. They took no notice of the two twelve-year-olds, but pushed past them as if they did not exist.

  Richard said nothing and Alfie was thankful for that. As soon as he, with his London accent, opened his mouth they would know him for a stranger, but while he kept silent he was safe.

  ‘Quietly, boys, please!’ A tall man, wearing a flowing gown and a mortarboard, came out of a room on the ground floor and looked up. He was followed by a familiar figure: Boris, the organist, an ordinary-looking man with a square, heavy-featured face, now that he was no longer wearing the mask that he had put on last night. Alfie gulped hard and looked down at his boots.