The Body in the Fog Read online

‘Be careful, Alfie, and take Mutsy,’ said Sarah as she walked off up Bow Street.

  Alfie said nothing, but he didn’t think that was good advice. Mutsy would make him too noticeable. When she had gone, he sent the dog back into the cellar and gave a nod of farewell to his cousin.

  ‘I’m going with you,’ said Jack stubbornly. ‘I’m in this as much as you are.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Alfie. ‘We should be all right for the moment. That fog is still too thick to see much. Wonder what Opium Sal is doing, riding around in a cab like a lady.’

  Whatever she was doing, there was no sign of her when they reached the market, so they went on, threading their way through the stalls, and then down the narrow lanes until they came to Trafalgar Square.

  The square seemed empty after all the excitement of the night before. Alfie skirted it, keeping close to the buildings for as long as he could and then crossing the road swiftly. Once he reached the deep shadow thrown by the huge mounted statue, he started to relax. There did not appear to be anyone around, and the thick fog gave him extra cover.

  He stood for a few minutes in front of the marble carving where he had hidden the note and tried to look casual. A few horse-drawn carriages passed by and then a cab. Alfie could see Jack’s pale face over by the fountain in the centre, looking all around for any sign of Flash Harry’s mob. He seemed to be satisfied because a moment later he crossed the road and stood beside Alfie. Still keeping his back to the ornamental stonework, Alfie felt blindly along it, probing with his fingers.

  And then he had it! The hiding place had been good. The paper was still there and it was only slightly damp. It would still be readable, he hoped. He did not dare look at it, but concealed it inside his shirt.

  And then he saw the man. He was wearing black clothes and had climbed on to the base of the statue, concealing himself behind the magnificent tail of the great black marble horse.

  Alfie acted immediately. Touching Jack on the arm, he shot across the road towards the fountains and then bent down so that his head was below the high wall of the fountain basin. He had instantly seen that he had little chance of keeping out of pistol range if he crossed the empty space towards St Martin’s Lane.

  At that moment, the fog suddenly cleared. Purple clouds were shot with a streak of lightning, then there was a rumble of thunder and the rain began, great slanting sheets of it sweeping down on the dirty pavements.

  ‘Keep down!’ Alfie hissed to Jack, who was close behind him. ‘Follow me.’ He was glad that he had not brought Mutsy. The dog was as brave as a lion, but no living thing stood a chance against a gun.

  Keeping their heads well down, Alfie and Jack scuttled along until they were opposite some large trees. There was no gas lamp near to them, so Alfie took a chance. With a hasty glance over his shoulder, he bolted across. In a moment, he and Jack were behind the blackened tree trunks.

  The man had moved out of the shadow of Nelson’s Column and was making his way, slowly and deliberately, towards the basin where the water splashed down from the fountain above. He had a hand thrust into a pocket and it was easy to imagine a pistol clasped within.

  Alfie held his breath. He peered out from behind the trees, waiting until the man was facing the National Gallery with his back towards Nelson’s Column. Then he and Jack exploded, running as fast as they could towards Cockspur Street.

  Two minutes to go up Cockspur and into Haymarket, another minute to reach the White Horse, his thoughts raced along as he ran. Jack was beside him now. Sarah would be at work in the White Horse Inn by this time. If they could only get there, she might be able to hide them for a few hours.

  Once they reached the broad street of Haymarket he glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of any pursuer but one could appear at any moment.

  Alfie stopped and drew Jack into the shadow of the wall. They could slink along here unseen. He prayed that the man had not seen their frantic bolt for Cockspur Street – hopefully, he would be looking for them in St Martin’s Lane. If he was in the same mob as the man who followed them home earlier, then he knew where the boys lived.

  But no! A figure dressed in black suddenly appeared, so brightly lit by the gas lamp at the bottom of Haymarket that they could see a small red scarf knotted around his throat. He was talking to a second man who had come down Haymarket, who now turned around and pointed. The man with the red scarf nodded.

  At that moment, a large brewery wagon, drawn by six heavy horses, came slowly up Haymarket. It ground along laboriously, the big wooden beer barrels creaking and the wheels rumbling. In an instant, Alfie darted out and scrambled on board, crouching down behind one of the barrels. A second later, Jack joined him, hiding behind another barrel.

  The wagon moved slowly but Alfie did not care. Flash Harry’s mob had a reputation for being smooth operators, smooth and careful. They would not take any risk while the brewery men were around. As soon as the brewery van took the expected turn into the yard of the White Horse Inn, Alfie stuck a cautious head out from behind the barrel. They had gone through the gate and were now turning again to go into the back yard. Once they were out of sight of the road, Alfie jumped down, closely followed by Jack.

  By the time the two brewery men came around to the back of the wagon, the two boys were just standing there, looking as if they had come in from the street, one politely doffing his cap and saying, ‘Give you a hand with the barrels, mister?’

  ‘Just a couple of pennies, and you’ll have to share them between you,’ warned the driver.

  Alfie nodded gratefully. He would have helped them for nothing. While he and Jack were in their company they were safe. Everyone knew that brewery workers were tough. They were always huge men with muscles that stood out like knotted cords on their arms and they were used to battling their way through the crowded streets of London where their enormous wagons were most unpopular. Flash Harry’s mobsters would not meddle with them even if they did follow the boys into the yard.

  ‘Roll it over there,’ grunted the driver’s mate, landing a barrel at Jack’s feet. Jack had done this sort of work before and neatly spun the barrel across the yard towards the hatch where the innkeeper’s head appeared. Alfie followed and a working rhythm was set up. It was hard work, especially in the driving rain, but it took Alfie’s mind off the danger and after a while he began to enjoy himself. In the beginning the innkeeper had to wait for them, but after ten minutes it was the other way around.

  ‘Well done, lads, here’s a thruppenny piece for you,’ said the driver when all the barrels had been stored in the cellar.

  ‘And here’s another to bring it up to sixpence,’ said the innkeeper.

  ‘All right if we get a drink of water in the scullery?’ asked Alfie casually. He had been racking his brains as to how he could get in touch with Sarah. Her job was serving meals and drinks in the parlour of the White Horse. Would she be finished work yet? he wondered.

  ‘That’s all right, and ask the scullery maid if there’s a bit of broken pie left over,’ said the innkeeper generously. ‘We’re that busy,’ he continued, gossiping to the brewery men, ‘we’ve a crowd of engineers from Birmingham staying here and they like to walk around London at night, and then come back and eat and drink the rest of the night away! I’m glad to get this delivery tonight. I’d begun to think they would drink the house dry!’ He laughed heartily and the brewery men joined in.

  Alfie nodded to Jack and they both crossed the paved yard silently on their bare feet and opened the scullery door. Alfie stopped to peer in the window. Kitty the scullery maid was in there – that was all right, they had met her a few times when they came to see Sarah. She was bad-temperedly scrubbing a burned pan with a handful of sand and scowled as they entered.

  ‘If you’re looking for Sarah,’ she said, ‘she’s working. That crowd from Birmingham have started eating and drinking in the blue parlour.’

  ‘Just came to give you a hand,’ said Alfie promptly, seizing the saucepan and the scrubbi
ng brush and setting to work vigorously. He put all his strength into the work and soon the pot was looking pretty good, but he tackled it again just to show how hard-working he was and spent another few minutes on it. Jack made himself useful at the sink, washing a pile of dirty dishes. The two boys started with alarm as they heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside.

  ‘That’s just Matt, the boot boy,’ said Kitty. ‘You in trouble, you two?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Alfie nonchalantly, but he was tense until the door opened and showed the fat face of the boot boy.

  ‘I’m going to be up all night,’ said Matt, coming in and slumping on a stool. ‘That lot from Birmingham don’t know when to go to bed. It’s going to be the same as last night. They’ll go to bed at two or three o’clock in the morning and then expect their boots to be waiting outside their door, all clean and shiny, by eight o’clock next morning.’

  ‘Oh, stop moaning,’ said Kitty. ‘All you have to do is polish the boots and clean the knives. You should try my job. Anyway, there’s a pair of boots over there to keep you busy while you’re waiting for them to go to bed. They belong to the gentleman from Birmingham that’s sick in bed in number fifteen. Sarah said you were to clean them again. She said they’re still a disgrace.’

  ‘She should have seen them the first time,’ grumbled Matt. ‘When that geezer came home last night the leather was soaked through and they smelt like a drain – don’t know what he trod in.’

  ‘Boss said you’d give us a drink and a piece of broken pie; we’ve been helping him with the barrels,’ said Alfie, still scrubbing vigorously.

  ‘You can have that saucepan of milk if you like,’ said Kitty, pointing. ‘The sick gent fancied some boiled milk but it over-boiled. Smells dreadful!’

  ‘Tastes all right,’ said Alfie, gulping some down. He passed the half-full saucepan of milk on to Jack and looked around at the dirty plates for some pieces of pie. Amazing what folks left on their plates, he thought, as he and Jack wolfed down the tasty fragments.

  ‘There’s Sarah coming down now,’ said Kitty. ‘I know her step. She’s lighter than the other parlour maid.’

  Sarah was quick and clever, though, and Alfie thought highly of her brains. He wished that he could show her the note, safely stored inside his shirt, but her first words turned his mind in a different direction.

  ‘Alfie,’ she hissed. ‘What are you doing here? Get away quickly! There’s a man in the bar looking for two ragged boys. He’s dressed in black, wearing a red scarf. Do you know him? I heard the landlord tell him that he had just sent two boys of that description down to the kitchen. The man’s on his way now!’

  CHAPTER 8

  UNDERGROUND

  Almost before the words had left Sarah’s mouth, Alfie was through the door like a streak of lightning. Behind him, he heard Jack close the door quietly and then run after him, his bare feet slapping the rough cobbles of the yard.

  But they could not escape. Standing at the gate, looking out on to the street, was another man, a mob member no doubt, and he had his right hand in his pocket. No, he and Jack must hide until the men had gone and Alfie knew just the place to do so. They had lowered enough beer barrels down from the yard during the last half-hour.

  Made desperate by fear, Alfie managed to lever up the iron cover to the cellar, leaving his fingerails broken and bleeding.

  The chute where the barrels had rolled only twenty minutes ago was still in place. Alfie curled himself into a ball, head tucked under his arms, feet drawn up to his chest, and rolled rapidly down. As he landed on the bristly mat, he looked back and saw Jack at the top of the chute, carefully edging the manhole cover back into place above him. It seemed to take an agonisingly long time, but eventually it was closed and the cellar was thrown into total darkness. Alfie held his breath, listening to the sounds of Jack fumbling his way down the chute.

  At first he could see nothing and he took tiny steps forward, feeling the space in front of him with his hands. It would never do to blunder into a barrel and knock it over. Thick cords of spiders’ webs clung to his face and his hands. He held his breath to avoid filling his lungs with the dust clouds that clotted his mouth and nostrils.

  Then Jack sneezed vigorously and Alfie’s heart nearly stopped. Nothing happened, so after a minute he went on moving, his bare feet feeling the rough wooden floor beneath, listening so intently that his head hurt with the strain of it.

  However, there was no sound from behind them or the yard. No shouting, no rattling of the metal chute cover. He hoped that the man with the pistol would think that they had gone back out on to Haymarket.

  So far all was going well. Alfie took no chances, though. Someone might just have the brains to think of the cellar. Giving Jack’s sleeve a quick jerk, he edged his way across towards what he hoped was the centre of the cellar, planning to find a hiding place among the beer barrels that were stored there, well away from the damp cellar walls.

  Suddenly Jack touched Alfie on the shoulder and spoke directly into his ear. ‘There’s the door up to the bar.’

  Alfie turned back and saw a line of light dimly illuminating a rectangular door shape and a keyhole. He stopped. Now they were halfway between the door and the chute. If anyone came in from either of these two entrances, at least they might be able to escape through the other.

  There was a sudden scuffle in front of them. Both boys jumped in alarm – there must be rats around. Alfie shuddered, wishing that he had Mutsy with him – he hated rats as much as Mutsy loved them. If we get out of this alive, thought Alfie, I’ll take him to Covent Garden market – plenty of rats there. Smiling at the thought, he settled down with his back to a barrel, and Jack did the same.

  From upstairs came roars and guffaws of laughter and the raucous sound of drunken men singing ‘Pop goes the Weasel’. Someone was banging on the bar shouting, ‘We want beer! We want beer!’ Someone else was yelling, ‘Ned, Ned, where are you? C’mon, what’s got into you, Ned? Never knew you to be so unsociable!’

  After a while, Alfie ceased to listen and drifted off into a deep sleep. From time to time he stirred sleepily, but Jack, by the sound of his breathing, was also sleeping, so he settled back again, and only woke when a tinge of dawn light came through the small window of the cellar.

  Jack was already awake and was standing up, his head on one side. ‘Alfie, do you hear something?’ he whispered.

  Alfie listened. For a moment, all he heard were a few cries of seagulls out in the yard. In the dimness, he saw his cousin kneel down and put the side of his face against the floor.

  ‘There, hear that,’ he said.

  Alfie crouched and lowered one ear towards the floor. ‘There’s something under there,’ he breathed as quietly as he could, ‘something’s moving under there just below us.’

  ‘Listen again,’ whispered Jack.

  He didn’t sound worried, so Alfie took in a deep breath. For a moment he had thought it might be a swarm of rats moving along beneath them, but now he realised that it was something else. ‘There’s water down there,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I reckon.’

  ‘What is it? Where does the water come from?’ whispered Alfie.

  ‘Could be one of them underground rivers – there’s rivers all over London, someone told me. London used to be once just fields with rivers running through them and then the houses came and there were so many houses they started to build roads over the rivers and then they took to building houses over the roads and making new roads. That’s what I heard, anyways.’ Jack’s voice was as placid as ever and did not change when he added, ‘And, of course, people empty their drains and their cesspits into these underground rivers. That’s why London is such a smelly place and why it has so many rats.’

  Alfie felt the floor of the cellar, shuddering. It was made of wooden planks. Not good, he thought, remembering the woman in the privy in one of those crazy, half fallen-down houses in the slums of St Giles. She had fallen through the rotten floorbo
ards and had drowned in the cesspool beneath. And her child had gone with her.

  ‘Who told you all that stuff?’ Alfie hoped that his voice did not betray how nervous he was. He wished he was out of that dark cellar which smelt of mould. ‘Bert the Tosher, was it?’ he added.

  ‘No, it were old Jemmy that told me about the underground rivers. He knew a lot, did Jemmy. He used to work in the sewers when he was a bit younger, but then he gave it up after he had the cholera. He said that when he was sick he swore if ever he recovered he would never go down a sewer again. Dead now, poor old fellow, and not from the sewers neither,’ Jack sighed.

  ‘Wouldn’t like going down there myself,’ said Alfie with a shudder. ‘Too many rats down there for me! They say that some of them are as big as cats and as fierce as bulls.’

  ‘There’s a manhole cover, here.’ Jack’s hand was feeling around.

  ‘Leading down to the river?’

  ‘That’s right. The drains from the cesspits lead down into it. Places like inns often just put their rubbish straight down into sewers.’

  ‘Good,’ said Alfie, trying hard not to think about rats. ‘Perhaps we could drop down there and go along it like the toshers do. Let’s lever it up now and be ready to disappear down if anyone comes.’

  ‘Shh!’ said Jack warningly.

  Alfie gulped.

  Beyond the gleam of light from the cellar window came the sound of heavy footsteps, the scrape of a key in the lock and then the creak of a door handle. Alfie froze, his shoulder touching Jack’s, ready to spring.

  CHAPTER 9

  BLOOD MONEY

  One of the things that Sarah liked best about her new job as parlour maid at the White Horse Inn was that, as soon as the breakfasts had been served, she could leave the inn until the time for the next meal came up.

  And so it was that she was strolling up Bow Street at ten o’clock in the morning. It was a nice day, she thought. After the storm of last night, the air seemed fresher and cleaner than usual in London, as though the city had been thoroughly washed by the heavy rain which had not ceased until about one o’clock in the morning.