The Montgomery Murder Page 4

  ‘Perhaps Mr Montgomery stole something from someone, or . . .’ Mallesh moved his hands in circles as he looked for a word.

  ‘Or cheated someone,’ suggested Sarah.

  ‘Haan,’ said Mallesh nodding his head. ‘That’s the word.’

  ‘Someone that we don’t know about yet,’ mused Alfie. ‘I wonder . . .’

  ‘I’ll go for Sarah, the scullery maid,’ said Tom with a grin. ‘She got fed up with him putting dirty footprints on her clean step so she murdered him.’

  ‘Stop being stupid,’ said Alfie. ‘You just keep saying stupid things and —

  A thunderous knock interrupted him.

  They all looked at each other. Mallesh jumped up and then stood hesitating, the knife gleaming in his hand.

  ‘Hide,’ whispered Sarah. She grasped him by the arm and pushed him into a dark corner away from the fire. ‘Lie down and I’ll put some cushions over you,’ she hissed.

  Alfie nodded, and when there was no sign of Mallesh to be seen, he strolled over to the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he called as a tremendous thump showed that their visitor had kicked the door.

  ‘It’s me, your landlord. Open up, or I’ll kick this door down and you’ll pay for the mending of it.’

  Alfie hastened to obey the order. Mr Parker would do what he threatened.

  ‘I’ve already paid your rent-collector on Saturday,’ he said as he unlocked the door. To his annoyance he heard his voice tremble.

  ‘No, you haven’t. Rents have gone up. You owe me an extra bob. Think yourself lucky that it isn’t a crown. It’s not many people who would let out a lovely comfortable cellar like this to a pack of kids.’

  And charge them double the rent, thought Alfie. He said nothing, though. They all had to keep a roof over their heads, and he would just have to pay the extra. He went over to the shelf, took down the rent jar and emptied it out into his hand.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve pennies,’ he said aloud. Half of next week’s rent. Now that was gone, and next week he would have to find three shillings or thirty-six pennies for this old scoundrel. And perhaps the week after the rent would double again . . .

  ‘Here you are, Mr Parker. This leaves us without food tomorrow,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt like kicking or punching or even screaming. But he just stood quietly until the door had been slammed shut, and then went back to sit beside Sammy. He dared not trust his voice for the moment, so he just sat there, staring into the fire and allowing Sammy to rest his arm on his shoulder. No one else spoke; they were all waiting for him. Eventually he gave Sammy a little push, sat up straight and looked around, doing his best to make his voice cheerful and confident.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then. We must solve that murder and get the rent money from the inspector. Otherwise we’ll all be out in the street. And winter is coming on!’

  CHAPTER 10

  A SPY IN THE HOUSE

  It almost seemed as though dawn had not yet come the following morning when Sammy and Alfie left Bow Street and walked up Monmouth Street towards Bloomsbury. The street was dark and the air was filled with fog so thick, it almost seemed like a solid wall in front of them. Sammy’s hair, carefully washed and brushed by Alfie, was now standing up from his head in tight curls. He walked along whistling quietly to himself, apparently quite relaxed and happy, but Alfie was worried. Perhaps he should never have suggested putting his blind brother into that house. Sarah’s words and her frightened face kept coming into his mind.

  ‘Do you want me to do it instead, Sam?’ he said, stopping abruptly outside a shop in Monmouth Street, and then moving on hurriedly when he realised from the police posters in the window that he had stopped on the very spot where Mr Montgomery had been garrotted.

  ‘Nah,’ said Sammy placidly. ‘I’ll enjoy it. Bit of a change for me. Won’t be many people around today. No point in me singing in this fog.’

  Funny how Sammy always knew what the weather was like and what sort of a day it was going to be, thought Alfie, trying to move his thoughts away from the butler and from what Sarah had said: he’s a foul and wicked man.

  Bedford Square had three sides of tall brick-built houses, all with huge chimneys and impressive front doors behind the tall white pillars framing the porches. Leafless creepers grew up many of them, and in the centre of the square was a garden filled with dead leaves and bare shrubs.

  The fourth side of the square had high, black railings and a double gate. Both gate and railings had spikes on them and there was a small lodge for a porter beside the gate. Alfie gazed at the splendour for a moment and then tucked his arm inside Sammy’s.

  ‘Back entrance for us, old son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Only posh gents and ladies come into the square through the front gate.’

  ‘Did you see number one?’ Sammy sounded unconcerned.

  ‘Yes, it’s the closest to us. Ah, there are the mews for the horses and the carriages at the back of the houses.’ Alfie chatted on, as he always did, doing his best to be Sammy’s eyes in the dark world that his brother inhabited. ‘Hang on,’ there’s a small door here. Let’s go in, yes, we’re just behind the house now. We ’ll just go down the steps here into the basement. That’s what Sarah said.’

  ‘Here she is,’ Sammy exclaimed, and then Sarah appeared looking worried and even paler than usual.

  ‘Come on in,’ she whispered. ‘The housekeeper remembers Mrs Montgomery listening to Sammy singing on the street and getting her coachman to bring him here. She says that Mrs Montgomery will have to see him for herself and then decide.’

  Alfie pulled off his own cap and Sammy’s, and then followed her into the kitchen, which seemed full of women wearing various types of aprons.

  ‘This is the boy, Mrs Higgins.’ Sarah gave a quick bob of a curtsy.

  ‘She’s very charitable, the missus, taking on a blind boy.’ The housekeeper slightly lowered her voice – just as if I were deaf as well as blind, thought Sammy – and then raised it again. ‘Better go and tell her that he’s here, Nora. She said she wanted to see him when he arrived. Said it would take her mind off her sorrow.’

  There was a slightly sarcastic note in the voice. Sammy wondered whether Alfie had noted it.

  ‘She’s got that inspector from Bow Street with her.’ So that was Nora, the parlour maid – Sammy knew he would recognise her voice again, pretending to be posh, but London cockney underneath.

  ‘He’s to go into the breakfast parlour; the Missus said to take him straight in. She’ll be finished with the inspector by then, more than likely.’

  Or else she wants to show the inspector what a nice, kind lady she is, thought Sammy. At the very same moment he felt Alfie nudge him and knew that it had occurred to his brother, too – that Mrs Montgomery would probably like the inspector to think that a woman who would take on a blind boy as a member of her staff would be incapable of murdering her husband.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ There was a tremor in Alfie’s confident, slightly cheeky voice that only Sammy would hear. He wouldn’t like these posh places, Sammy knew. Alfie liked to be the top dog. He wouldn’t want anyone looking down on him.

  ‘No, you won’t. Off with you.’ The parlour maid sounded definite. Sammy pressed Alfie’s hand lightly. Tr ust me, his fingers said.

  As the door banged shut behind his brother, Sammy remembered what Alfie had said to him. Listen to Mrs Montgomery. Listen to the butler, too. But I still reckon that son of theirs, Denis, is the most likely. It suited him to murder his father – after all, he was in debt and his father was probably not too keen on him hanging around with no job and up to his eyes in debt. He’s more likely to be the one that croaked the old man, not Mallesh, whatever the police think.

  ‘You come with him too, Sarah. The boy knows you.’ Nora said no more until they had climbed the stairs leading up from the kitchen and were walking across a tiled floor, the two girls’ heels clicking and Sammy’s bare feet feelin
g the cool, well-polished surface.

  ‘Tidy that scarf of his, Sarah, and flatten down these curls.’

  Sammy stood very still while Sarah busied herself. He could hear Mrs Montgomery’s voice from inside the breakfast parlour. Even to him it was faint – no one but Sammy could have heard anything – but after a while he made out the words.

  ‘ . . . been four years as a butler to me,’ she was saying. ‘I would never have suspected him, but Mr Montgomery was suspicious. There seemed to be a lot of silver missing. He gave the butler one week to find it, and said that if it had not turned up in that time, the police would be called.’

  Unfortunately at that moment Nora knocked sharply on the door and there was a silence, followed by a high, sweet voice calling them to come in.

  ‘So here is little Sammy!’ Mrs Montgomery said Sammy as if he were her favourite lap dog. Sammy hoped she wouldn’t try to kiss him. Letting go of Nora’s hand, he moved into the room. Mrs Montgomery sounded just as she had done the last time he came. Her high voice was as clear as ever. She hadn’t been doing much crying, he thought. Sammy knew well how crying could affect the voice. The room smelled of furniture polish, there was a soft carpet and curtains at the windows, he guessed – the clip-clop of horses’ hooves outside was muted. Lots of cushions and soft chairs, too, probably; the air felt like that – dead, somehow. Nice and warm, though. The chimney had been swept and the coal smelled clean.

  ‘Oh, Inspector, this poor little boy is blind and starving, so I have decided to offer him a job as a knife boy. He will get a good meal every day and three shillings at the end of the week. And, do you know, Inspector, he sings like an angel!’

  ‘Shall I sing a song for you, ma’am?’

  Mrs Montgomery was getting nearer to him; if he didn’t stop her, she would undoubtedly kiss him – especially as Alfie had cleaned him up and dressed him in fairly decent clothes from the second-hand shop. Without waiting for an answer, Sammy broke into the first verse of a hymn that he had learned at St Martin’s church: ‘Now the day is over . . .’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Mrs Montgomery when he had finished.

  ‘Beautiful.’ That must be the inspector, a tough man, by the sound of his voice. He was probably afraid that Sammy would sing again, and delay him longer from his enquiries; his voice sounded hurried when he said quickly, ‘And now, perhaps I could have a word with your son, Mr Denis Montgomery? I also understand there is another gentleman staying here, a Mr Scott, your late husband’s partner in his Indian tea plantation.’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. My husband decided to retire – he was enjoying life in London – so Mr Scott came over to wind up their business affairs. He planned to stay here for a few weeks and then return to India.’

  ‘And could I see him, and your son?’

  Mrs Montgomery gave a little laugh. She sounded nervous. Sammy listened carefully as she continued, ‘I’m afraid that neither gentleman has come down for breakfast yet, Inspector. You’ll have to come back in an hour or so if you want to meet them.’

  ‘Or better still, tell them to report to Bow Street Police Station at eleven o’clock this morning, ma’am. And now I’ll bid you good day.’ He hesitated for a moment and then slipped a coin into Sammy’s hand – a four-penny groat by the feel of it, thought Sammy as he pocketed it, wondering whether the Inspector knew that he was Alfie’s brother. He could still taste the sausages of the previous night and decided that it would be good to work for this inspector.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Inspector.’ Mrs Montgomery sounded glad to be rid of him. Perhaps she didn’t really want her husband’s murderer caught. Sammy could hear a note of relief in her voice once the door had closed behind the inspector and she sounded more cheerful as she said, ‘Nora, take the boy into the butler’s pantry. He can work in there. Find him an apron to put over his clothes. Go along, Sammy, dear. I’m sure that you will work hard and do your best. Remember to keep very quiet when the two gentlemen come in for breakfast. Nora, tell the chambermaid to bring up the gentlemen’s hot water for shaving and give them Inspector Denham’s message.’

  And then they were outside the room and Sammy felt his way cautiously down the stairs again. Nora smelled strongly of soap, and it was easy to follow her back into the kitchen.

  ‘I have to find Becky and give her the message. Sarah, you look after the boy and keep him out of trouble.’ Nora’s heels clicked away down the hall.

  CHAPTER 11

  A MYSTERIOUS CONVERSATION

  ‘So all you have to do, Sammy, is take each knife, one by one, out of the water.’ Sammy was sitting in the butler’s pantry, with Sarah by his side. ‘Then stick it into this bowl of emery powder here, just by your right hand. Rub the knife with the damp cloth until all the powder is off and then polish it with this bit of baize. Then place it into this knife box here with the handle pointing to yourself.’ Sarah was quick and sensible in her instructions. Sammy could feel the gritty emery powder, the cold wetness of the damp cloth and the smooth softness of the baize cloth, as she moved his hand from one thing to another. The knife box was also lined with baize, he thought, feeling its divisions carefully.

  ‘I’ll come in and out as often as I can. I can come up by the back stairs, behind where you are sitting – they’re for the servants – and I’ll make sure you’re doing it right. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Don’t worry about the butler – he will be out this morning delivering mourning cards for the funeral. The two gentlemen still have to come for their breakfast, Nora says. You be as quiet as you can, but don’t worry too much about them hearing you because the door is double-lined with baize.’ And then she was gone and Sammy settled to work, wiping the knives with the emery powder, backwards and forwards, testing carefully with his forefinger, rubbing each knife to a high gloss.

  After a while, he heard one man come into the breakfast parlour next door, settle into a chair and noisily clear his throat. Then he heard the sound of liquid being poured into a cup, and a slight clang of metal. That would be a lid being replaced on a silver dish. Sarah had made the boys’ mouths water when she told them of these dishes of eggs, sausages, bacon and kippers, all set out on top of their individual little heaters. This man was helping himself to a big breakfast – Sammy counted five little clangs. Next came the sound of the newspaper being unfolded and then nothing but the rustle of pages being turned and the noise of the man munching toast.

  And then the door opened again. Someone came in; Sammy could swear to that. A man, judging by the weight of the footsteps.

  But oddly there was no greeting spoken.

  Nothing. Almost as if they were both there, just staring at each other.

  And then a throat cleared. Not the first man. This man cleared his throat differently – lightly and almost apologetically, almost ‘ahem, ahem.’

  And then a voice . . .

  Was this the first or the second man? Sammy thought it was the second. The voice, like the throat clearing, was slightly hesitant, slightly unsure.

  ‘You found Coutts Bank open yesterday, sir?’

  There was something strange about the query – as if something unspoken were lurking beneath. However, the speaker was obviously not Mr Denis, or Mr Scott. The accent was wrong for a toff. Sammy was good on accents. He had spent so much time singing outside the Covent Garden Theatre that he knew how toffs talked. This must be the butler, thought Sammy.

  ‘Yes.’ The one-word reply was harsh and abrupt, the voice of someone with power. This might be the son of the house, Mr Denis Montgomery, a man brought up surrounded by servants. Or was it Mr Scott from India?

  And then no more was said.

  Sammy strained his ears. Sarah was right about the double-lined baize door. Even for someone with his marvellous hearing, it was difficult to catch every word.

  There were no more words, but there was a sound. It was not the clink of lids; it was the sound of money being counted out on to the table.

  Sammy got up carefully and s
ilently and moved towards the door, hands outstretched to make sure that he did not touch any obstacle. It was agonising, expecting at any moment to stumble over a chair or to overbalance a small table, but he reached the door successfully, his sensitive fingers feeling the softness of its baize lining. He stayed very still, trying to control his breathing.

  Listening . . .

  And then another softer sound.

  For a moment Sammy could not identify it, but then he realised that it was the gentle swish of coins being swept across a linen cloth and next – he was sure that he was right in this – being dropped into a waistcoat pocket.

  After that, footsteps crossed the room again. The door opened and was shut quietly.

  Sammy did not move. Why did the first man give money in this silent way to the second man? And what was the reason for the question about Coutts Bank? Unless, of course, that the second man had already asked for the money – perhaps he was a blackmailer. Perhaps he asked for more than the other carried around with him, and that was the reason for the question about the bank . . .

  Sammy’s agile mind played with the problem while the first man continued to chomp on his toast, swill his drink and rustle his newspaper and it seemed a long time before anything else happened. Sammy stayed where he was, though. His fingers found the keyhole to the baize door and when he heard the door of the breakfast parlour open again, he bent his head down so that he could listen better.

  This time the footsteps had a different tread. A third man! The shoes trod the carpeted floor confidently, greetings were exchanged, lids banged, something poured out into a cup – coffee, thought Sammy, immediately identifying the odour. There was a coffee house in Bow Street; he had always thought the smell of that drink, spilling out on to the pavement, was wonderful.

  Which man was which? he wondered. One man had a high voice and laughed a lot and the other had a deep voice and said very little. The trouble was that each man addressed the other as ‘sir’. So which was Mr Denis Montgomery and which was Mr Scott, the partner in the dead man’s enterprise in India? And which was the man who had spoken with the butler?