Murder on Stage Read online

‘Hey, you girl, have you seen . . .’ and then, with a note of relief in his voice, as he spotted the phial, he said, ‘There it is!’

  Sarah faced him. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, allowing her voice to quiver. ‘I had a bit of an accident. I spilt the dirt from the pan. Look at the phial. It’s all covered in dust.’

  ‘That’s all right, girl,’ he said in quite a kind way. ‘Don’t worry about it. That’ll brush off.’

  He reached out, but before he could touch it Sarah gave a gasp. ‘Don’t touch it, sir; don’t touch it. Look! Look, it’s got the print of the murderer on it!’

  ‘Murderer!’ He said the word slowly. He withdrew his hand and knelt on the ground, ignoring the wet on the board and stared hard at the phial. Then he looked up at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir!’ Sarah gulped.

  ‘Officer Grey.’ He said the words almost mechanically, still staring at the finger marks on the phial.

  ‘I’m sorry, Officer Grey, I couldn’t help hearing what you said a minute ago. I was cleaning.’

  ‘And a good job you’ve made of it, too.’ He got up, looked ruefully at the damp patches on his knees and went across to the edge of the stage. Sarah’s eyes followed him. He was fiddling with the gas pipes that ran along the edge. Sarah was glad that she had given them a good dust and polish. They had been black with grime.

  Officer Grey took a box of matches from the pocket of his waistcoat, struck one and then bent down. Sarah could hear a soft hiss and then smelt the sickly smell of gas. Officer Grey put the match to the tiny nozzle and a jet of flame leapt up, pointing directly at the candle-shaped block of lime. Almost immediately that began to glow, the white light spreading rapidly until the whole block glowed. After a minute the limelight was strong enough to hurt her eyes. Officer Grey came back to the table and very carefully, placing his thumb at the bottom of the phial and his forefinger over the top opening, grasped the small bottle. He picked it up and carried it over to the limelight.

  ‘You can see them easy now, Officer Grey.’ Sarah allowed her voice to get quite eager. She looked carefully at his face. He was frowning slightly. Her heart gave an excited leap.

  ‘Terrible the way fingers leave marks on glasses, isn’t it?’ she said in a chatty way. ‘It’s something that I learnt when I first went into service. The parlour maid always gave the glasses an extra polish after I had washed them just in case there was a print left on one of them. She used to say that men were the worst. Their hands were greasier. I learnt to look for them myself and not get into trouble when she checked them.’

  He said nothing, just stared thoughtfully at the phial.

  Then she gave a theatrical start. ‘Looks like three fingers, don’t it, sir?’ she said forgetting to call him Officer Grey.

  He did not correct her. He turned the phial around, still keeping his finger and thumb in the same position.

  ‘Perhaps his little finger didn’t go on to it,’ he said after a minute.

  ‘But the first finger mark should be opposite to the thumb, that’s right, ain’t it?’ Sarah looked at his face as she said those words and saw him slowly nod. ‘And that last one looks like a little finger, don’t it? Look, you can see how small and narrow it is. Looks like the first finger is missing.’

  ‘Pretend to put your hand around it,’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t touch it. Just go near to it.’

  Sarah curved her hand, putting her thumb near to the thumb mark. Her forefinger was just opposite to a place where no mark showed, but the other three fingers were near to the marks on the glass. Once again, he nodded.

  ‘Looks as though you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well, three fingers. That’s interesting.’

  ‘Grey!’ came a shout. ‘Grey, where the blazes have you got to?’

  Officer Grey straightened up. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ he said. To her dismay he slipped the phial into his pocket and strode off. Then he came back and handed her a sixpence.

  ‘Keep this to yourself,’ he repeated in a low voice and then raised it to shout, ‘Coming, sir.’

  Sarah went on with her work, bringing a damp cloth to various grimy places that showed up by the white limelight. She wondered whether to turn it off, but decided that it was none of her business. Officer Grey should have done that. As she worked she kept an ear open for Alfie and when she heard a faint noise, she picked up her duster, brooms, bucket and mop and made her way backstage. She opened her mouth to tell him about her discovery, but she could not do so. There was a sound of footsteps coming down the aisle, then climbing up the stairs that led to the stage.

  Alfie melted away once more and Sarah climbed on a chair and vigorously began to dust the top of a tall cupboard.

  ‘Can you see that? Those limelights are good for the actors but they don’t give much light on high.’ The man who had come in was dressed in overalls and carried a candle. He raised it up high so that the top of the cupboard was illuminated. ‘There, is that better?’ he asked.

  It was a beautiful voice, deep, musical, as smooth as hot chocolate. A voice for ladies to dream about!

  But the face that Sarah saw by the light of the candle was a nightmare, slashed from side to side, puckered and with lumpy white scar tissue.

  Sarah stared at him and then hurriedly looked away. This must be John Osborne, the man whose face had been slashed by Harry Booth. She caught her breath in sympathy. What must it be like to see a face like that in the looking glass, to see the horror in the eyes of everyone who met him, to know that he could never again play the part of a hero at the theatre?

  And it was Harry Booth who had done that to him.

  Had John Osborne taken a terrible revenge on the man who had mutilated him for life? Especially if he considered that Harry Booth had done it on purpose . . .

  Was she looking into the face of Harry Booth’s murderer?

  CHAPTER 12

  BETRAYED

  As he left the cellar, Tom felt furious. He walked along the foggy street, kicking at lamp-posts and muttering to himself. That Sarah was just too bossy! What right had she to order him about? Come to that, what right had Alfie to order him to do things? Why should he do what any of them told him? He was fed up. Fed up with being hungry, fed up with being the one who was given all the worst jobs to do. Things hadn’t been too bad when his friend Charlie had lived with the gang, but now Charlie had gone back to the countryside where he had been born.

  Tom stopped at a shop and gazed longingly in. It was a dairy shop, full of huge round cheeses, tempting slices of each of them lying on wooden platters, great brick-sized lumps of fresh butter, salted butter – every kind of butter, with small cubes for housewives and cooks to taste and choose. There were custard pies on tin plates and milk jellies wobbling on others.

  But the shop was empty of customers and the shopkeeper, a large man with ginger whiskers, was standing there towering over his cheeses and glaring at Tom as he peeped in. There was no hope of stealing anything.

  It was the same at Covent Garden market. The freezing fog had made everyone head for home quickly. There was no press of people, no crowds where a boy who had just stolen an apple pie from a stall could hide himself. Shopping was almost over for the day. Many of the stallholders had begun to put away their goods. And every one of them was on the alert when they saw a ragged, barefoot boy approach.

  Perhaps Sammy had been luckier, thought Tom. He stopped for a moment. He had determined that he wasn’t going to do what he was told, but now he was inclined to search for his cousin. He wasn’t obeying Sarah, he told himself. It just made sense to find Sammy. The combination of being blind and having a good singing voice often worked when nothing else did; there might be a capful of money by the time that he found Sammy. He would tell Sammy that Alfie had ordered him to bring home some sausages. At the thought of them, Tom’s mouth watered.

  There was still no sign of Sammy outside either of the two usual churches, St Martin-in the Fields and St
Mary-le-Strand, so Tom began to ask passers-by. There were a few more people around – clerks finishing a day’s work, shopkeepers taking in boards from the wet pavements, but no one had noticed a blind boy and a hairy dog. Tom stood and thought. The chances were that no one on the Strand had stopped to listen to Sammy. So what would Sammy do? He hadn’t gone home, so where had he gone?

  Tom wandered along Fleet Street. No sign of Sammy there. He tried asking a few of the newspapermen dashing in and out of their offices, but they brushed him away – like I was a bluebottle, he thought to himself indignantly. Next he went up through Aldwych and along Drury Lane. There was no sign of Sammy anywhere, but there was an elderly well-dressed lady standing alone outside a greengrocer’s shop. Tom approached her with a hand outstretched.

  ‘Please ma’am, would you spare a penny,’ he whined. ‘I’ve had no food for nearly two days.’

  ‘Get off with you,’ she shouted. ‘Go home and wash your face and get yourself a job and don’t go preying on a defenceless person like myself. Officer!’ her voice rose to a shrill note as she beckoned to a nearby policeman.

  ‘I’m going,’ muttered Tom furiously, running as fast as he could in the opposite direction to the policeman, down Drury Lane and back into the Strand.

  I’ll try Smithfield, he thought.

  It made sense for Sammy to go there. Bad weather would not stop people going to Smithfield. The meat had to be bought and butchered and taken to the shops, cut up into neat little joints and chops, wrapped in brown paper and delivered by the butchers’ boys to the homes of the toffs.

  Smithfield was a place full of queues where the shoppers would be glad to pass their time listening to a song and would spare their halfpence, pence, groats and sixpences to reward the singer. It was a dangerous place for a blind boy – Alfie would never have suggested that Sammy go there on his own. You needed to have eyes in the back of your head to avoid being trampled by cattle, pigs or even sheep at Smithfield. But Sammy would know that they were all desperate for food and might go to take his chance there.

  Worth a try, thought Tom to himself and he set off east towards the meat market.

  Tom had never been to church, but once he had listened to an outdoor sermon about hell. He had been just passing by, but the words had grabbed him and he stayed, open-mouthed at the descriptions of what happened to the wicked after they had died. He had had nightmares about hell for months and was reminded of it just now. Smithfield was a hell: a hell of blood and foam and death. As he watched, he saw a child go down, slipping in the ankle-deep river of liquid animal muck. Tom turned away quickly from the screams. There was nothing he could do. He was sorry now that he had come.

  And then he thought of Mutsy.

  Of course, Mutsy would steer Sammy away from the terrible danger and he would guide him to the stalls at the outside of the market. As soon as he thought of that Tom began to hurry. Now he guessed where Sammy might be. The chestnut seller at Smithfield was quite a friend to the gang. He had invited Sammy to come and sing at his stall as often as he liked. You only had to say ‘chestnuts’ to Mutsy and he would lead you straight to one of those men with a portable iron brazier who roasted chestnuts on street corners. Mutsy had got to love chestnuts and so did Tom. His mouth began to water at the thought.

  And that’s where Sammy was. Tom could hear the high, sweet voice singing as he came nearer to the well-remembered place. There were a few people around and already the cap on the ground glinted with copper coins and one piece of silver.

  Mutsy looked across at Tom and wagged his tail hard. Tom grinned back. This was good. Just beside Sammy was a tin plate of cooling chestnuts. When the song ended he would join his cousin and the dog. Sammy would share the chestnuts with him.

  And then a hand came down hard on his shoulder. A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Do you know the owner of that dog, boy?’

  Behind him was a man, a small fat man, warmly dressed, collar turned up, hat pulled over his eyes, hands gloved . . .

  Tom stared at the man suspiciously. What was he after?

  ‘I saw that dog with another boy the last time, a dark-haired boy. I’d like to have a word with that chap,’ said the voice. ‘Could you take me to him?’

  Tom hesitated, looking across at Sammy. Alfie was on the run. Was this a policeman after him, wanting to arrest him?

  ‘Are you hungry, boy?’ the voice went on. Tom twisted around, but the hat was pulled well down. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he thought the cloak and trousers didn’t look like a policeman.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and for the third time that day his mouth watered.

  ‘There’s a pie shop over there,’ said the man, still keeping his hand on Tom’s shoulder.

  Tom gave one glance at Sammy. He had just started a new song. Tom knew it well. It was a song with many verses. He would be back before it was finished.

  The pie shop was very near – only a few steps away. The man let go of Tom and marched up to the counter. ‘Steak and kidney pie,’ he said.

  Tom almost felt faint as the pie was slid on to the plate. His eyes were fixed on it as it came towards him. The man had to speak twice before he heard him properly.

  ‘I said you’ll get the pie when you tell me where the boy is hiding.’ That was what the man said.

  And Tom heard his own voice saying, ‘He dressed up as a clown and he’s hiding in Covent Garden Theatre.’

  And then he grabbed the pie and started to wolf it down, scared that it would be taken from him before he had eaten it.

  But when he finished licking the plate and looked up, the man had gone.

  Gone where? To Covent Garden Theatre?

  Suddenly he vomited, spewing up all of that lovely pie. His stomach had rejected the food that he had wanted so badly.

  He had betrayed his cousin.

  And now it was all for nothing.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE HUNT

  Sarah was the first to see the policeman. She was busily rubbing away at the chairs in the orchestra pit below the stage while Alfie lay on his stomach beside the drums and they talked to each other in whispers, discussing possibilities. ‘John Osborne is the most likely,’ Alfie had just said in a low voice when Sarah hushed him.

  It wasn’t one of the Scotland Yard policemen; they didn’t wear uniform. This was a local ‘bobby’ or ‘peeler’ from Bow Street Police Station. The man was too far away to see the number on his collar, but Sarah could see the navy blue uniform, the shiny hat, the high leather boots – Wellingtons, they called them.

  He was far away, but both of them heard his words distinctly.

  ‘Have you got a boy here? A boy called Alfie Sykes? Wanted for questioning about the murder last night?’

  ‘Boy, I’ve got no boy here.’ The manager sounded peevish and bad-tempered. No wonder, thought Alfie. If his theatre was losing money and he was facing bankruptcy, the last thing he wanted was police swarming all over the place.

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off,’ persisted the Bow Street bobby. ‘Our informant says that the boy dressed up as a clown. Member of the public told us. Not ten minutes ago. Came to Bow Street Police Station to lay information.’

  ‘I didn’t engage any boy . . . at least . . .’ The manager had begun by shouting, but now his voice tailed off.

  ‘But what, sir? You did engage some clowns earlier, didn’t you?’ This was a different voice. Sarah could see the two policemen from Scotland Yard come out from the door at the back. They left the door open behind them and now all four men could be seen plainly in the light that came from behind them.

  The manager removed his tall hat and scratched his head. ‘There was a small fellow – with two other clowns, he was. Perhaps he could have been a boy, now that I come to think of it.’

  ‘Well, that’s easily settled.’ The first Scotland Yard policeman seemed to have taken over. ‘Are the clowns here?’

  ‘Some of them are hanging around, I suppose.’ The manager sounded impatient. It
must be getting near to the time of the performance, thought Sarah. He had a note of anger in his voice when he shouted, ‘Jimmy, if there are any of those new clowns back there tell them to come here.’

  ‘Can I get away, Sarah?’ Alfie kept his whisper down very low. He knew how sounds could travel in this tall-roofed building.

  ‘No,’ muttered Sarah, as she polished frantically. ‘Stay where you are.’ He was in the worst possible place, trapped in the tiny pit, but there was no possibility of him climbing out without being seen. Just that very moment a man started to walk down the side aisle with a long pole, switching on the little gas nozzles and lighting them up. Bit by bit the whole of the theatre was becoming as bright as a summer’s day.

  Alfie, from his place by the drums, saw the light and knew that now only an extraordinary piece of luck could save him.

  The clowns were coming out – he could hear the sound of shuffling feet. They all walked like clowns, off stage as well as on stage, he thought, trying to be calm.

  Wait for the moment, and then run for it, he said to himself. He wondered whether the exit doors at the side of the theatre would be open, but decided not. They would never leave those unlocked in case someone sneaked in there during the day. No, the only exit would be through one of the two main doors, the front door or the back door – and each of these had a man in front of it.

  ‘Hey, you two, what are your names?’ The manager’s voice was high and impatient.

  ‘Joey and Lucky, sir.’

  ‘Where’s the third man in your act? The little fellow – where’s he gone?’

  There was a silence for a moment and then Joey spoke. ‘Don’t know, sir. He just joined in. You saw yourself. He ran on to the stage and joined us. Wouldn’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘Could he have been a boy?’

  There was a long silence and then Joey said, ‘Perhaaaaps,’ drawing out the word in a theatrical way.

  The Scotland Yard policeman made an impatient sound. ‘We’ll have to search the place. Come on, you men, you can help. A reward of one pound to the man who finds him.’