Murder on Stage Read online

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ The turnkey stared at him with an annoyed look and the boys burst into fits of laughter again.

  ‘He’ll be the death of me,’ said one, choking on his pipe.

  Alfie ignored them. He kept his eyes fixed on the turnkey and his expression as bland and as polite as he could make it.

  ‘Why didn’t you say that downstairs? You was asked at the lodge did you want a clergyman and you said nuffing.’ The man was furious and Alfie didn’t blame him when he thought of all the long passageways and the gates and doors to be locked and unlocked.

  ‘It was seeing the condemned man,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That made me feel that I wanted to say my prayers.’

  And as he thought of that condemned cell, his shudder became a real one.

  Would he ever sit inside those bars with only that winding sheet of candle wax to keep him company?

  CHAPTER 19

  THE PRAYER

  The turnkey thought for a moment and then jerked his head. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Easier for me to take you to him, in his little room, than to bring him up here and keep him safe among all those savages. Come on, get moving and be quick about it. I haven’t all day to spend with you and your fits of holiness.’

  Alfie fixed his eyes on the turnkey and when the man moved, he moved with him. He got a harsh push at the door that almost knocked him down, but he staggered, then regained his balance and said nothing.

  The way back was quicker. This time there was no detour to the condemned cell, just a quick march down echoing corridors, the crash of gates closing behind them, up some steps and then into the chapel.

  It was a small building, just one large room with an open space and a screened-off portion to one side.

  ‘That’s where the women sit on Sundays, behind that curtain,’ remarked the turnkey pointing. ‘And do you see that iron cage there? Well, that’s where the condemned person or persons sit the Sunday before their hanging and hear theyselves prayed for. They used to have their coffins lying beside them, but they don’t do that any more – don’t know why not. I used to think that it looked good. Put the frighteners on everyone, like.’

  While he was speaking a white-haired, weary-looking man came in and looked surprised to see them.

  ‘This young shaver wants to see a minister, Reverend,’ said the turnkey. ‘Don’t mind me, covey, just talk away.’

  ‘I think that the boy would prefer to be alone with me,’ said the minister. For an old man, he had a firm, strong voice.

  The turnkey shrugged his shoulders. ‘Have it your own way,’ he said sulkily. ‘I’ll be outside the door. Just remember that this varmint is going to face trial in connection with that murder at the theatre. I wouldn’t trust him too far if I was you.’

  ‘I’m sure I can come to no harm,’ said the clergyman firmly. ‘The boy is in chains.’

  The door closed with a bit of a slam and Alfie faced the clergyman, wondering how to get around to what he wanted. He opened his mouth and then closed it again when he heard the words, ‘Do you want to pray, boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Alfie meekly. Shuffling awkwardly, he knelt down and put his hands together. He knew all about churches; he had accompanied Sammy often enough when Sammy wanted to learn a new hymn or a new Christmas carol. He saw the clergyman look at him in surprise and then a hand patted his shoulder gently. He seemed a nice old man; he must be if he chose to spend his life in a hell like Newgate prison instead of giving services in posh churches and chatting with posh ladies.

  The prayer was a long one, but Alfie did not move a muscle and kept his teeth tightly clenched to avoid a yawn. His mind was working hard. Who did murder Harry Booth? He went over the information gleaned from the two clowns, Joey and Lucky. They had mentioned a few names of those who might bear a grudge. Who had the best motive? Was it John Osborne, whose face was ruined by Harry Booth? And what about Francis Fairburn, in love with Rosa, the female lead, who went off with Harry Booth? And how about the manager? Alfie could have screamed with frustration that he was not out there, investigating.

  And there was more than a few shillings to be gained by solving this murder. His liberty and perhaps his life were at stake.

  He would have to rely on Sarah. She was a quickwitted girl, but she did not know about Joey and Lucky, the two clowns who knew so much about Harry Booth and the other people who worked at the theatre. So this plan that he had in the back of his head just had to work.

  ‘That’s a beautiful prayer, sir,’ he said opening his eyes as silence fell. ‘I wish I had a copy of that to read this night before I . . . I think it would help me to sleep, sir.’

  ‘Poor boy,’ said the clergyman gently. ‘Can you read?’

  ‘And I can write,’ said Alfie eagerly. ‘Mr Elmore taught me – at the Ragged School of St Giles.’ He could hear the turnkey clear his throat noisily a few times and then start to tramp up and down outside the door. He was getting impatient. Alfie willed the clergyman to move a bit faster.

  ‘So you were one of his pupils,’ mused the old man. ‘I remember him well. He often came here to speak up for some poor lad like yourself who got into bad company. Here.’ He got up and crossed the room and took a small leaf of printed paper from a cupboard, ‘This is a prayer for you, my boy, you can slip that in your pocket and read it to yourself when you go back.’

  ‘I’ll have it off-by-heart in half an hour,’ boasted Alfie. ‘I’m very quick at learning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I wish that I could send it to my sister, Sarah, then when I have learnt it.’

  ‘Ready yet, your reverence?’ called the turnkey.

  ‘Another few minutes,’ said the clergyman firmly.

  ‘If I could just write her a few lines to go with it,’ pleaded Alfie. ‘You see . . . my mother asked me to look after Sarah and . . .’ Inspired by the performance of the turnkey outside the door, he cleared his throat and cast down his eyes – trying to look like the picture of a brother who fears he has not set a good example to his sister.

  It worked. Ignoring another question from the turnkey, the clergyman got out a quill pen and a small jar of ink from a cupboard and set them in front of Alfie, smiling at him gently.

  ‘I’ll write on the back of the prayer,’ said Alfie quickly as the clergyman wondered aloud where he had put some paper.

  Rapidly he turned over the page, dipped his pen in the ink and carefully wrote:

  Sister dear, when I was free,

  I learnt to write, to count one, two, three.

  MY PRAYER TO YOU

  Find in your heart the holy three

  Mary, Joseph, the babe you’ll see,

  You’ll be lucky if that you do

  And shun all clowns and actors, too.

  Alfie did not take long to write the words. All through the journey down the endless, echoing passageways and while he was kneeling down, he had been perfecting his rhyme. He glanced at the clergyman, who was now kneeling in front of the altar praying. He would be unnoticed for another few minutes. He moved his paper so that the light from the gas taper fell brightly on to the page. Carefully, with the tip of his quill, Alfie put a tiny dot, almost an invisible dot, under the words one, two, three. Then he underlined boldly the words clowns and actors.

  That should be enough for Sarah, he thought with satisfaction. Sarah had brains. She would understand to look at the number one word on the first line – find; the number two word on the second line, Joseph; and the third word on the third line, lucky. The message would be clear: Find Joseph, Lucky, clowns and actors. Hopefully the two clowns would repeat the gossip about the actors, Francis Fairburn and John Osborne. Tomorrow, he remembered, was her half-day holiday so surely she and the rest of the gang would visit him. There definitely could be no objection to him handing her a prayer.

  ‘I’ve finished, sir,’ he said softly, just as a loud rap and the words, ‘You all right in there, your reverence?’ sounded from the door.

  ‘Perfectly all ri
ght, officer,’ said the clergyman in a slightly impatient voice.

  ‘Would you read what I said, sir?’ pleaded Alfie. ‘Will I be able to give that to my sister if she visits me?’

  ‘Well!’ The man was a fast reader. He scanned the page, put it down and looked searchingly at Alfie. He seemed surprised by the words so Alfie hastened to explain.

  ‘She wants to go on the stage, my sister, sir. I want to try to stop her. You know what happens to girls who go on the stage. My mother would never have let her do that.’

  ‘Quite right, too! Well, Mr Elmore used to tell me that he had some very bright, clever pupils and I can see that you must be one of them. That’s a clever piece of verse. I’m sure your sister will take that to heart.’

  ‘Mr Elmore used to say that people remember things better if they are in verse,’ murmured Alfie, hoping that he hadn’t been too clever for his own good. The man had picked up the page again and his eyes seemed glued to the words.

  ‘Quite right, quite right! And did he teach you some of the beautiful psalms?’ To Alfie’s great relief he moved his eyes from the paper and looked at Alfie with a smile.

  ‘Yes, sir. I think I had better go now, sir, the warder is getting impatient. I’d like to come again, sir, some time, if I could . . .’

  ‘The boy would like to come again some time, officer,’ said the clergyman, opening the door. He still kept the paper in his hand. ‘I’ve given him this prayer so that he may read it to himself and if his sister visits tomorrow he wants to give it to her. Will that be all right?’ He moved the prayer slightly as the turnkey seemed about to snatch it from him.

  Quite a courageous old cove, thought Alfie, making sure to keep his face bland and innocent. He, himself, could not afford to annoy the turnkey in any way.

  ‘Not up to me what he gives to the sister – that will be up to them in the lodge, but he can keep that with him if wants to,’ said the turnkey. He gazed with such a blank face at the prayer that Alfie immediately suspected that the man could not read. His spirits rose. A warder might have been more suspicious of his strange poem than an innocent old clergyman.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Alfie with relief. He made a respectful bow to the clergyman, muttered his thanks again and clanked his way down the stone passageway feeling a little more hopeful. Was it possible that he had taken the first step towards freeing himself from the most dreaded, most fearful prison in the world?

  CHAPTER 20

  THE MISSING FINGER

  ‘Tom,’ said Sammy.

  ‘What?’ asked Tom in a bad-tempered manner. He chewed on the remains of the crust from the loaf that Sarah had brought yesterday. He was in a furious mood. He was annoyed with himself and that made things worse. Jack had asked him to go down to the river, but he had refused irritably.

  Why had he allowed himself to sick up that pie? It was the best piece of food that he had seen for a month. He felt really hungry this morning and the bread wasn’t helping much.

  That was not the worst thing, though.

  Why had he been tricked into telling Sarah that he was the one who betrayed Alfie? He’d never hear the end of it, he thought gloomily. Even Jack was hardly speaking to him this morning. Jack, unusually for him, had even gone so far as to say firmly that neither he, Sammy nor Sarah would have told.

  He had been fool enough to tell that cove about Alfie, Tom told himself savagely, but he was even more of a fool to let it out to Sarah. There was no need. After all, the man could have found that bit of information from lots of people – Betty for instance.

  ‘You know that fellow who got you to tell him about Alfie,’ began Sammy.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tom viciously. ‘Shut up or I’ll hit you; blind or not, you’ll feel the weight of my fist.’

  ‘I was thinking that we could put our ideas together,’ said Sammy mildly. He took very little notice of Tom. Tom was always all bark and no bite. In any case, Mutsy would never allow him to hurt Sammy. Mutsy was lying very close to Sammy this morning, bewildered by the absence of Alfie. Never before had a whole night gone by without Alfie appearing and somehow the big dog knew that. Sammy stroked him gently and felt the dog nuzzle up to him.

  ‘What ideas?’ Tom sounded more sullen than angry now.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you noticed anything funny about this geezer – anything about his hands?’

  ‘His hands? Nah, I didn’t notice nothing – he had gloves on.’

  ‘Yeah, leather ones.’ Sammy thought hard. ‘What did the gloves look like?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you. I didn’t take no notice.’ Tom was getting bored.

  ‘Did he take them off when he handed you the pie?’

  ‘What do you want to know that for?’ Tom sounded suspicious, as if he felt that Sammy was trying to trap him into something.

  ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘You can stop talking about the pie. I’m sick of the pie. It’s all right for you. People look at you and say, “Oh, that poor itty blind boy, let’s give him something to eat”. They don’t do that to me. There you were, stuffing your face with chestnuts, and me so hungry that I thought I would faint if I didn’t get food. How was I to know that Alfie would be fool enough to hang around the theatre for the whole day? I’d have thought he’d have found a good hiding place as soon as he got in there, and stayed put.’

  Sammy ignored this. ‘It’s just that I keep thinking about the hand on my arm. There was something funny about it.’

  ‘What was funny?’ Tom began to sound interested. ‘He was wearing a glove, you said so yourself.’

  Sammy nodded. ‘Yes, I could feel it and I could smell it, as well. But I don’t think it was a thick glove . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ Tom broke in excitedly. ‘You’re right, Sammy. Is that giving you an idea? He was wearing gloves all the time, fancy ones – sort of yellow leather – very fancy, with stitching on them. I’d say they would be thin gloves, too.’

  ‘So that he wouldn’t need to take them off in the ordinary way,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Let me think. Yeah, you’re right. He didn’t take them off when he . . .’

  ‘Handed you the pie,’ said Sammy in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Are you sure? Think hard, Tom. We’re doing great, the two of us. Think hard. Get a picture of them in your mind.’

  Tom shut his eyes. It was funny, he thought, how that helped you to remember things. Everyone remarked on how smart Sammy was, but when he closed his eyes he, also, had a feeling of being clever. Perhaps being blind sharpened your wits.

  ‘Two hands, or one, on the plate?’ came Sammy’s voice.

  ‘Two,’ said Tom, still keeping his eyes tightly screwed up. He knew what Sammy was at – trying to get him to remember the scene as clearly as possible. ‘Two,’ he repeated, ‘and – I’m certain now – the gloves were on his hands, definitely.’

  Sammy smiled with satisfaction. It was not proof, but at the same time the very fact that this mysterious man had kept on his gloves, had risked the valuable yellow leather being stained by a splash of gravy – this seemed to back up his own memory. He held out his own hands, trying to visualise how a metal plate would be carried.

  ‘Thumbs on top and fingers underneath,’ said Tom. ‘Definitely gloves!’

  ‘You know the way, when someone grabs your arm, that you feel the fingers?’ Sammy reached out, his hand fumbling until it met Tom’s arm and then gripped it tightly.

  ‘You’re right – I do feel your fingers. Every single one of them.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘You’ve bent one of them back; I can only feel three!’ cried Tom.

  ‘That’s it! That’s what I felt! The man was missing a finger from his right hand!’

  ‘Is that a clue?’ Tom sounded hopeful.

  ‘I think it could be. It’s a reason to keep his gloves on, anyway. That missing finger could give him away,’ said Sammy. ‘Now we have something to tell Alfie. But how are we going to do it?’

  CHAPTER
21

  NEWGATE RATS

  Alfie thought it was the longest night of his life. There were only enough mats for about half the prisoners and Alfie didn’t even try to get one. He just stayed where he was, sitting on the cold bare stone floor, his knees hunched up, his shackled ankles sore from the weight of the iron. He put his head into his hands and tried to sleep, but the cold iron of the manacles kept waking him up. The fire began to die down and the moon shone through a tiny window high on the wall. By its light, Alfie could see a large rat emerge from its hole and scuttle along the side of the crumbling wall. It sniffed at the pocket of one of the prisoners who yelled and lashed out with his shackled foot and the frightened rat scaled Alfie’s legs and returned to his hole in the wall. After that Alfie dared not sleep. He stayed awake watching the lice crawl across the stone floor, their hard, shiny backs glinting in the moonlight. What time was it, he wondered. He hoped that half of the night was over, but he guessed from the height of the moon that it was probably only about midnight.

  And then he heard a bell ring. It seemed to come from under the flagstones. He started violently. He wasn’t the only one. Everyone woke up and listened. ‘It’s the bellman from the Old Bailey church,’ said an elderly man to Alfie. ‘They ring one minute after midnight for the condemned man.’

  ‘Just to give him a good night’s sleep,’ said one of the boys and all the others laughed.

  One of the boys began to chant in a loud, cheerful voice as if the whole thing was just a joke:

  ‘All you that in the condemned hold do lie,

  Prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die;

  Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near

  That you before the Almighty must appear;

  Examine well yourselves, in time repent

  That you may not to eternal flames be sent:

  And when St Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls

  The Lord above have mercy on your souls