Murder on Stage (5 page)

‘That was Harry,’ agreed the clown with green spangles.

Alfie held his breath and willed them to go on. What was it that Sammy had said?
Might have been a blackmailer, mightn’t he?

‘Reckon that’s what done for him,’ the first clown said gloomily. ‘Pushed someone a bit too far, that’s what he did – he would always want the extra few
shillings. You mark my words, Lucky.’

‘You’re right, Joey,’ agreed Lucky. After a minute’s silence he said with an air of surprise. ‘What would you say to that Francis Fairburn – they say that he
was furious with Harry Booth on account of the fact that he stole his girl, Rosa . . . he’s working here and all.’

Alfie feared that would be the end of the conversation – but Joey was still chewing over the sensational murder.

‘More likely that other business with that actor that done for him – you know that baby-faced cove – the fellow that used to act all the smart-young-man-about-town parts? What
was his name, Lucky?’

Some other clowns ahead in the queue turned around and listened with interest. They all seemed very friendly with each other – knew each other’s names and shared each other’s
memories. The chatter in the queue was mostly along the lines of ‘Do you remember . . .’ or ‘What’s he doing now?’

Lots of them were in pairs and each member of the pair was dressed similarly to the other, noticed Alfie, feeling rather depressed about his own outfit. One clown had short bright blue trousers,
reaching just between the knee and ankle, a violently red blazer and a yellow shirt with an enormous bow tie and his friend was the same except his trousers were red and his blazer blue. Most had
frilly sleeves peeping from under their jackets and all had fuzzy wigs and strange hats. It was a strange sight to see all of those blank white faces, red mouths and circled eyes listening so
intently to the conversation about Harry Booth.

‘You talking about John Osborne?’ enquired Lucky.

‘That’s the one. You remember what happened. Harry Booth was supposed to come on stage and pretend to slash his face with a knife. Usual business. Harry slashes, John Osborne
screams, John Osborne claps a handkerchief full of red stuff to his face, takes it away, drips blood, faints, young lady faints . . .’

‘All the usual routine,’ agreed a man in front.

‘Ah, but it wasn’t, you see,’ retorted Joey, who seemed to have become quite jolly with the audience that he had listening to his story. Even more clowns, from further up the
queue, had now turned around and were listening intently. Joey looked from face to face and then hissed dramatically.

‘It wasn’t the same old routine at all, because the blood was real, the cuts on the face were real and the knife was not a wooden knife, painted grey. It was a real knife and it had
an edge on it as sharp as a razor.’

‘Harry Booth denied it, of course.’ Lucky decided to lend a hand.

‘Of course he did,’ said Joey. ‘Wouldn’t you? Swore that he didn’t know that the knife had been changed. He got someone to say that he hadn’t been near the
stage after the props were put out, so it all stayed a mystery. The fact remained that John Osborne never got another chance to play the smart-young-man-about-town parts. A few of them went to
Harry Booth, so I suppose he got some luck from the . . .’ He paused and then said in that strange high-pitched voice that all the clowns used, ‘. . . from the unfortunate
mistake.’ And then he did a little dance and slapped hands with Lucky.

Everyone laughed heartily. Alfie began to think that Joey, despite his long face and his lugubrious manner, might be one to get a job. He was quite a comic.

What about himself? Did he have a chance? He looked down at his costume and blushed – perhaps it might have been better to have put the waistcoat under the jacket – but the waistcoat
was made for an enormously fat man. It would just look silly. At least the jacket bulked it out a bit. He gazed dubiously down at the long baggy trousers and his bare feet. The other clowns did
have ridiculous trousers, but they weren’t barefoot; they had enormous shoes tied with enormous laces. Perhaps he should give up the idea, he thought, pulling the over-sized cloak more
tightly around him. Perhaps he should just slink away; lie low for a while.

And then Lucky spoke again. ‘What happened to John Osborne, Joey?’ he asked.

‘Got a job here.’ Joey jerked his head at the theatre. ‘Stagehand.’ He looked around expectantly and Lucky obliged him. His voice was low and dramatic when he stated to
his eager audience, ‘So John Osborne was here last night when Harry Booth fell dead on the stage.’

Alfie stood behind the curtain and peered through. He was standing in exactly the same place as the murderer had stood the night before, he thought. A policeman was poking
around in the background, but Alfie ignored him. He had been a bit nervous in the beginning but then he realised that the man, by now, was sick of clowns and was quite uninterested in any of
them.

Joey and Lucky were in the middle of their act. Eight clowns had already been chosen and only two more places remained. Alfie felt worried. He hadn’t realised that clowns needed to be in
groups. At least, all of the previous acts had been clowns in twos or threes.

Joey and Lucky were not doing too well. It wasn’t much of an audience – just one man sitting out in the front stalls of the theatre – and that one man didn’t laugh, clap,
or cheer. He just sat there and stared, in a bored way, at the stage. Alfie looked across the stage at him. He almost felt like going home. If the manager looked so bored by these two experienced
clowns, then there would be no hope for him.

And then suddenly an idea came to him. He thought about it for a second and then decided to do it. Already the manager had turned to take up the white handkerchief that was the signal for the
act to stop and the next set of clowns to come on stage. Joey and Lucky were not going to get the job. He might as well try.

And he would wear his cloak and his bowler hat. He didn’t have the tall, pointed hat that the other clowns wore and now that he looked at his outfit – the man’s waistcoat with
the blackened, tattered jacket showing though it, the man’s baggy trousers sliding down over his hips and displaying his own ragged trousers – well, the whole outfit was useless.

Unless he was something different . . .

He would be a tramp! A clown-tramp!

Rapidly Alfie ran on to the stage.

‘Good evening, my masters,’ he said in Joseph Bishop’s rough, hoarse voice.

Joey and Lucky both gave him furious glances, but he ignored them. As they carried on with their routine, he danced around behind them, copying everything they did, echoing everything they said,
deliberately hitching at the too-big trousers, clutching at his bowler hat and falling over the too-long cloak. When they began to juggle, he kept throwing himself at the balls in the air. If he
missed, he stuck his finger through the hole in his bowler hat and mimed despair, grimacing violently at the bars of the metal gantry overhead.

When Joey threw a custard pie at Lucky, Alfie launched himself between the two men, caught it and immediately began to eat it. The pastry was rock hard and the custard lumpy, but to Alfie, who
had not eaten for almost two days, it tasted fantastic. He was determined to finish it before he got thrown out. Joey gave an indignant shout and charged across the stage towards him, but Alfie
took off his bowler hat and slung it hard. It hit Joey in the middle and he dropped to the ground, groaning loudly. Just fooling, thought Alfie as he hastily gobbled down the last mouthful. Joey
had decided to go along with the new man in their act.

And at that moment came a laugh from the manager and a shout of, ‘You’ll do! We’ll take all three of you for tonight.’

And then he got to his feet and shouted, ‘David, tell the rest to go away. We’ve got enough now.’

‘Who do you think you are? Muscling in like that?’ Lucky rounded furiously on Alfie as soon as they were backstage.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Alfie, licking the remains of the custard from his fingers. Joey was the leader so he addressed himself to him. ‘I thought I’d have no chance
unless I cottoned on to a flash act like yours.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Joey in a stately way after a few seconds where he seemed to be turning over matters in his mind. After all, thought Alfie, watching him hopefully,
they had got the job and most of the others had been turned away.

‘That was a good idea, the custard pie one,’ said Lucky, cheerful again. ‘Never saw no one eat one of them things before. It’ll stick in your stomach like a bar of lead.
Still, you’re young!’

‘Tasted good to me,’ said Alfie. If only they had another pie he would have eaten that too.

‘He’s a sour old so-and-so that manager, ain’t he?’ Lucky had turned away from Alfie and addressed himself to Joey.

‘Not surprising.’ Joey gave a quick look around but all the rest of the clowns had gone from behind the stage – even the policeman had moved away and was now prowling the
gallery, peering under seats in the vain hope of discovering a reason for the murder.

‘Not surprising,’ he repeated. ‘They say that the theatre is going to go broke. If this rioting goes on for many more nights and audience numbers keep dropping off, then
he’ll be bankrupt and that will be the end of him and of all his fine ideas. He’ll be locked up in a debtors’ prison.’

‘There are too many of them theatres, these days,’ said Lucky, shaking his head in a gloomy way. ‘Stands to reason they can’t all make money. Look at Drury Lane Theatre
– only a stone’s throw from Covent Garden. One or other of them should shut down and then the other could make a decent living. I heard they’re in a bit of trouble too –
that bloke at Drury Lane, that manager – he’s in bad trouble – that’s what I heard anyways.’

And then with a nod at him they both went off, leaving Alfie to sit on a box backstage and wait for the evening show.

Things were looking better for him. The custard and rock-hard pastry had filled his stomach and the theatre was packed with clowns. No one would notice him.

Even so, he wished that he were back in the cellar with his gang and his faithful Mutsy.

But this murder would have to be solved and Alfie had to put all of his brains to work. He now had the names of two people who might have murdered Harry Booth. There was Francis Fairburn, who
was in love with this Rosa, but she preferred Harry Booth – and then there was the other fellow, John Osborne. That was more serious. Harry Booth had slashed his face with a knife and
destroyed his good looks.

Or could the murder have anything to do with the sour-faced manager, who was worried about money? Could Harry Booth have had some responsibility for the riots that threatened to shut down the
theatre? Was Harry Booth trying to make sure that no more seats were sold for Covent Garden Theatre? If that happened the manager would go bust!

Was going bankrupt and having to be locked up in a debtors’ prison enough reason to commit murder?

Alfie thought it was.

Prison was a dreadful thing. And that’s where he would be heading if the true murderer wasn’t found soon!

When Sammy walked through London with his brother, Alfie always described the route and they often played a game where Sammy guessed the name of the street and Alfie told him
if he was right. A correct guess meant that Sammy got a point, and a wrong guess meant that Alfie got a point. So Alfie tried to lead him into all sorts of strange places and Sammy got better and
better at guessing.

Temple Bar was one of the easy places. That was at the top of the Strand and Sammy always recognised it because he could hear how the horse-drawn carriages and hansom cabs all slowed down
here.

Mutsy was taking him past Temple Bar now, and they were passing the Temple Inns. Even on this foggy day Sammy could feel the wind from the River Thames on his right – not so much a wind,
perhaps, as an increase in the cold damp striking against his cheek wherever there was a gap in the buildings.