The Montgomery Murder (10 page)

Sure enough, Betty was shaking her head. ‘He was a toff, all right,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a bad smell. Just a kind of sharp smell.’

‘Like tobacco?’

Betty shook her head again. ‘No, a funny smell. I’ve never smelled it before.’

Alfie pushed the discussion about smells to the back of his mind. Betts wasn’t too bright – she wouldn’t be able to describe the smell any better. Perhaps it was just some kind
of soap – or perhaps some of that perfumed stuff that barbers rubbed in men’s beards.

‘And he followed Mr Montgomery?’

Betty nodded. ‘Just behind him.’

‘Montgomery was garrotted with a wire, you know,’ said Alfie, glad of the chance to show off his knowledge. ‘Was this fellow near enough to do that?’

‘Could be . . .’ Betty sounded dubious and then said quickly, ‘I remember now – I thought he was going to tap him on the shoulder. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, though.’
She paused and added with a shudder, ‘He was just a shadow, really. A giant black shadow with a big tall hat.’

CHAPTER 16

‘Going to be a terrible evening when the fog is as bad as this at noon.’ Determined to impress the good-natured coachman, Alfie scrubbed vigorously at the wheels of
the coach in the warmth of the stable behind number one, Bedford Square.

The elderly coachman rubbed his gnarled old hands, threw his cape over his shoulders, peered out of the stable and then came back quickly. He had a look of Alfie’s grandfather about his
face, and Alfie suddenly felt quite at home with him.

‘A real pea-souper of a fog – that’s what we’re going to have, mate. What they call a London particular. Here, have some of that beer and bread and cheese. Cold day out
there! So you’re a friend of Sarah. Nice little girl, that.’

‘I suppose you’re hoping you don’t have to go out in that fog this evening.’ Alfie took a big bite from the bread and cheese and looked innocently at the coachman.

‘This coach hasn’t been out for days,’ said the coachman hoarsely. ‘Just as well with the cough that I’ve had on my chest for the last week.’

‘Ladies don’t like the fog,’ said Alfie knowledge-ably. ‘I suppose the two gents just take their horses when they go out.’

‘Not even that.’ The coachman gave a glance over at the riding horses munching at their hay basket. ‘These fellows over there haven’t been out for three days. I was
saying to John here this morning,’ he looked over at the groom, who was rubbing some saddles, ‘we’ll just have to take them out tomorrow, even if it is only to walk them around
the square. They’ll be getting restless and bad-tempered otherwise.’

‘So will the gentlemen if they’re shut up in the house for days on end!’ Alfie wanted to keep the coachman’s mind on Denis Montgomery and Mr Scott. And what about the
butler? Dare he ask if the butler had gone out on Monday night?

‘Well, there’s been a tragedy in the family. Have you heard about that?’ John the groom came to join them. ‘Pity Mr Montgomery wasn’t on his horse on Monday night
– he might still be with us if he were.’

Alfie took a long swallow of the beer. It was good stuff, much better than he could ever afford to buy for himself.

‘That’s right,’ agreed the coachman.

‘Of course, the master wouldn’t want a horse, anyway.’ John nudged the coachman and Alfie pretended not to see. He guessed that they knew Mr Montgomery was going to see Betty.
They probably sniggered about their master and the girl from Monmouth Street. ‘And Mr Denis was probably just going to the gaming club in Leicester Square, or else that new one at Piccadilly
Circus – The Royal Saloon, it’s called, I think. He wouldn’t take a horse there. Sometimes he takes a cab and sometimes he walks. I think that Mr Scott went with him.’

‘Well, I’d better be getting along.’ Alfie got to his feet and drained the last drops from his pewter mug.

‘Take what’s left of that jug of beer over to the gatekeeper, will you?’ said the coachman. ‘Poor soul, he must be frozen there, and no one thinks of him. He don’t
belong to any of the houses. Tell him to drop back the jug some time.’

‘You’ll remember me if ever you think of taking on a boy in the stables, will you?’ asked Alfie, accepting the jug. ‘I’ll drop by from time to time and see if you
have any news for me.’ It was just as well to go now, before he roused any suspicions by asking too many questions. In any case, thought Alfie as he went out into the fog, he had got a fair
amount of information. So Mr Denis Montgomery had gone out on that Monday night – and gone out on foot. It was a nuisance that it appeared as if Mr Scott had gone with him. Strange, that . .
. After all, he was Mr Montgomery’s partner in the Indian tea business, so why did he go out with the son, not with the father?

Quickly, Alfie went back up Bedford Avenue, which housed the mews, turned to the right and made his way towards the huge twenty-foot gates that kept the inhabitants of Bedford Square secure from
the outside world and from people like the inhabitants of St Giles.

‘Here’s some beer from the coachman at number one.’ The gift was accepted, but the gatekeeper didn’t seem interested in talking and had turned his back when Alfie said
pleadingly, ‘Could I have a warm by your fire, mister?’ Despite the warming beer and cheese in his stomach, he was freezing. The damp cold was seeping into his clothes and his hair felt
wringing wet.

The gatekeeper nodded.

‘Hard job you have here in all weathers!’ Alfie said sympathetically.

‘Hard enough,’ agreed the man, poking his fire and throwing on a few more coals.

‘Boring too, innit? I bet you hardly know who goes in or out during the day and the night. You must be so used to them.’

‘I notice all right. It makes it less boring.’ The gatekeeper looked at Alfie, as if wondering whether to trust him, and then gave a sudden grin. He turned to the cupboard behind him
and took something out. ‘Look here on this little bit of slate! Sometimes I make a guess where they are going and then I make a guess when they’ll be back. I write down when they go out
and put my guess here, and then if they come within half an hour of my guess I win, and if I’m more than half an hour out then they win. Wait a minute.’

The gatekeeper nipped out and opened the gate, bowing politely and touching his hat as a stout man on a horse rode out, followed by a groom on foot.

‘That’s number eighteen. He’ll be back at one o’clock for his lunch – that’s what I’d guess.’

The gatekeeper made a note on the slate. Alfie looked over his shoulder. He wished he could read.

‘What have you there?’ he asked.

‘Mr M. from number one,’ read the gatekeeper. ‘Well, he went out on Monday night, and he never came back,’ he said. ‘That’s one that I lost. And look here, Mr
D. M. from number one, that’s Mr Denis Montgomery. I won that one. Back in two hours. And there’s R.M. from number one.’

‘Who’s Are Em?’ Alfie had never heard of a name like that.

‘Don’t you even know your alphabet?’ asked the gatekeeper. ‘Well, R is for red and M is for mouth, and I call him that because he has a red mouth. I saw him once going
out the gate, and he yawned in my face. Gave me a shock, it did. He had a mouth like the devil, all bright red, tongue and all.’

‘And you lost on that one?’ Alfie was beginning to distinguish between the ticks and the crosses.

‘That’s right. You’re getting the hang of it now. I put him down for the same time as Mr Denis – they went out together, but they didn’t come back together. The
visitor didn’t come back until nearly midnight. That surprised me. He came back just before I locked the gate – of course, he could have come in by this little gate at the side, being
as he was on foot. And Mr Denis came back at his usual time, about one o’ clock in the morning.’

And then a shadow of a tall man in an overcoat and a top hat fell across the entrance to the cosy little hut of the gatekeeper.

‘What’s that boy doing there?’ asked a voice. ‘Get rid of him, Thompson. This is not a hideaway for street brats.’

‘That’s the butler from the Montgomery place,’ the gatekeeper whispered into Alfie’s ear as the man left. ‘You’d better go now.’

Alfie went rapidly out with barely a glance at the butler. He was tall and strong-looking, but it was his voice that impressed Alfie. It was the voice of a man used to power, a man used to
bullying those beneath him, but also it was the angry, irritable voice of a man who was worried. Alfie wondered whether Sammy would have an opportunity to listen to the butler. Once again he
thought of his blind brother in that house where a murderer probably lurked. Had he done the right thing in allowing Sammy to go there? There were times when Alfie wished he could just be a child
and not have to keep deciding everything, but he pushed the thought away. It was stupid to look back – he was the oldest, and he had to take the responsibility.

Once he was through the gate, he lingered for a moment and then slipped back. The butler had not stopped to talk to the gatekeeper. He was making his way towards Bloomsbury Street. So why had he
come up to the gate?

Strange place to live, thought Alfie looking through the tall, black railings at the square: those solid blocks of houses ranged around three sides, all with windows heavily screened with lace
curtains, the small garden in the middle, those heavy iron gates blocking out the ordinary people, a place where no one would commit a crime for fear of the unseen eyes watching through those
windows.

But, of course, there were Monmouth Street and St Giles, both so near, and yet so far . . .

Was the criminal hiding there?

Or sitting at ease in this place that smelled of money, power and privilege?

Alfie went on his way thoughtfully, his mind churning with the information that he had uncovered.

Where did Denis Montgomery go on the night that his father was murdered?

Why did Mr Scott come back before him? And what did Mr Scott, a stranger to London, find to do until midnight that night?

What did the butler have to hide?

And why did he find a boy talking to the gatekeeper so threatening?

CHAPTER 17

The cellar seemed warm and almost bright when Alfie came in from the cold, damp fog. The fire was glowing – thanks to Jack they always had plenty of coal, as he scoured
the river’s edge every morning and often dragged home a sackful when the bargemen had been extra careless in loading the carts.

Mallesh was sitting by the fire and beside him was Tom. While Mutsy was greeting Alfie with his usual tail-wagging excitement, Mallesh went on telling Tom about the Grand Trunk Road in India. It
had four lines of shade-giving trees, he was saying. The English officers in scarlet coats rode their horses down the central strip, the Indians walked or travelled in heavy carts along the side
strips and there were
caravanserais
where travellers could sleep overnight.

‘You must have done well, Tom. You’re back early. Got the money for supper, have you? And something for the extra rent?’ Alfie tried to keep his temper down until he heard the
facts.

‘What, in weather like this?’ Tom made the mistake of sniggering. It was to impress Mallesh, Alfie knew, but he was in no mood to be indulgent to Tom. It was essential that this
murder were solved quickly, and solved by Alfie. Otherwise, if this fog and bad weather went on for months and the begging money dried up, they would be thrown out of their cellar, and then what
would happen?

‘How much?’ The tone of Alfie’s voice warned Tom, who mutely emptied his pockets, scattering the coins on the box that they used as a table.

‘Three pence halfpenny! And you came home with that!’

‘I was wet and cold,’ said Tom sullenly.

‘And the rest of us go dry and warm, I suppose.’ Alfie stuck his fists in his pockets and did his best to keep his temper.

‘Sammy is. It’s not fair. He gets all the best jobs – just because he’s your brother. Why do we all have to work to keep him?’

‘Get out! Go on, get out!’ Alfie’s patience broke and he gave Tom a box on the ear. ‘Get out there and try at least to get another few pence. Don’t forget to go for
Sammy at four. Mutsy, go with Tom, good boy, Mutsy.’