The Montgomery Murder (12 page)

‘The dog is mad.’ Mallesh’s dark skin had gone a sickly yellow and his eyes were wide with anxiety.

‘No, he isn’t.’ But there was a dark fear in Alfie’s mind. Would Mutsy, if he were in his right mind, have ever left Sammy? Alfie didn’t like to think back to the
time before Mutsy had brought warmth and fun and security into the little gang of boys in the Bow Street cellar. And what would Sammy do without him?

‘Give him a drink of water,’ suggested Mallesh. ‘If he is mad, he won’t drink water.’

‘Rabies, you mean,’ said Sarah, but she fetched Mutsy’s bowl and filled it from the bucket under the sink. Mallesh backed away nervously, but Sarah put the bowl down beside the
dog’s muzzle without fear. Mutsy would not hurt any of them; she was sure of that.

And Mutsy drank and drank and drank. It seemed as if he would never stop. And when he lifted his dripping muzzle from the bowl his eyes were clearer. He looked directly at Alfie and Alfie saw
something in his gaze that made his heart stop suddenly. He knew that Mutsy was trying to tell him something. He had been blocking the thought from his mind during the last few minutes.

Mutsy turned and began to go back up the steps. His legs seemed steadier now, after the drink of water, and he no longer lurched from side to side.

‘Stay here,’ said Alfie rapidly to Mallesh. ‘Keep the fire going and boil some water, lots of water.’ If Sammy were badly hurt, they would need the water to clean his
wounds as well as Mutsy’s.

But then the thought Alfie had been blocking welled up again. What if Sammy were dead?

CHAPTER 19

‘Keep together,’ snapped Alfie when they were out in Bow Street.

It was easy to keep up with Mutsy; the big dog’s legs seemed weak as he plodded heavily along Long Acre and then turned towards Drury Lane. The danger was in getting separated in this fog
as dense as yellow cotton-wool.

‘Where’s he going?’ asked Tom from behind him.

His voice was choked. Alfie looked over his shoulder. Sarah and Tom were just behind him and Sarah was holding Tom’s arm. Alfie was glad she was there. Tom would be
blaming himself for not fetching Sammy as he had been told to do. Once again, Alfie’s mind shied away from the thought that had come into it.

‘Going to the river, of course, you muffin!’ Alfie tried to make his voice sound light. It was up to him to keep his gang in good heart. He forced himself to go on. ‘Sammy
probably missed his footing and then stumbled in the river and Mutsy went after him and now Mutsy’s bringing us to him. Perhaps Sammy hurt his leg or something.’

‘But why is Mutsy bleeding? And what were they doing near the river anyways?’ Tom’s voice was low and hoarse.

‘Shut up, Tom,’ growled Jack.

Sarah said nothing. Sarah had brains. Alfie knew she would have guessed the situation.

Alfie tried to pray as he followed Mutsy’s stumbling body around the corner into Drury Lane. His grandfather had taught him and Sammy a lot of prayers. He wished that he could remember
them now. His grandfather had been a religious man. He was from Ireland. He had been very musical too and he was the one who had taught Sammy to play the fiddle and sing so beautifully almost as
soon as he could talk. ‘Poor child, we must give him the means to earn his living later on,’ Alfie could remember him saying.

Well, his grandfather was gone now, dead of fever, and the fiddle was gone, too – sold in a bad time – and Sammy . . .

‘Bet Mutsy brings us across the Strand,’ said Alfie aloud. He would try to keep talking – it would help to keep his thoughts away from the dreadful possibility of finding
Sammy’s dead body and it would keep up the spirits of the rest of the gang. He was sorry now that he had shouted at Tom. It was not Tom’s fault. He should have gone to fetch Sammy
himself, should have kept his brother safe . . .

‘Keep near to the shops!’ he commanded. There were lots of people on the Strand – all groping their way with outstretched arms, trying to make sure that they did not wander on
to the road where the iron-shod feet of the horses clattered along the paving stones.

Alfie was worried about Mutsy. The poor dog was going more and more slowly and his breath sounded noisy. From time to time, he stopped and shook his head; Alfie could hear the big hairy ears
flapping, but he always set off again staggering down the road. Alfie slipped his hand through the knotted rope around the dog’s neck. He had made this collar himself and had finished it with
a big knot so that Sammy could hold on to it and walk securely at the side of his faithful friend.

Now, Alfie had the feeling that it was only his grip on this collar that kept Mutsy from falling to the ground.

‘We must be coming near to the Temple Stairs now. Should we cross?’ asked Sarah. She had guessed what he had guessed, but Alfie shook his head.

‘No, we’ll let Mutsy lead us. He’s in charge. No point in confusing him.’

‘Mutsy will find him.’ Tom was beginning to sound better.

‘Yes, of course he will. Mutsy can always find Sammy,’ said Sarah. She sounded very sure. Alfie wondered whether she was trying to reassure Tom or whether she really believed it.

And then Mutsy collapsed on the ground. One minute he was staggering along, with Alfie’s hand holding the collar, and the next he was a dead weight, just a limp bag of bones. Alfie almost
fell on top of the poor fellow.

‘Oh no,’ sobbed Tom. Alfie heard Sarah gulp. Jack cleared his throat noisily.

In the faint gleam from the stained glass door top of the gas-lit public house beside them, Alfie could see that they were all looking at him, all wondering what to do next. He kneeled down on
the wet pavement and looked into Mutsy’s eyes. Was the dog dead?

But no, Mutsy’s eyes looked back into his and those eyes were full of intelligence, full of shame, too, as if the dog were apologising for his weakness.

Alfie stood up resolutely. ‘Keep stroking him, Sarah,’ he said, and then he fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a penny. Without another glance at Mutsy, he moved
away and opened the door and stepped into the warm, beer-smelling pub.

Inside there was a huge crowd of people, all drinking heavily to take the taste of the fog from their mouths.

‘A pint of beer,’ Alfie said as loudly as he could, once he’d managed to get to the counter. He slapped down a penny on the dirty surface.

‘Penny halfpenny,’ said the barman, filling a pewter mug from the wooden cask on the counter.

‘And a bowl of water for my dog.’ Alfie prised out another halfpenny and held it in his hand.

There was no fuss about that. Of course, it was the sort of pub where men often brought their bulldogs and discussed fights and bet on results. The barman took a bowl from under the counter,
filled it from a bucket and handed it over.

When he got back outside, all three of them were kneeling on the ground beside Mutsy’s still body.

‘Oh, Grandad, don’t let him die,’ whispered Alfie. He meant to pray to God, but it seemed easier to pray to his grandfather. His mother had told him that her father was such a
good man that he would have gone straight to Heaven.

Quickly he poured away the water and then carefully tipped the whole mug of beer into the bowl.

‘Here, Tom, take that mug back inside,’ he said, and then he knelt down beside Mutsy. The dog’s eyes were shut, but he was panting.

‘Here’s a treat for you, old lad,’ Alfie said huskily. ‘Beer! Mutsy, beer!’

And Mutsy’s eyes snapped open quite suddenly. Of all things in the world – after sausages – Mutsy loved beer. With a groan he rolled over on his front. Now Alfie could put the
bowl between the dog’s front paws. Mutsy’s tongue came out and touched the delicious sweet taste. He lapped – one hesitant lap. And then another. And then another.

Then Mutsy dragged himself to his feet. He bent his head and lapped up the whole pint of beer and cleaned the dish afterwards.

And after that he looked at Alfie and his eyes said,
Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.

Without hesitation, Alfie kicked the bowl aside. Someone would probably stumble over it in the fog, but he didn’t care. The pint of beer would give Mutsy some energy for a while, but it
wouldn’t last too long. There was no doubt the poor dog was badly injured.

But Mutsy was going well now, almost trotting, instead of staggering. Down the Strand they went in the eerie whiteness of the fog, which seemed to absorb and dull the lights from the shops, the
gas lamps and the cabs.

Then Mutsy suddenly stopped. For a moment, Alfie thought the dog was going to fall again, but Mutsy was just putting his nose to the ground. He sniffed for a moment, then wheeled around and
turned to cross the road. He did not hesitate for a moment when they reached the opposite pavement, but went steadily on until they came to the Temple Stairs. His paws slipped a little on the wet
stone surface, but Alfie kept a tight grip on his collar and they reached the bottom of the steps in safety. There was no one around. It was dark now and no boat or ship was visible on the Thames
– just great swirling masses of fog and a faint gleam of light from Waterloo Bridge.

There were no people around either, no one fishing for eels in the muddy water, or searching for pieces of coal along the shoreline.

No one at all.

Nothing but a sodden heap of rags at the bottom of the steps.

CHAPTER 20

Mutsy collapsed at the bottom of the steps. Then he made a big effort and crawled towards the figure lying there and collapsed again. Alfie dropped to his knees beside the
body. In the darkness there was no sure way of telling who it was, but Alfie knew.

However, there was a strong stench of vomit all around, and Mutsy was silent. Alfie tried to tell himself that Sammy was still alive, that he had sicked up the river water and was now
unconscious – but only unconscious. If he were dead, Mutsy would definitely have howled. He had even howled when their cat died one night.

Sarah gave a little sobbing gasp and Tom cried out, ‘That ain’t our Sammy?’, but Alfie wasted no time. He fumbled with his hand until he found the curly head and moved down to
the forehead, deadly cold. Surely no one could be as cold as that and still be alive.

‘Get up those steps as quick as you can, Jack, and bring me that torch from the top of the Temple Steps. Just lift it out and carry it down.’ Alfie’s voice was fierce and Jack
was gone before the last words were out of his mouth.

And then he remembered the doctor who had come to see his mother. He had placed a tiny looking glass over her mouth then shown it to him, saying sadly, ‘There’s no moisture, is
there? She’s dead, I’m afraid, sonny.’

Alfie slid his fingers down the face until they covered his brother’s mouth. Was there a faint warmth?

His own hands were cold and damp, but he blew on them hard and then tried again. Yes, this time there was something, a breath – or was he just trying to convince himself, the way he tried
to convince himself that his mother was not dead on that terrible day two years ago?

‘Got the torch.’ Jack was beside him, the smell of the pitch tar very strong. These torches were lit every night on the Temple Stairs in case someone fell into the river and light
was needed.

And then everything began to happen. The strong tarry smell made Mutsy sneeze. He lifted his head, got to his feet and stood over Sammy with big panting breaths. By the light of the torch Alfie
could see the steam of Mutsy’s breath coming up from Sammy’s white face. His colourless lips were parted. Surely they hadn’t been like that before.

From behind him, Alfie heard Sarah draw in a quick breath. She knelt down and took Sammy’s hand in between hers and began to rub it.

‘Take the other hand, Alfie,’ she said urgently. ‘Keep rubbing. Tom, you rub his feet. Jack, hold that torch as near as possible – not that near, you numb-skull –
you’ll set us all on fire.’ Her voice rose up quite high and then Sammy stirred slightly and moaned and opened his eyes.