The Montgomery Murder (15 page)

Perhaps it was the fog, but the air of London seemed to him to be thick with evil.

CHAPTER 24

‘Mallesh didn’t come home last night.’ Alfie’s voice was sharp with anxiety as he faced Sarah in the small dark back scullery behind the kitchen of
number one, Bedford Square.

He half-hoped that Mallesh had told Sarah something – perhaps that he had decided to stay the night in the lodging house at the East India Dock.

But Sarah’s appalled face destroyed that last hope.

‘He was going straight back to you as soon as he got the herbs,’ she whispered, putting down the pan she’d been scrubbing. ‘He said that it was important to get them into
Sammy as soon as possible.’

‘Any sign of a policeman?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No, there was no one really on the streets – except around St Giles – the usual drunken crowd there.’

‘Did anyone in the house see him?’

‘No, he just left me there by the stables.’

‘He should never have gone near the house,’ said Alfie. He could picture a shadowy figure watching from behind those tall, lace-draped windows.

Sarah wrung her hands. ‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have let him come with me, but it was so creepy in the fog and besides he was telling me all about India – about the
food that they eat and everything and we were here before I realised. I was such a fool.’

‘I should have gone with you,’ said Alfie, shaking his head.

‘You had to stay with Sammy.’ Sarah resumed her scrubbing of pans, efficiently rubbing them with coarse sand and then swilling them in a bucket. ‘How is he?’ she asked,
slipping her feet into a pair of iron-soled pattens and clattering out into the yard to throw out the bucket of dirty water.

‘He’s better this morning. I gave him some more of the doctor’s laudanum.’ Alfie tried to sound relaxed, but his mind was churning through the possible reasons for
Mallesh’s disappearance. ‘I’d better go up and tell the missus the sad news about my missing brother,’ he said after a moment, with an attempt at a grin as Sarah wiped the
tears from her eyes and pulled off her rough apron.

‘Don’t risk it,’ she said nervously. ‘You know what happened – what nearly happened – to Sammy.’

‘I can look after myself.’ Alfie knew that there was no point in backing out at this stage. He needed that money the inspector had half-promised him, but there was another more
urgent reason. If the murderer were not caught, he and Sammy were in grave danger. He couldn’t spend the rest of the winter looking over his shoulder, guarding Sammy, worrying all of the
time.

‘Leave it to the police,’ said Sarah, reading his thoughts as usual.

‘The police!’ snorted Alfie. He had a poor opinion of the police so far. Hunting down an innocent Indian boy, dragging into prison a poor, sweet-natured girl like Betty. ‘Come
on, Sarah, let’s go,’ he said impatiently, seeing her shoulders shake.

Sarah was crying openly when they came into the kitchen, and the parlour maid and cook turned to stare at her and then at Alfie.

‘The little blind boy never came home last night,’ sobbed Sarah, and Alfie felt his own eyes sting. It was so nearly the truth.

‘What!’ The cook’s eyes filled with tears and even Nora looked appalled.

‘What’ll the missus say?’ Nora whispered.

‘I’d better tell her,’ said Alfie, trying to achieve a look that combined bravery with deep sorrow.

‘I’ll take him up,’ said Nora. ‘They’re all in the breakfast parlour.’

Good – I might see them all, thought Alfie, as he followed Nora up the stairs. His bare feet felt the luxury of the thick carpet. Imagine having something like that on your floor! You
would hardly need a bed.

Alfie followed Nora into the breakfast parlour.

‘Excuse me, ma’am, sirs.’ The parlour maid curtsied.

Alfie’s mouth watered at the delicious smells coming from the silver dishes on the table. Mrs Montgomery and two men were there, all eating.

So which man owned the shadow on the lane, wondered Alfie, looking at the two men carefully. They were both big men, though not as tall as the butler. That must be Denis with the newspaper
– he was much younger than the other man, and thinner too – though in a big winter coat the difference would be little in the outline of a shadow. Mr Scott had a bushy moustache and
barely looked up from his breakfast. Could either of those two ordinary-looking gentlemen be the Monmouth Street strangler?

‘Something terrible has happened, ma’am!’ Nora was keen to be the first with the news. She gulped a little and then announced dramatically, ‘That poor little blind boy
didn’t get home last night. Feared run over in the fog.’

‘What!’ Mrs Montgomery was on her feet with her two hands held high in the air to show how shocked she was.

‘That’s right, ma’am, and this is his brother come to tell the terrible news.’

Mrs Montgomery turned to Alfie. ‘Oh, you poor boy,’ she said emotionally. ‘What a dreadful thing! Nora, one of the footmen must go straight to Bow Street Police Station and
tell Inspector Denham that I want him to get a couple of men to search for this child. He may be lying hurt somewhere.’

‘Inspector Denham knows all about it, ma’am,’ said Alfie quickly. ‘I’m just going up to Barts Hospital now. Inspector Denham thought my brother might have been
taken there, but I wanted to come to see you first.’ He gulped – it was surprisingly easy to do – and then waited a couple of seconds, lowered his voice and said in broken tones.
‘It’s . . . it’s what . . . it’s what Sammy would have . . . have wanted. You were very kind to him, ma’am.’

And that, he thought with satisfaction, should be worth a couple of pence at least.

‘What about the dog?’ asked Denis Montgomery suddenly. ‘The dog went home with him, didn’t it?’ He lowered his newspaper and stared at Alfie, though his jaws still
continued to munch the crisp slice of bacon. Alfie’s heart began to beat a little faster. Was he looking into the eyes of a pitiless murderer – a man who would not even baulk at
strangling a blind child and dropping his body into the river? This was a typical London toff’s voice. What did the other one sound like?

‘He’s gone, too,’ said Alfie with a quiver in his voice. ‘He was a very good dog to my brother – always looked after him.’

‘Poor children – you were alone in the world, were you?’ Mrs Montgomery’s eyes were glistening. ‘Just the two of you?’

Alfie nodded. Her hand was going for her purse. She opened it and took out something. It was silver – he saw it gleam in the bright light from the gas lamp over the table.

‘Give the boy this, Nora, and if he wants something to eat make sure that he has it.’ She handed the coin to Nora, who took it with a sidelong glance at Alfie.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Alfie. ‘I’ll be sure to tell you the news if I find my brother at the hospital.’ He did his best to sound brave, or at least to sound
as if he were trying to sound brave, but his eye was on the two men eating their breakfast. He wished that Mr Scott would speak, but he just went on munching his toast.

‘That was Mr Denis Montgomery. He’s fond of dogs – fond of betting on them anyway,’ said Nora. She didn’t repeat the invitation to have something to eat and Alfie
didn’t bring up the subject. Nora gave Alfie the coin reluctantly, dropping it into the centre of his outstretched palm as if she feared to touch him. She would have liked to keep the coin,
thought Alfie; it was a whole shilling! However, he thanked her for it as profusely as if she were the lady of the house herself, and Nora gave a stately nod.

There was a pudding-shop at the back of St Martin’s church where you could get a pudding for a couple of pence. Alfie’s mouth watered at the thought of it as he walked out of the
back door, rubbing the shilling between his fingers. If only he could find Mallesh now, they would all have a great supper tonight with the money that was flowing in. He looked into the mews, but
neither coachman nor groom was there so he made his way towards the gate.

‘How’s the betting slate getting on?’ he asked, putting his head into the cosy lodge of the gatekeeper.

‘Well, I’ve made one great bet with myself. There was an Indian came here last night – fellow in a turban, you know – and he was with the little scullery maid at number
one. He hung around for a while – just to make sure that she got in safely I suppose – and guess what happened?’ He waited expectantly, but Alfie just shook his head.

‘Can’t guess,’ he said.

‘Well, just as he was going to walk away from my gate, there was a big hullabaloo and a lot of shouting and out rushed the butler with the groom and the coachman from number one and they
grabs this fellow and they drags him off. They were going to take him down to the police station. I heard that all three of them have gone down to Bow Street this morning to swear evidence against
him. ’

‘And what’s the bet you made?’ asked Alfie, trying hard to make his voice sound careless and uninterested.

‘Have a look here, see what I wrote; see the bet that I made with myself about when this Indian will come back.’

Alfie looked at the slate. It didn’t make any sense to him – it was just a whole lot of lines and curves – so he looked at the gatekeeper with as intelligent an expression as
he could manage.

‘That’s right!’ said the gatekeeper. ‘I’ve put the word in great big capital letters. Look at it here:
NEVER
.’ He gave a nod of satisfaction and added,
‘Mark my words, we’ll never see that Indian boy again.’

CHAPTER 25

By the time Alfie reached Seven Dials, he realised that the footsteps he had heard behind him from time to time were still following him. They clopped along loudly, iron
striking against the paving stones in a hurried, uneven fashion. He stopped and drew into the doorway of the Crown Inn and waited. He was not frightened, just curious. Today was not like yesterday.
The day was misty, but the thick fog had gone and the streets were now full of people and, of course, he was not a blind ten-year-old, but a sharp-eyed twelve-year-old.

Still, it did sound a little like a horse, walking slowly, just as Sammy had described it. The clop-clop sound was getting nearer, and then it seemed to falter a little, just as if whoever
followed him had become confused, had slowed to see whether their prey had escaped down an alleyway. Alfie peeped out cautiously and then gave a sigh of relief, mixed with exasperation.

‘Sarah!’ he called and then, as she straightened up and came nearer, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Now Alfie could see Sarah’s face, and it was blotched and streaked with tears. She wasn’t wearing her trim scullery maid’s uniform either. She was dressed in some ragged
clothes that looked as if they were far too small for her – a torn dress that barely reached to her knees and a ragged shawl, meant for a small child, tied around her shoulders, looking not
much bigger than a handkerchief on a girl of her age. On her feet, instead of shoes, she wore a pair of pattens, her bare feet thrust into them and just about managing to hold them on as she
staggered along on their raised platform.

‘What . . .?’ began Alfie.

‘They’ve turned me off, sacked me,’ said Sarah, trying to keep back her tears.

‘Sacked you!’

‘The butler had me up to his room just after you left. He accused me of being responsible for his master’s death. Becky, the chambermaid, told him that Mallesh had seen me home. She
was peeping out of the window when we came to the railings.’

‘They saw Mallesh!’

Sarah nodded. ‘That’s right. The butler was going on about me being some sort of murderer myself. He and the housekeeper told me that I had to leave the house immediately. Cook
wanted to keep me – she said that she had arranged that I would be getting everything ready for the meal tomorrow while the rest of the family and the servants and that Mr Scott were at the
funeral. There would be no one left to keep the pots boiling because the missus said that she wanted every single one of the servants to attend the funeral – that didn’t count me, of
course. I don’t count. Scullery maids never count.’ Her eyes flashed angrily.