The Montgomery Murder (3 page)

‘He’d been out in India until six months ago, and that’s where he made all his money. His missus and his son lived here in London all the time that he was away,’ said
Alfie.

The inspector nodded. ‘That’s right and that’s where you come in. The son, Mr Denis Montgomery, thinks that his father has been murdered because of something that happened in
India. It appears that when Mr Montgomery was out there, a native Indian, working on the tea plantation owned by him and his partner, Mr Scott, was found guilty of stealing a bag of coins and was
hanged.’

Alfie shrugged his shoulders; these things happened all the time. In London, when his grandfather was young, they used to hang anyone who stole goods over the value of a shilling. Why should
India be any different?

‘Now, the butler at the Montgomery household says that he saw a young Indian, not much more than a boy, hanging around their house yesterday. He told Mr Denis about that. It’s
possible that the hanged man’s son came to seek his revenge. There are two ships from the East India Company in dock at the moment, just down river from here.’

‘And you want me to sniff around and see if I can come across any sign of this Indian, that right?’

‘And anything else that you can find out. Anything about the household – the servants, I mean. Also, anything that passers-by might have seen, either in Bedford Square or in Monmouth
Street.’

So that was what Inspector Denham had been after.

‘What’s in it for me?’ It was always worth asking, Alfie thought.

‘Perhaps, if you’re lucky, the constable might forget what is written down in his notebook about this evening’s incident with the bread delivery van.’

Alfie brushed that aside. ‘Any reward?’ he asked. Although he couldn’t read, he had a sharp eye for figures, and the wall outside Bow Street Police Station was papered with
posters offering rewards.

‘There is a reward of one hundred pounds put forward by Denis Montgomery,’ said Inspector Denham cautiously. ‘It might be that you could earn yourself some small share in that.
Here’s a shilling for you in the meantime.’ He got briskly to his feet and opened a second door at the back of the room. ‘You can go out this way, unless you want to see the
constable again.’ There was a suspicion of a wink as Alfie walked past, and then the door slammed shut behind him.

Alfie felt quite dazed and for a moment he hardly knew where he was. Then he realised that he was in Crown Court, a small, square, empty space between the police station and the
magistrates’ court. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder and then ran as fast as he could. He didn’t want to linger; he’d had a narrow escape and the sooner he was away from
there, the better.

Despite Jack’s efforts with the broom, the woman was holding her purple dress high above her ankles, showing a frill of white petticoat. The road was even dirtier than usual because of the
fog that had lasted three days already. Alfie noticed that the woman was carrying her basket securely tucked under her shawl, away from the reach of the pick-pockets who did such a good trade
around the Covent Garden fruit and vegetable market. Her mouth was tight with distrust as she glanced around.

Alfie stood well back from her while she stepped on to the pavement, dropping something into Jack’s hand and then hurrying down the street.

‘You got out, then.’ Jack sounded off-hand, but Alfie could detect a note of relief in his cousin’s voice and there was a grin on his freckled face.

‘How much did she give you?’ Alfie did not want to talk about Inspector Denham out in the street.

Jack opened his hand. ‘A farthing,’ he said with disgust. ‘I thought it would be a halfpenny at least. The old —

‘Look.’ Alfie, a smile widening his mouth, gave a nod towards the woman.

A one-horse gig, driven at high speed down Bow Street, had sent a spray of semi-liquid horse dung all over the woman’s skirt, even neatly landing a fair-sized dollop on the very crown of
her stiff-brimmed bonnet.

Alfie and Jack clutched each other, shaking with merriment at the sight of the woman’s disgusted face as she scrubbed at her skirts with a small handkerchief. It felt so good to laugh
again after the worries and tension of the past hour that they went on for several minutes.

‘Come on,’ said Alfie, still chuckling with mirth. He threw his arm over Jack’s shoulders, eyeing the brightly lit butcher’s shop across the road. ‘Let’s get
some sausages and a loaf of bread. I’ve got a shilling.’

At that moment, a carriage drawn by four lively horses swung around the corner from Long Acre into Bow Street. The oil lamp, dangling from the back of its roof, flared suddenly, lighting up the
shadowy doorway of the house across the road.

Brown-skinned and dressed in dark clothes, his white turban grey with the London dirt, the young boy lurking there had remained invisible up to that moment against the murky wooden door. Now he
was sharply illuminated, staring across the road at the two boys. It was unusual to see an Indian in the West End of London and Alfie had no doubt that this must be the boy that the inspector had
been speaking of – the boy under suspicion for the murder of Mr Montgomery.

How long had the Indian been standing there, his fist clutched over something hidden? Had he seen Alfie come out of the police station? Did he guess the inspector’s commission?

Alfie swallowed twice, almost feeling the bite of a garrotting wire around his throat.

CHAPTER 5

‘Get down, Mutsy, get down, you old slob!’ Alfie wrestled with the dog at the door to the stairs leading down to the cellar where the four boys lived.

The cellar had been the home of Alfie’s parents before they died, and the first thing Alfie thought of every Saturday, after he had paid the rent-collector, was how to get money for the
next week’s rent. Food always came second to rent. He dreaded the day that it might be raised, and tried to keep aside a few extra pennies every week. He had promised his dying mother that he
would look after his blind brother, and that meant keeping a roof over Sammy’s head. Since Mutsy had learned so many tricks, more money had been coming in, and things had become easier.

Mutsy was a very clever dog. He was about two years old when he followed Alfie home one day from Smithfield Market, and from that first morning he could learn any trick that Alfie could think to
teach him. Shaking hands, rolling over, carrying his tail, saying his prayers – all these things were easy as pie for Mutsy. But the best trick of all – and the one that earned
Alfie’s gang the most money – was Mutsy’s ‘singing dog’ act.

Seen by the dim light coming in from the gas lamp on the street, Mutsy was no beauty. He was a big dog, bigger than most around, large and very hairy, with reddish brown fur, a fringe hanging
over his eyes and enormous paws. Alfie guessed that he had a bit of a drover dog in him – the men that drove the cows and sheep from the country into the market at Smithfield sometimes had
dogs like this. Since following Alfie that day six months after their parents had died, Mutsy had made his home with the boys in the cellar. His main duty was to take care of Sammy, but Alfie and
he had a very special relationship, and it was Alfie who had taught him to sing and to do tricks.

‘Wants the sausages,’ said Jack, getting an affectionate lick from the dog.

‘Nah, he’s just pleased to see me, aren’t you, old son? He knew that the peelers got hold of me. Anyways, he caught three rats this morning – huge ones, too. He
won’t be hungry for a while.’ Alfie was glad to pause for a moment, enjoying a play fight with Mutsy. He would not admit it to the other gang members, but he had got quite a fright back
there in the Bow Street Police Station, and an even greater fright just a moment before when he had seen the young Indian lurking across the street. While Jack’s back was turned, he gave
Mutsy a quick hug and kept his hand on the big dog’s head as he followed Jack down the stairs into the cellar.

‘What are you so scared about?’ Sammy turned on his stool beside the fire, his blind eyes seeming to focus in on his brother.

‘Scared? Me?’ Alfie gave what he felt sounded like a convincing chuckle. He knew it was no good, though. Sammy had lost his eyesight when he had measles as a baby, but the loss of
sight had doubled the sharpness of his hearing. Sammy could hear a feather fall from a bird in the street, Jack had once said and Alfie agreed with him.

‘You are scared.’ Sammy turned his blind eyes back to the fire. ‘I could hear it the moment you spoke to Mutsy on the stairs.’

‘Just playing with him.’ Alfie busied himself with Mutsy, clenching his fists and dodging around and around, pretending to land blows on the dog. He wasn’t going to admit to
anyone, except perhaps to Mutsy, that he felt frightened. Stealing was all right – often, unless he stole, the gang would starve – but murder was a different matter.

‘Got much for the singing?’ he asked.

Sammy shrugged. ‘Not much. You spoiled it with all the fuss over the bread van and the peelers blowing whistles.’ His sensitive fingers felt among the coins of the tin plate in front
of him and then stacked them neatly. ‘Ten pennies, six half-pence and one bad thruppeny bit.’

‘Enough for the beer – and some still left over for the rent money.’

Jack was already gathering up some of the coins. They knew that Alfie would say that. His parents had died of cholera one hot summer from drinking water that had been contaminated by the foul
water leaking into the well from nearby cesspits. Alfie always made sure that he and his gang drank light small beer, no matter what else they had to go without. Beer was boiled for days and no
badness could lurk in it. A young doctor had told Alfie that.

‘Fry the sausages, Tom.’ He tossed the packet to his younger cousin with a lordly air and then sat down by the fire. Mutsy’s large head was heavy, but comforting, on his
lap.

‘Why do I always have to do the work?’ complained Tom.

‘Because I say you do.’ Alfie didn’t feel like arguing with his youngest cousin.

‘What’s up?’ asked Sammy.

‘You do keep on,’ growled Alfie.

Mutsy looked from one face to the other. Behind his fringe, his soft brown eyes had a worried look. Alfie petted him absent-mindedly. Tom, muttering to himself, was busy with the spitting pan of
sausages, Jack had gone for the beer. It was only himself and Sammy. Alfie decided to unburden himself; Sammy would get it out of him sooner or later.

‘That inspector fellow,’ he said abruptly. ‘He let me off because he wants me to do something for him.’ He stopped and gulped a little. Mutsy nuzzled him under the
arm.

‘It’s a murder,’ he continued. To himself his voice sounded off-hand, but he knew, from the alert way that Sammy turned his head, that he understood how nervous his brother
was. ‘He wants me to find the bloke that killed this rich man, Mr Montgomery – you know the people that Sarah works for in Bedford Square. The inspector thinks an Indian did it –
one of those lascars from the East India Dock.’ He stopped. He didn’t know whether he should say any more, but both Mutsy and Sammy had their faces turned towards him so he continued.
‘I saw an Indian just before I came in. He was across the road and looking at me. I’d say that he noticed the inspector letting me out of the police station.’

And now it was known. Alfie gave a hasty look towards Tom and then muttered in Sammy’s ear, ‘Not sure it’s a good idea to be mixed up with murder.’

CHAPTER 6