Alfie held his breath, praying that they could not see him. He did not dare to move until the boat was far downstream, the men rowing quickly as if to get away as fast as possible from the object that they had thrown into the Thames.
Alfie felt himself filled with anger as he went back and whispered to Sammy what had happened. For the first time, the ten-pound reward faded from his mind. That poor old fellow, he thought. Wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t needed the money for his opium drug. He seemed a harmless old cove. He certainly had not been the one to kill old Jemmy. He wasn’t big enough, or strong enough. Probably always had the shakes!
But Flash Harry and his gang – they were a different matter. The sooner Inspector Denham caught them, the better.
And then came a voice. Someone was coming down Hungerford Lane – two people, one talking to the other.
‘Ever eaten smoked eel, Jack?’ said the voice. ‘Real delicacy, that. Stick it up the chimney and leave it there for a few months. Tastes great!’
It was Charlie Higgins, the fisherman, and he had Jack with him. Now Alfie could make out their figures, each carrying a pair of oars. If Charlie was willing to help, then they could follow the boat and see where the raiders went.
Alfie had a short struggle with himself. If they used Charlie’s boat, and Charlie’s rowing power, they would have to share the reward with him – at least. He might even claim three-quarters of it!
However, without a boat, the men would not be traceable. Alfie made up his mind. The important thing now was to catch this gang before they did any more harm.
‘Stay there,’ he whispered to Sammy and slipped quietly back up towards the two figures coming down Hungerford Lane.
Jack always said that Charlie Higgins was a clever fellow and it turned out to be true. After a few words from Alfie he understood the situation completely and continued to discuss the smoking of eels in loud, carrying tones, as he and Jack came out from the darkness and stopped beneath the one solitary gas lamp at the top of the Hungerford Stairs. They dragged the heavy wooden boat down the bank and launched it into the river. Jack held the boat as steady as he could by gripping the iron bar of the Hungerford Stairs while Alfie helped his brother into the boat.
‘Sort out the fishing lines, Jack. Blessed if they aren’t all in a tangle.’ Charlie’s voice boomed over the silent water. By now Charlie and the three boys were well out into the centre of the river, quite a distance from the Hungerford shore.
Alfie lay flat down on the floor of the boat and allowed no more than his forehead and eyes to appear over the side. Sammy sat peacefully in the centre of the craft and in the prow Charlie, with a voice like a foghorn, cursed Jack for being so slow with untangling the lines and declared his intention of moving off before the tide turned.
‘That’s the time to catch eels, sonny boy,’ he roared. ‘If I have to hang around here any longer there won’t be a single one of them critters left to catch. They don’t sit on their backsides and hold up little placards saying Please catch me! you know.’
‘Yes, Mr Higgins,’ said Jack respectfully. He seized a pair of oars and with a strong, steady stroke kept time with Charlie.
Charlie was still bellowing, but even without that, they would probably not have heard a sound from the galley boat just ahead of them.
It was lucky that Charlie Higgins liked the sound of his own voice. Between the bridges of Hungerford and Waterloo he never stopped giving his opinions on fishing and fish markets, and telling stories about fish sellers he had known during half a century on the river. He kept well to the south side of the galley boat that they were following and only a few feet behind it. It would be impossible for the men to land the boat without being spotted. And as they’d just killed a man, it was unlikely that they wanted to draw attention to themselves.
‘Drop back a little and we can watch to see where they go,’ whispered Alfie into Charlie’s ear when they reached Southwark Bridge, and the man nodded.
‘Let’s cast a line here, lad, and see if the eels are rising tonight,’ he said in tones loud enough to be heard by the men in the boat. ‘Come on boy, ship your oars,’ he added to make it clear to anyone that might be listening that the fishing boat was going to stop.
The galley, however, did not stop. Nor did it go towards the shore. It continued on its journey, nearer to the south bank of the river than the north, but not so near that it looked as though it were going to land. After a couple of minutes, Alfie touched Charlie on the arm and murmured, ‘We’d better follow them.’
‘Gently with the oars, lad,’ said Charlie in a hoarse whisper to Jack. ‘Feather them lightly. There’s no sense in calling attention to ourselves, now. Let them think that they’ve left us behind.’
The galley was going faster now, so fast that Charlie and Jack had to put all their strength into the sweep of their oars. The moon was completely shrouded in mist now, but Alfie just managed to keep the raiders’ boat in his sights through the darkness. Were they going to lose the prize, after all?
They were heading towards London Bridge. The tide was ebbing fast and soon the large menacing bulk of the Tower itself loomed above them. Where was the galley going?
‘Past London Bridge now,’ he whispered in Sammy’s ear.
‘Bet you any money that they’ve got a hiding place down the East End,’ whispered back Sammy.
Alfie relaxed. That made sense. The East End of London was a lawless place, a place where thieves had hideouts and where the proceeds of crimes were hidden. Sammy was probably right. The post office raiders must have their lair here. For a few minutes Alfie had been worrying that the galley was making for the open sea, perhaps to meet a steamer going to some foreign place – maybe India, he thought, remembering Mallesh, the young Indian boy who the gang had met and befriended not long ago.
‘We’ll just see where they go to and then go back and tell the police,’ he whispered to Charlie and the man nodded. He must have been getting worried about losing his small fishing boat if they went among the large ships.
Around a bend in the river, on the south bank, there was a small inlet – a place where, when the river flowed more freely, ships could moor. Now it was a shallow, scummy, stagnant piece of water. There were corpses of rotting fish floating on its surface and the place smelt like a graveyard.
In the middle of the water was a small island. Alfie had seen terrible sights in London – St Giles was a dreadful slum and most of Hungerford was a nightmare of tiny, stinking lanes – but he had never seen or smelt anything as bad as these houses on Jacob’s Island. They were built of wood and were all slipping into the water, with broken walls and roofs making most of them uninhabitable, even by the very poor. Privies, with broken doors or no doors at all, poured their filth down into the stinking water and lamplight from a gutted window illuminated a strange red fluid gushing out from one of the houses. Here and there, dead animals lay around, putrid and swollen.
The men in the galley boat did not hesitate, however. They crossed the festering water towards one of the houses. Someone had been waiting and watching for them. A rope was thrown out of a first-floor window with broken, rotting shutters. One of the men in the galley caught hold of it and then, to Alfie’s enormous satisfaction, a sack was tied to the end of the rope and then hoisted slowly up.
‘We’ve seen enough,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Let’s get back before they feed us to the fishes.’
CHAPTER 20
A MIDNIGHT SEARCH
Sarah was exhausted by the time midnight sounded from the nearby church bells. This was always the worst time of the day ever since the engineers from Birmingham had arrived. They had come to stay a week in London in order to look at the fountains in Trafalgar Square, so they could build as good a pump house back in their home city. They liked to walk around London in the evening, or else to go and see a play, and then they arrived back at the White Horse Inn in Haymarket – not tired, but hungry and above all thirsty.
The two
parlour maids had been to and from the scullery to the bar forty times in each hour, fetching tasty things to eat; they had been pouring beer, bringing glasses, mugs and tankards back to the kitchen and fetching clean supplies. Sarah’s legs ached, her ankles ached, her arms ached from carrying heavy trays but above all her head ached. And that was worst of all.
‘Could you look after things here on your own for a few minutes?’ she whispered in Dora’s ear. ‘If I don’t get a breath of fresh air away from all this cigar smoke I think my head will split.’
‘You go on, take ten minutes. The landlord has gone up to see that fellow Ned, that engineer that’s sick in number fifteen. I think that he wants to make sure he will be out of here on Saturday morning with the rest of that crowd. He was talking about getting a doctor to see him.’
Sarah smiled her thanks and slipped out of the room. The man with the red silk scarf had not shown himself at the White Horse Inn again, but she continually looked out for him – afraid he would come for revenge after she had not turned up at the Seven Dials, afraid that he might have seen her go into the police station – and she thought that had probably helped cause her headache.
Quickly, she pulled on her black cloak. It was new – she had been saving for weeks to buy it – and it was thick and warm in the freezing fog of midnight. She went through the porch and stood outside the window of the bar for a few minutes.
There were sounds of merriment from inside the room. Someone was singing a comic song. And when that came to an end there were calls for another one.
‘Ned!’ Suddenly they were all shouting the name. ‘Ned’s the one that can sing! Get him out of bed! We want Ned!’
‘He’d be no good to you. The man’s still got such a sore throat that he can only whisper.’ That was the landlord’s voice.
So the landlord was back downstairs. I’d better go in, thought Sarah, sighing. She had been hoping to have a walk. Her headache was still bad but she wasn’t being paid to take a breather outside. It was time for her to go back to work.
She had just turned to go through the door when a voice from out of the fog whispered, ‘Sarah.’
Sarah stopped and peered through the mist. ‘Is that you, Tom?’
‘Yes, it’s me. And Mutsy.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sarah.
‘It’s Alfie and Sammy. They haven’t come home yet.’
‘Where’s Jack?’ asked Sarah.
‘He’s gone out with Charlie Higgins – gone eel-fishing. I’m on my own.’
‘What time did Alfie and Sammy go out?’
‘About nine. They’ve been gone for three hours. They were going down to Opium Sal’s. Alfie said that they’d be back in half an hour or so. I’m worried that something has happened.’
Sarah thought quickly. From within the White Horse Inn she could hear the landlord’s voice.
‘Drink up, gents,’ he was shouting. ‘Last orders now!’ He, like his staff, was getting tired of the long hours that these engineers kept.
‘I’ll be out as soon as I can,’ she whispered to Tom. ‘Be back here in about ten minutes.’ With a quick pat on Mutsy’s head, she slipped back inside.
The landlord had gone into the bar when Sarah came upstairs ten minutes later, after delivering the last load of glasses, mugs and tankards to the scullery maid. Most of the late-night crowd were on their way to bed at last.
‘Cover up for me,’ she whispered to Dora who was just coming down. ‘A cousin of mine is in a fix. I have to go and see about something.’
She crept downstairs again, taking her cloak from a nail in the scullery door. The bunches of keys for the inn hung there and Sarah carefully eased off one of them and put it into her pocket. The landlord was chatting to the barman and she slipped along the passageway, opening the heavy door just a crack and then closing it gently behind her.
Tom was in the very same place – Sarah had the impression that he had not stirred since she had seen him last. He was shivering and she began to walk fast in the direction of the river to try to warm him up. When his teeth continued to rattle, she put her cloak over his shoulders.
‘Only for a few minutes until you warm up, so don’t you start getting too attached to it,’ she warned and was glad to see that he smiled slightly at that. As the youngest member of the gang he was not used to being left in charge.
‘So he just took Sammy when he went to Opium Sal’s place, is that right?’ Sarah, also, was feeling a little worried. Why would Alfie be missing for three hours? He said that he just wanted to find out one or two things. Did this mean that the two boys were in bad trouble?
‘Let’s walk down there now,’ she decided and as soon as they had crossed Trafalgar Square and entered Hungerford Lane, she gave the command, ‘Find Sammy!’ to Mutsy. Alfie had taught him this and the big dog had once saved Sammy’s life by leading Alfie to where his brother lay.
Immediately, Mutsy put his nose to the pavement. Down Hungerford Lane he trotted, picking out the scent of Sammy’s feet unerringly from the stinks of rotting food and filth that lay around. At the gate to a small, grimy court of houses, the dog paused, lifting his nose high into the air and sniffing vigorously. It seemed impossible that he could smell Sammy here amongst the strong, pungent waft of opium smoke, but somehow he seemed to be able to tell that the blind boy was no longer there. Without hesitation, he turned away from the gate and began to track down towards the river. Sarah and Tom followed behind.
Why had Alfie gone down towards the river, wondered Sarah? Had he found out something from Opium Sal? Something about Jemmy, Sal’s lodger? Or something about the post office raid? Were the two connected, as Inspector Denham thought? She accepted her cloak back from Tom, felt his hand to make sure that he was warm, and then went on thinking.
When they reached the river bank, Mutsy came to a full stop. He looked at Tom and then at Sarah. Sarah watched him anxiously. The big dog was looking downstream, down towards the distant lights of the Tower of London. Every fibre of his body seemed stiff and intent. He whimpered softly, gazing intently down the river.
And then, quite suddenly, he sat back on his haunches, pointed his nose at the sky and howled, a terrible wail of loss and sorrow pouring out of his jaws.
Sarah stared at him. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled and despite her warm cloak, she shivered. Beside her she heard Tom gulp noisily.
Mutsy sounded like a dog who was mourning the death of his masters.
CHAPTER 21
UNDERGROUND
‘Let’s get out of here,’ repeated Alfie uneasily. He kept his voice very low, although they were quite a distance from the house where Flash Harry and his men had moored their galley boat.
‘No,’ whispered Charlie Higgins obstinately. ‘We’d look proper mugs if we got the police and they found that the birds had flown. Let’s just get a bit nearer and make sure that they’re bedded down for the night before we go for the police.’
Without waiting for an answer he picked up the oars and began to row towards Jacob’s Island.
The house was very still – broken panes of glass glinted in the pale rays of the moonlight. Charlie rowed a little nearer and then stopped, one large hand held to one ear. The three boys listened intently also. Alfie looked at Sammy, but Sammy said nothing. Charlie gave an exasperated click of his tongue.
‘They’re gone! The rats have scarpered! They must have dropped the loot then rowed off again!’ His voice was a murmur compared to its usual volume, but Alfie gave an anxious glance at the house. Charlie was getting excited by the pursuit of the post office gang, and by the thought of sharing that ten-pound reward. He stared intently up at the broken shutters of the house then, without warning, he began to row vigorously towards the north side of the river.
‘Should we follow them down river, or go to the police station near the Tower of London? That would be nearer than the one at Bow Street. What do you say, lads?’ Charlie’s voice was tense with excitement.
&nb
sp; A second later, a shot rang out. It hit Charlie right in the centre of his head. He slumped to one side. Instinctively Alfie grabbed Sammy’s arm and Jack grabbed the other. The boat rocked violently then tilted to one side. The body of the heavy fisherman slid over the side and hit the water with a great crash. The boat reared up and then toppled over.
For a moment Alfie did not know what had happened. A heavy weight struck him on the head; he was suffocating, drowning.
Keep hold of Sammy, said a voice in his ear – it was the voice of his grandfather, long since dead and buried. He kicked violently, still holding on to Sammy’s thin arm. He realised now that the boat had overturned and was weighing him down, trapping him. He could not breathe. His chest was burning.
Then something pulled him further down into the water. It seemed as though Sammy was dragging him to the bottom of the river. Alfie struggled. That ghostly voice was still in his ear so he never relaxed his grip on Sammy’s arm. But with his free hand he clawed desperately at the water that was drowning him.
It was no good, though. They were sinking further and further down into the muddy depths of the Thames.
And then, quite suddenly, they shot up again. They were free of the heavy wooden boat and ahead of them were the lights of the houses on the north bank of the river. Alfie gasped for air and Sammy was doing the same. Something was towing them along. No, not something, but someone – Jack.
Jack was a great swimmer. Even with only one arm free, he managed to pull Alfie and Sammy several yards closer to the shore before diving underwater again. Alfie realised that their safety depended on keeping hidden so he took in a deep breath and dived also, towing Sammy with him.
The next time they surfaced, they were quite near the north shore. Sammy was gasping and spluttering, but he was alive.
Well done, lad, Alfie seemed to hear, in his grandfather’s voice. He took in a deep breath and looked around. A pitch torch flamed from a metal holder, lighting up the water. Jack, swimming vigorously with one arm and holding Sammy with the other, steered away from this, going upstream towards the Tower of London. Alfie followed, doing his best to keep up with his cousin’s strong strokes.
The Body in the Fog Page 9