‘The school’s on fire!’ shouted Alfie. For a moment he and Sarah stared at each other, and then both rushed towards the burning building. Sarah immediately seized the large round knob of the heavy front door and twisted it.
‘Mr Elmore must still be inside! The door is unlocked!’
‘Wait!’ exclaimed Alfie, but he was too late. Sarah had already flung the door open, allowing the air to rush in.
First there was a roar which dulled the sound of drunken laughter from the nearby public house on the corner. Then there was a crash.
The windows of the crazy old house burst out of their rotten frames with a huge explosion of sound. The flames rushed out, licking upwards, and then travelling along the worm-eaten crumbling wood of the building. Alfie turned his head away; the heat was scorching his face and his bare legs.
‘Quick!’ Alfie seized Sarah by the hand and dragged her away.
‘Fire!’ he shouted. ‘Fire! Help! Fire!’
A moment later, the doors of the Cock & Pye public house opened and dozens of drinkers spilled out on to the pavement.
‘Mr Elmore!’ screamed Sarah, her face red with heat and twisted with anxiety. ‘We must rescue him!’ She moved towards the burning building and then stepped back, defeated by the searing heat.
‘What about Tom? What if he’s in there?’ Jack was now at Alfie’s elbow, his face glistening white in the glare of the fire and his eyes large and terrified. Sammy was a few paces away, standing patiently with his hand on Mutsy’s collar and his blind eyes turned towards the scorching heat coming from what was once the Ragged School of St Giles.
‘Send for the fire engine, someone, please!’ Sarah begged the crowd that were gathering around, gazing with fascination at the burning house.
‘No insurance plaque, Missy,’ shouted one man, slightly less drunk than the others. ‘No chance of getting a fire engine if the building hasn’t been insured.’
That was true; Alfie knew that. Only the rich could afford insurance. The poor relied on their neighbours and just hoped for the best. ‘Let’s get some water from the pump,’ he shouted.
‘Free drink for everyone who helps to put the fire out!’ shouted the pub landlord. He disappeared rapidly back into the pub and then reappeared with a boy who was sent running down towards St Martin’s Lane.
‘The pump is over here,’ shouted somebody and everyone surged forward.
It was useless, though. Alfie knew that as soon as they started. The landlord provided a few buckets, some people from the rookeries used their own buckets – not wanting to trust these precious objects to any stranger who might steal them – but most people were just dashing pewter pint pots filled with water against the flames. Soon they abandoned their efforts and queued up for the free gin.
‘What about Tom?’ Jack’s voice trembled as he asked the question again. Alfie pulled himself together.
‘Jack, you know that Tom is not in there. He was missing for the whole evening. Why should he go back in there after school was over?’
‘He might have been hiding somewhere . . . in a cupboard or something.’ Jack’s voice broke on a sob and he passed his fist over his eyes.
‘Never.’ Alfie put all his energy into a tone of scorn. ‘Why should he hide in a cupboard? Mr Elmore doesn’t keep anyone at the school. They are free to go if they want to. Tom’s at home. That’s where he is, probably toasting his toes by the fire.’
‘Here’s the fire brigade,’ shouted someone from the back of the crowd and everyone cheered.
The heat from the fire had got hotter and hotter and hotter and the crowd had all moved back. Every head turned towards the large cart drawn by four strong horses preceded by the excited boy from the public house. There were ten men in uniform on top of the cart and a large barrel with a pump and a hose.
‘There’s a man in there, in that building,’ yelled Alfie, but something told him that he was wasting his breath.
‘Over here,’ shouted the landlord. ‘The fire brigade is for my public house. I pay the Sun Insurance Company every year. They’re coming to protect my property.’ He pointed up to the lead plaque with a picture of the sun embossed into the lead and painted a bright yellow.
The men on the cart had already spied the plaque. They whipped their horses and forced a way through the crowd. In a moment the water was sprayed over the front of the public house, the spray drenching the poor rags of the crowd around.
‘Turn the hose on the Ragged School,’ shouted one man, pointing to the burning building. ‘Have some mercy.’
‘Please!’ cried Sarah, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘The teacher might still be in there.’
The fire brigade men made no answer. They were probably used to turning a deaf ear to such pleas and continued to soak the front of the public house.
And then there was a loud sound, rather like a groan, but a groan from a giant. The flames from the Ragged School blazed higher for a moment, then the whole building began to tilt backwards, and, with an enormous crash, it fell and came to rest in a pile of smoking timbers and clouds of dusty plaster.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Alfie took the decision suddenly. He grabbed Jack by one arm and Sammy by the other. ‘Come on, Sarah, there’s nothing can be done now. We’ll see you home.’
She followed them. He knew she would. Like himself she had been born into poverty, had to look after herself from an early age, had to see terrible things and live through terrible times. He thought he heard her sob, but when she joined him she was walking steadily and she said nothing until they reached the grand house at Bloomsbury Street.
‘I’ve no key; I’ll have to wake up the cook,’ she said in a voice that she tried to make normal. ‘She’s a nice woman. I’ll tell her about the school and the fire.’
She went down the steps and Alfie waited until he saw the door opened. Once Sarah had gone in, he touched Jack on the arm and they turned back towards home.
Down Endell Street they went without speaking a word, hurrying past Rats’ Castle, a lopsided old building housing men and women who would murder for the price of an evening meal. Then into Buckeridge Street, known to be full of thieves, whose cellars joined up with those of Jones Court, so that a person could dodge the police endlessly in the rabbit warren of passages. Jones Court was inhabited by a hard-working colony, well-known for turning out false coins; and Rose Lane, lined with rotting houses, was famous as a training ground for young pickpockets. Was Tom anywhere here? Alfie found himself wondering. During one of their frequent quarrels, his young cousin had threatened to run away and to join the gang led by Jemima Matthews of Rose Lane, a well-known thief-trainer.
It was a relief to get out of St Giles – a place where there was not a single sewer and where the streets were full of unmentionable filth – into the fresher air of Long Acre and then Bow Street. Whatever happened, thought Alfie, resolutely turning his mind from the idea that Mr Elmore, and even Tom, might be dead . . . whatever happened, survival for the living was his business. The rent for the cellar at Bow Street had to be found every week. He had to keep a roof over the heads of himself, his blind brother and his two cousins. A clever boy who could read and write could go far: Mr Elmore had told him that. Perhaps he could train as a teacher, or get a job as a clerk. He didn’t dare to think that could be possible, but he knew that even the most educated man would not get a job if he lived in St Giles. The thing was to look respectable and have as respectable an address to live in as possible. Bow Street wasn’t great, but it was better than St Giles. And there would be no need to mention that he just lived in a cellar.
‘No light on,’ said Jack, his voice hoarse, as they rounded the corner of Bow Street. Although the cellar window was below ground, it had a small yard in front of it and usually the light spilled out on to the pavement above.
‘He’s fallen asleep and let the fire go out.’ Alfie was satisfied that his voice was light and reassuring, but he saw Sammy turn his ear towards him. His blind brother c
ould never be fooled. He read the tones of voices as easily as Mr Elmore read the Bible. Still, the important thing was to keep Jack’s hopes up so, as they stumbled down the dark steps to the cellar door, Alfie continued, ‘He’ll be there, Jack. Where else would he have gone?’
But the door was still locked. And the cellar was cold, dark and empty.
Tom had not come home.
CHAPTER 7
IS TOM ALIVE?
There wasn’t much to eat for breakfast next morning – not that it mattered. No one had the appetite for it. Sammy chewed a dry crust of bread and then said thoughtfully, ‘Let’s get Mutsy to track Tom.’
Jack said nothing. He still had most of his slice of stale bread left. Alfie took a bite of his own slice and chewed resolutely. He would need his strength. Tom had to be found.
‘Do you think that Mutsy could do that?’ Alfie asked.
Sammy shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You trained him to find me, didn’t you?’
This was true and there was a time when that had saved Sammy’s life. Even Jack looked up with a spark of interest.
‘Let’s go, then,’ said Alfie. He swallowed the rest of his bread and got to his feet. ‘I’ll tie a rope to him,’ he said. ‘That way we can follow him and see where he looks. Here Mutsy, boy, where’s Tom? Here, sniff here.’ He pushed the dog’s nose towards the place where Tom usually slept. ‘Where’s Tom, then, boy?’
In some strange way, Mutsy seemed to understand what they wanted. He sniffed the tatty cushions which Tom used as a bed and then marched resolutely towards the door.
In a few minutes they were all out on the pavement.
‘What now?’ asked Jack, looking hopefully at Mutsy.
‘We’ll start at St Giles, in Streatham Street – that’s where we saw him last.’ Alfie tried to sound more hopeful than he felt.
But when they arrived at the edge of St Giles, his heart sank. Could the dog smell anything here? The foggy air was filled with the choking smell of burnt timber and smouldering plaster. Puffs of smoke still rose suddenly from parts of the old school building. Even though the sun had not yet risen, Streatham Street was full of people, all gazing at the remains of the fire, some even warming themselves by its heat.
‘Where’s Tom, then, boy?’ asked Alfie again, but Mutsy seemed puzzled, fixing his large, intelligent eyes on Alfie and then looking at Sammy.
Alfie grimaced. They had never used Mutsy to track anyone other than Sammy, he realised. Now the dog thought he was being asked to find the blind boy, not his young cousin.
‘We’re wasting time,’ said Jack impatiently after a while. ‘Mutsy don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going over there.’ He strode towards the ruined school.
‘You stay here, Sam, with Mutsy.’ Sammy would be quite safe in the midst of the crowd watching the fire. Alfie did not want Jack to go among the burning rubble by himself. Jack, though shy and silent with strangers, was as brave as a lion – too brave, sometimes – and Alfie had no intention of allowing him to risk his life searching through the ruins.
‘Tom isn’t here, Jack,’ he said firmly as he caught up with his cousin.
‘I have to be sure,’ was all that Jack said. ‘I’m going in there.’
The stone floor of the Ragged School was still clearly visible, but very little else was left. The fire had licked around the flagstones before leaping up the half-timbered walls and turning them into smouldering piles of ash.
Before Alfie could stop him, Jack was making his way over the floor, almost as though he expected his brother to be hiding somewhere.
‘Don’t be stupid, Jack, the fire could flare up again any minute.’ Anxiety made Alfie’s voice sharp, but Jack, normally so easy-going and obedient to his older cousin, now seemed deaf and he continued to make his way through the smoking heaps. Sighing and uneasy, Alfie followed him.
‘This was my classroom.’ Jack’s voice was low as he stared up around him.
‘And that was my classroom up there . . .’ Alfie stopped in the middle of his sentence. There was something odd lying at his feet, a yellow shape, a bit bigger than a man’s foot. He bent down and picked it up. It was hard, now, but he knew what it was. The tinder-dry old cupboard he had put it in was now just a pile of ash, but the clay he had brought from the brickworks was still there, though now utterly changed. It was no longer soft and slimy; it had been baked as hard as any roof tile.
But not before someone had trodden on it.
Stamped into the clay was the impression of a boot.
And beside it were the remains of a tin can, now crumpled by the heat, but once big enough to have held a few pints of oil.
A vivid picture flashed through Alfie’s mind. Someone had come in the front door, stepped into the big wooden cupboard, emptied oil over everything, thrust a flaming torch at the paper, then silently stolen out again, allowing the fire to burn inside its hiding place and then to burst out and engulf the whole building.
But did they know that a perfect impression of their right boot had been baked into the clay?
CHAPTER 8
EVIDENCE
Alfie picked up the piece of clay. He would keep that, he thought. It was too big to slip into his pocket, but he disguised it as best he could by also picking up a fairly unburned chunk of wood. Some of the inhabitants of St Giles were doing the same thing, picking through the remains of the smouldering building to find timber for their fires.
‘Cor,’ said a voice over his shoulder. Alfie swung around. Albert, the monitor, was standing behind him and prodding at the hard lump with his finger. ‘Would you look at that,’ he continued. ‘It’s that clay that you put into the cupboard. Blessed if someone didn’t stand on it. Lumme, it’s as hard as iron. What do you want it for?’
‘Do me for a door stop,’ said Alfie casually. ‘You haven’t seen young Tom, have you? He’s been missing since last night.’
He was glad that Jack was not there to see Albert shake his head and look around in a shocked way at the burned building. Alfie wondered if there had been any news of Mr Elmore, but decided to say nothing. His first duty was to find Tom. He felt responsible. He should never have forced the boy to go to the Ragged School.
There had always been a problem between Tom and Alfie. Alfie was the oldest member of the gang, the natural leader, but Tom had never accepted that leadership. He and Jack had been taken in by Alfie’s mother, their aunt, on the death of their own mother. When Alfie’s mother died of cholera, Tom was left angry and defiant. She had spoilt Tom, Alfie thought, remembering how his mother had fussed over her younger nephew more than any of the other boys, including her own blind son, Sammy. Even after her death, Tom always expected to have his own way and his own privileges.
‘Let’s go,’ Alfie said. ‘We’re wasting time.’ Suddenly an idea had come to him. He remembered seeing Mary Robinson that night. What if she had kidnapped Tom? He turned away from Jack and edged his way through the burning rubble and back to Sammy.
‘Do you think that Mary Robinson could have grabbed Tom and done something to him, killed him or something?’ He asked the question quickly, before Jack joined them. Sammy had brains and Alfie relied on him for that.
‘Not likely,’ said Sammy decisively.
‘Why?’ Alfie was taken aback.
‘Well, why should she?’
‘Well, she hates my guts, and she saw him with us last night on the way to school, didn’t she?’ argued Alfie.
Sammy shrugged. ‘And what did she see? She saw Tom arguing with you, cursing you, so why should she think that you would care if anything happened to him? Do you know what I think, Alfie? I think he went off with her of his own accord.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Jack had just joined them.
‘Sammy thinks that Tom might have gone off with Mary Robinson – just because he was in a temper with me.’
‘He wouldn’t do that.’ But Jack’s face was suddenly hopeful and Alfie hastened to keep those hopes
up.
‘I think that old Sam here has got hold of something,’ he said. ‘There’s another thing, too. When I was talking to Mr Elmore, he showed me a big pile of leaflets about Mary Robinson that he had ready to give out at the other markets. Tom could have overheard us, because he was just outside the door when I came out. And Mr Elmore told me later that all the leaflets had disappeared. What if Tom stole them and handed them over to Mary Robinson? She might have given him some money and he went off and found a night’s lodging. You can sleep at Tom-all-Alone’s place for a penny.’
‘Or she might have offered him a job,’ said Jack excitedly. He had an optimistic nature. ‘A boy like Tom could be useful to run errands for her, or something.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Alfie. ‘Let’s go and look at Smithfield market.’
Feeling hopeful, he led the way back to the cellar. There was still no sign of Tom, but that didn’t seem to matter now that they had an idea to pursue. Alfie put the piece of baked clay, with its imprint of a boot, carefully into the corner and then turned to Mutsy. ‘Smithfield, Mutsy!’
Mutsy wagged his long, furry tail so hard that it was like a piece of rope lashing against Alfie’s bare legs. Mutsy loved Smithfield market.
Twenty minutes later they were there. Smithfield was the place where all the meat that was brought in from the countryside was sold. Even the posh shops in Mayfair came there to get their meat. The smell was terrible, but none of the boys noticed it. They were used to smells. Mutsy positively liked them and his nose was twitching vigorously. Alfie took Sammy’s arm and let Mutsy go. The dog would be no use until he’d had a chance to catch some of the big fat juicy rats that hid in every crack of the walls around the market, or swarmed under the tarpaulins that covered the carts.
The Deadly Fire Page 3