CHAPTER 16
THE GATEKEEPER’S SLATE
‘Going to be a terrible evening when the fog is as bad as this at noon.’ Determined to impress the good-natured coachman, Alfie scrubbed vigorously at the wheels of the coach in the warmth of the stable behind number one, Bedford Square.
The elderly coachman rubbed his gnarled old hands, threw his cape over his shoulders, peered out of the stable and then came back quickly. He had a look of Alfie’s grandfather about his face, and Alfie suddenly felt quite at home with him.
‘A real pea-souper of a fog – that’s what we’re going to have, mate. What they call a London particular. Here, have some of that beer and bread and cheese. Cold day out there! So you’re a friend of Sarah. Nice little girl, that.’
‘I suppose you’re hoping you don’t have to go out in that fog this evening.’ Alfie took a big bite from the bread and cheese and looked innocently at the coachman.
‘This coach hasn’t been out for days,’ said the coachman hoarsely. ‘Just as well with the cough that I’ve had on my chest for the last week.’
‘Ladies don’t like the fog,’ said Alfie knowledge-ably. ‘I suppose the two gents just take their horses when they go out.’
‘Not even that.’ The coachman gave a glance over at the riding horses munching at their hay basket. ‘These fellows over there haven’t been out for three days. I was saying to John here this morning,’ he looked over at the groom, who was rubbing some saddles, ‘we’ll just have to take them out tomorrow, even if it is only to walk them around the square. They’ll be getting restless and bad-tempered otherwise.’
‘So will the gentlemen if they’re shut up in the house for days on end!’ Alfie wanted to keep the coachman’s mind on Denis Montgomery and Mr Scott. And what about the butler? Dare he ask if the butler had gone out on Monday night?
‘Well, there’s been a tragedy in the family. Have you heard about that?’ John the groom came to join them. ‘Pity Mr Montgomery wasn’t on his horse on Monday night – he might still be with us if he were.’
Alfie took a long swallow of the beer. It was good stuff, much better than he could ever afford to buy for himself.
‘That’s right,’ agreed the coachman.
‘Of course, the master wouldn’t want a horse, anyway.’ John nudged the coachman and Alfie pretended not to see. He guessed that they knew Mr Montgomery was going to see Betty. They probably sniggered about their master and the girl from Monmouth Street. ‘And Mr Denis was probably just going to the gaming club in Leicester Square, or else that new one at Piccadilly Circus – The Royal Saloon, it’s called, I think. He wouldn’t take a horse there. Sometimes he takes a cab and sometimes he walks. I think that Mr Scott went with him.’
‘Well, I’d better be getting along.’ Alfie got to his feet and drained the last drops from his pewter mug.
‘Take what’s left of that jug of beer over to the gatekeeper, will you?’ said the coachman. ‘Poor soul, he must be frozen there, and no one thinks of him. He don’t belong to any of the houses. Tell him to drop back the jug some time.’
‘You’ll remember me if ever you think of taking on a boy in the stables, will you?’ asked Alfie, accepting the jug. ‘I’ll drop by from time to time and see if you have any news for me.’ It was just as well to go now, before he roused any suspicions by asking too many questions. In any case, thought Alfie as he went out into the fog, he had got a fair amount of information. So Mr Denis Montgomery had gone out on that Monday night – and gone out on foot. It was a nuisance that it appeared as if Mr Scott had gone with him. Strange, that . . . After all, he was Mr Montgomery’s partner in the Indian tea business, so why did he go out with the son, not with the father?
Quickly, Alfie went back up Bedford Avenue, which housed the mews, turned to the right and made his way towards the huge twenty-foot gates that kept the inhabitants of Bedford Square secure from the outside world and from people like the inhabitants of St Giles.
‘Here’s some beer from the coachman at number one.’ The gift was accepted, but the gatekeeper didn’t seem interested in talking and had turned his back when Alfie said pleadingly, ‘Could I have a warm by your fire, mister?’ Despite the warming beer and cheese in his stomach, he was freezing. The damp cold was seeping into his clothes and his hair felt wringing wet.
The gatekeeper nodded.
‘Hard job you have here in all weathers!’ Alfie said sympathetically.
‘Hard enough,’ agreed the man, poking his fire and throwing on a few more coals.
‘Boring too, innit? I bet you hardly know who goes in or out during the day and the night. You must be so used to them.’
‘I notice all right. It makes it less boring.’ The gatekeeper looked at Alfie, as if wondering whether to trust him, and then gave a sudden grin. He turned to the cupboard behind him and took something out. ‘Look here on this little bit of slate! Sometimes I make a guess where they are going and then I make a guess when they’ll be back. I write down when they go out and put my guess here, and then if they come within half an hour of my guess I win, and if I’m more than half an hour out then they win. Wait a minute.’
The gatekeeper nipped out and opened the gate, bowing politely and touching his hat as a stout man on a horse rode out, followed by a groom on foot.
‘That’s number eighteen. He’ll be back at one o’clock for his lunch – that’s what I’d guess.’
The gatekeeper made a note on the slate. Alfie looked over his shoulder. He wished he could read.
‘What have you there?’ he asked.
‘Mr M. from number one,’ read the gatekeeper. ‘Well, he went out on Monday night, and he never came back,’ he said. ‘That’s one that I lost. And look here, Mr D. M. from number one, that’s Mr Denis Montgomery. I won that one. Back in two hours. And there’s R.M. from number one.’
‘Who’s Are Em?’ Alfie had never heard of a name like that.
‘Don’t you even know your alphabet?’ asked the gatekeeper. ‘Well, R is for red and M is for mouth, and I call him that because he has a red mouth. I saw him once going out the gate, and he yawned in my face. Gave me a shock, it did. He had a mouth like the devil, all bright red, tongue and all.’
‘And you lost on that one?’ Alfie was beginning to distinguish between the ticks and the crosses.
‘That’s right. You’re getting the hang of it now. I put him down for the same time as Mr Denis – they went out together, but they didn’t come back together. The visitor didn’t come back until nearly midnight. That surprised me. He came back just before I locked the gate – of course, he could have come in by this little gate at the side, being as he was on foot. And Mr Denis came back at his usual time, about one o’ clock in the morning.’
And then a shadow of a tall man in an overcoat and a top hat fell across the entrance to the cosy little hut of the gatekeeper.
‘What’s that boy doing there?’ asked a voice. ‘Get rid of him, Thompson. This is not a hideaway for street brats.’
‘That’s the butler from the Montgomery place,’ the gatekeeper whispered into Alfie’s ear as the man left. ‘You’d better go now.’
Alfie went rapidly out with barely a glance at the butler. He was tall and strong-looking, but it was his voice that impressed Alfie. It was the voice of a man used to power, a man used to bullying those beneath him, but also it was the angry, irritable voice of a man who was worried. Alfie wondered whether Sammy would have an opportunity to listen to the butler. Once again he thought of his blind brother in that house where a murderer probably lurked. Had he done the right thing in allowing Sammy to go there? There were times when Alfie wished he could just be a child and not have to keep deciding everything, but he pushed the thought away. It was stupid to look back – he was the oldest, and he had to take the responsibility.
Once he was through the gate, he lingered for a moment and then slipped back. The butler had not stopped to talk to the gatekeeper. He was making his way towards Bloom
sbury Street. So why had he come up to the gate?
Strange place to live, thought Alfie looking through the tall, black railings at the square: those solid blocks of houses ranged around three sides, all with windows heavily screened with lace curtains, the small garden in the middle, those heavy iron gates blocking out the ordinary people, a place where no one would commit a crime for fear of the unseen eyes watching through those windows.
But, of course, there were Monmouth Street and St Giles, both so near, and yet so far . . .
Was the criminal hiding there?
Or sitting at ease in this place that smelled of money, power and privilege?
Alfie went on his way thoughtfully, his mind churning with the information that he had uncovered.
Where did Denis Montgomery go on the night that his father was murdered?
Why did Mr Scott come back before him? And what did Mr Scott, a stranger to London, find to do until midnight that night?
What did the butler have to hide?
And why did he find a boy talking to the gatekeeper so threatening?
CHAPTER 17
THE MASKED GAMBLERS
The cellar seemed warm and almost bright when Alfie came in from the cold, damp fog. The fire was glowing – thanks to Jack they always had plenty of coal, as he scoured the river’s edge every morning and often dragged home a sackful when the bargemen had been extra careless in loading the carts.
Mallesh was sitting by the fire and beside him was Tom. While Mutsy was greeting Alfie with his usual tail-wagging excitement, Mallesh went on telling Tom about the Grand Trunk Road in India. It had four lines of shade-giving trees, he was saying. The English officers in scarlet coats rode their horses down the central strip, the Indians walked or travelled in heavy carts along the side strips and there were caravanserais where travellers could sleep overnight.
‘You must have done well, Tom. You’re back early. Got the money for supper, have you? And something for the extra rent?’ Alfie tried to keep his temper down until he heard the facts.
‘What, in weather like this?’ Tom made the mistake of sniggering. It was to impress Mallesh, Alfie knew, but he was in no mood to be indulgent to Tom. It was essential that this murder were solved quickly, and solved by Alfie. Otherwise, if this fog and bad weather went on for months and the begging money dried up, they would be thrown out of their cellar, and then what would happen?
‘How much?’ The tone of Alfie’s voice warned Tom, who mutely emptied his pockets, scattering the coins on the box that they used as a table.
‘Three pence halfpenny! And you came home with that!’
‘I was wet and cold,’ said Tom sullenly.
‘And the rest of us go dry and warm, I suppose.’ Alfie stuck his fists in his pockets and did his best to keep his temper.
‘Sammy is. It’s not fair. He gets all the best jobs – just because he’s your brother. Why do we all have to work to keep him?’
‘Get out! Go on, get out!’ Alfie’s patience broke and he gave Tom a box on the ear. ‘Get out there and try at least to get another few pence. Don’t forget to go for Sammy at four. Mutsy, go with Tom, good boy, Mutsy.’
‘Could I help? Do something?’ Mallesh looked anxious as the boy and the dog retreated silently.
‘No, you stay put. It’s not going to help having you in jail. Stay put and think hard about why someone should murder Mr Montgomery. Who knows, it might be something to do with India after all. I’m going to look for Jack at Leicester Square.’
This time he did not bother following Tom, who had turned down Drury Lane, but struck out towards Leicester Square. He was anxious about Jack. Jack was a good fellow, but he was useless at telling lies. Alfie was worried in case Jack had got into trouble in the betting clubs.
There was no sign of Jack in Leicester Square. Alfie patiently went from club to club, and then up a couple of the side streets.
Alfie was almost going to give up the hunt when he spotted Jack coming out from the cellar of one of the most low-down clubs in Leicester Square. Not the sort of place that Denis Montgomery would have gone to, thought Alfie.
Jack was white-faced and stank of beer and spirits. He shook his head as Alfie approached.
‘Afraid I haven’t found anything out,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The fellows that gave me jobs taking out bottles didn’t know anything much about the toffs that go to the clubs. I got seven pence, though.’
‘Great,’ said Alfie. ‘That will do for supper.’ He always liked to have something for his gang every night. It kept the spirits high. ‘You go home; you look a bit done in. I’ll just have a poke around and then I’ll follow you.’
Jack hesitated. ‘Be careful,’ he said after a minute. ‘There’s some queer people around these clubs. Chances are I’ve done enough questioning. They might turn nasty.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Alfie. ‘I’ll leave these ones in Leicester Square. I’ll just go on down to Piccadilly Circus and look for one called The Royal Saloon. The fellow who works with the Montgomery horses told me about that one.’
Jack nodded and went off, walking wearily, his head hanging and his shoulders slumped.
It was no wonder that Jack had looked so exhausted, thought Alfie half an hour later. On the instructions of the porter, he had gone up and down the back stairs of The Royal Saloon time after time, collecting bottles, bringing them down to the cellar, washing them out and then stacking them so that they could be sold back to the beer and wine merchants. The crates were very heavy and the stairs were steep; he had been told to make no noise, as the customers were playing cards or tossing dice behind the door on the landing. Eventually, just as he was about to turn to go down the stairs, he felt a bottle slide and lodge underneath his foot, then he overbalanced, and, desperately clutching the crate to his chest, slipped and bumped down to the bottom.
‘What’s that noise?’ A man appeared through the baize-lined door, shutting it carefully after him.
‘Oh my God, that’s the steward. Now we’re in trouble,’ whispered the porter. Quickly he grabbed the crate of bottles from Alfie and disappeared on down to the cellar.
‘Nothing broken, just one unlucky fellow.’ Alfie dragged himself to his feet and stretched his arms and legs, patting himself all over as if to check for damage. Luckily there had been a carpet – probably to prevent noise – and he didn’t think that he was too badly hurt. He managed a jolly expression.
The steward gave a grin. ‘Well, you’re a plucky youngster,’ he said. ‘Good job nobody from up there saw you fall. They’d all have been putting bets on whether you would be killed or not.’
‘You’re joking me!’ Alfie could tell that this was a bored man who liked to chat. He saw his chance to get some useful information.
‘I’m not! Do you know, about a year ago, a man who came in here and gambled every night of the year with his friends fell down on the doorstep when he was going home, and guess what his friends did?’
‘Called a cab?’ asked Alfie with his most innocent expression.
‘Nah, they all started to bet on whether he was dead or just had a fit! I got the porter to run and get a surgeon and you’ll never guess what happened when the surgeon arrived . . .’
‘What?’ asked Alfie, all eager attention.
‘They told me to send him away – that it would spoil the bet.’ The steward laughed heartily and Alfie joined in.
‘Well, I bet they are a crowd of freaks! I suppose you know them all,’ Alfie said after a few seconds. ‘There was a gent who got himself garrotted up near where I live. A Mr Montgomery from India. Someone said that he was a great one for gaming houses.’
‘Didn’t come here.’ The steward was quite definite. ‘I know who you mean, though. Read about it in today’s paper. I’ll tell you something, though – his son was here that night.’
‘Not with his father, then – on his own?’
‘I think that he brought a guest with him – can’t remember too well, but I hav
e that impression. Yes, he did. I remember now. He said that this fellow was visiting from India. They didn’t take too many chips, though, so one or other of them were not planning to stay too long.’ The steward paused. ‘Come on, do you want to have a look inside? You can see them all – mad they are, every one of them! Just put on this apron – it will cover your clothes. Take this crate in your hands and you can take out some of the empty bottles for me.’
Alfie slid in cautiously and had a quick look around. To his immense astonishment, over half of the gentlemen seemed to be wearing masks – so that no one could tell from their expressions if they were betting on a certainty or a wild card, according to a whisper from the steward. Was the Monmouth Street strangler sitting there, playing cards, and watching Alfie from behind his mask with cold, cruel eyes? He was glad to get out – he didn’t like the thought of being watched by a possible murderer, when he himself could see very few faces at all.
He went on down to the cellar with the bottles, received a grudging two pence from the porter and then, saying he was too sore and stiff to do any more, he slipped out of the back door to the club house.
Well, he thought as he went on his way, Denis Montgomery and Mr Scott did go to the Royal Saloon that night, and one of them probably left early – the gatekeeper had said that Mr Scott was late home, so he probably went to some other place in the West End. But Mr Montgomery was murdered early in the evening – about nine o’clock if Betty was right. The chances were that the murderer would have gone straight back to Bedford Square, rather than hang around the streets to be arrested by the police . . .
Alfie was halfway up a small deserted lane leading out of Leicester Square, deep in thought, when he heard a shrill cry of, ‘Alfie, look behind you!’ He wheeled around. The lane was dimly lit and the fog was very thick, but some lights spilled out of a shop window and on to the road.
The Montgomery Murder Page 7