The Montgomery Murder

by Cora Harrison

  And there, just behind him, he saw an immense black shadow: a shadow of a man, whose top hat and raised cudgel were outlined on the cobbled street.

  CHAPTER 18

  WHERE’S SAMMY?

  A brick hurtled through the air and crashed down to the ground. The man wheeled around; Jack shouted again, and Alfie ran for it. He knew these alleyways like the back of his hand. He turned off to the left and ran as fast as he could, trying to ignore the fierce pain across his lower ribs. There was a thundering noise in his ears as he tried to gulp in more air. He had a strong urge to keep running all the way back to the cellar, but he had to see that Jack was safe, so he turned again until he was in a narrow alley leading back towards the lane – and then there was Jack, running towards him.

  ‘Did you see his face?’ Alfie just managed to gulp out the words.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Nah, his back was to me. Didn’t half give me a fright, though. I thought you was a goner for a minute.’

  ‘Good thing you’re handy with a brick.’ To his horror Alfie felt a rush of sour liquid fill his mouth. He felt himself start to heave, and drew in a long breath. He didn’t want to stand vomiting in the street here if the strangler was after him.

  ‘Let’s scarper!’ Jack was practical as ever. He put an arm around his cousin’s shoulders and steered him back into the alleyway. ‘We’ll just go nice and quietly along here,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep our eyes peeled and walk near the doorways. If he comes back we’ll see him before he sees us.’

  Alfie nodded silently. For once Jack was taking the lead, but he was happy to say nothing. He still felt sick and his legs were unsteady.

  ‘We’ll be home before you know it,’ said Jack after a few minutes, and Alfie nodded again.

  Up to this hour it had been almost a game, but now Alfie was frightened. Why, he asked himself again, had he allowed his blind brother to go into a house where a murderer might live?

  By now the fog was so thick that even the candles in the windows of the houses were nothing but faint blobs of misty light. The gas lamps of Monmouth Street fizzed gently in the wet air but gave little light.

  ‘Where’s Sammy?’ As soon as Alfie opened the door to the underground cellar he knew that something was wrong. Tom was there, chatting to Mallesh, but there was no Mutsy to come bounding up to greet them and Sammy’s fireside chair was empty.

  ‘We were wondering that ourselves,’ said Tom. He sounded a little guilty. ‘Mutsy took off. He went too fast for me to follow, but I reckoned he had gone to Bedford Square. We reckoned that Sammy must have waited for Sarah. Here she comes now. That’s her on the stairs, I reckon.’

  Alfie dashed back to the door and threw it open.

  ‘Sarah, where’s Sammy?’ He could hear the terror in his voice.

  ‘What?’ Sarah’s voice rose high with alarm. ‘He’s not home yet? But he must be! He left ages ago. He and Mutsy together!’

  ‘Why didn’t you go for Sammy, Tom?’ Alfie tried hard to keep his temper – more for Jack’s sake than for Tom’s. Jack had saved his life.

  ‘Like I said, Mutsy took off.’ Tom gave a careless shrug of his shoulders. ‘I reckoned that he would go to Bedford Square and fetch Sammy home.’

  ‘Mutsy came to the house all right.’ Sarah was almost breathless. ‘He burst in when Sammy was singing and the missus said that Sammy could go an hour early. They went off together more than an hour ago.’

  ‘More than an hour ago,’ breathed Jack. His voice had a frightened sound in it and Alfie felt his heart thumping with quick beats. Bedford Square was only about half a mile away. Sammy should only have taken a quarter of that time to walk it with Mutsy to guide him. He turned to Sarah.

  ‘Where was Sammy all day?’

  ‘In the butler’s pantry.’

  ‘And the butler saw him, did he?

  ‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘The butler was out all morning.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ snapped Alfie. His voice was sharp and rough, but Sarah understood the terrible fear that was gripping him and she said nothing. After a moment, he said, ‘I saw him – the butler, I mean – near the house. He was there about two o’clock. He was suspicious of me – I could tell by the way that he ordered me away from the gatekeeper. Chances are he might be even more suspicious of Sammy there in the house.’

  ‘We’d better go and look for Sammy.’ Jack turned back to the door again.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Mallesh. ‘No one will see me in this fog.’

  ‘But what happened to — Sarah stopped. She had heard something – something on the steps leading down to the cellar.

  Something was coming down those steps – not walking, not running, but lurching down, crashing against the walls, something that seemed blind, or drunk, or out of its mind. Something with no eyes, no balance, no brain . . .

  And it was coming towards their door.

  Alfie snatched up a torch, thrust it into the fire and carried it to the door. Jack was after him in a second. Tom clutched Sarah’s hand and Mallesh slid his knife out and brandished it.

  And then Alfie flung open the door and cried, ‘Mutsy!’ and when the dog heard that voice, he made a great effort and staggered on shaking legs down the last two steps, and then he stood trembling violently with his head hanging almost to his knees.

  ‘He’s been in the river. He’s soaking,’ said Jack.

  ‘We can see that, blockhead.’ Alfie did not often snap at Jack, but the sight of Mutsy was terrifying him. He was still shaking after his own ordeal and now he seemed plunged into a nightmare where Sammy had disappeared and Mutsy was no longer the protector and guardian of the blind boy.

  ‘He’s dripping on to the floor.’ Tom’s voice was shaking.

  ‘He’s injured.’ Mallesh put his knife away and looked at the dog with concern. ‘That is a very bad cut he has on his head.’

  ‘Bring him over to the fire, Alfie, and let’s see what’s wrong with him.’ Sarah stuck the poker in the fire and stirred it so that a bright flame lit the room.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ said Alfie, snapping his fingers.

  For a moment it seemed as if Mutsy could not even hear that simple command. Alfie took hold of the rough rope collar around the dog’s neck and tried to drag him, but for the first time in Mutsy’s life he defied his master and a long low growl came from him.

  ‘The dog is mad.’ Mallesh’s dark skin had gone a sickly yellow and his eyes were wide with anxiety.

  ‘No, he isn’t.’ But there was a dark fear in Alfie’s mind. Would Mutsy, if he were in his right mind, have ever left Sammy? Alfie didn’t like to think back to the time before Mutsy had brought warmth and fun and security into the little gang of boys in the Bow Street cellar. And what would Sammy do without him?

  ‘Give him a drink of water,’ suggested Mallesh. ‘If he is mad, he won’t drink water.’

  ‘Rabies, you mean,’ said Sarah, but she fetched Mutsy’s bowl and filled it from the bucket under the sink. Mallesh backed away nervously, but Sarah put the bowl down beside the dog’s muzzle without fear. Mutsy would not hurt any of them; she was sure of that.

  And Mutsy drank and drank and drank. It seemed as if he would never stop. And when he lifted his dripping muzzle from the bowl his eyes were clearer. He looked directly at Alfie and Alfie saw something in his gaze that made his heart stop suddenly. He knew that Mutsy was trying to tell him something. He had been blocking the thought from his mind during the last few minutes.

  Mutsy turned and began to go back up the steps. His legs seemed steadier now, after the drink of water, and he no longer lurched from side to side.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Alfie rapidly to Mallesh. ‘Keep the fire going and boil some water, lots of water.’ If Sammy were badly hurt, they would need the water to clean his wounds as well as Mutsy’s.

  But then the thought Alfie had been blocking welled up again. What if Sammy were dead?

  CHAPTER 19

  STUMBLING THROUGH THE FOG

&
nbsp; ‘Keep together,’ snapped Alfie when they were out in Bow Street.

  It was easy to keep up with Mutsy; the big dog’s legs seemed weak as he plodded heavily along Long Acre and then turned towards Drury Lane. The danger was in getting separated in this fog as dense as yellow cotton-wool.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ asked Tom from behind him.

  His voice was choked. Alfie looked over his shoulder. Sarah and Tom were just behind him and Sarah was holding Tom’s arm. Alfie was glad she was there. Tom would be blaming himself for not fetching Sammy as he had been told to do. Once again, Alfie’s mind shied away from the thought that had come into it.

  ‘Going to the river, of course, you muffin!’ Alfie tried to make his voice sound light. It was up to him to keep his gang in good heart. He forced himself to go on. ‘Sammy probably missed his footing and then stumbled in the river and Mutsy went after him and now Mutsy’s bringing us to him. Perhaps Sammy hurt his leg or something.’

  ‘But why is Mutsy bleeding? And what were they doing near the river anyways?’ Tom’s voice was low and hoarse.

  ‘Shut up, Tom,’ growled Jack.

  Sarah said nothing. Sarah had brains. Alfie knew she would have guessed the situation.

  Alfie tried to pray as he followed Mutsy’s stumbling body around the corner into Drury Lane. His grandfather had taught him and Sammy a lot of prayers. He wished that he could remember them now. His grandfather had been a religious man. He was from Ireland. He had been very musical too and he was the one who had taught Sammy to play the fiddle and sing so beautifully almost as soon as he could talk. ‘Poor child, we must give him the means to earn his living later on,’ Alfie could remember him saying.

  Well, his grandfather was gone now, dead of fever, and the fiddle was gone, too – sold in a bad time – and Sammy . . .

  ‘Bet Mutsy brings us across the Strand,’ said Alfie aloud. He would try to keep talking – it would help to keep his thoughts away from the dreadful possibility of finding Sammy’s dead body and it would keep up the spirits of the rest of the gang. He was sorry now that he had shouted at Tom. It was not Tom’s fault. He should have gone to fetch Sammy himself, should have kept his brother safe . . .

  ‘Keep near to the shops!’ he commanded. There were lots of people on the Strand – all groping their way with outstretched arms, trying to make sure that they did not wander on to the road where the iron-shod feet of the horses clattered along the paving stones.

  Alfie was worried about Mutsy. The poor dog was going more and more slowly and his breath sounded noisy. From time to time, he stopped and shook his head; Alfie could hear the big hairy ears flapping, but he always set off again staggering down the road. Alfie slipped his hand through the knotted rope around the dog’s neck. He had made this collar himself and had finished it with a big knot so that Sammy could hold on to it and walk securely at the side of his faithful friend.

  Now, Alfie had the feeling that it was only his grip on this collar that kept Mutsy from falling to the ground.

  ‘We must be coming near to the Temple Stairs now. Should we cross?’ asked Sarah. She had guessed what he had guessed, but Alfie shook his head.

  ‘No, we’ll let Mutsy lead us. He’s in charge. No point in confusing him.’

  ‘Mutsy will find him.’ Tom was beginning to sound better.

  ‘Yes, of course he will. Mutsy can always find Sammy,’ said Sarah. She sounded very sure. Alfie wondered whether she was trying to reassure Tom or whether she really believed it.

  And then Mutsy collapsed on the ground. One minute he was staggering along, with Alfie’s hand holding the collar, and the next he was a dead weight, just a limp bag of bones. Alfie almost fell on top of the poor fellow.

  ‘Oh no,’ sobbed Tom. Alfie heard Sarah gulp. Jack cleared his throat noisily.

  In the faint gleam from the stained glass door top of the gas-lit public house beside them, Alfie could see that they were all looking at him, all wondering what to do next. He kneeled down on the wet pavement and looked into Mutsy’s eyes. Was the dog dead?

  But no, Mutsy’s eyes looked back into his and those eyes were full of intelligence, full of shame, too, as if the dog were apologising for his weakness.

  Alfie stood up resolutely. ‘Keep stroking him, Sarah,’ he said, and then he fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a penny. Without another glance at Mutsy, he moved away and opened the door and stepped into the warm, beer-smelling pub.

  Inside there was a huge crowd of people, all drinking heavily to take the taste of the fog from their mouths.

  ‘A pint of beer,’ Alfie said as loudly as he could, once he’d managed to get to the counter. He slapped down a penny on the dirty surface.

  ‘Penny halfpenny,’ said the barman, filling a pewter mug from the wooden cask on the counter.

  ‘And a bowl of water for my dog.’ Alfie prised out another halfpenny and held it in his hand.

  There was no fuss about that. Of course, it was the sort of pub where men often brought their bulldogs and discussed fights and bet on results. The barman took a bowl from under the counter, filled it from a bucket and handed it over.

  When he got back outside, all three of them were kneeling on the ground beside Mutsy’s still body.

  ‘Oh, Grandad, don’t let him die,’ whispered Alfie. He meant to pray to God, but it seemed easier to pray to his grandfather. His mother had told him that her father was such a good man that he would have gone straight to Heaven.

  Quickly he poured away the water and then carefully tipped the whole mug of beer into the bowl.

  ‘Here, Tom, take that mug back inside,’ he said, and then he knelt down beside Mutsy. The dog’s eyes were shut, but he was panting.

  ‘Here’s a treat for you, old lad,’ Alfie said huskily. ‘Beer! Mutsy, beer!’

  And Mutsy’s eyes snapped open quite suddenly. Of all things in the world – after sausages – Mutsy loved beer. With a groan he rolled over on his front. Now Alfie could put the bowl between the dog’s front paws. Mutsy’s tongue came out and touched the delicious sweet taste. He lapped – one hesitant lap. And then another. And then another.

  Then Mutsy dragged himself to his feet. He bent his head and lapped up the whole pint of beer and cleaned the dish afterwards.

  And after that he looked at Alfie and his eyes said, Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.

  Without hesitation, Alfie kicked the bowl aside. Someone would probably stumble over it in the fog, but he didn’t care. The pint of beer would give Mutsy some energy for a while, but it wouldn’t last too long. There was no doubt the poor dog was badly injured.

  But Mutsy was going well now, almost trotting, instead of staggering. Down the Strand they went in the eerie whiteness of the fog, which seemed to absorb and dull the lights from the shops, the gas lamps and the cabs.

  Then Mutsy suddenly stopped. For a moment, Alfie thought the dog was going to fall again, but Mutsy was just putting his nose to the ground. He sniffed for a moment, then wheeled around and turned to cross the road. He did not hesitate for a moment when they reached the opposite pavement, but went steadily on until they came to the Temple Stairs. His paws slipped a little on the wet stone surface, but Alfie kept a tight grip on his collar and they reached the bottom of the steps in safety. There was no one around. It was dark now and no boat or ship was visible on the Thames – just great swirling masses of fog and a faint gleam of light from Waterloo Bridge.

  There were no people around either, no one fishing for eels in the muddy water, or searching for pieces of coal along the shoreline.

  No one at all.

  Nothing but a sodden heap of rags at the bottom of the steps.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BODY ON THE STEPS

  Mutsy collapsed at the bottom of the steps. Then he made a big effort and crawled towards the figure lying there and collapsed again. Alfie dropped to his knees beside the body. In the darkness there was no sure way of telling who it was, but Alfie knew.<
br />
  However, there was a strong stench of vomit all around, and Mutsy was silent. Alfie tried to tell himself that Sammy was still alive, that he had sicked up the river water and was now unconscious – but only unconscious. If he were dead, Mutsy would definitely have howled. He had even howled when their cat died one night.

  Sarah gave a little sobbing gasp and Tom cried out, ‘That ain’t our Sammy?’, but Alfie wasted no time. He fumbled with his hand until he found the curly head and moved down to the forehead, deadly cold. Surely no one could be as cold as that and still be alive.

  ‘Get up those steps as quick as you can, Jack, and bring me that torch from the top of the Temple Steps. Just lift it out and carry it down.’ Alfie’s voice was fierce and Jack was gone before the last words were out of his mouth.

  And then he remembered the doctor who had come to see his mother. He had placed a tiny looking glass over her mouth then shown it to him, saying sadly, ‘There’s no moisture, is there? She’s dead, I’m afraid, sonny.’

  Alfie slid his fingers down the face until they covered his brother’s mouth. Was there a faint warmth?

  His own hands were cold and damp, but he blew on them hard and then tried again. Yes, this time there was something, a breath – or was he just trying to convince himself, the way he tried to convince himself that his mother was not dead on that terrible day two years ago?

  ‘Got the torch.’ Jack was beside him, the smell of the pitch tar very strong. These torches were lit every night on the Temple Stairs in case someone fell into the river and light was needed.

  And then everything began to happen. The strong tarry smell made Mutsy sneeze. He lifted his head, got to his feet and stood over Sammy with big panting breaths. By the light of the torch Alfie could see the steam of Mutsy’s breath coming up from Sammy’s white face. His colourless lips were parted. Surely they hadn’t been like that before.