From behind him, Alfie heard Sarah draw in a quick breath. She knelt down and took Sammy’s hand in between hers and began to rub it.
‘Take the other hand, Alfie,’ she said urgently. ‘Keep rubbing. Tom, you rub his feet. Jack, hold that torch as near as possible – not that near, you numb-skull – you’ll set us all on fire.’ Her voice rose up quite high and then Sammy stirred slightly and moaned and opened his eyes.
‘God, I’m cold.’ It was just a whisper, but he had spoken.
‘Let’s get you and poor old Mutsy home,’ said Alfie, taking off his worn jacket and wrapping it around Sammy. He wished he could punch someone, or turn a somersault or something. ‘Come on, lad, put your arms around my neck and I’ll carry you.’
‘It was the Monmouth Street strangler,’ whispered Sammy. He lifted his chin and by the light of the torch Alfie could see the narrow red wound on his brother’s neck.
By the time they had climbed the Temple Stairs and gone up the steep, narrow passageway that led to the Strand, Alfie knew that something had to be done. Despite having Alfie and Jack’s jackets around him, Sammy was shivering violently. Mutsy was staggering and sitting down suddenly from time to time.
‘Should Jack run home and get the barrow?’ asked Sarah, looking anxiously at Sammy as Jack replaced the torch into its holder.
‘Let me think,’ said Alfie. ‘Here, Jack, take Sammy for a moment.’ He gently lowered Sammy into Jack’s arms and began to empty his inner pocket.
‘Eleven, twelve.’ He counted out the pennies. ‘There you are, Sarah, one shilling. You go up to the Strand and see if you can get hold of a cab. Tell a story – someone tipped your poor little blind brother into the river . . .’
‘And what about Mutsy?’ enquired Tom.
‘Tell him that your hero of a dog pulled the poor little boy out. Jack, you keep Mutsy back until the last minute. Don’t want the cab driver changing his mind. Just slip him in with no fuss. Sarah, you keep the cab driver chatting while they’re doing that.’
Sarah nodded and was gone.
‘What’ll we do if he won’t take Mutsy?’ Tom seemed unnerved by the silence after Sarah left. His voice was shaking.
‘You keep rubbing Sammy’s hands,’ ordered Alfie. Tom would be better if he had something to do. He himself set to work on Sammy’s ice-cold feet and Jack did the same. Mutsy had fallen again; Alfie could hear him panting and that added to his worries.
It seemed a long time before Jack said, ‘Here she comes,’ and then Sarah was beside them.
‘He says he’ll do it. He’s getting out a tarpaulin for Sammy so that the wet doesn’t damage his cab. Come on quickly, before he changes his mind.’
The cab driver was a tall, thin man with a head like a turnip. Like most cab drivers, out in all weathers every day, he wore a long overcoat with an extra cape over his shoulders. His hat had once been an expensive top hat, but the rain and fog had turned it silver-green and it had been bashed on its crown. Its brim framed his small round face like a halo. He was looking as if he wished he had driven away, but his face changed when he bent over Sammy and saw the angelic crop of blond curls, the sightless, milky eyes and the red line on his throat.
‘Come on then, let’s be having you.’ He lifted Sammy out of Alfie’s arms and placed him gently on top of the tarpaulin. Then he took his own rug and tucked it around the boy.
‘The missus can give it a wash,’ he said with a wink at Sarah. ‘So you’ve four brothers then, have you? Bet your mother and father have to work hard feeding the five of you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sarah, climbing up beside him on the outside seat. ‘They work as cobblers, though, and they keep us busy. You’d be surprised the amount of work that goes into a pair of shoes. You’d never guess . . .’
She chatted on while Alfie and Jack hoisted poor old Mutsy into the cab. The dog was happy to lie down in the straw on the floor beside Sammy, and Alfie put a bit of the rug over him as well. The less that was seen of Mutsy, the better.
By now there were very few people left on the Strand. Even the cab drivers seemed to have given up for the evening and gone home to their own firesides. It felt quite eerie, driving along there through the yellow swirling fog.
The cab driver was an expert, though, and his horse was sure-footed and cautious. They went along slowly and carefully until they came to Wellington Street. They all breathed a sigh of relief when the cab safely made the turning and started the climb up towards Bow Street.
Although the streets were nearly empty, the newspaper boys were still crying the headlines to tempt people to buy the evening papers. It gradually dawned on Alfie that the same words were being shouted by all. He stuck his head out of the window of the cab and listened intently.
Yes, he had heard correctly.
‘Girl arrested in Monmouth Street strangler case!’
So Betty was in the nick while the murderer roamed free.
CHAPTER 21
THE STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN
Alfie did not hesitate. Instantly, he thrust his fist through the open window and knocked heavily on the cab roof.
‘Stop at the police station!’ he yelled.
‘Shouldn’t we get Sammy and Mutsy home?’ Jack sounded hesitant. He seldom questioned Alfie’s decisions.
Alfie did not reply. Jack was right, of course, but he had a terrible fear that dry clothes and a hot drink weren’t going to be enough. Every time a streetlight flickered into the cab, lighting up Sammy’s white face and bloodless lips, he was filled with a terrible fear that his brother might be dying. He needed to get a doctor, and he could only think of one man who would be able to get a doctor for a crowd of ragged street urchins with only a few pence to their name.
‘Wait here,’ he said briefly and the instant the cab stopped, he was out, leaping lightly down from the high step and crossing the pavement to the Bow Street Station.
‘Inspector Denham,’ he said curtly to the constable behind the desk, and before anyone could stop him, he gave a knock on the inspector’s door, pushed it open and then slammed it shut behind him.
The door was immediately re-opened by the constable, spluttering apologies to the inspector and threats to Alfie. The inspector himself jumped to his feet with an annoyed exclamation, but Alfie silenced both of them.
‘The Monmouth Street strangler has struck again,’ he said dramatically.
‘What!’ The two men hit the word at exactly the same second.
‘Come with me,’ said Alfie. He tried to sound assured and in charge. He had to get help for Sammy immediately. He elbowed the constable out of the way and opened the door for Inspector Denham as politely as he could.
They were both on his heels without another word. As he crossed the pavement, he didn’t bother to glance around as the heavy tread of the constable kept pace with the quick light footsteps of the inspector. The newspaper boys’ cries were muffled in the heavy fog, but Alfie wondered whether Betty could hear them from her cell.
‘Afternoon, Inspector, Constable.’ The cab driver had spotted the two and was off his box in a second, followed by Sarah. He threw open the cab door, holding the lantern high so that the light fell on the wrapped figure, lying very still on the seat.
Quick-witted Sarah folded back the rug, then slipped back out of the cab so that the inspector had a better view.
Sammy was as white as the marble statue of an angel in nearby St Martin’s church. His eyes were closed and the bright red mark of the strangler’s wire appeared even redder on his pale throat. For a moment, even Alfie thought he might be dead, but Mutsy opened one eye, sniffed Sammy’s hand and closed his eye again. Alfie’s heart slowed down. His brother was still alive.
‘Oh, dear God,’ muttered the inspector. Then he whipped around towards Alfie. ‘Who is this?’
‘My brother.’ Alfie watched the inspector carefully. Obviously the man thought Sammy was dead.
‘Who did it?
‘The Monmouth Street stran
gler.’ The cabman, like all of his brotherhood, was quick off the mark. ‘Look at the little fellow’s neck.’
‘But . . . but when?’ The inspector sounded like a man who realises that he had made a mistake.
‘Hour or so ago.’ Alfie watched the inspector carefully as he bent over Sammy. There was a tiny twitch in his brother’s eyelids. It was important that Sammy should be able to talk to the inspector. Alfie clenched his hands. There must be some way that he could restore Sammy to consciousness. Everything had to be done right, and it was up to him to do it. For a few seconds a wish crossed his mind that some adult could take charge, but he had long learned that such thoughts were dangerous and weakening, so he leaned over his brother and breathed into his ear.
‘Now I lay me down to sleep,
My soul I give to God to keep.
And if I die before I wake,
I pray to God my soul to take.’
It had been his grandfather’s prayer, always said before he tucked his grandsons into bed at night. Sammy especially had been very close to his grandad.
And it worked. The sightless eyes opened. His hand stretched out, touched Alfie’s and then closed again.
‘Who did this to you, Sammy?’ asked Alfie urgently. ‘Tell the inspector. Who tried to garrotte you?’
‘A man.’ Inspector Denham had to lean right into the cab as Sammy’s weak voice whispered the words.
‘Where did he find you?’ Alfie was conscious that Inspector Denham had prodded the constable into opening his notebook. Now every word that Sammy uttered would be recorded.
‘Monmouth Street . . . He was on a horse . . . He hit Mutsy . . .’
Rapidly and without saying a word, Alfie drew Inspector Denham’s attention to the large wound on the poor dog’s head. Mutsy, realising everyone was looking at him, rolled over and groaned and then waved all four paws in the air. Alfie tried to turn the sob which unaccountably passed his lips into a chuckle. He saw Sarah look at him, but avoided her gaze. Mutsy was feeling better. He was playing to his audience. Somehow the courage and spirit of the faithful dog was almost too much for Alfie.
‘On a horse? Are you sure, sonny?’ Inspector Denham bent over Sammy again.
‘He pulled me up by the hair.’ Sammy’s voice was getting fainter. He would not be able to talk for much longer. His voice was getting weaker and the white eyelids dropped back down over his milky-blue eyes. The cabman put another rug over him and cleared his throat noisily. Tom wept quietly, his tears making pale trails down his grubby cheeks. Jack put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. Alfie turned to Sarah.
‘Tell the inspector what time Sammy left the Montgomery house, Sarah,’ he said urgently. He was fired with a passionate desire that the man who did this to Sammy should suffer for it. The inspector had to find him and arrest him. ‘Sarah works as a scullery maid there,’ he added.
‘Just about two hours ago, or less,’ said Sarah decisively.
‘And it was a man who pulled Sammy on to the horse and hit the dog over the head,’ said Alfie. He watched the inspector as carefully as he could as he repeated Sammy’s words, ‘It was a man and he was on a horse. He’s half-killed Sammy. I don’t know if he’ll recover. I wish I had the money for a doctor.’
‘I see.’ The inspector straightened up. Alfie could see him exchanging a look with the constable. When he spoke again, however, it was to the cabman.
‘You’re a charitable man to bring these children and their dog here,’ he said. ‘Could you drive them home and then do one more thing? Go to this address . . .’ the inspector scribbled on a sheet torn hastily from the constable’s notebook, ‘and ask Doctor Goodsby to come and see this lad. Tell him I’ll see that he is paid. Drive him to where the children live. Here’s a half-crown for you.’
There was a chink of money in the inspector’s waistcoat pocket and then the silver coin glinted in the lantern’s light.
‘Here’s something to get an evening meal for the lot of you.’ Again there was a fishing trawl in the deep pocket and another shilling was produced. Tom wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve and began to look more cheerful. Alfie took the money. There was something else that he had to say, though.
‘What about Betts?’ he asked, quickly pocketing the money.
‘Who’s Betts?’ enquired the inspector.
Alfie ignored that.
‘She wasn’t the one that tried to kill Sammy.’ He made his voice sound quite definite. ‘Besides, a man in a top hat tried to murder me about an hour after Sammy was nearly done for.’
‘Tried to murder you! You, too!’ The inspector’s glance sharpened. There was a moment’s silence. The lantern flickered. A gas lamp popped. The newspaper boys continued to cry their news about the Monmouth Street strangler and Sammy closed his eyes again. Mutsy groaned, turned over on his front, tried to get up, but then collapsed again. Alfie swallowed hard.
‘Let’s go,’ he said roughly. ‘Can’t hang around all night.’
‘Yes, let’s get that boy indoors.’ The cab driver wanted to move on as well. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll fetch Doctor Goodsby and bring him around.’
Sarah had gone. Alfie discovered her absence when they started to get into the cab again. He did not comment and kicked Tom on the ankle when he started to say ‘Where’s — She had nipped back to the cellar to get Mallesh out of the way, he guessed, trying to tell himself not to worry.
But he knew that he would not have another easy moment until the Monmouth Street strangler was caught and put behind bars.
CHAPTER 22
THE DOCTOR ARRIVES
When they got there, nobody but Sarah was to be seen, though Sammy’s armchair had been pulled over to screen a dark corner and an old blanket had been thrown over it. Sarah had made a bed on the floor by the fire, and a large blackened kettle was simmering beside it. She had left the door to the cellar stairs open and a candle lantern on the bottom step. The cab driver carried Sammy down and laid him gently on the old cushions by the fire.
‘Here you are, take this shilling back. The inspector has paid me,’ he said before he left to fetch the doctor, handing over the twelve pennies to Sarah.
She took them hesitantly and he smiled, a wide crease in his turnip-like face, and settled his broken hat more firmly on his head.
‘I don’t suppose there is any ma and da,’ he said, with a quick look around the bare cellar – the few boxes, the moth-eaten, threadbare cushions, the one broken chair and the few pewter jugs, ‘just you and your brothers. Poor youngsters.’ He hesitated for a moment and then added another shilling. ‘Poor little fellow,’ he said with feeling and with a last glance at Sammy. ‘Who would do a thing like that to him? There are some very evil people in this world of ours.’
‘And some very good ones,’ said Sarah, accepting the money, her small teeth gleaming in a smile. She reached up and kissed the cabman’s leathery cheek, and he grinned and patted her shoulder.
Alfie passed a shilling to Jack after the cabman had left. ‘Keep that. You can buy sausages and beer after the doctor has been,’ he said. If Sammy is taken to hospital, I’m going too, he thought. I’m never going to give the strangler a chance to get him again.
‘Get a dry shirt, Tom,’ he said aloud.
‘I’ll pour some water into this bucket,’ Mallesh came out from behind the screening blanket.
‘Here’s a towel,’ said Jack. ‘Here, Tom, take those rags and rub down Mutsy, and Alfie and me will get Sammy out of those wet clothes. Should you be getting back, Sarah?’
‘He looks terrible,’ said Sarah, ignoring the question and bending over Sammy. ‘Go on, quickly; get his clothes off. Haven’t you got a better towel than this one? It’s damp and dirty and full of holes. And it smells.’
‘Take my turban,’ said Mallesh, unwinding the folds of the six-foot piece of cloth to reveal jet-black hair, and holding it in front of the fire to warm it. ‘It’s clean,’ he added to Sarah. ‘I wash it each night.’
‘Every night!’ exclaimed Tom, bringing over an old yellowed shirt which had once belonged to Alfie’s father.
‘Wish that doctor would come,’ muttered Alfie as he rubbed his brother’s cold body with the soft folds of Mallesh’s turban.
‘Funny he isn’t a bit better,’ agreed Jack in low tones as he pulled the dry shirt over his cousin’s head. He, too, looked at Sammy’s white face with concern.
‘The cab’s pulling up outside the pavement,’ warned Tom as he peered up through the small narrow window in the wall of the cellar.
In a flash, Mallesh disappeared into his hiding place and Sarah took the lantern over to the door. A minute later Alfie heard footsteps stumbling on the steep stairs to the cellar.
Doctor Goodsby was a small, fat man carrying a large leather bag in one hand. He looked in a bad temper and Sarah wished that the cabman had come back down, too. The doctor had probably sent him on his way – too mean to pay for waiting time, she supposed.
‘What’s this, what’s this?’ asked the doctor fussily. He sniffed disdainfully and cast a contemptuous look around the untidy cellar.
‘My brother was garrotted and flung in the river,’ said Alfie stiffly.
The doctor bent over Sammy, carelessly pulling up one eyelid, and then he jumped back. Alfie watched him in silence. The doctor had a puzzled expression on his face.
‘This is where the wire was tightened,’ said Sarah, pointing to the throat.
‘I’m not blind, girl,’ he grunted. Once again, he pulled up Sammy’s eyelid, frowned and then immediately delved into his leather bag, pulling out a tiny looking glass and placing it over Sammy’s mouth. Alfie fought the desire to vomit, clenching his hands and taking small, shallow breaths through his nose. It seemed years before the doctor lifted the silver-backed glass and held it up. Alfie moved to stand beside him and forced himself to look.
The Montgomery Murder Page 9