Murder on Stage

by Cora Harrison

‘Newgate?’ The man took out a small notebook from his pocket. ‘What was that like, sonny? I’d like to interview you if you’ll give me a few minutes of your time. My name is Charles Dickens. I write for the newspapers.’

  Suddenly Alfie felt dizzy. The lights from the street gas lamps danced up and down in front of his eyes. He put out his hand, fumbling for something to hold on to and found his wrist grabbed.

  ‘Hallo, hallo, hallo,’ said Joey’s voice. ‘Now then, my old covey, stick your snifter into this flower of mine. Have you ever smelled anything more bootilacious?’

  Alfie swallowed hard, but obediently moved his nose towards the cabbage-sized cloth flower that Joey wore in his buttonhole. The next moment he started back, a stream of water running down his face. All the clowns laughed in their usual high-pitched ‘Tee-hee-hee’.

  Alfie blinked, wiped his face and laughed. The shock of the water had revived him.

  ‘How did you do that trick?’ he asked. But then he forgot about his question. Mutsy, once he had got over his joy at Alfie’s reappearance, had immediately made a beeline for the clown just in front of him. Now he just stood there, sniffing the man’s pocket and wagging his tail.

  The clown put his hand in his pocket. Alfie watched carefully. He expected another trick – a jack-in-the-box, or something like that, but the clown took out a tiny white dog, who immediately began to walk around the pavement on his back legs. The clown placed a miniature pointed hat on the dog’s head. Mutsy stared at him in amazement and then began to wag his huge tail.

  ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Toby?’ asked Alfie, stroking the little dog. ‘You was the one that nabbed me, wasn’t you?’

  ‘Very sorry! Very, very sorry! Didn’t knowed them jacks wanted to top you!’ answered the dog Toby in a tiny voice.

  ‘How did you do that?’ screamed Tom, looking from the clown to the little dog, still trotting around on his back legs. ‘Sammy, the voice just came right out of the little dog’s mouth. Can he really speak, Mister?’

  ‘Bless my soul,’ squeaked Toby, ‘I was born able to talk!’

  ‘Wish I could learn to do that,’ said Alfie, gazing enviously at the clown. He had seen ventriloquists with their dummies before now – there was one that used to do a routine on the steps of St Paul’s church at Covent Garden, but having a real live dog as a dummy was so much better.

  ‘Look at Mutsy,’ said Sarah.

  Mutsy was sitting in the middle of the pavement, staring at the little dog with a look of astonishment on his face.

  The passers-by stopped to look and began to laugh at Toby’s performance, especially when, slowly and carefully, Mutsy minced around just an inch behind the tiny dog, carefully sniffing him as the little dog danced along the pavement. Some people started to clap and more coins were dropped into Jack’s cap, which he had hastily snatched off his head and held out.

  Well, thought Alfie, that will pay for the rent this week and hopefully there will be something left over for sausages and some small beer when we get home.

  And then he just concentrated on enjoying himself, on copying the clowns, getting in their way, falling over in an exaggerated manner, singing in his tuneless voice.

  It all passed so quickly that he was astonished when they turned into Bow Street.

  It was getting dark now and the lamplighter was holding his flame up to the little gas jets overheard. It was slow work, going from lamp to lamp and he had still not got as far as the cellar where the boys lived. That end of the street was dark.

  But the pavement in front of their home was lit up.

  An orange light burnt from behind the iron railings.

  Alfie sprang forward, the song dying on his lips. He raced ahead, down the steps. The door was not locked. He pushed it open.

  The dark damp cellar shimmered with light. It looked like Piccadilly Circus! There were candles everywhere and from the beam crossing above their heads a set of Chinese lanterns glowed in orange, blue, red and green. The fire blazed, the flames leaping up and making the cellar as warm as midsummer’s day. Rosa was standing there, laughing as Mutsy licked her hand, his tail wagging and an amused look on his intelligent face.

  There was a board in the centre of the cellar, propped up on a couple of stools and it was covered in food; with a large cake from the pastry cook’s shop sitting in the centre of everything.

  The one chair in the cellar was placed at the top of the board. On its back it had the shape of a garland cut out of cardboard, decorated with paper leaves.

  In large unsteady letters around the garland was written: WELCOME HOME, ALFIE.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  These London Murder Mysteries owe much to a man who was born almost two hundred years ago. I first read Charles Dickens at the age of seven – probably skipped large chunks – but I loved his characters and loved his descriptions of London. During the whole of a childhood spent in and out of hospital (never well enough to go to school until I was over fifteen), I educated myself by reading through a library of Victorian authors – but loved none as much as I loved Dickens.

  Alfie and his gang came to life because of Charles Dickens and I am proud to acknowledge my debt. But inspiration is only the first step towards writing a book. For the successful conclusion of the process, I owe much to my family for all their help and support; to Peter Buckman, my agent for his sage advice; to Anne Clark, my wonderful editor, for her unremitting hard work, flashes of inspiration and determination not to let even the tiniest error escape her eagle eye. Thanks, Anne; it’s a pleasure to work with you.