Death in the Devil's Den (9 page)

But there was nothing there: no string tied to a key, no sign of anything left. And there was no sign of Boris Ivanov, the organist and spy.

Alfie thought: even if the organist had gone to the Russian Embassy, Ron Shufflebottom would not know that yet. It would be sensible to go home now, but Alfie had lots of courage.

And lots of curiosity.

Where was Boris? Alfie was determined that when he went to Inspector Denham in the morning he would have the whole story for him.

He made up his mind to go back into the school and to see Richard. With one last look around, he slipped across the road and made his way around the Abbey. He kept well into the shadow of that
huge building until he reached the spot where he had climbed up last night when he had been rescued by Richard.

It was funny how much easier it all seemed to him now. His feet instinctively found the foot of the stone saint; his hands easily grasped the short length of rope hung there by Richard. The moon
was not quite as full as last night’s, but there was still enough light for him to make his way in between carved towers and ugly gargoyles and along parapets. When he reached the gap he
jumped it almost without thinking. His mind was deeply engaged with the puzzle of why Boris Ivanov had not turned up to send or receive a message from the pillar box from his contact at the Houses
of Parliament.

Alfie slid silently along the roof ridge of the school, stopped in the shelter of a warm chimney to catch his breath, and then continued on. Most of the windows were dark, but there was a candle
burning in one – that must be the room belonging to the organist.

Cautiously Alfie peered down.

The small square yard at the centre of Westminster School was paved in white stone and the moonlight filled it, illuminating the dark figure lying, face down, arms outstretched, in the middle of
it. On the back of the head was a mass of clotted blood and beside the body lay a blood-soaked pole.

Alfie did not hesitate. Grasping a pipe leading down from the gutter, he slid to the ground and approached the still figure.

It was Boris Ivanov.

And he was dead.

Alfie bent down and picked up the cudgel. It was large and heavy, rounded and smooth at one end and jaggedly broken at the other. Boris Ivanov’s skull had been broken by
a blow from about the centre of it; that was where the mess of blood and brains had smeared the wood.

A tall man, and a powerful one, must have done this, Alfie thought. And a picture of Ron Shufflebottom, the MP from Yorkshire, came into his head. He was a big man, with wide shoulders and long
arms. He could have swung the cudgel with enough power to have broken the man’s skull. Would he have been tall enough? Boris was quite tall, but it would perhaps have been easy enough to get
him to bend down, to pretend that something had been dropped, perhaps.

But when was Boris Ivanov killed? Could Ron Shufflebottom have got out from the Houses of Parliament, done the murder and then rejoined his friends?

Alfie picked up the cudgel and gave it an experimental swing, holding it firmly in both hands.

And as he did so, there was a sudden scream.

‘Murder! Murder! Catch ’im!’

‘In the yard!’ screamed another voice. ‘Look at ’im. ’e’s murdered the organ master!’

A candle appeared in one window to the left, then one to the right and three in front of him. There was the squeak of bolts being drawn open on doors and yells of ‘Murder! Murder!’
came from every direction. Alfie’s head snapped from one direction to the next, like a dog who is being attacked from all sides. He gripped the cudgel with some idea of fighting his way out
of the yard. His foot skidded on a piece of wet cardboard on the ground and he almost stumbled, but then recovered himself.

Quickly Alfie ran in the opposite direction towards the stone archway that led out into Dean’s Yard. If he could just get out of this place he might be able to outrun them all. But the
archway was blocked by a stout wooden door which fitted the archway so well that nothing bigger than a mouse could squeeze through the space beneath it.

There was a large heavy iron bolt across it. Alfie tugged at it frantically, but it was no good. Through a loop in the bolt a massive padlock was fixed and locked securely.

In desperation, Alfie lifted the heavy pole and, using two hands, aimed it at the padlock. At the first jolt the padlock jumped.

‘Come on, Bart!’ screamed a voice. ‘The murderer is escaping while you pull on your britches.’

If only it were true. Alfie breathed a silent prayer that Bart’s britches were new and very, very stiff.

‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’ The shrill cries split the quiet night air.

Bang!
For the second time Alfie hit the padlock. For the second time it jumped, but still it remained securely locked.

‘Here’s a gun, Bart! Shoot ’im, shoot ’im through the window.’

A bullet rang out and bounced against the window of the gatehouse. More screams ran out – this time they had an excited note in them. Broken glass rained down.

‘Mind what you’re doin’, Bart Hegarty,’ roared a voice from above Alfie’s head. ‘You nearly shot me dead, you daft old man.’

‘I’m comin’, I’m comin’; give a man a chance to make ’imself decent,’ replied another voice, presumably Bart’s.

Once again Alfie aimed his stout stick at the padlock, but this was a feeble effort. His shoulder was on fire with the jarring of the previous blows. Frantically he looked around. Was there
anywhere that he could hide? He spotted a manhole, but it was gleaming in the full light of the moon. That was no good. And who knows where it leads? thought Alfie. No, there was only one chance
for him now.

Alfie dropped the stick – it was no protection against a gun. He moved out of the moonlight and into the shadows beside the first house on the left-hand side of the yard. Grasping the
downpipe, he began to lever himself upwards. The flagpole had been broken off. So was that where the heavy cudgel had come from?

‘Where’s ’e gone?’

Then there was an exuberant yell from the top-floor dormitory where the boys slept.

‘Tally-ho!’ roared thirty voices.

‘The fox has gone to ground!’

‘Hunt him out!’

‘Yay-hoo!’

The excited sounds echoed through the little yard. All the boys were awake and cheering on the hunt from the dormitory windows.

A shot was fired towards the wooden gate. Alfie heard it splinter the wood and there were more shouts. He shut them out of his head and concentrated hard, trying to control his breathing so that
they would not hear him pant. Spread-eagled against the side of the house like this, he would make an easy target.

Luckily the boys continued to scream and shout. They probably went fox hunting when they were at home in the country, thought Alfie. He remembered stories his grandfather used to tell him of how
the rich people mounted their horses and took their dogs to chase one poor little fox. Alfie sent a quick prayer for help up to the heaven where he supposed his grandfather now lived and
concentrated on pulling himself up, slowly, hand over hand, by Richard’s rope towards the roof.

Now he could believe that his prayers were answered. There was a window open a few feet above him. And the wonderful thing was that there was no hint of candlelight from it. It would probably be
one of those rooms for the boys, Alfie guessed. What was it Richard had called them?
Studies.
Yes, that would be it: the study of a careless boy who had left the window open before he had
gone to bed. If he could only get in there, he would be able to make his way behind the wooden panelling and up to the attic. He could hide there until the hunt was given up and then make his way
across the school roof and over onto the Abbey before dawn arrived.

Another few feet, Alfie told himself and then his eyes widened at the sight of a splotch of yellow light on the wall only a few feet away from him. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Yes,
someone had the brains to bring out a lantern, and he was using it to scan every inch of the wall.

Alfie made one last superhuman effort, levered himself up the last few feet, edged his knee onto the windowsill and shot, head first, into the room.

‘Got you!’ said a voice.

Alfie wriggled desperately but received a blow from a clenched fist that made his head ring. Dizzy and sick with the impact, he froze. This was often the best thing to do; he
knew that from experience. His attacker might relax if he felt that Alfie was cowed. And in the meantime his head might stop spinning.

It was no good, though. A hand crept around his neck, squeezing hard. Alfie coughed and almost lost consciousness. His attacker relaxed the pressure slightly and lit a candle from the embers of
the fire.

‘Now let’s have a look at you,’ said a voice and Alfie found himself face to face with the choirmaster, Mr Ffoulkes, the man that Richard so feared.

He had climbed into Mr Ffoulkes’ study and was now helpless in his hands.

‘I’ve got him! I’ve got the murderer!’ the choirmaster shouted out of the window and there was a great cheering from the dormitory above.

‘Good old Ffoulkes!’ shouted one.

‘Three cheers for Mr Ffoulkes!’ yelled another.

The man just smiled dourly. Still squeezing Alfie’s throat with one hand, he reached across and slipped the cord from his dressing gown. In a moment, Alfie found that his hands were
knotted behind his back with the cord. It bit into the skin of his wrists and there was little that he could do to free himself. So he did not try; he just waited grimly to see what would happen
next.

‘Bart,’ shouted Mr Ffoulkes. ‘Get the headmaster, will you? I’ll keep the murderer here until he comes. It’s for him to decide what to do with him.’

Alfie waited. He would say nothing until he was in the hands of the police. Then, in the morning, he could ask for Inspector Denham to be sent for. He could tell of Alfie’s mission to
discover the Russian spy. He would be able to speak up for Alfie.

Or would he?

Could he?

Westminster was under the rule of the police at Scotland Yard. They were more important than the police at Bow Street.

Alfie felt the sharp edge of the cord bite into his wrists and thought of all that was against him.

Not only was he found just beside the dead man’s body, but he was actually seen with the blood-stained weapon in his hand.

Perhaps, despite all that Inspector Denham could say, he would be accused of the murder of Boris Ivanov and would be dragged off to Newgate Prison and kept there to await his trial. He had been
in Newgate once before and had no wish to set foot in there ever again.

‘He’s just a boy!’ The headmaster burst through the door, followed by an elderly man.

‘That’s the fellow, sir,’ cried the old man. ‘That’s the fellow! I swear my life to it, sir. I aimed my gun at him, sir. Only just missed, sir.’

‘Quiet, Bart!’ exclaimed the headmaster. He looked closely at Alfie. He’s very thin,’ he said, half to himself. And then, solemnly, to Alfie, ‘Did you kill our
organist, boy? Now tell the truth, boy, it will be better for your immortal soul. God hates a liar, you know.’

He must think that I’m stupid, thought Alfie. Imagine getting yourself hanged if you could escape by telling a lie! Aloud, he said, ‘No, sir, I never. I wouldn’t do a thing
like that, sir.’ He gulped a little, wondering how to account for his presence in the yard.

‘I was on top of the roof of Westminster Abbey, sir, listening to the sacred music and looking up at the moon in the heavens, sir,’ he said, making his voice sound as sincere as he
could. By now there was a huge audience of boys, including Richard, all standing around outside the door in the corridor or else on the stairs. Every one of them was staring at him.

‘And then, and then . . .’ he went on, dragging out the words while he tried to think. Now came the difficult bit. How could he account for his presence in the little yard?