Death of a Chimney Sweep (11 page)

But he didn’t know what to do next. Balancing precariously on the shelf, he held up the lantern. The chimney went on slanting upwards to the left but he couldn’t see its end. How on
earth did those small chimney sweeping boys go right up to the roof? This seemed to be the only ledge, as far as Alfie could see. He shone the light again, lighting up all four sides, but there
were no more ledges, not even a protruding brick or stone to help him to lever himself up.

There was nothing for it but to use his bare feet, his elbows and his knees.

Leaving his lantern on the ledge, Alfie wriggled up the chimney. His feet were as hard as leather, but his elbows, even though covered with the shirt and coat, were soon scraped and bleeding. He
ignored the pain. If he stopped he would lose courage, and he was determined to find out what had scared Joe. His breath came in sobs; the tightly tied dishcloth no longer helped, but at least his
eyes were not streaming now. From time to time he glanced down. The light wasn’t much help at this distance, but it gave him courage. He hated the inky, stifling blackness of the place. How
could anyone do a job like this?

And then his groping hand met open space above. He made a tremendous effort, ignoring the pain of his scraped and bleeding knees and elbows, and tried to haul himself up into the opening. It
didn’t work – he started to slip down the chimney, but his feet saved him from going too far. He tried to take in a deep breath, but that just sucked the dishcloth into his mouth. He
made one last attempt with his elbows, his feet scrabbling wildly for a grip, and then his chin rested on a platform. Cautiously he put one hand up, using his knees to hold his position, and then
the second hand. Now he could pull himself up.

The kitchen chimney had led into the main chimney – he could see grey daylight far above him. He wished that he had the lamp, but he was getting better at seeing in the semi-darkness. It
seemed as though he was standing at a crossroads. Two passageways led up from the groundfloor into the main chimney: one slanting up from the left and the other from the right – that was the
one he had climbed up from the kitchen. That made sense, he thought, trying to think of the layout of the terraced house. In his mind’s eye he could see the chimney coming out on the tallest
part of the roof slope. He guessed that the main chimney would be in the centre of the house. The kitchen was at the back, so the other passageway to the left of him probably led up from the dining
room – Sarah had said that was at the front of the house.

But in the opposite corners of the square main chimney, there were two more passages, one also going to the left, and one to the right. Alfie frowned. Where did they go? Surely there were only
two rooms on the ground floor, he thought, but everything was confusing in this dark, airless place. The safest thing was to go straight up the main chimney and come out on the roof, so Alfie
started to climb again – hands, elbows, toes, feet and knees all frantically scrabbling to grip and to raise him up, inch by inch.

After going up about another ten or fifteen feet, he came across another set of openings. Once more, he had a choice of five ways to go: he could carry on climbing upwards towards the roof, or
he could go down one of the four sloping passageways. Alfie stopped for a moment and thought of Joe’s words. What was it that he had said? A bend . . . going the wrong way. The right way
would be to go straight up, or down the two passageways nearer to him. They were probably going to the fireplaces in the rooms above the dining room and the kitchen – must be the drawing room
and Mrs Leamington’s bedroom. Alfie made up his mind. He would go the
wrong
way.

Alfie chose the right-hand passageway furthest from him and stretched out a hand to test the ledge of the opening. This passage would be easier than the others, he decided, as it had a thick
layer of soot on it.

Then his outstretched hand met something. There was a heap of something there in the openings – sticking out from the side chimney and half blocking the main chimney that went up to the
roof. It was smooth and rounded, but it did not have the hard feel of stone, it was something brittle. Cautiously he felt around. Sticks, he thought, there’s a whole lot of sticks here. Must
be a rook’s nest. His mouth stretched in a grin. He had found what was blocking the chimney – he was as good as any professional chimney sweep!

And yet these objects did not feel exactly like sticks, not even like sticks with the bark stripped off them. They were too smooth – smooth, but with little knobs on them here and there.
Well, whatever they were, they needed to be removed. One by one, Alfie pushed them down the neck of his shirt. They felt cold against his bare skin. He went a little further down the side chimney
and then his groping hand felt something else. This was bigger. It was rounded, smooth and very solid. Somehow he found room for it inside his shirt too.

The sticks were uncomfortable. Oddly enough, they didn’t break but stayed there within his shirt, digging into his flesh. He had begun to guess what these objects might be, but he
wouldn’t be sure until he brought them into the light. Was this what had frightened Joe?

He climbed back down the main chimney slowly and carefully using his elbows and knees until he reached the lower landing. By now he was sick of wriggling so he stuck his legs into what he
imagined must be the kitchen chimney sloping off the main chimney and slid the whole way down.

Alfie landed lightly on the coals, but his shirt caught on a protruding stone and the sticks fell out and scattered around the fireplace. His eyes were streaming and he had to mop them with the
damp dishcloth before he could see anything. But then he caught his breath.

As he’d suspected, they weren’t sticks. They were human bones. He put his hand inside his shirt, took out the rounded object and stared. It was a skull!

There was a piercing scream.

The old lady Mrs Leamington was standing by the table. The cook had her arm around her mistress, and Ellen was by the cupboard with her hands over her mouth.

And by the door stood Grimston.

CHAPTER 20

S
TRANGLING
I
S
E
ASY

At the big house in Bloomsbury Square, Sarah struggled through her work in a mist of pain. It was lucky, she thought dully, that the horse had kicked her on the left side.
Otherwise it would hardly have been possible for her to scrub dirty saucepans, scouring them with sand until her arm ached, or carry heavy buckets of filthy water to the sink hole in the yard. As
it was, she could just about manage. She wished that she could get another job. She was sick of being a scullery maid. The work was so hard. She had enjoyed her few hours as a parlour maid at
Goodwin’s Court. It was a job that she knew she could do. But how could she get anyone to try her out as a parlour maid?

‘What’s the matter, love?’ Mrs Miller, the cook at Bloomsbury Square, was a kindly woman. She stopped her work of kneading the dough for the day’s bread baking and looked
at Sarah with concern. ‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you well?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Sarah, but she could not help the tears welling into her eyes.

‘Here,’ said the cook, ‘sit down for a moment. You can tell me . . .’

Sarah sat down. The wish to tell her troubles was suddenly too much for her. It wasn’t the pain – that would go. It was the thought that someone had tried to kill her that troubled
her so much.

‘I got kicked in the ribs by a horse,’ she said, trying to smile.

‘Is it bad?’ The cook rushed to the oven, took out the first batch of breakfast rolls and thrust one into Sarah’s hand, her eyes wide with sympathy.

‘It’s pretty black and blue,’ said Sarah. The roll was still too hot to eat, but its heat was comforting. She tossed it mechanically from hand to hand to cool it and looked up
at the cook.

She was a nice woman, Mrs Miller. She came from the country and still spoke with a soft, country accent. She was always kind to Sarah and tried to protect her from the housekeeper, who was
terribly strict with under-servants like the scullery maid and the knife boy.

‘What happened? Did you slip and fall?’ Mrs Miller had her back turned and was rooting on the shelf where she kept her salves for all sorts of illnesses and injuries.

‘No . . .’ Suddenly Sarah decided to tell the truth. She bit into the hot roll. It was delicious. Mrs Miller would listen kindly to what Sarah had to say, might even advise her about
what to do. Perhaps it would all make sense when she went over it again. ‘I think someone deliberately tried to kill me,’ she said in a low voice.

Mrs Miller whirled around, salve in hand, and came back to the table. She sat down heavily. ‘What?’ she exclaimed. Her mouth fell open as Sarah began to tell her about what happened
at Seven Dials. Her expression grew more and more horrified as she listened to the story.

‘You should go to the police,’ she said with conviction when Sarah had finished. ‘I think it’s your duty. That parlour maid shouldn’t keep her position.’

‘I’d hate to think of her thrown out on the street,’ said Sarah in a troubled voice. ‘I’d feel bad.’

‘What sort of household is it?’ asked Mrs Miller.

‘Just one old lady.’

‘There you are,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘You might feel bad if the girl lost her job, but you would feel worse if you heard that poor old lady was murdered in her bed by the parlour
maid and her fancy man!’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Sarah wearily. I’ll talk to Alfie about it tonight, she thought.

‘You just slip upstairs and put that salve on the bruise. It will make it feel a bit better. And after that,’ Mrs Miller added, ‘you can take that small basket over there and
go down to Covent Garden market and buy me a couple of fresh cabbages. A nice walk in the air will do you good. I’ll finish the pots.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Miller.’ Sarah almost felt like weeping – it was so rare that people were kind to her. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’

‘Well, you can show it by telling me where that girl worked,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘I think it is my duty to do something about that, Sarah.’

Sarah stared at her. Mrs Miller was very kind, but she was also very stubborn. She would not rest until she had wormed the address out of her. Sarah’s mind scuttled around trying to think
of an address which would not lead Mrs Miller to Mavis, but her mind was blank: all she could think of was the true address. And then she remembered the empty house, part of the same neat terrace,
next door to Mrs Leamington’s house.

‘It was Number Five, Goodwin’s Court,’ she said.

Mrs Miller stared at her. ‘But I know that place!’ she said. ‘I knew the woman who cooked there! Just a husband and wife lived there – the pair of them went off to Italy
for the year. Very nice people they were too – very rich. Lovely house, my friend told me – full of all sorts of valuables. That Mavis of yours has made a fool out of you. She told you
a wrong address. I bet she works in the other side of town. Mark my words, you’ll find her down in Pimlico or somewhere like that.’

‘The police might be able to track her down,’ said Sarah, restraining a smile. ‘Thanks for the salve, Mrs Miller, and thanks very much for doing my work. I’ll be as quick
as I can at the market.’

Mrs Miller was not in the kitchen when Sarah came back downstairs – Sarah hoped that she wasn’t in the parlour telling the lady of the house the story about Mavis.
Sarah grabbed the basket and went out by the back door as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid any more questions. The fog was not so bad today so she went quickly up the alleyway and turned into
Bloomsbury Square.

Suddenly, a tall young man with a huge moustache crossed the road, took Sarah firmly by the arm and walked alongside her, holding her in a grip of steel. The man may have had the same name, but
up close, he could not have been more different to Arthur Leamington. The deep tone of his voice, the lean shape of his body, even the cat-like way he moved. This was definitely no toff.

‘Make sure that you never say one word about what happened last night,’ he hissed menacingly in her ear. ‘Friends of mine want me to give you one warning. Are you listening to
me? Not a single word.’ He shook her slightly. ‘Do you understand?’

Sarah could hardly speak for fear, but nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said, as steadily as she could manage.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s very good. Because if you do talk to anyone, then I will strangle you. Strangling is easy, you know. Your neck wouldn’t be the
first that I have squeezed the life out of.’

CHAPTER 21

H
UNTED