Death of a Chimney Sweep (5 page)

Alfie was never one to miss an opportunity. Dropping Sammy’s arm instantly, he crossed the polished brick tiles and knelt down in front of the kitchen fire, ignoring the
cloud of smoke that puffed out into his face. Cautiously he moved his head in over the small fire and looked up the chimney, then stood back with a grave face. The two women and the girl were all
staring at him. He saw the girl – that must be Ellen – raise her eyebrows at Sarah and Sarah gave her a reassuring nod. Sammy sat quietly by Sarah with the usual calm expression on his
face.

Carefully Alfie picked up a kitchen chair, carried it over to the fireplace, stood on it, tapped the warm chimney breast two or three times in different places, nodded solemnly to himself, then
got down. He gently replaced the chair to its place under the table before turning to face Mrs Bailey.

‘I know what your problem is, ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘A brick has come loose and that’s blocking the chimney.’

‘Oh no,’ exclaimed the cook. ‘Don’t say we have to go through all that again! Get that Grimston, again? The third time this winter! We’ve had enough trouble
already, haven’t we, Mavis?’

‘Shocking,’ said Mavis the parlour maid, her lips pursed and her nose tilted as though there was a bad smell under it. ‘Policemen coming around here and asking
questions!’

‘Poor little boy!’ sighed Ellen. She was a tall, thin girl with sad eyes that overflowed now at the thought of the death of the last chimney sweeper.

‘Nothing to do with us, Ellen,’ snapped Mavis. ‘I told you, stop talking about that. It upsets the missus. I don’t want to hear another word about it.’ She glared
around and then said impatiently, ‘Well, the missus won’t be pleased if I tell her that we have to get the sweep back again.’

‘Another day with no fires,’ groaned Mrs Bailey.

Alfie made himself wait. Just as well if they had time to think of how uncomfortable it was when the sweep came – no heat, no cooked food, no hot water for their cups of tea.

‘I might be able to help you,’ he said after a minute.

‘You?’ Mavis looked at him scornfully.

‘Would you?’ asked Mrs Bailey at the same moment.

‘No problem,’ said Alfie grandly. ‘My grandfather was a chimney sweep and he taught me to do a good job on our chimney at home.’ His grandfather had actually been a
street singer but neither Sarah nor Sammy was going to reveal that. Sammy sat placidly in front of the fire and Sarah examined the fingernails of her right hand.

‘How long would it take?’ The cook’s question popped out immediately. She sounded keen.

‘Wouldn’t take long. I’d come in early – about five or six in the morning and be all finished by the time that you want to get the breakfast.’

‘That would work,’ said the cook thoughtfully. ‘Not tomorrow. What about you coming here on Friday morning? Would that suit you?’

Mavis stared at her with horror. ‘You wouldn’t trust a boy off the street, would you, Mrs Bailey?’

‘Suits me if it suits you,’ said Alfie, ignoring the parlour maid. He stuck out his hand to the cook. ‘Alfie Sykes at your service, ma’am. Chimneys brushed, knives
cleaned, yards scrubbed. Anything you want; just ask.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Alfie,’ said Mrs Bailey with a giggle. ‘And tell me about this young man?’ She glanced over at Sammy.

‘Sammy is Alfie’s brother,’ said Sarah.

‘How about a bit of nice apple cake?’ asked Mrs Bailey. ‘Come on, Mavis, get that apple cake from the pantry. Missus won’t want any more of it. She don’t eat much.
Got no appetite. She’s too worried about that son of hers, poor soul.’

‘He’s lucky to have a mother,’ said Alfie with a heavy sigh. ‘Me and Sammy don’t have none.’ He watched as Mavis, with a sour expression on her face, came in
from the pantry with a large round apple cake. Only a few slices were taken from it. ‘Sammy,’ he ordered, ‘sing that song that Mother liked, the one about her watching your infant
bed.’

So Sammy sang the song and Mrs Bailey sighed and said that young Mr Leamington, the old lady’s son, should have been there to listen and then he might appreciate his mother better.

After that, Mavis flounced off, saying that she had work to do and she didn’t like apple cake much anyway. Ellen put plates and knives on the table. Mrs Bailey poured out large mugs of
milk and a cup of tea for herself and they all sat around the fire cosily, batting away the odd puff of smoke, while Mrs Bailey told them all about the old lady’s son.

‘He’s coming to dinner again tomorrow night,’ she said with a heavy sigh. ‘He’ll be at the same business, again, asking the missus for money. On and on, like water
dripping on stone, that’s the way that Mr Arthur is. She hasn’t too much for herself, poor old thing. Can’t afford a carriage or a manservant, but he never sees that. It’s
pester, pester, pester with him. He’s a bad lot.’

‘Why doesn’t he get a job?’ asked Sarah.

‘He’s too idle, dear, that’s the truth of the matter. He went to a good school and all, but he was a spoilt child, young Mr Arthur, and now he’s a spoilt man. Money is
his god. He has the best of everything while she goes without. He has to have his own horse and his fancy gig, of course, but she has to call a cab when she visits anyone. Oh well, it’s none
of my business.’ Alfie’s sharp brain registered the fact that young Mr Leamington owned a gig, as Mrs Bailey heaved a long sigh and added, ‘He never even listens to her when she
tries to talk to him. He even turned up quite early the day that the sweep was here, even though she had told him forty times that she would be staying with his sister.’

‘Perhaps he came to help,’ suggested Alfie with a grin. Another piece of information to store in his mind. So Arthur Leamington was around on the day that the sweep was at
Goodwin’s Court – that was interesting. He looked at Sarah and saw the same thought cross her mind.

‘Perhaps he wanted to talk to Master Grimston, see that he did a good job,’ put in Sarah.

‘Not him, dear, he has no interest in making life easy for his mother. No, he probably just came to borrow money. He cleared off quickly as soon as he saw what was going on. Left that gig
of his in the yard, though. Probably went off to the Red Lion and then came back and collected the gig. It was gone when I looked next.’

‘We’d better be getting along now,’ said Alfie, seeing that the cake had been finished and the fire was beginning to die down. ‘We want to see Sarah home before
it’s too late. Too many drunk men around!’

‘It’s a terrible thing, that, drink!’ sighed Mrs Bailey. ‘It’s ruined Mr Arthur! Well, goodbye all of you and we’ll see you on Friday morning,
Alfie.’

‘Alfie,’ said Sarah as they walked up St Martin’s Lane, ‘do you think that this Arthur Leamington could have anything to do with Joe’s
death?’

‘Can’t see why,’ said Alfie doubtfully. ‘What good would it do him to murder a poor sweeping boy?’

‘He has a gig,’ said Sammy quietly. ‘And it was here on Monday morning.’

‘I know,’ said Alfie. ‘It’s just that I can’t think of any possible reason for Arthur Leamington to murder a sweeping boy.’

‘I reckon we should be hanging around tomorrow when he arrives for his supper,’ Sammy went on. ‘I’d know the sound of that gig again.’ He paused, then added,
‘I can just hear the sound of the horse’s hoofs and the rattle of that wheel when the body of poor old Joe was thrown out towards the water.’

‘You’re right,’ said Alfie. ‘We’ll do that. One step at a time. If it is the same gig then we can start poking around to find a motive.’

And he tried to put from his mind the possibility that the driver of the gig would recognise the two boys who had bent over the dead body of Joe the chimney sweep.

CHAPTER 9

A B
ODY
ON A
S
LAB

‘You Alfie Sykes?’ The policeman was coming down the steps to the cellar when Alfie opened the door in the morning.

‘That’s right,’ said Alfie, feeling slightly alarmed. He didn’t recognise the man.

‘You’re wanted at Bow Street police station – Inspector Denham would like a word.’ And with that the constable marched on down Bow Street towards Long Acre.

Rather apprehensively Alfie made his way towards the blue light shining through the early morning fog.

Inspector Denham was already inside, striding up and down the stone floor, arms crossed and hands slapping his sides.

‘Freezing morning,’ he said when Alfie slid in through the door.

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Alfie. He couldn’t quite see why the inspector was so cold with his big woollen overcoat and his heavy boots. He should try bare feet and rags, Alfie thought
and saw the same thought cross the inspector’s mind. He stopped pacing and looked at Alfie’s feet.

‘Here’s half a crown for you,’ he said abruptly, delving into his pocket. ‘Buy yourself a pair of boots. You make me cold to look at you. And take that handkerchief and
blow your nose. All that sniffing is stopping me thinking.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Alfie, giving his nose a good blow and stuffing the fine linen handkerchief into his sleeve, in response to a gesture from the inspector to keep it. He
pocketed the coin with the other hand, feeling rather amazed. Half a crown would buy one pair of boots all right, but what about the rest of the gang? He couldn’t wear boots and have them go
barefoot. Perhaps they could all share them. In truth, he would have preferred to put the money aside for rent and food, but it would be embarrassing to appear in front of the inspector with bare
feet from now on.

‘Come into my office,’ said Inspector Denham. ‘It’s even colder than this place but it’s quieter.’ He glared at the two constables who were chatting by the
window.

‘This Mr Grimston,’ said the inspector, shutting the door behind him, ‘do you know him at all?’

‘A bit,’ said Alfie. He had never even spoken to Master Grimston, but with Inspector Denham he generally pretended to have more knowledge than he actually possessed. Inspector Denham
was generous; he paid well for help.

‘The police doctor confirmed that Joe was strangled. Didn’t take much strength, according to the doctor. Anyone could have done it. Throat and lungs already stuffed with
soot.’

Alfie nodded. ‘Not surprised,’ he said. ‘Lots of them chimney sweeping boys die in their beds, choked up with the soot. Not that Grimston would give them a bed – more
likely a heap of straw.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed the inspector. ‘We often see Grimston here at Bow Street magistrates’ court. Comes to give evidence at inquests into those deaths. But this
case is different. Any ideas who could have done it?’

Alfie shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said. He had told the inspector all about the man in the gig, and about the words spoken by Joe when he had met him early that morning. ‘How
long had he been dead, sir?’ he asked.

‘Only a couple of hours, according to the police surgeon.’

‘I thought that; the body wasn’t cold when I felt it.’ Alfie nodded with satisfaction. He liked to get these things right. ‘Killed not long before he was dumped, I
suppose,’ he continued. ‘He’d probably finished his work and was waiting on the pavement or something.’

‘According to Grimston, he had arranged to pick up the boy at the yard to the back of the house. He had a job for him at a public house in Long Acre, but Joe wasn’t there, so he
picked up another boy for that job – then went back to Goodwin’s Court and got the scullery maid to light the fires.’ The inspector frowned. ‘I’ve had men questioning
everyone in the neighbourhood, and no one laid eyes on the boy after early that morning. It’s a mystery.’

Inspector Denham rattled the poker in the fire again. He wasn’t doing it much good, but he didn’t seem to be noticing. ‘I keep thinking that this death must be something to do
with that man Grimston,’ he said with his back turned to Alfie – almost as though he was speaking to himself. And then, in an even lower tone, added, ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing
that man in the dock . . .’

Alfie didn’t reply. He wasn’t meant to reply, he decided. But was Grimston responsible for the death of Joe? He had said himself that Grimston had no reason to kill Joe, but perhaps
he got angry with the boy for some reason? What if Joe had said that he didn’t want to do another job, that he was tired or something, and Grimston had put his hands around the boy’s
neck and choked the life out of him?

It seemed unlikely that Joe would argue but it wouldn’t take much for Grimston to get into one of his rages. Alfie had heard him scream and shout at the boys, and Joe was terrified of him.
The only trouble was that Grimston drove a cart, not a gig, and Sammy had said it was a gig he heard down by the river. Alfie wasn’t so sure, though he was certain that a gig came towards
them after they had found the body. But perhaps that gig had nothing to do with the murder? Perhaps it was just someone driving along beside the river towards Waterloo Bridge who decided that the
fog was getting too bad and then turned back. But Sammy had heard a gig and had heard something being thrown out of the gig and Sammy was usually right. However, Grimston’s cart was only a
two-wheeled, one-horse affair – surely it couldn’t sound so different from a gig? Alfie put the puzzle away from him for the moment.