Death of a Chimney Sweep (7 page)

‘I just wondered if you needed any help since you were having a dinner party tonight?’ said Sarah.

Mrs Bailey the cook looked her up and down from her trim shoes to her clean apron and tidy hair and then gave a welcoming smile.

‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ she said cordially. ‘That Mavis has taken herself off. Wouldn’t change her evening out for anything. Oh no, not her.
Didn’t care if Mr Leamington was coming to supper or not. “Missus should have remembered that it was my night out.”’ The cook held her nose high in the air and mimicked
Mavis.

Sarah laughed. ‘I can wait at table if you like,’ she offered. ‘I’ve done it once or twice when the parlour maid wasn’t there in Bloomsbury Square. I know what to
do. That’s if Ellen doesn’t mind.’

‘Ellen’s too shy to wait at table,’ said the cook decisively. ‘Come on, you can borrow Mavis’s cap and lace-trimmed apron. It will make you look the real thing.
It’s a good thing that you turned up. I was even thinking of asking Number Eleven if they could spare someone but I didn’t like to – it’s not as if Missus is friendly with
them. Of course, Number Five, she’s great friends with them – but they’ve been in Italy for most of the year.’

By the time that Sarah entered the dining room, she was confident that she looked the part. Mavis’s cap and apron looked good on her and Mrs Leamington gave her an
encouraging smile. However, her son looked impatient and that disconcerted Sarah as she stationed herself beside Mr Leamington and filled the ladle from the soup tureen.

‘Soup, sir?’ enquired Sarah in a low voice. In spite of her efforts, it shook a little with nerves. At the last moment, she wondered whether it was correct for her to be on the
man’s left side. He didn’t say anything, just gave an impatient nod, so she carefully ladled the steaming liquid into his bowl.

‘And of course, as I was telling you, Mother, it’s impossible for me to afford the trip on the little money that I have and yet it is the chance of a lifetime.’

‘No soup for me, thank you, dear.’ Mrs Leamington turned her attention back to her son. There was a worried look on her wrinkled old face. ‘Do you really feel that you should
go on this trip, Arthur?’

‘Of course, I should go. But I can’t unless you give me the money.’ He sounded surly and impatient.

‘But, dearest, I did explain to you . . .’

It was amazing that they would talk like that in front of her, thought Sarah, standing stiffly by the soup tureen. There was enough soup there to feed an orphanage and it smelt delicious, but it
did not seem as if much was going to be consumed. Mrs Leamington was nervously crumbling a bread roll on her plate and her son had thrown down his spoon after swallowing a couple of mouthfuls.

‘Take it away,’ he barked at Sarah after a minute.

Silently Sarah removed the soup plates, placing both on the silver tray next to the heavy soup tureen. She prayed that she could hold the tray steadily in one hand while opening the door with
her other, and smiled to herself as she managed to close the door behind her without spilling anything.

‘Here’s the next course ready for you, dear,’ said Mrs Bailey when she came back into the kitchen. ‘There, everything is on the tray. Ellen, you go and open the door for
her.’

Ellen pushed open the door with a wink at Sarah, but once Sarah was safely in the dining room, it closed behind her with a bang. A gust of smoke whirled out from the chimney and circled through
the room.

‘Wine, sir?’ murmured Sarah, trying to copy the refined tones that parlour maids always affected.

‘Oh dear, this smoke!’ said Mrs Leamington. ‘I’m sorry about this, Arthur. We only had the sweep in the other day. I think we’ll have to get him back
again.’

‘Why waste your money?’ Arthur Leamington nodded to Sarah to fill his glass. ‘I can’t see any problem. It was just that servant of yours, letting the door bang. Why do
you have to have such untrained servants? Come on, girl, fill it up!’ He swallowed the whole contents of the glass and held it out for Sarah to refill.

Sarah poured the wine, trying to keep her expression blank.

‘I mean it, Mother.’ His tone was loud and bullying. ‘You definitely need to think of the many ways in which you waste money and then are left with nothing on hand when there
is an emergency.’

What an unpleasant bully that man is, thought Sarah, feeling sorry for the poor old woman. And why was he so reluctant to get Grimston back to the house again? Was there some connection between
himself and that villainous master chimney sweep?

She looked at the large hand that was squeezing the stem of the wine glass as though he wanted to snap it in two. A powerful hand . . . a hand that could squeeze the throat of a frail boy. Could
Arthur Leamington have choked the life out of Joe?

CHAPTER 12

S
TRANGE
AND
M
AD

‘Mr Leamington was so nasty! He came into the kitchen after dinner and asked all sorts of questions about me.’ Sarah moved a little closer to the coal fire in the
cellar. ‘I can’t stop shivering,’ she said, putting her arm around Mutsy who was looking at her anxiously. ‘It’s just the way that man looked at me, as if he was mad
with fury or something. He was shouting at the top of his voice at the poor cook.’

‘What was he saying?’ asked Alfie, sounding worried. How on earth could Arthur Leamington have suspected Sarah?

‘He was yelling at her for taking in a girl off the streets to wait at table. He was saying that I could rob or murder an old lady like his mother and he told her to get that
beggar’s brat out of the house immediately. Then he grabbed his hat and cloak and went off, slamming the door behind him.’

‘Sounds like he was more bothered about you for his own sake than for his mother’s – otherwise why leave then, why not wait until you was thrown out?’ said Sammy
shrewdly.

‘You’re right.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Perhaps he saw me looking at him when I was handing the vegetables to him and he read my mind. I was thinking that he and Grimston might
both be in on the murder. That perhaps he saw Grimston strangle Joe. And then Grimston paid him something to keep quiet and to take the body away in his gig. Anyway,’ she said, a bit more
cheerfully, ‘the missus was very nice. She told me to take no notice, that her son had business worries and that he wasn’t himself and then she told the cook to give me the leftovers
from the meal because I looked very thin and pale. The cook wrapped up the duck and the roasted potatoes and the lemon cake that they didn’t even touch. She was just going to throw the soup
down the sink when I asked if I could have that too. She put it in the milk can and then put all the bread rolls in a bag as well. I could hardly carry all the stuff by the time that I got out of
the house.’

‘I’d like some of that soup,’ said Tom, opening the can and sniffing deeply. ‘Smells of beef.’

‘Not the soup,’ said Alfie. Though he spoke slowly, his brain was working fast. ‘Let’s have the duck and the potatoes first and then the cake. Don’t touch the soup
or the bread rolls though; I’ve plans for those.’

‘What . . .’ began Tom, but his brother frowned at him. Jack understood that Alfie didn’t want to be questioned just now.

‘Do you think that Mr Leamington had anything to do with the murder of Joe?’ asked Jack.

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said, biting into a succulent slice of duck – how could anyone leave meat like that on their plate? she wondered – ‘but it’s the
only reason that I can think of for him getting so furious about me. He saw me looking at him and he knew that he had never seen me in his mother’s house before and he got suspicious and
asked Mrs Bailey about me.’

‘Why should he think you were after him, though? You don’t look like none of them peelers. Not very like, at least . . .’ Tom laughed at his own wit and tossed a roasted potato
to Mutsy who caught it neatly and swallowed it in one gulp.

‘That’s true,’ said Sarah, ‘but I suppose if you feel guilty, anything different worries you. I can’t see any other reason for him to fly into such a
temper.’

‘Perhaps he thought his mother was spending money on a new servant instead of giving it to him,’ pointed out Jack. ‘You said that he was trying to get money from her and she
was telling him that she couldn’t afford it. He was trying to stop her getting the sweep again, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, but if he had anything to do with Joe’s death, then he wouldn’t want Grimston coming back to the house again, would he?’ argued Sarah. ‘Perhaps it
wasn’t Grimston that murdered Joe, perhaps it was Mr Leamington – it could be that he was scared that Grimston might have seen something. Perhaps Joe saw him take money from his
mother’s purse and that’s why Joe was murdered.’

‘Sounds daft to me,’ said Tom. ‘Why strangle a sweeping boy for something like that? Joe wouldn’t have dared to say a word to anyone.’

‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ said Sarah with a shudder. ‘I’d say that murder would come easy to him. He has a strange, mad look in his eyes. I thought he
was going to strangle me for a minute.’ She got to her feet, feeling her legs tremble beneath her, and cut off half of the cake, putting it in the tin box above the fireplace. That will do
the boys for their breakfast, she thought, trying to distract herself.

‘You all right, Sarah?’ asked Jack, looking at her with concern.

‘I’m fine,’ said Sarah resolutely. ‘In fact, I quite enjoyed the waiting at table. I’m sure that I could do well as a parlour maid. I was thinking that I might look
for a job at an inn as a parlour maid and then when I’ve had some experience I could go back into service again. What are you thinking about, Alfie?’

He had been very quiet while they ate, but suddenly he got to his feet. ‘Jack and Tom, you take Sarah home. Me and Sammy are going back to Devil’s Acre.’

‘Back to Devil’s Acre,’ echoed Jack. ‘Is that safe?’

‘Here,’ said Tom sharply, ‘why are you taking that bag of bread rolls and the soup?’

‘Feeding the hungry,’ said Alfie briefly. He tipped the soup from the can into the blackened pot that hung on chains above the fire, watched it until it began to bubble, then poured
it back into the can again, wrapping a ragged towel around the can to keep it warm.

Jack carefully banked down the fire with some wet coal dust and waited, looking enquiringly at Alfie. Sammy stood up, stretched out an arm until he found Mutsy’s warm bulk and then he
grabbed the knotted piece of rope around the dog’s neck.

‘Come on, Sam,’ said Alfie, placing the wrapped can of hot soup at the bottom of the bag given to Sarah by the cook and piling the bread rolls around it.

Jack looked at them both uneasily. Sarah watched him hesitate and then make up his mind to speak. ‘Be careful, Alfie,’ he said. ‘If Grimston killed Joe . . . well, Joe may not
have been the first . . .’ He stopped and then continued slowly ‘. . . and he may not be Grimston’s last murder.’

CHAPTER 13

H
ELL
ON
E
ARTH

Jack, Tom and Sarah walked briskly up St Martin’s Lane and then turned up Monmouth Street, going towards Seven Dials. It was getting late, but the streets were full of
people. St Martin’s Lane was busy with well-dressed crowds going to the theatres or to restaurants, but in Monmouth Street there were more poor people than rich – mainly the poor who
made a living from the rich, by begging, shoe-shining and stealing.

Jack, Tom and Sarah watched with indifference as three bare-footed boys followed a well-dressed gentleman. From time to time he looked over his shoulder in an uneasy way but, each time he did
so, the three boys melted into the shadows of a doorway. They waited until the man reached a darker part of the street where a gas lamp had been extinguished, then they moved in quickly. One
jostled him roughly, then apologised profusely, while the other two carefully held up his coat-tails and took a purse from one pocket and a fine linen handkerchief from the other. Then they were
off, running fast towards St Giles. Sarah half smiled. It was so quickly and cleverly done, the gentleman had not even noticed that he had been robbed.

Seven Dials was roaring when they reached it. Bright lights from gas lamps and torches burned through the yellow fog, and charcoal fires flamed from iron baskets and braziers. There was noise
everywhere: shrieks, screams, laughs, the crash of breaking glass, the thunder of beer casks rolling into cellars. At the end of each of the seven streets, which came together here like the spokes
on a wheel, there was a public house and every public house was full of people drinking pints of cheap gin, howling and laughing and fighting and overflowing out onto the street.