Death of a Chimney Sweep (9 page)

Both Jack and Tom nodded. They knew how hard it was to get by without a job.

‘She was afraid you’d carry tales to her mistress and then she’d be out of work,’ Tom summed up. His eyes widened suddenly. ‘But do you think Mavis murdered Joe
too?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sarah thoughtfully. ‘It changes everything if we know that she is going out with a cracksman. Perhaps she had sneaked him into the kitchen and Joe
came unexpectedly back down there and saw her with him.’

Jack said nothing, pressed the handkerchief into his wounded cheek.

‘Or maybe the cracksman had done a job at Goodwin’s Court!’ said Tom excitedly. ‘Maybe Joe saw a burglary.’

‘Could be,’ said Jack, looking from one face to the other. ‘That’s an idea, Tom.’

‘No.’ Sarah tried to laugh, but almost burst into tears instead. ‘It doesn’t make sense. We’d have heard if anything was stolen from Number Four. The cook would
have mentioned it. I’m sure it was because Mavis thought I would carry tales about her. They just needed to keep me quiet – even if it meant killing me.’ She swallowed hard and
managed to regain her composure. ‘Now, let’s get on, for goodness’ sake. I’ll have to be up half the night if I am going to get this gown fit to wear for the morning –
and I have to sew that button back onto my shoe.’

What will Alfie say about this? wondered Sarah as they walked along in silence. Perhaps Tom had a point. After all there were other houses in Goodwin’s Court – all of them owned by
rich people probably. She tried to think about it, but then gave up. She felt too shaky and ill for thinking logically. Her ribs were still very sore, but she was relieved to be able to walk. If
her leg had been kicked by the horse, then she would have been unable to work – her job as a scullery maid meant that she was continually scurrying in and out of the kitchen, the sculleries,
the pantries and the yard. She was lucky really, she thought, as they turned into Bloomsbury Square and paused outside the big house where she lived and worked. Her ribs might be cracked but she
could put up with pain.

‘We’ll wait until you get in,’ said Jack.

Sarah nodded, went down the little side alleyway, found her key, inserted it into the keyhole, turned to wave at Jack and Tom, and then froze.

A familiar gig had come slowly along the side of Bloomsbury Square. There was just one person in it now, just a man. He was keeping his horse at a slow walk, scanning the pavements, obviously
looking for someone. As she looked, his eyes met hers and lingered there. Then she saw him look at the front door of the house, as if he were memorising the number.

It was the man with the mask on his face, the man that Mavis called Arthur, the man who had tried to murder her half an hour ago. He would know her name already: now he knew where she lived.

But who was this Arthur?

CHAPTER 16

A S
WARM
OF
R
ATS

All had been going well at Devil’s Acre. They all sat around in a ring. Alfie managed to find a stone for himself and Sammy and the three sweeping boys sat on the heap of
straw. Each boy had gulped down his share of the heavenly smelling meat soup, each had stuffed bun after bun into their mouths.

Alfie waited. He still had three buns left in his bag. He’d made no secret of that, peering into the bag by the light of the torch and counting aloud. They knew there would be more to
come.

‘What’s your names?’ he asked casually. Always start with the easy questions, he told himself.

‘I’m Frank and the little fella is Bert, my brother,’ said the oldest boy.

‘And I’m Bill,’ said the middle boy, his eyes fixed longingly on the bag.

‘Why did old Grimston strangle Joe?’ asked Alfie. He shot the words out quickly.

‘Did he?’ asked Bill, while, almost at the same second, Frank said, ‘So that’s what happened to Joe.’

‘You don’t sound surprised – not the first time, was it, that Grimston strangled a boy?’ Alfie kept his voice confident and assured.

‘So you know about Isaac, do you?’ said Frank after a moment’s pause.

And then Bert screamed. Screamed and pointed.

Above their heads was a hole in the roof. And through that hole a long, sinuous shadow seemed to be flowing, like water from a jug. Alfie lifted the torch, shone it on the moving mass and then
jumped to his feet with a cry of alarm.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ he shouted, grabbing Sammy by the arm and hauling him to his feet. The other boys followed hard on their heels.

Hundreds of rats were pouring down in a long stream of small heads, humped backs and bare tails. Mutsy barked once and then attacked, but there were too many rats even for him. They ran from his
lethal, jaws, but they followed the boys outside, snapping at the food in little Bert’s hand. Bert shrieked again and Alfie felt claws run across his bare feet. He swirled the pitch torch,
driving it into the swarm. There was a high-pitched squeal, a smell of burning, and the rats retreated from the fire.

Bert sobbed, Frank swore and picked up a broken piece of wood, flailing it around. Alfie seized another piece of wood from under the eaves of the stable and held the torch to it. The worm-eaten
timber kindled instantly, sending up an orange flame, as Alfie dropped it to the ground to create a flaming barrier.

‘More wood!’ screamed Alfie. ‘Get some more wood, you three!’ He dared not move. He had to keep next to Sammy. Mutsy was fighting a hard battle against the rats. They had
learnt that his teeth were deadly but they ran behind him and now Mutsy was wasting energy, whirling around, trying to kill as many as he could.

Then Frank put some more wood on Alfie’s fire. It blazed up, revealing a scene of horror. Rats were everywhere, climbing down walls, running across the cobbled yard, swimming through the
stagnant pool of sewage. For the moment, the dog and the fire were protecting the five boys, but that was not going to last. Sooner rather than later, one rat, bolder than the others, would brave
that swinging torch, would rush past those snapping jaws and where one rat went, then the rest would follow . . .

Alfie made up his mind. ‘Mutsy, here boy,’ he said and obediently Mutsy joined him. Alfie transferred Sammy’s hand to the knotted rope on Mutsy’s collar.

‘Go home, boy, take Sammy home,’ he said. There was no time to waste on explanations.

Quickly Alfie took one of the buns from his bag. Handing the torch to Frank, he broke the bun into ten pieces and tossed them at the rats. Instantly they all turned towards the food, an
appalling horde of screaming, scrabbling, squirming and biting as they fought for the pieces of bread.

Alfie took the torch back from Frank. By now Sammy and Mutsy had gone through the gate, Mutsy towing Sammy along at such speed that the blind boy was running. The clever dog had understood that
he had to get Sammy away from the menace of the rats.

Alfie made himself wait until they were out on the street. Now he knew what he should do. It would take a steady nerve and a lot of luck. Once through the gate, he would be almost at the back
yard of the Mitre & Dove public house. And outside that yard stood ten tall dustbins.

Alfie fumbled with his left hand in the bag and drew out the second bun. Now he suddenly began to run, crumbling the bun as he went.

The rats came after him – there were so many of them that he could hear the patter of their naked claws on the cobblestoned surface.

As he ran, Alfie dropped pieces of bun behind him. If only there was enough to last!

He was fast through the gate, but the rats were at his heels. He half turned, swung the torch in a semicircle behind him and dropped the last piece of the second bun. It was a fairly big piece
and once again the rats fought over it.

Now Alfie had reached the dustbins. The lid of each one was weighed down by a large stone. Quickly he tipped the nearest stone to the ground, risking placing his precious, flaming torch on top
of it. The torch was dying down; the flame had almost consumed the tar. Soon it would be useless to him, but for the moment it was the only thing that stood between him and the rats.

Then Alfie lifted the dustbin lid and stood with it in his right hand. His left hand drew out the last bun.

Alfie took a deep breath. He held up the broken bun. Two hundred small, glittering eyes looked up at him. Quickly Alfie threw the bread into the tall bin. Already it was half full of putrid
scraps of waste food. The rats did not hesitate. They swarmed up the side of the bin and dropped down on the food. Soon they were piled up almost to the top. There was just enough room.

Alfie clanged the lid down and quickly added the stone. Then took another stone and another until the lid was weighted down. He picked up his torch. His legs were trembling but he waved a
cheerful salute towards the boys and then turned to go out onto the street.

At that very moment, a cart swung in from Westminster. A man swore, a whip was flung around Alfie’s neck, half-strangling him and causing him to drop the torch as he clawed desperately at
the choking leather.

‘So it’s you,’ said a voice.

It was Grimston, the master chimney sweep.

CHAPTER 17

M
URDEROUS
E
YES

Alfie stood very still. He could not fight that stranglehold. The door of the public house opened and two men came out, laughing loudly and clutching at each other, hardly able
to stand. Alfie saw at a glance that they were both very drunk, but even so he tried to attract their attention by coughing wildly.

The men took little notice, but Grimston loosened his whip and Alfie managed to get a hand between his neck and the leather.

‘Good evening, Mr Grimston,’ he croaked.

‘What are you doing here?’ hissed Grimston. He looked back towards the stables. The three boys stood beside the fire and their shadows reared up black against the stone wall. They
seemed to be frozen with fear.

‘Get back into your kennel or I’ll whip you to death,’ shouted Grimston, cracking his horsewhip loudly. ‘Who lit that fire?’ he yelled.

None of the boys answered. They melted away, their shadows getting smaller, and then they were gone behind the piece of sacking over the doorway.

‘I lit it,’ said Alfie. By now he had managed to free his neck of the whip. He picked up the torch. Miraculously it was still alight. He felt safer with it – almost brave as he
faced the master chimney sweep.

The noise was very loud from the public house – shouts, laughs, the sad wail of a fiddle, snatches of song – but there was another noise underneath it . . . an insistent drumming
sound and Alfie knew what it was. The rats were trying to get out of the metal rubbish bin.

He faced up to Grimston. ‘I lit that fire,’ he repeated. The fragile body of the little fellow, Bert, was in his mind. If Grimston whipped him with that horsewhip, he would probably
kill the child.

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Grimston advanced upon Alfie and gave the whip one more suggestive crack.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Alfie. ‘I came to give you a message. It’s a message from my father,’ he lied. In his mind he focused on this imaginary father. A big, stout man,
bigger than Grimston. Prosperous, too. Some sort of business. A carter, that was it. Brought fruit and vegetables into Covent Garden every day. Sold them for a good price. A man with money, with
influence . . .

‘What were you meddling with my boys for?’

‘Just brought them a few things to eat – they looked hungry.’ Alfie edged a little nearer to the public house yard.

‘What do you mean they looked hungry? What business of yours is it?’ Grimston followed him, still with the whip swinging from his hand. Alfie wished that he had worn his boots. They
gave him a feeling of superiority and they would be useful for kicking.

‘Go on, then, answer the question,’ roared Grimston.

The door of the public house opened again. This time the three men who came out seemed a little less drunk. They stared curiously at Grimston and then at Alfie.

Alfie moved a little nearer to the yard. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now, Mr Grimston,’ he said politely. ‘My father is waiting for me around the corner, over there.’
He pointed and Grimston followed the direction of the finger. It was almost impossible to see anything. There was just a glow of light from Westminster Abbey, a few misty gas lamps and the lit-up
windows of the Mitre & Dove.