The Body in the Fog (15 page)

To her surprise, he was just beside the door, his face completely white, when she opened it.

‘There’s a ghost,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ Sarah let the food drop and Mutsy picked it up and neatly swallowed it.

‘Listen,’ said Tom.

Sarah listened. There was no doubt that there was something – some sound coming from the centre of the cellar, from among the beer barrels.

‘Shh,’ she said and blew out the candle.

There was a faint glimmer of daylight coming through the cellar window and it was just enough to see Mutsy, shaggy tail waving frantically, making his way through the barrels in the middle of
the room.

‘Just a rat,’ said Sarah reassuringly.

But then there was a creaking sound. Sarah and Tom grasped each other, terrified.

And then a voice.

‘Cor blimey, if it isn’t old Mutsy,’ whispered Alfie.

‘So you’ve turned up again, like three bad pennies,’ said Sarah, as Alfie climbed out of the sewer, hoisting up Sammy behind him, followed by Jack. ‘What happened to
you?’ she hissed. ‘Tom was scared out of his wits and Mutsy thought that you were dead.’

‘We’ve found the gang’s hide-out and they’ve got the mailbags with them,’ said Alfie briefly.

‘Poor Charlie Higgins was shot,’ said Jack sadly.

‘They’d have got us, too,’ said Alfie, ‘except that Jack had the brains to lead us into the tunnel where one of them underground rivers empties into the Thames.
We’ve been walking through underground sewers and rivers all night. And here we are now, popping up like a jack-in-a-box.’

‘Let’s get you all out of here,’ said Sarah. ‘Wait till I see if it’s clear and then go as quickly as you can.’

They were in luck. No one was around and in a minute they were all walking briskly down Haymarket.

‘You stink!’ said Sarah, wrinkling her nose. ‘You’d better have a wash and change your clothes before you go to the police station.’

‘Not now,’ said Alfie decisively. ‘We don’t want to hang about. What time is it?’

‘Don’t kn—’ began Sarah and then at the clang of the bell from St Martin’s church, she said, ‘That must be half eight.’

‘We’ll wash our legs in the fountain,’ said Alfie as they went along. ‘C’mon lads, can’t have the Lady Sarah turning up her nose at us.’

‘It’s probably just our feet and legs that stink, Sarah,’ said Sammy.

‘The water wasn’t deep and it wasn’t too bad after the flood a few days ago,’ explained Jack as they waded through the fountain and came out shivering.

‘So where are the raiders now?’ Sarah lowered her voice and spoke into Alfie’s ear, but he shuddered and looked around him without reply. He could only think about getting to
the police station as soon as possible.

‘The jewellers in Hatton Garden have raised the reward to fifteen pounds,’ Inspector Denham was just saying to his sergeant when the door burst open and five
children and one large muddy dog tumbled into the police station.

‘Sir,’ gasped Alfie, ‘I’ve got such news for you.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked the inspector, half-smiling as Mutsy politely wagged his tail and sat down just next to the inspector’s well-polished boots with the air of
someone handing over responsibility.

‘We know where the gang are hiding out,’ said Alfie triumphantly. ‘The post office raiders’ gang.’

‘Come into my office,’ said Inspector Denham. He seemed almost as excited as Alfie, thought Sarah, as they all followed the inspector. Even Mutsy trailed in, seated himself beside
the fire and listened with grave interest to Alfie’s story.

When it came to the bit about Charlie Higgins’s death, Jack put his hand in front of his face and Alfie’s voice quivered for a moment. But the inspector jumped to his feet and opened
the door to the outer office.

‘Constable, fetch a cab. I’ll go straight to Scotland Yard.’

It took only a few minutes for the cab to arrive, but Inspector Denham had thought the whole matter through by then. Sarah said that she had to go back to work, and the sergeant and constable
were told to escort Jack, Tom and Mutsy to the cellar in Bow Street, and if necessary to take any suspicious characters into the police station for questioning. Alfie would ride in the cab to
Scotland Yard and tell the whole story on the way.

‘And you trust this boy?’ The room at Scotland Yard was full of policemen, some in plain clothes, others dressed in uniform. Alfie had found it best to keep his
eyes fixed on Inspector Denham while he told the story of how the men in the galley had pulled up the mail bags that had been attached to iron chains.

‘Probably had those chains in place before the robbery,’ one plain clothes policeman had observed. He had a clever look, thought Alfie. Not like those constables at Bow Street who
all looked stupid. For a moment, Alfie wondered whether there was any chance of him joining Scotland Yard when he grew up. He would enjoy it, he thought.

Inspector Denham looked at home with them as he nodded in reply to the suggestion. Just as he had done when asked whether he believed Alfie. A man of few words, but Alfie trusted him more than
any of the other policemen there.

When Alfie came to the part where Charlie Higgins had been gunned down, there was a murmur of anger throughout the room. The man who looked like the chief of Scotland Yard – he was the one
that was giving all the orders and asking most of the questions – quickly jumped to his feet and barked a few orders. Men started to stream out of the room and into a wide-open space at the
end of the passageway. There was a large table there and on it was spread an armoury of guns: rifles and pistols, thought Alfie, half-hoping that he might be given one.

‘It’s time for you to go, Alfie,’ said Inspector Denham firmly. ‘You’ve done your work; you must leave the rest to us.’

Alfie thought fast. He didn’t want to be left behind. ‘Best if I go with you, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘You might miss the house. Very confusing, all those old places
down there in the docks.’

There was a slight hesitation at that. Everyone left in the room looked at one other.

‘It might be . . .’ said one man, looking at another. They nodded wisely at each other. Inspector Denham started to look unsure.

‘Could sit well out of the way . . . on the floor of the boat . . . no danger . . .’ This was the chief at Scotland Yard speaking, the geezer that had given all the orders. Alfie
began to feel hopeful.

‘The boy is right. We have to target the correct house instantly,’ said a tough-looking policeman. He shut one eye, aimed a rifle at the portrait of Queen Victoria and then put it
into its holster quickly when he saw the chief superintendent’s eye upon him.

‘Well, sit by me and keep out of trouble; I don’t want to have to explain to that dog of yours how you got a hole in your middle,’ said Inspector Denham and Alfie gave a polite
laugh at the joke.

There were two steamboats waiting by the river’s edge when they got down the Whitehall Stairs. The fog had lifted a little and a few rays of watery sunshine lit up the clock tower at
Westminster.

Alfie had never been in a steamboat before and he couldn’t believe the speed with which it took off. Under Hungerford Bridge in a minute, then under Waterloo Bridge, and a minute later
beneath the iron bridge of Southwark. Before Alfie had even had time to feel nervous, they shot beneath the stone arch of London Bridge and then past the Tower of London. Now Alfie began to feel
the palms of his hands getting damp. They were not far from the spot where poor Charlie Higgins had been shot and killed. Their boat was ahead now, and the other steamboat lurked at a little
distance.

Waiting for me to give the word, thought Alfie, sitting up a little straighter. The thought of Charlie Higgins gave him courage, strengthened his determination to get the men who shot the
unfortunate fisherman so casually. Which was the house? Yes, it was that one. He remembered the broken shutters, one hanging loose in the wind. Confidently he pointed and immediately he felt
Inspector Denham’s hand on his head, pushing down hard, forcing him to duck down between the seats.

A policeman in front of the boat had taken up a loud hailer and was speaking into it, his voice booming around the water and bouncing off the old wooden houses on Jacob’s Island.

‘You are surrounded by armed policemen! Give up and come out with your hands above your head!’ The words must have been heard on both sides of the river. Alfie wished that he could
sit up and see the people coming to the banks.

But there was no answer and no sound from the house with the broken shutters. Peering from under Inspector Denham’s knee, Alfie could see a woman with a baby in her arms come to the window
of the house next to it. A small boy with a mass of straw-coloured hair, as untidy as a rook’s nest and dressed only in a man’s ragged jacket which reached to his toes, came out onto
the wooden wharf and stared at the steamboat and the armed policemen within it.

‘Come out peacefully with your hands raised!’ repeated the man with the loud hailer.

Again there was no movement or sound from the house. Alfie began to wonder whether the raiders had already left.

‘I will count to ten and then we fire,’ announced the loud hailer. And then, slowly, loudly, the count began.

‘One, two, three . . .’

A woman in rags rushed, screaming, out of one of the other houses, seized the small boy by his hair, slapped him hard and dragged him inside.

‘. . . four, five, six, seven, eight . . .’ Now the count was going more quickly. From all around the boat came the
click-clack
sound of guns being loaded. Inspector Denham
pressed hard onto Alfie’s head. Alfie went flat on the floorboards of the boat, wriggled under the inspector’s knees and had popped up his head by the time the last number was
called.

Instantly the police began to fire, the men aiming at the loose shutters and shattering the half-rotten wood. The boat was full of the smell of gunpowder. Alfie turned his face away to avoid
sneezing and saw that the other police boat had gone over to the south shore and was now advancing towards the back of Jacob’s Island.

Alfie was not the only one who had seen this manoeuvre. The police in his boat began firing even more fiercely, one man taking up position in the front of the boat while another retired to
reload his gun. Those with pistols examined them carefully, checking the ball, closing one eye and squinting along the barrel. They were giving cover to the men in the other boat, thought Alfie,
admiring the cleverness of it all.

And then three shots rang out from the house. A shower of bullets came back. They were well-armed, these men. Alfie tried to sit up a bit straighter. He wanted to be able to see the gun battle.
He would have fun describing it to Sammy later on.

‘Get down,’ hissed Inspector Denham and he himself ducked as a shot came whizzing over their heads.

‘Missed!’ called one of the armed policemen. He sounded like he was enjoying himself – rather like the men who went out ratting, thought Alfie.

Then came another shot. This time there was a scream from the front of the boat. The policeman in the prow had been hit. His hands shot into the air. He swung sideways. Another policeman grabbed
him; eased him to the floor of the boat.

And then the guns rang out, with shot following shot. All aimed high, Alfie noticed. And soon he saw why.

The wooden wharf surrounded the crazily tilting houses. And around the corner from the end house a black figure, a policeman, advanced, followed by another and another. The shots from the first
boat continued to ring out; splintering the walls of the old house and making neat holes appear in the roof. The shutters had been completely shot away now and the glassless windows gaped open into
the rooms beyond.

There were no returning shots now.

Suddenly a shout.

‘They’ve escaped!’ yelled the boarding party on the wharf.

‘Making for a steamer to Holland or some such place,’ grunted Inspector Denham in an exasperated voice. ‘Get out from under my legs,’ he added to Alfie. ‘I suppose
you’re safe now. They’ve given us the slip!’

Alfie scrambled out and stood up. He looked down the river. There was no sign of the small galley boat that he had seen the night before. Where was it? They had been firing up to a minute
before. The men could not have escaped as quickly as that. He looked all around.

Jacob’s Island was on a small piece of land surrounded by a ditch. The ancient houses were about three storeys high and on the top floor of each were crazy broken galleries, with poles
stretching from gallery to gallery across the swamp, where the unfortunate inhabitants could hang up their sheets to dry – if they had sheets, and ever bothered to wash them.

But today something else hung from these poles! Not sheets, but men! They were trying to cross the river gap between the houses by edging their way across the poles.

‘There they are!’ yelled Alfie at the top of his voice. And a great shout of joy went up from the policemen in the boat and those on the wharf.

Five men, one wearing a red silk scarf, all of them murderers and thieves, hung there helplessly from the wooden poles!

A moment after Alfie’s shout, the police were pounding up the stairs of the house, guns at the ready, then appearing on the gallery, shouting orders to the men to return.

One dropped down from the pole, falling plop into the water. Quickly two more followed him – all three of them swimming frantically.

It did them no good, though. In a minute Alfie’s police boat was beside them, grabbing wrists and knotting rope over them, and pulling them on board like sacks of coal. Alfie felt no pity
for them. They had strangled the little post office man and shot poor Charlie Higgins, as well as injuring one of the policemen.

‘Come back or we shoot!’ called a policeman to the two remaining figures, still hanging from the washing poles, and inch by inch they wriggled back.

‘Well,’ said Inspector Denham with satisfaction, ‘it looks as though we’ve finally laid hands on Flash Harry, his lieutenants and Sid the Swell himself. I’ve been
waiting for this moment for many a long year.’