The Body in the Fog (4 page)

Mutsy gave one short bark and everyone laughed. And then there was a gasp from Sarah.

‘The window!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s a face at the window!’

Alfie’s head shot up and he saw something move over Jack’s shoulder.

Sarah was right. There was a face there, someone on the pavement, bending down and looking in on them all, a face that was perfectly round, quite yellow in colour, with eyes that were large and
vacant, dotted with tiny black pupils.

It was Opium Sal.

CHAPTER 7

In a flash, Alfie was at the door and climbing up the steps of the cellar. By the time Sarah came out, he was standing on the pavement by the railings that fenced in the small
deep-down yard in front of the cellar window.

‘She got into a cab,’ he said when Sarah and Jack joined him. ‘Look, she’s down there. Wonder what she wanted. Never saw her in a cab before. All her cash goes on buying
opium.’

‘Someone might have given her money to spy on you, to see whether you were at home.’ Sarah felt uneasy, but there was little she could do. Alfie would go his own way.
‘I’d better go to work,’ she said. ‘I’ll be late otherwise.’

‘And I’m going down to Trafalgar Square now, while this fog lasts,’ said Alfie resolutely. Was Opium Sal looking in to see whether he had that piece of paper with the drawing
on it? he wondered. If so, it showed how important it was – and not just to Flash Harry’s mob. He gave a quick look up at the darkening sky. ‘Looks as though it might be wet and
windy later on.’ In his mind was the worry that the sheet of paper might be blown away or washed out of its hiding place and turned into a pulp – that’s if it had not been
discovered already.

‘Be careful, Alfie, and take Mutsy,’ said Sarah as she walked off up Bow Street.

Alfie said nothing, but he didn’t think that was good advice. Mutsy would make him too noticeable. When she had gone, he sent the dog back into the cellar and gave a nod of farewell to his
cousin.

‘I’m going with you,’ said Jack stubbornly. ‘I’m in this as much as you are.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Alfie. ‘We should be all right for the moment. That fog is still too thick to see much. Wonder what Opium Sal is doing, riding around in a cab like a
lady.’

Whatever she was doing, there was no sign of her when they reached the market, so they went on, threading their way through the stalls, and then down the narrow lanes until they came to
Trafalgar Square.

The square seemed empty after all the excitement of the night before. Alfie skirted it, keeping close to the buildings for as long as he could and then crossing the road swiftly. Once he reached
the deep shadow thrown by the huge mounted statue, he started to relax. There did not appear to be anyone around, and the thick fog gave him extra cover.

He stood for a few minutes in front of the marble carving where he had hidden the note and tried to look casual. A few horse-drawn carriages passed by and then a cab. Alfie could see
Jack’s pale face over by the fountain in the centre, looking all around for any sign of Flash Harry’s mob. He seemed to be satisfied because a moment later he crossed the road and stood
beside Alfie. Still keeping his back to the ornamental stonework, Alfie felt blindly along it, probing with his fingers.

And then he had it! The hiding place had been good. The paper was still there and it was only slightly damp. It would still be readable, he hoped. He did not dare look at it, but concealed it
inside his shirt.

And then he saw the man. He was wearing black clothes and had climbed on to the base of the statue, concealing himself behind the magnificent tail of the great black marble horse.

Alfie acted immediately. Touching Jack on the arm, he shot across the road towards the fountains and then bent down so that his head was below the high wall of the fountain basin. He had
instantly seen that he had little chance of keeping out of pistol range if he crossed the empty space towards St Martin’s Lane.

At that moment, the fog suddenly cleared. Purple clouds were shot with a streak of lightning, then there was a rumble of thunder and the rain began, great slanting sheets of it sweeping down on
the dirty pavements.

‘Keep down!’ Alfie hissed to Jack, who was close behind him. ‘Follow me.’ He was glad that he had not brought Mutsy. The dog was as brave as a lion, but no living thing
stood a chance against a gun.

Keeping their heads well down, Alfie and Jack scuttled along until they were opposite some large trees. There was no gas lamp near to them, so Alfie took a chance. With a hasty glance over his
shoulder, he bolted across. In a moment, he and Jack were behind the blackened tree trunks.

The man had moved out of the shadow of Nelson’s Column and was making his way, slowly and deliberately, towards the basin where the water splashed down from the fountain above. He had a
hand thrust into a pocket and it was easy to imagine a pistol clasped within.

Alfie held his breath. He peered out from behind the trees, waiting until the man was facing the National Gallery with his back towards Nelson’s Column. Then he and Jack exploded, running
as fast as they could towards Cockspur Street.

Two minutes to go up Cockspur and into Haymarket
,
another minute to reach the White Horse
, his thoughts raced along as he ran. Jack was beside him now. Sarah would be at work in
the White Horse Inn by this time. If they could only get there, she might be able to hide them for a few hours.

Once they reached the broad street of Haymarket he glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of any pursuer but one could appear at any moment.

Alfie stopped and drew Jack into the shadow of the wall. They could slink along here unseen. He prayed that the man had not seen their frantic bolt for Cockspur Street – hopefully, he
would be looking for them in St Martin’s Lane. If he was in the same mob as the man who followed them home earlier, then he knew where the boys lived.

But no! A figure dressed in black suddenly appeared, so brightly lit by the gas lamp at the bottom of Haymarket that they could see a small red scarf knotted around his throat. He was talking to
a second man who had come down Haymarket, who now turned around and pointed. The man with the red scarf nodded.

At that moment, a large brewery wagon, drawn by six heavy horses, came slowly up Haymarket. It ground along laboriously, the big wooden beer barrels creaking and the wheels rumbling. In an
instant, Alfie darted out and scrambled on board, crouching down behind one of the barrels. A second later, Jack joined him, hiding behind another barrel.

The wagon moved slowly but Alfie did not care. Flash Harry’s mob had a reputation for being smooth operators, smooth and careful. They would not take any risk while the brewery men were
around. As soon as the brewery van took the expected turn into the yard of the White Horse Inn, Alfie stuck a cautious head out from behind the barrel. They had gone through the gate and were now
turning again to go into the back yard. Once they were out of sight of the road, Alfie jumped down, closely followed by Jack.

By the time the two brewery men came around to the back of the wagon, the two boys were just standing there, looking as if they had come in from the street, one politely doffing his cap and
saying, ‘Give you a hand with the barrels, mister?’

‘Just a couple of pennies, and you’ll have to share them between you,’ warned the driver.

Alfie nodded gratefully. He would have helped them for nothing. While he and Jack were in their company they were safe. Everyone knew that brewery workers were tough. They were always huge men
with muscles that stood out like knotted cords on their arms and they were used to battling their way through the crowded streets of London where their enormous wagons were most unpopular. Flash
Harry’s mobsters would not meddle with them even if they did follow the boys into the yard.

‘Roll it over there,’ grunted the driver’s mate, landing a barrel at Jack’s feet. Jack had done this sort of work before and neatly spun the barrel across the yard
towards the hatch where the innkeeper’s head appeared. Alfie followed and a working rhythm was set up. It was hard work, especially in the driving rain, but it took Alfie’s mind off the
danger and after a while he began to enjoy himself. In the beginning the innkeeper had to wait for them, but after ten minutes it was the other way around.

‘Well done, lads, here’s a thruppenny piece for you,’ said the driver when all the barrels had been stored in the cellar.

‘And here’s another to bring it up to sixpence,’ said the innkeeper.

‘All right if we get a drink of water in the scullery?’ asked Alfie casually. He had been racking his brains as to how he could get in touch with Sarah. Her job was serving meals and
drinks in the parlour of the White Horse. Would she be finished work yet? he wondered.

‘That’s all right, and ask the scullery maid if there’s a bit of broken pie left over,’ said the innkeeper generously. ‘We’re that busy,’ he continued,
gossiping to the brewery men, ‘we’ve a crowd of engineers from Birmingham staying here and they like to walk around London at night, and then come back and eat and drink the rest of the
night away! I’m glad to get this delivery tonight. I’d begun to think they would drink the house dry!’ He laughed heartily and the brewery men joined in.

Alfie nodded to Jack and they both crossed the paved yard silently on their bare feet and opened the scullery door. Alfie stopped to peer in the window. Kitty the scullery maid was in there
– that was all right, they had met her a few times when they came to see Sarah. She was bad-temperedly scrubbing a burned pan with a handful of sand and scowled as they entered.

‘If you’re looking for Sarah,’ she said, ‘she’s working. That crowd from Birmingham have started eating and drinking in the blue parlour.’

‘Just came to give you a hand,’ said Alfie promptly, seizing the saucepan and the scrubbing brush and setting to work vigorously. He put all his strength into the work and soon the
pot was looking pretty good, but he tackled it again just to show how hard-working he was and spent another few minutes on it. Jack made himself useful at the sink, washing a pile of dirty dishes.
The two boys started with alarm as they heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside.

‘That’s just Matt, the boot boy,’ said Kitty. ‘You in trouble, you two?’

‘Nah,’ said Alfie nonchalantly, but he was tense until the door opened and showed the fat face of the boot boy.

‘I’m going to be up all night,’ said Matt, coming in and slumping on a stool. ‘That lot from Birmingham don’t know when to go to bed. It’s going to be the
same as last night. They’ll go to bed at two or three o’clock in the morning and then expect their boots to be waiting outside their door, all clean and shiny, by eight o’clock
next morning.’

‘Oh, stop moaning,’ said Kitty. ‘All you have to do is polish the boots and clean the knives. You should try my job. Anyway, there’s a pair of boots over there to keep
you busy while you’re waiting for them to go to bed. They belong to the gentleman from Birmingham that’s sick in bed in number fifteen. Sarah said you were to clean them again. She said
they’re still a disgrace.’

‘She should have seen them the first time,’ grumbled Matt. ‘When that geezer came home last night the leather was soaked through and they smelt like a drain – don’t
know what he trod in.’

‘Boss said you’d give us a drink and a piece of broken pie; we’ve been helping him with the barrels,’ said Alfie, still scrubbing vigorously.

‘You can have that saucepan of milk if you like,’ said Kitty, pointing. ‘The sick gent fancied some boiled milk but it over-boiled. Smells dreadful!’

‘Tastes all right,’ said Alfie, gulping some down. He passed the half-full saucepan of milk on to Jack and looked around at the dirty plates for some pieces of pie. Amazing what
folks left on their plates, he thought, as he and Jack wolfed down the tasty fragments.

‘There’s Sarah coming down now,’ said Kitty. ‘I know her step. She’s lighter than the other parlour maid.’

Sarah was quick and clever, though, and Alfie thought highly of her brains. He wished that he could show her the note, safely stored inside his shirt, but her first words turned his mind in a
different direction.

‘Alfie,’ she hissed. ‘What are you doing here? Get away quickly! There’s a man in the bar looking for two ragged boys. He’s dressed in black, wearing a red scarf.
Do you know him? I heard the landlord tell him that he had just sent two boys of that description down to the kitchen. The man’s on his way now!’

CHAPTER 8