The Montgomery Murder (2 page)

Alfie did not struggle. There was no point. The policeman had a firm grip of one arm now and was dragging him along the street. He tried a gentle wriggle – perhaps he
could leave his jacket behind – but it was no good. Alfie knew where they were going. The Bow Street Police Station was next door to Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. He would probably be
in front of the bench in less than half an hour. What would be the sentence? Most likely, three months’ hard labour – that was the usual. He had never been in prison himself, but he knew many boys who had. Hard labour meant
breaking stones, running on the treadmill or sewing mailbags for twelve hours of the day, and no one was allowed to say a word to any other prisoner. That was the worst of all, one boy had told
Alfie.

And what would happen to Sammy, his blind brother, and to their two cousins who shared their cellar? Without Alfie, they might all starve. He was the one who organised everything, who had seen
the comic possibilities in Mutsy with his large paws and his fringe hanging over his eyes, and the one who, until this moment, had kept them all out of trouble.

‘In you go.’ The blue light outside Bow Street Police Station gleamed through the fog. ‘Bet you’ve stolen that muffler, you little thief.’ The constable jerked at
the scarf around his neck. ‘And that waistcoat, too!’ By now they were inside and Alfie was pushed into an office. His bare feet felt the smoothness of the tiled floor.

Carefully he removed his cap and smoothed down his dark curls.
‘It doesn’t matter about looking poor and having ragged trousers as long as you are polite.’
It seemed
like yesterday that his mother had said that, but she had been dead for two years.

The police station was a small, one-storey building. There was an outer room, where three constables stood at tall desks and made notes in books, and an inner room beyond a green painted door. A
man with a newspaper came out of that door and immediately PC 22 grabbed Alfie by the arm and hauled him into the back room, giving a quick knock on the still-open door. Alfie felt his legs go
weak. He would soon know the worst.

‘Caught stealing a loaf of bread from the evening delivery van, Inspector. Make a bow to Inspector Denham, you young ruffian. Shall I take him into the court? The magistrates are still
sitting.’

‘Yes,’ said the inspector absent-mindedly. He was studying some papers on his desk, turning them over and knitting his dark bushy eyebrows over them. Then he waved his hand.
‘No!’ he said abruptly. ‘Just leave him with me, Constable, will you.’

What did he want, wondered Alfie, looking at the inspector as the door closed behind the constable. He was a small man to be in charge of all of these burly constables who could be seen every
day, patrolling Bow Street and Covent Garden. He was quick and decisive, though! He looked briefly down each piece of paper, before putting it into one of three neat piles on the desk and going on
to the next.

The room was cold in spite of the coal fire burning in a small metal grate. Alfie’s sharp eyes noticed that one of the sash cords was broken and the window was sagging down on one side,
allowing the damp, freezing air to seep into the little room. He stayed very still, looking attentively at the inspector as he shuffled his papers. When he looked up, Alfie saw that he had a pair
of keen eyes, as black as Alfie’s own.

‘Live around here, do you?’ The inspector’s tone was casual.

‘That’s right.’ Alfie wasn’t going to give any of his gang away.

‘Know the St Giles district?’

Alfie nodded. This was unexpected, but welcome. St Giles, a district of tumbledown wood-built houses, where a single room could house up to four families, was a good five-minute walk from
Alfie’s cellar on Bow Street itself.

‘Come with me.’ Inspector Denham was on his feet. He opened a door at the back of the office and led the way down a long, dimly lit corridor. There was a damp coldness in the air and
a strange smell.

‘In here.’ Inspector Denham took a large key from the bunch at his waist and opened a door. The room was almost in darkness; there was just one small, high window. It showed as a
pale rectangle on the wall, but gave little light. Inspector Denham clanged the door shut behind them and walked confidently forward. Alfie followed him, his heart thumping.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ There was a hiss and a sudden smell of gas, the noise of a match striking, and then the flame sprang up. Alfie took a step backwards, then recovered
himself and stepped forward again.

The room was a small one, but it had three occupants. All were lying on high narrow iron beds, covered by a sheet. All were very still. Alfie sniffed the air and knew that the smell was death.
He had smelled it often enough. He swallowed once and felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands.

Why had the inspector brought him in here with these dead men?

CHAPTER 3

Inspector Denham went swiftly to the bed at the far side of the room and turned back the top of the sheet from the face.

Alfie took in a long breath as quietly as he could. ‘I know him,’ he said, trying to sound indifferent. ‘I’ve seen him before.’ He examined the purple, swollen face
with its faded ginger moustache and sideburns.

‘Know his name?’

‘Mr Montgomery . . . Mr Montgomery from Bedford Square. Up Bloomsbury way.’ Alfie went a little nearer. He had been shocked at first to see a man that he knew, but he had recovered
now. He had seen quite a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime.

‘When did you see him last?’ Inspector Denham was standing in front of the body, slightly blocking Alfie’s view.

‘Last night in Monmouth Street.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, he had a girl with him.’ Alfie winked, trying to look like a man of the world. He wanted to impress this inspector.

‘What’s the girl’s name?’ The question came quickly.

‘Don’t know.’ He did know, but Alfie didn’t think that he was going to tell it to Inspector Denham. Betty couldn’t have murdered this fellow – he wasn’t
a very big man, but he was at least twice her weight. Alfie was sorry that he had mentioned a girl now, but no doubt the inspector already knew about this. Alfie edged a bit nearer to the body.

‘Been garrotted,’ he said. Might as well show the inspector that he wasn’t stupid. ‘Look at the mark of the wire, there under the chin.’

‘I had noticed,’ said Inspector Denham dryly. ‘We found him in Monmouth Street early this morning.’ He leaned over the man and pulled the sheet down the whole way. The
body was still dressed: expensive frock coat, colourful waistcoat and over them both a greatcoat of heavy dark wool; check trousers and polished boots finished the outfit. A heavy walking stick was
lying beside him. The pockets of the greatcoat were pulled out and protruded at right angles from the body, the clean white linings showing up brightly under the flaring gas lamp.

‘Robbed, as you see.’ Inspector Denham’s voice was neutral.

‘Nah.’ Alfie gave him a quick grin. He was beginning to understand this policeman. He was testing Alfie. ‘Never.’

‘Oh? Why not?’ There was still no trace of expression in the policeman’s voice.

‘Why not?’ Alfie decided to play along, though he guessed that the inspector knew the truth as well as he did; the man didn’t look stupid. ‘Why take the stuff from his
greatcoat pockets and leave the watch? I can see the chain. It’s still on him. Can I touch him?’

‘Just the clothes.’

Alfie leaned over and, with the sensitive fingers of an accomplished pickpocket, he pulled out a heavy gold watch from below the man’s waistcoat.

‘There you are,’ he said. He stroked the rounded sides of the gold case, then turned it over and looked with interest at the marks on the back. ‘In his fob pocket, the usual
place. Any thief would look there first. This is a good watch. He was quite a swell, always.’

‘Perhaps the thief forgot about the watch,’ suggested Inspector Denham with an expressionless face. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, they say.’

‘Nah! Never! In any case, why leave the boots? They were in sight. Why not pull them off and take them? I know plenty on Monmouth Street that would give me — Alfie suddenly
remembered that he was talking to an officer of the law, ‘at least . . . I’ve heard that you can get a good price for a pair of boots like that. Nah, this were no thief; this were a
toff that garrotted him and then wanted to pretend that he did it just to rob him. I’d lay a bet that Mr Montgomery had nothing at all in those greatcoat pockets. Most of the gents these days
keep their money in their trousers or waistcoat pockets. It’s obvious to anyone that this were no thief that done this,’ he finished.

The inspector said nothing, but Alfie could see an expression of satisfaction on his face. He searched his mind for more memories of Mr Montgomery. The man had returned from India a few months
before and Alfie had taken a great interest in the stories about him that Sarah, the scullery maid in the Montgomery house, had told the boys. But would it be safe to talk about these to the
inspector?

‘What about the ring?’ Alfie asked suddenly. ‘He always wore a great big diamond ring. I’ve seen it flashing.’

One hand was half-tucked under the body; ignoring the inspector’s order, Alfie reached across and pulled it out. The ring was still there.

‘It’s embedded in his flesh. He’d put on a lot of weight since he first had that ring,’ the inspector said indifferently, watching Alfie closely.

‘Most people that I know – most thieves that I’ve heard of, would have taken finger and all to get a ring like that,’ said Alfie firmly. ‘It would be worth a lot,
that ring, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’d say so.’ The inspector sounded almost friendly.

Alfie said no more, though, and Inspector Denham, having turned out the gaslight, ushered him through the door and locked it firmly behind them. Even when they were back in the office again,
Alfie still kept silent, his mind busily working. What was the inspector up to?

CHAPTER 4

‘What do you know about Mr Montgomery and his household?’ It had taken a few minutes for Inspector Denham to make up his mind, but now his tone was sharp, and
somehow different.

Alfie sat up a little straighter and assumed a businesslike air. He had been about to deny knowing anything more about the dead man, but then changed his mind. It occurred to him that he had
passed some sort of trial in there, in that room where the police kept their dead bodies, and he was anxious to retain Inspector Denham’s good opinion.

‘There’s him and his missus, and his son who’s a young toff – doesn’t do no work, I’ve heard – and they’ve got a butler, a coachman, a cook, a
housekeeper, a parlour maid and a scullery maid – and some other servants, I suppose.’

‘How do you know all this?’

Alfie hesitated. Sarah often fed him on the leftovers from the Montgomery meals and he didn’t want to betray her, but after a quick glance at Inspector Denham he changed his mind. The
inspector, he reckoned, might be willing to forget about the bread van if Alfie was able to assist him.

Alfie and his gang had known Sarah for about six months now. After hearing his brother Sammy singing in the streets, Mrs Montgomery had got her coachman to bring him to the house at Bedford
Square, where she had played the piano while Sammy sang some of his songs. Afterwards, Sarah had been told by the parlour maid to escort Sammy home. She had stayed for half an hour in their cellar,
entertaining them all with her stories of the Montgomery household and Mr Montgomery, and how he had been in India for years while his wife, who didn’t like India, lived with their son in
London. Since then, Sarah had visited the cellar every time she was allowed out to go to night classes or in her free time.

‘I know the scullery maid.’ Alfie had made up his mind that there could be no harm in admitting that.

‘Good.’ There was no mistaking the satisfaction in the man’s voice, and Alfie began to feel quite interested.

‘Do you know anything about Mr Montgomery’s earlier life?’ the inspector continued.