The Montgomery Murder (8 page)

He patted Mutsy’s large head, took a deep breath of air and then coughed. There was a terribly thick fog out this afternoon, he reckoned. He jumped slightly as he heard an angry shout and
the squeal of a horse that had been pulled up suddenly. The fog must be so bad that people crossing the road couldn’t even see the cabs. He grinned to himself – Tom must have got lost.
This was one time when he and Mutsy were better off than the people who could see. Mutsy just needed his nose and he, Sammy, had his two ears that were twice as good as anyone else’s.

Mutsy was going home by a short cut, Sammy guessed. Now they seemed to be in one of those small courts around St Giles church. Sammy could sense the tall buildings – rookeries, they were
known as – all around him. Thousands of people lived crowded together in those rookeries. Despite the fog, the air was full of the usual screams and shouts and curses and bangs. Under it all,
though, he could hear something else. The fog muted the sound; nevertheless it was definitely the clip-clop of a horse. And the strange thing was that the horse was not trotting, but was walking
slowly – walking as if the owner was following something, rather than making his way home as quickly as possible through the fog. And it was walking just behind him.

Sammy shrank in towards the wall, Mutsy’s solid body between him and the horse that was following so closely.

There was a growl from Mutsy. Sammy acted instinctively and let go of the rope handle around Mutsy’s neck. If something attacked, he didn’t want to prevent Mutsy defending
himself.

But there was no barking or snarling, just a sharp crack, a whimper and the sound of something heavy slumping to the ground.

And then a hand grabbed Sammy by the hair and unmercifully hauled him up. Sammy screamed. The pain from his scalp was unbearable, but it was terror that made him shriek. It was no good, though;
he knew that as soon as the sound left his throat. No one in St Giles would ever notice a child screaming. Desperately he drummed with his heels. He was being pulled up on to the horse’s
back. He could smell the leather saddle, the well-groomed horse smell and the smell of a man – a man who had washed and shaved with some sort of strange, exotic soap – but something
else, as well. A strong, clean sort of smell . . .

Then Sammy’s heart almost stopped. Around his throat was something sharp that dug into the skin and that choked the sound.

Frantically he scrabbled with his nails to remove the razor-thin wire from his throat.

He could feel his fingers bleed as the noose tightened. The warm blood ran down his neck. He leaned over to one side, trying to throw himself from the horse’s back. He would risk being
trampled if he managed it, but he didn’t care. He knew that he was in deadly danger. And what about Mutsy? Poor Mutsy. As clearly as if he had have seen the whole thing, Sammy knew that
Mutsy, his protector, had been hit on the head by a cudgel. Perhaps he was dead. Sammy felt the tears run down his face as he struggled with the wire.

And then he got a sharp blow to the side of his face. The pain made him feel sick and giddy. His hands loosened. The man on the horse pulled them away. Now there was nothing to stop him being
garrotted – just like Mr Montgomery had been garrotted.

Perhaps in the same place, too! They were out of St Giles, now, Sammy reckoned, and were probably at Seven Dials. The paved road there had a hollow sound. People said that was because a great
treasure was buried there before the tall pillar with its seven sundials had been built on this spot. Seven roads branched off from this central space, but the man on the horse went steadily ahead,
so they must be going down Monmouth Street.

Sammy felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. If Mutsy did not come quickly there would be no hope for him. His body would be dropped in a dark doorway, just like the body of Mr
Montgomery.

Then he heard the sharp shrill sound of a policeman’s whistle. Shouts of ‘Stop thief!’ echoed from the walls of the tall houses on either side. There was a banging of doors and
a rush of feet coming up from the cellars where the shoemakers of Monmouth Street worked. The quiet street was instantly alive with people.

Sammy’s heart thudded with excitement. Surely one of the policemen, or even one of the crowd, rushing to the scene, would spot him. Perhaps in another moment he would be on his feet . .
.

Suddenly a rug was flung over his head. Sammy gasped. Now even if the fog lifted a little, no one would be able to see him – he was just a lump under the blanket, between the man and the
horse’s head.

A sob tore Sammy’s throat. What was happening to poor Mutsy? He could not bear the thought that Mutsy might be dead. He must be alive, he told himself.

If the dog were still alive, could he find Sammy? If he were walking, or the man just dragged him along the road; that would have been all right. Mutsy had a wonderful nose and Alfie had often
played a game where Tom or Jack took Sammy out and Alfie released Mutsy five minutes later. The big dog never failed to track him down. That’s probably what he had done today – he had
tracked Sammy to the Montgomery house and then run upstairs to join him once he began to sing. At the thought of the faithfulness of the poor dog, Sammy felt the tears welling up in his eyes and
dripping down his cheeks. His throat swelled and the wire became almost more than he could endure.

Mutsy would track him. If he were still alive, Mutsy would find him. Mutsy would kill this man; there was no doubt about that. He would kill him like a rat; seize hold of his throat and hold on until he was dead. Sammy concentrated again on
the picture of Mutsy, getting up, shaking his poor sore head, and then putting his nose to the ground. Sammy cautiously moved his arm and shook his wrist so that his bleeding fingers were held free
of the horse’s body. He had to make sure that he laid the trail for Mutsy to follow and that his blood would go drop by drop all along the pavement of Monmouth Street.

And now the horse turned, turned to the left. Sammy curled and uncurled his fingers frantically to keep the blood flowing. His fingertips were wet, but was there enough blood to leave a
trail?

This was Long Acre. He could recognise the smell from the coachmaker shops that lined it – a smell of leather and polish and the sharp hot smell of melted metal from the yards behind the
shops. Their cellar was near here. If only he didn’t have that wire around his throat. If only he could shout. Most of the people living around here – even those who worked in these
posh shops – they all knew ‘blind Sammy’.

Frantically he struggled, but it was no good. The man gave a sudden hard jerk to the wire and Sammy felt dizzy and sick. He was near death, he knew, and he forced himself to relax his throat so
that more air could get in.

Another turn. To the right, this time. Now Sammy was feeling a little better. He managed to get his two hands together. With the nails of his left hand he tore unmercifully at the open cuts on
the fingers of his right hand. The blood flowed again and he managed to smear it over the handkerchief that Alfie had tucked into his pocket that morning . . . Would it work? The streets were wet
and dirty and the smell of horse manure was overpowering. It seemed impossible that Mutsy should be able to follow him, but Sammy had confidence in his dog.

‘He seems to know if you’ve just passed down a street,’ Alfie had reported once. ‘Half the time, he doesn’t even sniff the ground. He just tears along.’

Corners were the most important places, though. He had to show Mutsy that he had turned. Where was the man taking him? He was definitely turning the horse. They must be turning on to Drury Lane
now. Sammy let the bloodstained handkerchief drop from his fingers. If Mutsy were still alive he might follow the clue.

Drury Lane was full of people. Sammy could hear the voices – ordinary voices, complaining of the fog, talking about shopping, greeting each other, making jokes. He relaxed a little.
Nothing would happen to him here. He risked slipping his left hand back underneath the rug. The grip on his neck had relaxed a little. Cautiously he inserted first one finger, then another, then
another until he had three fingers between the skin of his neck and the sharp biting surface of the wire. If it were tightened now, he could resist for a while.

And now they must be at the entrance to Russell Street. Sammy could smell the stench from the poor people’s burying ground at Drury Lane where the bodies were squashed in, one on top of
the other. He tried not to flinch from the smell. Every movement he made brought a tightening jerk on the noose.

They were going down the steep hill now. If he had not been held so firmly by the wire around his neck, Sammy would have tumbled over the horse’s head. They must be going into the Strand,
he thought. This puzzled him. The Strand was always full of people. He could hear the hum as they approached. There were the shouts of the men selling hot pies, the noisy clopping of the
horses’ hooves, the shrill, high voices of the newspaper sellers and once again the high-pitched squeal of a policeman’s whistle. Would the man turn left and go up the Strand towards St
Paul’s Cathedral, or would he go in the opposite direction towards Charing Cross?

But he did neither. He waited for a while, his horse at a standstill. Sammy’s heart beat fast. Perhaps the man was going to let him go. He would never dare to drop a dead body here, right
under the noses of the crowd and of the police themselves; if he let him go, he would let him go alive. He hardly dared hope, but yet he did hope.

But no, they were moving again, crossing the Strand. The horse was going a little faster now – crossing the road, obviously. For a moment Sammy still hoped that he would be allowed to slip
down from the horse, but then the noose around his neck was jerked cruelly tight. If he had not had his fingers there, he would certainly have choked.

They were going downhill again. Not down a slope, though – these were steps. Wide, shallow steps, thought Sammy, feeling the horse’s cautious movements.

And then Sammy’s heart suddenly stopped. Even from beneath the blanket, he smelled something new. It was the river. No one could mistake that smell of sewage mixed with a faint saltiness.
They were going down the Temple Steps towards the River Thames.

He felt the noose tighten agonisingly, biting almost to the bone of his three fingers. Just before he lost consciousness, he realised what was going to happen.

Now Sammy knew how this man was going to commit his second murder.

CHAPTER 14

Alfie walked away briskly after leaving Sammy at the Montgomery household in Bedford Square. On his way out, Sarah had introduced him to the men that worked in mews behind the
Montgomery house, and he was planning to come back a little later to see if he could engage the groom or the coachman in conversation. He could always offer to do a few small jobs like cleaning the
mud from the wheels of the carriage or brushing out the stables or polishing the leather harness.

First of all he went back to the cellar in Bow Street. There was work to be done and orders to be given if he were to earn the money the inspector had half-promised and keep a roof over all
their heads. His mind was churning with tasks to be done, people to see, possibilities to investigate.

‘Jack, old son, would you fancy hanging around the betting clubs in Leicester Square? I’d like to know which one of them that Denis Montgomery goes to.’

Jack nodded. He didn’t argue, though Alfie knew that Jack, being rather shy, didn’t like doing that sort of thing. He much preferred jobs like hunting for coal along the riverside
after the barges had been unloaded, or bringing home rotten wood from empty, tumbledown buildings on the quays, or doing some chopping for a friendly butcher in Russell Street.

‘I’ll go, too,’ said Tom.

‘No, you won’t. You can take Mutsy and do a few tricks with him. We could do with getting in some more money.’

‘I don’t want to.’ Tom was in one of his difficult, whiny moods. Alfie always thought that his mother had spoilt Tom. She had regarded him as a poor motherless babe and had
seemed to give him more affection than she gave to her own two sons.

‘No, you won’t,’ he repeated. ‘You like eating, don’t you? Well, sausages cost money and money don’t grow on no trees around here – not that I’ve
noticed, anyways. Listen to the church clock at St Martin-in-the-Fields, and when it’s four o’clock, then you go and collect Sammy from the Montgomery place. Number one, Bedford Square
– and make sure you go around the back.’

Alfie lurked for a while until Tom and Jack had turned down Long Acre, then he followed them at a distance. He wanted to make sure that Tom followed his orders. It was time that he pulled his
weight. He was older than Sammy, but Sammy worked twice as hard as Tom did. Also, he wanted to make sure that Tom didn’t take his bad humour out on Mutsy.

The two brothers stopped at the end of Long Acre and Alfie could hear Tom’s voice.

‘I’ll just come with you,’ he was saying. ‘I’d like to see inside these gambling clubs.’