Death of a Chimney Sweep

Cora Harrison is the author of many successful books for children and adults. She lives on a small farm in the west of Ireland with her husband, her
German Shepherd dog called Oscar and a very small white cat called Polly.

To discover why Cora wrote the London Murder Mysteries, head online to:
www.piccadillypress.co.uk/londonmurdermysteries

First published in Great Britain in 2011
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk

Text copyright © Cora Harrison, 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

The right of Cora Harrison to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978 1 84812 159 1 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 196 6

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
Cover design by Patrick Knowles
Cover illustration by Chris King

For my grandson,
Shane Mason

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 1

W
HY
D
ID
H
E
D
IE
?

Alfie knew who it was the moment he saw the body. It lay there on the river steps, just by Hungerford Bridge. Soot-blackened clothes, soot-blackened hair, soot-blackened skin,
dead eyes staring at nothing. If it hadn’t been for a sudden beam of light from a fishing boat, he would never have noticed it lying against the darkness of the rain-washed stone. But he did
see it, and then he could not walk away.

Early that morning, Alfie had been coming down St Martin’s Lane when he saw the figure of Joe, the young chimney sweep, silhouetted against the dawn sky, scrambling hastily across the
rooftops.

Joe had been in a state when he reached the ground. His words were almost incomprehensible. Something about a bend . . . something about going the wrong way – or was it going into the
wrong room? . . . something about being scared . . .

Alfie had tried to persuade him to run away, but Joe did not want to take that drastic step. Runaway apprentices were put in prison.

So the boy had gone back to the chimneys, back to Grimston the master chimney sweep. And now he was dead.

But how did he die?

Alfie looked all around. The light was fading on this winter afternoon and the fog was coming down thickly again. The river and the shoreline below were already dark as night.

The oil lamps from Hungerford market were a golden haze in the distance, and a few pitch torches on the roadway flared in small pockets of light, but there was no sign of anyone nearby.

Had the terrified boy just lain down and died?

Or had Joe been murdered?

CHAPTER 2

D
ANGER

‘What’s the matter?’ Sammy, Alfie’s blind brother, had stayed silent up to now. Sammy always knew when something was wrong; when fear, anger –
even terror – overwhelmed his older brother.

‘A dead body. Joe the sweeping boy,’ said Alfie briefly.

‘Dead!’ echoed Sammy. ‘What happened?’

‘Don’t know.’ And then, after a minute, almost to himself, Alfie said, ‘Why here? Why by Hungerford Bridge? Grimston has all his boys up in that stable at the back of
Westminster Abbey. Why should Joe come down here?’

‘Bit early to have stopped work, too,’ observed Sammy. ‘The four o’clock bell at St Martin’s church has only just gone.’

Alfie bent down over the body, trying hard to see it properly, but it was only a shadowy outline. At that moment, an anchored ship swung with the turning tide and its lamps lit up the scene. The
light splashed over the body, showing the blackened young face – no sign of a wound, but a tongue protruded.

Alfie drew in a deep breath. ‘He was murdered, Sammy,’ he whispered in his brother’s ear. ‘Someone strangled him!’

‘Alfie,’ said Sammy in a low voice, ‘that gig that passed in front of us a minute ago, just as we was coming out of the alleyway – I’d say that they was the ones
that dumped the body. I heard a thud and then they pulled the horse’s head around and went back towards the market.’

Alfie knelt down and touched the body. It was still warm. He lifted the arm; it was limp.

Alfie knew death well. After every night of frost or fog or even rain, there would be bodies on the London streets – some under the carts at Hungerford market, some in shop doorways, some
under the archways of Waterloo Bridge. Joe would be just another body to be carted away when morning came.

‘Alfie,’ said Sammy, his voice full of alarm, ‘that gig is coming back . . .’

Thoughts darted through Alfie’s mind like lightning. They were in danger if it was the same man, the man who threw the dead body out of the gig. The sudden light on the river bank would
have made him look back and he would have seen the two boys by the body. He might think he’d been spotted by Sammy and Alfie – in that case, he’d want to get rid of them. One dead
boy, three dead boys; one murder, three murders – what was the difference in the mind of a killer?

It was no good running. Hungerford market, crowded with stalls and people, was a good hundred yards away; a horse with only a light, open-topped carriage attached could outrun any boy.

A second later, Alfie was in the evil-smelling water of the Thames. He held Sammy in a tight grip around the blind boy’s chest, pulling him along, making for a place to hide. The outline
of the boat was now just a dark shadow against the brick pillar of the bridge. There was no one on it. If they could get there without being seen, it would be a safe hiding place for them.

The water was getting deeper – up to their waists now. Alfie prayed that it would go no higher. He tried to move as silently as possible, pushing his legs forward in long smooth strides,
and Sammy copied him.

‘Hi! Is there someone there?’ The shout made him jump. The oil lantern had been lifted off the gig and its beam swung along the shoreline. Alfie stopped for a moment and then moved
cautiously forward for a few more yards. In front of them were the steps leading up to the bridge and the boat was moored beside them. He reached out and touched the solid brick of the pier.
Cautiously, Alfie turned Sammy around until the boy had his back to the steps and pressed on his shoulders. His breath grew short and his heart thudded as he tried to make Sammy understand what he
wanted him to do. He did not dare whisper and had to guide the blind boy by touch. Every moment he expected the light of the lantern to reveal them to the man hunting them. Finally his groping hand
found wood and he gripped the side of the boat tightly.

‘Stay still,’ he whispered in Sammy’s ear.

Once he was over the edge of the boat and his feet were firmly on the deck, he helped Sammy in. By touch he found a tarpaulin and pushed Sammy under it. He was just about to tuck his own head
under it when the lamp’s beam swung in a wide arc and lit up the fishing boat.