Murder on Stage (11 page)

And now they were in Newgate Street. The iron was burning through his ankles, rubbing the skin raw, but he hardly felt it. His arms were stiff, but he hardly felt that either.

At the prison gate, the inspector spoke to the lodge keeper and a turnkey arrived, the man that looked after the prisoners. He took Alfie by the arm, marched him down the passageways. There must
have been about a hundred of these stone passages! Continually they stopped while the turnkey took yet another enormous key from his bunch and opened yet another gate. The walls were dripping with
green slime and the stench was almost unbearable. The covered lantern held by the turnkey made their shadows look like giant apparitions on the wall and the noise of his boots on the flagstones
echoed like the beating of a giant hammer.

‘Like to see something?’ said the turnkey and Alfie started to hear the voice booming around and bouncing from stone wall to stone wall.

‘Yes,’ he said. He didn’t suppose it mattered whether he said yes or no; the turnkey could do as he pleased with his manacled and shackled prisoner.

‘That’s the condemned cell,’ whispered the turnkey after a moment. His whisper sounded more threatening than any yell.

‘
Condemned
,’ hissed the echoes.

The turnkey stopped and Alfie stopped. In front of them were iron bars, reaching from floor to ceiling. An iron gate, heavily padlocked, was set into the bars. Beyond the bars was the cell.

The condemned cell was a small stone room, no bigger than cupboard. It had three walls and a stone bench that served for sitting or lying. There was no mattress, no cushions, nothing to bring
any comfort. The green damp hung from the low walls and the tracks of slugs and snails glistened silver in the candlelight.

On the stone bench sat a man dressed completely in rags. His head was buried in his hands and he neither stirred nor moved his head.

In one corner of the cell was an iron candleholder which held a half-burnt candle. The draughts that whistled down the passages, and through the iron bars, blew the candle flame to one side and
set the candle wax dripping down in a strangely lacy sheet. Alfie shuddered as he looked at it. A ‘winding sheet’ his mother used to call it and he had always hated the expression. A
winding sheet for a corpse – something to wrap a dead body in.

‘Going to be hanged in two days’ time,’ whispered the turnkey and it looked to Alfie as if the man had already, in spirit, left this world.

Alfie felt himself shivering violently. His teeth began to chatter noisily. He clenched them together, determined to show no fear, but it was too late. The turnkey had heard the clicking. He
smiled maliciously. At that smile Alfie’s courage came back. He straightened his back, rubbed his hands in an exaggerated way, rather like a clown pretending to be cold, and then jumped up
and down, his shackles clanking noisily.

‘I need a jug of hot brandy,’ he said briskly and this time the turnkey laughed.

‘You’re a game one,’ he said approvingly. ‘Come on, let’s get you locked up with the other chickens.’

Alfie followed the turnkey down yet another long corridor. There were a few high windows where a misty light seeped through – from the street gas lamps, he guessed. From the distance came
the sound of hoarse, raucous shouts and growled deep-toned warnings. Alfie had once heard sounds like these from caged lions being wheeled in for a performance in Drury Lane Theatre.

‘Animals!’ The turnkey broke into his thoughts. He pointed down the corridor ahead of them. ‘We found a dead man in there one morning – forty-nine men alive and one dead
– and not a soul would tell us what happened during the night.’

Alfie resolved to keep his head down – terrible things could happen in Newgate jail; he had heard that.

‘In here,’ the turnkey said as he unlocked yet another gate and then a door beyond it.

In this huge room there was one tiny fire burning at the far end, half screened by some heavy, fearsome men with angry, belligerent faces. The fire did little good. The room was as cold as
out-of-doors and somehow the fog had drifted in here and swathes of mist hovered around the heads of the prisoners.

‘You take a mat down from there at night.’ The turnkey jerked a thumb at some filthy mats dangling from nails on the wall. ‘That’s if you can get there in time.’ He
gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Supper at seven,’ he said and gave Alfie a little push toward a group of boys.

‘Some mates of yours,’ he said with a grin. ‘Every one of them appeared at the Old Bailey court today – all of them condemned to hang.’

Even the oldest of the six boys looked less than fourteen. None of them took any notice of the turnkey’s words; none of them seemed to be thinking about the sentence that had been passed
upon them. All six were smoking old-fashioned clay pipes and they looked up from their game of cards as Alfie went by.

‘Cheer up, mate!’ one of them called over to Alfie with a contemptuous laugh.

‘Next thing, he’ll be asking for a clergyman to sob his heart out to,’ sneered another.

After that, none of them bothered about Alfie and he was glad. If he were ever to get out of this place he would need everyone’s good opinion and becoming friends with condemned criminals
would not help. He moved away, sat down on the stone floor with his back to the wall and began to think.

He had to get out of here – before he was put on trial at the Old Bailey.

And there was only one way of getting out of here. The real murderer of Harry Booth had to be found.

But what could he do about that, locked up in prison? Alfie slumped down, his head on his knees.

The turnkey exchanged a last joke with the card-playing boys and turned to go away. As he heard their raucous laughter, Alfie sat up straight. The boys’ taunts had given him an idea. He
struggled to his feet and reached the turnkey before he opened the door.

‘I want to see a clergyman,’ he said firmly.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ The turnkey stared at him with an annoyed look and the boys burst into fits of laughter again.

‘He’ll be the death of me,’ said one, choking on his pipe.

Alfie ignored them. He kept his eyes fixed on the turnkey and his expression as bland and as polite as he could make it.

‘Why didn’t you say that downstairs? You was asked at the lodge did you want a clergyman and you said nuffing.’ The man was furious and Alfie didn’t blame him when he
thought of all the long passageways and the gates and doors to be locked and unlocked.

‘It was seeing the condemned man,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That made me feel that I wanted to say my prayers.’

And as he thought of that condemned cell, his shudder became a real one.

Would he ever sit inside those bars with only that winding sheet of candle wax to keep him company?

The turnkey thought for a moment and then jerked his head. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Easier for me to take you to him, in his little room, than to bring him
up here and keep him safe among all those savages. Come on, get moving and be quick about it. I haven’t all day to spend with you and your fits of holiness.’

Alfie fixed his eyes on the turnkey and when the man moved, he moved with him. He got a harsh push at the door that almost knocked him down, but he staggered, then regained his balance and said
nothing.

The way back was quicker. This time there was no detour to the condemned cell, just a quick march down echoing corridors, the crash of gates closing behind them, up some steps and then into the
chapel.

It was a small building, just one large room with an open space and a screened-off portion to one side.

‘That’s where the women sit on Sundays, behind that curtain,’ remarked the turnkey pointing. ‘And do you see that iron cage there? Well, that’s where the condemned
person or persons sit the Sunday before their hanging and hear theyselves prayed for. They used to have their coffins lying beside them, but they don’t do that any more – don’t
know why not. I used to think that it looked good. Put the frighteners on everyone, like.’

While he was speaking a white-haired, weary-looking man came in and looked surprised to see them.

‘This young shaver wants to see a minister, Reverend,’ said the turnkey. ‘Don’t mind me, covey, just talk away.’

‘I think that the boy would prefer to be alone with me,’ said the minister. For an old man, he had a firm, strong voice.

The turnkey shrugged his shoulders. ‘Have it your own way,’ he said sulkily. ‘I’ll be outside the door. Just remember that this varmint is going to face trial in
connection with that murder at the theatre. I wouldn’t trust him too far if I was you.’

‘I’m sure I can come to no harm,’ said the clergyman firmly. ‘The boy is in chains.’

The door closed with a bit of a slam and Alfie faced the clergyman, wondering how to get around to what he wanted. He opened his mouth and then closed it again when he heard the words, ‘Do
you want to pray, boy?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Alfie meekly. Shuffling awkwardly, he knelt down and put his hands together. He knew all about churches; he had accompanied Sammy often enough when Sammy wanted to
learn a new hymn or a new Christmas carol. He saw the clergyman look at him in surprise and then a hand patted his shoulder gently. He seemed a nice old man; he must be if he chose to spend his
life in a hell like Newgate prison instead of giving services in posh churches and chatting with posh ladies.

The prayer was a long one, but Alfie did not move a muscle and kept his teeth tightly clenched to avoid a yawn. His mind was working hard. Who did murder Harry Booth? He went over the
information gleaned from the two clowns, Joey and Lucky. They had mentioned a few names of those who might bear a grudge. Who had the best motive? Was it John Osborne, whose face was ruined by
Harry Booth? And what about Francis Fairburn, in love with Rosa, the female lead, who went off with Harry Booth? And how about the manager? Alfie could have screamed with frustration that he was
not out there, investigating.

And there was more than a few shillings to be gained by solving this murder. His liberty and perhaps his life were at stake.

He would have to rely on Sarah. She was a quickwitted girl, but she did not know about Joey and Lucky, the two clowns who knew so much about Harry Booth and the other people who worked at the
theatre. So this plan that he had in the back of his head just had to work.

‘That’s a beautiful prayer, sir,’ he said opening his eyes as silence fell. ‘I wish I had a copy of that to read this night before I . . . I think it would help me to
sleep, sir.’

‘Poor boy,’ said the clergyman gently. ‘Can you read?’

‘And I can write,’ said Alfie eagerly. ‘Mr Elmore taught me – at the Ragged School of St Giles.’ He could hear the turnkey clear his throat noisily a few times and
then start to tramp up and down outside the door. He was getting impatient. Alfie willed the clergyman to move a bit faster.

‘So you were one of his pupils,’ mused the old man. ‘I remember him well. He often came here to speak up for some poor lad like yourself who got into bad company. Here.’
He got up and crossed the room and took a small leaf of printed paper from a cupboard, ‘This is a prayer for you, my boy, you can slip that in your pocket and read it to yourself when you go
back.’

‘I’ll have it off-by-heart in half an hour,’ boasted Alfie. ‘I’m very quick at learning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I wish that I could send it to my
sister, Sarah, then when I have learnt it.’

‘Ready yet, your reverence?’ called the turnkey.

‘Another few minutes,’ said the clergyman firmly.

‘If I could just write her a few lines to go with it,’ pleaded Alfie. ‘You see . . . my mother asked me to look after Sarah and . . .’ Inspired by the performance of the
turnkey outside the door, he cleared his throat and cast down his eyes – trying to look like the picture of a brother who fears he has not set a good example to his sister.

It worked. Ignoring another question from the turnkey, the clergyman got out a quill pen and a small jar of ink from a cupboard and set them in front of Alfie, smiling at him gently.

‘I’ll write on the back of the prayer,’ said Alfie quickly as the clergyman wondered aloud where he had put some paper.

Rapidly he turned over the page, dipped his pen in the ink and carefully wrote:

Alfie did not take long to write the words. All through the journey down the endless, echoing passageways and while he was kneeling down, he had been perfecting his rhyme. He glanced at the
clergyman, who was now kneeling in front of the altar praying. He would be unnoticed for another few minutes. He moved his paper so that the light from the gas taper fell brightly on to the page.
Carefully, with the tip of his quill, Alfie put a tiny dot, almost an invisible dot, under the words
one, two, three
. Then he underlined boldly the words
clowns and actors.