Death in the Devil's Den (14 page)

‘I can see that your father is going to be very, very proud of you,’ Alfie said sarcastically.

‘Here you are,’ said Richard. ‘What will it take? One sovereign? Two . . .’

Alfie hesitated but not for long. He had been to see Inspector Denham that morning. The five pounds was safely stashed away in the rent box and in his pocket were five silver shillings sent down
by Scotland Yard and delivered to the cellar by PC 27. He took a deep breath and looked Richard steadily in the eye.

‘I’d rather have nothing more to do with you, or your money,’ he said. ‘But you don’t need to worry. I’m not bringing this story to the police. I’ve
done my job and you did help – and I believe you when you say you didn’t mean to kill. Just a spot of blackmail.’

Richard’s eyes flickered. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Better be going,’ he said uncertainly.

Alfie gestured towards the parapet. There was no way he was going first. He didn’t trust Richard. ‘After you, sir,’ he said.

Alfie looked around the cellar. The task was over and the spies had been uncovered. Inspector Denham had told Alfie that Ron Shufflebottom had been arrested for passing secrets
to the Russians. Apparently he had confessed very quickly. The reward had been claimed and the gang were safe from the rent collector and would have a roof over their heads for the months to
come.

And yet, there was something wrong.

There wasn’t the same air of excitement, the same sense of achievement as at the other times they had solved mysteries. Alfie thought that he knew why. For once it was not a solution that
the gang had worked together to produce.

Alfie had gone out on his own – gone with a strange boy – with Richard Green from Westminster School. Alfie winced. He did not want to think of Richard and he turned his mind to when
he had floated over London in a balloon.

That was it. An idea seemed to float from the balloon into his mind and once more he counted out the money in his pocket.

‘It’s your half-day, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Let’s treat ourselves to an evening out at Vauxhall Gardens.’

Frankie was at the Temple Stairs with his boat when the five of them trooped down, followed by Mutsy.

‘Here, I don’t take dogs,’ said Frankie as they approached.

‘Very good guard dog; better than any gun; available free of charge to any obliging waterman,’ said Alfie smartly.

‘He’s really good at catching rats, too, if you want your mooring place cleared,’ put in Jack.

‘Go on, get in,’ said Frankie. ‘Keep him still. Where are you off to?’

‘Vauxhall Gardens’ said Alfie grandly.

‘I’ll pay half; I got some good tips from customers last night,’ said Sarah in a low voice when they reached the gardens, and Alfie allowed her. This would leave money for a
slap-up supper.

It was beginning to get dark when they arrived and Vauxhall Gardens, all decked out ready for Christmas, was a wonderful sight. The trees and colonnades that lined the paths were strung with two
thousand coloured lamps and in the background there was a sudden flash as fireworks sped up into the sky. Mutsy stared in astonishment and had to be prevented by Tom from howling with
amazement.

‘They’re like a huge wheel,’ Alfie explained to Sammy. ‘They’re like gold lines coming out from the centre and whirling around. I’ve never seen anything like
it!’ He struggled for words, trying to explain this tremendous sight to his brother.

You have to be your brother’s eyes,
his grandfather had said to Alfie when he was quite young.
Don’t ever let him be wondering what everyone is looking at; tell
him.

‘And now it’s turning different colours! It’s green and yellow and red!’

‘What’s that?’ Sammy’s ear was turned towards a large circular building. The sounds of musical instruments were coming from there.

‘Listen!’ Sammy seized his arm and Alfie listened. ‘They’re playing firework music,’ said Sammy in a hushed voice. ‘Go on telling me about the fireworks, but
quiet-like. I want to listen. They’re playing it like I imagine the fireworks look.’

So Alfie went on describing the fireworks, how some of them blossomed into pink and yellow flowers, like the ones that grew in the public parks, and how others flew through the air like birds of
paradise. Sammy sighed with pleasure and didn’t move until the last notes of the orchestra faded into silence. Even Mutsy stayed very still, his large intelligent eyes fixed on Sammy as
though he understood that this was something very important for one of his masters.

‘Everything is free here,’ said Tom, appearing beside them. ‘You can do anything you like and it’s all free! Let’s go and see the cascade.’

The cascade was magnificent. It was like a wall of water pouring down continuously, working miniature watermills and flowing into a river which disappeared behind the stage with small ships
sailing on it.

‘Supper,’ said Alfie, once he had dragged Tom out from the building where he was investigating a large pump in the company of Mutsy.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ said Sarah, looking around the restaurant once they were seated and eyeing the walls covered in enormous mirrors. ‘Look how the coloured lights are
reflected by these. I think I’ll have a word with the landlord at the White Horse Inn. Something like this would be a great attraction in his supper room. He and I have great plans for that
new room.’

‘Supper, Miss?’ The waiter addressed himself to Sarah as the most respectable one of the group.

‘What shall we have?’ Sarah looked around at the gang. Mutsy, a dog of discretion, had hidden himself beneath the table and only the tip of his hairy tail appeared from under the
long skirt of the tablecloth.

‘Beg pardon, Miss, if I could suggest. The chicken is very good, Miss, cooked at the table in front of your eyes. Glass of wine, Miss?’

‘Beer,’ decided Sarah. She looked around at the nodding heads, ‘And, yes, the chicken sounds good.’

‘Melts in the mouth, this stuff,’ said Jack approvingly.

‘Mutsy likes it; his tail is whipping my ankles,’ said Tom with his mouth full.

Alfie had never tasted chicken before in his life and the creamy softness of its velvet-like texture was something that he thought he would never forget. More and more dishes of different
vegetables and sauces were brought and even Tom found it hard to finish what was on his plate.

‘What will we do now?’ asked Sarah. ‘I’d love to go up on that swinging boat, Jack, if you’d come with me.’

‘I want to have another look at that thing that pumps the cascade,’ said Tom. ‘Come on, Mutsy, old boy. Rats! If you catch one, the man in charge might let me have a look at
how they made the watermill.’

Alfie looked at Sammy. He rather fancied having a go on the swinging boat himself, and he knew that Sammy would enjoy it.

But there was something else that Sammy would enjoy more; Alfie realised that.

‘Let’s go over to the Rotunda,’ he said. ‘There’s a concert starting there in ten minutes.’

The Rotunda was a beautifully decorated place, built in a circle with a stage in the middle of it. It was covered in paintings – Chinese, Alfie heard someone say. It was the second
performance of the evening so they got good seats, right near the stage, and Sammy was rigid with excitement from the moment that the players began to tune their instruments.

‘It’s Handel’s
Water Music
,’ Alfie whispered in his ear and Sammy nodded.

Poor Sammy, thought Alfie. He could almost feel the waves of longing coming from his brother as his hands moved softly in time to the music. If only their grandfather’s fiddle had not been
sold. It was one of the first things that Sammy and Alfie’s mother had done after her father’s death. Alfie thought of Richard and money and how much he would like to get music lessons
for Sammy, and to buy one of those gleaming stringed instruments that the men on the stage handled with such care. Blindness would not matter to a player in an orchestra.

Eventually the music finished and everyone began to move outside, talking and laughing. Sammy sat very still and Alfie stayed beside him. ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Sammy
after a minute.

‘I was thinking about Richard,’ said Alfie. Sammy was the only one that he had told the whole story to.

‘Poor old Richard,’ said Sammy compassionately. ‘I’m sorry for him, really.’

Alfie turned surprised eyes on him. ‘Sorry for Richard?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

Sammy shrugged. ‘Got no family, no gang . . . On his own most of the time . . . I wouldn’t like to be him,’ he said. ‘We have a good time, don’t we? Us and Mutsy
– and having treats like this.’

Alfie squeezed his arm. ‘I suppose you’re right, old son,’ he said. ‘Richard has pots of money, but he don’t seem none too happy.’ He spoke lightly, but he
knew what Sammy meant. He and his gang would survive; Alfie was certain of that. And who knows, he thought, what we might do in the years to come.

Thanks are due to Anne Clark and the team at Piccadilly who have spared no efforts to make the book as perfect as it can be, to Peter Buckman of Ampersand Agency, who always
finds time to read and comment on my many books, and to my family and friends who have to put up with me when I get lost in the fogs of Victorian London.