The Body in the Fog (11 page)

Alfie did not linger. He gave a quick nod and headed downstairs again, hearing Jim’s soft slippers pattering behind.

‘Not a bad place,’ he said briskly when he arrived back into the foggy atmosphere of the courtyard. ‘Eight shillings is dear, though; Sal only charges seven, but I’ll do
my best for you.’

‘That woman!’ Chinaman Jim gave a scornful laugh.

‘She gets plenty of customers, though,’ said Alfie, seizing the opportunity. ‘Toffs, too. Saw one in there tonight. You must see him go in and out – small fella with dark
brown whiskers and thick eyebrows.’

‘Him! Poor man! He is ashamed of himself. Hides his face with a newspaper when he comes.’ Chinaman Jim had an odd, high-pitched laugh, but his eyes were sharp and clever.

Alfie hoped that he had sounded sufficiently casual and had not aroused any suspicions. ‘I reckon he’s a great customer for Sal,’ he remarked carelessly. ‘Stays there all
night, I suppose.’

‘Never stays long,’ hissed Chinaman Jim. ‘You watch. He’ll come out any minute now. One pipe only. You see.’

Alfie nodded. That fitted with what he was thinking: that Bristly Eyebrows probably didn’t take too much opium, if he managed to hold down a job at the post office. It would be interesting
to follow him and find out where he went when he left Opium Sal’s place.

‘Not much of a customer, then. Now what’s my share in all this? If I bring a customer, it won’t be just to put a smile on your face, old fellow. What’s in it for
me?’

Sammy bit back a chuckle. Old Alfie was a great actor, he thought. Anyone would swear he had lost interest in the toff with the bristly eyebrows by the way he immediately began to bargain for a
fee of thruppence for every customer he brought. He could just imagine the look of disgust on Alfie’s face as he contemptuously turned away at the offer of a penny.

‘You bring, I see,’ shouted Chinaman Jim as Alfie took his brother by the arm and walked away. Alfie did not reply and Sammy knew that not only had his brother no intention of
supplying customers for opium dens, but now that he had got the information that he was looking for, the man was of no further interest to him.

‘We’ll wait on the far side of the gate of the court,’ said Alfie in his ear. ‘Don’t suppose Bristly Eyebrows even noticed us when we were in Opium Sal’s
place, but there’s no sense in running risks.’

Sammy was just beginning to feel chilled in the damp, foggy air when Alfie breathed in his ear. ‘Here he comes.’

The man turned up towards the Strand and stood for a moment under the light of the gas lamp with the air of someone who was not sure which way to go. He was a small, thin man of about fifty,
very well dressed in a black tail coat and a shirt with a stiff white collar.

Alfie inspected him carefully. Something glinted from the man’s collar. Alfie dropped Sammy’s arm and cautiously moved nearer, being sure to keep within the shadow of the gate. Yes,
he was right – there was something there!

There on the man’s collar was a small badge made from three entwined gold letters. After a minute of staring, Alfie made them out. GPO was what they were: General Post Office! So Sammy had
been right!

All of the post office workers wore badges, but the ordinary workers’ badges were made from cheap tin and painted red. This fellow must be something high up, probably an inspector or
something. But that was not all. Alfie remembered the note that he had picked up in Trafalgar Square – it had those same tangled-up letters woven into the expensive paper in gold. With a
satisfied nod, Alfie moved back to Sammy and took his arm again.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he whispered to Sammy. ‘I’ll just let him get ahead and then we’ll follow.’

But the man did not go down the Strand as Alfie had expected. After a minute he turned and began to go in the opposite direction, downhill, followed at a distance by the boys. He was staggering
now and his pace was dead slow.

‘Going towards the river,’ whispered Alfie in Sammy’s ear. ‘He’s reeling and lurching just like he’s drunk.’

Sammy listened to the uneven footsteps, but he could hear something else as well. The man was breathing as though he had been climbing a steep hill, sucking in great mouthfuls of air.

‘Coming out by the river, now,’ whispered Alfie.

He sounded nervous, thought Sammy. Normally Alfie would not have bothered saying that. He would have known that Sammy would feel the damp air of the river on his face after emerging from that
narrow lane enclosed by tall houses.

‘What’s he doing?’ Sammy whispered back.

‘He’s not going on the bridge; he’s just standing by the river and gulping. Hope he’s not going to throw himself in.’ Alfie sounded annoyed and added in a low
whisper: ‘I suppose I’d have to go in after him if he did or I’d never know if he had anything to do with Jemmy’s death and that robbery. Come on. He’s half out of his
mind. I’ll talk to him.’

Quickly he towed Sammy over towards the man. ‘Penny for a blind boy, mister?’ he said briskly in a loud voice.

‘Wa . . . wa . . . a . . . min . . . must get air.’ The man noisily gulped in mouthfuls of fog.

‘You’re not well,’ asserted Alfie. ‘Walk you back, sir. Where are you going?’

‘The p . . . ose . . . toffice . . .’ slurred the man.

Post office! Alfie translated the broken syllables in his mind and felt a tremor of excitement rush through him. This confirmed his suspicions. He had known of many people addicted to opium and,
rich or poor, they had one thing in common. They would lie, steal or even kill to get money for their drug. It looked as though this man with his fancy post office badge did have something to do
with the raid on the post office. Perhaps Alfie would be able to get out of him where the jewels were hidden and Alfie’s gang would be able to claim the ten-pound reward after all.

The man produced a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop his face. The river air seemed to be doing him good. His breathing had slowed down and the incoherent muttering had
stopped.

‘Little blind boy,’ he said and his voice was almost normal. ‘You’ve got hair like a little angel in heaven.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sammy calmly. He was used to that sort of thing, but usually from pious old ladies outside churches.

Bristly Eyebrows swung suddenly around to Alfie.

‘Take him away,’ he hissed. ‘There’s evil in the air here. Don’t you smell it? Take him away immediately. Here,’ he fumbled in his pocket and produced a coin.
Alfie caught a glimpse of silver as the coin glimmered in the light from a nearby gas lamp.

‘Just going, sir,’ he said reassuringly. He knew what these opium smokers were like – took little or nothing for them to throw a fit of hysterics.

‘We’ll wait here for a while and then when he’s forgotten all about you I’ll go back down and see if I can get some sense out of him,’ he whispered to Sammy once
they had withdrawn into the dim opening of Hungerford Lane.

‘Wonder why he chose to come down to the river?’ whispered back Sammy. ‘If he always just takes one pipe, you’d think he would go home afterwards.’

‘Perhaps he comes down for the air. It seems to be doing him good. He’s walking up and down, now. Hang on a minute and I’ll have a chat with him before his senses come back
completely.’

Alfie strolled back towards Bristly Eyebrows. ‘So you work at the post office in Trafalgar Square, do you?’ he asked briskly and held his breath while the man turned his head towards
him.

‘That’s right.’

Alfie relaxed as soon as he heard the tone of the man’s voice. It was mellow, a bit fogged up – just right for getting information out of him. ‘That was a good trick that you
pulled off, getting them jewels as well.’ He gulped nervously. Was he laying himself open to being killed? Still, he told himself, opium smokers were famous for not remembering anything that
was said while they were still dopey with the drug. At least the man showed no interest in his words, just continued to gaze up the river. Alfie went on rapidly, ‘Shame about old Jemmy
getting that bash on the head – killed him, you know. Still, I suppose he was asking for it, wasn’t he? Spying on you all? Asking for money? Or was it the post office raiders killed
him? Maybe he got in their way?’

‘No!’ The man suddenly sounded more normal, just as if he were startled out of his opium dreams. ‘No, nobody touched Jemmy. I saw him myself, after the raid, when I was going
home. He was talking to one of the engineers from Birmingham, the fellows that were examining the pump for the fountains.’

‘But . . .’ began Alfie and then stopped. There was a low whistle from Sammy and then his voice.

‘Boat coming,’ he whispered.

CHAPTER 18

The White Horse Inn had a reputation for good food and Sarah was busy serving breakfast to half a dozen tables when a voice said quietly in her ear:

‘Any sign of those two scoundrels?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir,’ said Sarah, neatly depositing the plate of sausages and eggs onto the small table in front of one of the Birmingham engineers while balancing
the tray with his beer in her other hand.

Her heart thumped as she turned to see that it was the man with the red scarf. He still wore the scarf – it must be his trademark. Most of these flash thieves had something which made them
stand out from the others.

‘A sharp girl like you; I’m sure you must remember me.’ The man’s eyes were fixed intently on her. ‘Came here the other night looking for a pair of young
pickpockets,’ he continued. ‘You remember me now, don’t you? Stole my watch, they did, the two of them. Worth a pound it was; that’s a jailing matter. No wonder
they’re keeping away from me. But a smart girl like you might hear something. You could tell me where to find them. There’s a shilling for you if you can tip me the wink. I’ll be
in here again tonight and I’ll have that shilling in my pocket.’

‘A shilling!’ Sarah did not have to pretend to be surprised. A shilling was a lot of money for a little piece of information about two boys. She decided to probe a little more.

‘Oh, yes, I remember you now. You went down to the kitchen to look for them, didn’t you?’ Sarah cleared some emptied tankards onto her tray. ‘I’ll have a word with
the scullery maid and see if she knows anything.’ She smiled at Red Scarf, trying to conceal her nervousness.

‘And you’re sure that you don’t know them?’ He was eyeing her narrowly with a shade of suspicion in his eyes.

‘Well,’ she said slowly. An idea had come to her. ‘I can’t talk here,’ she whispered with a quick look over at the landlord who, luckily, was staring in her
direction. ‘I’ll meet you at two o’clock in Trafalgar Square.’

‘Too public,’ whispered the man. ‘Make it Monmouth Street, near to Seven Dials. You’ll be able to bring the young fellows with you, won’t you?’

Sarah nodded, gulping nervously. Seven Dials was a terrible place, full of criminals, murderers and cracksmen. She edged away from him.

‘Sarah, take a tray up to number fifteen,’ shouted the innkeeper, to her relief.

‘Is he still sick, then?’ she said, glad to find an opportunity to get away from the man with the red silk scarf and the penetrating eyes. ‘He’s very keen on his meals,
for a sick man.’

‘Who cares how much he eats? Go on, girl, none of your business,’ said the innkeeper gruffly. ‘He’ll pay his bill on Saturday with the rest of them engineers before they
go back to Birmingham. Nothing to us, if he eats his meals in the bar, or eats them in his bedroom.’

Nothing to
you
, thought Sarah. You’re not the one that has to climb up and down three flights of stairs carrying heavy trays laden with food. Not to mention buckets of hot water in
the morning so that the man could wash and shave. Still, at least the man in bed didn’t drink like the rest of the engineers!

He doesn’t
look
sick, she thought, although the words ‘come in’ in answer to her knock were just a croak. He never said much, never even thanked her, just lay on the bed
with his face turned to the window.

‘Here’s your breakfast, Mr Batson.’ Sarah did not expect a reply and she got none, though apparently Mr Batson did talk to the boot boy in a hoarse whisper and sent down orders
and requests by him. She attended to the fire – it wasn’t really her job, but the unfortunate scullery maid was very overworked and Sarah remembered what a dreadful task it was.

She would never want to be a scullery maid again, and she had resolved to do her work at the inn especially well. At first she had planned to stay only a few months and then to move on to a job
in a private house, but now she found herself changing her mind. Private houses had bullying housekeepers and snobbish butlers and the owners of the houses despised their servants and treated them
like slaves, expecting them to be at their beck and call for sixteen hours a day. Mr Pennyfeather, the landlord at the White Horse, was a bit grumpy sometimes, but she had a decent, well-furnished
bedroom and was treated fairly.

And I do enjoy having time off every day, thought Sarah as she went down the stairs with the empty coal scuttle in one hand and the water pail in the other. The cook
and the other servants were friendly, also.