The Body in the Fog (8 page)

There were not many people around the church, either – Sammy could sense that. Alfie knew all the times of the services and always had his brother in position when pious ladies and
gentlemen were coming out of church. Without Alfie, Sammy felt himself lost. He knew that it was morning, but he didn’t know whether the church service had finished or whether the folk were
still inside the building. There were no sounds of music or of praying voices either.

Sammy felt like being near to lots of people and staying there for as long as possible. The danger, thought Sammy, used to facing up to unpleasant facts, was to Alfie as well as to himself. If
Mick handed him over to the man with the pistol, then neither his life nor Alfie’s was going to be a very long one.

‘Let’s go over by the fountain,’ he said to Mick. ‘Should be nice and sunny there.’

‘Lots of people around, too,’ commented Mick in a carefree way – almost as though he had nothing on his mind but to get plenty of customers for Sammy. ‘Let’s go
past the post office. They often put old squashed-up cardboard in that basket outside the door. I’ll pick out two nice thick pieces for us to sit on. Bad for the bones, Sammy my boy, sitting
on cold, wet pavements! There’s puddles everywhere after that flood last night.’ He took a lot of care in steering Sammy through the crowd, stopping to fumble noisily in the post-office
basket and triumphantly cracking the pieces of cardboard in Sammy’s ear in order to show how dry they were. Perhaps his drunken mind had already forgotten the instructions from the
mobster.

‘You sit down in the sun and I’ll stand,’ said Sammy when he heard the splashing of the fountain close beside him. He would sing better standing up and he wasn’t tired.
There were plenty of people around – not in a hurry, either – just chattering about the raid on the post office.

The usual hymns would not do for this crowd, decided Sammy, and he began to sing the song about the highwayman Dick Turpin, his daring raids and his black mare.

‘
My bonny, black Bess!
’ As Sammy’s voice rose up high and clear he could sense the crowd moving in his direction and soon coins were thudding into the cap between his
feet on the ground. By the time he had sung the rollicking melody three times, his throat was dry. He bent down, fumbled in the cap, sorted through the pennies, thruppenny pieces, groats and
sixpences and then handed Mick two of the large, round pennies.

‘Get yourself a drink, Mick,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right here until you come back.’

Mick took a while to come back. Sammy leaned against the edge of the fountain, his cap firmly between his feet, and his fingers beating out the rhythm of flying horse hoofs on the marble
surround of the fountain as he sang. The crowd was around him still and by now they were joining in the chorus.

When Mick arrived he joined in too. His voice had been made husky by alcohol, but he had the remnants of a singer about him and the crowd, now in a very good mood, applauded.

Perhaps Tom and Mutsy will come soon, thought Sammy. The sun had gone. He could feel the damp mist on his face and the raw, cold, sulphur-smelling stink of a London fog returning after a brief
few hours of respite. Alfie never allowed him to do too much singing in the fog in case it spoilt his voice, but now his only safety lay in continuing to sing and continuing to attract people. Soon
they would all be going away to get out of the fog and then the danger would come.

So Sammy sang every song that he could remember.

And the fog began to get worse.

‘Here you are, old fellow, drink that beer. It’s sour, and it’s flat, but you won’t mind that, will you?’ The man handing Mick the beer sounded drunk himself.
Probably just a passer-by who had had too much to drink, thought Sammy. The voice was not familiar and the accent was not that of a Londoner. Mick gabbled out his thanks and Sammy could hear him
gulping down beer at breakneck speed as though he feared it would be snatched away from him. Sammy cheered inwardly. It sounded as if it was a good pint or even more. Mick would definitely be drunk
after that – especially as he was drinking so quickly. He could hear the man’s tongue searching around for the last drops and then the clatter of the pewter mug as it fell from his
grasp.

Just let him lie down and go to sleep, prayed Sammy. He sensed that the last of the people listening to him had moved away. Now he was alone with Mick.

But the drink seemed to have given Mick courage instead of making him sleepy. His hand closed over Sammy’s arm in a vice-like grip.

‘Let’s go,’ he said and he began to drag the boy along the pavement.

‘We’re going in the wrong direction, Mick.’ Sammy had a great sense of direction and knew that Mick was not taking him back towards St Martin’s church and Bow Street, but
to the opposite side of the square. He tried to keep his voice untroubled, but the grip on his arm was hurting him.

Mick didn’t bother replying, just tugged harder. Sammy tried to resist. ‘Don’t, you’re hurting me!’ he shouted as loudly as he could. And then ‘Help me,
someone!’ But even as the words were spoken he heard how muffled his voice sounded. The fog was getting thicker by the moment and there was no one left hanging around the fountains to hear
him.

Mick, like Sammy’s grandfather, had been brought up on a farm, and the muscles developed by digging and carrying heavy loads from an early age had stayed with him despite his age and the
drink. He was far too strong for Sammy, who was dragged along unmercifully with his arm almost pulled out from its socket. Sammy shouted once more and then screamed, but his scream seemed to die
away into the thickness of the mist.

And then he was released so suddenly that he fell to the ground.

There was a moment’s silence. Then a great wail came from Mick.

‘O merciful God in Heaven! My soul will go to hell. I’ve seen it. An apparition! It’s in the Holy Book! The dead shall rise! Look! Look over there towards Whitehall! The dead
are rising! Just under the devil’s black horse! Old Jemmy is coming up from hell again. He’s coming to get me! He’s going to take me down there with him!’

CHAPTER 14

‘Drunken fool,’ muttered Alfie, pulling the lid of the manhole cover back down and then opening it again just a crack.

‘C’mon, Jack,’ he said after a moment, ‘it’s all right – it was just old Mick and he’s scarpered. The fool will have forgotten all about us before
he’s gone fifty yards.’ Cautiously, Alfie raised the iron cover a little higher and thrust his head out. There seemed to be no one else near. The fog was so thick that he could hardly
see a hand in front of his nose. It was worth the risk. Rapidly he slid out and lay on the pavement. Jack followed and lay beside him for a moment. Both were out of breath.

‘The statue of King Charles,’ said Alfie after a moment. ‘We’re in Trafalgar Square!’

‘No! Is it morning or night?’ Jack sounded confused.

‘Getting on towards evening.’ Alfie didn’t like to admit that he too was bewildered. It seemed like a lifetime since they had gone down into that sewer. He narrowed his eyes.
The fog was coming down thickly now, soaking up all the wet from the streets into a choking cloud.

And then Sammy’s clear voice said, ‘Alfie, Jack.’

‘Sammy?’ Alfie was on his feet in a second, gaping in amazement and running headlong into the fog to find his brother pulling himself up from the ground, rubbing one arm. ‘What
are you doing here? What’s happened to you? Where’s Mutsy? And Tom?’

‘That was just old Mick – had a bit too much beer,’ Sammy informed them, ignoring his brother’s questions. ‘Thought he had seen Jemmy come up from hell.’ He
hesitated for a moment, but the bad news had to be told. ‘There’s one of Flash Harry’s mob still after you, Alfie. He’s got a gun. He wanted to keep hold of me until he
could get his hands on you. Mick was taking me to him.’

‘I’m a popular lad,’ observed Alfie. ‘Half of London seems to be looking for me. I know what they want . . .’ He stopped and felt with his left hand inside his
shirt front. It was no good, though; he knew that. His shirt and jacket had been torn when he’d pulled himself out of the manhole cover and now there was nothing there – not even a
sodden piece of paper. ‘Problem is, I’ve gone and lost it!’ Oh, well, he thought. I remember what was on it, and perhaps it will make more sense to Inspector Denham than to me.
The important thing now was to get Sammy home and out of danger.

‘Let’s get going, Sam,’ he said. ‘Take his other arm, Jack. Let’s run. We need to get changed. All right by you, Sammy?’

With Alfie holding firmly to one arm and Jack to the other, running was one of the things that Sammy liked to do best. It was wonderful to go flying along without hesitating, without feeling his
way tentatively, without worrying about bumping into anything. And the boys knew the way home so well that even the fog couldn’t slow them down.

Jack and Alfie were both so wet that water was flying from them and, by the time they reached the top of Bow Street, Sammy was as wet as them. He didn’t care, though. Two days ago Jack had
collected plenty of coal from the riverbed. They would soon have a good fire going and Sammy had enough in his pocket to buy something for supper.

‘Stop here,’ said Alfie, suddenly coming to a halt. ‘We should just check that none of my friends are waiting for me on Bow Street with a pistol in their pocket.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Jack. ‘They don’t want me. They only want you.’

‘Pity you can’t let them know that you don’t have the paper any longer,’ said Sammy after Jack had gone. ‘That’s why they want you, isn’t it? Perhaps
you could ask the inspector to put a poster out describing it – that might work. Then Flash Harry and his mob will know you don’t have it any more. It could say something like
Lost
near Trafalgar Square
– what about that?’

‘Why didn’t I think of that? You’re a lad with brains,’ said Alfie, giving Sammy an admiring punch on the arm just as Jack came back to say that there wasn’t a sign
of any of Flash Harry’s mob around, but there was one very cold policeman watching the cellar from across the road.

The policeman was the same man who had questioned them in Trafalgar Square, the night they found Jemmy’s body. He looked very cold indeed, thought Alfie. A large drop of moisture hung from
his prominent red nose.

‘You going indoors?’ he barked. ‘Going to stay there, are you? No need for your personal guard any longer, what? I can tell Inspector Denham that you’re all safely tucked
up in bed, is that right?’

Without waiting for an answer, he strode off towards Bow Street police station, stamping his boots heavily on the pavement and swinging his arms, clapping himself loudly on the back in order to
warm himself.

‘Shame,’ said Alfie with a grin as he took out the key to the cellar. ‘It would have been good to have him standing outside our door all night.’

They had just finished changing their clothes and were piling more coal on the fire when the door to the cellar burst open and Mutsy raced in, licking Alfie, licking Jack,
giving a quick wag of the tail and a touch of a wet nose in Sammy’s hand and then going back to licking Alfie again. Tom and Sarah followed him.

‘That dog’s got a brain the size of a football,’ said Alfie proudly. ‘You don’t need to tell him anything. He knows it all. He knows that I’ve been down the
sewers. He don’t need to learn to read, do you, Mutsy? His nose will tell him any story. And you needn’t go sticking your nose in the air, Sarah. After all that floodwater, I
don’t stink of anything. I’m as clean as a baby after a bath. Wait till you hear all about it! How much did you get, Tom?’

‘Four sixpences, two groats, one thruppenny piece and ten pennies,’ said Tom proudly. ‘Your board worked really well, Jack.’

‘Three shillings and nine pence!’ said Sammy wonderingly.

‘Enough for the rent,’ said Alfie. And then he took pity on Tom. ‘And a slap-up supper!’ he added.

‘Is the board all right, Tom?’ asked Jack anxiously.

‘Cracked a bit,’ said Tom. ‘Big fat woman. Nothing would do her, but that Mutsy had to ride with her and rescue her if she fell in!’

‘Thought she was crossing the River Thames, I suppose!’ Although he was cold, tired, wet and bruised, Alfie could not help giggling at the thought of this fat woman crossing the
puddles on Jack’s board with Mutsy sitting demurely beside her like the guard on the stagecoaches.

‘You’ll have to rig up a sail next, Jack.’ Tom was laughing so hard that tears were running down his face.

‘Should have charged extra,’ said Sammy. ‘An extra groat for Mutsy to ride blunderbuss.’

‘Let’s have an early supper,’ said Alfie after they had told about their adventures. ‘That way, Sarah can have some before she has to go back to work. What do you think?
Shall we have slices of salted beef? And a nice loaf of newly-baked white bread? What do you say, Tom?’

‘I say yes,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll go and get it. I earned it after all!’ He grabbed the money from the table and went off.