The Deadly Fire (18 page)

 

The piebald horse seemed to know that this was a chase. He flew down the street, mane flying, ears back, long legs hardly touching the ground, the almost empty cart rattling behind him.

‘Into Broad Street, Jack!' screamed Alfie. Suddenly he knew what he had to do.

Not slacking speed for a moment, Jack swung the horse around into busy Broad Street. Carriages, cabs, road sweepers, dogs, people – all scattered before them. Alfie looked over his shoulder again. The two men, Mr Lambert and Daniel Elmore, seemed to be getting nearer to them, following closely in the traffic
gap created by the piebald. The light chaise, drawn by a thoroughbred horse, was gaining on them rapidly. Alfie bit his lip but said nothing. Jack was doing his best. At least the policemen in their hackney cab were far behind them.

‘Where next?' gasped Jack.

‘High Holborn,' said Alfie. A large bread van, pulled by two horses, turned into Broad Street right in front of the cart. Jack swerved neatly and then pulled the horse to the right.

For a minute, Alfie thought they might have escaped from the chaise, but a glance over his shoulder showed he was mistaken. Mr Lambert was on his feet now, urging his horse as if the streets were a race course.

Suddenly, they slowed down. The traffic was just too dense for Jack to be able to find his way through it. The only consolation was that a heavy brewery cart was still between them and the chaise. Jack was leaning forward, straining his eyes for a gap in the traffic and the piebald, glad to be free of the dreary work of pulling a cartload of rubble, was still as fresh and lively as if it were the beginning of the morning.

Then Alfie saw something that made his heart thud with terror. Mr Lambert had taken a coin from his
pocket and was holding it up to the crowd on the pavement.

‘A golden guinea for the first man to stop those two boys!' he yelled, pointing right at them.

There was a cart piled high with sacks of coal drawn in close to the pavement.

At Mr Lambert's shout, the coalman immediately dumped the sack of coal and ran straight out into the roadway, his hand outstretched to catch the piebald's bridle. There was no possibility of Jack swerving. He was hemmed in on all sides. The man's hand shot out.

But then the piebald reared up and his neigh rang out like a battle cry. The coalman backed away. The carriage ahead of Jack turned down an alleyway, the piebald bolted as though he saw a winning post ahead of them, and the cart went at a furious pace, hardly slackening for Holborn Hill.

‘Turn left, Jack, the next left, into Snow Hill.'

Jack was laughing, but his eyes were locked on the road ahead and his body was tense. Alfie just concentrated. It was important now to make no mistakes, and finding your way in a speeding cart was a different matter to sauntering along the street, looking for road signs.

The next left
was
Snow Hill, and Alfie sucked in a
breath. Not too long now, he thought. The chaise was still on their tail, though, and now the hackney cab was just behind it. Inspector Bagshott was leaning out of the window and yelling, ‘Stop, thief!'

There were crowds on both pavements, but no one responded to this cry. The piebald horse was a fearsome sight with froth dripping from his mouth, red nostrils straining, ears flat against his skull and those pounding hoofs striking sparks from the cobblestones.

‘Right, Jack, right!' The turn into Cow Lane came almost immediately and Jack almost overshot it, but the piebald horse was game for everything.

‘Cross over Giltspur Street and under the arch-way!' screamed Alfie. There was a shout from a man and a scream from a woman, but Jack was across Giltspur Street almost before the words had left Alfie's mouth.

The archway was built of brick, very tall and the piebald horse clattered under with a noise like thunder.

Across the wide paved area they went until a large doorway was right in front of them.

‘Wait here, my man,' said Alfie grandly as he struggled to get down without jarring his swollen leg too much. Over one shoulder was slung the sack with his precious evidence.

‘I'll wait around the back so that you won't be noticed,' said Jack in his practical way.

It was too late, though. As the cart moved away, Alfie heard a triumphant shout behind him. The chaise had just emerged from the archway and it was followed by the cab. And they had seen him! The cry of ‘Stop, thief!' rose up again and several people stopped to stare.

Alfie struggled up the stairs, knowing that his leg was slowing him up. There was no chance of escaping if he kept on going up in full view of his pursuers, so when he reached the first landing, he limped through the first doorway that he could find. He saw that he was in a large hall full of people, a few white-coated doctors walking quickly, some of the visitors looking at pictures on the wall, some of them standing in groups talking. Every head turned when the boy in ragged clothes came rushing in.

And then every head swivelled again as the door burst open once more and in came three uniformed policemen, closely followed by two angry-faced men.

 

There was no hope of escape. Politely, the crowd stood back, leaving an open pathway for the police to arrest the thief. Alfie looked around desperately. There were people everywhere, all clustering around him and blocking any possible escape. He could not even see a doorway.

Putting his head down, he burst through a crowd of white-coated doctors just as the cry went up: ‘Stop that boy!'

But now he was through the doctors and there was a door ahead of him. He was on its other side in a second and had slammed it behind him. There was
a long narrow white-tiled corridor there and it was empty of people.

A door on the far side opened and an empty wheeled-chair was thrust out, followed by a young doctor. It was the doctor who had dressed his leg, the doctor who had heard Sammy sing.

Alfie darted across and flopped into the wheeled-chair, clutching the sack on his knee. ‘My leg is bad,' he said urgently, just as the door from the big hall was pulled open. He gulped hard and then changed his mind and allowed a sob to break his voice. ‘I can't run. Quick, take me to Inspector Denham, room 222! They're trying to get me. Quick!'

The young doctor asked no questions. He took hold of the back of the chair and began to run. Alfie looked back over his shoulder. They had left the crowd behind and reached the end of the corridor. The young doctor turned instantly to the right without slackening his speed.

‘Lucky for you that I played ball for Rugby School,' he said as he sprinted to the top of this new corridor and then wheeled sharply to the left. Alfie just had sight of the number 222 before the young doctor had opened the door with one hand and pushed him inside with the other.

‘A visitor for you, Inspector Denham,' he said as he closed the door behind them.

Inspector Denham, Alfie saw to his dismay, was not alone. A tall, thin middle-aged woman, dressed in a luxurious velvet coat, was sitting beside his bed.

‘ . . . this terrible poverty at St Giles —' she was saying as the door was thrown open.

‘Alfie!' cried the inspector.

‘Sorry to interrupt,' said Alfie feebly. He wondered how long he would have to explain, but he didn't wonder for long.

The door was flung open again and the three policemen crowded into the room, followed by Mr Lambert and Mr Elmore.

Inspector Bagshott immediately grasped Alfie by the arm. ‘You young villain,' he said harshly. ‘I'll make sure that you get a good long sentence in jail after all of this.' Then he looked at the figure lying on the bed, no longer dressed in gown and nightcap, but wearing a respectable suit, and he gasped.

‘What are you doing here, sergeant?' asked Inspector Denham grimly.

‘Inspector, sir. Been promoted in your unavoidable absence,' gasped Inspector Bagshott.

Alfie looked from one inspector to the other and
his spirits began to rise. Bullying Bagshott had softened his tone of voice considerably. Alfie decided that the time had come for him to take charge.

‘Brought you the bootprint from the Ragged School fire, Inspector Denham,' he said, getting out of the wheeled-chair and advancing towards the bed, holding out the piece of baked clay. The lady sitting beside the bed took it from him firmly, looked at it with curiosity and then passed it over to Inspector Denham. Alfie saw a look of fury on Mr Lambert's face and Inspector Bagshott's cheeks flushed an unpleasant mixture of red and purple.

‘This is the boy I was telling you about, from the St Giles area, Miss Burdett-Coutts,' said Inspector Denham and she nodded and turned to Alfie.

‘And here,' said Alfie emphatically, ‘is the man who made that print.' He pointed dramatically at Mr Lambert. ‘His name is Lambert. He made the print on the clay in the cupboard by the door of the Ragged School when he poured the oil all over the paper in the cupboard and set fire to the school. He wanted to get rid of the school so that he could knock down the old houses in the whole street and build some posh new ones.'

‘Rubbish,' said Mr Lambert with a scornful laugh.
‘This boy is a thief and he caused the death of the father of my friend here.'

‘That's true, inspector,' said Daniel Elmore. ‘My friend and I have come along with your men to make sure that this boy is taken to court and accused of robbery with violence.'

Inspector Denham weighed the clay in his hands, his keen eyes under the bushy eyebrows studying the clay imprint, then he looked at Mr Lambert.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to take off your right boot, Mr Lambert,' he said softly. ‘Hand it to Sergeant Bagshott.'

There was a dead silence in the room. Lambert had been looking at the unwieldy piece of clay on its board with bewilderment, but now Alfie saw his face change. Finally, Lambert had realised the significance of the print.

‘I certainly will not take off my boot,' he blustered. ‘Why are you listening to a beggar brat who is a liar, a thief and probably a murderer? I'll have you know, inspector, that I have friends in high places and that I will speak to them about you if there is any more of this nonsense.'

‘Take off your boot, sir,' repeated Inspector Denham, and he still spoke in that soft voice. ‘Constable . . .'

He looked towards the two policemen and, in that instant, Mr Lambert turned and shot through the door, slamming it behind him.

‘After him,' roared Inspector Denham. ‘Catch him!'

The two constables clutched their hats and started to blow their whistles, but the young doctor was ahead of them. Alfie limped to the door to watch. Inspector Denham got off the bed and stood beside him, and Miss Burdett-Coutts joined them.

Mr Lambert was not a good runner. He could not have outdistanced the constables for long, but the young doctor made sure of the matter by a flying tackle which brought the property developer to the ground. And then he sat on him!

‘That's another thing I learned at Rugby School,' he said with a wink at Alfie, who had limped up to him.

‘Take off his boot,' ordered Inspector Denham grimly and one of the police constables bent down instantly.

‘Get off me!' growled Mr Lambert, kicking out frantically, but the young doctor just grinned and did not move.

‘That boot,' said Alfie pointing. He saw Miss Burdett-Coutts look at him with interest and wondered whether she might give him a penny afterwards. There
was a bank called Coutts; he remembered that. If she were related to the people who owned that bank, then she must be rich. Rich people – in his experience – rewarded the poor if they interested them, or amused them.

‘And . . . they . . . match!' he said, spacing out the words and exaggerating his tone of triumph.

Inspector Denham examined the boot and the imprint carefully and then nodded, raising one bushy eyebrow of enquiry at Mr Lambert.

‘Nothing to say?' enquired Inspector Denham.

Mr Lambert had nothing to say, but his face showed fury and frustration. His eyes narrowed as they looked at Alfie, but Alfie did not care about black looks. Neither did Inspector Bagshott, whose eyes were worried as he looked at his superior. Alfie studied his face with inner satisfaction. Inspector Denham looked well and ready for work. No doubt Inspector Bagshott would soon be plain Sergeant Bagshott again, and not in line for promotion either.

‘Arrest this man,' said Inspector Denham impatiently.

His colleague said the words reluctantly. ‘John Lambert, I arrest you for the crime of starting a fire at the Ragged School of St Giles and being responsible for the death of Mr James Elmore.'

Mr Lambert looked at Sergeant Bagshott with an expression of rage in his face and then across at his friend. ‘Why arrest me and not him?' he screamed, pointing to Daniel Elmore.

‘I had nothing to do with it!' roared Daniel Elmore indignantly.