Murder on Stage by Cora Harrison Page A

Aldwych and along Drury Lane. There was no sign of Sammy anywhere, but there was an elderly well-dressed lady standing alone outside a
greengrocer’s shop. Tom approached her with a hand outstretched.
    ‘Please ma’am, would you spare a penny,’ he whined. ‘I’ve had no food for nearly two days.’
    ‘Get off with you,’ she shouted. ‘Go home and wash your face and get yourself a job and don’t go preying on a defenceless person like myself. Officer!’ her voice
rose to a shrill note as she beckoned to a nearby policeman.
    ‘I’m going,’ muttered Tom furiously, running as fast as he could in the opposite direction to the policeman, down Drury Lane and back into the Strand.
    I’ll try Smithfield, he thought.
    It made sense for Sammy to go there. Bad weather would not stop people going to Smithfield. The meat had to be bought and butchered and taken to the shops, cut up into neat little joints and
chops, wrapped in brown paper and delivered by the butchers’ boys to the homes of the toffs.
    Smithfield was a place full of queues where the shoppers would be glad to pass their time listening to a song and would spare their halfpence, pence, groats and sixpences to reward the singer.
It was a dangerous place for a blind boy – Alfie would never have suggested that Sammy go there on his own. You needed to have eyes in the back of your head to avoid being trampled by cattle,
pigs or even sheep at Smithfield. But Sammy would know that they were all desperate for food and might go to take his chance there.
    Worth a try, thought Tom to himself and he set off east towards the meat market.
    Tom had never been to church, but once he had listened to an outdoor sermon about hell. He had been just passing by, but the words had grabbed him and he stayed, open-mouthed
at the descriptions of what happened to the wicked after they had died. He had had nightmares about hell for months and was reminded of it just now. Smithfield was a hell: a hell of blood and foam
and death. As he watched, he saw a child go down, slipping in the ankle-deep river of liquid animal muck. Tom turned away quickly from the screams. There was nothing he could do. He was sorry now
that he had come.
    And then he thought of Mutsy.
    Of course, Mutsy would steer Sammy away from the terrible danger and he would guide him to the stalls at the outside of the market. As soon as he thought of that Tom began to hurry. Now he
guessed where Sammy might be. The chestnut seller at Smithfield was quite a friend to the gang. He had invited Sammy to come and sing at his stall as often as he liked. You only had to say
‘chestnuts’ to Mutsy and he would lead you straight to one of those men with a portable iron brazier who roasted chestnuts on street corners. Mutsy had got to love chestnuts and so did
Tom. His mouth began to water at the thought.
    And that’s where Sammy was. Tom could hear the high, sweet voice singing as he came nearer to the well-remembered place. There were a few people around and already the cap on the ground
glinted with copper coins and one piece of silver.
    Mutsy looked across at Tom and wagged his tail hard. Tom grinned back. This was good. Just beside Sammy was a tin plate of cooling chestnuts. When the song ended he would join his cousin and the
dog. Sammy would share the chestnuts with him.
    And then a hand came down hard on his shoulder. A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Do you know the owner of that dog, boy?’
    Behind him was a man, a small fat man, warmly dressed, collar turned up, hat pulled over his eyes, hands gloved . . .
    Tom stared at the man suspiciously. What was he after?
    ‘I saw that dog with another boy the last time, a dark-haired boy. I’d like to have a word with that chap,’ said the voice. ‘Could you take me to him?’
    Tom hesitated, looking across at Sammy. Alfie was on the run. Was this a policeman after him, wanting to arrest him?
    ‘Are you hungry, boy?’ the voice went on. Tom twisted around, but