Free Death in the Devil's Den by Cora Harrison

at it frantically, but it was no good. Through a loop in the bolt a massive padlock was fixed and locked securely.
    In desperation, Alfie lifted the heavy pole and, using two hands, aimed it at the padlock. At the first jolt the padlock jumped.
    ‘Come on, Bart!’ screamed a voice. ‘The murderer is escaping while you pull on your britches.’
    If only it were true. Alfie breathed a silent prayer that Bart’s britches were new and very, very stiff.
    ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’ The shrill cries split the quiet night air.
    Bang! For the second time Alfie hit the padlock. For the second time it jumped, but still it remained securely locked.
    ‘Here’s a gun, Bart! Shoot ’im, shoot ’im through the window.’
    A bullet rang out and bounced against the window of the gatehouse. More screams ran out – this time they had an excited note in them. Broken glass rained down.
    ‘Mind what you’re doin’, Bart Hegarty,’ roared a voice from above Alfie’s head. ‘You nearly shot me dead, you daft old man.’
    ‘I’m comin’, I’m comin’; give a man a chance to make ’imself decent,’ replied another voice, presumably Bart’s.
    Once again Alfie aimed his stout stick at the padlock, but this was a feeble effort. His shoulder was on fire with the jarring of the previous blows. Frantically he looked around. Was there
anywhere that he could hide? He spotted a manhole, but it was gleaming in the full light of the moon. That was no good. And who knows where it leads? thought Alfie. No, there was only one chance
for him now.
    Alfie dropped the stick – it was no protection against a gun. He moved out of the moonlight and into the shadows beside the first house on the left-hand side of the yard. Grasping the
downpipe, he began to lever himself upwards. The flagpole had been broken off. So was that where the heavy cudgel had come from?
    ‘Where’s ’e gone?’
    Then there was an exuberant yell from the top-floor dormitory where the boys slept.
    ‘Tally-ho!’ roared thirty voices.
    ‘The fox has gone to ground!’
    ‘Hunt him out!’
    ‘Yay-hoo!’
    The excited sounds echoed through the little yard. All the boys were awake and cheering on the hunt from the dormitory windows.
    A shot was fired towards the wooden gate. Alfie heard it splinter the wood and there were more shouts. He shut them out of his head and concentrated hard, trying to control his breathing so that
they would not hear him pant. Spread-eagled against the side of the house like this, he would make an easy target.
    Luckily the boys continued to scream and shout. They probably went fox hunting when they were at home in the country, thought Alfie. He remembered stories his grandfather used to tell him of how
the rich people mounted their horses and took their dogs to chase one poor little fox. Alfie sent a quick prayer for help up to the heaven where he supposed his grandfather now lived and
concentrated on pulling himself up, slowly, hand over hand, by Richard’s rope towards the roof.
    Now he could believe that his prayers were answered. There was a window open a few feet above him. And the wonderful thing was that there was no hint of candlelight from it. It would probably be
one of those rooms for the boys, Alfie guessed. What was it Richard had called them? Studies. Yes, that would be it: the study of a careless boy who had left the window open before he had
gone to bed. If he could only get in there, he would be able to make his way behind the wooden panelling and up to the attic. He could hide there until the hunt was given up and then make his way
across the school roof and over onto the Abbey before dawn arrived.
    Another few feet, Alfie told himself and then his eyes widened at the sight of a splotch of yellow light on the wall only a few feet away from him. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Yes,
someone had the brains to bring out a lantern, and he was using it to scan every inch of the wall.
    Alfie made one last superhuman