Free Death in the Devil's Den by Cora Harrison Page A

effort, levered himself up the last few feet, edged his knee onto the windowsill and shot, head first, into the room.
    ‘Got you!’ said a voice.

CHAPTER 16
C APTURED

    Alfie wriggled desperately but received a blow from a clenched fist that made his head ring. Dizzy and sick with the impact, he froze. This was often the best thing to do; he
knew that from experience. His attacker might relax if he felt that Alfie was cowed. And in the meantime his head might stop spinning.
    It was no good, though. A hand crept around his neck, squeezing hard. Alfie coughed and almost lost consciousness. His attacker relaxed the pressure slightly and lit a candle from the embers of
the fire.
    ‘Now let’s have a look at you,’ said a voice and Alfie found himself face to face with the choirmaster, Mr Ffoulkes, the man that Richard so feared.
    He had climbed into Mr Ffoulkes’ study and was now helpless in his hands.
    ‘I’ve got him! I’ve got the murderer!’ the choirmaster shouted out of the window and there was a great cheering from the dormitory above.
    ‘Good old Ffoulkes!’ shouted one.
    ‘Three cheers for Mr Ffoulkes!’ yelled another.
    The man just smiled dourly. Still squeezing Alfie’s throat with one hand, he reached across and slipped the cord from his dressing gown. In a moment, Alfie found that his hands were
knotted behind his back with the cord. It bit into the skin of his wrists and there was little that he could do to free himself. So he did not try; he just waited grimly to see what would happen
next.
    ‘Bart,’ shouted Mr Ffoulkes. ‘Get the headmaster, will you? I’ll keep the murderer here until he comes. It’s for him to decide what to do with him.’
    Alfie waited. He would say nothing until he was in the hands of the police. Then, in the morning, he could ask for Inspector Denham to be sent for. He could tell of Alfie’s mission to
discover the Russian spy. He would be able to speak up for Alfie.
    Or would he?
    Could he?
    Westminster was under the rule of the police at Scotland Yard. They were more important than the police at Bow Street.
    Alfie felt the sharp edge of the cord bite into his wrists and thought of all that was against him.
    Not only was he found just beside the dead man’s body, but he was actually seen with the blood-stained weapon in his hand.
    Perhaps, despite all that Inspector Denham could say, he would be accused of the murder of Boris Ivanov and would be dragged off to Newgate Prison and kept there to await his trial. He had been
in Newgate once before and had no wish to set foot in there ever again.
    ‘He’s just a boy!’ The headmaster burst through the door, followed by an elderly man.
    ‘That’s the fellow, sir,’ cried the old man. ‘That’s the fellow! I swear my life to it, sir. I aimed my gun at him, sir. Only just missed, sir.’
    ‘Quiet, Bart!’ exclaimed the headmaster. He looked closely at Alfie. He’s very thin,’ he said, half to himself. And then, solemnly, to Alfie, ‘Did you kill our
organist, boy? Now tell the truth, boy, it will be better for your immortal soul. God hates a liar, you know.’
    He must think that I’m stupid, thought Alfie. Imagine getting yourself hanged if you could escape by telling a lie! Aloud, he said, ‘No, sir, I never. I wouldn’t do a thing
like that, sir.’ He gulped a little, wondering how to account for his presence in the yard.
    ‘I was on top of the roof of Westminster Abbey, sir, listening to the sacred music and looking up at the moon in the heavens, sir,’ he said, making his voice sound as sincere as he
could. By now there was a huge audience of boys, including Richard, all standing around outside the door in the corridor or else on the stairs. Every one of them was staring at him.
    ‘And then, and then . . .’ he went on, dragging out the words while he tried to think. Now came the difficult bit. How could he account for his presence in the little yard?
    ‘And then I saw a man lying on the