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

paving stones. I thought he might have had a fit, sir, so I climbed down to him and then . . .’ Alfie gave another gulp and hung his head, trying
to look innocent and truthful, and not like the sort of boy that would commit murder.
    ‘You can’t believe this nonsense, Headmaster,’ said the choirmaster with a sneer.
    ‘I fired my gun at him,’ said old Bart with pride.
    ‘He sounds like an honest boy,’ said the headmaster hesitantly.
    Sounds hoarse, anyway, thought Alfie, working a little saliva into his mouth and allowing it to slide down his sore throat. That choirmaster had nearly strangled him, he thought indignantly.
    ‘Why don’t you send Bart down to Scotland Yard for the police,’ said Mr Ffoulkes impatiently.
    ‘Perhaps that would be best.’ The headmaster didn’t sound too happy and Alfie tried to give him an appealing look.
    ‘I’m not goin’ out in them streets at this hour of the night,’ said Bart. ‘All the scum will be out, robbing and murdering.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the choirmaster.
    ‘I’ve worked for this school, man and boy, for nigh on sixty-five years and now you send me out in the middle of the night to a certain death,’ said Bart pathetically.
    The choirmaster made a contemptuous noise between his lips, but he did not offer to go himself, noticed Alfie. Bart was right, of course; the streets around Westminster were dangerous at this
time of night.
    ‘He’s correct, you know.’ The headmaster sounded more cheerful. ‘Let’s keep the boy until the morning. I’ll talk to him then by daylight. I pride myself on
knowing whether a boy is telling the truth or not. I can read it in his face.’
    ‘Leave him here, then, in my room, and give me your gun, Bart,’ said Mr Ffoulkes grimly.
    Alfie shivered. He would be dead by morning, he thought. Shot while trying to escape . That would be the story that Mr Ffoulkes would tell, he reckoned. He shivered again and looked
appealingly at the headmaster.
    Suddenly Mr Ffoulkes whirled around and stared across at Richard. ‘You boy, you, Green, have I seen you with this boy?’
    ‘No, sir,’ said Richard in an assured fashion. ‘No way, sir! Catch me associating with a fellow like that. Think of the fleas! Never saw him in my life before, sir.’
    The choirmaster grunted but he said no more, just gave Alfie another shake and held out a hand towards the gun.
    ‘What about shutting him in the cellar under the Dark Cloister, Headmaster?’ suggested Bart. ‘He won’t get out of that in a hurry. It’s got a lock on it the size of
a footstool.’
    ‘Yes, let’s do that.’ The headmaster looked happier. ‘And, Bart, Mr Ivanov . . .’
    ‘Don’t you worry about that, sir,’ said Bart. ‘I’ll drag ’im into one of the sheds so that it don’t upset the young gentlemen in the morning. And that
cudgel wot killed him! That’s evidence, that is. All over with blood, it is.’
    ‘I’ll put the boy in the cellar while you’re dealing with the body, Bart. Come on, you!’
    Mr Ffoulkes clutched Alfie around the throat – it seemed to be his favourite method – and began to drag him out of the door.
    ‘I’ll take the key, Headmaster,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll make sure that this young man is safely locked up.’

CHAPTER 17
T RAPPED IN THE C ELLAR

    Alfie’s nerves were on edge as the choirmaster dragged him by the throat down the stairs and along the Dark Cloister. No wonder Richard was so scared of this fellow. All
the boys were; he sensed that.
    Alfie could feel the waves of hate coming from the man and began to wonder about Mr Ffoulkes. Was he perhaps more than a casual friend to the organist? Was there a possibility that he, too, was
in the pay of the Russian Embassy? Would he revenge himself on Alfie for the death of his fellow spy?
    Or was he the person who had broken off the flagpole and cracked the skull of Boris Ivanov?
    If that was true, then he must be pleased to have a