Free The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow by Katherine Woodfine Page B

hopped out.
    ‘Here – listen a minute – keep yer hair on,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry for cadging a lift. I didn’t mean to make you jump like that. It’s just that I wanted to talk to you.’
    Billy snorted. ‘Why on earth would I want to talk to you?’ he demanded. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go for you, here and now. You knocked me down, you nearly lost me my job and now you’ve stowed away in the van! Do you have any idea how much trouble I’d be in if anyone found out you were there? And it’s all thanks to you that Sophie is in this mess!’
    ‘But that’s what I want to talk to you about,’ the strange young fellow said eagerly. ‘I was there, see. I know what really happened last night!’
    Billy laughed disbelievingly, but the young fellow went on:
    ‘You want to help that young lady, don’t you? The one they said did the burglary?’
    All of the anger of the day seemed to boil up inside Billy, and snapped out of him like a taut elastic band that had suddenly been released. ‘I’m telling you, she didn’t do it!’ he yelled. Startled by the sudden noise, Bessy whinnied anxiously, but Billy went on. ‘Now shut up and get away from me! Scram! I don’t want anything to do with you!’
    He found himself giving the fellow a sharp shove. Knocked sideways, the young man grabbed for the shafts of the van with his good arm to steady himself. Jostled and frightened now, Bessy reared up with a great neighing sound, sending parcels spilling out into the street, and almost overturning the van. Horrified by what he had done, Billy made a grab for the reins – but to his surprise, the young man was there before him, hanging on to the bridle, forcing the horse’s head back down again. The young man’s body crashed against the shafts, but he hung on valiantly until at last the horse was still again, though blowing and rolling her eyes wildly. Billy gaped at him for a moment, and then opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything a long shadow fell across them.
    ‘Well then, fellers. What have we got here?’
    They looked up into the face of a tall policeman, who was swinging his truncheon threateningly. He had a black moustache and looked rather like Uncle Sid. Visions of what his uncle would say – and worse, do – if he were brought back to the store by a policeman, having failed with his very first delivery, swam in Billy’s head. Opposite him, the young man had stiffened, his eyes flooded with terror like an animal caught in a trap.
    ‘This your vehicle? This your horse?’
    Billy thought on his feet. ‘Yes, sir. That is, they belong to Sinclair’s department store,’ he replied. ‘We’ve a delivery for . . . er . . . a Mrs Whiteley,’ he added hastily, glancing down at the bill of delivery, which was now crumpled in his hand. ‘We were just . . . er . . . discussing which was the right house, but a motor horn startled the horse.’
    ‘I didn’t hear no motor horn,’ said the policeman, suspiciously.
    ‘Could you direct us to the house, Sergeant?’ asked Billy, quickly.
    The policeman looked rather pleased to be addressed as ‘Sergeant’, but it didn’t stop him sounding sharp as he said: ‘You’re right in front of it,’ gesturing with his truncheon. ‘Get on with it then, young shavers. This is a fine part of town, not somewhere for kicking up a racket in the street.’ He stood back and watched, his arms folded.
    Luckily the young man seemed to be quick on the uptake: he picked up a couple of the boxes and trotted after Billy up towards the house, quite as if he did it every day. Billy rang the bell at the tradesman’s entrance and a pert maid in a frilly apron and mob cap answered, wrinkling up her nose at the sight of his companion’s tatty clothes.
    ‘No begging here,’ she began.
    ‘We’re not begging,’ said Billy, crossly. ‘We have a delivery for Whiteley, from Sinclair’s department store.’
    She looked doubtfully at