Free Death of a Chimney Sweep by Cora Harrison Page A

the fire and their shadows reared up black against the stone wall. They
seemed to be frozen with fear.
    ‘Get back into your kennel or I’ll whip you to death,’ shouted Grimston, cracking his horsewhip loudly. ‘Who lit that fire?’ he yelled.
    None of the boys answered. They melted away, their shadows getting smaller, and then they were gone behind the piece of sacking over the doorway.
    ‘I lit it,’ said Alfie. By now he had managed to free his neck of the whip. He picked up the torch. Miraculously it was still alight. He felt safer with it – almost brave as he
faced the master chimney sweep.
    The noise was very loud from the public house – shouts, laughs, the sad wail of a fiddle, snatches of song – but there was another noise underneath it . . . an insistent drumming
sound and Alfie knew what it was. The rats were trying to get out of the metal rubbish bin.
    He faced up to Grimston. ‘I lit that fire,’ he repeated. The fragile body of the little fellow, Bert, was in his mind. If Grimston whipped him with that horsewhip, he would probably
kill the child.
    ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Grimston advanced upon Alfie and gave the whip one more suggestive crack.
    ‘Yes, I did,’ said Alfie. ‘I came to give you a message. It’s a message from my father,’ he lied. In his mind he focused on this imaginary father. A big, stout man,
bigger than Grimston. Prosperous, too. Some sort of business. A carter, that was it. Brought fruit and vegetables into Covent Garden every day. Sold them for a good price. A man with money, with
influence . . .
    ‘What were you meddling with my boys for?’
    ‘Just brought them a few things to eat – they looked hungry.’ Alfie edged a little nearer to the public house yard.
    ‘What do you mean they looked hungry? What business of yours is it?’ Grimston followed him, still with the whip swinging from his hand. Alfie wished that he had worn his boots. They
gave him a feeling of superiority and they would be useful for kicking.
    ‘Go on, then, answer the question,’ roared Grimston.
    The door of the public house opened again. This time the three men who came out seemed a little less drunk. They stared curiously at Grimston and then at Alfie.
    Alfie moved a little nearer to the yard. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now, Mr Grimston,’ he said politely. ‘My father is waiting for me around the corner, over there.’
He pointed and Grimston followed the direction of the finger. It was almost impossible to see anything. There was just a glow of light from Westminster Abbey, a few misty gas lamps and the lit-up
windows of the Mitre & Dove.
    Alfie moved again while the man’s eye was off him. Now he could almost touch the wall of the yard.
    Grimston turned back to face him. By the light of the torch his face looked uncertain.
    ‘He asked me to tell you that he has changed his mind about sending my little stepbrother to you,’ said Alfie politely.
    ‘Oh, he has, has he?’ Now Grimston sounded belligerent, but he glanced over his shoulder in an uneasy way.
    I shouldn’t do this, thought Alfie. I’m crazy. Why not get away now while he’s a bit unsure, while these three men are still within earshot? But he knew what he was going to do
before the words left his mouth.
    ‘You see, he has heard all about . . .’ Alfie paused to give his next word emphasis. ‘. . . Isaac!’
    At that name, Grimston roared like a bull. He rushed at Alfie, his powerful hands ready to clamp around the boy’s throat.
    Alfie coolly flipped the iron lid from the nearest dustbin, neatly avoiding the stones that crashed to the ground.
    A hundred rats flowed over the edge, down the side, avoided Alfie’s blazing pitch torch and headed straight towards Grimston.

 
    CHAPTER 18
    M ISSING
B OY

    ‘It was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen.’ Alfie rested his feet on the chimney breast and took a bite from the last slice of lemon cake. He was in a mood
to celebrate.
    ‘Did he screech,