Death of a Chimney Sweep Read Free Page A

through how he and Sammy had found the body of the young chimney sweep by the riverside. He said that he believed Joe worked for Master Grimston, the chimney
sweep, but he did not mention Joe’s terror that morning and he said nothing, either, about Sammy’s assertion that the body was flung from a gig.
    Alfie was a little surprised to see how the constable went on writing for quite some time after he had fallen silent. He felt scornful. He had had only a few months of learning to read and write
at the Ragged School, but he could have taken the words down more quickly than that. However, he had enough sense to say nothing, so he just stood there gazing at the fire until the
constable’s quill had stopped scratching the paper.
    ‘There you are then,’ said PC Fairley, dusting a little sand over the wet ink on the page and then blowing it off. ‘Now, I’m going to put some ink on the pen and then I
want you to make your mark on the end of the page.’ He drew a large X in the air. ‘Can you do that for me?’ he asked in a genial way.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Alfie. He’ll get a shock when he sees that I write Alfie Sykes under it, he thought.
    ‘Right, come around here now, can you reach? Yes, good lad. Just make the mark here.’ The constable put a large, fat finger on a spot at the end of the closely-filled page.
    Alfie reached up with the pen and then stopped. It was the sight of the lines and lines of writing that alerted him. Surely he had not said as much as that.
    Curiously, he began to read it to himself.
    I, Alfie Sykes, of Bow Street, Covent Garden, do hereby declare that I did murder Joe the chimney sweep . . .
    ‘I didn’t say that I killed him!’ said Alfie angrily. ‘What are you trying to put on me? I had nothing to do with Joe’s death. I —’
    Then the constable’s eyes flickered and he stood up very straight. ‘Oh, good evening, sir . . . Didn’t see you come in, sir.’ He snatched the piece of paper from Alfie,
crumpled it and flung it into the fire.
    Alfie swung round and saw a small man with heavy eyebrows and sharp black eyes standing by the door. It was Inspector Denham.
    ‘Evening, Constable Fairley. Evening, Alfie. What brings you here?’ Alfie and his gang had helped the inspector solve crimes in the past and had been well rewarded for their
efforts.
    ‘Reporting the finding of a body to Constable Fairley, ’ said Alfie. ‘Found it about an hour ago, just down by the water’s edge by Hungerford Bridge.’ Constable
Fairley, he thought, Constable Unfairly , more like. Trying to pull a fast one on me. Trying to make me sign a confession for the murder. But he didn’t bargain on me being able to read
and write! Alfie said nothing, however. The piece of paper had been burnt; there was no evidence now. Least said, soonest mended , his grandfather had always told him.
    ‘A man?’ queried the inspector.
    ‘A boy – murdered, sir, this boy says.’ PC Fairley put his hand in front of his mouth and said in a loud whisper, ‘Some sort of a fight, I reckon. You know what these
lads are like. Always at each other’s throats.’
    ‘Come in, Alfie.’ Inspector Denham handed his coat and bowler hat to the police constable and walked into his office, followed by Alfie, who was careful not to look triumphantly at
PC Fairley. Policemen, in Alfie’s experience, could be dangerous. It paid to have them on your side and, if that was not possible, to avoid annoying them.
    ‘Was that true about a fight?’ asked Inspector Denham once the door was closed.
    ‘No, sir, it wasn’t true. I found him dead. Down by the river. By Hungerford Stairs.’
    ‘Long dead?’
    ‘No, sir, not long – still warm, not stiff nor nothing.’
    Inspector Denham looked at Alfie carefully and Alfie looked back, trying not to appear defiant.
    ‘To tell the truth, sir,’ he blurted out, ‘I’m sorry I came. It won’t do Joe no good.’
    ‘Joe?’ queried the inspector.
    ‘Joe is . . . was his