Death in the Devil's Den Read Online Free

Alfie. ‘Up here!’ It appeared to come from the roof of the Abbey. ‘Here, climb up by the door.’
    Alfie was on his feet instantly. He jabbed his fist straight into the centre of the large stomach so near to him and, almost before the words were finished, placed his foot on the first piece of
carving that decorated the small door at the side of the Abbey.
    When he was halfway up, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The scarred man had moved closer to the door, out of the range of the shooter on the roof. He must have realised that he had been
hit by peas and that he just had a pair of boys to deal with. But the strange thing was that after that first exclamation he made no further sound, did not call out, did not threaten – did
not behave as most adults would when shot at by a boy.
    And, even stranger, he did not attempt to call to the policeman who had just come into sight and was parading past the Houses of Parliament, swinging his truncheon in one hand and fiddling with
his whistle with his other hand.
    He’s the spy, all right, thought Alfie as he climbed. Any honest man would have called the policeman’s attention to the person on the roof, would have complained that someone had
flung a piece of stone and then shot peas at him from a peashooter. It was probably breaking some law to climb up to the roof of the Abbey, but Alfie didn’t care. The man had put his knife
away, but Alfie remembered how sharp it had been and how long the blade was and how it had glinted under the light of the gas lamp.
    ‘There’s a rope just above your hands,’ came the whisper. ‘Grab onto it and feel for footholds with your feet. He’s still there. He’s just waiting for you to
come down again.’
    Alfie did what he was told. Big Ben, the new clock at Westminster, struck twelve as he climbed, startling him for a moment. Like most Londoners, Alfie was still not used to that giant bell with
its booming sound. Then he took a firmer grip on the rope and found that the stone was pitted in places and his bare toes could get a good grip. The voice of his friend on the roof belonged to a
toff; but what was a toff doing on top of Westminster Abbey roof? Sometimes, during the day, men with ladders came and repaired something, but no one in their sane senses would be up there on a
winter’s night.
    ‘The rope finishes there,’ whispered the voice with the swell’s accent. ‘Grab the devil’s head and pull yourself up by it.’
    An ugly, leering, carved face peered down with water dripping from it. It was green and slimy but Alfie managed to get a firm grip onto the stone curls and lever himself up. In a moment he was
on a small, narrow section of roof above the door. The light was dim here, but it was enough to show that the voice that had guided him up belonged to a boy no older than himself.
    ‘Keep still for a minute,’ whispered the voice. ‘He’s going away.’
    Alfie’s heart beat with relief. Perhaps the man was going to give up the chase.
    ‘Where’s he going?’ he whispered back.
    ‘Into Little Dean’s Yard.’
    By now Alfie could see his rescuer more clearly. He was a boy of about Alfie’s own age and size, but not dressed in rags as Alfie was. This boy wore a suit like a gentleman and his shirt,
though stained with smears of mud and streaks of wet moss, had been stiffly starched and the points on his collar still stood up beside his chin. He had a well-combed head of blond curls and a pair
of blue eyes. He must be one of those posh schoolboys from Westminster School, thought Alfie.
    ‘I’m Richard,’ he said, holding out a hand that had a few smudges of dirt on it, but felt soft – the hand of a boy who had never had to work. ‘What’s your
name?’ he asked politely.
    ‘Alfie . . . I’d better be getting out of here. Will you be safe?’ Alfie looked anxiously at the young gentleman who had probably saved his life. Young gentlemen, in his
experience, knew little about the rough