It was a long night for Alfie, stuck in an airless cupboard and listening to every sound. There were noises of mice – or at least he hoped it was mice, not rats – running up and down the wooden panelling behind his head. He tapped on it once and it felt hollow and a piece of board fell out across his knees.
Cautiously he lit a match. Inside the cupboard there was little chance of the light being seen by anyone. There was an empty space behind the board, and beyond that a rough brick wall crossed by horizontal wooden beams. Carefully, Alfie worked a second board loose and then held up another burning match, peering into the darkness above. Using the horizontal beams as a ladder, Alfie climbed up. There was some sort of storage space above. Alfie came out into it and realised that he was in a large, bare attic. He could see cobweb-festooned trunks, suitcases, tuck-boxes and bags lined up there. And then came more scuttling sounds. Hastily he climbed back down, returned the two boards to their rusty nails and tried to sleep.
‘Alfie!’ The voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper, but it woke Alfie instantly. He waited for a second, but when his name was repeated he was certain that it was Richard. He pulled open the door and peered out.
‘Breakfast?’ He lifted his eyebrows enquiringly, his voice cool and undisturbed. The last thing he wanted to happen was for Richard to guess how lonely and scared he had been through the night.
‘I’ve got to go to choir practice first.’ Richard quickly pulled a black gown over his suit and wondered aloud where he had left his ‘lid’, eventually finding a flat hat, shaped like a square with a cap beneath it.
‘So that’s a lid,’ said Alfie with a grin. ‘Looks funny.’
‘It’s called a mortarboard, really.’ Richard sounded a little annoyed and Alfie suppressed the grin and said that perhaps he should leave while the boys were at choir practice.
‘I say,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve thought of something. Smith Minor has left his second set of togs here. Why don’t you put them on while I’m at the Abbey? It’ll make it much easier to smuggle you out when morning school is over. Luckily it’s Friday. We have a half-day on Friday and only one choir practice. You might as well stay until then and I’ll go out with you – piece of cake, really. No risk.’
He pulled out a suit of clothes from the tall cupboard, found some underclothes and a stiffly starched white shirt in the drawers of a tall chest and a pair of boots from a chest beside the fireplace.
‘Light the fire, like a good fellow; I’m late!’ And then he was gone. Alfie turned the key in the lock and stood by the door for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of boys’ feet clattering down the staircase. Would he like a life like this? he wondered as he scrunched up bits of newspaper and put some sticks into the fire, adding small pieces of coal once it began to burn freely.
These young gentlemen had everything provided for them, he thought and looked admiringly around at what Richard had called ‘his study’. There were two easy chairs by the fire, two desks and chairs on either side of the window that opened onto the sloping slated roof. There was a hook above the fireplace where a kettle could hang, a shelf full of books, a carpet on the floor, a clock, and even a mirror hanging over the fireplace.
Alfie filled the kettle from a tall jug on a side table, set it above the flames and then studied himself in the mirror. He looked very dirty, he thought, and resolved to wash before putting on Smith Minor’s spotless shirt. There were some bars of strong-smelling soap and plenty of torn-up rags in the chest and he washed carefully, even his hair, before dressing himself in the starched shirt and black suit of clothes. The well-polished boots were a little too big, but that was just as well because, like every winter, Alfie’s toes were swollen by chilblains.
‘He was there – there in the abbey as usual!’ Richard had scratched gently at the door when he arrived back and Alfie had been pleased to see him. ‘I say, what a lark! You look quite like Smith Minor, too. He has black curly hair just like you. Wears it a bit shorter, though. Hang on, let me put the cheese and bread over on the table and then I’ll snip it a bit for you.’
‘Who was there?’ asked Alfie as Richard made the tea in a round brown pot.
‘Boris! Mr Ivanov. The organist. He was in a foul mood, too. Kept quarrelling with Mr Ffoulkes, the choirmaster. They’re usually the best of friends; but today the pair of them were so bad-tempered with each other that we all escaped. No one got beaten this morning. I even sang a false note and got away with it! Anyway, tell me what you were doing in Westminster last night. Why was Boris chasing you?’
Why would a man who has a good job like an organist want to be a spy? Alfie wondered about that. Normally he would have kept his information to himself, but Richard had, after all, saved his life. As he began to tell the whole story, he pushed away the thought that he was trying to impress this young toff.
‘A spy!’ breathed Richard when Alfie had finished. ‘I say, what a lark! It’s like a book. I’m not surprised though. He’s crazy about Russia. We all keep muttering, Why don’t you go back there, then? But now I know why he doesn’t. He’s spying for his precious Mother Russia.’
‘That’s it,’ said Alfie with satisfaction. It was good to understand. That was why the organist was taking all those risks. He took another big bite of the bread and cheese and washed it down with some tea. He had never tasted tea before; it was too expensive for him and his gang. He decided that he didn’t like it that much. Beer was better, he thought, but drank the tea politely.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Richard eagerly. ‘Between us we’ll catch him. We need evidence, though.’
‘He had papers on him,’ Alfie said, ‘the drawings of the new rifle and of the special bullet, I’d say. I don’t have any evidence – he gave them away. But he did get something in return. He had it in his pocket last night.’ And then he told Richard how Boris had eaten the note and posted the papers within a newspaper into the letterbox of the Russian Embassy and how a small package had been left for him to pick up.
‘If I could get into his room . . .’
‘I must be off!’ Richard suddenly looked at the clock on the mantelpiece with alarm. ‘Stay here until I get back,’ he hissed and then he was gone.
Alfie locked the door behind him and settled down to do some hard thinking. He could go to Inspector Denham with his suspicions, but how much better to have hard evidence! He had not actually seen the piece of paper that Boris had put in his pocket. Could they have been drawings of the invention? But there was the package that he had got in return and put into his coat pocket. With Richard as a witness, or better still, if he could manage to smuggle the package into Inspector Denham’s office that would definitely be proof. Then he could claim his five pounds’ reward for finding the spy who was betraying England and giving away its secrets.