let’s give him
something to eat”. They don’t do that to me. There you were, stuffing your face with chestnuts, and me so hungry that I thought I would faint if I didn’t get food. How was I to
know that Alfie would be fool enough to hang around the theatre for the whole day? I’d have thought he’d have found a good hiding place as soon as he got in there, and stayed
put.’
Sammy ignored this. ‘It’s just that I keep thinking about the hand on my arm. There was something funny about it.’
‘What was funny?’ Tom began to sound interested. ‘He was wearing a glove, you said so yourself.’
Sammy nodded. ‘Yes, I could feel it and I could smell it, as well. But I don’t think it was a thick glove . . .’
‘You’re right,’ Tom broke in excitedly. ‘You’re right, Sammy. Is that giving you an idea? He was wearing gloves all the time, fancy ones – sort of yellow
leather – very fancy, with stitching on them. I’d say they would be thin gloves, too.’
‘So that he wouldn’t need to take them off in the ordinary way,’ said Sammy.
‘Let me think. Yeah, you’re right. He didn’t take them off when he . . .’
‘Handed you the pie,’ said Sammy in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Are you sure? Think hard, Tom. We’re doing great, the two of us. Think hard. Get a picture of them in your
mind.’
Tom shut his eyes. It was funny, he thought, how that helped you to remember things. Everyone remarked on how smart Sammy was, but when he closed his eyes he, also, had a feeling of being
clever. Perhaps being blind sharpened your wits.
‘Two hands, or one, on the plate?’ came Sammy’s voice.
‘Two,’ said Tom, still keeping his eyes tightly screwed up. He knew what Sammy was at – trying to get him to remember the scene as clearly as possible. ‘Two,’ he
repeated, ‘and – I’m certain now – the gloves were on his hands, definitely.’
Sammy smiled with satisfaction. It was not proof, but at the same time the very fact that this mysterious man had kept on his gloves, had risked the valuable yellow leather being stained by a
splash of gravy – this seemed to back up his own memory. He held out his own hands, trying to visualise how a metal plate would be carried.
‘Thumbs on top and fingers underneath,’ said Tom. ‘Definitely gloves!’
‘You know the way, when someone grabs your arm, that you feel the fingers?’ Sammy reached out, his hand fumbling until it met Tom’s arm and then gripped it tightly.
‘You’re right – I do feel your fingers. Every single one of them.’
‘And now?’
‘You’ve bent one of them back; I can only feel three!’ cried Tom.
‘That’s it! That’s what I felt! The man was missing a finger from his right hand!’
‘Is that a clue?’ Tom sounded hopeful.
‘I think it could be. It’s a reason to keep his gloves on, anyway. That missing finger could give him away,’ said Sammy. ‘Now we have something to tell Alfie. But how are
we going to do it?’
CHAPTER 21
N EWGATE R ATS
Alfie thought it was the longest night of his life. There were only enough mats for about half the prisoners and Alfie didn’t even try to get one. He just stayed where he
was, sitting on the cold bare stone floor, his knees hunched up, his shackled ankles sore from the weight of the iron. He put his head into his hands and tried to sleep, but the cold iron of the
manacles kept waking him up. The fire began to die down and the moon shone through a tiny window high on the wall. By its light, Alfie could see a large rat emerge from its hole and scuttle along
the side of the crumbling wall. It sniffed at the pocket of one of the prisoners who yelled and lashed out with his shackled foot and the frightened rat scaled Alfie’s legs and returned to
his hole in the wall. After that Alfie dared not sleep. He stayed awake watching the lice crawl across the stone floor, their hard, shiny backs glinting in the moonlight. What time was it, he
wondered. He
something to eat”. They don’t do that to me. There you were, stuffing your face with chestnuts, and me so hungry that I thought I would faint if I didn’t get food. How was I to
know that Alfie would be fool enough to hang around the theatre for the whole day? I’d have thought he’d have found a good hiding place as soon as he got in there, and stayed
put.’
Sammy ignored this. ‘It’s just that I keep thinking about the hand on my arm. There was something funny about it.’
‘What was funny?’ Tom began to sound interested. ‘He was wearing a glove, you said so yourself.’
Sammy nodded. ‘Yes, I could feel it and I could smell it, as well. But I don’t think it was a thick glove . . .’
‘You’re right,’ Tom broke in excitedly. ‘You’re right, Sammy. Is that giving you an idea? He was wearing gloves all the time, fancy ones – sort of yellow
leather – very fancy, with stitching on them. I’d say they would be thin gloves, too.’
‘So that he wouldn’t need to take them off in the ordinary way,’ said Sammy.
‘Let me think. Yeah, you’re right. He didn’t take them off when he . . .’
‘Handed you the pie,’ said Sammy in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Are you sure? Think hard, Tom. We’re doing great, the two of us. Think hard. Get a picture of them in your
mind.’
Tom shut his eyes. It was funny, he thought, how that helped you to remember things. Everyone remarked on how smart Sammy was, but when he closed his eyes he, also, had a feeling of being
clever. Perhaps being blind sharpened your wits.
‘Two hands, or one, on the plate?’ came Sammy’s voice.
‘Two,’ said Tom, still keeping his eyes tightly screwed up. He knew what Sammy was at – trying to get him to remember the scene as clearly as possible. ‘Two,’ he
repeated, ‘and – I’m certain now – the gloves were on his hands, definitely.’
Sammy smiled with satisfaction. It was not proof, but at the same time the very fact that this mysterious man had kept on his gloves, had risked the valuable yellow leather being stained by a
splash of gravy – this seemed to back up his own memory. He held out his own hands, trying to visualise how a metal plate would be carried.
‘Thumbs on top and fingers underneath,’ said Tom. ‘Definitely gloves!’
‘You know the way, when someone grabs your arm, that you feel the fingers?’ Sammy reached out, his hand fumbling until it met Tom’s arm and then gripped it tightly.
‘You’re right – I do feel your fingers. Every single one of them.’
‘And now?’
‘You’ve bent one of them back; I can only feel three!’ cried Tom.
‘That’s it! That’s what I felt! The man was missing a finger from his right hand!’
‘Is that a clue?’ Tom sounded hopeful.
‘I think it could be. It’s a reason to keep his gloves on, anyway. That missing finger could give him away,’ said Sammy. ‘Now we have something to tell Alfie. But how are
we going to do it?’
CHAPTER 21
N EWGATE R ATS
Alfie thought it was the longest night of his life. There were only enough mats for about half the prisoners and Alfie didn’t even try to get one. He just stayed where he
was, sitting on the cold bare stone floor, his knees hunched up, his shackled ankles sore from the weight of the iron. He put his head into his hands and tried to sleep, but the cold iron of the
manacles kept waking him up. The fire began to die down and the moon shone through a tiny window high on the wall. By its light, Alfie could see a large rat emerge from its hole and scuttle along
the side of the crumbling wall. It sniffed at the pocket of one of the prisoners who yelled and lashed out with his shackled foot and the frightened rat scaled Alfie’s legs and returned to
his hole in the wall. After that Alfie dared not sleep. He stayed awake watching the lice crawl across the stone floor, their hard, shiny backs glinting in the moonlight. What time was it, he
wondered. He
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