Murder on Stage by Cora Harrison Page B

hoped that half of the night was over, but he guessed from the height of the moon that it was probably only about midnight.
    And then he heard a bell ring. It seemed to come from under the flagstones. He started violently. He wasn’t the only one. Everyone woke up and listened. ‘It’s the bellman from
the Old Bailey church,’ said an elderly man to Alfie. ‘They ring one minute after midnight for the condemned man.’
    ‘Just to give him a good night’s sleep,’ said one of the boys and all the others laughed.
    One of the boys began to chant in a loud, cheerful voice as if the whole thing was just a joke:
    ‘All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
    Prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die;
    Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near
    That you before the Almighty must appear;
    Examine well yourselves, in time repent
    That you may not to eternal flames be sent:
    And when St Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls
    The Lord above have mercy on your souls
    Past twelve o’clock!’
    ‘There will be another poor soul tomorrow,’ said the elderly man to Alfie with a sigh. ‘You get used to the nightly lullaby in this place.’
    ‘Visitors for our Holy Joe here,’ said the turnkey with a sneer. He jerked his head at Alfie.
    Alfie got quietly to his feet, feeling his pocket to make sure that the piece of paper with the prayer was still there safely. At noon he had slept for a few hours and now he was stiff from
lying, shackled and handcuffed, on the bare stones of the floor. It was all beginning to seem like a bad dream to him.
    But now, at the turnkey’s words, every fibre within him was quivering and ready for action.
    He followed the line of men who had been summoned. No one had come to visit the boys and they seemed a bit glum about that, calling out jeers and swear words after him.
    ‘Is it my sister?’ he asked the turnkey as the key was being turned in the lock.
    ‘How do I know? I just obey orders.’ He was extra bad-tempered with Alfie. Probably he sensed that, in some way, Alfie had hoodwinked him during that long session in the church with
the chaplain.
    The turnkey stopped when they reached the felons’ quadrangle, where Alfie and the other prisoners, all heavily shackled and manacled, had dragged their legs around for half an hour that
morning. ‘Stand!’ he roared and lashed out with his truncheon at one old man who had not stopped quickly enough to suit him.
    ‘Wait,’ he yelled again and then two other warders came out of the lodge, swishing heavy truncheons to warn the prisoners not to bolt.
    It would have been useless to try anything. They were in a concrete yard with twenty-foot high walls around the four sides of it. They waited, shivering in the rain. There seemed to be something
going on in the building on the right-hand side – a clanking of iron bars, creaking sounds and hammering. The wait was long and dreary. The rain was heavy and the prisoners’ rough
clothing soaked up the wet.
    ‘Have to search the visitors, lads; that takes time,’ said one of the warders eventually.
    And then there was another wait. Alfie thought he would scream if it were any longer. He began to worry about the prayer in his pocket. Would they search the prisoners as well as the visitors?
Perhaps he should mention the prayer first before it was found on him. These two warders did not look too bad.
    One had almost a pleasant face, and Alfie approached him, moving slowly and watching his reactions carefully. He raised his right arm as he had been taught to do in school and the movement
brought a reluctant grin to the man’s face.
    ‘What’s the problem, young shaver?’ he asked.
    ‘Please, sir,’ said Alfie with extreme politeness. ‘The turnkey said that it would be all right to give this to my sister. He said to tell you that it came from the chaplain in
the prison church, sir,’ he lied with a sudden happy inspiration. They seemed to think a lot of religion in this prison so that might