A Plague of Bogles Page 11

  “Oh, please, Mr. Snell!” Miss Eames protested, covering her mouth with a wispy white handkerchief. Alfred turned on the flusher with a snarl.

  “There’s ladies present. Where’s yer manners?”

  But Snell had already begun to apologize. “Begging yer pardon, miss—only I’m that churned up, I don’t know what I’m saying. To think there’s such perilous creatures in the subway, and I never once saw ’em before! Ain’t no accounting for it.”

  “Yes, there is,” Birdie said impatiently. She had been allowed her own little glass of port wine, but it had been so heavily watered that it was pale pink. “The reason you never saw ’em is that you never had no kids with you.”

  “That’s true. I never did.” Sam Snell acknowledged this freely. “As for you, lass—you was the bravest of us all! Standing there, still as death, while the boggart drew closer and closer—”

  “Will you shut yer mouth?” Jem said sharply. The very thought of bogles made him break into a cold sweat. No matter how much he wanted to forget it, that moment he’d spent clinging to the roof of the tunnel would stay with him forever. He could still feel the bogle breathing down his neck. He could still see the distant sky trapped behind an iron grating.

  Then he felt Birdie squeeze his hand under the table, and he realized that he shouldn’t be showing everyone how disturbed he was. Alfred would have no use for a frightened apprentice.

  Snatching his hand away, he cleared his throat and said to Birdie, in a hard, bright voice, “You sound better’n ever. Like a real nightingale.”

  “That she does!” Sam Snell saluted Birdie with a raised pint pot. “I ain’t never heard a sweeter songbird. You ought to be on the stage, lass.” Before Birdie could reply, he turned to Jem, adding, “And so should you. Why, the pair o’ you would make a fine double act! The girl could sing and the boy could tumble.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Miss Eames snapped. She looked ill at ease and kept eyeing the other patrons suspiciously—even though many of them appeared to be quite respectable. (Jem had already spotted a couple of inky clerks.) “I think we should go,” she continued. “Birdie will benefit more from a hot dinner than she will from an extended session in a public house.”

  “We can’t go yet,” Jem protested. “For Mr. Bunce ain’t bin paid.”

  As Hugh Purdy began to fumble in his pocket, mumbling an apology, Alfred scowled at Jem. “It ain’t yer place to be dunning for me,” the bogler chided. “Mr. Purdy will settle in his own good time.”

  “Which is now,” said Purdy, pushing a handful of coins across the table. “You’ll forgive the delay, Mr. Bunce. My head is full o’ pictures I’d as soon forget. I keep thinking about Billy, and wondering which o’ those things . . .”

  He trailed off, grimacing. Mabel laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You did all you could for him, rest his sweet soul,” she said. “The bogle’s dead now. And you’ll not be losing no other boys the way you did Billy.”

  “I’d not be too sure o’ that,” Alfred growled. Having finished his drink, he asked Mabel for another. Then he turned to Miss Eames. “In all the years I’ve bin bogling, I ain’t never seen nowt like I did today. Summat’s wrong. And I can’t account for it.”

  “Mebbe it’s the underground river—” Birdie began, before Alfred interrupted her.

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “That river’s bin here longer’n London has, and I never killed but two bogles in this quarter over the past six years.”

  “I ain’t saying the river caused the plague,” Birdie retorted. “I’m saying mebbe the river is where bogles like to live. And since there’s bin so much digging and building in this part o’ London—”

  “Aye, we spoke o’ that.” Alfred cut her off. “But what about all the other work across the city? What about the Embankment? What about the Thames subway? Ain’t no plague o’ bogles down by Blackfriars Bridge.”

  “How do you know?” asked Jem. As Alfred eyed him narrowly, he continued, “There might be, only no one’s told you about it.”

  A brief pause ensued. The tavern was filling with ink-spattered printers and blood-spattered butchers. The air was becoming smoky, and the noise level was rising.

  Jem wondered, in an absent-minded way, if Sam Snell or Hugh Purdy might agree to stump up for another cider—or even a mutton chop.

  “I’ve been doing some research into this corner of the city,” Miss Eames suddenly remarked, “and was alarmed to discover that it sits on what is effectively a giant graveyard.” Seeing every face at the table swing toward her, she went on to explain, “The Romans buried their dead here. There are also cemeteries at Christchurch, and Saint Sepulchre’s, and Newgate Prison—”

  “That don’t signify,” Alfred interposed, frowning. “What bearing does that have on the bogles?”

  “Well,” Miss Eames replied, “it occurred to me that they might make a habit of raiding old graves.”

  “Like the resurrection men,” said Mabel. She had been hovering behind Hugh Purdy with a large brown jug, listening with great interest to the talk around the table. Now, as the plumber shot her a puzzled look, she decided to make her own contribution. “There was a lot o’ bodysnatching hereabouts in the old days, on account o’ the hospital being so near,” she revealed. “Why, the surgeons from Saint Bart’s used to buy drowned corpses just up the street, in the Fortune o’ War Tavern. A special room was set aside for the purpose. I’ve seen it myself.”

  Jem wondered what on earth body snatchers had to do with bogles. Alfred must have been wondering the same thing, because he regarded the barmaid quizzically for a moment, then turned to Miss Eames and said, “Bogles don’t eat corpses. They like their meat fresh.”

  Miss Eames flinched. Before she could protest, however, Birdie spoke up again. “Bogles don’t live in packs, neither, Mr. Bunce. But they’ve formed a taste for company in this here part o’ London—so why not a taste for corpses as well?”

  Jem was struck by the logic of this argument. When he glanced at Alfred, he saw that the bogler was also impressed, though still not wholly convinced.

  “Aye, but Saint Sepulchre’s graveyard is empty now,” Alfred pointed out. “The sexton told us it were dug up, not long ago, and all the remains shifted to Ilford.”

  “All the remains?” said Birdie. “Could little bits not have been left behind?”

  Jem opened his mouth to ask if she thought that the bogle living in Saint Sepulchre’s crypt had been foraging in the churchyard for stray fingers and toes. But he never got the chance to speak. Suddenly Miss Eames stood up, looking a little paler than usual.

  “It’s time we went,” she announced. “I see no profit in addressing such a grisly subject when everyone is so overwrought.” She began to sidle past the plumber, who had already jumped to his feet. “Come, Birdie. We’ll catch the omnibus, I think.”

  Birdie scowled. “I don’t want to go!”

  “You do as you’re told, and don’t give Miss Eames none o’ yer lip,” said Alfred. He, too, had risen from his seat, though not because he was on his way out. He’d done it because Miss Eames was standing. “Here,” he added, fishing around in his pocket. “This is yer share o’ the fee. You earned it, lass.”

  Birdie’s angry flush faded as Alfred pressed six shiny pennies into her palm. Jem saw Miss Eames open her mouth, then shut it again.

  He cleared his throat. “What about me?” he asked. “Don’t I get sixpence?”

  “You’ll get a fat ear if you don’t shut yer mouth,” rasped Alfred. Then he slapped Jem’s arm with his hat brim. “And don’t sit there like a lump when there’s a lady on her feet.”

  Glowering, Jem stood up. He waited in silence as Miss Eames took her leave. “I’ll give the whole matter some thought, Mr. Bunce,” she promised, before she and Birdie withdrew, “but it’s my strong belief that you should attempt no more bogling expeditions until we solve this mystery.”

  Sam Snell soon followed her, explaining that his wife
was expecting him at home. Then the plumber offered his apologies; he had a duty to Billy’s ma, he said, and would need to break the sad news to her as quickly as possible.

  It wasn’t long before Alfred and Jem found themselves alone at the corner table, surrounded by loud, laughing, tipsy strangers. By this time Alfred was on his third brandy and water. He sat hunched over it, his expression morose, his dark gaze turned inward.

  At last Jem said, “I lost that sovereign. And the shilling too. I dropped ’em when the bogle went for me—and ran out o’ that pipe too fast to pick ’em up again.”

  Alfred didn’t reply. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a shilling, and flicked it at Jem without even glancing in his direction.

  Jem caught the coin with one hand, then stared at it in amazement.

  “Why—why, thank you, Mr. Bunce,” he stammered, just as Mabel appeared at his side.

  “Another brandy, Mr. Bunce?” she queried. When he nodded, she continued, “I forgot to mention that a gentleman was here earlier, asking about you. Name o’ Josiah Lubbock. He said you were acquainted with him.”

  Jem gasped. Alfred peered up at her from under his bushy eyebrows and said, “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know where to find you,” the barmaid answered. “He said if I had the particulars of any jobs you might be engaged for, he could meet you there.”

  Alfred sniffed. Jem exclaimed, “He must have bin listening at yer door, Mr. Bunce! This morning, after you threw him out!”

  “I told him I don’t discuss my customers’ affairs,” Mabel went on. Her clear gray eyes were searching Alfred’s face. “And I didn’t take the shilling he offered me, neither.” As Alfred blinked and reached into his pocket again, she colored and stepped back. “Oh, no, Mr. Bunce! I’d not take a penny from you.”

  Alfred mumbled his thanks, looking embarrassed.

  “And the next time I see Mr. Lubbock, I’ll be giving him a piece o’ my mind!” the barmaid concluded, before hurrying away to fetch Alfred’s fourth brandy.

  “I’ll have a cream gin here, if you please!” Jem called after her, tapping the table with his shilling.

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” said Alfred.

  “But I’ll pay for it meself!” Jem assured him. “I’ve means enough to do it!”

  “If you buy spirits with that there shilling, I’ll take it back,” Alfred warned. Then his head snapped around as he heard the sound of a throat being cleared just behind him.

  “Ah . . . Mr. Bunce?” a familiar voice quavered.

  It was Mr. Froome, the sexton.

  17

  Meeting the Matron

  Alfred’s face fell. His shoulders slumped.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Ye’ll forgive me for interrupting,” the sexton said in his creaky voice, “but I came at a lady’s request. She wants a word, Mr. Bunce.”

  The bogler opened one eye, then the other. They raked Mr. Froome up and down, from the top of his thick, white mane to the soles of his dirt-encrusted boots.

  “What lady?” Alfred growled.

  “A respectable woman I’ve known these five years or more. The widow of a bankrupt printer from Bath. Nowadays she’s a nurse at Christ’s Hospital School, around the corner.”

  At the sound of the word “school,” Alfred groaned and rubbed his face with one hand. Jem asked, “Is it a boys’ school or a girls’ school?”

  “A boys’ school,” said Mr. Froome. “And two boys are missing.”

  “Why, Mr. Froome!” Mabel’s voice suddenly broke into their exchange. She had reappeared with Alfred’s order. “How are you faring? Well, I hope?”

  “All the better for yeer kind inquiry, Miss Lillimere,” the sexton responded, with a stiff little bow.

  “You’ll be wanting your usual, I expect?”

  “No, lass, I’ll not stay long. I came to fetch Mr. Bunce, if he’s willing to step across the road for five minutes.”

  “Oh.” The barmaid glanced curiously from the sexton to the bogler as she placed a full glass on the table. “I hope nothing’s amiss at the church?”

  “Nothing that would concern Mr. Bunce,” Mr. Froome assured her.

  “Good,” said Mabel. She was too polite to ask any further questions. Watching her hurry away, the sexton remarked, “’Tis sinful to see a girl like that working in a place like this.”

  Alfred didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “Is yer friend at the church now, Mr. Froome?”

  “She is, Mr. Bunce.”

  “In that case, I can spare her five minutes.” Alfred then drained his glass, lurched to his feet, and heaved his sack up onto one shoulder.

  Jem followed him out of the tavern without saying a word. It seemed strange that Alfred had agreed to talk to a prospective client after what had just happened in the viaduct. Jem knew that Miss Eames wouldn’t approve. But he also knew that nothing he said would make any difference. So he kept his mouth shut, even though he felt sick at the thought of confronting another bogle.

  Out in Newgate Street, the crowds were thick and noisy. Jem peered at every face that passed him but didn’t spot Eunice Pickles. Mr. Froome immediately turned right, into Giltspur.

  “Where are we going?” asked Jem. Then he saw that the sexton was veering toward a little stone booth attached to the north end of Saint Sepulchre’s, overlooking the churchyard. This curious addition, which looked like the base of a lopped tower, was fitted with a single door and several windows.

  The door stood open.

  “Our old watch house was built to guard the graves at night, on account of all the bodysnatchers hereabouts,” Mr. Froome explained. “And since Mrs. Kerridge is afeared of being seen, I thought it best that she wait for you where no one ever comes.” Prompted by Alfred’s confused expression, the sexton added quietly, “It not being her free day, she risks dismissal for leaving the school grounds.”

  Alfred gave a grunt. He then crossed the watch house threshold just ahead of Jem, who almost bumped into him when the bogler stopped abruptly. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Jem saw the reason behind Alfred’s sudden halt.

  The room they’d entered was so small that if Alfred had taken a step farther, he would have collided with the woman who was waiting there.

  “Mrs. Kerridge, this is Mr. Alfred Bunce, the Go-Devil Man,” Mr. Froome announced from the street. “Mr. Bunce, this is Mrs. Alma Kerridge, a nurse from the school across the way.”

  “We’re called matrons now, Mr. Froome,” said Mrs. Kerridge. She had a harsh voice and a clipped way of speaking. Her figure was short and sturdy, and she’d wrapped it in a gray woolen shawl. Though Jem couldn’t see her very well in the dim light; he could just make out a round face under a snow-white cap. “I’ve not much time, Mr. Bunce, for I’ll be missed soon,” she went on as Mr. Froome disappeared from sight. “The fact is, we’ve had two boys vanish in as many weeks, and I’m at my wits’ end. One was friendless—a charity boy—but the other has family who will not believe he ran away. I’m disinclined to believe it myself, Mr. Bunce, no matter what the warden might think.” Suddenly she spied Jem skulking in the shadows. “Why, who is this? Is he with you?”

  “Aye,” said Alfred, sounding a little dazed. “Jem is ’prenticed to me.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Kerridge studied Jem for a moment with a penetrating gaze before shifting her attention back to Alfred. “In all honesty, Mr. Bunce, we’ve had runaways in the past. Some boys pine for home. Some are flogged and bullied till they abscond, or refuse to come back after their holidays. But John Cobb was too timid to flout the rules. And Cornelius Sturn had nowhere else to go.”

  “How old are they?” Alfred gruffly inquired.

  “Nine and twelve.”

  “And where was they last seen?”

  “John was last seen somewhere between the buttery and the kitchen. As for Cornelius . . .” Mrs. Kerridge paused, then sighed. “I cannot tell you. All I know is that he vanished after supper.”

&nb
sp; “In the evening?” asked Alfred.

  “In the evening, yes. They both disappeared very late in the day.” As the bogler pondered, frowning, Mrs. Kerridge watched him with her bright, piercing eyes—and Jem watched Mrs. Kerridge, silently giving thanks that he wasn’t a student at her school. There was something formidable about Mrs. Kerridge. And all her talk of flogging and bullying didn’t appeal to him either.

  “I’ve one more thing to tell you, Mr. Bunce,” she suddenly confessed. “For some time now, several of the matrons and some of the kitchen staff . . .” She trailed off, then squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and continued. “We’ve a notion that some kind of presence may be roaming the school at night. It is for this reason that I approached you.”

  “What kind o’ presence?” Alfred wanted to know. “Has anyone seen it?”

  Mrs. Kerridge didn’t answer his question. Not directly. “At first I thought it might be a ‘fazzer,’” was her roundabout response. “There’s a tradition of senior boys scaring the younger ones at night. They call it ‘fazzing.’ I don’t hold with it, of course, but I cannot always be watching them.” Her hard gaze once again darted toward Jem, who shifted uneasily beneath it. “Having satisfied myself that the boys weren’t responsible,” she went on, “I began to wonder if the place was haunted. In the old days, the Greyfriars used to bury their dead under the school, when it was still a monastery. And there’s any number of boys in the infirmary graveyard.”

  Jem shuddered. Not only floggings, but ghosts as well, he thought. Ugh!

  “Then I encountered Mr. Froome yesterday,” Mrs. Kerridge concluded. “He told me about the creature in his crypt, and I decided to seek your help. Mr. Froome was kind enough to alert me when he saw you in the neighborhood.” Hearing Saint Sepulchre’s bells toll the hour, she said crisply, “I cannot stay. Will you undertake this work? I’m told that your fee is six shillings, and a penny for salt.”

  “It’s six shillings for every bogle,” Jem corrected. “And fivepence if there ain’t none.”