A Plague of Bogles Page 14

  Jem didn’t bother to go any farther. A single sniff told him all he needed to know. He dropped the hatch and retreated.

  “You might have a bogle down there,” he said. Seeing the Welsh girl’s bewildered expression, he added, “One o’ them murdering monsters as skulks in the dark.”

  “A knocker, is it?”

  “Mebbe.” Jem wasn’t familiar with all the different kinds of bogle. Not like Miss Eames. “I know a Go-Devil Man, if you want it killed. You can reach him through Mabel Lillimere, at the Viaduct Tavern.”

  “But no one ever goes down in the cellar. Why would we need a Go-Devil Man?”

  Jem snorted. “Bogles eat kids,” he replied, “and there’s a deal o’ kids in these parts. I’d not be surprised if the sewers was crawling with bogles. So you’ll want to cover this trapdoor with summat heavy, afore they start spilling out like a plague o’ rats.” As the girl goggled at him in a witless kind of way, he decided to change the subject. “D’you know a woman called Eunice Pickles?” was his next question.

  Once again, he drew a blank. The fur puller had never seen Eunice. Neither had any of her friends. It was very disheartening—and since the light was starting to fade, Jem decided to abandon his search, at least for the moment. Instead, he wandered back into Warwick Lane, where he bought an eel pie for his supper.

  He ate it on his return trip to Newgate Street.

  By this time he was feeling a little drained. It had been a long day, full of incident. Though bogling was in many ways easier than sweeping—and far, far easier than stealing purses—it wasn’t a job for someone who valued his independence. Jem wasn’t used to having his every move watched and judged. He didn’t like being told what to do. That was why he hadn’t flourished as a grocer’s boy.

  Yet now he had to obey orders like a military man or suffer the consequences.

  Not that he was complaining. As he walked along in his new coat and boots, his pockets jingling with change and his mouth full of pie, he felt more prosperous than he ever had before. Suddenly he could see why other people sometimes looked ahead, hoping for better things. After all, Birdie McAdam was now living the high life. And she had once been a bogler’s apprentice, just like Jem.

  But then again, Birdie was special. Jem knew that. Sarah Pickles had told him all about Birdie’s predecessors: the boy who had gone to gaol, the boy who had run away to sea, the boy who had been killed by a bogle. According to Sarah, Alfred Bunce had burned through his apprentices like matchsticks until he’d found Birdie McAdam, singing on the banks of the Limehouse Canal. Birdie had lasted six long years at Alfred’s side, and was now eating teacakes off fine porcelain every afternoon. Of course she was special.

  Jem wasn’t. And that was something he had to remember, for it would do him no good to think otherwise. Though he might have had a bit of luck for once, it would run out eventually. It always did. And when that happened, he would find himself on his own—as usual.

  There was no point putting his faith in anyone else.

  Upon reaching Newgate Street, he hesitated. It was already growing dark. Across the road, to his left, he could see light spilling from the windows of the Viaduct Tavern. There was a new bill posted in one of the windows, but Jem couldn’t see it clearly from where he was standing. And he didn’t want to edge any closer, in case Josiah Lubbock was waiting inside.

  So he turned up his collar, pulled his cap down low, and headed straight for Christ’s Hospital School.

  21

  A Larder Bogle

  Alfred had his strategy all worked out.

  “Far as I can tell, the bogle came from that empty larder off the scullery passage,” he declared. “But a larder ain’t big enough for our purposes, so we’ll use the scullery instead.”

  He was standing in the school kitchen, which was dark and deserted. Though the air still smelled of baking and the tabletops were still damp, none of the kitchen staff had stayed up to welcome him. All the cooks and maids were in bed now. So were the students, the beadles, the matrons, the masters—and every porter bar one.

  Mrs. Kerridge couldn’t leave her dormitory of an evening, so she had made certain arrangements with the night porter, Mr. Sowerby. It was Mr. Sowerby who had admitted Alfred and his friends into the school. It was Mr. Sowerby who had hidden them in an infirmary waiting room while candles were snuffed and fires doused all over the school grounds. And it was Mr. Sowerby who had finally ushered his unofficial guests across a small yard separating the infirmary from the Great Hall, when he’d judged that the coast was clear.

  He was a pudgy little man with small features and a soft voice. Even though he wore a dark blue uniform, he didn’t look very threatening. It was hard to imagine him driving unwelcome visitors from the school gates.

  “Is there owt ah can bring thee, Mr. Bunce?” he inquired, hovering on the kitchen threshold. He carried a lamp in one hand and his cap in the other. Though his tone was mild and his expression placid, he kept rocking restlessly from foot to foot, like someone anxious to be on his way.

  His balding head gleamed with perspiration.

  “I don’t need nowt from you, Mr. Sowerby, thanks all the same,” said Alfred.

  “Except the fee,” Jem interposed. He had positioned himself beside Birdie, who was clad in what he had privately labeled her “bogling outfit”: a tight-fitting dress, a bowler hat, and sturdy black boots. Miss Eames wore something similar, though her outfit was made of gray tweed instead of navy-blue cashmere.

  “Seek me out at the gate when the job’s done, and tha shall have thy fee,” Mr. Sowerby advised. “Mrs. Kerridge arranged it so.”

  “Very well.” Miss Eames spoke crisply. “Thank you, Mr. Sowerby. You may go now, if you wish.”

  “That ah will, for ah mun get back. Thank’ee, miss.” The porter promptly vanished, taking his lamp with him. The only light now came from Miss Eames’s lantern—and from the embers that still glowed in every fireplace.

  “That feller were scared witless,” Jem observed, pleased that he wasn’t the only one sweating like a cold pint of beer. Birdie, though pale and solemn, was as dry as chalk. Alfred seemed quite calm, in a grumpy sort of way, while Miss Eames (being a lady) didn’t appear to perspire when she was anxious.

  Instead, she became a little overbearing.

  “Kindly refrain from making remarks like that, Jem,” she scolded. “It is not seemly to draw attention to another person’s moment of weakness.” Before Jem could do more than pull a sour face, she turned to Alfred. “What is your plan, Mr. Bunce? Do you want us in the scullery?”

  “Not yet,” Alfred replied. Then he addressed the two children. “’Tis a long room, and a narrow one. I’ll be laying a ring o’ salt at each end, then standing in the middle, by the door.”

  Jem blinked. Birdie exclaimed, “There’ll be two circles?”

  “Aye.” Alfred paused, then added, “In case there’s two bogles.”

  “Oh,” said Birdie.

  “It ain’t likely,” Alfred went on, “but we must be prepared.”

  “And how do you propose to prepare for two bogles?” Miss Eames demanded with an edge to her voice. Jem could tell that she disapproved of the whole enterprise. When he looked at her stiff posture, her white face, and the fierce way her black brows were knitted over her flashing eyes, he was amazed that she had come at all.

  During their brief wait in the infirmary, while Alfred was smoking and Miss Eames was pacing up and down, Birdie had revealed to Jem (in an undertone) that there had been a raging argument at Mrs. Heppinstall’s house. “Miss Eames said as how I wasn’t to come,” Birdie had whispered, “so I told her I’d come no matter what. And then she said she’d lock me in my room, and I said I’d get out. But it were Mr. Bunce as made her see reason. He told her it would be safer for you if I came, since there might be two bogles. And he asked her if she wanted to see such monsters roaming loose in a school.”

  Remembering this, Jem wasn’t surprised when Alfred gravely i
nformed Miss Eames, before entering the passage, that he would be using Jem as reserve bait in case more than one bogle came through the scullery door. “The first’ll be heading straight for Birdie,” Alfred said, “but if a second comes in afore its mate’s bin dealt with, Jem’ll lure it to the opposite end o’ the room.” Hearing Jem gasp, the bogler quickly tried to reassure him. “You’ll be in a closed circle, lad. There won’t be no gap for the bogle to break through. Understand?”

  “Ye-e-es . . .”

  “I’m reckoning it’ll stand puzzled just long enough for me to kill the other,” Alfred continued. “Providing you sing to it, Jem.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Miss Eames interrupted.

  “If I’m wrong, the lad’ll be safe enough. He’ll have salt all round him, like a wall of iron.”

  “But what if salt don’t work no more?” Jem’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. “If they’re hunting in packs now, mebbe other things have changed as well . . .”

  Alfred dismissed Jem’s fears with an impatient gesture. “If the salt should fail, you’re as fast as a ferret. I’ve no fears for you.” He glanced at Birdie. “And you’re to join the lad in his circle if you cannot reach the door.”

  Birdie nodded in a businesslike manner.

  “What must I do?” Miss Eames wanted to know. “Block the entrance?”

  “You’re to stay out here,” Alfred replied. Then he began to address the whole group, his gaze moving solemnly from face to face. “After what happened in the viaduct, I ain’t about to take no chances. Which is why you’ll all stay mum while I’m in the scullery, laying down the salt. For we don’t want no bogles popping up ahead o’ time, do we?”

  Jem shook his head. He couldn’t have said a word even if he’d wanted to; his mouth was too dry. Something about the dark, echoing kitchen made him very nervous. So he stayed close to Miss Eames, sweaty and silent, as Alfred busied himself in the scullery. No one spoke for at least ten minutes. The only sound was the sighing of wind in the chimneys.

  When at last Jem and Birdie were allowed into the passage, they had to scurry past Alfred—who stood, with his spear in his hand and his back to them both, on the threshold of the empty larder. It was a nasty moment. The passage was pitch-black and as narrow as a drainpipe. But it opened onto a room much bigger than any normal scullery: a long, damp, windowless space with a vaulted roof and strange niches everywhere. Jem realized at once that this room hadn’t been built as a scullery. There weren’t enough shelves, for one thing. The sink looked like an afterthought, and the light was very bad. As for the large iron rings embedded in the ceiling, Jem couldn’t imagine what they were for. Hanging runaway boys, perhaps?

  Luckily, the rings were placed within easy reach of each other, so Jem knew that he could always use them to swing along like a monkey if he had no other choice. But the closed circle of salt wasn’t quite so comforting. It lay to his right as he walked through the door—and it looked much smaller than the unfinished circle to his left.

  He found himself hoping that the bogle wouldn’t have very long arms.

  “Ssst!” Alfred had positioned himself beside the door to the passage. He hissed at Birdie, then waved her toward the larger ring of salt. Jem immediately went to stand inside the smaller ring. He kept his eyes on the door, which was the only way out. Alfred’s glowing lantern had been left in a far corner. So had his hat and bogler’s bag.

  Jem took off his own cap just as Birdie burst into song.

  “Oh! ’Twas on the deep Atlantic,

  In the equinoctial gales,

  That a young feller fell overboard,

  Among the sharks and whales;

  He fell right down so quickly—

  So headlong down fell he—

  That he went out o’ sight like a streak o’ light,

  To the bottom o’ the deep blue sea.”

  In such a confined space, Birdie’s voice seemed incredibly loud. She looked too small to be producing a noise so clear and powerful as she stood with her back to Alfred, a little mirror flashing in her hand. Jem couldn’t see her face from his side of the room. All he could see was a slim, dark silhouette, touched here and there with gold where her hair was spilling from beneath the brim of her bowler hat.

  But he knew that he shouldn’t be letting his eyes stray toward Birdie. His job was to watch the door. So he concentrated on the rectangular void beside Alfred, while Birdie filled the air with a cascade of silvery notes.

  “The boats went out to look for him,

  And we thought to find his corpse;

  When he came to the top with a bang and sang

  In a voice sepulchrally hoarse,

  ‘Oh, my comrades and my messmates all,

  Pray, do not grieve for me,

  For I’m married to a mermaid

  At the bottom o’ the deep blue sea.’”

  Jem wondered vaguely if Birdie had learned the song from her singing master. He didn’t recognize the tune, though it had a jaunty, popular ring to it. No doubt Josiah Lubbock would have known its name; he was probably familiar with all the latest music-hall compositions . . .

  Jem hadn’t yet told Alfred that he’d had dealings with the showman. Though there’d been plenty of time to come clean while they were all in the infirmary, patiently waiting, somehow Jem had been unable to broach the subject—perhaps because he’d feared that Alfred wouldn’t take it well. Jem was dreading the bogler’s reaction. It would be harsh, he knew. There would be heated words. A beating, perhaps. Even dismissal . . . ?

  Jem suddenly caught himself teetering on the very brink of despair—and realized that the bogle must be nearby. It had to be; nothing else could have made him feel like this. And Birdie, he noticed, had become slightly breathless.

  “He told us how when he first went down,

  The fishes all came round he,

  And they seemed to think, as they stared at him,

  That he made uncommon free;

  But down he went, he didn’t know how,

  And he thought, ‘It’s all up with me!’

  When he came to a lovely mermaid

  At the bottom o’ the deep, blue—”

  The bogle moved fast. One moment everything was still; then a blurred shape burst over the threshold. Jem caught a glimpse of pulsing red bladders—peeled pink flesh—grinning layers of teeth. He saw giant claws lunge toward Birdie.

  A split second later, Alfred moved. There was a flash of white salt. Birdie jumped. The bogle roared. Alfred hurled his spear.

  The BANG was deafening. It was so loud that Jem blacked out.

  When he came to his senses a moment later, he was flat on the floor, staring up at an iron ring in the ceiling. For a moment he lay there, stunned. Then he remembered the bogle and sat bolt upright, gasping for breath.

  Across the room, Alfred was climbing to his feet. Miss Eames had suddenly appeared; she was bending over Birdie, who was on her knees, looking dazed. Though Miss Eames was moving her mouth, Jem couldn’t hear her. Not through the ringing in his ears.

  There was no sign of the bogle. It hadn’t left a single stain, smell, or scratch. And no other bogle had emerged from the larder to take its place.

  “Bzzzz-bzzz-bzzz-bzzz,” Miss Eames was saying. But Birdie was shaking her head irritably, like a dog with ear canker.

  Miss Eames turned to Alfred. “Bzzz-bzzz-wrong?” she asked, her voice hoarse with dismay. “What was that terrible noise?”

  Alfred didn’t reply. He was too busy grimacing as he thumped one side of his head with the heel of his hand. So Jem spoke for him.

  “It were a bogle,” said Jem. “It popped.” Then, relieved that he hadn’t gone deaf after all, he croaked, “We should get out afore another comes along.”

  “I don’t expect there’ll be another,” Birdie croaked. “Ain’t nothing like a dead friend to put you off yer food, and I don’t believe there’s a bogle in all London as didn’t hear that one die.”

  “All the same, we shoul
dn’t dawdle,” said Alfred. And he glanced nervously over his shoulder.

  22

  Telling the Truth

  Miss Eames insisted that they all take the same hackney cab. It wouldn’t put her out, she said; Drury Lane was practically on the way to Bloomsbury. And a cab ride would be much more comfortable than a long, crowded trip on an omnibus.

  But she was wrong. The cab wasn’t comfortable. It was old and rickety, with broken springs and horsehair sprouting from its seats. The driver kept losing his way. And though everyone was shaken and speechless at the start of the trip, it wasn’t long before squabbling broke out.

  Jem was the first to break the silence. He baldly asked for his cut of Alfred’s twelve-shilling fee. Without a word of protest, Alfred handed over sixpence. But when he offered the same sum to Birdie, Miss Eames said, “This is the last time. Forgive me, Mr. Bunce, but I am fast losing patience. You promised that there would be no more bogling, yet here we are once again, shocked and bruised from another dreadful incident . . .”

  Birdie turned bright red. Before she could say anything, however, Alfred frowned at her. For a moment their gazes locked. Then she swallowed whatever was on the tip of her tongue.

  “Why, we haven’t even solved the mystery of the Newgate Street plague!” Miss Eames went on. “I thought we agreed that you would cease work until we could account for this infestation—”

  “It ain’t just Newgate Street,” Jem interrupted. As Miss Eames stared at him in the pale light of the carriage lamps, he said, “The viaduct’s on High Holborn, remember? And Smithfield Market’s up the end o’ Giltspur—”

  “Smithfield Market?” Miss Eames cut him off. She glanced from Jem to Alfred, both of whom were sitting opposite her. “Have you killed a bogle at the market recently?”