A Plague of Bogles Page 19

  “Stow it,” Jack warned. To Sarah he said, “You’d best clear out. Soon as you can. T’ain’t safe here no more.”

  They were still hurrying downstairs, past landing after landing. The farther they went, the more obvious it became that the house was falling down. There were missing floorboards, smashed windows, broken banisters, holes in the walls. The plasterwork was crumbling away. Sparrows were nesting on architraves, and rats had chewed through joinery. Jem didn’t see another stick of furniture until he reached ground level, where he spotted a second empty cradle through a half-open door. The room in which this cradle stood seemed to be in fairly good repair, though two of its windows were boarded up. Jem glimpsed a hearthrug, a coal bucket, and a bundle of clean, white muslin stacked on a rocking chair. He even spied a line of wet washing: a baby’s chemise, a flannel wrapper, a bib, a bonnet, a petticoat. Squirming with fear in the butcher’s grasp, Jem wondered fleetingly if Eunice had become a mother since her removal from the East End. Surely she was too old?

  Then they plunged into a basement, where a fire was burning and lamps were lit. Jem saw at once that Sarah must have been living in this dingy cellar for some time. A large bed stood behind a ragged curtain. More damp laundry hung in the old-fashioned chimney corner. The floor was littered with soiled plates and food scraps.

  The cradle by the bed was empty.

  Eunice sat on a chair by the fire, staring blankly into space. But she looked up to see who was coming downstairs—and when Jem appeared, her mouth dropped open. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded. “We don’t take ’em that old, do we?”

  “Hush!” her mother snapped. It was too late, though. Jem’s eyes widened as he realized what was going on.

  Sarah Pickles was a baby farmer. She had to be. The cradles, the clothes—they all made sense now. Sarah and Eunice were being paid to raise the children of poor working girls who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do it themselves. No doubt Sarah had promised to “adopt” the babies for a lump sum, then had sold them, or dumped them, or perhaps even . . . “This way,” Sarah instructed. She jerked her chin at Jack before shuffling toward the far end of the basement, away from the fire. When Jem saw that she was heading straight for what looked like a murky, tumbledown, subterranean burrow, he began to kick wildly, panic-stricken.

  “Damn me!” the butcher swore. “He’s a blooming eel, is this’un!”

  “It’s just through here.” Sarah ducked under a low stone archway, jingling a handful of keys. Meanwhile, her daughter was squinting vacantly at Jem.

  “Will the bogle take a big’un?” she asked. “Ain’t babies what it likes to eat?”

  Jem squealed. Sarah laughed.

  “He’s tender enough,” she assured Eunice. Then she turned to Jem with a sinister smile on her face. “You should have bin bogle meat six months ago,” she crooned. “But better late than never, I allus say.”

  “Nnnnnnnnnn!”

  “If you call for help,” she added, “it’ll bring the bogle up faster.” There was a painful creak of rusty hinges as she pulled open an iron hatch that looked like an oven door. “In there,” she told Jack. “Hurry, now.”

  By this time Jem was frantic with terror. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t believe what was happening. As Jack tried to bundle him through the hatch, there was a mighty battle; Jem wedged his foot against one side of the hole and braced his back against the other. He snatched at everything he could reach—including the butcher’s mustache—to give himself a fighting chance. He yelled loudly enough to burst eardrums, then gave Jack a sharp kick and a bloody nose.

  But the butcher was far too strong for Jem. After a flurry of blows and curses, Jem realized that he was falling. He hit the ground and lay on his back for a moment, winded and confused. The fall hadn’t been long—a few feet, at the most. The floor beneath him was very uneven, spongy in some places and hard in others. And there was light. Jem stared up at it. Far away, overhead, was a small square of light . . .

  The hatch clanged shut. Hearing this, Jem snapped out of his stupor. He sat up and saw that he was in a large pit. Once, perhaps, it had contained a chamber of some sort (a bread oven?), but the roof had collapsed long ago, leaving a litter of rubble that had since been covered by leaves and twigs and other windborne refuse. When Jem spotted a dead pigeon, he looked up again. Of course! He was in a chimney. He was at the bottom of a huge, ruined chimney that must have been six stories high.

  And if there was one thing he knew about chimneys, it was that sweeps’ boys were climbing them all over London.

  He tried not to think of bogles as he jumped to his feet, scanning the walls that encircled him. There were no drainpipes or windowsills inside the chimney. He couldn’t even see any fireplace openings; either they had been bricked up or they’d never existed. But that didn’t matter. It would be easy enough to use all the cracks and fissures and missing bricks as footholds. There was even a narrow ledge running all around the chimney about four feet above his head.

  Jem decided that if he climbed onto the pile of broken masonry opposite the hatch, he would be able to reach up and grab this ledge. From there he would have a clear shot at the crest of the chimney. So he moved across the floor, wincing every time something clinked or crackled beneath the soles of his bare feet. It occurred to him that he must have lost his boots in the fight with Salty Jack, because they weren’t hanging around his neck anymore. But he didn’t have time to mourn their loss. He had to focus on the task ahead.

  Broken bricks slid from beneath him as he staggered to the top of the rubbish pile. Their crunching and clattering seemed to echo around the hollow space, making Jem lick his lips nervously. He couldn’t tell exactly where these noises were coming from. He didn’t like to think that something might be crawling through the rubble nearby. There was so much debris everywhere that it was impossible to see any lurking drains or trapdoors.

  He clamped his fingers around the ledge and heaved himself up until he found a foothold. Though very narrow, the ledge gave him enough purchase to pause and reflect on his next move. There were several options, none of them good. Though the hand-size hollow to his left was reassuringly deep, the fissure above it was quite a stretch for somebody his size. And the uneven patch to his right might have been a comfortable distance from the next one, but it wouldn’t give him much to hold on to . . .

  Suddenly Jem recognized the feeling of despair that was beginning to overwhelm him. For an instant he froze. Then the despair was swamped by a wave of terror as he thrust himself up the wall, grabbing at whatever he could reach. Already he could smell something very bad. A scraping, sliding noise from the pit announced that he wasn’t alone—not any longer. But he couldn’t look down. He wouldn’t look down. He had to concentrate on the wall directly in front of him, not on what lay behind, or ahead.

  Could this bogle actually climb?

  He whimpered as the creature below him hissed like a steam engine. Blinking back tears, he fixed his eyes on an iron bolt, seized it, then reached for his next handhold—a crack where the mortar had crumbled away. Good. Excellent. He hauled himself up another few feet.

  All at once he felt a puff of air against his ankle, as if something had just missed his leg. This time he couldn’t suppress a sob. But he knew that he mustn’t look down. If he paused for even an instant, it might prove fatal. If he tried to rush, it might be even more dangerous. So he kept moving, carefully, doggedly, up and up and up. He tried not to listen to the noises below him: the patter of loose rubble, the click of teeth, the hissing, the slurping, the mysterious rattling. And the higher he went, the easier it became.

  Hollow. Hole. Protruding brick. Hollow. Crack. Missing brick. Jem channeled all his thoughts toward these little details, until he unexpectedly found himself in a pale patch of sunlight. When he put his hand on a bird’s nest, he realized that he must be close to the top of the chimney. He was nearly there! Only a few feet to go! It wasn’t raining any longer; for some reason, he hadn’t
noticed this before. But it was an encouraging sign, and he threw himself at the wall with renewed energy, oblivious to his scraped knuckles, aching head, and sore lip.

  The end came without warning. He pushed himself up, and there, before him, was empty space. Not a wall. Not even a hole in a wall. Just a vista of rooftops, with the gray sky beyond. Jem didn’t hesitate for a second. He threw one leg over the chimney’s crumbling rim and hoisted himself onto it, clinging desperately to the brickwork.

  Then, at last, he looked down.

  29

  The Chimney

  Jem couldn’t see the bogle. He couldn’t see anything down the chimney because it was much too dark inside. But he knew that he wasn’t safe—not yet. So he looked around for an escape route.

  The flue beneath him was in bad repair. It towered above the surrounding rooftops, separating Sarah’s house from the one next door, which was only about three stories high. Jem quickly grasped that if he wanted to get away, he would either have to cross Sarah’s roof (and risk being caught again), or climb a very long way down the other side of the chimney. After a moment’s thought, he decided to risk the first option—since Sarah couldn’t possibly know where he was.

  Besides, he’d had enough climbing for one day.

  From the top of the chimney to Sarah’s roof was a ten-foot drop. Jem tried to reduce this distance by lowering himself down until he was hanging by his fingernails. When he finally let go, a few loose bricks came with him. He hit the slates with a crash, then began to slide toward the gutter.

  Luckily, there was a hole in the roof. Before tumbling off its edge, Jem was able to grab an exposed beam. He suddenly found himself on his stomach with his head dangling over the eaves, staring straight down into Red Lion Court.

  For a moment he thought he was dreaming. There, directly below him, were Alfred Bunce and Constable Pike. The two men were peering around, as if unsure of which house to approach first. Constable Pike stood with his hands on his hips. Alfred was scratching his cheek.

  “Hi! HI! MR. BUNCE!” Jem bellowed.

  Alfred glanced up. So did the policeman.

  “SARAH PICKLES!” Jem continued. “SARAH PICKLES IS IN HERE!” He gestured at the house beneath him, hoping that Alfred would understand. Constable Pike certainly didn’t. He turned to Alfred and seemed to ask a question.

  “HURRY!” Jem roared. “OR SHE’LL GET AWAY!”

  Then something occurred to him. He scrambled back up to the roof ridge but found that he couldn’t see the churchyard from there. So he began to inch down the south slope of the roof, until he reached another patch of missing slates that gave him something to hold on to. With one hand wrapped around a joist, he lowered himself toward the rear gutter—and suddenly spotted Sarah Pickles.

  She was scurrying past the coal shed at the back of the house, heading for the churchyard.

  “STOP! THIEF! MURDER!” bawled Jem, intent on keeping Sarah in his sights. Instinctively he sprang to his feet. Then he tried to keep pace with her, hopping along the gutter like a sparrow. But she was already squeezing through the churchyard fence, into Giltspur Street.

  “STOP! POLICE!” he howled, waving his arms. No one seemed to hear him. Though the street was much busier now that the rain had stopped, not a single soul paused or even glanced up.

  So he turned and retraced his steps, still yelling at the top of his voice. “SARAH’S ESCAPING! SHE’S HEADING FOR NEWGATE!” he cried, hoping that Alfred was in earshot. He almost ran back up to the roof ridge, then sat down and began to slide toward the front of the house. His plan was to warn Constable Pike about Sarah. But when he peered into Red Lion Court, he couldn’t see Alfred or the policeman.

  Had they gone inside already?

  Swearing like a sailor, Jem made for the closest dormer window. This wasn’t the one he’d used before. It didn’t lead to the locked room. But it was open and easy to reach, and since it was identical to the other window, Jem could only assume that it would give him access to the internal staircase.

  He scrambled up the north face of the roof, knowing that he had to be quick. Unfortunately, he was too quick. Too impatient. A slate cracked under his foot. As it slipped from beneath him, he made a grab for the window.

  The window, however, wasn’t close enough. And his own lunge threw him off balance. Suddenly he was rolling, rolling, rolling . . .

  The gutter saved him. He caught it and hung on tightly, his legs flailing around in the air. “HE-E-E-ELP!” he screamed, as something went crack. The gutter shifted. Ping! A nail popped, then another. Ping! Ping! And the gutter started slowly peeling off the edge of the roof.

  When Jem tried to scream again, his voice stuck in his throat. Every time another slate cracked or nail popped, there was a jolt. He would fall sharply, just a foot or two, as the rusty strip of metal to which he clung pulled away from the roof a little more.

  He couldn’t believe it. He was dangling like bait on a hook. “Help . . .” he whimpered. “Help . . . please . . .” By now he was level with the fourth-floor windows, but not one of them was directly beside him. And he knew that if he were to swing on the rusty gutter, it might fall off . . .

  “Jem!” A voice suddenly hailed him from somewhere close by. He heard a squeak and a thump. Looking around, he spotted Alfred leaning out of a fourth-floor window about ten feet away.

  “I’m coming,” Alfred said calmly. “Don’t you move.”

  “Help . . .” Jem croaked.

  “Shhh! You’ll be all right. Just listen to me.”

  Jem hardly dared breathe as he watched Alfred climb onto the windowsill. It was a wooden windowsill embedded in dirty gray stucco, because the top two floors of the house were half timbered. Slowly Alfred straightened up, grasping the edge of the lintel for balance. Then he leaned toward Jem with his free hand outstretched.

  But they were too far away from each other.

  “Can you reach me?” asked Alfred, his voice tight with strain.

  Jem shook his head.

  “Jem. Look here.” Alfred locked gazes with Jem, who felt a tiny flutter of hope at the sight of the bogler’s worn, pouchy, familiar face. Alfred’s dark eyes were as calm as his low, gruff voice, though his skin was flushed and sweaty. “Keep looking. That’s it. Straight at me,” he instructed, then began to edge along the horizontal piece of timber that ran beneath the windowsill.

  Jem nodded. Slowly Alfred’s extended hand drew closer and closer. Slowly his other arm straightened, until he’d gone as far as he could without releasing his hold on the lintel. Soon he was pressed flat against the wall, as if crucified.

  All the while, his eyes never left Jem’s.

  “Can you reach me now?” he asked hoarsely. “Try, lad. I know you’re stouthearted. I’ll not let go, I promise.”

  Jem was breathing in short little gasps. He couldn’t utter a word. All he could do was nod again, before carefully unclamping his right hand from the gutter and stretching it toward Alfred’s. They were so close! Only about six inches separated their two hands. Jem began to lean forward, just a little . . .

  Crack! The beam beneath Alfred snapped suddenly. He nearly lost his balance but swung back toward the window just in time. There was a horrible moment as he hung off the windowsill, bracing himself against the wall with his feet. But he managed to heave himself up again while people screamed and shouted in the yard below.

  Jem realized that they had attracted an audience.

  “Stay there,” said Alfred, gasping for breath. He was crawling inside. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Come back!” Jem wailed. “Please!”

  “I ain’t going nowhere, lad. Just give me a minute.”

  The bogler vanished. Jem began to cry. Silent tears ran down his cheeks; he felt bereft, and so alone. But soon he heard a sharp, “Jem? Jem!” and saw that Alfred had moved downstairs, to a third-floor window.

  The bogler was already scrambling onto its sill. This time, however, he had company. Watching him rise
shakily to his feet, Jem saw that a sturdy arm in dark blue serge was fastened around the bogler’s waist.

  It was Constable Pike’s arm.

  “Jem?” Alfred exclaimed. “You need to come down a little, lad! You need to bounce yer weight about!”

  “N-no . . .”

  “You’ll not fall. You’ll only drop a portion—nowt else. And I’ll catch you.” As Jem hesitated, Alfred went on quietly, “You’re a brave boy. The bravest I know, if pigheaded. How am I to box yer ears if you don’t let me catch you?”

  Jem licked his lips. His gaze drifted past Alfred, toward the little circle of spectators on the ground. They seemed so far away.

  He shut his eyes.

  “Jem? Jem! Can you hear me?” When Jem gave a nod, Alfred continued, “Try to climb up that there gutter, lad. It’s sure to pull loose and bring you down level with us.”

  Jem had opened his eyes again. He fixed them on the twisted piece of metal hanging in front of his nose. One step at a time, he told himself. Don’t think about nothing else. He moved his right hand up the gutter. Then his left. Then he unclamped his knees . . .

  Ping! There was a screech of metal. The drop sent him swinging like a pendulum. Suddenly he was jerked sideways, so abruptly that he collided with something. “Let go!” a voice yelled in his ear. He felt a band of pressure across his chest and hands hauling at his clothes. Alfred said, “Hold on to me, Jem. You don’t need that gutter no more.”

  For a moment Jem couldn’t unlock his grip. His fingers seemed fused to the metal. But he finally managed to unpeel them, and was dragged across the windowsill with Alfred’s arms laced around him from behind. They sat on the floor together. Whoomp! Then Jem found himself staring straight at Constable Pike’s knees.

  “Are you hurt?” asked the policeman. “No? By God, you’re a lucky lad!”

  Jem coughed. “L-Lubbock,” he stammered.