A Plague of Bogles Read online

  Still, however, Alfred didn’t move. So Jem had to keep singing, in a voice like a rat’s squeak.

  “She’s wide awake, and her prating cheat,

  For humming a cove was never beat;

  But because she lately nimm’d some tin,

  They have sent her to lodge at the King’s Head—”

  Jem suddenly noticed that the bogle was starting to encircle him. It had slid through the gap in the ring of salt, and now, on the floor at his feet, two viscous arms were flowing toward each other like channels of sludge, one from the left and one from the right. When they merged, he was left standing on a small, round, rapidly shrinking patch of flagstone in a sticky black puddle.

  Glancing down at the slimy noose that was about to tighten around his ankles, he took his eyes off Alfred for half a second.

  “JEM! NOW!” screamed the bogler.

  Jem sprang into the air. He did it without thinking, as he would have dodged a blow or a cart wheel. The patch of floor beneath him disappeared—engulfed by a tide of goo—as he threw himself across the room and landed on both hands, then executed a clumsy backflip that left him sitting on his rear end, staring at a wall.

  Somewhere along the way, he’d dropped his mirror.

  There was a cry and a loud hissing noise. The air filled with foul-smelling steam. Jem jumped to his feet and spun round to face Alfred, who was barely visible through a cloud of grayish mist. Between them, on the floor, a large pool of fluid was rapidly drying out, like honey in the sun. A crust was forming around its edges.

  Looking at it, Jem realized that Alfred must have speared the bogle.

  4

  Old Friends

  “Are you all right, lad?” Alfred’s rough voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “Did you hurt yerself?”

  “N-no . . .” Jem was still in shock. He staggered a little as Alfred hauled him to his feet.

  “’Pon my soul, I ain’t never seen tumbling like that there,” Alfred went on. He was pouring sweat; Jem could see it shining on his hollow cheeks and dripping from his nose. “Where did you learn the trick of it?”

  “Along the crossings,” Jem mumbled. “When it’s dry, there ain’t no mud to sweep, so it takes a tumble or two afore you can tickle the pennies out of a gentleman’s pocket.”

  He didn’t mention the fences he’d climbed or the policemen he’d dodged while working for Sarah Pickles. It didn’t seem the right moment, somehow—not while Alfred was looking at him with frank admiration. At last the bogler grunted. He turned away to pack his bag while Jem retrieved his mirror, which was still intact. By the time they’d finished clearing up, the crusty slick on the floor had crumbled into dirty gray dust, only slightly darker than the line of salt surrounding it.

  “We’ll leave that here,” said Alfred, “since no one stayed to watch.” As he climbed back upstairs, he explained to Jem that some customers would balk at paying if they hadn’t seen the bogle for themselves. “Ain’t never much that remains of a bogle once it’s dead. A stain or a smear or a puddle is all you’ll see. People expecting a corpse is often disappointed and will refuse to stump up, thinking as how I’m a-slumming ’em.”

  But Mabel Lillimere didn’t refuse to stump up. They found her upstairs, dispensing pots of ale. One glimpse of Alfred brought her straight to his end of the bar.

  “Is it done?” she asked loudly, straining to be heard above the roar of voices. When Alfred nodded, her face brightened as if someone had turned up the gas behind it. “God bless you, Mr. Bunce, for avenging poor Florry. She’ll rest easy now and not haunt this place.” Reaching into the pocket of her apron, the barmaid pulled out a handful of coins, adding, “Mr. Watkins says as how he’s much obliged, and would you care to take a drink for your trouble?”

  Alfred hesitated. He was being jostled on all sides by loud men in dirty clothes, many of whom were so drunk that only the press of bodies kept them upright. Jem noticed at least two gaping pockets just asking to be picked—pockets belonging to men who would never know, by morning, whether they had spent their missing money or been fleeced of it.

  But he restrained himself.

  “I’d be grateful for a drop o’ brandy and water,” Alfred said at last, accepting his eight-shilling fee.

  Mabel ducked her head. “Sixpenn’orth?” she inquired.

  Again Alfred nodded. She immediately rushed away, returning seconds later with a small glass of brown liquid, which she set down on the zinc counter with a sharp rap. “That there is the real thing,” she announced. Then a call for a half-pint of gin and peppermint drew her back down the bar, so that Alfred was left to swallow his brandy unobserved—except by Jem.

  “I’d have favored a nip o’ that,” Jem remarked sulkily.

  Alfred ignored him. After finishing his drink in two brisk mouthfuls, the bogler turned and began to push toward the nearest exit, nudging people out of his way. Jem followed. When they finally emerged onto the street, Alfred’s hat was sitting crookedly on his head and Jem had been splashed with gin.

  Outside, the light was beginning to fade. A steady drizzle had turned the road to slush. Standing on the corner of Newgate and Giltspur Streets, Jem was confronted by a scene of unrelenting grimness. To his right, the spire of Saint Sepulchre’s Church pointed at the sky like a reproving finger. To his left loomed the dark stone walls of Newgate Prison, which Jem feared more than any other place on earth. He had often dreamed about the gallows at Newgate. He’d known several people who had been hanged there.

  “We’ll take a bus up Holborn,” said Alfred. “I’d favor walking, but it’s already late, and Miss Eames might not be wanting callers at suppertime.”

  “We’re going to visit Miss Eames?” asked Jem.

  “Aye.” Alfred nodded. “I must tell her about the penny gaff.”

  He led Jem across the street, where they waited on the corner for an orange omnibus. The view from this spot was chiefly of the prison and the Old Bailey Courthouse, neither of which Jem particularly wanted to look at. So he busied himself watching traffic in and out of several nearby taverns—because that was how he’d always spent most of his time. Watching. Listening.

  These days, however, he wasn’t on the lookout for a well-padded pocket. These days he was watching and listening for Sarah Pickles.

  It was while enjoying a scuffle between two drunk navvies that Jem spied a familiar face in front of the George Tavern. He couldn’t remember whose face it was, and it disappeared so quickly into the Newgate Street crowds that for a moment he thought he might have imagined it. But was he likely to have imagined a face that he couldn’t put a name to? A woman’s face, fat and colorless and pockmarked, with a red nose, a sulky mouth, and a walleye . . . ?

  He was still racking his brain when the bus arrived, some ten minutes later.

  Twopence gained Alfred a seat on the bus, but Jem had to sit on his knee—for even the benches up on the roof were packed with people. Wedged between a carpenter in a flannel jacket and a factory girl who kept coughing into her handkerchief, Jem sat with his feet dangling, clutching Alfred’s sack and making funny faces at the little girl who was perched in the lap of the woman directly opposite. Jem enjoyed making this little girl wriggle and titter. He enjoyed the whole trip, though it was very slow. The horses seemed to be struggling, weighed down by the water on their coats or the mud on their fetlocks. The road was rough, so the vehicle rocked from side to side, making doors rattle and heads bang together. The passengers themselves, squeezed in flank to flank, were forced to breathe into one another’s faces and tread on one another’s toes.

  But Jem so rarely had the pleasure of watching London roll past from the window of an omnibus that he savored every minute. Through the steamed-up glass, he caught glimpses of many theaters and music halls, all larger and finer than those in the East End. The shops were finer too; even the coal merchants’ shops looked cleaner than the ones in Whitechapel. And some of the horses were a delight to behold.

  At l
ast the bus reached Bloomsbury Street, where Alfred and Jem alighted. From there it was just a short walk to their destination. They found themselves splashing through puddles as they hurried down streets full of tall, white terraces. Then Alfred stopped suddenly in front of a narrow brick house near Saint George’s Church. He hesitated, as if wondering whether to climb a modest flight of stairs to the front door or descend another, longer flight to the stone-flagged area in front of the kitchen.

  Jem was glad when he chose the front door.

  “That’s Birdie,” said Alfred after he had rung the bell. “D’you hear? She’s singing.”

  Jem heard. Somewhere inside, a pure, high voice was trilling away, repeating the same notes over and over again. “La-la-LA-LA-LA-la-la.” It wasn’t much of a tune, Jem thought.

  All at once the door opened. A red-haired, freckle-faced maid peered out.

  “Oh!” she said. “It’s you, is it?” She didn’t sound too pleased. And she grimaced when her gaze drifted down to Jem’s bare, muddy feet. “What do you want?”

  Alfred took off his hat. “Is Miss Eames in?” he asked.

  “I’ll see,” the girl replied ungraciously, slamming the door in their faces. Jem scowled. He was about to stick out his tongue when the door was abruptly jerked open again—this time by Miss Edith Eames.

  “Mr. Bunce!” she exclaimed. “Master Barbary! How very nice to see you!”

  Jem had never known quite what to make of Miss Eames. She wasn’t as pretty as Mabel Lillimere, who was plumper, with a rounder face and pinker cheeks. Miss Eames was skinny and pale and at least thirty years old; she even had touches of gray in her dark hair. Her manner was a little too brisk for Jem’s taste, and he didn’t like the way she made him feel—as if he had to be constantly apologizing for his habits and appearance.

  But Miss Eames was also as smart as a whip, and so beautifully dressed that Jem couldn’t help admiring her. As a thief, he had learned how to judge the value of every glove, shawl, watch, purse, hat, and handkerchief that he spied on the street, so he knew that Miss Eames was always well turned out. Even now she wore very superior garments. Her white blouse was made of fine lawn worth at least one shilling and sixpence a yard. Her shiny little boots had been made to measure, and she had trimmed her blue skirt with the very best silk velvet.

  “Come in, please,” she said, retreating into a hallway paved with tiles. “We have finished our tea, but Mary will make you a new pot. And there’s plum cake if you’d like some.”

  Jem’s stomach growled. He had eaten only one slice of bread and dripping all day, so the prospect of plum cake made him feel suddenly faint with hunger.

  “But what about their feet, miss?” the maid protested from behind Miss Eames. “They’ll dirty the carpets . . .”

  Miss Eames frowned. Before she could reply, Alfred said quickly, “We ain’t fit to come inside, miss, it being so wet. I only stopped by to tell you summat you ought to know. It seems as how Jem were in Whitechapel earlier and passed one o’ them shop-front theaters they got there—”

  “Mr. Bunce!” An excited scream cut him off in midsentence. Jem realized that the singing had stopped, and was about to ask why when Birdie McAdam burst into the hallway, all glossy gold ringlets and rustling petticoats. She flung herself at Alfred, who stepped back and caught one of her outstretched arms.

  “Mind, lass—me trousers is muddy,” he warned. “You’d not want to ruin yer pretty clothes.”

  “Come and have some tea!” Birdie cried, then turned to Jem. “Come and have some cake!”

  Jem glanced pleadingly at Alfred, who shook his head and murmured, “We cannot stay. We ain’t fit for no parlor tea.”

  “Then eat in the kitchen!” Birdie exclaimed. By this time she was tugging at Alfred’s hand, which looked very large and dirty next to her own. Jem couldn’t believe how clean Birdie was. Her hair gleamed like brass; her silk ribbons were as shiny as silver plate; she had the pinkest fingernails, the whitest neck, and the most highly polished boots he’d ever seen.

  She’d also grown a little since their last meeting, and was talking differently. More like a lady, he thought.

  More like Miss Eames.

  “Calm down, Birdie; you mustn’t screech,” Miss Eames chided. “What did I tell you about receiving visitors?”

  “Mr. Bunce ain’t no visitor; he’s family,” Birdie rejoined. Then, seeing Miss Eames purse her lips, she quickly corrected herself. “He is no visitor, I mean.”

  “Miss, if that boy comes in, he’ll have to wash his feet,” the maid interposed. She pointed an accusing finger at the brown footprint that Jem had already left on the checkerboard floor. “Either that or we put down some drugget.”

  “No—please—we ain’t here to cause trouble.” Alfred crumpled his hat with one hand as Birdie hauled on the other. “We came to deliver a message and will go directly when we’re done.”

  “But don’t you want to have a chat?” Birdie asked in a plaintive voice. “Don’t you want to hear all my news?”

  “Why, of course I do, lass,” Alfred said. “That goes without saying . . .”

  “Birdie, let Mr. Bunce deliver his message!” Miss Eames spoke sharply. “You mustn’t hound people like that—it is not polite.” Turning back to Alfred, she said, “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bunce? Is Ned unwell? I notice he isn’t with you.”

  “Ned’s good. This ain’t about Ned.” Alfred hesitated, as if unsure of how to begin. Finally, however, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and launched into a full explanation. “Fact o’ the matter is, somebody’s bin using Birdie’s name . . .”

  5

  Off to Whitechapel

  When Miss Eames heard Alfred’s news, she was furious. “No freak-show manager is going to steal Birdie’s name and get away with it!” she cried, before announcing her intention of tackling Mr. Lubbock herself. At once. In person. “If I leave now,” she went on, “I might be able to stop the next performance. Mary! Mary!”

  But the maid had vanished.

  “She went to the kitchen,” Birdie piped up.

  Miss Eames clicked her tongue. “Then I must fetch my own hat and coat,” she said. “Will you wait for a moment, Mr. Bunce?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “If Mary comes back, Birdie, tell her to hail a cab for us. Tell her I’ll be down directly.” Without waiting for a response, Miss Eames turned on her heel and scuttled up the stairs, which were fitted with a handsome carpet.

  Jem looked at Birdie in dismay. “Won’t there be no cake?” he whined.

  “There’s cake. Don’t fret. I’ll get you some.” As Birdie released Alfred’s hand to duck back into the drawing room, the bogler watched her go with a kind of melancholy wonder.

  “She’s a real lady now, ain’t she?” he remarked once she was out of earshot. “It’s hard to believe I found her scavenging in the mud when she were nobbut four years old . . .”

  Jem didn’t know what to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything, because all at once Mary came stomping back up from the kitchen. She was carrying a large basin of steaming water, which he eyed with alarm.

  He had a nasty feeling that it was meant for his feet.

  “Why, what are you doing with that?” Birdie demanded. She had reappeared suddenly, a piece of cake in each hand. “They’ll not be staying, you know, so there ain’t no cause to clean ’em up. And Miss Eames says you’re to hail a cab.”

  “Hail it yourself,” Mary retorted. Then she turned around and marched straight downstairs again.

  Birdie sighed. “She hates me. I swear she’d like to put me out o’ this house.”

  “You’ve not bin tormenting her?” asked Alfred, with a touch of concern. Birdie frowned, but it was Jem who answered—thickly, through a mouthful of cake.

  “Of course not!” he said. “Wouldn’t you hate Birdie if you was that maid? Mary looks to be from respectable folk, yet she must truckle to a street urchin that her mistress picked out o’ the
gutter like orange peel.” Seeing Birdie’s ferocious scowl, Jem grinned and winked. “I’ll fetch a cab,” he concluded. “I bin fetching cabs for a penny each at the London Docks. I’ll find you a cab, don’t fret.”

  And he did. It wasn’t difficult. There were so many hackney cabs in the neighborhood that he didn’t even have to run after one. All he had to do was stand at the bottom of the front steps and whistle.

  Soon he and Alfred and Birdie were all safely tucked inside a four-seater carriage, waiting for Miss Eames.

  “She always takes a mortal long time to get out o’ the house,” Birdie explained as she tied on her bonnet. Jem calculated that it was trimmed with real silk broad lace, worth a shilling a yard at least, and that her lavender gloves were made of the highest quality kid. “Her aunt’s a good deal worse, though,” Birdie continued. “Has to rise at dawn for the ten o’clock service at a church that’s just down the street.”

  “Where is Mrs. Heppinstall?” Alfred queried. “Not poorly, I hope?”

  “Oh, no. She’s fit enough. She’s out doing her charity work and should be home soon. I expect Miss Eames is leaving a note for her.” Having finished adjusting the bow under her chin, Birdie raised her head and looked Jem straight in the eye. “But what I want to know is: What’s a boy as works for a grocer in Islington doing fetching cabs at the London Docks?”

  Jem flushed. He was trying to frame an answer when Miss Eames appeared at the door of the cab, carrying an umbrella. “Does the driver know where to go?” she asked Jem, who nodded. Then he reached down to help her climb in. By the time she’d settled herself on Birdie’s left, opposite Jem, the cab was already moving.

  But Birdie hadn’t let all the fuss and flurry distract her.