How to Catch a Bogle Page 5

  She was about to say more when she heard the strains of a distant chorus, chanted by rough voices in a mocking tone. “Abroad I was walking, one morning in the spring, and heard a maid in Bedlam, so sweetly she did sing. . .” Convinced that this noise meant trouble for somebody, Birdie spun around and spied the singers almost at once. They were half a dozen coarse-looking youths who seemed to be following a madwoman down the street, toward the river. Two of the men had porter’s knots tied to their shoulders, suggesting that they had just set down a load of wool, or coal, or coffee. Two of them looked like sailors, and two like off-duty pickpockets. Together they lurched along in a jeering cluster, past tumbledown shoe marts and sailmakers’ shops, trying to tread on the skirts of the woman who stumbled along just ahead of them.

  “Her chains she rattled with her hands, and thus replied she—I love my love because I know he first loved me-e-e. . .”

  It took Birdie a few seconds to recognize Miss Eames, who was dressed in such a motley collection of clothes that she really did look as if she’d just emerged from a madhouse like Bedlam. Because her skirt was much too big for her, Miss Eames kept tripping on its hem. Her wide, old-fashioned sleeves were flapping like wings—and they seemed not to belong to the main body of her jacket, since they weren’t the same shade of purple. Her straw hat, which sprouted a clutch of mismatched feathers, had the squashed appearance of something recently peeled off a busy road.

  Birdie stood for a moment, rooted to the spot, with her mouth hanging open. But then one of the sailors darted forward to tug at the torn veil that dangled from Miss Eames’s hat.

  “Oi! You leave her be!” Enraged, Birdie rushed to defend the poor lady, dodging a bemused customs-house officer who had stopped to stare at the loud and drunken gang cluttering up the street.

  “My cruel parents are being too unkind; they drive and punish me and trouble my mind. . .”

  “Oh, Birdie,” Miss Eames whimpered. Everything about her was disheveled—her clothes, her hair, the contents of her basket. “They’ve been following me and I don’t know why. . .”

  “Well, they’ll follow you no farther!” Stepping between Miss Eames and the gang, Birdie put her hands on her hips and cried, “All o’ you, go back to yer mumping and yer shirking and let us honest citizens alone!”

  “Oh ho!” The largest porter peered down at Birdie, swaying a little, as the song sputtered and died around him. “What’s this? Another lunatic?”

  “You’d best turn tail or you’ll be sorry!” When a burst of raucous laughter greeted this warning, Birdie went on to announce, “I’m ’prenticed to a Go-Devil Man, and he’s down there now, on the water! With his bag on his back!”

  The two sailors immediately crossed themselves, retreating a few steps. The most sinister-looking member of the gang muttered a curse and slunk away. Only a couple of faces didn’t fall. They belonged to a very large porter with an oversize head, and a very drunk lout in a blue neckerchief, who was having a hard time keeping his balance.

  “A Go-Devil Man?” the porter brayed. “Then bring him here, and I’ll tell ’im to go to the devil!”

  “Hsst.” His cannier friend prodded him in the ribs. “Careful, matey. Ain’t no sense in turning one o’ them coves against’ee.”

  “Or he’ll open his sack!” Birdie threatened. Then she turned on her heel and grabbed Miss Eames, who was hovering nearby, looking dumbfounded.

  Ned was also within easy reach. It pleased Birdie that he had followed her. “Ain’t one o’ them lags worth fretting over,” she informed him as she led Miss Eames to safety. “But thanks for standing by me, Ned. I’ll not forget it.”

  Ned flushed again. He flicked a doubtful glance at Miss Eames, who said, “Oh, Birdie! I’m so sorry! But I assure you, I never uttered a word—”

  “You didn’t have to. Them clothes was all it took.” Studying the crumpled brim of Miss Eames’s hat, Birdie had to suppress a smile. “Why’d you dress so glocky, miss? You look like a half-wit.”

  Startled, Miss Eames peered down at herself. “I was assured that this ensemble would pass muster in the lowest dens,” she faltered.

  “The lowest dens of Bedlam, perhaps!” Birdie gave a snort. “Whoever told you that was a dirty liar.”

  “It was a Houndsditch woman,” Miss Eames confessed. “A dealer in old clothes.”

  “Well, miss, it seems like you was the answer to all her prayers,” said Birdie. “I’ll lay you a shilling that she sold you all the slops she couldn’t unload—and charged you double for ’em.” Stopping abruptly at the edge of the wharf, Birdie added, “But don’t fret. Ain’t no one’ll trouble you now you’re with a bogler’s girl.”

  “Oh dear.” Miss Eames was dabbing at her flushed face with a cotton handkerchief. “How dreadful this is! And how sorry I am! You shouldn’t be called upon to defend anyone, not at your age. It shouldn’t have happened. Forgive me.”

  Birdie shrugged. Then she pointed at Alfred, who was down on the mud flats, in front of the drain. “There’s Mr. Bunce,” she said, “and that’s the bogle’s lair. You can watch from up here, until Mr. Bunce tells you different.” Glancing at Ned, she explained, “If there’s too much bustle and chatter, the bogle won’t come.”

  “But what is Mr. Bunce doing?” Miss Eames demanded. Ned was also looking puzzled, and even Birdie had to think for a moment when she saw that Alfred was arranging long strips of rag on the ground.

  “It’s for the salt,” she finally declared. “So it’ll not get wet from all that mud.”

  “The salt?” echoed Miss Eames.

  “Mr. Bunce always draws a circle of salt,” said Birdie. “To trap the bogle in.”

  “Like a pentagram, you mean?” Miss Eames began to rifle through the contents of her basket as Birdie frowned, unable to answer because she didn’t know what a “pentagram” was. “Or perhaps an evocation circle,” Miss Eames continued. “Like those used in demonic summoning. Can Mr. Bunce read, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. And yet he is using techniques derived from ancient texts! How very interesting!” By this time Miss Eames had extracted a book and pencil from the clutter in her basket. She pushed the basket’s handle up over her elbow and began to take notes. “What else does he use, dear? Herbs?”

  “No.”

  “Holy water?”

  “A little,” Birdie said reluctantly. She didn’t know if Alfred wanted her spilling all his secrets.

  “Does he bathe beforehand?” Seeing Birdie blink, Miss Eames hastily elaborated. “It needn’t be in water. He might use sweet oil, perhaps. Or smoke.”

  “Smoke?” For the first time, Ned spoke up without prompting. He was staring at Miss Eames as if he’d decided that she really was a madwoman.

  “Alfred don’t hold with baths,” Birdie said. She was about to remark that oil was better if burned or eaten when Alfred whistled softly.

  It was the signal that she had been waiting for.

  “I’m wanted,” she informed Miss Eames. “You’d best stay here.”

  “Oh, but. . .” For a moment Miss Eames was lost for words. Then she rallied again. “It is so very unwholesome in that quagmire. Can Mr. Bunce not manage on his own?”

  “Of course not!” Birdie almost grinned at the thought.

  “Can you swim, though? How thick are your shoes?” Miss Eames kept up her barrage of objections, though she spoke in an undertone. “Look at all the sharp objects sticking out of the mud! What if you impale yourself on one of them?” Hearing Birdie laugh, Miss Eames spluttered, “I’m sure that Mr. Bunce is quite capable of making all the necessary preparations, Birdie!”

  “Aye. He is,” Birdie agreed. “But he can’t bait the trap.”

  And she went to demonstrate how important she really was.

  8

  The Sewer Bogle

  “Keep yer wits about you,” Alfred murmured. “For I’m not easy in me mind, on account o’ the breeze.”

  Birdie gave
a nod. Though Alfred had used heavy bits of junk to weigh down his ring of rags, a strong gust of wind could easily ruffle it. And if that happened, the salt circle might be broken—in more than one place.

  “Bill says as how the wind’ll not freshen, but he ain’t no seafarer,” Alfred continued quietly. “If we wait too long, and too much damp is in the air—”

  “We might have to stop,” Birdie finished. She knew that their salt had to remain perfectly pure, unadulterated by water or dust or anything else that might weaken its magical properties.

  “A strong wind will carry yer voice away, as well as the salt. I told Bill that, but he’d not hear o’ waiting.” With a glance at the three faces hanging above him, Alfred added in an undertone, “I warned him it’d cost another sixpence to bring us back tomorrow. He never so much as blinked.”

  By this time Birdie was looking at the muddy patch in the center of the circle. “No shoes for me,” she said. “I’ll move quicker in this bog without shoes.”

  “But not so quick that you’ll slip and fall,” Alfred warned her. “And you should raise those skirts, lass. We mustn’t take no chances.”

  It was good advice. Birdie didn’t want her trailing hem to brush against a fold of cloth and dislodge the salt. So she tucked her skirt up into her waistband and took off her shoes—which she then gave to Miss Eames, at the top of the stairs.

  “I’d not leave me shoes alone for one minute,” Birdie announced. “The rats’d take ’em, if no one else did.”

  “But what are you doing?” Miss Eames demanded in a voice that was much too loud.

  Birdie put a finger to her lips. “I’m the bait,” she muttered in reply. “I’ll draw the bogle into our trap.” As Miss Eames blinked and frowned, Birdie softly said to Bill Crabbe, “Mr. Bunce wants you down the street a portion, Mr. Crabbe, on account o’ your coughing will afright the bogle.”

  Bill scowled. “If ah cannot see thee work,” he protested, “how will ah know tha’rt earning thy fee?”

  “Because I’ll be a-watching,” Ned piped up. He turned to Birdie and asked, “How will you kill the bogle, once it’s bin caught?”

  “I’ll not kill nothing,” Birdie said. “It’s Mr. Bunce does all that.” She pointed to where Alfred was positioning himself near the sewer pipe, weapon in hand. “He has Finn MacCool’s spear, see.”

  “Finn MacCool’s spear?” Miss Eames’s expression changed from mild distress to pure astonishment. “You mean the Poisonous Point that killed the fire-breathing Aillen at Tara, in the Irish legend?”

  “Umm. . . yes. That’s the one.” Birdie had never heard of Aillen—or Tara. But she boldly laid claim to them anyway, having decided that Miss Eames probably knew more about ancient history than she did. “Ain’t no other weapon in the world could kill a bogle like this’un.”

  “Must be worth a bob or two,” Bill Crabbe remarked. Though there wasn’t a trace of calculation in his tone, Birdie glared at him fiercely.

  “That spear is poisoned,” she hissed, “and needs an artful hand to ply it.”

  Bill sniffed. Then he turned on his heel and began to trudge away, coughing as if he had a ball of glue lodged in his throat. Miss Eames, whose forehead was creased into lines of doubt and concern, suddenly said, “And where will you be placed, Birdie? In the center of that circle?”

  “Yes.”

  “With your back to the bogle’s lair?”

  Birdie was surprised. “Yes,” she said again, wondering how Miss Eames had worked that out.

  “So you never even see any bogles?” Before Birdie could explain that she always used a little mirror, Miss Eames continued. “This all seems rather dangerous, dear, even if. . . well. . .” Miss Eames paused for a moment, catching herself on a thought that she apparently didn’t want to share. Then she changed tack. “You must get very frightened, at times like this.”

  “Frightened?” Birdie drew herself up to her full height. “I ain’t never frightened!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m a bogler’s girl!”

  “But a very young one, still. A child of your age—what are you, eight years old? To use an eight-year-old child as bait for a monster—”

  “I’m ten!” Birdie snapped.

  “Ten?” From the shock in Miss Eames’s voice, it was clear that she had been misled by Birdie’s delicate bones and small stature. Birdie understood this at once.

  “I may be little,” she retorted, “but I’m quick and I’m strong! Ain’t no bogle never got the better o’ me!”

  By now Alfred was beckoning to her furiously, so she scampered back downstairs before Miss Eames could delay her with further questions. Though she was feeling a little scared, Birdie had no intention of showing it. Despite the fact that she had to pick her way barefoot through an obstacle course of half-submerged splinters, she managed to toss a carefree grin at her audience. And as she removed her little hand mirror from its pocket, she used it to tease Ned, flashing sunlight into his eyes so that he had to shield them from the glare.

  Now that she was close to it, the sewer pipe looked bigger than she had expected. It was nearly as tall as she was, and darker than a chimney. But she turned her back on it without a moment’s hesitation, keeping her chin up and her shoulders back. Then, mindful of the doubts expressed by Miss Eames, she chose a song as brave as a war cry.

  “Silvy, Silvy, all on one day,

  She dressed herself in man’s array,

  A sword and pistol by her side.

  To meet her true love, away she did ride.”

  Framed in her hand mirror, the pipe yawned like a great, wet mouth. Alfred lurked to one side of it, holding his salt and his spear. A trickle of muck had worn a channel down to the water, but this shallow ditch didn’t pass through the magic circle. Alfred had been careful to place his trap to the east of the ditch, where no discharge would threaten his precious salt.

  Conscious that she was being observed by at least four pairs of eyes, Birdie tried to concentrate on the ones that weren’t human. She watched for a glint in the darkness behind her as she sang.

  “And as she were riding over the plain,

  She met her true love and bid him stand.

  ‘Your gold and silver, kind sir,’ she said,

  ‘Or else this moment your life I’ll have.’”

  Still nothing stirred in the depths of the pipe. The sun beat down. The water slapped and gurgled. The boats and barges plowed past Birdie in both directions, while distant masts swayed gently, like treetops. But Birdie didn’t even glance up from her mirror. She stood shifting from foot to foot, making sure to loosen the mud that was sucking at their soles.

  Though she could feel an intermittent breeze grazing her cheek, she tried not to worry that it was carrying her voice in the wrong direction. She could hear enough of the hobblers’ shouts and ships’ bells to know that somewhere in the sewer, hidden away like a snake in a burrow, the bogle must be listening to snatches of her song, even if it couldn’t make out every word.

  “Oh, when she’d robbed him of all his store,

  She says, ‘Kind sir, there’s one thing more,

  A golden ring, which I know you have;

  Deliver it, your sweet life to save.’”

  There was a stench in the air, as fitful as the breeze. At first it made Birdie anxious. She knew that bogles often stank like a tanner’s privy, and she was filled with dread every time the horrible stink assaulted her nostrils. Gradually, however, she realized that the river itself was what smelled so bad. Its evil breath was almost choking her.

  But still she managed to sing.

  “‘The golden ring a token is;

  My life I’ll lose, the ring I’ll save!’

  Being tenderhearted just like a dove,

  She rode away from her true love.”

  Birdie was trying not to worry about the river in front of her, even though she couldn’t swim. Then, as she paused to draw breath, she noticed something. The muck dribbling out o
f the pipe was changing color, from greenish brown to pitch-black.

  She tensed every muscle, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  “Next morning in the garden green

  Just like true lovers they was seen.

  He spied his watch hanging by her clothes,

  Which made him blush just like a rose.”

  The black tide of sewage was like a carpet unrolling in front of the bogle, which started to emerge from the pipe very slowly and haltingly. It was as if a huge wad of sludge and hair had been dislodged from the sewers, and was now oozing its way down to the Thames, pushed along by a trickle of foul water. Only as it approached Birdie did the big, formless dollop begin to unfurl, sprouting limbs like tentacles.

  Birdie, however, stood fast and kept singing—even when she heard someone shriek in the distance.

  “‘What makes you blush, you silly thing?

  I thought to have had yer golden ring!

  ’Twas I as robbed you on the plain

  So here’s your watch and gold again!’”

  Birdie had learned to keep her eyes firmly fixed on Alfred, so she didn’t really get a good look at the thing that was creeping toward her. She saw that it was black, with half a dozen limbs, but she couldn’t tell if it was furred or scaly, thanks to the thick layer of slime that coated its misshapen form. It moved as silently as a snail, while Alfred remained motionless.