A Plague of Bogles Page 9

  Then Jem felt something coil around his ankle, and realized that a bogle had broken through the floorboards . . .

  “Aaaah!” He woke with a cry and sat bolt upright.

  “Nightmare?” asked Ned, who was perched on a nearby stool, tying his boots.

  Jem nodded, dry mouthed. It was still very early. Alfred lay snoring on the other side of the room, under a pile of coats and blankets. Ned hadn’t lit the lamp because a pale gray wash of light was leaking through the window.

  “You’ll need to stoke the fire,” Ned observed. “And empty the bucket.”

  “I know,” rasped Jem.

  “What was the dream about?”

  “None o’ yer business.”

  “I’ll wager it had bogles in it.”

  Jem scowled. It irritated him that someone who’d been scouring mud flats for a living only six months before should suddenly look so prosperous and respectable. Despite his missing teeth and scarred hands, Ned knew how to present himself. His mop of dark curls was always neatly combed now. His square-cut face was always buffed clean, and every tear in his shirt had been expertly mended. He wore new boots, a new cap, and a new blue coat with three brass buttons.

  He’d even become more talkative, thanks to long days spent selling fruit off the back of a barrow. And though he was barely eight months older than Jem, he was already much larger.

  Jem couldn’t help feeling that he’d been outstripped. That was why he reached for his own new boots, which he thought were much finer than Ned’s. But before he had a chance to pull them on, someone knocked at the door. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

  Ned glanced over at Alfred, then asked Jem, “Is he expecting company?”

  Jem shrugged. Ned sighed and went to answer the door, which swung open to reveal Josiah Lubbock. The showman had abandoned his purple topper and silver lace; instead, he wore a plain tweed lounge suit and a bowler hat.

  “Good day to you!” he said cheerfully. “Am I right in thinking that this is the residence of Mr. Alfred Bunce?”

  “Uh—yes,” Ned replied.

  “But he’ll not want to see you,” Jem added.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Mr. Lubbock. “Not until he hears my proposal.” He began to shoulder his way past Ned as Alfred stirred and coughed on the other side of the room.

  “Here!” Jem jumped up. “What d’you think you’re doing? No one asked you in!”

  Ignoring him, the showman addressed Alfred. “Mr. Bunce, I have a proposition. If you allow me to accompany you on your next job, and bring at least one paying customer with me, there’ll be a ten-shilling fee in it for you.” Mr. Lubbock removed his hat as Alfred sat up in bed, unshaven and bleary eyed. “People pay handsomely to watch dogs kill rats,” Mr. Lubbock went on, “and would pay even more to see you kill a bogle.”

  Alfred hawked and spat. “How in the devil did you find me?” he croaked.

  “Why, I heard Miss Eames give your address to the cabdriver the day before yesterday.” Mr. Lubbock seemed completely unfazed by all the bits of paper dangling overhead. Even Alfred’s disheveled, red-eyed, half-dressed condition didn’t appear to trouble him. He simply plowed on, oblivious to Jem’s scowl and Alfred’s coughing and Ned’s sudden restlessness.

  “I must go or I’ll be late,” Ned murmured to no one in particular, then slipped into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

  Mr. Lubbock didn’t so much as pause to take a breath.

  “Since then I’ve been sounding the market, Mr. Bunce, and I can assure you that there is an audience for bogle baiting. One naturalist of my acquaintance—who originally came to me expressing an interest in my preserved griffin—has promised to stump up a whole pound for the privilege of a ringside seat.” Before Alfred could do more than yawn, Mr. Lubbock added, with an ingratiating smile, “I thought it only fair to split this sum down the middle, you understand.”

  “Hah!” Jem gave a snort. “Which is to say, yer friend promised two pounds, and you’ll be pocketing three-quarters of it!”

  “Oh, no, no.” Mr. Lubbock wagged a finger at him. “That’s not the way I conduct my business, young man.”

  Alfred, meanwhile, was climbing stiffly out of bed. His nightshirt was flapping around his bony white ankles. “The answer is no, Mr. Lubbock,” he said.

  “But surely—”

  “Bogling’s dangerous. Too dangerous for spectators.”

  “Oh, come now,” Mr. Lubbock chided. “How dangerous can it be if you have children working with you?”

  Jem scowled. He wanted to ask Mr. Lubbock how he would react if cornered by a bogle. Then he saw Alfred’s expression and decided not to speak after all.

  “I don’t pull untrained kids off the street and set ’em to work,” Alfred said through his teeth. He shuffled past Mr. Lubbock, making for the door. “Besides, bogles don’t like crowds.”

  “It wouldn’t be a crowd,” Mr. Lubbock assured him. “Two or three people at the most—”

  “Even one is too many.” Alfred grabbed the doorknob. “Good day to you, Mr. Lubbock,” he said, then pulled the door open—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Two familiar figures were standing on the threshold.

  “Mr. Bunce!” Hugh Purdy exclaimed. His raised fist suggested that he’d been about to knock. Beside him, Sam Snell was holding his fantailed hat in both hands but was otherwise fully decked out in his flushers’ gear: a blue oilskin coat, fishermen’s boots, and leather gauntlets.

  While Alfred stared at him, Purdy continued, “We’re that sorry to rouse you so early in the day, sir, but you told us to look you up when we heard more. Which we have.”

  “Our Inspector o’ Sewers has given us leave to take you down the tunnels,” Sam Snell interposed. “So we was wondering if you’d care to do it now, Mr. Bunce?” Catching sight of Josiah Lubbock, the flusher added genially, “And anyone else you might care to bring along is more’n welcome, o’ course.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Lubbock. But Alfred rounded on him.

  “You ain’t invited,” Alfred snarled. “Get out o’ here.”

  “Sir—”

  “Now!”

  Startled, Purdy and Snell both stepped back to clear a way for the showman, who made a dignified, if slightly hurried, exit. “Mr. Josiah Lubbock, at your service,” he informed the other two visitors—perhaps in the hope of securing their names. Alfred, however, was already hustling Purdy and Snell into his room.

  After slamming the door in Mr. Lubbock’s face, he turned to them and said, “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s a liar.”

  Hugh Purdy nodded politely, prepared to drop the subject. His friend, however, was more inquisitive.

  “What did he want?” asked Snell.

  “Nowt.” Alfred’s tone was brusque. He addressed the plumber. “Where are you expecting us? And when?”

  “Oh.” Purdy’s face fell. “Can you not come now?”

  “There’s someone else needs to be fetched first, and that might take time.” Alfred didn’t elaborate, but Jem realized that he was talking about Birdie.

  As the plumber sighed, his friend said, “We’ll meet you at twelve o’clock, then, after I finish me shift. Under the bridge is the best place.”

  Alfred nodded. He was eyeing Sam Snell’s waterproof clothes. “We ain’t got no sou’westers,” he pointed out.

  The flusher dismissed this concern with a wave of his hand. “You’ll not likely need ’em.”

  “And there’s to be a lady with us,” Alfred finished. Jem saw the two visitors exchange a surprised look. But even this news didn’t put a dent in Sam Snell’s good humor.

  “Why, and I’d be proud to escort any lady as would show an interest!” he declared with a grin. “Only tell her not to wear her Sunday best.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Alfred. He had the slightly impatient look of someone who wanted a moment’s peace to dress and shave and empty his bladder. But before he could invite his guests to leave, one of them launched
into yet another plea for help.

  “There’s something else I must ask you, Mr. Bunce, while I’ve got yer ear,” Sam Snell announced. “I’ve a friend as works at Smithfield Market who’s bin a-fretting over stories told by some o’ the lads there, about a missing butcher’s apprentice.”

  “Oh, aye.” Alfred didn’t sound very encouraging. Jem’s heart sank.

  Not another one, he thought.

  “There’s all manner o’ railway sidings under the new market, where porters unload carcasses from the trains and transport ’em straight up to the main building in hydraulic lifts,” the flusher explained. “And though it’s a busy place, day and night, it ain’t without its quiet corners—”

  “They’ve got a bogle under the market? Is that what you’re saying?” Alfred interrupted.

  “Well, sir, that’s what Bob’s a-wondering, now he’s heard there’s a plague o’ bogles just down the street.” Snell went on to inform Alfred that his friend Bob Ballard had heard reports of “summat strange” near the sidings—and that a trucker’s boy had last been seen picking up meat scraps from the Smithfield platforms.

  “I understand.” Alfred cut him off, rubbing his furrowed brow as if he had a headache before turning to the plumber and asking, “Is that what the folk round Newgate call it? A plague o’ bogles?”

  Purdy nodded. “In the Viaduct Tavern they do,” he replied.

  Alfred shook his head morosely. “It’s the truth,” he muttered. “I ain’t never seen nowt like it before . . .”

  “But you’ll come, sir?” Sam Snell’s tone was both eager and breezy, as if he had no doubt whatsoever that Alfred would oblige.

  Something about his unyielding confidence must have influenced Alfred, who heaved a weary sigh of resignation and growled, “I’ll come. Tell yer friend I’ll come tomorrow morning.”

  Snell beamed his thanks. “Bob’ll be right grateful,” he assured Alfred, “for his own son is ’prenticed at the markets, and Bob’s wife won’t let the lad set foot there since hearing about them missing boys . . .”

  Jem grinned sourly as Snell chattered on. How nice it would be to have a mother who cared about your safety! No one cared about Jem’s safety. No one had bothered to ask him how he felt about tackling another bogle. Alfred hadn’t even consulted him about taking Birdie along with them.

  It didn’t matter, though. That was what Jem told himself. The important thing was that they were returning to the neighborhood around Newgate Street.

  For it was there, beneath the unsuspecting noses of London’s largest collection of magistrates, that Sarah Pickles had cleverly chosen to hide herself.

  14

  Into the Viaduct

  From down on Farringdon Street, the viaduct bridge was a dazzling sight. Its ironwork was a tangle of flowers and dragons, picked out in red and gold. Its pale stone plinths were carved and gilded. At either end of the bridge, the two staircases connecting Farringdon Street with the road above it were encased in a pair of elaborate, five-story buildings, each of which looked to Jem like a cross between a palace and a big white wedding cake.

  But the iron gates beneath the arch weren’t quite so ornamental. They were barred like prison gates, with a lock on them that could have kept out an army of elephants. “Sam’s ganger has the key,” said Hugh Purdy, who had arrived at the bridge just minutes before Alfred’s small crew. After being introduced to Miss Eames and Birdie, the plumber explained that he’d parted company with Sam Snell earlier that morning—but that Sam would be bringing his ganger, Nathaniel Calthrop, to meet them all.

  “What is a ‘ganger’?” Miss Eames inquired. She and Birdie both wore dark, sturdy fabrics: brown holland, gray tweed, black worsted. Each of them carried a pair of Wellington boots in a drawstring bag made of canvas. Birdie’s hair had been pinned up under a small, untrimmed bowler hat.

  “Why, a ganger is a foreman,” Purdy replied, just as a series of thumps and clicks startled everyone. These noises seemed to be coming from the wooden doors behind the iron gates. Then the doors swung inward, revealing Sam Snell and a plump little man with an enormous red mustache.

  Both men were dressed from head to toe in waterproof clothing.

  “Come in, come in!” Sam Snell exclaimed, unlocking the gates from the inside. “This here is Nat Calthrop. Mr. Calthrop, this is Mr. Bunce, and Mr. Purdy, and . . . um . . .” He trailed off as he spotted Miss Eames, who promptly stuck out her hand and said, in a brisk and manly way, “Miss Edith Eames. How d’you do?”

  Snell shook hands vigorously, grinning with delight. His boss didn’t look quite so pleased. With his jaundiced skin, orange mustache, sour expression, and squat, round shape, Calthrop made Jem think of a giant lemon. The ganger nodded at Purdy and grunted at Alfred. Jem received only a suspicious glare. When Miss Eames smiled, Calthrop mumbled a greeting. But he stared at Birdie in dismay.

  “Naebody said aught about a wee lass,” he protested.

  “Oh, she’ll not be a bother,” Snell assured him cheerfully. “Don’t you fret, Mr. Calthrop. I’ll look after her.”

  “I can look after myself!” Birdie retorted, much to Snell’s amusement.

  “Is that so?” he said with a chuckle. Then Calthrop asked him if he wanted to spend all day loitering on Farringdon Street, and Snell said no.

  Soon they were marching up a short flight of narrow stairs, following Calthrop’s safety lamp into the depths of the viaduct.

  Jem was amazed at what he saw as he trudged along. He’d been expecting something small and damp and dirty, but the brick-lined tunnel into which they finally emerged was about six feet wide by ten high, with a solid stone floor. Along one wall ran a bundle of pipes and cables, which Sam Snell identified as gas and water mains, telegraph wires, and pneumatic tubes. In the arched ceiling, gratings admitted pools of light from the street above. The sewers, Snell explained, were at the bottom of another, vaulted chamber that lay below their feet.

  “And beneath that is the low-level sewer, which crosses under the viaduct, along Farringdon Street,” the flusher concluded. “But that ain’t connected to the viaduct ventilation shafts.”

  “If yeer boggart climbed onto a roof, as Sam claims, it maun bide in the subway sewer,” Calthrop volunteered.

  “Aye, but where in the sewer?” said Alfred. Jem could understand his concern. The subway looked endless, and the sewer beneath it had to be just as long. How were they going to find the exact location of Purdy’s unfinished house from down in this dark, underground burrow?

  “If someone lifts me up, I can peek through that grate over there,” Jem offered. “Mebbe we’ll get our bearings if I do that.”

  Sam Snell burst out laughing. “Why, there ain’t no need for circus tricks, lad!” he exclaimed. “We got every street and house number marked along here, so the connections can be cut in an emergency.” He then lifted his safety lamp, illuminating all the words and numbers painted on the northern wall.

  “How clever,” said Miss Eames in an admiring tone. “So we simply have to find the correct number and go straight down from there?”

  “Through the nearest manhole. Aye,” Calthrop agreed.

  “It ain’t far.” Suddenly Hugh Purdy spoke up. He had been peering at the house numbers. “No more’n a hundred yards or so to the west, I’d say.”

  “Then off we go!” his friend declared happily. It was Calthrop, however, who took the lead again.

  They moved off in a single file, past drainpipes and belltraps that connected the road above to the sewer below. Calthrop didn’t say a word, but Sam Snell entertained everyone with an account of the remarkably large rats that infested the sewers. He also kept reassuring Miss Eames that she had nothing to fear from coal or sewer gas. “For we tested the air with Davy lamps this very morning and found nothing amiss. Why, I could light a pipe in perfect comfort!”

  Jem wanted to ask why, if there wasn’t any gas, the air still smelled faintly of sewage. But before he could speak, Birdie nudged him and wh
ispered, “Did you see Eunice Pickles on yer way here?”

  He shook his head.

  “If I knew what she looked like, I could watch for her myself,” said Birdie. “Does Mr. Bunce know?”

  Again Jem shook his head. “And don’t you tell him, neither.”

  “Shhh!” Up ahead, Alfred turned to hiss at Jem. “Shut yer mouth! Ain’t no way o’ knowing how many bogles lurk down here. D’you want to lure one out too soon?”

  Jem fell silent, blushing. A few minutes later, they reached their destination, which was marked by a number painted on the northern wall. Alfred began to light his dark lantern as the two flushers cast around for the nearest manhole.

  Calthrop was the one who found it.

  “Why—what’s this?” he spluttered. “The cover’s off!”

  Snell looked mystified. Miss Eames said, “Perhaps the bogle is to blame.”

  “The boggart, aye—or some bauchling sneckdraw of a flusher!” Calthrop grumbled.

  Meanwhile, Alfred crouched beside the dark hole and peered into it, wrinkling his nose at the smell, as Jem asked Sam Snell in a shaky voice, “Won’t we be needing oilskins down there?”

  “Not if you stay on the platform.” Snell explained that a shelf had been built along one side of the subway sewer for ease of movement. “In the low-level sewer, you’d be up to yer knees in water,” he said, “but the viaduct sewers is the friendliest I ever saw.”

  “Even so, Birdie and I should probably put on our rubber boots,” Miss Eames declared. Before she could open her drawstring bag, however, Alfred said, “Wait.”

  “But—”

  “I can’t see nowt from up here. And no one’s a-going down no sewer till I’ve had a good look at it.” Alfred turned to Calthrop. “That shaft we saw on the roof o’ the house—it starts under here?”