A Very Singular Guild

  The bogle imploded.

  Then Ned tripped and fell. He didn’t hit the ground, though; his rope wasn’t long enough. He ended up swinging off the gutter like a fish on a hook, his bare toes brushing the fluffy pile of sheets packed into the basket below him. Alerted by his cries, Mr Harewood and Mr Gilfoyle burst out of the laundry. Within seconds the engineer was supporting Ned, as the naturalist frantically picked at a knot in the rope.

  ‘Mr Bunce!’ Ned croaked. ‘Is Mr Bunce all right?’

  ‘Mr Bunce!’ shouted Mr Harewood. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Nay.’ Alfred’s head suddenly appeared above them. ‘How’s the lad?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Mr Harewood. ‘And the bogle?’

  ‘Dead. No thanks to this ’un.’ Alfred waved the new spear at Mr Gilfoyle, before adding crossly, ‘Summat went wrong. There’s a fault here somewhere. The first wound weren’t mortal.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mr Gilfoyle.

  ‘I ain’t testing no more spears on live bogles,’ Alfred growled. ‘Either we find another way to test ’em, or we don’t test ’em at all. For this here job is too perilous to take chances with. And Ned’s future ain’t going to lie in a bogle’s belly.’

  Then he disappeared again, muttering to himself. Moments later, Ned heard him stamping across the roof, his anger clearly expressed in every footfall.

  19

  ‘MURDER!’

  ‘Mebbe the fault were in the blessing,’ Ned mused. ‘Mebbe the stone should have bin cut after it were blessed, instead o’ the other way round.’

  Alfred grunted, then spat on the floor.

  ‘Either that, or we shouldn’t have used plain stone,’ Ned went on. ‘Mother May hewed her spearhead from a church cross. Mebbe we should have done the same.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Alfred sounded impatient. He had dragged on his nightshirt and wrapped himself in his old green coat. Now he sat on his rickety bed, puffing away at his last pipe of the day, while Ned threw more coals onto the fire. ‘T’ain’t our job to worry about potions and blessings,’ the bogler added gruffly. ‘Our job is killing bogles. You leave the science of it to Mr Gilfoyle.’

  ‘If it is science,’ Ned muttered. He was beginning to think about bogles in a whole new way. What were they? Where did they come from? Were they animals? Demons? Something in between? He knew that Alfred, who was only interested in killing them, didn’t much care. Alfred’s customers were even less concerned. To them, a bogle was something to be exterminated, as quickly as possible.

  It was Miss Eames who’d first taken a scientific interest in bogles – and Ned was starting to see why. He was starting to realise that people like Miss Eames, and Mr Gilfoyle, and even Mr Harewood, were always asking questions about things that didn’t directly relate to them. Was it because they were educated? Or was it because they didn’t have to worry about where their next meal might be coming from?

  Whatever the reason, they seemed fascinated by the world – and by the way it worked. Ned had always been fascinated by machines, and how they worked. It hadn’t occurred to him before that the world itself might be a giant machine, with parts that all fitted together like gears in a watch . . .

  ‘He-e-elp! Murder!’

  Ned straightened. As he looked around, he saw Alfred jump up.

  ‘That’s Jem,’ the bogler rasped. ‘Murder! Help me!

  ’ The noise was coming from somewhere outside. Ned and Alfred both lunged for the window, which Ned shoved open with a bang. ‘He-e-e-elp!

  ’ Shutters were slamming. People were yelling. As he leaned out over the windowsill, Ned caught sight of candles flickering in at least a dozen windows overlooking the alley – which wasn’t well lit. No gas-lamps had been erected in Orange Court. No lanterns were hung above doorways. But thanks to a full moon, a clear sky, and the golden glow of the candles, Ned was able to spot Jem.

  ‘There!’ Ned cried, pointing at a dark shape hanging off a downpipe. Jem had climbed the wall of a neighbouring house. He was two floors above ground, and still moving.

  Below him a door swung open, casting a square of light onto the cobbles.

  ‘’Ere!’ A girl appeared on the threshold. ‘What’s all the bloody fuss about?’

  ‘He tried to kill me!’ Jem wailed. ‘He’s got a knife!’

  ‘Who does?’ It was Alfred, speaking loudly and roughly. He jostled Ned aside, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Jem. ‘Who tried to kill you?’

  ‘I – I dunno.’ Jem turned his head gingerly to peer at the dark alley beneath him. ‘He ain’t there no more . . .’

  ‘I’m coming down,’ Alfred declared.

  ‘No! Don’t you come down! I’ll come up!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He may be hiding! He may come back!’ Before Alfred could even begin to argue, Jem swarmed up the pipe until he reached what seemed to be a washing line. By following this line from shutter-hook to shutter-hook – hand over hand, feet swinging – he made it to the window just two floors beneath Alfred’s garret. By this time Ned was almost falling out of the garret window in his struggle to see what was going on. As far as he could tell, Jem was quite right; Orange Court looked deserted. No one was skulking among the coster’s carts, or sidling back into Drury Lane.

  Two floors below, however, a pair of thin, white arms reached for Jem as a sickly neighbour begged him to crawl into her room. ‘You’ll fall to yer death!’ she screeched, over the fretful whimpering of her youngest. ‘You’ll dash yer brains out!’

  But for some reason Jem kept climbing. Perhaps he didn’t trust the neighbour. Perhaps he didn’t have any faith in the strength of her arms.

  It was Alfred who finally pulled Jem inside, with a heave that sent them both sprawling. For a moment they lay on the floor, stunned. Then Ned sprang forward to help Alfred, while Jem staggered to his feet.

  ‘What happened to yer coat?’ was the first thing Alfred said, once he’d recovered.

  Jem glanced down at himself. Even in the leaping yellow firelight he looked pale. His hair was ruffled, his knuckles were grazed, and there was a rip in the knee of his trousers.

  ‘I – I lost it,’ he admitted.

  ‘You lost it?’

  ‘T’weren’t down to me, Mr Bunce.’ Jem’s voice cracked. But he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and continued. ‘That cove out there – he tried to nobble me. I only got away by slipping out o’ me coat.’ He glanced at the window. ‘It might still be in the street,’ he faltered. ‘He might’ve left it where it fell . . .’

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Ned. ‘D’you know who done it?’

  Jem wiped his eyes, which were bloodshot. His grubby hands were shaking. ‘It’s dark as a chimney out there,’ he said. ‘But he were big. I could see that. And he didn’t have no hair.’

  Ned blinked as Alfred sucked air through his teeth.

  ‘No hair?’ the bogler repeated sharply.

  ‘I seen his bonce gleaming like glass,’ Jem insisted.

  ‘Did he have a scar on his brow?’ Ned demanded. He clearly recalled Mr Harewood’s description of the footpad who had attacked him in the court off Newgate Street.

  ‘I told you, I couldn’t see much.’ Jem turned to address Alfred. ‘He followed me, Mr Bunce. I’m sure of it. I were coming home from the theatre, and when I turned into Orange Court, he grabbed me from behind.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Alfred, retrieving his pipe from the bed. ‘I’m a-thinking he were one o’ John Gammon’s cronies. Same cove as struck Mr Harewood, I’ll wager.’ ‘But how did they find us?’ Ned couldn’t understand it. ‘We bin so careful! How did they track us here?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Jem. His tone was flat, his expression grim. ‘They bin reading playbills. Like half o’ London.’

  ‘Playbills?’ Alfred echoed.

  ‘They was posted yesterday. New ’uns. With Birdie’s name on ’em.’ Glancing from face to face, Jem added hoarsely, ‘That there bald cove must have bin watching the The
atre Royal. I expect he wanted to follow Birdie, in case she met up with me—’

  ‘But he didn’t have to,’ Ned interrupted.

  Jem gave a curt nod. He was still very pale. In the pause that followed, Alfred squatted down and reached under his bed.

  ‘Playbills,’ Ned muttered at last. ‘I never thought o’ that . . .’

  Jem shrugged. ‘Why should you? None of us can read. I only found out about them bills from Birdie.’

  ‘Birdie?’ Ned was struck by a sudden, horrible thought. ‘Don’t tell me you saw Birdie there tonight?’

  Jem quickly assured Ned that Birdie had left the theatre much earlier that day, after rehearsing with some of the cast. She wouldn’t be making her debut until Saturday, he said, because Saturday night pulled the biggest crowds. ‘Mr Chatterton decided to wait a few days, so as word would get about,’ Jem went on. ‘He’s bin posting bills and advertising in newspapers. ‘Birdie the Bogler’s Girl . . . Child Prodigy Astounds Theatrical Profession . . . London’s Latest Marvel. That kind o’ thing. He thinks she’ll boost the takings.’

  ‘So no one followed Birdie home?’ asked Ned.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jem’s attention suddenly shifted to Alfred, who was unwrapping Mother May’s blasting rod. ‘W-what are you doing, Mr Bunce?’ he stammered. ‘You don’t think that feller’ll be coming up here?’

  ‘I ain’t taking no chances,’ Alfred replied coolly.

  Ned and Jem exchanged a frightened look. Then Jem croaked, ‘Mebbe we should leave.’

  ‘And go where? To Miss Eames’s house?’ Ned frowned at him. ‘We can’t have no lurking nobbler follow us to Bloomsbury. Mrs Heppinstall would die o’ fright!’

  ‘We ain’t going nowhere. Not while it’s dark.’ Alfred was heading for the door, his stool in one hand, his spear in the other. ‘Shut that window, Ned, and bolt it. I don’t expect no one’ll come over the roof, but it’s best to be careful.’

  As Ned rushed to the window, Alfred stationed himself by the door. It was somehow obvious, from the way he settled down with his back to the wall and his spear across his knees, that the bogler intended to stay there all night.

  ‘Are you taking the first shift, Mr Bunce?’ asked Jem.

  ‘Nay, lad, I’ll be here ’til morning.’ Before anyone could protest, Alfred continued, ‘Did you leave tonight’s pay in yer coat pocket, by the by?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jem plunged a hand into his trousers and pulled out a modest collection of coins. ‘I didn’t lose me wages.’

  ‘Good.’ With his teeth clenched around the stem of his pipe, Alfred remarked, ‘You can keep half o’ that, if you think you earned it.’

  ‘I earned it, right enough. I didn’t put a foot wrong tonight, though I did mistime one exit.’ Jem hesitated, then asked, ‘How did you fare at the gaol?’

  Ned shrugged, but didn’t comment. It was Alfred who said, through a puff of smoke, ‘Ned killed another bogle.’

  ‘Ned did?’

  ‘The new spear didn’t work. Not like the old one,’ Ned hurried to explain. He didn’t want Jem thinking that he had somehow taken over Alfred’s job. ‘The bogle seemed uncommon, too. White as snow. Slightly stunted. And so much of it left behind, the warders talked o’ shovelling it into a boiler.’

  Jem’s eyes widened as he turned from Ned to Alfred, who growled, ‘Aye. Summat’s wrong. There’s strange things afoot. But we’ll not fret on it tonight – we’ve enough to worry us. You boys go to bed, now. I’ve bolted the door. If anyone tries to break it down, I’ll gut him like a fish.’

  There was an edge to Alfred’s tone that made the boys flinch. Finally Jem asked, ‘But what’ll we do tomorrow, Mr Bunce? If that feller’s still sneaking about . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll speak to Constable Pike,’ said Alfred. ‘He knows all the streets around Newgate, and those as live in ’em. I’m persuaded he’ll have a notion of who that bald villain might be, and how we might lay our hands on him.’ As the two boys absorbed this plan, Alfred concluded, ‘Constable Pike will listen. He’ll not turn us away with an empty promise.’

  ‘But I’m due at the theatre for a matinee tomorrow,’ Jem pointed out.

  ‘Aye. And I’ll take you there meself, once we’ve talked to Constable Pike.’

  Jem seemed satisfied with this assurance, though Ned wasn’t. To Ned, it seemed that Alfred had left a lot of questions unanswered. Constable Pike was stationed at Smithfield, just a stone’s throw from John Gammon’s shop. How were they going to smuggle Jem into the neighbourhood without putting him in danger? Would they hire a cab? And what if the bald man was waiting for them as they left their room the next morning? What if he was just outside the door?

  Ned decided that he would have to be ready for anything: a midnight raid, a morning ambush – even a fire, if someone decided to burn the house down. So before going to bed, he quietly moved the water-bucket, tucked a kitchen knife under his palliasse, and made sure his boots were standing, loosely tied, where he could easily find them.

  Despite these precautions, however, he took a long, long time to fall asleep.

  20

  POLICE BUSINESS

  ‘You’re in luck, Mr Bunce,’ Constable Pike announced.

  He was standing with his hands behind his back, straight and stocky and trimly dressed in a dark blue uniform. Behind him, flames danced in a modest fireplace under a portrait of the Queen.

  ‘It so happens we’ve a gentleman in our custody who matches the description you’ve just given me,’ he continued. ‘Tobias Fitch is his name, and he was arrested early this morning on a charge of unlawfully uttering counterfeit coin.’ The policeman’s keen gaze shifted from Alfred to Ned to Jem, taking in every detail: the bags under Alfred’s eyes, the knife-handle protruding from Ned’s pocket, the torn flannel shirt that Jem wore instead of a coat. Constable Pike’s own eyes were large and grey, and ringed by thick black lashes. With his curly hair, full cheeks and red lips he looked almost cherubic – though his rigid posture and toneless drawl undermined this impression. ‘Fitch is an associate o’ John Oswald Gammon, butcher, and is well known to us here at Smithfield station house,’ he continued. ‘We were about to send him off to the police court, with our regular delivery o’ felons. But you caught him just in time, Mr Bunce. He’s still here for your lad to identify.’

  Ned grimaced. He didn’t envy Jem. Looking Tobias Fitch in the eye wouldn’t be easy.

  ‘Mebbe we should fetch Mr Harewood,’ Alfred murmured. ‘He saw the feller in broad daylight.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ said Constable Pike. ‘Our only witness to the counterfeit charge lives in White Hart Street, which is a deal too close to Gammon’s shop for my liking.’ Spotting another policeman across the room, he suddenly stiffened. ‘I must have a word with my sergeant. If you’ll wait here, Mr Bunce, I’ll be back directly. It won’t take long.’

  He strode off briskly, leaving the others marooned like driftwood on a mudflat. The station house was an unfriendly place, lined with hard benches and studded with barred windows. The policeman who stood behind a high desk at one end of the room never raised his eyes from the ledger that occupied him. Distant wails and moans issued from one dark doorway; another was protected by a locked gate. Everywhere he looked, Ned saw chains and keys and bolts and batons.

  ‘We needn’t have hired a cab to get us here after all,’ Jem muttered at last. ‘Not with Fitch banged up in a police cell.’

  ‘You still don’t know if Fitch is the one,’ Ned pointed out.

  But Jem snorted. ‘He must be. How many big, bald men could be working for John Gammon?’

  ‘Shh! Hold yer tongues!’ Alfred snapped. By this time Constable Pike was on his way back, jingling a set of keys. But instead of stopping, he walked straight past Alfred.

  ‘We’ll go downstairs now,’ the policeman said, ‘and if Fitch don’t prove to be your man, I’ll send him off to Clerkenwell with the rest of ’em.’ He led Alfred’s party along a short passage lined with
metal doors, as the sound of moaning grew louder. ‘It’s a stroke o’ luck you’re here, Mr Bunce,’ he went on, ‘for I’ve bin hard at work trying to break Fitch. Now that he’s lagged, I thought he might open up a little on the subject o’Salty Jack. I promised him no end o’ trouble, if he didn’t. But he refused to cooperate.’ Constable Pike paused at the end of the passage, where a stone staircase plunged into the bowels of the station house. ‘Seems to me he’s less scared o’ the gallows than he is o’ John Gammon – but then most people are, hereabouts. That’s why I can’t find one solid witness against the worst villain this side o’ the Thames. But your boy’s appearance might shake Fitch, especially if I threaten the fellow with two counts o’ felonious assault. That’s a hanging crime. He’ll not be doing six months’ hard labour for that.’

  ‘T’aint Fitch as wants Jem dead,’ growled Alfred.

  ‘Exactly. It’s Gammon. And I’ll remind Fitch it’s Gammon who should swing for it, not him.’ Having made this promise, Constable Pike continued on his way, down two flights of narrow stairs and into a cellar almost as foul as the slaughterhouse beneath Newgate Market. After years spent scavenging along the banks of the Thames, Ned was familiar with foul stenches. But the air in the lock-up nearly choked him, smelling as it did of sweat and vomit and even worse things.

  Jem began to cough as Alfred covered his nose.

  ‘We’ve had ten drunkards come in overnight,’ Constable Pike said cheerfully, without flinching, ‘and won’t be able to clean up till they leave. But Fitch is in his own cell.’ Suddenly he raised his voice, pitching it high above the sound of moaning.

  ‘Be quiet now, Mr Bates! You’ll be out o’ here in a minute!’ The moaning stopped. It had been coming from behind one of the numbered doors that lined the dim, dank passage in front of them. Bustling down this passage, Constable Pike finally stopped at another door – iron-studded, double-bolted, and fitted with a small metal grate. He then turned to Jem, indicating the grate with a jerk of his chin.