A Very Singular Guild

  For a few seconds Jem hesitated. But after Alfred had given him a prod, he shuffled forward and stood on tiptoe to peer into the cell behind the door.

  Almost immediately, he ducked down again.

  ‘Well?’ said Constable Pike.

  Jem hesitated. Ned could tell that he was loath to pass judgement. But Constable Pike wasn’t about to let Jem express any doubts – not within earshot of Tobias Fitch.

  ‘He’s the one, is he? I thought as much.’ The policeman raised his voice. ‘You’re in trouble, Fitch. D’you hear me? I’ve a boy here who was attacked on his way home last night, and he’s identified you as the culprit.’ There was no reply. Ned couldn’t even hear the prisoner breathing.

  So Constable Pike continued, ‘You also punched a gentleman in Angel Court, on Tuesday – a respectable gentleman who’ll have no qualms about testifying against you, and who’ll cut a fine figure in the witness box.’ The policeman turned to Alfred. ‘What was the gentleman’s name, Mr Bunce?’

  Alfred gave a start. ‘Er . . . ah . . . Mark Harewood,’ he mumbled.

  ‘D’you hear that, Fitch? You’re facing two counts of felonious assault. Even one conviction’ll send you to the gallows.’

  Still Tobias Fitch didn’t speak. It was another prisoner who suddenly erupted into a stream of abuse, somewhere down the passage.

  ‘Shut your mouth, O’Flaherty, or I’ll shut it for you! ’ barked Constable Pike, before once again directing his comments through the grate in front of him. ‘We know you were hired, Fitch, and we know why. John Gammon don’t like witnesses. Not living ones, at any rate. But Jack’s a fool. If he’d let the boy alone, we wouldn’t be here now. There’d be no cause for the lad to peach – he’d have too much to lose. What’s he got to lose now, though? He’s dead if he talks and he’s dead if he don’t. So he might as well talk.’

  Ned saw the colour drain from Jem’s face.

  ‘I want you to think about it,’ the policeman continued. ‘I want you to think about what you owe John Gammon, who’s happy to let you swing for his own misdeeds. It was Gammon who sent you after Jem Barbary. It was Gammon who set you to watch over that newsboy, with orders to nobble anyone who might pursue him. Why – for all I know it was Gammon who paid you with counterfeit coin!’ Again Constable Pike paused, peering into Fitch’s cell. But as the seconds ticked by, and no one answered, he caught Alfred’s eye and gave a rueful shrug. ‘You’ve ten minutes before I send you off to King’s Cross Road, Fitch, with two more names on your charge sheet,’ he finished. ‘And if I do that, you’re done for. You’ll be hoisted in Newgate yard before the month’s out. Think on that, for it’s worth pondering.’

  The policeman then sniffed, sighed, and motioned to the others. As he was walking away, a voice like a creaking millstone suddenly said, ‘’Ere! You! Peeler!’

  Constable Pike halted and glanced back at the cell. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I got summat for you.’

  From where he was standing, Ned could see that Tobias Fitch was now right behind his cell door. A wedge of cheek was visible through the bars of the grate. The cheek was heavily scarred, and bristling with a two-day growth.

  Constable Pike hesitated for a moment. He seemed to be weighing his options. At last he approached Fitch’s door again.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, upon reaching the grate.

  A gob of spit landed on his collar.

  Ned gasped. Even Alfred winced. But the policeman simply turned on his heel and marched off.

  He was dabbing at his collar with a starched white handkerchief by the time he reached the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ he told Alfred, who was just behind him. ‘Policing can be a dirty business.’

  ‘Shall we send for Mr Harewood?’ Alfred said gruffly. He seemed rattled, Ned thought.

  ‘By all means.’ The policeman began to head upstairs. ‘I’m not convinced we’ll get any more out o’ Fitch, though. It’s my belief he’s more scared o’ Gammon than he is of anything else. And I daresay he thinks Gammon’ll spring him from gaol by getting rid o’ witnesses. It’s happened before.’

  Ned swallowed. As he trudged after Constable Pike, he couldn’t help glancing back at Jem, who was bringing up the rear.

  Poor Jem looked as scared as Ned felt.

  ‘I’ll be the talk o’ the division, now that you’ve paid me a visit,’ Constable Pike was saying. ‘By the by, have you bin hunting down bogles in any station houses lately? The newspaper said you’ve bin hired to exterminate all the bogles on government premises – and there’s a good many police stations with drains under ’em.’

  Alfred stopped in his tracks, halfway up the stairs. He looked shocked. ‘What newspaper are you talking about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why, today’s London Times,’ the policeman said. ‘Haven’t you read it?’

  Alfred opened his mouth, then shut it again. Ned wondered if the bogler was too embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t read. Breaking into the sudden silence, Jem piped up, ‘Mr Bunce?’

  ‘Wait.’ Alfred set off again, with Ned close at his heels. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Alfred asked Constable Pike, ‘What did that newspaper say about me?’

  ‘It said you were employed by the Sewers Office,’ the constable replied. Fixing Alfred with a quizzical look, he added, ‘The tone of it wasn’t too friendly, sir, if you get my meaning. Questions were asked about wasting public funds on fairytales. But you’ll be accustomed to that, I expect – folk who don’t believe in bogles.’

  ‘Aye,’ Alfred growled. ‘There’s plenty as don’t . . .’ ‘Mr Bunce?’ By this time Jem, too, had reached the top of the stairs, and had jostled Ned aside in his eagerness to communicate.

  ‘What is it?’ Alfred glared at Jem, but didn’t manage to quell him. Instead Jem grabbed Alfred’s sleeve, dragged him aside, and hissed, ‘There’s one thing as might scare Tobias Fitch more’n the butcher – and that’s a bogle, Mr Bunce.’ Seeing Alfred’s blank expression, Jem continued in a low voice, ‘What if we threaten Fitch with a bogle?’

  Ned’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe his ears. As Constable Pike gave a snort of laughter, Alfred said, ‘Don’t be a fool, boy. We can’t do that!’

  ‘Believe me, lad – if there was a bogle in this here station house, I’d know about it,’ the policeman drawled.

  Jem, however, ignored him. ‘It wouldn’t be a real bogle, Mr Bunce! We’d just pretend it was.’ As Jem glanced uneasily towards the staircase, Ned wondered if he was serious. He certainly looked serious, with his white face and furrowed brow. ‘We’d have to find a good cellar, with a sufficiency o’ places to hide,’ Jem continued. ‘There’s a man at the Theatre Royal can make a puff of smoke appear wherever you want it. And if Constable Pike could hold onto Fitch just a little longer, I know someone we could ask to play a bogle.’ Seeing Alfred narrow his eyes, Jem’s tone became more urgent. ‘He’s at the penny gaff on Whitechapel Road, Mr Bunce. You know where I mean. The cove I’m a-thinking of – why, he plays bogles for a living! And all we’d need to do is make it worth his while . . .’

  21

  A BOGLE FOR HIRE

  Josiah Lubbock was the manager of a penny gaff on Whitechapel Road, where he mounted shows featuring dwarves, snakes, clockwork heads, stuffed freaks of nature, and anything else that people might pay to see. Ned had met Mr Lubbock several times: once at Alfred’s place, once in Giltspur Street, and once outside the derelict house where Salty Jack had tried to feed Jem to a bogle. But never had Ned visited Mr Lubbock’s establishment in the East End.

  He’d heard a lot about it, though. It was a small, two-storeyed building tucked between a pastry shop and a public house. Standing in a bitter wind, with snowflakes drifting and whirling around him like ash, Ned studied the shopfront with keen interest.

  There were playbills all over its windows, and its front door was firmly shut.

  ‘Too early in the day for a show,’ Alfred speculated.
br />   ‘Does anyone live there?’ asked Ned.

  Alfred shrugged. His hands were buried deep in his pockets. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wound around the bottom half of his face. ‘I wish there were some way o’ doing this without alerting Lubbock,’ he said morosely, ‘but I don’t expect there is. Whatever money’s on offer, he’ll get his cut of it, I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘He might not reckanise me,’ Ned observed. ‘Mebbe I should knock on the door. What’s the name o’ the feller we want?’

  ‘Eduardo.’ Alfred heaved a sigh that turned to steam when it hit the air. ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘I ain’t no sneaking speeler as juggles with the truth. Not like Josiah Lubbock. I’ll walk up and speak out, like an honest man.’

  Alfred then boldly stepped off the pavement into the dirty, slushy street. Ned followed him. Whitechapel Road wasn’t as busy as usual – perhaps because the weather was so bad. It was the kind of weather that made Ned offer up a silent prayer of gratitude. As a mudlark, on a day like this, he would have had to choose between starving or freezing. But thanks to Alfred, he now had to endure nothing more taxing than a walk from the nearest omnibus stop.

  They had taken an omnibus from Smithfield, instead of a cab. It was Jem who had been sent to Spring Gardens in his very own hired vehicle, with orders to inform Mr Harewood that he was needed at Smithfield station house. ‘See if Mr Harewood will give you a ride to Drury Lane for yer matinee,’ Alfred had urged Jem. ‘And be sure he sets you down on the theatre’s very doorstep, lad. Tell him you ain’t safe on yer own. Tell him Tobias Fitch may not be Salty Jack’s only nobbler.’

  As Alfred banged on the door of the penny gaff, Ned wondered uneasily if Salty Jack would send someone else to kill Jem – and what could possibly be done to prevent it. Even if he moved lodgings, Jem would still be working at the Theatre Royal. Unless he gave up his job there, he would be easy enough to find again.

  The only real solution was to get rid of John Gammon. And the only way to do that was to get him locked up in gaol . . .

  ‘Who’s there?’ a shrill voice demanded. It was coming from behind the door.

  Alfred cleared his throat and spat on the ground. ‘It’s Alfred Bunce,’ he rasped. ‘I’m looking for Eduardo.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘Eduardo.’ After a moment’s hesitation, Alfred admitted, ‘I don’t know his other name.’

  There was a pause, then a scraping of bolts. At last the door swung open to reveal a short, plump girl with dirty blond hair and a pasty face. There were dark circles under her eyes, and traces of make-up above them. She wore an untidy collection of garments, topped off by a mangy fur stole.

  Ned judged her to be about sixteen.

  ‘I remember you,’ she said accusingly. ‘You’re the Go-Devil man.’ Before Alfred could confirm this, she suddenly cried, ‘I ain’t played Birdie McAdam in weeks! Birdie’s name is off our boards, now! I’m Delia the Dragon-slayer – can’t you read? We don’t have a Birdie in the show! Not since you was here last.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘If you’ve come to complain, you needn’t talk to me. It’s Mr Lubbock you want, and he’s out.’ The girl was closing the door when Alfred wedged his foot in it.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I ain’t here to fret you, Miss. I know you don’t use Birdie’s name no more.’

  ‘We want to talk to Eduardo,’ Ned interrupted. ‘We want to hire him.’

  The girl blinked. ‘Hire him?’ she echoed.

  ‘To play a bogle.’

  For a moment the girl stood motionless, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Then her expression brightened. ‘A job, is it?’ she asked Alfred, who nodded.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, come in, then!’ She pulled open the door. ‘I’ll fetch Eduardo – he’s backstage, at present. I’m Bedelia Moss. I don’t recollect if we was formally introduced, last time we met.’ Bedelia peered at Ned as she bolted the door behind Alfred. ‘What happened to the other lad? The one with black hair? Did he get ate by a bogle?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Alfred.

  ‘Jem’s a dancer now,’ Ned mumbled. ‘I’m Ned Roach.’

  ‘A dancer, is he? So am I. I can dance and sing. But I ain’t engaged at the Theatre Royal.’ There was a waspish edge to Bedelia’s tone – and Ned suddenly realised that she must have seen one of Mr Chatterton’s playbills. Upon following her into a dim, dusty vestibule, which contained an empty ticket booth and three large display cabinets full of stuffed and pickled creatures, Ned could see why Bedelia might be jealous of Birdie. Mr Lubbock’s penny gaff was a far cry from the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane.

  ‘Eddie! You got visitors!’ the girl bellowed, pushing aside a plush curtain to reveal a very large room with a raised platform at one end. From the rows of wooden benches facing this platform, Ned deduced that he had entered the actual theatre – which smelled of stale sweat and sawdust. A door to the left of the platform was standing open. Beyond it stood a rack of clothes and a chest piled high with props.

  ‘Whatta you want?’ a deep voice roared. ‘I’m-a very busy!’

  ‘Job for you, Eddie!’ Bedelia turned to Alfred. ‘Is it regular work?’

  ‘No,’ Alfred had to confess. ‘We’ll not be needing him more’n once.’

  ‘When?’ asked Bedelia.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Early.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right. We don’t do morning shows.’ Bedelia suddenly turned to address a hulking figure framed in the open doorway. ‘D’you remember Mr Bunce, Ed? He came here last month, with Birdie McAdam.’

  Ned stared in astonishment at Eduardo, who was immensely tall, with a massive, square-jawed head, the shoulders of an ox, and legs like tree-trunks. His black hair was shaved very short all over his skull, but was thick and luxuriant on his arms and hands and chest – all of which were clearly visible because he wore only an open shirt with rolled-up sleeves, over a loose pair of canvas trousers.

  ‘What job?’ he said, his eyes flicking from Bedelia to Alfred and back again.

  Alfred cleared his throat. ‘Last time we came here, Mr . . . er . . .’

  ‘Miniotto,’ Bedelia supplied.

  ‘Last time we came here, Mr Miniotto, you was playing a bogle on stage.’

  ‘He still is,’ Bedelia interjected.

  Alfred stared at her for a moment from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Then he turned back to Eduardo and said, ‘We need a bogle. For an hour or two tomorrow morning, around six o’clock, at the Clerkenwell station house on King’s Cross Road.’

  Eduardo frowned. He looked puzzled.

  ‘They don’t want a real bogle, Eddie, they want you,’ Bedelia explained. ‘Ain’t that right, Mr Bunce?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And we want his costume too,’ Ned added quickly. ‘He’ll need to wear that.’

  ‘Of course!’ Bedelia exclaimed. ‘He can’t be a bogle without a pelt!’ Smirking, she put her hands on her hips and announced, ‘It’ll cost you ten shillings.’

  ‘Ten shillings!’ squeaked Ned. It was a monstrous sum.

  ‘Five,’ said Alfred.

  ‘Come now, Mr Bunce, you can do better than that,’ Bedelia protested. ‘I read about you in the newspaper this morning. You’ve a fancy new position with the Sewers Office.’ Seeing Alfred scowl, she reduced the fee. ‘Eight shillings.’

  ‘Five,’ Alfred repeated. ‘That’s me final offer.’

  ‘His position ain’t that fancy,’ Ned murmured, just as Eduardo stepped forward with his hand extended.

  ‘Five-a shilling issa good,’ he announced.

  Bedelia squealed, ‘But Eddie—’

  Eduardo cut her off. ‘I put on a suit, stamp and roar, make-a good money. For a fee, I do this.’ He shook hands with Alfred, then asked for an advance.

  Alfred gave him half a crown. ‘Clerkenwell station house, six o’clock in the morning,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why do you need a bogle in a police station?’ Bedelia seemed genuinely curious. But i
nstead of answering her, Alfred changed the subject.

  ‘If you’d keep this to yerselves, I’d be grateful. Once Josiah Lubbock finds out, he’ll want a cut o’ the fee. And he’ll make a nuisance of hisself, besides.’

  Bedelia and Eduardo exchanged a quick glance. At last Bedelia replied airily, ‘Don’t you worry about Josiah. We know how to get around him.’

  Alfred gave a satisfied nod. Then he tipped his hat and turned to go. Before heading back into the vestibule, however, he paused and addressed Eduardo.

  ‘Bogles seldom roar,’ he growled. ‘They hiss. You’d best remember that.’

  With a final nod, he took his leave – and was out in the snow again a minute later. Ned followed him. As they trudged down Whitechapel Road, weaving their way between scurrying pedestrians and rattling carts, Ned’s gaze drifted longingly back towards the pastry shop.

  He could smell hot pies.

  ‘Where shall we go now, Mr Bunce?’ he asked, hoping that Alfred, too, might be feeling hungry. But before the bogler could respond, someone else answered Ned’s question – in a roundabout kind of way.

  ‘Mr Bunce! Ahoy!’ Startled, Ned spun around. He was astonished to see Mark Harewood leaning out of a hackney carriage, just across the road.

  Alfred had stopped in his tracks. ‘Mr Harewood?’

  ‘Come quickly!’ The engineer beckoned to him. ‘You’re wanted!’

  The bogler obediently struck out for Mr Harewood’s vehicle, with Ned at his heels. They dodged a coster’s cart, splashed through a puddle of slush, and finally ended up at the door of the carriage – which Mr Harewood was holding open for them.

  ‘Mr Daw has called an emergency committee meeting,’ he said, reaching down to grab Ned’s arm.

  ‘Mr Daw?’ For a moment Ned was stumped. Then he remembered that Mr Daw was the Principal Clerk at the City of London Sewers Office. ‘Oh! Mr Daw . . .’

  ‘I’ve been sending messages all over London,’ Mr Harewood continued. He moved aside for Ned, then shut the door behind Alfred. ‘I thought I’d never find you. But when Jem arrived, he told me where you’d gone.’