‘Then there ain’t no need for a boglers’ guild!’ Jem concluded briskly. His hand shot into the air. ‘All those in favour o’ making this our last ever committee meeting, raise yer hand!’
There was no immediate response. Slowly, however, other hands began to join Jem’s, until at last Mr Harewood said, ‘The “ayes” have it.’
‘Just in time for supper,’ said Jem. And he was out the door, calling for toasted tea-cakes, before Ned even had a chance to blow his nose.
EPILOGUE
A horse and trap pulled up outside a two-storeyed house with very small windows. The driver was a weathered-looking man whose carter’s smock was splashed with mud. Beside him sat a beautiful young lady in a buff-coloured travelling coat. She wore an elegant bonnet over a froth of golden curls, and the ruffled gown beneath her coat was exactly the same shade of blue as her eyes.
On the seat behind her were two young men, one of whom jumped down onto the road as soon as the wheels of the trap stopped turning. Small and limber, he had a dandyish look about him, thanks to his bright silk waistcoat and yellow gloves. His jet-black hair had been carefully oiled, and his moustache curled up at the ends.
As he helped the young lady out of the carriage, his friend climbed down too. This second young man was much taller than his companion. Brown-eyed and broad-shouldered, he had a handsome, clean-shaven face and a slow way of moving. His clothes were plain and sensible, though his missing canine tooth gave him a slightly rakish air. He dropped a few coins into the driver’s outstretched hand.
‘Come back in two hours,’ he said.
‘Three,’ the young lady corrected. ‘Please, Ned, we can always catch a later train.’
‘Yes, but your show . . .’
‘Oh, bother my show!’ The young lady tossed her head and marched towards the grey stone house, which was set back from the road, behind a garden full of sweet peas. Ned glanced at the black-haired young man, who rolled his eyes and said, ‘Artistic temperament.’
‘There’ll be the devil to pay if she misses her cue,’ Ned replied. ‘It nearly happened last week.’
‘You’re too soft, old boy. You should put your foot down. Ain’t that what husbands are for?’
Ned coloured. ‘You may recall, Jem, that we’re not married yet.’
‘Which is exactly my point. Didn’t I say you should put your foot down? Or she’ll be off touring America before you’ve had a chance to tie the knot, and where will that leave you?’ Jem shook his head in an impatient fashion, then turned to the driver. ‘Come back in two hours,’ he instructed. ‘And not a minute later, mind, for I don’t want to be waiting about on a country lane like a drunken ploughman.’
The driver clicked his tongue and flicked his reins. As the wheels of the trap began to move, Ned and Jem approached the front door of the house, which was framed by a climbing rose. ‘Two hours, Birdie!’ Jem declared. ‘I’m dining with a business acquaintance in London, and can’t afford to keep him waiting.’
Birdie snorted. ‘A business acquaintance?’ she echoed, tapping on the door. ‘I daresay you mean a shady fellow who imports cheap rotgut and bottles it as port wine.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ Jem rejoined. ‘He’s in artificial hair.’
‘Artificial hair?’
‘There’s a fortune to be made in artificial hair, ladies’ fashions being what they are,’ Jem insisted.
‘That’s what you said about artificial whalebone,’ Birdie reminded him.
‘Artificial whalebone will come into its own, you mark my words. With the cost of baleen increasing, and corsets more popular than ever—’ Jem broke off suddenly, as the door in front of him swung open. ‘Good morning, Mr Bunce!’ he exclaimed, doffing his hat. ‘Or should I say good afternoon? One becomes quite muddled about the time, when one sets off at the crack of dawn . . .’
Birdie had already flung herself at the old man on the threshold, who was thin and bent and silver-haired. He staggered as she threw her arms around his neck, but quickly recovered, returning her embrace as he smiled at the two young men.
‘You’ve chosen a fine day for it,’ he muttered, his voice low and rough. ‘Come in, lass. Come in, all o’ you. I’ve oatcakes for yer tea.’
Sure enough, there were soft Derbyshire oatcakes waiting on a table by the kitchen fire, along with cheese, milk and butter. A kettle was boiling on the hob. Jem immediately tucked in, but before sitting down, Birdie made a quick tour of the room, peering into cupboards and sniffing at jars as she untied the strings of her bonnet.
‘I don’t recognise this,’ she said, fingering a china slop bowl. ‘Was this Mother May’s?’
‘Aye. I found it in the roof, catching drips,’ Alfred replied.
‘But the roof isn’t leaking, is it?’ Jem looked up from his oatcake with a frown. ‘We just paid for thatching!’
‘Nay, lad, the roof’s sound enough,’ Alfred assured him.
‘And the cracked pane upstairs?’ asked Ned. ‘Did the glazier come?’
‘He did.’
‘That old crone can’t have spent a penny on this place in thirty years,’ Jem grumbled. ‘Generous of her to let it fall apart and then leave it to someone else to repair!’
‘I ain’t complaining,’ was Alfred’s response. And Birdie said impatiently, ‘Don’t be so stupid, Jem – of course it was generous of her, even though I’d prefer to see Mr Bunce living closer to London. I really don’t think you should be staying here another winter, Mr Bunce. Not with that dreadful cough. Won’t you reconsider?’
Birdie fixed Alfred with the melting look that had won hearts all over England. But he remained impervious.
‘I’m right as I am,’ was his answer. ‘Derbyshire suits me. I’ve friends here now.’
‘Like the glazier, I suppose. And the thatcher.’ Jem was talking through a mouthful of oatcake. ‘I’ll wager they’re always delighted to hear from you, Mr Bunce.’
‘Which is Jem’s little joke,’ Ned suddenly remarked. He had removed the kettle from the hob, and was preparing to pour the tea. ‘We none of us begrudge a penny that we’ve spent on this house – do we, Jem?’
He raised an eyebrow at Jem, who cried indignantly, ‘Of course not!’
‘Besides, I don’t know why you’re complaining,’ Birdie added, her gaze on Jem. ‘It was Ned who paid the thatcher, not you.’
‘Because my shipment was delayed!’ Jem’s accent grew broader as his temper flared. ‘And I paid the plasterer, didn’t I?’
‘Now, don’t you bicker. You know I don’t like it.’ Alfred spoke sharply, and though his voice was weak and a little breathless, his sombre, reproving gaze had its usual effect. All three of his visitors immediately fell silent. ‘It’s yer news I want to hear,’ he continued. ‘How is Mrs Harewood? And the children?’
‘Edith’s a little tired, but both her children are well again.’ Birdie’s face brightened. ‘Did I mention that Ned will be building a bridge with Mr Harewood?’
‘Oh, aye?’ Alfred turned his slow smile on Ned. ‘That’s a feather in yer cap, I daresay.’
‘It most certainly is!’ Birdie answered before Ned could. ‘Though the bridge will be in Scotland, which is wretched news. I don’t know how I’m to bear it, staying in London without Ned.’
‘You went to Paris without him,’ Jem interposed.
‘For six weeks! Ned will be in Scotland for months and months . . .’
As Birdie prattled on, with occasional interruptions from Jem and Ned, Alfred listened quietly. He heard about Jem’s latest business venture, and Birdie’s clashes with her leading man, and Ned’s design for a new kind of steam hammer. There was a brief discussion of Mr Gilfoyle’s latest book. (‘Chapter three is all about bogles,’ Birdie revealed, ‘but it draws no useful conclusions – does it, Ned? Because no one has even glimpsed a bogle for years and years, unless you count the Loch Ness monster, so of course poor Mr Gilfoyle can only speculate.’) Then Birdie described Mr Wardle’s daughter’s w
edding, which had been ‘very handsome’, and confessed that her own wedding plans would have to be postponed, thanks to the job in Scotland. ‘But of course you’ll be giving me away, Mr Bunce,’ she said airily. ‘And Edith will be my matron of honour, and her youngest will be my flower girl—’
‘Her youngest will be a matron too, if you don’t hurry up,’ Jem remarked, whereupon he and Birdie began to argue again. They only stopped when they heard the sound of a horse and trap rattling down the road outside.
‘Oh, dear! So soon?’ Birdie lamented. ‘It seems no more than a few minutes since we arrived!’
‘Time runs away when you’re here,’ Alfred agreed, rising stiffly as Birdie jumped to her feet. ‘But I know how busy you are. T’were good o’ you all to come.’
‘So you’re well, then?’ Ned asked the question he’d already asked three times. ‘Nothing’s been troubling you?’
‘I’ve no complaints,’ said Alfred.
‘And you’re not lonely?’ Birdie couldn’t suppress a little shudder as she glanced out the window at a view of dark woods and empty fields. ‘I’m sure you must miss London. How could you not?’
‘I miss some o’ the folk in it,’ Alfred replied. ‘That’s all.’
‘You don’t miss bogling?’ Ned fixed Alfred with a calm and steady look, which Alfred received with a half-smile.
‘No more’n you do, lad.’ He laid his hand briefly on Ned’s arm. ‘You take care, now. Don’t fret too much ower things you can’t mend.’
‘I shan’t,’ Ned promised, as Birdie once more flung herself at Alfred.
‘Goodbye, Mr Bunce!’ she cried, peppering his face with kisses. ‘We’ll return as soon as we can – next month, if not next week. And you must visit us in London.’
‘I’ll come for the wedding,’ Alfred promised.
He followed his three visitors outside, then stood watching as they climbed into the hired trap. Jem glanced at his pocket watch almost before the driver had cracked his whip, but Birdie kept waving and shouting as the trap rolled away down the road.
‘Goodbye, Mr Bunce!’ she bawled, as loudly as a hazelnut seller at Covent Garden Market. ‘Wrap up warm! And don’t go out in the evenings!’
Beside her, Ned lifted his hand just once. Nevertheless, it was his gaze that held Alfred’s until the vehicle finally disappeared behind a blackthorn hedge.
Alfred stayed by his gate for some time after his visitors had left, staring off into the distance. It was the cry of a rook that seemed to rouse him from his trance. With a little shake of his head, he turned and went back to the kitchen, where he fetched water from the pump and washed all the dirty crockery. Only after he’d finished his chores did he don an old green coat, tuck his pipe into his pocket, slap a wide-brimmed hat onto his head, and set out across the fields.
It took him half an hour to reach the heart of the woods nearby. Here, in a rocky cleft overgrown with ferns, a stream had pooled beneath a small, damp cave. Alfred settled onto a moss-covered slope opposite this cave, with his back against the trunk of an ash tree. He then took out his pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, and lit up.
As the shadows slowly lengthened, and the birds began their evening rounds, Alfred sat puffing away. Finally he said, ‘The children came from London, today. I gave ’em tea. You never seen finer young ’uns – all growed up and not a scar on ’em, for all their troubles. They done me proud.’
No one answered. But deep in the cave above the pool, something sighed and rustled.
‘D’you know what Birdie said?’ Alfred continued. ‘She said as how Mr Gilfoyle mentioned bogles in his new book. So you ain’t gone, and you ain’t forgotten.’ As he paused, the listening silence was broken only by the gurgle of water and the swish of wind-tossed leaves. At last Alfred gave a snort. ‘You’re just old,’ he murmured. ‘Old and sick and left ower from times past. But I ain’t about to ferret you out. We’re both of us too old for that.’ He cocked his head, watching the mouth of the cave intently. ‘It seems to me a man shouldn’t have no enemies at the end of his life, no more’n he should at the beginning. So if you stay in there, and I stay out here believing in you, we’ll rub along well enough – for all we ain’t neither of us too chatty.’
Still there was no reply. Yet Alfred stayed where he was, quietly smoking, until the pool was engulfed in shadow.
Only when dusk fell did he finally extinguish his pipe, struggle to his feet, and slowly make his way home.
GLOSSARY
BEAK a magistrate
BLUNT money
BONCE head
CHINK money
CLAMMED hungry
COCKS O’ THE GAME pickpockets
COVE a man
CRACKSMAN’S CROW a housebreaker’s lookout
CUT YER STICK run
DARKEY evening
DOLLYMOP a street woman (insult)
DOWNY cunning
FLAM lie
FLASH HOUSE a criminals’ rendezvous
FOGLES silk handkerchiefs
FOOTPAD a robber or highwayman who operated on foot instead of on a horse
GLOCKY half-witted
HEAVY WET port wine
HOIST to steal or shoplift
HOOK IT move it
HUM deceit
KEN house; know (Scottish)
KICKSIES trousers
LAG a convict
LEG IT run
LUSH to drink; a drunkard
NIBBED arrested
NICKEY half-witted
NOBBLER a thug
PEACH to inform
PEELER policeman
PIGGLE fiddle with or pick at
PRIG to steal
RAMMEL rubbish
READER pocket book
SAIR sore
SLAP-UP SPARK dandy
SPEELER cheater
SPRING HIM free him
STAGGED US saw us
STUMP UP to pay
SWAG booty
SWELL an elegant gentleman
TICKER watch
WELL TOGG’D well dressed
WITTLE worry
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catherine Jinks was born in Brisbane in 1963 and grew up in Sydney and Papua New Guinea. She studied medieval history at university and her love of reading led her to become an author. Her books for children, teenagers and adults have been published all over the world, and have won numerous awards.
Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales with her husband, journalist Peter Dockrill, and their daughter Hannah.
Monsters have been infesting London’s dark places for centuries, eating any child who gets too close. That’s why ten-year-old Birdie McAdam works for Alfred Bunce, the bogler. With her beautiful voice and dainty looks, Birdie is the bait that draws bogles from their lairs so that Alfred can kill them.
One life-changing day, Alfred and Birdie are approached by two very different women. Sarah Pickles runs a local gang of pickpockets, three of whom have disappeared. Edith Eames is an educated lady who’s studying the mythical beasts of English folklore. Both of them threaten the only life Birdie has ever known.
But Birdie soon realises she needs Miss Eames’s help, to save her master, defeat Sarah Pickles, and vanquish an altogether nastier villain.
Eleven-year-old Jem Barbary spent his early life picking pockets for a canny old crook named Sarah Pickles. Now she’s betrayed him, and Jem wants revenge. He also wants to work for Alfred Bunce the bogler, who kills the child-eating monsters that lurk in the city’s cellars and sewers. But Alfred is keen to give up bogling, since he almost lost his last apprentice, Birdie.
When numerous children start disappearing around Newgate Prison, Alfred and Jem do join forces, waging an underground war.
They even seek help from Birdie, dragging her away from the safe and comfortable home she’s found with Miss Edith Eames.
Together they learn that there’s only one thing more terrifying than facing a whole plague of bogles – and that’s facing some of
the sinister people from Jem’s past...
Praise for the City of Orphans series
‘A riveting read with some truly terrifying moments.’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER & PUBLISHER
‘Jinks creates her setting and characters with clarity
and realism … thoroughly entertaining …
a fascinating new series.’ THE SUN-HERALD
‘Has a Dickensian feel … and dark shades of Lemony
Snicket and Philip Pullman … an unusually vivid historical
adventure.’ THE SYDNEY MORNING HERALD
‘Top-notch storytelling from Jinks ... full of wit,
a colorful cast of rogues, and delectable slang.’
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
‘A period melodrama replete with colorful characters,
narrow squeaks and explosions of ectoplasmic goo.’
KIRKUS REVIEWS
‘With period detail, Dickensian charm, a brave heroine
and lots of suspense, this novel could make fantasy lovers
out of historical fiction fans, and vice versa.’
THE HUFFINGTON POST
‘Dark, muddy and beautifully evoked with a cast of
characters reminiscent of a Dickens novel!’
ABC CANBERRA
‘A lively, engaging story with an endearing protagonist
at its center.’ SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL
‘Jinks is an assured storyteller … Birdie is a bright,
stalwart heroine whose limitless font of haunting ballads
tinges the story with melancholy.’ HORN BOOK
Catherine Jinks, A Very Singular Guild
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