A Very Singular Guild

  ‘I don’t know as how it would,’ Alfred replied. ‘Fact is, I don’t know as how salt would. For I ain’t never seen it done – nor heard of it, neither.’

  Ned found himself nodding in agreement. He couldn’t help thinking that if salt were toxic to bogles, people would have long ago stopped hiring Go-Devil men. Instead, they would have kept a bag of salt handy, just in case.

  ‘Perhaps if a bogle was completely immersed in salt?’ This suggestion came from Miss Eames. ‘Or even a very highly concentrated solution?’

  ‘Mebbe we should flush out the sewers with salt water,’ Birdie added. But the inspector winced, and Mr Harewood looked pained.

  ‘I doubt we’d get leave to do that,’ the inspector remarked. ‘Salt in our sewers? It would rust all the sluice-gates, and kill half the trees in London.’

  ‘Ahem.’ All at once Mr Gilfoyle, who had been busy taking notes, lifted his head and coughed. ‘We should not be employing salt as a weapon until we determine what it would do,’ he said. ‘Mr Bunce uses salt to deter bogles. Is that correct, sir?’

  ‘Aye,’ Alfred conceded.

  ‘But when you kill them, you employ your spear, which once belonged to Finn MacCool. Is that correct?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Seeing Alfred blink, Mr Gilfoyle rephrased his question. ‘That is to say, who told you about the origins of the spear?’

  ‘Daniel Piggin. Me old master.’ Alfred was looking more and more uncomfortable, Ned thought. But that wasn’t surprising. The bogler had always hated discussing his past. ‘Mr Piggin’s bin dead these twenty years, though. And he weren’t talkative at the best o’ times.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Mr Gilfoyle sounded genuinely regretful. ‘I’m sure we could have learned a great deal from Mr Piggin.’

  ‘Did he happen to tell you what your spear is made of, Mr Bunce?’ Mr Harewood broke in. ‘Or if it has been treated with any kind of unusual substance?’

  As Alfred shook his head, Ned gasped. The spear! Of course! If Alfred’s spear could be copied, somehow . . .

  ‘According to Irish legend, Finn MacCool’s spear was poisoned,’ Miss Eames volunteered. ‘But I’m afraid nothing else was said on the subject.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean that we couldn’t find out more,’ the naturalist observed. ‘It so happens I know a chemical operator who works at the Apothecaries’ Hall, on Water Lane. I shall ask him if he would examine Mr Bunce’s spear, with a view to identifying any toxins adhering to it.’ He abruptly dropped his chin, and began to scratch away so energetically that his pen sputtered. ‘Mr Gilfoyle to make inquiries at the Great Laboratory on Water Lane . . .’ he muttered to himself.

  Meanwhile Jem was bouncing up and down in his chair, too excited to sit still. ‘If Mr Bunce’s spear is poisoned, and we find out what the poison is, then we can make a thousand spears!’ he cried. ‘And we can send a whole army down the sewers, to kill every one o’ them bogles!’

  ‘We wouldn’t need no army, Jem.’ Birdie seemed unaware of the horrified looks that were being exchanged all around her. ‘Not if we put the poison in the flushing tanks—’

  ‘Whoa! Hold up there!’ Mr Harewood raised both hands. ‘We will not be flooding the drains with poison! Or armed men!’ As Birdie opened her mouth to protest, he added, ‘The river water is bad enough. We don’t want to make it worse.’

  ‘Oh.’ Birdie stared at him for a moment, then blushed. ‘No. Of course not,’ she mumbled. Ned wanted to assure her that the same thought had crossed his mind – at least for an instant. But Mr Harewood had something else to say.

  ‘Was Finn MacCool a real person?’ he asked Miss Eames, with a crooked smile. ‘I thought him a myth.’

  Miss Eames hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. It was Mr Gilfoyle who answered.

  ‘When the mists of time descend, history can sometimes become confused with mythology,’ he informed Mr Harewood. ‘A rhinoceros might turn into a unicorn, and an ancient king might be given a magic sword. It’s my belief that by studying fantastical beasts through the lens of scientific method, we may be able to assign them a place in the natural hierarchy. A sea monster may actually be a sea creature, misidentified. And perhaps Finn MacCool suffered a similar fate . . .’

  As he trailed off, there was a brief silence. Glancing around the table, Ned saw that Mr Wardle looked impressed, Mr Harewood was nodding, and Miss Eames had an approving smile plastered across her face. Even Mr Bunce seemed resigned.

  Only Birdie and Jem hadn’t been won over. Jem’s attention had wandered again, and Birdie was frowning at Mr Gilfoyle.

  ‘But bogles are magic,’ she protested.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Gilfoyle. ‘Or perhaps not. Once upon a time, people used to believe that the pelican fed its young with blood from its own breast. Now we know better, thanks to scientific observation.’

  Ned didn’t know what a pelican was. He wasn’t sure that Birdie did, either. It hardly mattered, though, because she wasn’t really listening.

  ‘But big bogles can squeeze through the tiniest holes!’ she argued. ‘And they vanish like soap bubbles when you kill ’em! No ordinary creature does that!’

  ‘Not all bogles do that either,’ Mr Gilfoyle gently pointed out. ‘Mr Bunce just told us that the bogle under Newgate Market left a great deal of itself behind.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are certain jellyfish which disintegrate when touched,’ the naturalist went on. ‘And even the humble rat can fit through a hole no bigger than a five-shilling piece.’ As Birdie scowled and folded her arms, Mr Gilfoyle concluded, ‘We don’t know enough about bogles to classify them as magical creatures. Not yet.’

  ‘Then what do we know about ’em?’ asked Mr Harewood. Ned wondered if he was trying to change the subject, for Birdie’s sake. She looked so flustered that Ned felt sorry for her.

  He also agreed with her. How could a normal, everyday creature make you feel miserable before you even laid eyes on it?

  ‘So far we don’t know much about bogles,’ Mr Gilfoyle admitted, ‘and what we do know will be covered in my report. But before we hear that, we need to make sure that the Chairman’s subcommittee has nothing else to contribute.’ He cocked his head, eyebrows raised. ‘Did you circulate your memorandum, Mark?’

  ‘I did,’ Mr Harewood replied. ‘But so far I’ve received only one response.’ Reaching across the table, he picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This letter was sent to me by the office of the Postmaster-General. It concerns the mysterious disappearance of three telegraph boys. I wrote back suggesting that Mr Bunce pay a visit as soon as possible, but I’ve yet to receive an answer.’ To Alfred he said, ‘Naturally, I shall inform you the very instant I have a date and a time.’

  The bogler nodded. Then, to Ned’s surprise, he asked Mr Gilfoyle, ‘May I say summat?’

  ‘Why, of course, Mr Bunce.’

  ‘It so happens I’ve another job on. At the Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘But I’ll not do it if you’d prefer I didn’t.’

  Mr Harewood blinked. ‘Why on earth would we want to stop you?’ he asked.

  ‘On account of it’s private work, and I’m on the city payroll. I thought as how there might be rules . . .’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,’ said Mr Harewood. And his friend added, ‘Every time you exterminate a bogle, Mr Bunce, the city benefits greatly. In my opinion, you have always been working for the common good.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. Ned half-expected Birdie to say something similar – until he caught sight of her expression. She was gazing at Alfred the way a dog might gaze at a butcher’s shop.

  ‘Please, Mr Bunce,’ she begged, ‘may I go with you to the Theatre Royal?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Alfred glanced uneasily at Miss Eames, whose dark eyebrows had already snapped together.

  ‘Oh, please, Mr Bunce!’ Birdie’s voice cracked as she wrung her hands. ‘Let me do a job at Drur
y Lane!

  For if the folk there hear me sing, they might put me in a show!’

  ‘Aye, but . . .’ Alfred was no match for Birdie’s pleading. Ned felt sure that he would have buckled already, if not for Miss Eames. ‘I thought you wasn’t keen to go bogling no more?’ he rasped.

  ‘Just this once!’ cried Birdie.

  Miss Eames, however, was shaking her head. ‘Birdie, you can do better than a Drury Lane pantomime,’ she objected. ‘Why, Signora Paolini has high hopes for you. If you apply yourself, you could be a lyric soprano at the Royal Opera House.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be a lyric soprano! I want to be in a pantomime!’

  ‘Be that as it may, I don’t want you accompanying Mr Bunce.’ Conscious of all the reproachful looks being levelled at her, Miss Eames said crisply, ‘She wouldn’t be singing – she would be bogling. And you know what my position is on that.’

  ‘But it ain’t down to you, no more,’ Ned blurted out. The pitiable look on Birdie’s face had compelled him to speak. Why shouldn’t she sing in a pantomime? He knew that she was bound to light up the stage. ‘Birdie’s on the committee now, same as the rest of us,’ he continued. ‘So we all get to vote on what she does.’

  Seeing Miss Eames’s indignant expression, he subsided abruptly, cursing himself for being too bold. But Jem was already raising his hand.

  ‘I move Birdie should go bogling at Drury Lane if she wants to!’ Jem declared.

  Mr Harewood winked at Mr Gilfoyle. Mr Gilfoyle shrugged. Then he said, ‘All in favour?’

  Ned’s hand shot up. Alfred raised his more slowly, keeping his eyes lowered. When Birdie’s hand joined Alfred’s, and Mr Wardle’s joined Birdie’s, Mr Harewood offered the girl a lopsided grin and said, ‘The Chairman has the deciding vote. I suppose you’d hate me forever if I ruled against you?’

  ‘No,’ Birdie stiffly replied. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’d rather not risk it, all the same.’ Mr Harewood put his hand in the air. ‘The ayes have it. Miss Birdie McAdam may go bogling at the Theatre Royal.’

  As Birdie caught Ned’s eye, the gratitude in her gaze sent the blood rushing to his cheeks.

  6

  BACKSTAGE

  Though he lived very close to the Drury Lane theatre, Ned had never gone inside. He couldn’t afford even the cheapest seat, which cost nearly two shillings. He was also intimidated by the grandeur of the building’s fine stone portico. And he had seen boys his age being cuffed and cursed by stagehands as they lined up beneath the colonnade on Russell Street, hoping to be engaged for the Christmas pantomime. This, more than anything else, had put him off the place.

  But he had formed an idea of what the interior was probably like. He assumed that it was full of gilt and plush and marble – not to mention haughty ushers in spotless evening dress. So he was surprised by the cluttered, dirty warren that greeted him when he stepped through the stage door.

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Todd,’ Alfred informed the doorkeeper. ‘I am Alfred Bunce, and this is Miss Edith Eames, and Miss Birdie McAdam—’

  ‘Mr Todd is with Mr Chatterton,’ the doorkeeper interrupted, without even glancing up from his newspaper. He was a glowering, unshaven, middle-aged man perched on a high stool; it was obvious from his manner that if Queen Victoria herself had appeared on the threshold, he wouldn’t have been impressed.

  Alfred glanced at Ned, who cleared his throat and squeaked, ‘Miss Rosina Vokes sent for us. Mr Bunce is a Go-Devil man.’

  The doorkeeper heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘Mr Spong!’ he barked. ‘Are you off to the Painting Room?’

  A very young man in a dirty smock had been trying to slip past. Now he paused and said, ‘I’m finished for the day, Mr Jorkins.’

  ‘Not yet, you ain’t. You can take this here crew to see Miss Rosina Vokes. She’ll be getting dressed, I daresay.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And if you run across Mr Beverly, you can tell ’im his parcel’s arrived,’ the doorkeeper concluded, rattling his newspaper as he shielded his face with it.

  Mr Spong didn’t look happy. But he jerked his chin at Alfred and headed back into the bowels of the theatre, which was crawling with people. Ned couldn’t believe how busy the place was. At times the narrow, gaslit corridors were so crowded that Mr Spong was unable to push his way through the packs of costumed performers. Instead, with Alfred and the others close at his heels, he had to take long detours through rooms full of labouring seamstresses, racks of clothes, or gigantic pieces of painted scenery. At one point he was buttonholed by a bearded gentleman who smelled of turpentine. ‘I cannot stop,’ Mr Spong told him. ‘I’ve an errand to run.’

  And run he did. In fact, Ned and Jem and Birdie soon fell behind as they stopped to gawk at passing knights and princesses. Miss Eames had to keep rounding them up like stray chickens. ‘Hurry, please, or we’ll lose our way!’ she chided.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t long before her party found itself adrift in the Property Room, with Mr Spong nowhere in sight. All around them were shelves laden with masks, trumpets, swords, bellows, plaster fish and wooden fruit. Silver wings dangled from the rafters. Bits of tinsel were scattered across the floor. A woman scurried past with an armful of fake pewter, as a man in an apron boiled something gluey over an open fire near a stone sink.

  ‘I can’t see Mr Spong,’ said Alfred, who by this time was pouring sweat and red in the face. ‘Where did he go?’

  Ned shook his head. He glanced at Jem, who shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps we should return,’ Miss Eames suggested. But before she could move, a loud voice suddenly cried, ‘What ho! Is that Ned Roach the bogler’s boy?’ It was Frederick Vokes, all dressed up in a gold crown and a velvet doublet. He had been rushing down the corridor outside, on his way to some distant part of the theatre. But one glimpse of Ned’s worried expression caused him to stop short, swing around and bellow, ‘Rosie! He’s here!’

  ‘Who is?’ came the high-pitched reply.

  ‘That bogler!’ Mr Vokes dodged two men in a horse suit as they shuffled past. Then he took a step forward. ‘Are you Mr Bunce?’ he said.

  ‘Aye. And you are—?’

  ‘Frederick Vokes. You’d best come with me, for you’ll do no good here.’ All at once Mr Vokes caught sight of Miss Eames. ‘Hello. Would you be Mrs Bunce?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Miss Eames snapped. ‘My name is Edith Eames. I came with Birdie.’

  ‘And who is Birdie?’

  ‘I am.’ Birdie thrust herself towards the actor, eagerly extending her hand. She was dressed in what Jem liked to call her ‘bogling outfit’: a plain, dark dress and matching bowler hat. ‘I’m a bogler’s girl,’ she announced, with a dazzling smile. Mr Vokes looked startled. He was about to take Birdie’s hand when his youngest sister burst into the room, almost knocking him sideways.

  ‘A bogler’s girl! How very brave!’ cried Rosina, who wore a great deal of fluttering gauze. Her arms were bare, and her hair tumbled down her back. ‘Goodness, aren’t you a pretty thing!’ she exclaimed, upon catching sight of Birdie. ‘Isn’t she pretty, Fred?’

  ‘Shocking waste,’ Mr Vokes agreed, as he motioned to Alfred. Then Birdie, who had been staring at Rosina in mute admiration, said, ‘I ain’t as pretty as you.’

  Ned didn’t agree. Neither did Rosina. ‘It’s all slap, my dear. Make-up,’ she confided. ‘I only wish my cheeks were this pink.’ Then she tucked her arm through Birdie’s. ‘Come along and I’ll show you where the tunnel is. Come along, Ned! Come along – what’s your name?’

  ‘Jem Barbary.’

  ‘Hello, Jem Barbary. I’m Rosina Vokes.’ The actress began to follow Alfred, who was already following her brother. She hardly paused for breath as she bustled along. ‘Bogling must be just like the theatre, these days,’ she babbled. ‘There are so many children involved! D’you know that our Tom Thumb is only six? Or so he says. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s as young as he claims, but there can be no doubt that he is a
prodigy . . .’

  Trailing after the two girls, Ned marvelled at how silent Birdie was. He had never seen her quite so subdued. Even Jem was speechless, though he gave Ned a nudge when they passed a gaggle of fairies in short skirts.

  Miss Eames was looking cross. She trudged along at the rear, eyeing everything suspiciously. ‘Should not we speak to the manager?’ she asked Rosina, who replied, ‘Oh, Mr Chatterton doesn’t believe in bogles. His secretary, Mr Todd, agreed to engage Mr Bunce. But poor Mr Todd is so busy at the moment—’

  ‘Our Merlin has fallen ill,’ Mr Vokes cut in, clattering down a set of stairs. ‘And it’s less than an hour until the curtain rises.’

  ‘But never fear,’ Rosina finished. ‘We shall take care of you, Miss . . . er . . .’

  ‘Miss Eames. Edith Eames. I’m a folklorist.’

  ‘Oh, yes? How lovely for you.’ Rosina’s tone was rather vague; her attention had shifted to Mr Vokes, who was banging through a door at the foot of the staircase. ‘I’m very fond of floral arrangements.’

  Miss Eames frowned. ‘I am a folklorist, Miss Vokes, not a florist,’ she said sharply. The actress, however, had already surged forward, dragging Birdie with her. ‘Wait, Freddie! Slow down!’ Rosina implored. ‘Anyone would think you were running away from us!’

  By this time Ned was completely lost. He thought that they were probably underground, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he found himself in a large space full of pipes and pulleys, and he stopped caring.

  ‘Do you have a hydraulic lift ram?’ he asked Rosina, halting in front of a pressure gauge mounted at eye level. He had last seen a hydraulic lift ram beneath Smithfield Market – at Birdie’s last bogling job – and he had never forgotten it.

  ‘What? Oh. I’m not sure.’ Rosina didn’t even pause to look. ‘I think this may be part of the sub-stage machinery. Isn’t it, Fred?’

  Mr Vokes, however, wasn’t listening. He had already disappeared into a forest of shafts and gears and weights on chains. ‘Not far now!’ he yelled over his shoulder, as his sister blew a kiss at a grimy, pallid little man who was tightening a bolt on a piston. This man wore a cloth cap and braces, and his jaw dropped when he caught sight of the mismatched group scurrying past him.