Ned shook his head.
‘What a pity,’ said Mr Harewood. ‘Still, that’s not an insurmountable problem. Not at your age.’ Then he pushed open the door, revealing a stone-flagged kitchen warmed by a grate full of glowing embers. Alfred and the policeman were standing in front of this grate, together with a skinny youth in a blue serge uniform. Their heads snapped around when they heard hinges creaking.
‘Ah!’ The skinny youth’s worried expression was transformed into one of intense relief. ‘Joe found you, then!’
‘He did,’ Mr Harewood agreed. ‘Would you be Corporal Catty?’
‘I am, sir.’ Without pausing for breath, the youth glanced nervously at Alfred and said, ‘I sent all them other lads away. I thought it best.’
‘They spend too much time down here in any case, drinking tea and making mischief,’ the policeman remarked. He glared at the skinny youth, who stammered, ‘I – I do what I can, sir! They’re right downy, some of ’em!’
Constable Juddick sniffed as Ned studied the corporal, wondering why he’d been promoted to his present rank. Though very tall, and several years older than the other two boys, Corporal Catty was all skin and bone, with a long neck, stooped shoulders, and anxious, blinking, bloodshot eyes. He had no beard to speak of, and his prominent Adam’s apple slid up and down like a piston when he swallowed.
Ned suspected that he’d been chosen because he obeyed the rules – not because he was confident enough to enforce them.
‘This is a curious space,’ Mr Harewood suddenly observed. He was peering at one of the brick walls, which had three stone pillars embedded in it. Even Ned could see that these massive, rounded pillars were at odds with the rest of the kitchen, which was small and mean. The fireplace was skimpy; the ceiling was low; there was only one gas-jet, and no scullery to speak of. ‘I’ve heard that a crypt was laid open here, when the site was being cleared for construction,’ Mr Harewood continued. ‘It contained a stone coffin, with a skeleton inside.’ As Corporal Catty blanched, the engineer cheerfully concluded, ‘Perhaps St Martin’s crypt has been incorporated into this basement! It certainly looks older than the building above.’
‘If that’s true, then mebbe it weren’t the bogle as took them lads,’ said Corporal Catty. ‘Mebbe a ghost done it . . .’
‘Nonsense.’ The policeman snorted. ‘Ghosts don’t abduct people.’
‘What makes you think they was abducted?’ Alfred broke in. ‘Boys have bin known to run away, on occasion.’
‘Not these boys, sir. They never had cause to complain, for all they was the youngest.’ Corporal Catty turned to Constable Juddick for support. ‘Ain’t no bullying here. And the money’s good, too. Five shillings a week, they start on.’
Ned blinked. Five shillings a week sounded a little meagre, though he himself had lived on much less. He decided that if Alfred was ever to dismiss him, he’d be glad enough to work as a telegraph boy.
But he didn’t like to think about being on his own again . . .
‘Was them boys the smallest, as well as the youngest?’ Alfred queried. On receiving a nod from the corporal, he went on to ask, ‘Where did you last see ’em?’
‘The boys, sir? Why – they was last seen here.’ As Alfred’s gaze flickered towards the fireplace, Corporal Catty added, ‘But that don’t signify, since we know this ain’t where they perished.’
Alfred frowned. His eyes moved back to the corporal’s face. ‘You do?’
‘Of course. Didn’t Mr Clegg tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘We seen the bogle, Mr Bunce. Me and Davy and little Dan. All three of us.’
Ned blinked. Alfred said, ‘Where?’
‘In there.’ Corporal Catty pointed at a door to his left. ‘It lives in the lavatory. Didn’t you know? Them poor lads never stood a chance, what with their kicksies being down around their ankles . . .’
10
THE PRIVY-BOGLE
Ned was growing hoarse.
He had been standing in the lavatory for a couple of hours, tonelessly chanting nursery rhymes – which were the only songs he really knew. To his left was a row of urinals. To his right, six wooden cubicles each contained a ceramic bowl and suspended cistern. In front of him was an open door leading to a short, narrow passage. Behind him were two basins, complete with cold-water taps, and a covered drain in the floor.
Alfred had identified this drain as the most likely source of bogle activity. So he had traced out his circle of salt just a few feet away from it, then positioned himself in the cubicle closest to the basins.
Half of his shadowy figure was reflected in the mirror that Ned was holding.
Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With me bow and arrow
I killed Cock Robin.
As Ned droned on, he could see Alfred shifting his weight – but he couldn’t see Mr Harewood. The engineer was skulking in the cubicle next to Alfred’s, having been warned to keep well back, out of sight. No one was visible in the outside passage, either; Corporal Catty and Constable Juddick had been asked to stay in the kitchen.
Yet still the bogle didn’t come. Ned wondered if it could somehow sense that there were adults in the room. It seemed unlikely, since Alfred had never encountered any problems before. By keeping still and silent, he had fooled every bogle that he’d ever been hired to kill.
Ned coughed and cleared his throat before launching into the next verse.
Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly
With me little eye
I saw him die.
‘Mr Bunce?’ It was Constable Juddick’s voice, echoing down the passage from the kitchen. Lifting his gaze, Ned saw the policeman’s head appear around a distant corner, backlit by a wall-mounted gas-jet. ‘We’ve a lot o’ people out here waiting to use the water-closet, sir. Will you be much longer?’
Alfred didn’t reply. But his furious scowl was captured in Ned’s looking-glass.
‘Mebbe there ain’t no bogle,’ the policeman continued. ‘If there was, surely it would have showed itself by now?’
Still Alfred didn’t answer. Perhaps he was hoping that Constable Juddick would take the hint and withdraw. Ned knew that it sometimes wasn’t easy to lure a bogle out of its lair. Birdie had once told him about a three-hour ordeal in an empty tanner’s vat.
Ned gnawed at his bottom lip, feeling useless. Could his singing be the problem? Would Birdie have succeeded where he had failed?
He was sure that Alfred must be asking himself the same question . . .
‘Mr Bunce?’ Suddenly Mr Harewood spoke from his cubicle, in a rough whisper. ‘Should we come back this evening? It will be less busy by then, I daresay.’
Ned winced, expecting Alfred to explode. But instead of snarling at Mr Harewood, the bogler simply remarked, through clenched teeth, ‘This place don’t close at night.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. How silly of me.’ Mr Harewood sounded embarrassed.
‘And Catty said them kids disappeared during the day,’ Alfred continued, causing a series of gears to turn inside Ned’s brain. With a gasp, he swung around to address Alfred.
‘Mr Bunce?’
‘Shh!’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bunce, but what if it’s waiting for a signal?’ Before Alfred could do more than glare at him, Ned quickly added, ‘Mebbe the bogle comes whenever it hears a cistern flush. Mebbe that’s what it’s bin listening for.’
There was a brief silence. The only sound was a tap dripping. Plink. Plink. Plink. Then Mr Harewood murmured, ‘I say! What a clever notion!’
‘It is.’ Alfred stepped into the light, his spear in one hand, his bag of salt in the other. His gaze travelled around the room, darting from the drain to the door to the basins and back to the cubicle. Then he said, ‘This here is a trap. You pull the chain, go to wash yer hands—’
‘—and the bogle pops up between you and the door!’ Ned finished.
‘If you’re yo
ung enough.’ Alfred was nodding, his expression grim. ‘I mislike this arrangement. It don’t give you nowhere to run, Ned.’
He was right. Ned saw that instantly. ‘Mebbe if we was to put a ring o’ salt in there, I could use it to shield meself,’ he suggested, pointing at the booth that Alfred had just left. ‘A closed ring o’ salt. All around the bowl . . .’
By this time Mr Harewood had also emerged from his cubicle. ‘Are you certain that our bogle is going to come through the grating in the floor?’ he asked. ‘What if Ned pulls the chain and it comes shooting straight out of the water-closet?’
‘T’ain’t likely,’ said Alfred. ‘But if I lay a circle around the bowl, Ned’ll be safe enough.’ Retreating into the nearest booth, he proceeded to surround the toilet inside it with a ring of salt, as Mr Harewood went to the exit and loudly declared, ‘We shan’t be much longer, Constable! Have a little more patience, if you please!’
‘What about this circle, Mr Bunce?’ Ned was referring to the ring that already lay near the drain. ‘Should it be left?’
‘Aye. It won’t do no harm.’ Emerging from his cubicle, Alfred held the door open as he told Ned to head straight for the nearest basin when he’d flushed the toilet. ‘Keep yer eyes on yer looking-glass. I’ll be in the farthest booth but one. It’s the closest I can get, without alerting the bogle.’ His dark, solemn gaze was fixed on Ned. ‘I ain’t easy in me mind about this, lad. Are you? For if you’d rather not do it, I can allus come back with Jem. He’s quicker’n you, though not so canny.’
Ned coloured. He didn’t resent the comparison – which was a fair one – but he had no intention of admitting that he wasn’t up to the job.
‘I can do it,’ he croaked, wondering if this were actually true.
‘A glass hung up here might have saved three lives,’ the bogler went on, his gaze shifting to the blank, tiled wall above the basins. ‘Or at least given the poor lads a warning.’ Then he sighed and turned to Mr Harewood, who was still hovering on the threshold. ‘You’d best get in there,’ he instructed, jerking his chin at one of the more distant cubicles.
‘But don’t so much as blink, if you please, and stay quiet.’
Mr Harewood nodded. He moved into position as Ned asked, in a nervous undertone, ‘Am I to sing, Mr Bunce?’
‘Aye, lad. Keep at it. You might as well.’
So when Ned finally found himself alone in a cramped little cedar booth, staring down at a white porcelain toilet, he cleared his throat, took a deep, calming breath, and started singing again.
Who caught his blood?
I, said the Fish.
In me little dish
I caught his blood.
He stood with his toes almost touching the ring of salt. There was writing on the toilet, which Ned couldn’t read. But that didn’t matter. He knew how flush toilets worked, though he’d seen only a handful of them before. Miss Eames owned one, so he’d become thoroughly familiar with its mechanism.
He tried to comfort himself with thoughts of the cistern’s ingenious ballcock as he croaked out yet another verse, his pulse racing and his knees trembling.
Who’ll make his shroud?
I, said the Beetle.
With a thread and needle
I’ll make his shroud.
Ned found it hard to sing, because his mouth was so dry. He couldn’t seem to breathe properly, either. And he certainly didn’t feel ready to confront the bogle. But at last he braced himself, lifted his hand-mirror until his own face was reflected in it, and made a grab for the chain that was dangling above his head.
WHO-O-OSH!
Water was still sloshing down the pipe when he reached the basins. Groping for a tap with one hand, he kept his eyes fixed on the little scene captured in the other. He could see the drain. He could see the exit. He could see Mr Bunce peering out from behind a cedar wall . . .
He could see the bogle, silently appearing.
Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl.
With me pick and shovel
I’ll dig his grave.
Ned’s voice cracked as he watched a kind of thick, black, bubbling goo dislodge the drain’s metal grate and carry it sideways. Then came something long and sticky and featureless, like a giant slug, which reared up and suddenly expanded – POP! – the way a bladder inflates. Four long, spiky arms erupted from the bladder, each topped with a bouquet of blood-red talons. A lashing tail was crowned with spikes. There were two clawed feet, and three forked tongues, and a gargoyle’s head, and two rows of barbed teeth . . .
But Ned kept singing while Alfred stealthily raised his spear.
Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull.
Because I can pull—
The spearhead flashed. Ned ducked. He leaped sideways into the nearest cubicle, as a deafening screech filled the air. The smell that followed was even worse than the noise. Coughing and gagging, Ned jumped into the ring of salt and scrambled up onto the wooden toilet seat.
He was still perched there when Alfred rasped, ‘Ned? Are you all right, lad?’
Ned couldn’t speak. He was still retching when Alfred appeared at the cubicle door, holding his nose.
‘Are you hurt?’ the bogler demanded.
Ned’s response was a shake of the head.
‘We’d best hook it. This stench may be poisonous.’ Alfred ushered Ned out of the cubicle and towards the exit, past the bogle’s formless remains. They were so bulky that Ned stopped in his tracks, astonished.
‘Why ain’t it gone?’ he asked hoarsely, aware that most bogles either popped, melted or evaporated when they were killed. They usually left a smear or a scorch-mark, not a heap of singed jelly the size of a small cow. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘Neither do I,’ Alfred said grimly. He yanked at Ned’s arm, pulling him away from the fumes that were making their eyes water. ‘I ain’t never seen so much gristle left behind, nor heard such a noise, nor smelled such a reek. T’ain’t customary. Summat’s wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ Ned echoed in alarm. But Alfred had already turned to Mr Harewood, who was emerging from his hidey-hole, white-faced and gasping.
‘Out,’ snapped Alfred. ‘Now.’
‘But I must collect a sample,’ Mr Harewood wheezed. ‘I promised Gilfoyle—’
‘We’ll come back when the air’s clear.’ As Alfred crossed the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘And we must clean up that bogle, if it’s still there – though I’m puzzled as to how we’d go about it.’
‘Wash it down the drain?’ Ned suggested.
‘Aye, if it don’t poison the sewers.’ Alfred hawked and spat, then looked up and grimaced as he saw Constable Juddick advancing down the passage towards them. ‘Yer friends’ll have to wait a little longer, Constable,’ he announced. ‘The bogle’s gone, but I wouldn’t go in there just yet. The stench is enough to turn yer stomach . . .’
11
HUNTED
There was a message waiting for them when they emerged from the lavatory. It was a note from Erasmus Gilfoyle, hand-delivered by an errand boy. Mr Gilfoyle was requesting that Alfred come directly to the Apothecaries’ Hall, on Water Lane, as soon as he’d finished at the General Post Office.
‘Two laboratory boys have vanished in mysterious circumstances,’ Mr Harewood explained, as he studied the note. ‘Apparently the Superintending Chemical Operator is willing to concede that a “creature of indeterminate origin” may be responsible for their disappearance.’ The engineer raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think, Mr Bunce? We could walk to the hall from here. It’s straight down Newgate Street, then left at the prison and across Ludgate Hill.’
Ned and Alfred exchanged a wary glance. The bogler looked as tired as Ned felt.
‘I daresay we could do it,’ Alfred rumbled at last, ‘if Ned’s fit enough.’
‘I am,’ Ned replied stoutly. Though he was still shaking from his encounter with the bogle, he didn’t want to disap
point Alfred – or Mr Harewood. And he fancied that a job at the Apothecaries’ Hall might count as official business, for which Alfred was now receiving a handsome wage. ‘When I were a mudlark, there was rats as big as bogles on the riverbank, and cutthroats more dangerous still,’ he went on, hoping to convince himself, as much as Alfred. ‘Ain’t no need to fret about me, Mr Bunce. I’m game, sir.’
Alfred eyed Ned sceptically, but refrained from voicing his doubts to Mr Harewood. So when the three of them finally emerged from the post office, they didn’t hail a hansom cab. Instead they headed south towards Newgate Street, turning right when they reached the first corner. Mr Harewood took the lead. He marched along energetically, flushed and talkative, carrying a chunk of dead bogle in a china jar obtained from one of the telegraph boys.
‘That creature was so big!’ he gabbled. ‘I had no idea! And so difficult to classify. Was it a reptile? A mammal? A curious conflation, like the Australian platypus? Poor Razzy will have a hard time of it!’
Alfred responded with the occasional grunt. He didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood. As he shuffled along, bent beneath the weight of his sack, he kept glancing around suspiciously, his dark gaze flitting from face to face. Ned didn’t blame him, for they were back in John Gammon’s territory. Every step took them closer to Cock Lane, where the butcher’s modest little shopfront, festooned with sausages, cleverly concealed the extent of Salty Jack’s criminal empire. Walking down Newgate Street, Ned felt as if he were entering a bogle’s lair. Despite the rattling carriages and scurrying crowds, there was an ominous quality to the whole scene. Perhaps it had something to do with the wintry light, or the looming bulk of Newgate Prison. Perhaps it was because Alfred had killed a bogle in almost every building that they passed along their way: Christ’s Hospital School, the Viaduct Tavern, Newgate Market, St Sepulchre’s Church . . .