How to Catch a Bogle

  “It certainly doesn’t appear so, from Dr. Morton’s journal.” Miss Eames was poring over the pages of her book. “On the contrary, he complains that he cannot restrain the creature for any length of time.”

  “Of course not!” Birdie exclaimed. “Because it’s a bogle!”

  Alfred, by this time, was tapping on the wooden wall panels. When asked why, he explained that since the window seat was built into the wall, there was probably a hollow behind the panels leading to an old well or spring or cellar under the house. “Which is where the bogle must live,” he speculated, “since this seat ain’t big enough for a bolthole.”

  “So it is merely the mouth of the burrow?” asked Miss Eames, earning a surprised, respectful glance from Alfred.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Like enough.”

  “Can you kill it, then?” said Charlie. He was still rubbing his hand on his coat, his face colorless under a sheen of sweat. “Can you do it here? Now?”

  “I think so,” Alfred replied.

  “Then do it. I told Ma you’d do it.”

  “But it might take a while,” warned Alfred.

  Charlie shrugged. “We got all day,” he said, adding that if the slavvy should return before they’d finished, Enoch would simply grab her and lock her in a cupboard. “She’ll cause no trouble if she’s old and lame.”

  Birdie grimaced. She didn’t like the idea of manhandling little old ladies. Neither did Miss Eames, who looked up from her book with a furrowed brow.

  “I cannot condone an assault,” she protested. “Housebreaking is bad enough, but when it comes to imprisoning an aged servant—”

  “Would you rather have more dead boys?” Alfred cut her off harshly. His face was so grim that Miss Eames fell silent, biting her lip.

  Then Jem asked her, “What makes you think the slavvy don’t know what’s bin going on? What makes you think she ain’t a party to all this?”

  It was a good question—and it made Birdie feel better about the old lady. Even Miss Eames looked as if she might be having second thoughts, though she did murmur, “I haven’t found any mention of the housemaid, in these later entries. . .”

  No one paid any attention. Charlie said, “I’ll go and tell Enoch what the plan is.” As he moved back toward the dining room, however, Jem called after him.

  “Ain’t we going to check upstairs first?”

  “Oh. . .” Charlie paused. He peered at the staircase. “You’re right. We should.”

  “I’ll tell Enoch,” Jem offered. “You check upstairs while Fred attends to his business.”

  “As for me,” Miss Eames declared, “I shall attempt to glean more useful information from this book.”

  Next thing Birdie knew, people were heading in all directions, busy with their appointed tasks. Even Miss Eames retired to a distant corner, where the light spilling down the staircase allowed her to read without straining her eyes. Jem vanished into the dining room. Charlie disappeared upstairs. Alfred set down his lantern, took out his bag of salt, and began to cover the painted circle with a magic one.

  Only Birdie was left with nothing to do. She stood quietly waiting, as far away from the window seat as possible, wrestling with her fear and her anger. Neither of these emotions would help her to keep her hand steady or her wits sharpened. If she was to do her job, she had to remain calm and clearheaded.

  “Jem’s gone and hoisted that cup,” she told Alfred when her roving gaze finally settled on an empty expanse of purple damask. “The ring, too. I never saw him do it.”

  “Jem’s a downy lad,” was Alfred’s only response.

  Miss Eames said nothing; she was lost in her book. But as Alfred finished laying out his ring of salt, Charlie came stomping back downstairs and announced, “It’s all clear up there. Not a living soul. Nor a dead one, neither.”

  “Did you check the attic?” asked Birdie.

  Charlie gave a nod. “And in every cupboard.” He frowned at Alfred. “Did you kill the bogle yet?”

  “Kill the bogle!” Birdie spluttered, outraged. “D’you think it’s that easy?”

  Alfred fixed Charlie with a sour look. “I ain’t started. And I won’t till you hook it. Tell the others to stay in the kitchen until they’re wanted.”

  Charlie sniffed. Then his eyes narrowed as he realized that the silver was missing. “Who took that plate?” he demanded.

  “Who do you think?” said Birdie. But Charlie ignored her.

  “It weren’t you, Fred? Not even the ring?” he asked suspiciously.

  Alfred straightened, holding his spear. His expression was thunderous. “I ain’t no thief,” he spat, in a tone of disgust that took Charlie by surprise. The two of them stared at each other for a moment until Charlie dropped his gaze and marched out the door—which slammed shut behind him.

  Alfred scowled at the noise but didn’t speak. It was Miss Eames who suddenly said, “I can find nothing here that will help you, Mr. Bunce. For some reason, the doctor barely saw this creature. He certainly gives no coherent description of it.”

  “If he didn’t see where it came from, then he didn’t see it clear,” Alfred remarked. “But that don’t matter. Like I allus say—a bogle’s a bogle.” He turned to Birdie. “Are you ready now, lass?”

  Birdie nodded. She stepped into the ring of salt just as Miss Eames addressed her from the bottom of the staircase. “I’m here, Birdie, if you need my help. Please be careful, dear.”

  “She allus is,” Alfred said, before putting a finger to his lips. “Hush, now,” he advised. “No more talking. Not until I say so.” Then he nodded at Birdie, who began to sing.

  “There lives a lady in Scotland (who dearly loved me),

  And she’s fallen in love with an Englishman,

  So bonnie Susie Cleland will be burned in Dundee.”

  Peering into her mirror, Birdie kept her eyes glued to Alfred’s reflection. The lantern was sitting on the floor beside him, illuminating him from below in a way that cast strange and eerie shadows across his face. But even as her gaze shifted to the salt in his hand, Birdie realized that the lantern’s soft radiance was dimming. Or was the air growing thicker?

  All at once she realized that the room was getting smoky—and that the smoke was seeping through the floorboards. It seemed blacker than normal smoke. Heavier, too.

  Though it made Birdie cough, she doggedly kept singing.

  “The father unto the daughter came (who dearly loved me),

  Saying [cough-cough], ‘Will you forsake that Englishman?

  For if that Englishman you will not forsake

  O I will [cough-cough] burn you at the stake!’

  And bonnie Susie Cleland will be burned in Dundee.”

  Suddenly a gush of smoke engulfed the room. It happened so quickly that Birdie was taken by surprise. Within seconds her view of Alfred was snatched away; she could barely see the mirror in her hand.

  She half expected to hear him shout instructions but then realized that he didn’t dare, in case he alerted the bogle. So she looked over her shoulder, hoping that he might signal to her. By this time, however, only the faint glow of the lantern was visible through a veil of smoke.

  Birdie couldn’t tell if Miss Eames and Alfred were coughing or not. She couldn’t hear anything through the sound of her own shrill, cracked, frightened voice.

  “‘I will not that Englishman forsake (who dearly loved me),

  Though you should [cough-cough] burn me at the stake!’

  The [cough-cough] brother did the stake make,

  The father did the fire set [cough-cough],

  And bonnie Susie Cleland was burned in’—oh!”

  Something had grabbed Birdie’s wrist. She stopped singing. She started to scream. As she plucked at the three bony, barbed, coal-black fingers that were tightening their grip on her, she heard an answering cry from Miss Eames.

  “Birdie! Birdie, where are you?”

  “HE-E-LP!” The fingers were very strong. They were tugging Bird
ie toward the dark center of the smoke cloud. Though she dug in her heels, then dropped to her knees, she couldn’t stop sliding across the floor. But she did manage to smash her mirror, before using one jagged shard to slash at the thing wrapped around her wrist.

  The substance that spurted from the wound was a sticky black vapor, which seemed to evaporate as it hit the air.

  “Birdie!” Miss Eames lunged out of the wall of smoke. She threw her arms around Birdie and tried to yank her away from the bogle.

  Birdie screamed again. She felt as if she were being pulled in half. And when she caught sight of a gaping hole right in front of her—a hole lined with giant, slime-covered teeth—she screamed so loudly that she nearly burst her own eardrums.

  Whomp! An eruption of flame singed her hair. The pressure on her wrist eased. There was a flash of intense heat, another gush of smoke that rolled across the ceiling, and a clunk as Alfred’s spear hit the floor. Birdie could see the spear because the smoke was already clearing. Within seconds it had dissipated, leaving nothing but a huge scorch mark.

  The spear lay in the middle of this charred patch, covered in slime. Alfred stood just beyond it, panting heavily. He and Birdie stared at each other, their eyes bloodshot, their chests heaving.

  Miss Eames groaned into Birdie’s ear. The two of them were all tangled up together, like flotsam on a beach.

  “Birdie?” Miss Eames rasped. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Birdie’s wrist was stinging. When she glanced at it, she saw that the bogle’s fingers had left a large bruise like a bracelet, which was beaded with little spots of blood. The wound was already taking on a greenish tinge.

  “I—I hope so,” she stammered.

  Then the door burst open, and Charlie and Jem erupted into the room.

  “What the hell was that?” Charlie exclaimed. “What the devil is going on in here? What in the world are you people doing?”

  19

  The Trip Home

  Alfred and Birdie went home in a hansom cab, accompanied by Miss Eames.

  They had left Dr. Morton’s house together shortly after killing the bogle. No one had said much, at first; Alfred had told Charlie that the bogle was dead, while Miss Eames had suggested in a feeble, breathless voice that they catch a cab. Alfred had then thrust Birdie’s injured arm into his bag of salt before packing away the rest of his equipment. He had ignored Charlie’s questions. Jem’s murmured thanks had elicited no more than a nod and a grunt.

  Birdie hadn’t felt equal to walking any distance, so Alfred had carried her through the kitchen and out of the house. He had also carried her to the end of the street, which was too poor and narrow to attract many hansom cabs. Luckily, the rain had stopped. And Miss Eames, who had followed Alfred with his sack in her arms, managed to hail a cab almost as soon as they reached the broad sweep of Farringdon Road.

  It was only after they had all settled into the vehicle, with Birdie tucked between her two companions, that they were finally ready to speak again.

  “Show me that wrist, lass,” Alfred said. When Birdie obediently drew her arm out of the bag of salt, he inspected her wound with narrowed eyes. “Mmmmph. That’s looking better.”

  “Is it poisoned?” Miss Eames asked faintly.

  Alfred shrugged. “If it is, the salt will draw out the rot.” But he sprinkled a few drops of holy water onto Birdie’s arm, just in case. “Leave yer hand in the salt,” he recommended, “and I’ll clap a poultice on it when we reach home.”

  “Perhaps Birdie would be better off at my house. Perhaps she would be more comfortable there.”

  Alfred shook his head. “Nay. I’ve all that’s needed for bogle bites under me own bed,” he assured Miss Eames.

  “Oh, but this ain’t no bite, Mr. Bunce,” Birdie croaked. “It’s claw marks.”

  “Which is a mercy,” said Alfred, “since bites can be fatal.”

  Silence fell at the sound of the word “fatal.” Miss Eames frowned. Alfred sighed. Birdie swallowed and tried to think about something else. It wasn’t easy. She kept seeing the gaping mouth in her mind’s eye. She kept feeling the weight of black smoke in her lungs.

  So she tried to concentrate on the scenery flowing past them: the houses, the churches, the shops, the squares. Everything looked gray and damp and dirty. Flags hung limply from their poles. It had started raining again.

  “No wonder that wicked man believed he had conjured up a demon from the fires of hell,” Miss Eames said at last. “With all that smoke, I might have thought the same thing.”

  “Aye.” After a moment’s pause, Alfred remarked pensively, “I ain’t never seen owt like it.”

  “Really?” Miss Eames sounded surprised. “Never?”

  Again Alfred shook his head. “And want to see nowt like it again,” he growled. Birdie shuddered.

  “Was it breathing the smoke?” Miss Eames wanted to know. “Did you see where the smoke was coming from?”

  “No,” Alfred replied.

  “A smoke-shrouded creature. . .” Miss Eames grimaced. “It couldn’t have been a dragon, surely? I’m convinced it wasn’t that.”

  Alfred said nothing. There was another long silence as they rattled past the Shoreditch Vestry Hall—which looked like a huge, elaborate wedding cake. Then Miss Eames suddenly stiffened.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I forgot the journal! I left it there! How stupid of me!”

  Alfred didn’t seem very concerned. He scratched his chin and gave another shrug.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Miss Eames continued, but Birdie cut her off.

  “Go back? Not me!” The thought made Birdie feel cold and sick. “I ain’t never going back there!”

  “Nor I,” Alfred agreed.

  “But that journal is proof, Mr. Bunce! Proof that Dr. Morton killed all those poor boys!” Miss Eames leaned toward him slightly, raising her voice above the clatter of horses’ hooves. “We could show it to the police! It is our written evidence.”

  Alfred snorted. “Evidence o’ what? That a doctor’s gone mad and thinks he’s a warlock?” Before Miss Eames could protest, he added, “Ain’t no trace o’ them boys, miss. Ain’t no bogle in that house—not anymore. Ain’t nothing but rants on a page.”

  “Which that doctor might say is for a penny dreadful,” Birdie interposed. While she had never read any of these cheap, flimsy, paperbound books, she knew the kind of sensational stories they told. “He might claim he’s writing The Curse o’ the Necromancer, or suchlike.”

  “If you tell the traps,” Alfred informed Miss Eames, “the first thing they’ll do is nib us all for housebreaking. Birdie, too. On account o’ Jem’ll hoist that silver cup, and I’d not trust Enoch to keep his hands off the rest.”

  “Then I shall speak to the police. Without mentioning any of you.” Though Miss Eames spoke bravely, there was a quaver in her tone. “I shall say that the housemaid let me in, and that I saw the journal while I was waiting for Dr. Morton. If the housemaid is very old, she could easily have forgotten that she admitted me into the house. I’m sure the police would give more weight to my account than they would to hers.”

  Birdie was astonished. “Don’t lie to the traps, miss. No good will come of it,” she said gravely, causing Miss Eames to flush. The flush deepened as they stared at each other.

  At last Miss Eames exclaimed, “I know it’s wrong! Of course I do! But something has to be done!”

  “Something was done,” Alfred retorted. “We killed the bogle.”

  “Which won’t kill no one else,” Birdie added.

  “And Dr. Morton? What of him?” Miss Eames appealed to Alfred. “He must answer for his crimes! He is a murderer, Mr. Bunce! He murdered four children!”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “But—”

  “It were the bogle as killed them kids, not the doctor,” said Alfred. “He just put ’em in harm’s way.”

  These words seemed to hang in the air for a while. Alfred abruptly turned his head an
d stared out at the passing street—which looked vaguely familiar to Birdie because they were crossing from Shoreditch into Bethnal Green. But she wasn’t interested in the cab’s progress. She was far more concerned about Alfred. He thinks he’s just like that doctor, she thought, aghast, and opened her mouth to insist that feeding boys to bogles was completely different from using a trained apprentice to lure bogles out of their lairs.

  Miss Eames, however, was too quick for her.

  “You almost lost Birdie today, Mr. Bunce. Perhaps you should reconsider the offer I made.”

  Birdie’s stomach lurched. There were dozens of things she wanted to say: that she had never truly been in danger, that no bogle would ever get the better of Alfred, that Miss Eames was overreacting. But for some reason she found it hard to speak.

  So Miss Eames plowed on, addressing Alfred’s profile.

  “I understand your difficulties. I realize that bogling is your livelihood, and that my experiment with the pie was unsuccessful. But could you at least give some thought to alternative baits? Children’s clothes, perhaps?” When Alfred didn’t respond, Miss Eames tried another suggestion. “What about hair? Or baby teeth?”

  “Baby teeth? For a bogle?” Birdie had found her voice at last. “Why not try to catch a whale with a chestnut?”

  “I know it sounds odd,” Miss Eames argued, “but teeth might have some value as a lure. Baby teeth have been offered up to spirit creatures for centuries, all over the world.”

  “Not to bogles, I’ll be bound,” Birdie scoffed.

  Suddenly Alfred spoke up. “I might become a rat catcher,” he mumbled.

  Miss Eames blinked. Birdie gasped. She goggled at him for a moment before recovering her breath.

  “What?” she squawked.