“You can make a good living out o’ rats. There’s more rats than bogles in London.”
“But you’re a bogler!” Birdie shrilled. “Bogling’s a respectable job!”
“Ain’t no shame in rat catching,” Alfred said.
“Ain’t no pride in it, neither!” Birdie couldn’t believe her ears. Was Alfred joking? Was he trying to placate Miss Eames? “A bogler’s a hero! A rat catcher’s like a ferret, or a dog!”
“I think it’s a very good idea,” Miss Eames interjected.
Birdie rounded on her furiously. “You don’t know nothing!” she spat, before resuming her attack on Alfred. “What’s to be done about all them bogles still in London? Who’s going to stop ’em eating kids if you ain’t bogling no more?”
Alfred wiped a hand across his tired, morose, pouchy face. He seemed to be wavering. So Birdie went in for the kill.
“People need you, Mr. Bunce! Children need you! And you need me!” she cried.
“I don’t need you dead, lass.” Alfred was shaking his head. Without looking at her, very calmly and quietly, he murmured, “Not you. Never you.”
Birdie gulped, hiccupped, and burst into tears. It was all too much. She felt as if the foundations of her world were crumbling away. Her wrist was hurting and her stomach was churning and she was shaking all over.
But when Miss Eames tried to wrap an arm around her, Birdie pushed it aside angrily. “Get off!” she sobbed. “I’m tired, is all!”
Then the cab stopped.
“We’re here,” muttered Alfred.
Miss Eames peered through the rain, toward the crumbling, sooty structure that Alfred called home. “Perhaps I should come in with you.”
“No!” Birdie didn’t want Miss Eames hovering over her bed, babbling on about police and baby teeth and singing lessons. “Go home. This ain’t no place for the likes o’ you.”
Alfred was more courteous. “Birdie’ll be all right, miss. I know how to tend a bogle wound.”
“But we haven’t finished our talk,” Miss Eames complained. “We haven’t decided what to do about Dr. Morton.” As Alfred heaved a weary sigh, she said sharply, “He has to pay for what he’s done!”
“Oh, he’ll pay,” Alfred assured her. “There’s people will make sure o’ that, don’t worry.”
Miss Eames frowned. “What do you mean? What people?”
“People you don’t need to know about.” Alfred flicked a warning glance at Birdie, who understood that he didn’t want her mentioning Sarah’s name. “People as lost an income when they lost them boys.”
“Are you talking about Charlie and Enoch?” Miss Eames demanded.
“I’m talking about the person Charlie reports to.” Hearing the cabdriver clear his throat impatiently, Alfred pulled the lever to release the door. “Thank’ee, miss. You go home now. Have a cup o’ tea—or summat stronger. You earned it today.”
“Oh!” Miss Eames gave a start, then fumbled at her waist. “On the subject of earnings, I owe you some money—”
“No, you don’t. Forget the three shillings.” Alfred paused as he climbed down from the cab. Looking up, his sack on his shoulder, he offered Miss Eames a lopsided smile and said, “I might have lost more’n that if you hadn’t bin there.”
Then he reached for Birdie.
20
Three Friends
Alfred’s poultice was made from a clean rag soaked in salt water and dried herbs.
“A bogle once bit me when I were a boy,” he told Birdie as he wrapped the poultice around her arm, “and this is the same dressing I used then.” He lifted his trouser leg to show her the faint white scar that ringed his ankle. “Good as gold, see? And a bite’s worse’n a scratch.”
Birdie nodded. She knew all about the scar, which didn’t interest her much. She had other, more pressing concerns. “You ain’t really going to be a rat catcher, are you?” she said at last, in a trembling voice.
Alfred didn’t immediately reply. He was unscrewing the lid of his brandy flask. “That’s for me to decide,” he finally answered. “Don’t you fuss and fret. I’ll do nowt in haste.” He offered the flask to Birdie, who shook her head.
“I can’t,” she admitted. “I ain’t got the stomach for it.”
“It’ll settle yer nerves.”
“I’ll only bring it up.”
“What you need is a coddled egg.” Alfred rose to his feet, taking a swig of brandy. “I’ll see what I can find while you take yer ease. A day o’ rest should see you sprightly again.”
He then put on his hat and left the room, and Birdie crawled into bed. She fell instantly asleep and slept for several hours, waking to discover that Alfred had bought her milk, eggs, bread, and tea. Without getting out of bed, she ate the bread soaked in milk while Alfred drank his tea with a drop of brandy in it. Neither of them talked about the future. Alfred was in one of his morose moods, and Birdie didn’t feel strong enough to ask any difficult questions. Only by discussing everyday things—like the best way to coddle an egg—could she keep her eyes dry and her voice steady.
When their first visitor knocked on the door, early in the afternoon, Birdie was sure that Miss Eames had come back. “Make her go away!” Birdie entreated, sliding beneath the covers. But if Alfred heard her plea, he gave no sign of it.
“Come in,” he growled without getting up.
The door opened to admit Jem Barbary. Though smelling faintly of liquor, Jem looked more sober than usual. His jaunty air had a battered quality about it, and the smudges under his eyes were darker than ever.
“Good day to you, Mr. Bunce,” he said, removing his flat cap. “I came to inquire after Birdie. There’s talk that she’s bin taken ill.”
“She’s on the mend,” Alfred replied shortly. “Bogle wounds need careful tending.”
Jem glanced at Birdie, who glared at him. She was waiting to discover what he really wanted, since she couldn’t imagine that he was interested in the state of her health.
“Well, that’s good,” he declared, then dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. “But Sarah wants me to say that if Birdie can’t help you no more, on account o’ the injury she took, then she can allus find work begging.”
Birdie gasped as Alfred raised his eyebrows.
“Sarah says as how a little fair girl will do well on the street, no matter what,” Jem continued quickly. “She says when Birdie gets too old for bogling, there’s still a good living to be made in scrounging or street singing.”
By this time Birdie was red in the face with fury. Before she could even open her mouth, however, Alfred intervened.
“Is that the message Sal charged you with?” he asked Jem.
The boy nodded, rubbing his nose.
“Then you can tell her you did yer job, and no one here is blaming you for it,” said Alfred. “As for Birdie, she’ll not be needing Sal’s help.”
“Ever!” Birdie spat.
Jem shrugged. He seemed resigned and a little sheepish. Plucking a fine silk handkerchief from his pocket, he offered it to Birdie with a crooked smile. “I brought this for you. A wipe’s more use in a sickroom than anything else, I allus think.”
Birdie sniffed. “Are you trying to get me lagged again? For harboring stolen goods?” she retorted. But when his face fell, she realized that the gesture had been kindly meant, and she regretted her outburst.
“She’s a little feverish,” Alfred explained, “and is in no fit state to receive visitors. But she’ll be on her feet tomorrow.” He fixed Jem with a bleak and knowing look. “You tell Sarah that.”
Jem grunted, wordlessly admitting defeat as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. He then tipped his cap and left the room, though not before winking at Birdie. It wasn’t until he had shut the door behind him that she exploded into a furious rant against Sarah Pickles. “Why, I’d sooner be a tosher than work for her!” Birdie cried. “How dare she send me such a message, and make Jem bring it against his will? She’s a devil, is what she is! A devil st
raight from hell!”
“You was too hard on Jem, lass.”
Birdie agreed contritely. “I know. It ain’t his fault. But I don’t want nothing to do with no stolen wipe—can he not see that?”
“Mebbe not,” Alfred replied. “How could he, when Sal had the raising of ’im?”
Their second visitor knocked when Alfred was lighting his third pipe of the day. Birdie half expected to see Sarah Pickles walk through the door, and was greatly relieved when Ned Roach appeared on the threshold instead. It took her a moment to recognize him because he was so clean, as if he’d never seen a muddy riverbank in his life. His clothes were freshly laundered, his boots were polished, and his face was well scrubbed. Even his hair looked fluffy.
He carried a penny bunch of violets.
“These are for you,” he told Birdie. “I heard as how you fell foul of a bogle.”
She colored. “Who told you that?” she asked, annoyed that Jem had been gossiping.
“Uh. . . a barmaid I know.” Ned glanced uneasily at Alfred, who was puffing away in silence. “She got it from her brother, as got it from Jem Barbary.”
“Jem Barbary should mind his own business,” Birdie grumbled. But she accepted the flowers, knowing somehow that Ned hadn’t stolen them. “Thanks,” she muttered. “They smell nice.”
“You should sit down, lad.” At last Alfred spoke up. “You must be right footsore if you walked all the way from Wapping.”
“I live in Whitechapel,” Ned explained. “In a common lodging house. It’s a deal cheaper than the cribs in Wapping.”
“Ah.”
“I should move closer to the river,” Ned conceded. Then he sat down at Birdie’s bedside. There was a long, awkward silence as Birdie remembered that Ned was a boy of few words.
She sniffed at the violets, wondering where he had found money enough to buy them. The thought that he might have sacrificed a meal brought her so close to tears that she became quite cross with herself. All this crying has to stop, she thought. Why am I spouting like a pump well all of a sudden?
Aloud she asked Ned, “How’s business bin, down at the river?”
Ned shrugged. “Not good.”
“Oh.” When he didn’t continue, Birdie tried another tack. “Seen any more bogles lately?”
“No.”
Birdie glanced at Alfred, hoping he would say something. But he just sat there, quietly smoking, his eyes on the empty fireplace.
She felt a guilty sense of gratitude when their third and final visitor rapped on the door. By that time even Sarah Pickles would have been a welcome interruption.
“Come in!” said Alfred.
The door opened. Miss Eames entered. She was carrying a covered basket and had changed into her mustard-colored suit, but otherwise looked much the same as she had that morning—pale, agitated, and slightly disheveled. “Oh!” she exclaimed on seeing Ned. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you were entertaining. . .”
Ned jumped up so abruptly that he knocked over his stool. As Miss Eames advanced into the room, he started to edge around her, heading for the dingy hallway outside. Her sudden appearance seemed to have alarmed him.
“Oh, please don’t leave on my account!” she implored. “I wish to stay only for a short time.”
But he murmured something incoherent and fled. Miss Eames appealed to Alfred.
“What did I do? Have I caused offense in some way?”
“Don’t mind him.” Alfred had risen to pick up the overturned stool. “I’m persuaded he ain’t used to mixed company.”
“I see,” said Miss Eames, though she obviously didn’t. Turning to Birdie, she smiled and asked, “How are you, my dear? How is your wound?”
“Better,” Birdie replied, eyeing her warily.
“I’ve brought you a few things, though I see you already have flowers.” Miss Eames unveiled her basket and began to unload its contents onto the table. “Here is a plain cake, and a pot of jam, and some Bath Oliver biscuits, and a jar of beef tea, which is very strengthening. Also, Mrs. Heppinstall has included some stewed apples and a pound of sugar, which I know you will use sensibly.”
“Thank’ee, miss,” said Alfred, before flicking a sharp look at Birdie.
“Thank you, miss,” Birdie muttered.
“My cab is waiting outside, so I cannot linger,” Miss Eames continued. “Truth to tell, I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find a cab in this district—”
“It ain’t.” Alfred cut her off. “You did the right thing to keep it waiting.”
“I thought as much.” Miss Eames hesitated for a moment, her gaze drifting over the cracked ceiling and smoke-blackened walls. She looked profoundly ill at ease. “Have you had any news from your mysterious acquaintance?” she said at last. “About the punishment to be visited on Dr. Morton?”
Alfred shook his head. “I’ve bin busy with other things,” he answered dryly.
“Yes, of course. I understand.” Miss Eames glanced at Birdie again. “I’m sorry to see her still laid up in bed. Should I arrange a doctor’s visit, Mr. Bunce? At no cost to yourself, of course.”
“Ain’t no need for a doctor,” Alfred replied. “She’ll be on her feet tomorrow.”
“Well, if you’re sure—”
“I’m sure.”
Miss Eames nodded. Then she took a deep breath and launched into a speech that sounded well rehearsed. “There is one more matter that I wish to raise before I go,” she announced. “I’ve discussed your situation with my aunt, Mr. Bunce, and we both understand how hard it would be for you to earn a livelihood without a trained apprentice at your side. So I have a proposition to make. If Mrs. Heppinstall and I were to offer you a small stipend over the next three years, would you undertake to devote the greater part of your time toward developing a more scientific way of attracting bogles?”
Alfred frowned. “A stipend?” he echoed, sounding confused.
“A stipend is a regular payment. Like a wage.” Miss Eames was watching him closely. “This, of course, would be contingent upon my giving Birdie a musical education. And it would ensure that London’s bogles would not be left to their own devices. You would continue to be a bogler, Mr. Bunce, only our aim would be to make bogling a solitary pursuit, based on technical advancement and a greater understanding of the natural sciences.”
Alfred was staring at her, wide eyed and slack jawed. Even Birdie was speechless. She couldn’t believe her ears; was Miss Eames actually offering to pay Alfred for doing nothing?
“I’ll leave you to consider my offer. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect an immediate decision.” Tucking the handle of her basket into the crook of her elbow, Miss Eames began to withdraw. On the threshold, however, she stopped and looked back. “Do remember, though—the longer you delay, the more often you’ll put Birdie at risk. And I’m aware, Mr. Bunce, that you would hate to do that.”
Then, with a nod and a wave, she departed.
21
The Gravedigger
Birdie didn’t sleep much that night. She kept wondering how many more nights she would be allowed to sleep in her own bed. She tried to imagine living in Mrs. Heppinstall’s house. Would there be cake every day? Would Birdie be allowed to choose her own clothes? How regularly would she be expected to bathe?
She’d never had a bath in her life and was frightened at the thought of taking one. The prospect of school didn’t appeal much either. Most of all, though, she dreaded having to leave Alfred.
He can’t manage without me, she told herself over and over again as she lay in the dark. For years Birdie had cooked their meals and mended their linen. She had bought medical supplies when Alfred was ill. She had cleaned and shopped and delivered messages. Who was going to do all that if she left?
And surely Alfred didn’t really believe that he could kill a bogle without the aid of an apprentice?
When Birdie finally did fall asleep, her dreams were haunted by smoke and slime and bogles. She woke up five times, gasping with fear.
Each time, however, she would hear Alfred snoring on the other side of the room—and each time the noise made her feel safe.
In the morning she decided to get out of bed.
“My wrist ain’t a bit sore,” she declared. “Not a thing is wrong with me. But I shall fall ill if I have to lie in this corner, which is so damp and close.”
Having checked her arm, Alfred agreed. “This is mending well,” he said. It was the only thing he did say for several hours. While Birdie got up and made breakfast—which was bread and tea, sweetened by Miss Eames’s jam and Mrs. Heppinstall’s sugar—he sat silently gazing at the fireplace, gnawing on the stem of his pipe. He couldn’t actually smoke the pipe because he had no tobacco.
Birdie didn’t dare break into Alfred’s reverie. She knew that he must be thinking about Miss Eames’s offer, and she didn’t want to make a nuisance of herself. So she bustled about, wiping and sweeping, to demonstrate that she was perfectly well again.
Then somebody knocked on the door.
Alfred seemed as surprised as Birdie was. He snapped to attention, looking at her with raised eyebrows, but she shrugged and shook her head. She wasn’t expecting company.
“Who is it?” asked Alfred.
The voice that replied was unfamiliar. It was a man’s voice, high and reedy, with a faint Scottish accent. “Would that be Mr. Alfred Bunce? The Go-Devil Man?”
“Aye.” Alfred frowned. “And who might you be?”
“Simeon McGill is my name, sir. I need yeer help and will pay for it.”
Alfred nodded at Birdie, who went to open the door. When she did, she jumped back with a squeak—because the man waiting in the corridor was enormous. He had to stoop to enter the room, where he stood with his scalp brushing against the cornice. His large hands were seamed with dirt; his large boots were caked with it. He had the broadest shoulders and the widest neck that Birdie had ever seen; yet his head looked a little undersize, as if it belonged to a different body.
“We’ve got a bogle, Mr. Bunce,” he said. “In the Victoria Park burial ground. I’d swear to it.”