“Oh, aye?”
“I work there,” the big man continued, then paused, as if he didn’t know quite how to go on.
“Are you a gravedigger?” Birdie asked him, with a touch of alarm.
When he nodded, she had to force herself not to grimace. Alfred, however, seemed completely unmoved.
“If you’ve had coffins plundered, you’ll not need me,” he observed. “Bogles eat living children, not dead’uns.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s no’ like that.” Simeon’s squeaky, singsong voice, combined with his blank blue gaze, snub nose, and silky blond hair, gave the impression that he himself was just a child, trapped in a giant’s body. He rocked from foot to foot, twisting his rolled cap in his enormous hands. “There’s a mortuary chapel in the park, ye see. People sleep there when the weather’s bad—”
“At night, you mean?” Birdie interrupted, horrified. She would rather have slept in a ditch than in a graveyard at night.
Simeon nodded, glancing from Alfred to Birdie and back again. He seemed quite happy to be answering questions put to him by a little girl. It was Alfred who frowned at Birdie, indicating that he wanted her to keep her mouth shut.
“Though we try to chase ’em out, they come back and break the lock,” Simeon continued. “Besides, we cannae work there at night. But now folk say there’s a ciudach inside the chapel, which ate two bairns. And that’s bad for business, Mr. Bunce.”
Alfred studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed, brow creased. “A ciudach?” he repeated. “What is that?”
Simeon seemed surprised that he didn’t know. “Why, a monster. A thing that lives in caves and eats people.”
“A bogle, in other words.”
“Aye. I’m guessing so.”
“And who exactly has bin talking about bogles?” Alfred queried.
Simeon blinked. “Folk. Hereabouts.” After a moment’s intense thought, he said, “One of the workhouse chaplains.”
“Has seen a bogle?”
“Oh, no, sir. But he has heard stories. Even the paupers from the Waterloo Road workhouse dinnae want to be buried at Victoria Park any longer.” Simeon went on to explain that sometimes so many coffins were piled up in the cemetery, awaiting burial, that they were attacked by vermin. “When it’s rats and dogs, that’s bad enough,” he confessed, “but folk draw the line at bogles.”
“Bogles don’t eat corpses,” Alfred flatly insisted.
“Uh—Mr. Bunce?” Birdie felt that she had to speak, though she quailed a little as Alfred glared at her. “There ain’t no telling what a bogle might do,” she reminded him. “Most don’t eat corpses, the way most don’t breathe smoke. But who’s to say there ain’t one out there with different tastes. . . ?”
She trailed off, knowing that she had made her point. Alfred’s fierce expression had already changed to a more pensive one.
“Whether it eats live bairns or dead ones, this bogle is no’ a good thing for us gravediggers, sir,” their visitor suddenly remarked. “For the park is a business and must turn a profit if me and Mr. Swales are to keep our jobs.”
“Is Mr. Swales another gravedigger?” Alfred inquired.
“Aye, sir. There’s me and Mr. Swales and the superintendent, Mr. Donohue.” Simeon chanted this list of names like a child reciting a multiplication table, his little round eyes fixed blandly on Alfred. “Mr. Donohue lives in a house on the grounds and heard screaming one night, or so he thinks. But he’s a tippler and hears strange things on occasion.”
“Did he see the bogle?” asked Alfred.
“No.”
“Did anyone see it?”
“I cannae tell ye that, sir. I misdoubt it.”
“What about the missing kids? Can you tell me about ’em?”
“No, sir.” Hearing Alfred sigh, the gravedigger added, “If they were sleeping in a mortuary chapel, they were beggars—or worse.”
Alfred pondered for a moment. “Is the park on consecrated soil?”
“No, sir, it is not. Could that be why the bogle came?”
“Mr. McGill,” said Alfred, “I don’t think there is a bogle. Just a lot o’ gossip and silliness, which I can’t do nothing about.”
“Oh, but ye can, Mr. Bunce. Soon as it’s known that ye couldnae find no bogle—or that you did find one and killed it stone dead—why, then our troubles will be over! For the coffins will start coming back again, praise be.”
Catching Alfred’s eye, Birdie didn’t allow herself to snort or wince. She understood that it wouldn’t have been polite.
“You’ll be paid for yeer time,” Simeon assured them both. “In fact, we’ll stump up the full fee even if there’s nae bogle. Mr. Swales and me—we agreed that would be fair.”
“The fee is six shillings and sixpence, if there is a bogle,” Alfred warned. But the gravedigger seemed completely unfazed by this sum.
“We’ll give ye seven,” he promised, staring at Alfred with a slightly cross-eyed intensity. “Seven shillings, no matter what.”
Alfred hesitated. He began to chew on his pipe stem—a sure sign of indecision. When he glanced at Birdie, she gave him an encouraging look. Though she didn’t like the idea of a graveyard at night, she did want Alfred to keep bogling.
His final response was a great disappointment to her.
“The fact o’ the matter is, I ain’t sure we can do this, Mr. McGill. Birdie’s feeling poorly, and I’m. . .” Alfred paused, then cleared his throat. “I bin thinking I might retire.”
“Eight shillings,” Simeon countered. “Half now, half later.”
Alfred scratched his nose.
“Eight shillings for a bogle ye dinnae think is there.” Simeon was arguing doggedly—tirelessly—like a nagging toddler. “Please, sir. It’s our livelihood. How is Mr. Swales to feed his family if Victoria Park closes? What if another bairn is eaten? Who else can help us if you—”
“All right,” Alfred said gruffly. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “All right, I’ll come.”
“When?” asked the gravedigger.
Alfred heaved a gusty sigh. “I don’t know. . .”
“It’s a night feeder,” Birdie reminded him.
“That’s true. So we’ll go tonight.” He peered up at Simeon. “When does the park close?”
“Sunset.”
“Then we’ll meet you there at sunset, Mr. McGill. By the main gate.” As Simeon kept nodding, Alfred extended an open palm. “And we’ll collect half our fee at once, if you please.”
“Yes, sir. Thank’ee, sir.” The gravedigger surrendered his money without a moment’s hesitation. He seemed satisfied, but not surprised or delighted. It was as if he’d always anticipated success.
Birdie found his attitude annoying. It was like that of an overindulged child. After he had gone, she said, “Someone that big—he must get his own way in everything.”
“Mebbe,” Alfred conceded. His expression was so glum that Birdie tried to cheer him up. She reminded him that he now had money enough for tobacco. She even offered to go buy some.
“No,” he replied. “I’ll go.” Then, to her astonishment, he murmured, “Miss Eames ain’t going to like this.”
“Like what?” said Birdie, though she knew perfectly well what he meant. And when Alfred shot her an impatient look, she cried, “Miss Eames don’t have to know about it! Since when did Miss Eames become our lord and master?”
“Since she offered us a decent living.” Alfred stood up suddenly, pocketing his pipe and reaching for his hat. “You’ll not find a stauncher friend than that lady,” he declared. “And the sooner you realize it, the better I’ll be pleased.”
“But—”
“You’re to think about what she said, lass. Good and hard. Because I shall.”
He was out the door before Birdie could think of a smart rejoinder.
22
A Trip to the Cemetery
The entrance to Victoria Park burial ground was a stone archway that looked like a church fro
nt. Embedded in a high brick wall, it had carved corbels and two little matching towers like giant gateposts.
Silhouetted against a rapidly darkening sky, it made Birdie shiver.
Beyond the pointed archway lay a murky expanse of mounds and ditches, hemmed in by a canal, a railway line, and a cluster of tall, black factory chimneys. Two glowing windows marked the location of the superintendent’s house. Otherwise, the only light in the whole cemetery came from the lantern that Simeon McGill was holding as he trudged toward Birdie and Alfred.
The gravedigger was easy to recognize, even though he was thickly plastered with filth. There was no mistaking his great height, his small head, or his broad shoulders. “Ye’re late,” he said, unlocking the iron-barred gates from the inside. “We were worrit you weren’t about to come.”
“I allus hold to me word,” Alfred replied shortly. “Now, where is the chapel?”
“Over this way.” After relocking the gate, Simeon guided Alfred and Birdie down a rough dirt path between ranks of headstones. Birdie tried not to look at them. She was aware of an ominous smell that made her breathe in shallow little gasps. At one point she even grabbed Alfred’s coat for reassurance.
They quickly came to the superintendent’s house, where Mr. Donohue was “soused in a dram or two of whiskey,” according to Simeon. Birdie couldn’t see much of this house in the darkness, though from the shape of its lighted windows, she deduced that it was probably built like the gate, in a Gothic style, out of stone. Simeon didn’t even pause as he passed its entrance. “Mr. Donohue,” he explained, “is no’ a party to this matter and wouldnae wish to learn of it.”
He then led Alfred toward the mortuary chapel, which stood quite close to Mr. Donohue’s house, with its back to the cemetery’s western wall. Birdie was surprised at how small the chapel seemed to be. It was like a pocket-size church.
“This here is Mr. Jubez Swales,” Simeon suddenly announced as another man emerged from the shadows. Unlike his partner, Jubez Swales was small and dark and stocky, with a full beard. His eyes were so deep set that they were impossible to see under his bushy eyebrows, and his face was like a root vegetable, all lumps and bumps and odd, sprouting hairs.
He carried a gravedigger’s shovel and wore a grimy bowler hat that he tipped as he greeted Alfred. “Mr. Bunce,” he growled in a nasal voice. He didn’t even look at Birdie. “You got the keys there, McGill?”
“Aye.” Simeon handed over a clanking bunch of heavy iron keys, and Jubez promptly inserted one of them into the door of the chapel. Though the building was wrapped in gloom, Birdie caught a glimpse of Gothic tracery and pointed arches. The light from Simeon’s lantern bounced off a lead-light window. It lingered on a marble step.
But Birdie wasn’t interested in the building. She was more concerned about its contents.
“Wait,” said Alfred. He set down his bag and began to rummage through it, while Jubez stood with his hand on the door, ready to push. At last Alfred found his dark lantern and safety matches.
“You’ll have nae need of that,” Simeon piped up, indicating his own lantern.
“I shall need it,” Alfred replied gruffly, “for you’re all to stay out here while I go in.” As Birdie opened her mouth to protest, he shot her a warning glance. “I’ll not be long. Don’t talk in the meantime. We don’t want to scare that bogle—if it exists.”
He nodded at Jubez, who gave the chapel door a shove. It creaked open to reveal a solid wedge of darkness. Alfred raised his uncovered lantern, then marched forward, straight past Jubez, into the void.
Birdie held her breath. She could see nothing of the building’s interior. She could hear nothing except the pounding of her own heart in her ears.
Then a hoarse yell rang out.
“Mr. Bunce?” Birdie cried.
She darted forward just as Jubez plunged into the chapel ahead of her. But before she could reach the door, Simeon grabbed her from behind. One arm clamped around her waist. One hand was clapped over her mouth.
Next thing she knew, she was inside the mortuary chapel. It happened so quickly that at first she was quite confused. She thought she must have been dragged in there by a bogle—until she realized that Simeon was holding her high off the ground. Then she saw that there was no bogle. The octagonal space that she’d entered contained only an altar, a ring of stone sarcophagi shoved against the walls like benches, and four grown men.
One of these men was a stranger.
“Tie her up,” said the stranger breathlessly, smoothing his ruffled hair with one hand as he offered Simeon a coil of rope with the other. “Use this.”
He had the voice of a gentleman, very clipped and quiet. He was also dressed like a gentleman, in a handsome frock coat and a black silk cravat. A gold watch chain glittered on his waistcoat. A pair of steel-framed spectacles sat on his nose. Though small and slight, with a pale face and a modest mustache, he had a commanding presence—perhaps because his large eyes were the bleached and chilly color of river ice. His slicked-back hair gleamed like jet in the light of Alfred’s lantern, which was now sitting on the tiled floor.
Alfred himself lay beside it, motionless.
When she saw him, Birdie screamed. But her scream was muffled by Simeon’s hand.
The gentleman looked at her and said, “If you make another sound, little girl, you will suffer the same fate as your master. And this time I may misjudge the dose. It’s a very easy thing to do with small children.” As Alfred groaned, the gentleman turned to Jubez. “Tie him up. Now. The effects of chloroform are not long lasting.”
Birdie’s eyes widened as she stared at the stranger, shocked into silence. She knew something about chloroform. She understood that it was a chemical used by doctors to make people fall asleep during surgery. She realized that it must be the source of the strange, sweetish smell that was tainting the air.
Alfred had already begun to move a little. His eyelids were fluttering. But by the time he opened his eyes, his hands were being trussed behind his back.
“Tie her up!” the gentleman snapped, thrusting his rope more urgently at Simeon. “She won’t make any trouble. And if she does, I’ll use my chloroform on her.” He shifted his pale, expressionless gaze toward Birdie. “Then I’ll throw her into one of the stone coffins and leave her there.”
Birdie tried not to flinch. She was quite sure that if she were ever imprisoned inside a sarcophagus, she would instantly go mad. So she kept her mouth shut when Simeon uncovered it. And she didn’t struggle when he bound her hands and feet.
At the back of her mind she was nursing a vague hope that if she cooperated, her captors might stop paying attention to her. Once that happened, she might be able to escape—or at least raise the alarm. But she had to watch for her chance. She had to concentrate, the way she always did when she was gazing into her little hand mirror, waiting for a bogle to appear.
This ain’t no worse than a bogle, she told herself over and over again. I’ve faced up to a bogle, so I can face up to this.
She knew that if she didn’t concentrate hard, she would panic. And she couldn’t afford to panic. That was the most important lesson Alfred had ever taught her: to keep calm and courageous during moments of great stress.
She had to think about why this was happening and what she could do to stop it. Who was this person? What did he want with Alfred?
“Wha. . . ? Norr-r-r. . .” Alfred gurgled, then coughed and groaned again. Only Birdie even glanced his way. The others were too busy talking.
“Did he bring any equipment?” the stranger asked Simeon, who nodded.
“It’s out there,” Simeon replied.
“Then bring it in. With your lamp. And shut the door behind you.”
“I’ll do that.” Simeon propped Birdie against a sarcophagus, arranging her like a rag doll. Then he went to fetch Alfred’s sack. Meanwhile, Alfred was struggling to sit up as Jubez stood over him with a raised shovel.
“Whatcher. . . whozat?” Alfred croaked
, blinking groggily up at the frock-coated gentleman. When he realized that he couldn’t move his hands, however, his gaze skittered away. “What is this?” he mumbled, craning his neck. “Birdie?”
“I’m here,” Birdie squeaked.
The gentleman ignored her. “Mr. Bunce,” he said, “my name is Morton. We haven’t been introduced, but I’m informed that you visited my house yesterday.”
Birdie gasped. She’d been too scared and confused to start wondering who the gentleman was. Now that he’d revealed his identity, however, it made perfect sense.
“I’ve also been informed that you killed a demon in my study,” Dr. Morton continued. “And I must confess that I found this news far more distressing than my informant’s attempt to blackmail me. Oh, yes. Didn’t you know? Your friend Mrs. Smith is a blackmailer.”
Birdie couldn’t suppress a whimper of dismay. She guessed that the doctor was referring to Sarah Pickles, though it was hard to believe that even Sarah could do something so appallingly, unspeakably wicked as to betray them.
Alfred rasped, “Mrs. Smith ain’t no friend o’ mine.” He was writhing and jerking as he tried to free himself from his bonds.
The doctor watched him for a while, dispassionately, the way a scientist might watch a specimen squirming at the end of a pin. At last he said, “I see. But you do know Mrs. Smith, do you not? Or perhaps you know her by another name. I realize, of course, that she was using an alias.”
Alfred didn’t reply. Having wrenched a muscle trying to escape, he lay on the floor, panting and glaring.
Dr. Morton waited for a moment. “Perhaps we’ll return to that subject a little later,” he conceded at last. “For the time being, let us call the woman ‘Mrs. Smith.’ Since no better alternative has been suggested.” He sat down carefully on one of the sarcophagus lids, adjusting the knees of his trousers. “Yesterday evening Mrs. Smith approached me in my own home. She threatened to go to the police with certain clothes and documents that she’d found unless I paid her a very large sum of money.”