Birdie was taken by surprise. Though she’d assumed that Jem must have taken the silver from Dr. Morton’s house, it had never occurred to her that he might have taken the doctor’s journal as well.
“I’m sure the lady expected me to pay up like a meek little city clerk,” Dr. Morton said. “When I warned her against interfering with my research, she jumped to conclusions. She assumed I was so defiant because I believed myself protected by the demon that I had been conjuring up. So do you know what she did, Mr. Bunce?”
“I do not know,” Alfred spat, “and neither do I care!” He squinted at Birdie. “Did they hurt you, lass?”
Birdie shook her head.
“You’re mad.” Alfred turned back to the doctor with a look of savage contempt and said, “Which ain’t news to me, for I’ve seen where you live, which is a nest o’ lunacy. But you. . .” He wriggled around to address Jubez. “Are you mad? People know we came here and will ask for us if we don’t return! What are you going to say to ’em then?”
Jubez stared blankly. It was the doctor who replied, “I’ll answer that question in a moment, Mr. Bunce. For now, let me finish my story.” He leaned forward, with a smirk that made Birdie’s blood run cold. “You’ll find it very illuminating, I promise.”
23
The Most Peculiar Proposition
Simeon suddenly appeared again, carrying his lantern in one hand and Alfred’s sack in the other. He dropped the sack at Dr. Morton’s feet but kept the lantern.
“Thank you.” The doctor spoke like someone thanking a housemaid for bringing in the mail. His voice was perfectly calm as he peered into the sack. “Are these the tools of your trade, Mr. Bunce?”
Alfred didn’t reply. He simply spat on the floor.
“Hmm.” Dr. Morton reached down and produced Alfred’s bag of salt, which he opened by loosening the drawstring. “How interesting,” he murmured. “Salt is incorruptible—did you know that? Hence its potency as an antidemonic substance.”
“You’d best be careful!” Birdie cried. She couldn’t stop herself; she hated to see Alfred’s possessions interfered with. “There’s stuff in there can kill you! Touch it and you’ll rue the day!”
She was lying, of course, but the doctor wouldn’t know that. When he turned to look at her, something about his colorless regard made her cringe.
“If the contents of this bag were dangerous, then I very much doubt you’d be alerting me to the fact,” he remarked. “However, a gentleman really shouldn’t be seen in public while incorrectly dressed.”
Dr. Morton proceeded to don a pair of tailored leather gloves, which he took from a neat pile of objects that lay on the sarcophagus lid beside him. These objects included a top hat, a walking stick, an overcoat, a tin box, and a doctor’s leather bag.
“As I mentioned before,” he said, “your friend Mrs. Smith seemed to think that my refusal to accept her offer stemmed from a misconception. She tried to alarm me with the news that my demon was no more. It had been killed by someone she described as a ‘bogler.’ Only imagine my surprise, Mr. Bunce! I had never heard of a bogler. I had no idea that unlettered men such as yourself had been grappling with infernal spirits for untold centuries.” Suddenly he gestured at Jubez, who was still standing over Alfred with a raised shovel. “Mr. Swales did, though. He and Mr. McGill have been in my employ for several years. It can be very difficult for a doctor to acquire human body parts for dissection. Occasionally I’ve been forced to seek help from those whose livelihood depends on the disposal of corpses. It has been a most profitable partnership on both sides.”
Alfred muttered something under his breath. Birdie noticed that his gaze wasn’t fixed on the doctor but was flitting around the chapel, from object to object. She guessed he was searching for a means of escape.
“Mr. Swales had heard of you, Mr. Bunce, and kindly made further inquiries,” the doctor continued. “He soon discovered your whereabouts. But I suspected that you might not agree to an interview, so I was forced to invent an elaborate story to lure you here. As you may have guessed, no demon has been eating children in this chapel.” Once again he plunged his arm into Alfred’s sack, drawing out the bundle that contained Finn MacCool’s spear. “Now, what could this be?”
Birdie was visited by a sudden, fierce hope that he would poison himself on the spear’s sharpest edge. He didn’t, though. His fingers were too deft.
“Well, well,” he murmured as the rags fell away to reveal a polished shaft with a stone point. “Is this for demons, or for people?”
“It’d slice through you like butter,” Alfred snarled.
“I’m sure.” Dr. Morton began to examine the spear very carefully, cradling it in both hands. Then he fixed his bland gaze on Alfred. “If it’s designed to kill demons and I use it on this little girl, then it won’t hurt her, I daresay. Or will it?”
Alfred swallowed. “It’s for bogles,” he said quickly.
“So this is what kills them?” Dr. Morton asked. “This spear?”
“That doesn’t,” Birdie retorted. “Mr. Bunce does.”
Again the doctor looked at her, his pale eyes unreadable in the lamplight. “And what do you do while Mr. Bunce is killing demons?” he wanted to know.
“I’m the ’prentice.”
“I see.” He pondered this for a moment. Then he turned back to Alfred. “Is she your bait? I can only assume she is.”
“What do you want?” was Alfred’s harsh rejoinder. “I know you want summat. Tell us and be done.”
“Very well.” As he spoke, Dr. Morton gingerly laid Alfred’s spear on the floor and began to rummage in the sack again. “I do want something. And if you can supply it, I may give you something in return. Because I’m a great believer in negotiation, Mr. Bunce.” Suddenly he pulled a little glass bottle from Alfred’s sack. “Hmm,” he said. “Would this be holy water, by any chance?”
“Mind it don’t burn you,” Alfred growled, eliciting another smirk from the doctor, who uncorked the bottle and sniffed at it.
“Odorless. So it can’t be ether, or alcohol, or anything of that sort.” As he resealed the bottle and set it to one side, Birdie cast a quick glance at the gravediggers. Both were watching him unload the sack, like children watching their mother empty a basket in the hope that she might produce a tasty treat. They weren’t paying any attention to Birdie.
So she began to bend her knees, pushing her feet closer and closer to her bound wrists. Since her fingers were dangling free, she thought she might be able to untie the rope that had been knotted around her ankles.
“The fact is, you appear to have deprived me of my demon, Mr. Bunce,” Dr. Morton was saying. “And if that is the case, then you owe me another one.”
Alfred glared at him. “You ain’t making no sense.”
“I’m asking you to find me another demon. And to capture it.” Dr. Morton pulled Alfred’s brandy flask from the bottom of the sack. “Aha,” he said.
“But you can’t capture bogles!” Alfred objected.
“Maybe you can’t,” the doctor replied, unscrewing the lid of the flask. “I can, however, as long as you help me.” He sniffed. “Brandy,” he concluded, then replaced the lid, setting the flask beside the bottle.
Birdie noticed that Simeon and Jubez were both watching the flask with covetous eyes. Taking advantage of this, she began to pluck at her ankle ropes.
“I want you to notify me the next time you receive a call for help,” the doctor went on. “Do that, Mr. Bunce, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”
Alfred frowned. “Is that all?” he asked suspiciously.
“That is all,” the doctor confirmed. “Give me the details, join me at the site, and you will receive a finder’s fee of twenty pounds.”
“Twenty pounds?” Alfred echoed. Even Birdie was amazed—amazed, but not impressed. As far as she was concerned, those twenty pounds would be blood money. What about Abel, and Nolly, and Sam? Did the doctor really think that Alfred would accept mon
ey from the very person who had killed those poor boys?
“All right,” said Alfred. “Done.”
Birdie’s jaw dropped.
“Next time I’m on a job, I’ll send you word. I’ll tell you the time and the place,” Alfred agreed. Birdie was about to protest when she caught his eye—and knew at once that he was making empty promises. He simply wanted to get them both out of there and would say anything to do it. She could understand that.
Unfortunately, so could Dr. Morton.
“Good,” he said, pulling a wad of clean rags out of the sack. “In the meantime, of course, I shall keep your kit—and the girl. They’ll serve as a guarantee.”
Birdie gasped. Alfred stiffened.
“But—”
“It’s a form of insurance,” the doctor explained gently. “Obviously I wouldn’t want you communicating with the police, or revenging yourself on me, or Mr. Swales, or Mr. McGill—or even Mrs. Smith. If you do any of these things, Mr. Bunce, then you’ll lose both your equipment and your apprentice.”
Birdie could restrain herself no longer. “I ain’t going with you!” she cried. “You ain’t taking me nowhere!” Then she yelped as Simeon gave her a cuff on the ear.
“You touch her again and you’re dead!” Alfred roared. He was red in the face. “D’you hear me? You’ll be digging yer own grave!”
“Kindly keep your hands to yourself, Mr. McGill,” the doctor warned. “Or I shall dock your pay.” He turned to Alfred. “Your apprentice will come to no harm, I promise. Just as long as you do the right thing.”
“And what might that be?” Alfred demanded through his teeth.
“Why, exactly what I told you before. I’m interested in your technique, so I want to know where and when you expect to encounter your next demon. Then I’ll join you there with your kit and hand over the twenty pounds when our goal is accomplished.”
“And Birdie?” Alfred’s voice was strained. “You’ll need to bring Birdie.”
“No.” The doctor shook his head.
“I’ll do nowt without Birdie!”
“Mr. Bunce, you must understand that Birdie is like an insurance policy for me. Suppose I appear at our rendezvous and it’s an ambush of some kind? I have to be sure that you won’t kill me or hand me over to the police.” Having satisfied himself that Alfred’s bag was now empty, Dr. Morton began to replace all its contents, item by item. “I’d be a fool to take you at your word. Surely you can see that? I’m convinced you’d do the same if you were in my position.”
“But Birdie—”
“Will be well looked after,” the doctor insisted.
“You want me to believe that?” Alfred scoffed. “You must think I’m the fool!”
Dr. Morton paused in the act of rewrapping Alfred’s spear. “If you wish,” he said with a sigh, “I can bring you a letter from her—”
“Except that I can’t write!” Birdie interrupted.
“Then you’ll be taught to.” Dr. Morton dropped the spear into Alfred’s sack. “I don’t intend to keep you in a box under my bed. Suitable arrangements will be made. Insurance policies are always carefully guarded.”
“Listen here.” Alfred was on his knees by now, having struggled into a position that was more or less upright. “I can’t do me job without Birdie. Without her, there won’t be no bogle. It won’t even show itself!”
“Oh, but it will,” the doctor assured him. “You see, when Mrs. Smith tried to blackmail me, she asked for a hundred pounds. In response, I offered her two hundred if she would bring me a child whenever I might need one for my work. She was quite amenable to that, and now we have an agreement. So you see, Mr. Bunce, you won’t be needing Birdie anymore. When you next require bait, Mrs. Smith will supply it. At no extra cost to yourself.”
“She’s a witch,” said Alfred, almost choking with rage, “and you’re the devil.”
“No,” the doctor replied serenely, “I am merely a man who wants to harness His infernal powers.” He rose suddenly, handing Alfred’s sack to Jubez. “I’m going to leave you here now, Mr. Bunce. No doubt your cries will be heard by the next group of mourners who pass by, and they will rescue you.” Ignoring Alfred’s spluttered protests, he reached for the small tin box that was sitting next to his hat, on the sarcophagus lid. “Need I remind you that if you publicly blame Mr. Swales or Mr. McGill, your apprentice will suffer the consequences? I’m sure I don’t have to, since you strike me as an intelligent man, if woefully uneducated.”
“God damn you to hell!”
“Not to say profane.” Dr. Morton had opened the tin box, from which he extracted a small brown bottle and a large wad of cotton gauze. Immediately the room filled with the strange, medicinal odor that Birdie had smelled upon first entering it—and her stomach clenched as her eyes widened.
“Now,” the doctor continued, “I’m going to ask you to take a sniff of this, Birdie. You mustn’t be afraid. It won’t hurt.”
“No!”
“It will simply put you asleep for long enough to ensure that you don’t make a fuss on your way out. I couldn’t bring my carriage onto the grounds, you see. I had to leave it out on the road. And since it happens to be a hired equipage—well, you can understand my difficulties. . .”
24
Restraint
Birdie was moving. She was being carried. No—she was bouncing around but not in someone’s arms. And she couldn’t move her own arms. She was trapped. Trapped and bouncing. . .
“Augh,” she groaned. Her stomach heaved; she was going to be sick. She coughed and gagged and then a sack was shoved under her chin.
As she vomited into it, she noted somewhere at the back of her mind that it wasn’t Alfred’s sack. It was larger and rougher, like a potato sack.
“It’s all right, Leticia,” a calm voice said. “You won’t be ill for very long.”
Birdie didn’t know who Leticia was. She tried to wipe her mouth, but her arms were clamped across her chest. The wounded one was aching.
She was wriggling around, trying to free herself, when someone dabbed at her face with a perfumed handkerchief. “Shhh,” he said. “Calm down.”
It was Dr. Morton. Birdie recognized his voice. She uttered a great, gulping cry—and suddenly realized that she was in a moving carriage with him. He was sitting beside her, tying something around the mouth of the sack. She couldn’t see exactly what he was using as a tie, because it was too dark.
“Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”
“That won’t do any good,” the doctor calmly declared. As he placed his sack on the seat opposite, Birdie grasped that they must be in a four-wheeled hackney carriage. The light of the carriage lamps, filtering through a grimy set of rattling windows, picked out the cracks in the leather upholstery.
“He-e-elp!” she shouted, leaning toward the driver’s box. But she couldn’t move her arms to tap on the glass.
Looking down, she was puzzled by the strange garment that had been wrapped around her. It was a kind of stiff, white jacket, covered in buckles and straps. No matter how frantically she struggled, she couldn’t release herself from its grip.
“Get me out of this!” she screeched. “Let me go!”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the doctor replied. “You might injure yourself.”
“He-e-lp!”
“Take my advice and save your breath. As long as you’re wearing a camisole restraint, no one is going to pay the slightest attention.” Feeling the carriage slow, Dr. Morton peered outside. “Ah,” he murmured. “Here we are. And not a moment too soon.”
“Where are we?” Birdie was almost hysterical with fear. “What are you doing?” Remembering suddenly that the carriage was a hired one, she raised her voice again. “Help! Help me!”
Dr. Morton clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Poor girl,” he remarked, before pushing the door open.
As he hopped down onto the road, Birdie thought, This is my chance. She lurched to her feet, hoping to escape through th
e door on her own side of the carriage. But she couldn’t open it because she couldn’t move her hands—and when she dropped to her knees, hoping to use her mouth, she slammed her face against the door panel, making herself dizzy.
Then her stomach heaved again, protesting against the sudden jolt. All at once she was vomiting onto the floor.
Next thing she knew, someone was trying to drag her sideways.
“No!” she gurgled. “Help!”
“Shhh. It’s all right, dear. It’s all right. . .”
The sound of a woman’s voice calmed Birdie. She assumed that a passerby must have heard her frantic shouts. “Get this off!” she groaned. “I can’t move! He tied me up!”
But other people were also talking, and they didn’t seem to hear.
“Take her inside,” said the woman, very softly. “We’ll clean her up in there.”
“Which room, ma’am?” A male voice spoke somewhere over Birdie’s head. It belonged to the very tall, rawboned, gray-haired man who had pulled Birdie from the carriage. Now he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of coal.
Suddenly Dr. Morton began to speak.
“That girl needs to be in seclusion,” he announced. With a squeak of alarm, Birdie craned around to see that he was offering a handful of coins to the cabman. “I’m sorry about the mess. This is for your trouble.”
“No!” she yelled. “No-o-o! I want to go ho-o-ome!”
She kicked and bucked, but the man who held her was very strong. His grip tightened; he pulled her legs down and clasped them against his chest with iron fingers.
“Help! I’ve bin snatched!” she wailed. “The doctor done it! Help me!”
“The restraint room, Mr. Doherty, if you please,” said the soft-voiced woman, who was standing close by.
“Aye, ma’am.”
Suddenly Birdie found herself bouncing along again—only this time she wasn’t in the carriage. This time she was moving away from it. She could see one of the carriage lamps shining down onto Dr. Morton’s head. He and the soft-voiced woman were conversing together gravely while the cabman climbed down from his box with a handful of cleaning rags.