A Plague of Bogles

“What?” Constable Pike leaned down. “What did you say?”

  “Mr. Lubbock.” Jem’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Lubbock’s upstairs, locked in a chest. They tried to kill him. They tried to kill me . . .” This time Jem broke down altogether, and Alfred’s arms tightened around him.

  “Who did?” Alfred demanded. “Eunice?”

  “Sarah,” Jem sobbed.

  “Sarah Pickles?”

  “She escaped down Giltspur Street. I saw her go.” Jem twisted around to address Alfred. “She’s got a bogle in here! It’s bin eating babies! I don’t know how many was fed to it . . .” When Alfred’s eyes widened in shock, Jem exclaimed, “Didn’t you see? Didn’t you look in the cellar?”

  “No.” Alfred shook his head. “We came straight up.”

  “We saw no one but you,” Constable Pike added.

  “Then they must have escaped. They must have run out the back while you was coming in the front.” Jem wiped his face with a trembling hand. “We’ll never get her now,” he said brokenly. “She’s gone. They’re all gone . . .”

  “Mr. Bunce?” A faint call suddenly reached their ears from somewhere down below. “Mr. Bunce! Are you in here?”

  Jem blinked. The policeman frowned. Alfred said, “Is that Birdie McAdam?”

  “We did it, Mr. Bunce! We caught her!” The voice was definitely Birdie’s. Jem would have known it anywhere. But he could hardly believe what it was saying. “Did you hear me, Mr. Bunce?” she cried. “Me and Ned—we did it together! We saw her and we stopped her and we fetched the police! It’s true, I swear! We caught her ourselves! WE CAUGHT SARAH PICKLES!”

  30

  Safety

  Red Lion Court had become quite crowded. The old man with the pipe had been joined by at least a dozen more curious spectators. There was also a large, sandy-haired policeman, who greeted Constable Pike with the casual familiarity of an old friend. And Birdie was present, of course, as was Ned Roach.

  Birdie didn’t look bedraggled anymore. She had changed into a pearl-gray alpaca dress, trimmed with white satin. She seemed to glow against the grim background of muddy cobbles, sooty bricks, and damp stucco.

  “What happened?” she exclaimed as Alfred and Jem emerged into the watery afternoon light. Behind them came Constable Pike, who was supporting Josiah Lubbock. After being locked in a sea chest for so long, Mr. Lubbock could barely walk. He was also dazed with shock, and practically speechless. The only phrase he’d managed to utter since being released was a hoarse “Thank you!” after being informed that Jem had picked a lock to get him out. (“I’ll pretend I didn’t see this,” Constable Pike had murmured as Jem fiddled about with a bent wire.)

  “We was heading for the butcher’s shop on Cock Lane but spied people running in here,” Birdie declared, after receiving no answer to her first question. “So Constable Knowles decided to investigate, and me and Ned had to go with him—and who should we see but Jem Barbary, hanging from a window like wet washing!” Before Jem could even begin to explain, she repeated, “What happened? Why ain’t you in the butcher shop? Where is the butcher?”

  “Where’s Sal Pickles?” Alfred rejoined harshly, still clasping Jem’s arm. “You claim you caught her, but I don’t see her about.”

  “Why, she’s on her way to West Smithfield.” The sandy-haired policeman spoke before Birdie could, taking charge in an understated way. “My question to you, sir, is this: Can you help us with our inquiries? For there’s been talk of housebreaking and kidnapping, but I’ve yet to hear the full facts.”

  “Perhaps we’d best step inside first.” Constable Pike glanced at all the surrounding eavesdroppers. “I don’t fancy discussing this here matter in public.”

  His friend agreed. So they all moved back into Sarah’s house, where they stood at the bottom of the staircase. Then Alfred told the policemen about Sarah Pickles, and Birdie explained how she and Ned had escaped from Miss Eames’s custody (by climbing through a bedroom window), after Birdie had decided that she must speak to Alfred. Knowing that the bogler was returning to help Jem, she and Ned had caught a bus to Newgate, then started walking up Giltspur Street—only to spot Sarah Pickles heading straight for them.

  “I yelled, ‘Stop, thief!’” Birdie revealed, pink cheeked with excitement. “And when Sarah tried to run, Ned brought her down. And Constable Knowles heard me—”

  “And Sarah tried to escape,” Ned broke in.

  “She did!” Birdie agreed. “And the police didn’t like that!”

  “Ahem.” Constable Knowles cleared his throat. He was so large and barrel chested, with such rough-hewn features, that everyone respectfully waited for him to speak. Even Birdie fell silent as he turned to Constable Pike and said in a slightly ponderous tone, “I saw two respectable-looking children involved in a disturbance with a woman whose general appearance suggested low origins. Then Constable Maybrick, who was with me, said he recalled the name Sarah Pickles and thought it might belong to a fugitive from justice, though he wasn’t sure. The children being clean and well dressed, I thought it wise to investigate their allegations.” As Constable Pike nodded, his friend finished, “Constable Maybrick took Mrs. Pickles directly to the lockup, but Miss McAdam suggested that I seek out a certain Mr. Alfred Bunce, who might be able to clarify matters.”

  “This here is Mr. Bunce,” said Constable Pike, pointing. Everyone promptly turned to look at Alfred.

  Alfred, however, was looking at Birdie. “What’s so important as couldn’t wait a few hours?” he rasped. “What’s so important as to make you flout the wishes of yer elders, insulting Miss Eames and putting Ned in harm’s way?”

  Birdie flushed, then lifted her chin. “I wanted to warn you about a notion I had,” she said. “If the butcher’s bin threatening folk hereabouts, then mebbe all the bogles in this neighborhood is down to him. For if he’s bin luring ’em in, somehow, to scare those as don’t want to pay up—”

  “It ain’t him,” Jem interrupted. “It ain’t the butcher. It’s Sarah Pickles.” This possibility had occurred to him almost as soon as he’d had time to think—and the longer he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. As every eye swiveled toward him, he explained dully, “Sarah’s bin earning her keep as a baby farmer. She’d take the chink, but instead o’ raising the children, she’d feed every one of ’em to a bogle.”

  Ned gasped. Birdie blanched. Constable Knowles raised a puzzled eyebrow at Constable Pike, who kept his gaze locked on Jem.

  “I don’t expect she paid no heed to the consequences,” Jem continued. “I don’t expect she planned to draw bogles from every corner o’ London, by giving ’em a feast o’ flesh. But if you ask me, that’s why they’re here. It’s like feeding pigeons. They come and they come and soon they’re nesting in yer eaves.” With a sidelong glance at Alfred, he finished, “And if there’s drains and sewers running beneath us, then Sarah might easily have fed more’n one bogle. Don’t you think?”

  Alfred nodded slowly. But Constable Knowles didn’t seem convinced.

  “You ain’t talking about boggarts, surely?” He turned to Constable Pike. “In London?”

  Constable Pike grimaced. “I seen one o’ them things, Bert. And whatever you call ’em—bogles or boggarts or fachan—you’d not want to fall foul o’ one, believe me.”

  “Especially if you’re a child,” said Alfred. Ever since hearing about the babies in the basement, his face had looked drawn and bruised. Turning to Mr. Lubbock, he asked, “Did you hear Sal talk o’ feeding babies to bogles?”

  Mr. Lubbock shook his head. He had propped himself against the lowest banisters and was rubbing the angry red marks on his wrists. “I no sooner mentioned Sarah’s name to her daughter than I was knocked out,” he croaked. “I assume that someone was hiding behind the door, then attacked me when I came in.”

  “Was that after you threatened to blackmail ’em?” Jem muttered. But he fell silent as Alfred’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

&n
bsp; “So Jem’s the only witness,” Alfred rumbled. “Pity.”

  “There’s baby clothes in that room over there.” Ned pointed across the hallway to a half-open door. “I don’t expect Sarah paid good money for them.”

  “No,” Jem agreed. “She’d sell ’em, though.”

  “Mebbe the clothes came with the babies!” cried Birdie. “Mebbe there’s mothers as could identify the clothes—”

  “I’ll search this place for evidence,” Constable Pike interrupted. “In the meantime, you should all go to the station with Constable Knowles and report to the sergeant there. Else Mrs. Pickles won’t be charged.”

  Jem wanted to ask if anyone had seen Eunice or Salty Jack leave the building. But he realized that no one around him knew what Eunice looked like. As for John Gammon . . .

  “Salty Jack?” said Constable Pike when asked. He gave a snort of derision. “If Salty Jack was ever here, he’s gone now.”

  “My word, if we could lay our hands on that gentleman . . .” Constable Knowles trailed off, looking wistful.

  Constable Pike pulled a sardonic face. “Salty Jack’s an eel,” he told Alfred. “You’ll never prove a thing against him.”

  “But he were the one as threw me into the bogle pit!” Jem exclaimed.

  Constable Pike sniffed. “We’ve had witnesses stand by while Jack put an ax through a man’s gut,” he countered. “We’ve had ten men watch him set fire to a cellar full o’ gin. He’s bin charged with affray, assault, and passing bad coin. And do you think any of it could ever be proved in a court o’ law?” He shook his head, gazing at Alfred. “If you take my advice, you’ll not tangle with Salty Jack. Not head-on. Bigger men than you have tried and failed, though I shouldn’t be the one to say it.” Seeing Alfred narrow his eyes suspiciously, the policeman quickly added, “Don’t think I’m in that villain’s pocket, neither, for I’d as soon cut off my own arm! I’m telling you this, Mr. Bunce, for the sake o’ your lad, who’s as brave a young’un as I ever saw and doesn’t deserve to be put in the way o’ John Gammon.”

  Jem winced. He found himself edging closer to Alfred.

  “Concentrate your efforts on Sarah Pickles,” Constable Pike finished. “That’s where you’ll get a result—and may see something further come of it too. For who’s to say she’ll not give up her cronies? Stranger things have happened.”

  Before Alfred could reply, the policeman saluted Constable Knowles, turned on his heel, and clattered downstairs to inspect the basement. There was a moment’s pause. Then Mr. Lubbock whined, “I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I should go to the police station. After all, what can I possibly add? I saw nothing—I was in a box.”

  “You’re coming,” Alfred said flatly. And Constable Knowles backed him up.

  “We’ll be needing a statement from you, sir. Once it’s given, you’ll be free to leave.” The policeman began to shepherd everyone out the door, batting the air gently with his big, red, meaty hands. “We shan’t keep you long, for it’s not far. Left into Giltspur Street, then a step or two past Hosier Lane . . .”

  They all did as they were told, leaving Red Lion Court under a barrage of questions from the crowd. Constable Knowles answered these questions using a standard set of replies (“Move aside, please!” “Police business!” “There’s nothing to see here!”). It wasn’t until they reached Cock Lane that Birdie finally hissed at Jem, “Did you say Sarah’s bogle was in the chimney?”

  Jem nodded. He didn’t want to talk about the bogle.

  “It needs to be killed,” Birdie went on. “I wonder if Mr. Bunce will come back and kill it?”

  “I ain’t convinced Mr. Bunce’ll ever bogle again,” Ned muttered, with a nervous glance at Alfred’s back. “Not after that job in Smithfield.”

  Birdie frowned. Jem swallowed. “If there ain’t no more bogling, you’ll not see much more o’ me,” he said hoarsely. “Mr. Bunce won’t want no crossing sweeper cluttering up his place, bringing in half o’ what’s needed.” Seeing Birdie’s confounded expression, he whispered, “What’re you staring at? It’s the truth, ain’t it?”

  “Is that what you think?” She shook her head in amazement. “Seems to me you don’t know Mr. Bunce at all.”

  “He’ll not cut you loose.” Ned spoke to Jem in an earnest undertone. “He may seem hard on occasion, but he ain’t. He’s as good a friend as you’ll ever find. I’m proof of it, for I had no claim on Mr. Bunce, yet he took me in like a Samaritan.”

  “He’d as soon feed a baby to a bogle as throw you onto the street,” Birdie insisted. She seemed almost offended on Alfred’s behalf. “You believe that, don’t you, Jem? You must know you’re safe with Mr. Bunce.”

  Glancing at the bogler, Jem suddenly realized that she was right. Alfred had come back to Cock Lane for Jem’s sake. He had risked his own life to save Jem’s. And though Jem had defied him, lied to him, and run away from him, Alfred hadn’t abandoned his half-trained apprentice.

  To Jem, masters had always been enemies. They’d squeezed him dry then thrown him away like orange peel. But perhaps Alfred wasn’t a master. Perhaps he was something else.

  “Er—Mr. Bunce?” A gentle voice suddenly hailed Alfred from across Giltspur Street. Looking around, Jem saw that Mr. Gilfoyle was standing near the hospital. As they all paused to gape at him, the naturalist tipped his hat. Then he tentatively approached them, ignoring Mr. Lubbock in his eagerness to address the bogler.

  “What a mercy I found you again, Mr. Bunce! For I should very much like a word.” Seeing Alfred grimace, Mr. Gilfoyle quickly added, “This is not a commercial transaction. This is official business. I understand your reluctance to commit yourself, but I am appealing to your sense of civic duty.”

  Alfred frowned. “Civic duty . . . ?” he echoed.

  31

  The Committee

  “Ah. Mr. Bunce, is it not? And you must be Miss Eames.” The gentleman opened his door a little wider. He seemed to shine like a billiard ball, thanks to his gold-rimmed spectacles, glossy silk waistcoat, gleaming bald head, and burnished, patent-leather shoes. “Come in, please,” he said, waving his visitors toward the room behind him, where a line of high-backed chairs faced a large mahogany desk. “Are these your assistants? They’re much younger than I anticipated . . .”

  Jem and Birdie exchanged a quick, nervous glance. Birdie looked like a china doll in her prettiest pink dress. Jem was wearing an outfit bought by Miss Eames especially for the occasion: a three-piece suit of speckled brown tweed, brown boots, and a bow tie. (“For I don’t want it thought that we are not respectable folk,” Miss Eames had declared.) Even Ned had received new trousers and a new shirt, though Miss Eames claimed that he didn’t deserve them. She was still angry about Birdie’s behavior the previous week—and Jem suspected that she blamed Ned for it. This was quite unfair, of course, but it allowed Miss Eames to give Birdie “one more chance.”

  After all the plain food and lectures that Birdie had endured since her escape through the bedroom window, Jem was surprised that she hadn’t run away for good.

  He stood now with his hat in his hands, gazing awestruck at the richly furnished office into which they had been invited. The coffered ceiling was made of carved oak. The stained-glass windows were hung with velvet curtains. The walls were covered in huge, gilt-framed paintings, while the desk in the middle of the room was almost as big as a hansom cab.

  “Welcome to the City of London Sewers Office,” said the bald man, sliding behind this desk. “My name is Mr. Joseph Daw, and I am the Principal Clerk. Please do sit down.”

  Alfred waited until Miss Eames and Birdie had seated themselves, then followed their example. Jem and Ned did the same. Jem was feeling very uncomfortable; his new suit made his legs itch, and his starched collar cut into his neck. He was also unnerved by all the dark wood in the room, which made him think of a magistrate’s court.

  “I have invited you here today at the behest of the Chief Engineer of Sewers,” Mr. Daw went on. “
He has heard about you, Mr. Bunce, from two sources: namely an Inspector of Sewers named Wardle, and a Clerk of Works named Harewood. Are you acquainted with either of these gentlemen?”

  Alfred shook his head, looking almost as uncomfortable as Jem felt. Though he wasn’t wearing any fancy new clothes, he had washed his face and put on a clean shirt. Even so, he didn’t cut a very stylish figure.

  “Well,” said Mr. Daw, “I gather that Mr. Wardle was approached by another man named Calthrop—”

  “We know him!” Birdie announced. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by Mr. Daw, or his luxurious office—and Jem had to admire her for that. Miss Eames, however, flashed her a warning look. And Mr. Daw raised his eyebrows.

  “I see,” he murmured, peering at Birdie through his spectacles, which were sitting at the very end of his long, thin nose. “Then you are undoubtedly aware that Mr. Calthrop is the foreman of a sewer gang in the Holborn Viaduct. Mr. Harewood, on the other hand, is friendly with a highly regarded naturalist called Gilfoyle . . .”

  He paused for a moment, as if wondering how to proceed. So Miss Eames helped him.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Daw,” she said, “but Mr. Bunce knows Mr. Gilfoyle. In fact, Mr. Gilfoyle recently told Mr. Bunce that an engineer of his acquaintance had been describing recent building work around London. During this conversation, which touched on the topic of horse-drawn railway vans, the subject of missing van boys had come up. So when Mr. Gilfoyle later became aware of certain . . . um . . . unusual creatures infesting the city’s drains, he naturally raised the matter with his friend, the engineer—”

  “Who referred it back to his superior, the Chief Engineer of Sewers.” Mr. Daw finished the sentence for her, as if he were growing slightly impatient. “The Chief Engineer has also been hearing complaints from various flushers regarding a plague of very large and dangerous vermin in the area around Holborn.”