How to Catch a Bogle (9780544087309) Read online

  Did this female smuggler,

  Did this female smuggler, and sweetly sang a song.”

  Then Alfred sprang his trap.

  He lunged forward. Birdie did the same. Their timing was perfect; they moved like dancers. He closed the magic circle as she jumped out of it. He threw down his salt as she ran for cover.

  When the bogle hissed, she knew it was caught. She knew she was safe. And she turned just in time to see Alfred strike his blow.

  He speared the monster from behind, while it was still intent on reaching Birdie. But it couldn’t. The salt was stopping it. And before it could even try to retreat, Alfred thrust his staff into its flank.

  One jab was all it took. Though the monster was quick, it wasn’t quick enough. It spun around, screeching, as Alfred yanked out his staff and then—WHOMP!

  The foul thing exploded.

  Sometimes bogles would deflate, very slowly, like unsuccessful Yorkshire puddings, until they were little more than piles of dust on the ground. Sometimes they would pop and shrivel, then evaporate into thin air. But this bogle split open like a giant grape. It erupted. It sent up a geyser of yellow slime that splattered over the walls, the ceiling, the dust sheets, the fireplace. . . and Alfred, too.

  Birdie escaped the deluge by ducking into the hall.

  “What was that?” squealed Ellen. She stood by the front door, an iron poker in her trembling hand. “Was that the bogle?”

  Birdie didn’t reply. She had already darted back into the dining room, which now smelled rancid—like a tannery full of rotten fish. Slime was dripping from Alfred’s staff, and from his beaky nose, and from his bristling chin. Slime streaked his grubby green coat and dribbled off his thick, graying hair.

  At his feet, entrapped by a circle of salt, lay something that looked like a huge, burst pimple. Birdie saw that its edges were beginning to shrink and dry.

  “That was quick,” she said at last.

  “Aye,” Alfred agreed. “It didn’t keep us waiting.”

  “It must have been hungry.”

  “Like enough.”

  “Or very stupid.”

  “That too.”

  “It made a sad mess. . .” Birdie muttered, as Alfred sprinkled the contents of a small glass bottle onto the putrid remains. He was just returning the bottle to his sack when Ellen stuck her head around the door and screamed.

  “Oh! Oh no!”

  Birdie hastened to assure her that the stains would fade quickly—that they were already fading—and that the stench wouldn’t linger. Then, seeing that Ellen was weak at the knees and in no condition to open the nearest window, Birdie did it herself.

  Alfred, meanwhile, was wiping his staff with a red flannel rag. Only after his weapon had been thoroughly cleaned, and bundled back into his sack, did he ask the drooping housemaid, “Would a drop o’ brandy restore you?”

  “Not from this house,” Ellen croaked. “Mrs. Plumeridge marks the bottle.”

  In response, Alfred pulled a small flask from his sack. But the housemaid shook her head.

  “Ma don’t hold with the grog,” she told him, “for it were the ruin of her own father.”

  Alfred shrugged and drank a few mouthfuls. Birdie, by this time, had fetched Ellen’s broom from the hall. She began to sweep up the scattered salt, some of which was now brown and yellow. The bad smell was already fading, and the bogle’s remains had become brittle and crusty.

  As Birdie plied her broom, the puffs of air that she stirred up caused some of these dry flakes to crumble, until they were just yellow flecks like grains of sand.

  “Ain’t never much to a bogle,” she announced cheerfully. “You could bury a round dozen in a bread tin.”

  “You’ve a pretty voice,” Ellen mumbled from her post by the door. “The prettiest I ever heard.”

  Birdie grinned. “Which is how I got me name,” she said. “For I’m Bridie McAdam, or would be, save that Mr. Bunce thought Bridie a foolish name for a girl as wouldn’t be wed for many a year.” Leaning on her broom, Birdie added, “When he first heard me singing, down by the canal at Limehouse, he thought I sounded like a little bird in a gutter. So he called me Birdie just as soon as he took me in. Ain’t that so, Mr. Bunce?”

  Alfred ignored her. “Bogles is solitary creatures,” he gruffly informed the housemaid. “Weren’t never but one to a lair. So I’ll trouble you for them six shillings, Miss Meggs, and a penny for the salt.”

  “But is it dead?” she asked him. “Dead and gone?”

  “It’ll not trouble you further,” Alfred replied.

  “But where did it come from? And why was it here?” Ellen demanded.

  Alfred shrugged. He had no real, abiding interest in bogles, even though they were his livelihood. To him they were just vermin, plain and simple. He didn’t worry about the whys and the wherefores.

  “It’ll not trouble you further,” he repeated.

  And he put out his hand for Ellen’s six shillings, plus a penny for the salt.

  3

  An Unexpected Visitor

  Alfred and Birdie lived in Bethnal Green. Their room was small and dark, with no view to speak of. But it was close to the Black Dog, where Alfred often drank, and to the Anchor Street Ragged School, which Birdie attended whenever she could. There was also a pump well around the corner and a water closet next door.

  Birdie knew that she was very fortunate. She slept alone, on a straw paillasse, instead of sharing a bed with five others. She had her own stool, plate, cup, and knife. She didn’t have to fetch coals and rarely had to carry water. Sometimes, after a successful day, Alfred would give her twopence to spend as she wished. In return, she had to cook and clean, mend the clothes, lay the fire, buy the food, and help kill as many bogles as they could find.

  She was never beaten or ill used. Alfred had once or twice boxed her ears when she was very young, because she had let her thoughts wander. But she had quickly learned not to daydream at work, since a moment’s inattention could be fatal. And Alfred was not vicious. He was a morose man who liked to brood on his troubles, instead of lashing out with his fists or his tongue. So while his moods could darken their little room for hours on end, Birdie never had to dodge a blow.

  Luckily, he was in excellent spirits the day after his visit to Mrs. Plumeridge’s house. Thanks to Ellen’s six shillings, he and Birdie had supped like kings on pease pudding and salt beef. He had also filled his brandy flask and tobacco pouch. Smoking a fresh pipe after dinner, he had even offered Birdie twopence for “a good job o’ work,” adding that he had another job coming up that would help pay for their lamp oil.

  Birdie was about to remind him that she needed new shoes when there was a knock at the door. As Birdie jumped to her feet, Alfred frowned.

  “Who’s there?” he barked.

  The answer came in a high, cracked, wheedling voice. “Is that Fred Bunce?”

  “It is,” growled Alfred. “And who might you be?”

  “Only yer old pal Sally Pickles, come to pay a call.” Before Birdie could do more than gasp, the woman continued, “Here on business, Fred. Mayn’t I please sit down for a spell?”

  Birdie gazed at Alfred, a question in her eyes. She wanted to know if she should open the door to Sarah Pickles, whose reputation was poor even by the standards of Bethnal Green. Widely known as “the Matron,” Sarah ran her own gang of pickpockets, most of them under twelve years old. She had twice offered to hire Birdie for begging and lookout work, at a rate of five shillings a day—or so Alfred claimed. Birdie had never spoken to Sarah herself. Though they had passed in the street often enough, they hadn’t been formally introduced.

  Alfred had made sure of that.

  “What’s yer business, Sally?” he asked. “If it’s a child you’re wanting, I’ve none to spare.”

  “The child I’m a-wanting ain’t yer own, Fred. I’ve had three go missing in as many weeks. Summat’s wrong.” A pause. “It ain’t natural.”

  Alfred puffed on his pipe for
a moment, his brow creased, his expression glum. Then he stood up and went to the door.

  Sarah Pickles was a fat woman with a face like a withered apple. She wore an old-fashioned coal-scuttle bonnet on her wispy gray hair, and had wrapped her shapeless bulk in layers of grubby, tattered shawls. With her was her son Charlie, a thin, pale, ferret-faced youth who didn’t take off his hat when he crossed the threshold.

  “Well, now, and ain’t this a fine crib!” Sarah exclaimed, her little dark eyes darting from corner to corner. “Dry as a nut, and not a chink in the boards! I never knowed you was so comfortable, Fred. A toffken like this’un—why, it must be let for five shillings a week!”

  “Three,” Birdie corrected, then fell silent as Alfred glared at her.

  “And here’s little Birdie,” Sarah remarked, with an indulgent smile that made Birdie’s blood run cold. “She’s growing up, Fred. She’ll be a fine young woman soon, and then what’s to be done with her?”

  “None o’ yer business,” Alfred replied shortly. “And speaking o’ business. . .”

  The woman heaved a sigh. “I’ll sit down if I may. Me knees ain’t what they used to be.” Shuffling over to Birdie’s vacant stool, she lowered herself onto it and said, “Fact o’ the matter is, I’ve had three boys vanish. And afore you say they’ve legged it, let me tell you it ain’t so. For they took nothing with ’em that they had no right to, and was happy in their work.”

  Sarah went on to explain that one of the boys had been seen in the custody of a policeman before his disappearance. The other two had gone missing in the same part of town, near the Whitecross Street market. But though inquiries had been made at all the local station houses and police courts, no trace of the boys had been found.

  “Mebbe you should look farther afield,” Alfred suggested. “In Clerkenwell or Shoreditch—”

  “We tried every lockup.” Sarah spoke flatly. “Hatton Garden. Old Street. Lambeth. No one’s seen ’em.”

  “I bin trawling for days,” her son volunteered, sounding as if he wasn’t pleased about it. Birdie noted his resentful air and wondered how Sarah had persuaded him to take part in the search at all.

  Then she glanced back at Sarah and stopped wondering. The woman’s eyes were like chips of slate.

  “It’s my belief they was snatched, not collared,” Sarah went on. “Some cove in a trap’s uniform marched ’em off afore they knew it were a caper. But my question to you is: Who done it and why?” Before Alfred could answer, she peered up at him with a smile of almost sinister goodwill and continued, “There’s many a lay requires children. We all know that. And I bin a-making inquiries among those as may need a young’un for their business, now and then—for which no one condemns ’em—”

  “I ain’t got yer boys, Sal.” Alfred cut her off brusquely. His tone was grim, his gaze even grimmer. “I don’t feed children to bogles.”

  “I know that, Fred,” Sarah assured him. “You’re straight as they come, and sharp besides. You’d never stoop so low. Me and Charlie was wondering, however, if you might know some other feller in the same line o’ work as ain’t got yer morals.”

  Another bogler? Birdie stared at Sarah in amazement. Though bogling was an ancient trade—and an honorable one—it was also very rare. Boglers weren’t like knife grinders or dogcatchers.

  “I’m the only bogler hereabouts,” Alfred insisted.

  “You’re sure o’ that?” Sarah didn’t seem convinced. “He might be new in town.”

  But Alfred shook his head. “You’re looking in the wrong place,” he assured her, then went on to make a suggestion. “There’s many a cadger likes to have a crippled child hanging off ’im, when they want to wring hearts,” he pointed out. “And many a cracksman would like a little’un to squirm through iron bars into locked houses. You’ll find no shortage o’ rascals as would snatch a boy—or a girl—when they can’t find no child willing to work for ’em.”

  “I know that,” Sarah acknowledged. “I also know most o’ the rascals you’re thinking of—and put the word out among ’em. But nothing’s come back, Fred.”

  Birdie was about to ask for the names of the missing boys when she heard a carriage rattling to a halt in the street outside. This was such an unusual noise that everyone immediately fell silent. Even Sarah Pickles looked startled.

  Birdie turned to Alfred. “Shall I go and see who’s come?” she queried.

  Alfred hesitated for a moment. “Aye, do that,” he said at last, reluctantly. As Birdie rushed out the door, he called after her, “Mind you don’t linger!”

  Birdie didn’t bother replying, since she was already halfway down the passage that led to the street. Emerging into broad daylight, she discovered that many of her neighbors were doing the same, spilling like cockroaches from their own dingy courts and basement lairs. A large audience had already gathered to stare at the woman who was alighting from the hansom cab that had drawn up in front of Birdie’s house. Some people were even hanging out of windows. But it was the cab that intrigued them, not the woman who climbed out of it. She was nothing special (as the old cane washer across the street loudly observed). In fact, she didn’t look as if she were at all accustomed to using hired vehicles. There was a flustered air about her, and she wasn’t wearing gloves.

  Birdie judged her to be a servant, or a shop girl, or perhaps some kind of dressmaker. Her frizzy reddish hair was spilling out from beneath a battered straw hat tipped low over her forehead. She had wrapped herself in a trailing shawl, and her round, freckled face was damp with sweat.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Alfred Bunce,” she said, addressing Birdie in a voice that proved, once and for all, that she wasn’t a lady. “Does he live in this house?”

  Birdie was delighted. “He does!” she exclaimed. “And I’m ’prenticed to him!”

  “Then could you ask if he’d spare a moment? I’ve a message to deliver.”

  One of the men in the street shouted that she would do a lot better with him than with a scraggy old mutton bone like Alfred Bunce. Some of the other men laughed. Birdie told them to stow it or she would set a bogle upon ’em, and then they’d be sorry.

  “Come and meet Mr. Bunce,” she urged their visitor, who was looking more and more anxious.

  “Oh, no.” The woman shook her head. “I’ll not go in.”

  “He won’t hurt you,” Birdie said shrewdly.

  But the woman on the doorstep wasn’t reassured. “I’m to take him back in the cab if he’ll come, or give him Miss Edith’s address if he cannot,” she replied. “I’m not to stay on any account. Miss Edith said so.”

  Birdie frowned. “Who’s Miss Edith?”

  “The lady as sent me. Miss Edith Eames.”

  “Has she a bogle?” asked Birdie, who could think of no other reason why a lady should want to consult Alfred Bunce. But the question seemed to shock her redheaded companion.

  “Oh, no!” the woman exclaimed, turning white.

  “Then—”

  “I don’t know what she wants him for. But she’ll make it worth his while.” Backing away from Birdie, her gaze flicking fearfully up and down the busy street, the woman added, “I’ll wait here. You tell him. And if he won’t come now, I’ll give you the address.”

  Birdie shrugged. Though mystified, she was happy to be the bearer of such remarkable and unexpected news. A summons! From a lady! Already she could feel many an awestruck gaze upon her. For the hundredth time she secretly congratulated herself on being a bogler’s girl; there was so much excitement and variety in a bogler’s life.

  As she turned to fetch Alfred, she was struck by a sudden thought.

  “What’s yer name?” she asked their visitor, who was already retreating toward the safety of the cab.

  “I’m Mary Meggs,” came the breathless response. “I ain’t Miss Edith’s maid. I work for her aunt, Mrs. Heppinstall. But they live in the same house, and never exchange a harsh word. So I must do as Miss Edith bids me—whatever I might think of it.” />
  4

  Meeting Miss Eames

  The hansom cab wasn’t really designed for three passengers. Mary said as much when Alfred told her that his apprentice would be coming along too. But Birdie was so small that she managed to squeeze into the cab without much trouble. And Mary was so desperate to get away that she didn’t have the patience to argue with Alfred.

  Birdie couldn’t believe her luck. She had never been in a cab before—and certainly never as far as Bloomsbury. According to Mary, Miss Edith Eames lived just off Great Russell Street. It was a long journey, all the way from the east to the west of London, and Birdie gloried in every inch of it. Sitting up there, behind a clip-clopping black horse, she felt like the Queen of England.

  She knew that she had Sarah Pickles to thank for her good fortune. Alfred had been of two minds about taking Birdie with him, since Mary kept insisting that there were no bogles in the house where she worked. But Sarah Pickles had heard everything. She had even accompanied Alfred out to the cab, where Mary was waiting for him. Left behind, Birdie would have found herself alone with Sarah and Charlie Pickles.

  Alfred hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t trust Sarah. So he’d taken a cautious approach, loading up the cab with his equipment as well as his apprentice. “Sal might steal our bedding while we’re gone,” he’d muttered, as Sarah waved them goodbye, “but she’ll not take you with it, lass.”

  “Because I’d never go with her,” Birdie had scoffed. “Not if she forced me at gunpoint!”

  “Which it might yet come to if Sarah has her way.” Alfred’s grim tone had sent a chill running down Birdie’s spine. But she’d done her best to ignore it, stoutly declaring that she’d faced too many monsters to be scared by an old crone like Sarah Pickles.

  Later, parading through London on real leather seats, she asked herself, in pure exultation: How could Sarah ever top this? I have the best job in the world! Not that the first leg of their journey filled Birdie with wonder; she knew Bethnal Green and Shoreditch too well to marvel at the sights that greeted her as they bowled along. She saw the usual collection of dirty streets lined with pie shops and pawnbrokers, costers’ stalls and public houses. Down the side alleys she glimpsed even dingier yards full of donkeys and dust heaps, where people were engaged in smelly occupations like boiling tripe or melting tallow. She saw match girls and watercress girls, men carrying rolls of cloth and men pushing barrows laden with furniture. She even recognized a few faces, and was pleased when a clothes-peg maker named Sam Wilson gaped like a fish upon beholding her.