A Very Unusual Pursuit (16 page)
Alfred shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ve all that’s needed for bogle-bites under me own bed,’ he assured Miss Eames.
‘Oh, but this ain’t no bite, Mr Bunce,’ Birdie croaked. ‘It’s claw-marks.’
‘Which is a mercy,’ said Alfred, ‘since bites can be fatal.’
Silence fell at the sound of the word ‘fatal’. Miss Eames frowned. Alfred sighed. Birdie swallowed and tried to think about something else. It wasn’t easy. She kept seeing the gaping mouth in her mind’s eye. She kept feeling the weight of black smoke in her lungs.
So she tried to concentrate on the scenery flowing past them: the houses, the churches, the shops, the squares. Everything looked grey and damp and dirty. Flags hung limply from their poles. It had started raining again.
‘No wonder that wicked man believed he had conjured up a demon from the fires of hell,’ Miss Eames said at last. ‘With all that smoke, I might have thought the same thing.’
‘Aye.’ After a moment’s pause, Alfred remarked pensively, ‘I ain’t never seen owt like it.’
‘Really?’ Miss Eames sounded surprised. ‘Never?’
Again Alfred shook his head. ‘And want to see nowt like it again,’ he growled. Birdie shuddered.
‘Was it
breathing
the smoke?’ Miss Eames wanted to know. ‘Did you see where the smoke was coming from?’
‘No,’ Alfred replied.
‘A smoke-shrouded creature . . .’ Miss Eames grimaced. ‘It couldn’t have been a dragon, surely? I’m convinced it wasn’t
that
.’
Alfred said nothing. There was another long silence, as they rattled past the Shoreditch Vestry Hall – which looked like a huge, elaborate wedding cake. Then Miss Eames suddenly stiffened.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I forgot the journal! I left it there! How
stupid
of me!’
Alfred didn’t seem very concerned. He scratched his chin and gave another shrug.
‘Maybe we should go back,’ Miss Eames continued, but Birdie cut her off.
‘Go back? Not me!’ The thought made Birdie feel cold and sick. ‘I ain’t
never
going back there!’
‘Nor I,’ Alfred agreed.
‘But that journal is proof, Mr Bunce! Proof that Doctor Morton killed all those poor boys!’ Miss Eames leaned towards him slightly, raising her voice above the clatter of horse’s hooves. ‘We could show it to the police! It is our written
evidence
.’
Alfred snorted. ‘Evidence o’ what? That a doctor’s gone mad and thinks he’s a warlock?’ Before Miss Eames could protest, he added, ‘Ain’t no trace o’ them boys, miss. Ain’t no bogle in that house – not anymore. Ain’t nothing but rants on a page.’
‘Which that doctor
might
say is for a penny dreadful,’ Birdie interposed. While she had never read any of these cheap, flimsy, paperbound books, she knew the kind of sensational stories they told. ‘He might claim he’s writing
The Curse o’ the Necromancer
, or suchlike.’
‘If you tell the traps,’ Alfred informed Miss Eames, ‘the first thing they’ll do is nib us all for housebreaking. Birdie, too. On account o’ Jem’ll hoist that silver cup, sure as I’m breathing, and I’d not trust Enoch to keep his hands off the rest.’
‘Then
I
shall speak to the police. Without mentioning any of you.’ Though Miss Eames spoke bravely, there was a quaver in her tone. ‘I shall say that the housemaid let me in, and that I saw the journal while I was waiting for Doctor Morton. If the housemaid is very old, she could easily have forgotten that she admitted me into the house. I’m sure the police would give more weight to my account than they would to hers.’
Birdie was astonished. ‘Don’t lie to the traps, miss. No good will come of it,’ she said gravely, causing Miss Eames to flush. The flush deepened as they stared at each other.
At last Miss Eames exclaimed, ‘I know it’s wrong! Of course I do! But something has to be
done
!’
‘Something was done,’ Alfred retorted. ‘We killed the bogle.’
‘Which won’t kill no one else,’ Birdie added.
‘And Doctor Morton? What of him?’ Miss Eames appealed to Alfred. ‘He must answer for his crimes! He is a
murderer
, Mr Bunce! He murdered four children!’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But—’
‘It were the bogle as killed them kids, not the doctor,’ said Alfred. ‘He just put ’em in harm’s way.’
These words seemed to hang in the air for a while. Alfred abruptly turned his head and stared out at the passing street – which looked vaguely familiar to Birdie because they were crossing from Shoreditch into Bethnal Green. But she wasn’t interested in the cab’s progress. She was far more concerned about Alfred.
He thinks he’s just like that doctor
, she thought, aghast, and opened her mouth to insist that feeding boys to bogles was
completely different
from using a trained apprentice to lure bogles out of their lairs.
Miss Eames, however, was too quick for her.
‘You almost lost Birdie today, Mr Bunce. Perhaps you should reconsider the offer I made.’
Birdie’s stomach lurched. There were dozens of things she wanted to say: that she had never
truly
been in danger – that no bogle would ever get the better of Alfred – that Miss Eames was overreacting. But for some reason, she found it hard to speak.
So Miss Eames ploughed on, addressing Alfred’s profile.
‘I understand your difficulties. I realise that bogling is your livelihood, and that my experiment with the pie was unsuccessful. But could you at least give some thought to alternative baits? Children’s clothes, perhaps?’ When Alfred didn’t respond, Miss Eames tried another suggestion. ‘What about hair? Or baby teeth?’
‘Baby teeth? For a
bogle
?’ Birdie found her voice at last. ‘Why not try to catch a whale with a chestnut?’
‘I know it sounds odd,’ Miss Eames argued, ‘but teeth might have some value as a lure. Baby teeth have been offered up to spirit-creatures for centuries, all over the world.’
‘Not to bogles, I’ll be bound,’ Birdie scoffed.
Suddenly Alfred spoke up. ‘I might become a ratcatcher,’ he mumbled.
Miss Eames blinked. Birdie gasped. She goggled at him for a moment, before recovering her breath.
‘
What
?’ she squawked.
‘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 ratcatcher’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, hiccoughed, 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, towards 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 Doctor 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 cab-driver 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.
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 ratcatcher, 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 there were dark smudges under his eyes.
‘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
always think.’
Birdie sniffed. ‘Are you trying to get me lagged again? For harbouring stolen goods?’ she retorted. But when his face fell, she realised 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 straight from hell!’
‘You was too hard on Jem, lass.’
Birdie agreed contritely. ‘I know. It ain’t
his
fault. But I want nothing to do with no stolen wipe – can he not see that?’