A Plague of Bogles

by Catherine Jinks

  “Giltspur Street,” said Mabel.

  “Giltspur?” Alfred frowned. “Ain’t that off Newgate?”

  Mabel gave a nod.

  “There’s a generosity o’ dangerous folk as lurk around Newgate Prison,” Alfred pointed out. He produced from his trouser pocket a clay pipe and a tobacco pouch. “Might yer maid not have fallen foul o’ one?”

  “She went down to fetch the sherry, sir, and now she’s gone.” Mabel was dabbing at her flushed face with a handkerchief. Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip. “Could we not open the door, Mr. Bunce? Else I’ll faint from the heat.”

  Obediently Alfred lifted the door latch. Jem tried to push the window open a little farther but found it too stiff. Then Alfred said, in his low, rumbling voice, “I don’t bogle no more. Did Jem not tell you? I’ve no ’prentice, see.”

  “I could be your ’prentice,” Jem quickly cut in. And when Alfred fixed him with a morose look, he added, “I’m quick on me feet, ain’t I? Quicker’n Birdie, for all that I can’t sing like her. Why, I spent the day dodging hansom cabs on Commercial Road and never once took a tumble. I’d make a prize bogler’s boy!”

  Alfred’s gaze shifted to the broomstick in Jem’s hand. “I doubt Mr. Leach would agree with you,” he growled. And Jem flushed.

  “I ain’t working for that grocer no more.”

  “Oh, aye?” Alfred seemed to be waiting for an explanation. And though Jem didn’t want to give one—not with Mabel in the room, listening to every word he said—there was something about Alfred’s weighty silence that forced him to speak.

  “I ate some cheese off the shop floor, and when Mrs. Leach beat me for it, I called her an old cat,” he admitted. “That’s why Mr. Leach let me go—on account of his wife. She never did like me. ‘Once a thief, allus a thief’ is what she used to say. But I never prigged a thing, save for that morsel o’ cheese. And it were picked off the floor like kitchen scraps!”

  Alfred sighed as Jem scowled. The barmaid watched them both curiously, still patting her face with her handkerchief. A cross draft was now blowing through the room, making Alfred’s strips of paper dance and spin.

  “I’d as soon have you beg as sweep a crossing,” Alfred said at last, still glumly eyeing the broom. “Where do you lodge now? You ain’t on the street?”

  “No,” said Jem. To change the subject, he quickly added, “Miss Mabel didn’t tell you, but there’s a cove as runs a penny gaff on Whitechapel Road, and he claims he has Birdie inside, taming bogles and such.”

  Alfred’s jaw dropped. He sat down suddenly.

  “I took one look and thought, ‘Well, that ain’t true,’” Jem went on, pleased to see the impact he’d made. “I’ll wager Birdie can’t stray as far as her own front door nowadays, let alone set foot in Whitechapel Road.”

  “But—but Birdie ain’t singing in no penny gaff!” Alfred spluttered. “Birdie’s being schooled in Bloomsbury! Miss Eames says she could sing opera one day!”

  “I thought as much.” Jem flashed a smug look at the barmaid. “Lubbock’s a dirty liar. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Miss Eames ain’t going to like this,” said Alfred, shaking his head in consternation. “She’ll not like this at all . . .”

  He trailed off, biting his lip, his pipe in one hand and his tobacco pouch in the other. Mabel watched him for a moment. At last she cleared her throat and said, “Uh—Mr. Bunce?”

  “No.” Alfred spoke brusquely. “No, lass, I cannot. I told you, I ain’t a bogler no more.” He gestured vaguely at the strips of paper drying above him as if to prove his point. But Mabel wasn’t impressed. Her dark brows snapped together.

  “Mr. Bunce,” she protested, “my employer is hiring a new potboy as we speak. Would you condemn the lad to a fate like Florry’s?”

  Alfred didn’t answer. He was stuffing tobacco into his pipe, carefully avoiding her eye as he did so.

  “I’m afraid for him—indeed I am. He’s a big lad, but no more’n twelve years old. And I cannot always be chasing him about.” Mabel had a very strong voice when she chose to raise it. Jem suspected that she had strengthened her lungs by shouting orders across a noisy taproom, and grinned to himself when he saw Alfred’s face lengthen. “What about poor Florry?” the barmaid continued. “There ain’t no one else to care what befell her—she hadn’t a single relation to mourn her passing. And you say you’ll not punish the beast that ate her up! For shame, sir!”

  Alfred winced. “Miss Lillimere—” he began.

  “How much do you charge for your services?” she demanded. “What is your fee, Mr. Bunce?”

  Seeing Alfred hesitate, Jem answered for him. “Six shillings for each bogle, fivepence for the visit, and a penny for the salt.”

  “I’ll pay you eight shillings.” Mabel stood up suddenly, startling Alfred, who blinked and dropped the match he’d just plucked from his pocket. “Eight shillings down and as much grog as you can drink.”

  Jem laughed. “Blimey,” he crowed, “ain’t that the plum in the pudding!” But a glare from Alfred quickly wiped the smile from his face.

  “Well?” said Mabel. “Will you help, Mr. Bunce?”

  “I told you before, I ain’t got no ’prentice—”

  “What’s wrong with the boy?” Mabel interrupted, pointing at Jem. “He’s spry enough.”

  “He’s untrained,” mumbled Alfred. “I need Birdie. I can’t kill a bogle without Birdie.”

  “But she never comes here no more!” Jem was stung by Alfred’s lack of confidence in him. “And even if she did, that Miss Eames wouldn’t let her so much as soil her clothes, never mind dodge a bogle.” Before Alfred could object, Jem exclaimed, “I can be your boy! It ain’t so hard! Didn’t I see it done on that navvy’s job last summer? All I need is a looking glass and a bit o’ nerve!”

  “Please, Mr. Bunce,” begged the barmaid. “I’d not ask if I weren’t going mad with the strain of it. A bogle downstairs—why, it don’t bear thinking on! How am I to work in such a place?”

  Alfred sighed. He had retrieved his match and struck it against a wall; now he was drawing on his pipe as he lit it. Puff-puff-puff. For a moment his face was obscured by a cloud of smoke.

  Finally he rose and flicked his burnt match into the fireplace.

  “Aye, very well,” he rasped. “You’ll want me there now, I daresay?”

  “As soon as ever you can,” the barmaid replied happily. And Jem took advantage of her mood, edging up to her with his hand outstretched.

  “Tuppence, miss?” he softly reminded her.

  She flashed him a narrow, sideways look but paid up without protest. Alfred, meanwhile, was on his knees, fishing around under the bed. He soon produced an old brown sack, which Jem recognized with an inward shudder.

  The sight of it brought back horrible memories.

  “You’ll do exactly as I say, lad. Exactly,” Alfred insisted, turning his head to fix Jem with a grim look. “Is that clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t you take yer eyes off me. Not for one instant. And when I move, you move. Or you’ll pay the price, make no mistake.”

  Jem nodded. He had always favored the idea of being a bogler’s boy, because bogling was such a flash occupation, like smuggling or highway robbery. People respected boglers. Unlike a grocer’s boy or a crossing sweeper, a bogler’s apprentice could walk down the street with a swagger in his step—not to mention a steady wage in his pocket.

  Of course, a pickpocket could attract just as many admiring stares, if he was walking down the right street, in the right part of town. Jem knew how that felt. But he also knew he’d been fooled into thinking that all those respectful glances were a tribute to his own skills—when in fact Sarah Pickles, his employer, had been the important one.

  “What’s me own cut o’ the fee, Mr. Bunce?” Jem asked, smothering a sudden pang of rage at the thought of Sarah Pickles. “How much did Birdie get for a job?”

  “She got what she deserved,” Al
fred said shortly. “As you will.”

  Then he started to lay out his equipment, unwrapping his spear and testing the hinges on his dark lantern. Watching him, Jem felt slightly unnerved. Bogling could be dangerous. Jem understood that. He’d almost been eaten by a bogle once. And just because Alfred had saved him the last time didn’t mean it would happen again.

  For all he knew, he could be making the biggest mistake of his life . . .

  3

  A Cellar Bogle

  The Viaduct Tavern was all gilt and glass and polished wood. Roaring voices filled the taproom. Gas jets flared in a haze of smoke, keeping the dismal afternoon at bay. The air smelled of sweat and cheap spirits.

  Things were very different downstairs, though. Jem knew at once that the basement was much older than the house above. Slimy stains covered the walls. Iron bars were pitted with rust. There was black grime all over the vaulted brick ceiling.

  Gloomily surveying all the kegs and barrels stacked near the bottom of the staircase, Alfred said, “This is bigger’n I expected.”

  “Half a dozen rooms, at least,” Mabel confirmed, handing Jem her paraffin lamp. “You’ll not be needing me, will you? I only ask as it’s busy, and by rights I should be at the bar.”

  Alfred grunted. “D’you know where Florry might have gone?” he queried.

  Mabel shook her head. Then she flapped her hand at one shadowy doorway. “She were sent to fetch sherry, which we keep in that room, with the port wine. But there’s coal down here, and lye, and sand . . . Ain’t no saying where she might have gone if prompted to.”

  “Mmph,” said Alfred. Taking his nod as a kind of signal, the barmaid abruptly turned tail and hurried back upstairs. Alfred let her go without comment. He gazed around, sniffed the air, sighed, and told Jem, “Don’t you wander off, now. Stay close to me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Jem assured him.

  Together they began to explore the maze of cellars, which weren’t as well stocked as they could have been. One room was full of coal. Another contained buckets of sand, bags of potatoes, and crates of glass bottles. But there was also a lot of empty space, dotted here and there with shelves, sinks, alcoves, iron-barred screens, and dark, mysterious holes.

  “Looks just like a prison, don’t it?” Jem remarked under his breath. When very young, he had once visited his uncle in a debtor’s prison—before his mother’s death had left him homeless—and he had never forgotten the clang of metal doors swinging shut. The memory made his heart sink. He’d spent years worrying that one day, when his past crimes caught up with him, he would end up locked in a dank, musty prison cell.

  “You’d pay fourpence a night for a crib this dry down near the docks,” he joked, in an effort to shake off a sudden overwhelming sense of gloom and dread. “Mebbe I should ask the landlord if he’d care to take in a lodger—cheap, like, on account o’ the bogle . . .”

  “Shhh!” Alfred had stopped on a threshold. Peering past him, Jem saw that the room beyond was small and low and murky. There was an assortment of junk stacked in one corner: a broken chair, a cracked coal scuttle, a bent poker, a length of pipe.

  In the floor was an iron grate set over a drain.

  Alfred hissed when he spotted this grate. He pulled Jem back from the door and hustled him in the opposite direction, growling, “That’s the one.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll have met her end in there, poor lass.” Having retired to a safe distance, Alfred dropped his sack and rummaged through it. “Bogles like drains,” he said quietly.

  “But that drain’s so small,” Jem protested. “And there ain’t nothing in the room—not to speak of. Why would she want to go in there?”

  Alfred shrugged. “To drink a sly nip? Or eat a stolen crust?”

  “But—”

  “As to the size o’ the drain, never think any hole is too small for a bogle. You never know where a drain might lead.” Alfred’s knees cracked as he rose again. He held a small leather bag in one hand and his spear in the other. “Can you sing?” he asked. “Whistling ain’t no good.”

  “I can sing,” Jem confessed, “but not like Birdie.”

  Alfred snorted. “No one can sing like Birdie. What I want is someone as can pipe away till the bogle comes. For hours, if need be.”

  “I can do that,” Jem assured him.

  “And not falter when you see it?”

  “No.”

  Alfred eyed Jem with a skeptical look. Jem stared back defiantly, though his guts were already beginning to churn. At last Alfred gave a sigh and said, “Take off yer hat and leave it here, for you’ll not be needing it. Wait nearby but don’t move or speak. Step into the ring only when I tell you. Take care not to touch the salt.”

  Jem opened his mouth to point out that he wasn’t stupid, then thought better of it.

  “I’ll signal when I want you to sing,” Alfred continued. “Don’t move till I move. And whatever you do, lad”—he leaned down until his beaky nose was almost touching Jem’s snub one—“do not touch the salt on yer way out o’ the ring. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.” Jem was annoyed to find that his voice sounded a little hoarse. So he coughed and said, “Where’s me looking glass?”

  Alfred straightened. He propped his spear against a wall and reached into the pocket of his long green coat, from which he produced a small mirror. “I’ll be wanting that back,” he warned as he surrendered it.

  “Was it Birdie’s?”

  “Aye.”

  Jem felt pleased. He liked the notion of using Birdie’s mirror, which was bound to have at least a trace of good luck attached to it.

  “Any more questions, afore we start?” Alfred wanted to know.

  Jem shook his head.

  “Good,” said Alfred. “Then I’ll begin.”

  Jem had watched the bogler lay out his circle of salt once before, in a half-constructed railway tunnel. On that occasion there had been much more light and space. This time Alfred pottered about for a while after igniting his dark lantern, measuring distances and assessing vantage points until he finally chose his spot.

  It was just outside the room with the drain.

  Jem kept his mouth shut when he saw this, though he had some last-minute questions he wanted to ask. Would this bogle be smaller than the previous one? Should he run from the room once it had been trapped? Did the peculiar sense of despair creeping over him have anything to do with the bogle, or did it stem from his own lack of confidence?

  At last Alfred traced his ring of salt on the flagstone floor. He placed a gap in the ring directly opposite the door from which the bogle would be emerging. Then he stationed himself to one side of this door, armed with his spear, his salt, and his dark lantern.

  Finally he nodded at Jem, who took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the circle. It was a large circle—so large that it filled Jem with dread. How big did it have to be before the bogle was contained? With his back turned to the low, lightless doorway, Jem felt horribly vulnerable, like a rat in a baiting pit. But he positioned his mirror so that it gave him a clear view of Alfred and the door.

  Then he began to sing.

  “There is a nook in the boozing ken,

  Where many a mug I fog,

  And the smoke curls gently, while cousin Ben

  Keeps filling the pots again and again,

  If the coves have stumped their hog.”

  Jem’s voice was naturally husky, but it didn’t usually crack or wobble—not the way it was cracking and wobbling now. He was ashamed of himself. So he paused, cleared his throat, and tried again.

  “The liquors around is diamond bright,

  And the diddle is best of all;

  But I never in liquors took much delight,

  For liquors I think is all a bite.

  So for heavy wet I call.”

  Framed in Jem’s little hand mirror, Alfred stood against the wall—a hunched, motionless shape holding a spear. At the bogler’s feet sat his dark lan
tern, which didn’t do much to illuminate his face. The paraffin lamp had been left at the opposite end of the room, which was piled high with old kegs. There was a strong smell of ale, mildew, mouse droppings . . . and something else. At first Jem thought it was sewage. Then, gradually, he began to change his mind.

  What was that smell?

  He tried not to let it distract him, even though it seemed to be getting stronger. Instead, he focused his attention on the miniature scene captured in his hand: the bogler standing by the doorway, bathed in a flickering light. Luckily, Jem knew “The Thieves’ Chaunt” off by heart, so he didn’t have to spare a thought for what he was singing. He just crowed away like a jackdaw while he watched Alfred like a hawk.

  “The heavy wet in a pewter quart

  As brown as a badger’s hue,

  More than Bristol milk or gin,

  Brandy or rum I tipple in,

  With me darling blowen, Sue.”

  Suddenly Jem spied something stirring in the shadows behind the doorway. He knew at once that it was a bogle. What else could it have been, after all? His voice quavered and caught on a gasp; for one panic-stricken moment, he thought that he’d lost the use of his lungs altogether. But then he found his breath again.

  As one of the denser, blacker shadows in the adjoining room detached itself from the others and began to slide toward him, he launched into the next verse.

  “Her duds, they’re bob—she’s a kinchin crack,

  And I hopes as how she’ll never back;

  For she never lushes dog soup or lap,

  But she loves me cousin the bluffer’s tap.”

  Jem’s previous bogle had been a huge, hulking thing with horns and teeth and tentacles, like a cross between a goat, a bear, and an octopus. This bogle was different. It seemed to pour through the doorway like a wave of black treacle, or a giant ball of jelly. Then, as it swiftly gathered itself into a kind of crest—rearing up behind Jem—a huge, gaping hole opened up in its body.