A Plague of Bogles

by Catherine Jinks

  “Well?” she pressed, her wide blue eyes still fixed on Jem’s face. “What’s the story? Did you part from Mr. Leach?”

  When Jem didn’t answer, Alfred said, “Aye. He did.”

  “I thought as much.” Birdie gave a satisfied nod. “You don’t never see a grocer’s boy with bare feet.”

  Miss Eames flashed her a reproving look. “Double negatives, Birdie dear. You know what I’ve told you about ‘don’t never.’” Turning back to Jem, Miss Eames added, “What are you doing now, Jem, if you’re not a grocer’s boy? Are you working for Mr. Bunce?”

  “I sweep crossings,” Jem growled.

  “Oh, dear,” said Miss Eames.

  Birdie glanced at Alfred, who explained, “He only came to me this afternoon. I didn’t know he were out on the street.”

  “But why not?” Miss Eames demanded. “Jem, why didn’t you tell someone before this? You knew where we were—we could have helped you.”

  Jem swallowed. He was wriggling with discomfort and his face was bright red. Studying him shrewdly, Birdie asked, “Did you prig something?”

  “No!” Jem glared back at her. “I ain’t no prig! Not now I ain’t!”

  “He says he were turned out for eating a scrap o’ cheese off the floor,” Alfred quietly volunteered. “Says the grocer’s wife took against him.”

  “She did,” Jem mumbled. “I didn’t steal nothing.”

  “So if you didn’t steal nothing—I mean, anything—then why not go to Mr. Bunce for help?” Birdie inquired.

  “Because Mr. Bunce don’t live in the East End no more, and that’s where I need to be!” As his gaze skipped from one puzzled face to the next, Jem felt utterly alone. He wondered scornfully if any of the others had ever been betrayed. “Sarah Pickles is bound to be living in the East End!” he spluttered. “You might not care about what she done, but I’ll never forget it! And I’ll make her pay for her treachery, even if I have to spend the next five years searching the whole o’ London!”

  There was a brief, shocked silence. The only sounds came from outside the carriage: the rattle of wheels, the clatter of hooves, the toot of a distant horn on the river. Jem waited as his three companions absorbed what he’d just said. No doubt they were thinking about him and how he’d once spent several minutes hanging like a dead pheasant, trussed and gagged, from a bogle’s claws.

  Though Sarah herself hadn’t served him up to that bogle, she had sent him to the man who had—knowing full well what would happen next. And she had done it for money.

  “I thieved for Sarah Pickles nigh on seven years,” Jem spat, “and she sold me off like dog meat, at a few pence a pound.”

  “But I thought Sarah Pickles had disappeared,” Miss Eames protested. She flashed Birdie an inquiring look. “I thought it was established that she must have been killed by some of her associates, as a consequence of betraying Jem.”

  Birdie hesitated. Jem gave a snort. It was Alfred who finally said, “Some think that. There’s some as think otherwise.”

  “I ain’t going to believe Sarah’s dead till I see her rotten corpse in a coffin,” Jem replied. “For she’s cunning as a snake, and vicious with it. She’s lying low somewhere is what I think, and I don’t want to miss her when she raises her head.”

  Alfred turned his own head to stare out the window as Birdie remarked, in a skeptical voice, “So you think she’s hiding in Whitechapel?”

  “Or Shoreditch. Or Wapping. Or Bethnal Green.” Jem folded his arms defiantly. “She allus had a good supply o’ friends in that neighborhood, and a sufficiency o’ chink to pay ’em with.”

  No one even tried to argue with him. Alfred was still gazing out the window. Miss Eames fidgeted with her umbrella handle, her brows knitted together in what looked like distress. Birdie cocked her head on one side as if weighing up what Jem had just told her.

  At last she observed, in a thoughtful tone, “Sarah Pickles had you on a leash for seven years. Why do you still let her govern you?”

  “I don’t!”

  “You do. You just said so. If it weren’t for Sarah Pickles, you’d not be living on the streets o’ Whitechapel.”

  “I ain’t allus on the streets,” Jem countered. “There’s a cellar in Wapping I sometimes share. Tuppence a night, and no more’n four other sweepers in the bed.”

  “In the bed?” Miss Eames echoed. “Oh, dear me, no, that will never do.” She appealed to Alfred. “Mr. Bunce, can you not find a corner for Jem in your own home if I promise to find him another job? I’m sure I’m not mistaken in thinking that a crossing sweeper’s occupation is rather low for a boy of his intelligence. And I’m afraid that he may fall into old habits if he insists on revisiting old haunts.”

  Alfred shifted his attention away from the window at last. “Aye, like enough,” he said gloomily, contemplating Jem with his usual morose gaze. “Though I ain’t convinced he’s got the makings of an errand boy. Or a coster’s lad.”

  “If Ned can do it, I can!” snapped Jem, before realizing what he’d just let himself in for. “But I’d rather be a bogler’s boy,” he went on hurriedly. “You seen me work. I’m spry enough, ain’t I? Seems to me I done well today.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” Birdie spoke sharply, stiffening against the sway of the carriage. Then she rounded on Alfred, who was sitting across from her. “You didn’t go bogling with him, did you?”

  As Alfred rubbed his nose, Jem’s temper flared. “Well, and why not?” Jem demanded. “He’s a bogler, ain’t he?”

  “Not any longer, though.” Miss Eames was looking more and more upset. “Didn’t you abandon that calling, Mr. Bunce? Didn’t we agree that it was far too dangerous for the children involved?”

  Alfred cleared his throat. “Aye, but—”

  “What would you have done, then? Let that bogle eat another kid?” By now Jem was almost shouting. “Mebbe it wouldn’t have troubled you none! Mebbe you don’t care what befalls boot boys or scullery maids—only toffs and their kin!”

  Birdie gasped. A red spot appeared on each of Miss Eames’s pale cheeks. Alfred leaned toward Jem and snarled, “Don’t you never speak to the lady like that or I’ll box yer ears, so help me.”

  “And she does care,” Birdie insisted. “Ain’t I the proof of it? Miss Eames don’t hold with snobbery o’ that sort.”

  Jem muttered an apology. He was already feeling ashamed of himself. There was a long, awkward silence, laced with the crack of the driver’s whip. Looking out the nearest window, Jem realized that they were already well past Leadenhall Street.

  “Did you really kill a bogle today?” Birdie said at last. She was speaking to Alfred. “Where was it?”

  “In a Newgate tavern.”

  “Newgate?” Birdie sounded surprised. “How did a Newgate taverner run you to ground in a court off Drury Lane?”

  “Ask him,” said Alfred, nodding at Jem—who confessed in a low voice, “A barmaid collared me outside the penny gaff. She were looking for you, Birdie, on account o’ yer name being used by the tout at the door.”

  Birdie’s face brightened. “Truly?”

  “She’d read about you in the newspapers and wanted yer help. So I took her to Mr. Bunce, knowing as how you don’t bogle no more.”

  Birdie suddenly looked downcast—and Jem couldn’t understand why. Surely she wasn’t pining after her old life as a bogler’s girl? If so, Jem would gladly have swapped. He was still cleaning bits of cake out of his teeth with his tongue and savoring every morsel.

  “The gall of it!” Miss Eames exclaimed. “Shouting Birdie’s name on the street like that, as if she were a patent medicine! I suppose her name is plastered all over the bills and placards as well?”

  Jem shrugged. He couldn’t answer because he couldn’t read. It didn’t embarrass him to be reminded of this, but the same couldn’t be said for Miss Eames—who gasped and looked mortified when she realized what she’d just said to him.

  Before she could beg his pardon, however, the
cab came to an abrupt halt.

  “Whitechapel Road,” boomed the cabman. “All out for Whitechapel Road.”

  6

  The Impersonator

  Mr. Lubbock was still on his box outside the penny gaff. His voice had become a little hoarse. His silver lace was damp and bedraggled.

  “Now exhibiting! The best show in London!” he bawled at a couple of factory girls who were hovering nearby. Then he spotted Miss Eames, and his eyes lit up. “Walk in, madam, walk in! A menagerie of mythical beasts! Curiosities from the farthest corners of the world!”

  Miss Eames approached him. “Are you the manager of this establishment?” she asked.

  “I am indeed!” Mr. Lubbock’s fat, red face split into an unconvincing smile. “Josiah Lubbock, at your service.”

  “Well, Mr. Lubbock, I should like a word.” Glancing at the nearby costers, Miss Eames added, “In private.”

  “A private viewing, madam? Why, certainly! It will cost a little extra, of course—especially since you’ve brought some companions with you . . .” Mr. Lubbock winked at Birdie but apparently didn’t know what to make of Jem and Alfred. He shot them an uncertain look. “Let us say . . . ninepence? Or a shilling if you wish to touch the exhibits?”

  “We are not here as patrons,” Miss Eames replied crisply. “Kindly admit us, for I’ve no wish to discuss this matter with you in public.”

  The showman’s smile faded. He cleared his throat as his gaze raked the surrounding street. Then he said uneasily, “Perhaps after the show, madam . . . ?”

  “Now, Mr. Lubbock. Or I shall return with my solicitor.”

  “We ain’t debt collectors, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Jem added, just in case it was. And then Birdie stepped forward.

  “If you don’t let us in, I’ll stand here and tell everyone I’m Birdie McAdam. Unlike that false Birdie you got in there.” She pointed at the picture of the little girl cracking the whip as a gathering crowd of rough youths and hatless young women listened with great interest. “Don’t try and say as how I ain’t the genuine article,” Birdie went on, “for I’ve clear proof I am. Why, this here is Alfred Bunce the bogler, who can vouch for me!”

  There was a murmur of surprise from the growing crowd of spectators. Alfred winced. Mr. Lubbock jumped down from his box (more nimbly than Jem would have expected) and mumbled, “We’d best go in. After you. Mind the step.”

  Miss Eames sniffed. She allowed him to push open the door to his shop, then briskly marched in ahead of him. Birdie followed close on her heels. But when Jem tried to follow Birdie, Mr. Lubbock flicked him aside with the bamboo cane.

  Alfred grabbed it and said, “This boy is with me. Don’t raise yer hand to him.”

  Mr. Lubbock apologized. He sounded shaken. Muttering something under his breath, he quickly herded his unexpected visitors into a long, narrow vestibule that contained an unmanned ticket booth and several glass cabinets full of preserved specimens. A doorway at the far end of the room was hung with blue plush. A trickle of light filtered in between all the bills and placards that covered the window.

  “We’d best talk here,” he remarked, locking the front door behind him. “It’s more private.”

  “What’s a . . . a ‘ja-cul-us’?” Birdie suddenly asked. She had been inspecting the handwritten sign on one of the display cabinets—and all at once it dawned on Jem that she was actually reading it. Birdie McAdam had learned to read! He couldn’t have been more astonished.

  “A jaculus is a small, mythical dragon,” Miss Eames explained, stopping next to Birdie. “This, however, appears to be a lizard with bat’s wings attached to its shoulders.”

  “A remarkable discovery, is it not?” Mr. Lubbock began to mop his temples with a dirty handkerchief. “I obtained it from an old sea captain who spent fifty years roaming the West Indies. And here we have our selkie, and our griffin, and our Egyptian basilisk—”

  “Mr. Lubbock!” Miss Eames cut him off so sharply that he jumped. “We are not fools, sir! Nor are we interested in the grotesque productions of a dishonest taxidermist!” She waved her hand at the exhibits, half of which were rotting away in jars of alcohol. “I can see for myself that this water horse is a stuffed seal with some kind of mane stitched to its head!”

  “Madam—”

  “There is only one impersonation that interests us, Mr. Lubbock, and that is the person who is passing herself off as Birdie McAdam.”

  Mr. Lubbock turned an even darker shade of puce. “Perhaps before we continue, madam, you’d care to introduce yourself,” he said, straining to sound jovial. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Eames. Miss Edith Eames.” Drawing herself up to her full, not-very-impressive height, Miss Eames placed a hand on Birdie’s shoulder. “And this is the real Birdie McAdam.”

  “Aha. Yes.” The showman’s smile became sickly and apologetic as his gaze dropped from Miss Eames’s face to Birdie’s. “Dear me, what a surprise! For I must confess, I had no idea that there was a real Birdie McAdam.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped Miss Eames.

  “I assure you, I did not. I considered Birdie McAdam to be a mythical figure, like Spring-Heeled Jack.”

  “Can you not read, then?” Alfred growled. “She were in all the papers last summer.”

  Mr. Lubbock waved this objection aside with one pudgy hand. “Oh, but who can believe the press these days, Mr. . . . Mr. Bunce, is it?”

  “Aye.”

  “One reads such fabulous tales of raised corpses, and mistaken identities, and three-headed pygmies . . . Why, it’s hard to know what to believe! And when I heard about Birdie’s remarkable deeds of valor, I naturally assumed that such a talented child could not possibly exist.” Mr. Lubbock beamed at Birdie. “Were you indeed raised to kill bogles, m’dear?”

  Birdie shrugged. “I helped to kill ’em.”

  “By singing?”

  “That is no business of yours, sir!” Miss Eames barked.

  “Ah, but it could be my business, if the little girl is willing. And very good business too.” Addressing Birdie once more, Mr. Lubbock bent down and placed a hand on each of his knees. “I’m pulling in two pounds a night at present,” he confided, “but if your voice is as sweet as your face, m’dear, the takings could double. And one-tenth of that sum could be yours.”

  Jem gasped. He immediately began to calculate percentages, even as he wondered if Mr. Lubbock could be telling the truth. Birdie’s eyes widened. Alfred blinked.

  Miss Eames, however, was unmoved.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she scoffed. “Why would Birdie want to work for you? She is studying with Signora Paolini and is destined for an illustrious career on the stage!”

  “I’m sure she is, Miss Eames, but that doesn’t mean she cannot earn her keep when she is not studying,” Mr. Lubbock pointed out. “Why, what’s to stop her from studying in the day and performing at night? I cannot see any objection to it.”

  Neither could Jem. He thought it an excellent scheme—and observed that Birdie, too, seemed struck by the idea.

  “She would learn to crack a whip,” Mr. Lubbock continued, “and to handle a snake and wrangle a pony—”

  “A snake?” Jem interrupted, forestalling Miss Eames. “What snake?”

  “It is a perfectly harmless python. Not at all venomous,” Mr. Lubbock assured him. “As for our unicorn—why, she is the daintiest, most docile creature you ever laid eyes on! And our bogle’s as deft as he is big. Very well trained. He knows what he’s about.”

  Alfred snorted. “There ain’t a bogle in the world can be trained,” he said flatly.

  “You’d be surprised, Mr. Bunce. Here—let me introduce you.” Before Miss Eames could object, Mr. Lubbock scurried over to the plush curtain, which he pushed aside to reveal a much larger room with a raised platform at one end. In front of this platform were several rows of wooden benches. Behind it, the grubby plaster wall was covered with more colorful placards.

  Jem d
ecided that the single door to the left of the platform must lead backstage.

  “Hi! Eduardo! Come here at once!” Mr. Lubbock cried. Then he turned to Alfred, who had followed him into the makeshift theater, and explained, “Our bogle is the scion of a renowned Italian family, skilled in all the theatrical arts. But he grew too heavy for clowning or tumbling, and has found his true calling elsewhere.”

  “You ain’t got no box seats,” Jem remarked, having satisfied himself that the room wasn’t high enough to accommodate a gallery. His gaze snagged on several hooks in the ceiling. “Was this here a butcher’s shop once?”

  Before Mr. Lubbock could answer, a huge, hairy shape emerged through the stage door. Even from a distance, Jem could see at once that it was a very large man in a brown fur suit made of rabbit or cat. The arms of the suit were enclosed by a pair of fur mittens, topped with claws made of horn or bone. Under one arm was tucked a detached head, complete with snout, tusks, and a hinged jaw.

  Jem decided that the head was probably molded out of papier-mâché, or something equally light. The teeth were real, though—unless they had been fashioned from porcelain.

  Miss Eames wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Really, Mr. Lubbock,” she protested.

  But the showman ignored her. Instead, with a theatrical flourish, he introduced Eduardo to “the real Birdie McAdam.” Then he fixed his little blue eyes on Birdie again. “I’ll warrant you’d make short work of this bogle—eh, m’dear?” he said.

  “He don’t look like no bogle I ever saw” was Birdie’s response, as the man in the fur suit stared at her blankly. His big, bony, square-jawed face stuck out of his shaggy brown collar like a strange bloom sprouting from a flowerpot. His hair and eyes were even darker than Jem’s.

  “I don’ unnerstand,” he said to Mr. Lubbock. “Bedelia issa leaving?”

  “No, no, you’re not listening, Ed. This is Birdie McAdam. The real Birdie McAdam. Now, why don’t you put on that head and show her what you can do?”

  Eduardo opened his mouth, still looking puzzled. But then someone else broke into the conversation.