“No, sir, for it’s empty. All but brand-new. Once the flashing is done, everything inside is to be painted.”
“Where is this house?” said Jem as Alfred pensively puffed away.
“On Holborn Viaduct,” Purdy replied. “Near the railway bridge.”
Alfred frowned. “Is that—?”
“Near the tavern? It is.”
Jem was pleased to see Alfred frown. It meant that the bogler was interested enough to be disturbed—or perhaps confused. It meant that he was hooked, Jem thought.
Like a fish.
“That’s very strange,” rasped Alfred. “You’ll not see bogles so close together, as a rule. They tend to be solitary creatures . . .”
Purdy shrugged. “You’d know best,” he said. “I ain’t had no experience with bogles.”
“What about the chimneys in the house?” was Alfred’s next question. “Do they draw well?”
“That I can’t tell you. Far as I know, they never was lit. Some of ’em don’t yet have mantels.”
Alfred gave a grunt. Purdy watched and waited. Then Jem, who was very hungry, decided to poke at the fire. Though it had been reduced to a heap of glowing embers, he felt sure that if he rearranged the coals and blew on them hard enough, he might be able to boil a kettle.
“I ain’t a young man, Mr. Purdy,” Alfred said at last. “How tall is this house o’ yours?”
“Five stories. Including the basement.” When Alfred grimaced, Purdy assured him, “I’ve a sturdy ladder and ropes aplenty, and the slates up there is clean as a whistle. No moss or bird’s mess on ’em.”
Alfred still looked unconvinced. So Jem, who was now squatting in front of the fire, poker in hand, said, “I’m spry enough. I can go up there.”
“Not without me, you can’t,” Alfred retorted.
“I’ll pay extra.” Though Purdy wasn’t begging, exactly, there was an urgent edge to his voice. “Mabel parted with eight shillings—I’ll pay ten.”
“Ten!” It was a princely sum. Jem stared at Alfred, wide eyed.
The bogler smoothed his mustache thoughtfully.
“Billy is the son of an old friend,” Purdy went on. “He’s the best boy I ever had and has lodged with my family these six months past. It makes me heartsore to think—” He stopped suddenly, then swallowed a few times before proceeding. “If a bogle took him, I’ll not rest till it’s dead. Billy deserves nothing less, poor lad.”
Jem knew that Alfred wouldn’t have the heart to resist this plea but decided to grease the wheels a little, regardless. “Even if there ain’t no bogle,” he told Purdy, “you’ll still have to pay costs. A shilling down, and a penny for salt.”
“Fivepence,” Alfred interrupted. He shot Jem a reproving look. “Fivepence for a visit. And a penny for salt.”
“I’d be happy to pay the shilling,” Purdy began, before the bogler cut him off.
“I ain’t in the habit o’ speeling me customers. It’s sixpence all up if the bogle don’t show.”
“And the bus fare on top o’ that,” said Jem.
Alfred scowled as Purdy gave a surprised laugh. “He’s a downy one, ain’t he?” the plumber observed, eyeing Jem with reluctant admiration. “The lad bargains like a Thames ferry man.”
“He weren’t raised right,” said Alfred. Then, having resigned himself to the inevitable, he added, “Could you wait for us downstairs, Mr. Purdy? I need a minute or so to make meself decent.”
“Of course! Anything you want, Mr. Bunce.” The plumber’s face creased into a wide, relieved smile. He had very good teeth, Jem noticed. “There’s a baker’s shop around the corner. What if I was to stop in and buy us a couple o’ Bath buns for breakfast while you’re dressing? We could eat ’em on our way.”
Jem didn’t even have to nod; his stomach spoke for him. Alfred muttered something about being very much obliged. Then Hugh Purdy left the room—and Alfred made sure that the door was firmly shut before rounding on Jem, saying, “I’ll have no more o’ that, d’you hear?”
“More o’ what?”
“Them gammoning, griddling ways you garnered from Sal Pickles. If you can’t be honest, there ain’t no place for you here.”
“What do you mean?” Jem was deeply offended. “I never tried to gammon nobody! I were haggling is all.”
“You was driving up the price and speaking out o’ turn,” Alfred snapped. “I’ll never take advantage of no desperate soul that’s a-grieving for some lost child. Sal might have, but I ain’t her. And neither are you.”
Jem was assailed by the sudden memory of how he had once helped to rob a woman’s house while she was making her regular weekly visit to her dead child’s grave. It was a sour and shameful recollection, but he told himself, as he always did, It were Sarah as made me do it. She’s the one as led me astray.
And she deserved to suffer the consequences.
“Besides which, you ain’t here to talk. You’re here to listen and to learn,” Alfred was saying. When Jem opened his mouth, the bogler immediately cut him off. “Ned’s smart enough to know that he don’t know nothing. Birdie’s the same. You’d better follow their lead, or we’ll be parting ways by nightfall. I don’t want you saying one word to that plumber without leave from me. Understand?”
Jem swallowed hard. Then he nodded.
“Good.” Alfred picked up one of his boots. “Now take that jug next door and see if Mrs. Ricketts can spare us a drop o’ hot shaving water . . .”
9
On the Roof
Though Jem had heard of the Holborn Viaduct, he’d never been there. He knew that it had been built, quite recently, across the valley lying between Fetter Lane and Newgate Street. He also knew that it was supported on the back of a remarkable bridge. But when he finally reached this famous bridge, he could see very little of it. From the top, it was just a wide stretch of busy road flanked by iron balustrades and bronze statues.
Jem particularly liked the statues of the four winged lions. The other four statues were of gigantic women wearing bed sheets. They didn’t interest him much. He preferred to look at the women hurrying past them, wrapped in sensible coats and shawls.
He was hoping to see the same woman he’d glimpsed the previous afternoon, near the omnibus stop down the road. He was convinced that if he spotted this woman again, he’d be able to put a name to her face.
It bothered him that he couldn’t remember who she was.
Buildings were being constructed all around the viaduct, wherever older houses had been knocked down to make way for the new stretch of road. After passing Saint Sepulchre’s Church, heading west, Hugh Purdy pointed to where the Saracen’s Head Inn had once stood. Skinner Street was also gone, he lamented, as were Haberdashers Court and Turnagain Lane. A railway station was being erected near the bridge, with a grand hotel attached to it.
“You wouldn’t recognize this place,” said Purdy, shaking his head as he surveyed all the hoardings and rubble. “I growed up near here, on Catherine Wheel Court, and that’s gone too. Like they put a scythe through Snow Hill.”
The plumber finally stopped in front of a large terrace that was going up on the south side of the viaduct, near Saint Andrew’s Church. It was a tall, handsome building made of fresh-laid bricks and newly carved stone. The front door hadn’t been painted, but all the windows were glazed—including the shop windows downstairs. A load of banisters had been dumped near the main staircase. No one had yet sanded the floors, papered the walls, or installed any fireplace mantels.
Everything inside was coated with a thick layer of plaster dust.
“Do bogles leave tracks?” Jem asked Alfred as Purdy ushered them into the vestibule—where the floor tiles were a mess of powdery footprints.
“Not as a rule,” Alfred replied. “But that don’t mean a thing.” He sniffed the air like a bloodhound as he followed Hugh Purdy into the first room. Here, someone had left a mangy broom and a wheelbarrow. The fireplace was just a square hole in the wall. The floor in
front of it was covered in footprints, all of them made by hobnail boots.
“Can’t see no traces here,” Alfred observed after hunkering down to peer up the flue. When Purdy asked him what traces he would expect to find if a bogle was in residence, Alfred shrugged and said, “Depends on the bogle. Some might leave a stain or a smell. Most don’t leave nowt at all.”
Jem sneezed. The only things he could smell were sawdust and plaster, with a little linseed oil thrown in. It was the same in the next room, and the one after that. As they slowly ascended, past door after door without knobs or architraves, Alfred checked every fireplace in the building—and found nothing in any of them.
“If there’s a bogle haunting the roof, then it’s staying up near the chimney pots,” he finally declared. “Else I’d be feeling its presence, which I ain’t.”
“You’d feel it?” said Purdy with a touch of alarm. “How?”
Alfred shrugged. “You’d feel it too,” he replied. “Everyone’s mood allus slumps when there’s a bogle about.” By this time he was kneeling by a fireplace in one of the attic rooms, where the brick walls hadn’t yet been plastered over, and where the huge, heavy roof beams were still exposed. There were several discarded tools on the floor near him. Jem eyed them wistfully, knowing that the hammer had to be worth at least a shilling, and the chisel double that.
But he resisted the urge to pick up even a nail punch, since Alfred would almost certainly tell him to put it down again.
“If you want to inspect the roof, Mr. Bunce, you’ve only to step out onto the slates,” Hugh Purdy remarked, pointing at a nearby dormer window. It was circular, like a ship’s porthole, and framed a view of the elaborate stone balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. “I’ve put a ladder out there and can tie a rope around your middle. But you’ll see for yourself, there’s plenty to hold on to . . .”
Alfred rose to his feet. Jem dashed past him and climbed up onto the windowsill. Below it was a wide gutter that separated the balustrade from the sloping roof. To his right, a ladder had been propped against the slates, leading up to the roof’s apex. To his left was a bank of chimneys, practically within touching distance.
The lowering gray clouds seemed almost as close as the chimneys. Jem wondered how long it would be before the rain started, making it too wet to go crawling across a pitched roof.
“Oh, this ain’t so bad!” he announced. “I seen much worse than this!” While working for Sarah Pickles, he had often broken into houses by lifting roof slates. Sometimes he had even done it in the middle of the night. Climbing onto a balustraded roof in broad daylight, with a ladder to help him and no slimy pigeon droppings to slip him up, seemed like pleasant work in comparison. “Let me go out,” he begged Alfred, who had joined him at the window.
But Alfred shook his head. “Wouldn’t be safe.”
“Yes, it would! I’m a good climber!”
“That ain’t here nor there.” As Jem opened his mouth to protest, Alfred growled, “It’s the bogle as worries me, not the climbing. We don’t want to lay our bait afore we set our trap.” Having silenced Jem, he turned to the plumber. “Where did you last see yer boy? Can you show me the exact spot?”
“I can,” said Purdy, dropping his tool bag. Next thing he was out on the roof, tying a length of rope to the balustrade. Once this rope had been attached to Alfred’s waist, the two men began to inch their way along the gutter, while Jem lay across the windowsill, straining to see as much as he could without actually setting foot outside.
“Last time I saw Billy, I were up there, working,” Purdy explained, pointing at the roof’s peak. “He came down the ladder to fetch more lead. Then his singing stopped, and when I next looked up . . .” He trailed off with a sigh.
Alfred stiffened. “You heard him singing?”
“I did. He had a fine voice.”
The bogler frowned. Jem knew that the bogle would have been drawn to Billy’s voice.
“So he didn’t go nowhere near that chimney?” was Alfred’s next question.
“No.”
“Where was yer lead?”
“I left it there. In a box.” This time Purdy indicated a spot halfway between the ladder and the window. Alfred squinted at this patch of gutter. Then he asked, “Are you sure the boy didn’t go back inside?”
“He had no cause to. I checked the box later, and saw lead enough in it.”
“But would he have gone to relieve himself?”
Purdy hesitated. At last he said, in a slightly sheepish tone, “There’s gutters for that, or we’d be up and down all day.”
Alfred gave a grunt. Jem wanted to inquire about solid waste but didn’t dare, not after the way he had been scolded for speaking out of turn that morning. Instead, he peered around at the gleaming expanse of gray slate, the narrow chimney pots, the half-finished flashing, and the little turrets on the balustrade, wondering where a bogle could possibly have hidden itself. Had the missing apprentice really been eaten? It seemed so unlikely—and not just because there were no obvious boltholes on the roof. Jem found it hard to believe that a bogle was lurking nearby because he didn’t feel gloomy or hopeless. Even under such low, brooding clouds, the roof seemed like a peaceful spot, far removed from the dirt and clamor of the street.
Jem had slept in far worse places.
“Besides, Billy wouldn’t have gone off without asking,” Purdy was telling Alfred. “And if he did, where is he now? I looked in the cellar. I looked in the coal hole. He ain’t in this house, Mr. Bunce.”
“What’s that?” Alfred said suddenly.
His wandering gaze had snagged on something. Jem leaned even farther out of the window, desperate to see what had alarmed the bogler. Only by craning his neck and shading his eyes was he finally able to make out a kind of grating, which was set into the thick wall that divided the house beneath them from the one next to it.
“That ain’t no down pipe,” Alfred continued, steadying himself against the balustrade. “What’s it for?”
“Oh, that,” said Purdy. “That’s a ventilation shaft.”
“A what?” Alfred didn’t sound any wiser, so the plumber tried to explain.
“It troubled me, too, until I mentioned it to a friend o’ mine. He’s a flusher in the sewers and told me there’s a great tangle o’ pipes and tunnels built into the viaduct. That there”—Purdy nodded at the grating—“is a shaft as lets out sewer gas from under the street.”
“Sewer gas?” Alfred echoed. He glanced at Jem, who grimaced.
“There’s one in every party wall built along here,” Purdy related. “My friend tells me there’s gratings set into the road as well. And shafts in the lampposts.” He shook his head admiringly. “Ain’t nothing like this viaduct in all the world.”
Jem stared at the spot where Purdy’s box of lead sheets had been positioned. To reach it, Billy would have had to climb down the ladder and turn his back on the grating, which would have been about ten feet away from him.
Having seen a bogle in action, Jem had no trouble imagining what might have happened next. And he shuddered at the thought of it.
Alfred sighed. “That there is where yer bogle came from,” he announced, with a nod at the ventilation shaft. “Straight up from the sewers and straight back down again.” He paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “’Tis the worst stroke o’ luck I ever saw. The Board o’ Works should have consulted a Go-Devil Man afore building bogle runs into these here houses.”
“But—but ain’t that hole too small, Mr. Bunce?” Purdy was gaping at him in disbelief. “Why, Billy himself could barely fit through it, let alone the bogle as ate him!”
“Never think any hole’s too small for a bogle,” Alfred replied. Then he turned and headed straight toward Jem, planting his feet with great care as he clutched the balustrade.
Jem reached out to help him back inside.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Purdy exclaimed. “What about the
bogle? We have to kill it!”
Alfred shook his head. “I can’t. Not up here.”
“We couldn’t lay down no salt,” Jem observed, thinking aloud. “The roof’s too steep.” When he saw Alfred’s nod of approval, he felt quite pleased with himself.
“But it’s got to be killed, Mr. Bunce!” Before Alfred could even respond, Purdy abruptly changed tack. “If it lives in the sewers, could we not trap it down there?” he demanded.
Alfred paused, then shrugged. He was straddling the windowsill. “Mebbe.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Purdy spoke with energy and purpose. “I’ll have a word with my friend Sam Snell, the flusher. He’ll get us in. That’s if you don’t object, Mr. Bunce?”
“I’ve worked the sewers before,” Alfred said wearily.
“Good.” Purdy seemed to think that the matter was settled. He didn’t bother to ask Jem how he felt about sewers. Neither did Alfred, but that didn’t surprise Jem.
After being underfed and overworked by his last two employers, Jem wasn’t expecting Alfred to treat him like anything but a dumb animal.
Just as long as he don’t truss me up for slaughter, Jem thought on his way back downstairs.
One day, he reminded himself, Sarah Pickles was going to pay for doing that.
10
Saint Sepulchre’s Church
Hugh Purdy insisted that they all go straight to the Viaduct Tavern. “Sam Snell allus drinks a pint there after his morning shift,” Purdy said. “It’s the best place to catch him, this time o’ day.” He then offered to buy Alfred a brandy while they were waiting for the flusher. “I daresay you need one, after your spell on the roof.”
Alfred agreed. So it wasn’t long before he and Jem were sidling into the taproom of the Viaduct, trying to ignore the looming bulk of Newgate Prison nearby. It astonished Jem that people could swill down their gin within yards of such a terrible place. How could they not feel guilty and hunted? It was like having a judge breathing down your neck.
A Plague of Bogles Page 6