But when he finally did find the mirror, it wasn’t in pieces. It had turned into a pool of black glass, which had fused to the floor.
“What does that mean?” he asked Alfred as they surveyed it together. “Is it good luck or bad luck?”
“It’s bad luck for me,” Alfred replied, wiping his face with his neckerchief, “since I must buy another.”
Jem flushed. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. He felt sick and dizzy and ashamed.
Alfred shrugged. Jem wanted to ask if the cost of the next mirror would be deducted from his own wages. He wanted to suggest that they hang any future glass on a string around his neck, to prevent further mishaps. He wanted to find out if Birdie had ever broken a mirror, and if not, whether a broken mirror was grounds for dismissal.
But he wasn’t given the chance to speak, because Alfred began to hustle him upstairs—where the sexton was patiently waiting.
“Well?” asked Mr. Froome. He carried a pair of brown boots and was flanked by two men: Hugh Purdy and a blond giant who wore a fantailed hat. Jem assumed that the stranger must be Purdy’s friend the sewer flusher.
“It’s done,” Alfred told Mr. Froome. He then nodded at Purdy before shifting his gaze to the flusher, who had a silver tooth, pierced ears, and a tattoo on his wrist.
“Sam Snell at yer service, Mr. Bunce,” the flusher announced with a wide grin, shaking Alfred’s hand enthusiastically. “I never did think I’d meet a genuine Go-Devil Man, though it’s bin a dream o’ mine since I were nobbut a young shaver!”
Alfred blinked. Then Sam Snell released him and turned to Jem, saying, “So you’re the brave lad as hunts down them bogles, eh? I’d ha’ given me right arm to do the same, as a boy, but went to sea instead.”
He proceeded to shake Jem’s hand vigorously, his blue eyes twinkling and his silver tooth glinting. Jem couldn’t help smiling back. He’d been feeling so bad about the broken mirror that he welcomed any praise he could get. And he’d always admired seamen.
“You’re a scrap of a child to be facing down bogles,” the flusher continued. “And a mite green around the gills, besides. Mebbe you need a shot o’ liquor.” He appealed to his friend. “We should buy ’em a drink, Hugh!”
“Nay,” said Alfred. He looked a little distracted, as if something was preying on his mind. “We have to go now. Unless we’re needed in the sewers, Mr. Purdy?”
“Uh—no. Not yet.” The plumber explained that Sam would have to speak to his foreman, and his foreman to an inspector, before Alfred would be allowed inside the Holborn Viaduct. “But Sam ain’t expecting no trouble. He says if they had boys working the sewers—which they don’t—they’d have hired a bogler long since.”
The flusher nodded fervently. “I’ve said all along there’s bogles, but no one’s had the spine to take it to the Sewers Office.”
“I see.” Alfred seemed anxious to quell the talkative flusher (who may have been a little drunk, Jem thought). “Well, you know where to find me if you hear any more,” the bogler said to Purdy, before addressing Mr. Froome. “There’s traces in the crypt you should be wary of. I’ve doused it in holy water, but I wouldn’t touch it without gloves.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Froome. “And I’ll be careful.”
“Have you ever heard owt from Newgate Prison?” Alfred went on. “About young’uns escaping from the cells, or some such thing?”
“I have not.”
“Then you’d best keep yer ears open.” Seeing the sexton blink, Alfred sighed and explained, “That there tunnel is a perfect bogle’s lair, and might be sheltering others where it joins the prison. Even if it’s bin emptied, I’m inclined to think a second creature might move in. For this corner o’ town ain’t like no other. There’s more bogles here than I’ve ever come across in one place, and it troubles me. Very much.”
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Froome quavered. Then he gave Alfred his fee and Jem his boots, remarking to Jem as he did so, “I hope these fit. There’s a stocking in each.”
“Thank’ee, sir.” Jem bobbed his head, almost teary with gratitude. He couldn’t understand why he was feeling so shaken. The bogle was dead. He was alive. And Alfred wasn’t the type to beat an apprentice for breaking a mirror.
Yet Jem felt like sobbing his heart out just because he’d been given a new pair of boots.
Puzzled and mortified, he pulled them on while Alfred said his goodbyes to the others. But when at last they emerged onto Newgate Street together, Jem said to Alfred, in a very small voice, “Is a dead bogle as bad as a live one for making you low spirited?”
Alfred shot him a quick, measuring glance. “Not as far as I know.”
“Mmph.” Jem fell silent. Alfred waited. He and Jem both donned their hats, walking toward the nearest bus stop through the milling crowds. Jem’s feet felt oddly clumsy, wedged into their casings of stiff leather.
At last Alfred observed, “Birdie never broke no looking glass, but she once dropped a flask o’ brandy into a cesspit.”
Jem brightened. “She did?”
“Aye. And tried to claim the bogle took it.” Alfred gave a snort of laughter. “Ask her yerself when we get to Bloomsbury. She’ll tell you I ain’t lying.”
“We’re going to Bloomsbury?” asked Jem, diverted by this news. “Why?”
“Because I don’t understand what’s happening here.” Alfred’s eyes narrowed as he scanned his surroundings, almost as if he expected to see bogles slithering along the gutters. “Bogles ain’t like pigeons,” he said. “They don’t travel in flocks. So why is this corner o’ London crawling with ’em?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Miss Eames is book learned. She might know why. And she might know what to do about it, besides. For I tell you, lad”—he shook his head gloomily—“I’m flummoxed.”
12
Jam Tarts for Tea
“Bogles don’t hunt in packs,” said Alfred. “I ain’t never seen more’n one bogle every half a mile, even along the river. So what’s three of ’em doing within a stone’s throw o’ Newgate Prison?”
He was sitting in a flowery little parlor, full of books and pictures, stuffed birds, embroidered cushions, spindly furniture, clocks, tassels, and crocheted doilies. Jem and Birdie were with him, as were Miss Eames and her aunt, Mrs. Heppinstall. They were gathered around a low mahogany table laid with a linen cloth, a silver tea service, and a plate of jam tarts.
Jem had already eaten three of the tarts. He had also drunk two large cups of sugary tea. In fact, he’d been so busy stuffing his mouth that he’d hardly said a word since arriving on Miss Eames’s doorstep. He’d said “Hello” to Birdie on first entering the house. He’d said “Yes, please” when offered a jam tart by Mrs. Heppinstall. And he’d muttered a few vague words of approval after hearing from Miss Eames that all the posters with Birdie’s name on them had been removed from Josiah Lubbock’s penny gaff.
“I went there this morning, just to make sure,” she’d told her two visitors before shepherding them into the parlor.
But it was Alfred who’d done most of the talking. Very slowly and carefully, stopping occasionally to sip his tea or shake his head, he had described his adventures around Newgate Prison in great detail before finally coming to the point. “In all yer reading,” he asked Miss Eames, “did you ever stumble upon a pack o’ bogles, hunting close together? For I never did.” Seeing Miss Eames frown, he added, “Could they be foreign, d’you think? Or Scotch?”
“Scotch?” she echoed, then leaned forward to put down her teacup. She was beautifully dressed, as usual; Jem calculated that the blue-velvet trimming on her jacket was worth at least eight shillings a yard. “In all honesty, Mr. Bunce, Scotch bogles tend to be lonely guardians tied to particular places,” she replied. “Like the Baisd Bheulach, for instance, or even the Loch Ness Monster. However, I’ve read about some creatures who are mentioned always in the plural. The sluagh. The brollachan. The Dunters and the Red Caps, which infest certain border castles—”
&
nbsp; “Aye, but do they haunt in clusters, or is it one for each castle?” Alfred interrupted. “And if they do mix, do they all look the same, or differ as much as a pig differs from a duck?”
Miss Eames blinked.
“Why, Mr. Bunce, what a very odd question,” said Mrs. Heppinstall, who had been listening with great interest as she poured the tea. She wore a black gown, a gray shawl, and a white lace cap. Her silvery hair formed two little bunches of ringlets over her ears. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“Jem knows.” Alfred nodded in Jem’s direction. “He saw ’em. Why don’t you tell Miss Eames what they was like, lad?”
Jem had to swallow a mouthful of pastry before he could oblige. “The cellar bogle looked to be made o’ black gelatin,” he said thickly, spraying crumbs everywhere. “The crypt bogle had a wolf’s head, and a monkey’s arms, and a toad’s legs—”
“They was like chalk and cheese.” Alfred cut him off before he could finish. “If they hadn’t bin, I’d have started wondering if I’d even killed the first. On account of how close it were living to the second.”
“I see.” Miss Eames nodded, pursing her lips. Meanwhile, on the couch beside her—which was upholstered in a green damask that Jem valued at three shillings and sixpence a yard—Birdie McAdam was wriggling about like a worm on a hook, impatient to have her say.
“Mebbe all o’ them bogles was cast from their old haunts,” she suggested. When the others stared at her blankly, she turned to Alfred. “You just said there’s houses coming down and houses going up over by Newgate Street,” she reminded him. “And new railway tunnels and sewers being laid . . .”
“Aye,” Alfred confirmed.
“Well, what if that’s flushed out the bogles?” Birdie argued. “Like roaches when you shift a bin?”
“Yes, of course!” Miss Eames brightened. “That would make sense!”
“Clever girl,” Mrs. Heppinstall said fondly, patting Birdie’s arm.
But Alfred didn’t look convinced. “Even if all the new work is flushing bogles out o’ their dens,” he objected, “that don’t explain why they ain’t spreading out, instead o’ clumping together.”
“Perhaps it’s territorial,” said Miss Eames. Alfred grunted. Jem reached for another jam tart.
Then Mrs. Heppinstall gently inquired, “Would you care for something else, Jem? A tongue sandwich, perhaps? Jam tarts don’t build sturdy bones.”
Jem’s mouth was already full, so he nodded. Mrs. Heppinstall immediately rang the little silver bell at her side, as Alfred continued in a glum, slightly anxious tone, “What’s worrying me is where this might lead. If there’s so many bogles about, what’s to stop ’em living in the same lair? Suppose I do another job and find there’s more’n one to deal with? What then?”
Birdie hissed. Jem shuddered.
Miss Eames frowned again. “But, Mr. Bunce,” she said, “I thought you had abandoned bogling? Except in this one instance, of course . . .”
“I swore I’d clear out Holborn Viaduct,” Alfred retorted stubbornly. “And that’s what I’m a-going to do. But if I take Jem down the sewers and find two bogles instead o’ one, what then?”
“Let me go!” Birdie cried. She began to bounce up and down, making springs creak and petticoats rustle. “I’ll distract one bogle while Jem lures the other! We can work as a pair!”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Miss Eames said in a crisp, reproving voice.
“You can’t stop me!” Birdie shot back. And before Mrs. Heppinstall—or even Alfred—could protest, she added, “If you don’t let me go, I’ll walk out! I shall! And you won’t never see me again!”
“Birdie, dear . . .” Mrs. Heppinstall bleated, as Miss Eames matched Birdie’s scowl with her own.
“Nonsense!” snapped Miss Eames. “Don’t be foolish, Birdie. Where on earth would you go?”
“Mr. Bunce’ll take me back. Won’t you, Mr. Bunce?” Birdie fixed a pair of big, blue, beseeching eyes on Alfred, who dragged a hand over the pouches and hollows of his face, muttering something inaudible.
Jem said nothing. Though he was anxious about his own little hard-won corner of Alfred’s room, he knew that if Birdie laid claim to it, he wouldn’t stand a chance. All he could do was glare at her, hoping that she would come to her senses. Why would anyone wearing silk hair ribbons and lace-trimmed petticoats want to live in a tiny attic room full of red dust?
She was mad, he thought.
Then the maid entered. And before Mrs. Heppinstall could ask for a tongue sandwich, her niece suddenly remarked, “Take the children upstairs, Mary. Jem wants to see Birdie’s room, I’m sure.”
Jem blinked at her. Birdie exclaimed, “No, he don’t!”
“I wish to talk to Mr. Bunce,” Miss Eames declared. “In private.”
“But—”
“Do as you’re told, lass.” At last Alfred decided to intercede, raising his voice from its usual low rumble and fixing Birdie with one of his hard, dark looks. “This ain’t yer house,” he said. “Seems to me you’ve lost respect since you come here. I thought I raised you better.”
To Jem’s surprise, Birdie didn’t answer back. Instead, she colored, rose, and began to walk out of the room, straight backed and fuming. Jem leaped up to follow her—though not without grabbing another jam tart.
“And, Birdie?” Miss Eames called after her. “Remember what I told you about double negatives.”
“Double negatives,” Birdie muttered under her breath as she stomped into the hallway. “I’ll give you double negatives!” Though Jem couldn’t see her expression, he knew from her tone that she was furious.
Mary watched them both trudge upstairs with a smug look on her face.
“D’you think I’ll get that sandwich?” Jem asked Birdie once they had left the first landing behind. He was amazed to see that the stair carpet ran all the way to the upper floor—and that there were just as many pictures and fans and mirrors covering the walls in this private region of the house as there were in the more public spaces downstairs.
“If it’s food you want, you’d be better off in the kitchen,” Birdie growled. She led him into one of the best bedrooms, which contained a shiny brass bedstead heaped with feather pillows, a large chest of drawers, an array of china figurines, a fireplace, a chair, a washstand, a dressing table, a looking glass, and a paraffin lamp. The walls were papered in a floral design that matched the curtains. An Axminster carpet lay on the floor.
“Is this your room?” Jem was astounded. “I thought you slept in the attic!”
“I did, at first,” said Birdie, heading straight for the fireplace. “But then they moved me here.”
“No wonder the maid hates you.” Jem gazed around, shaking his head in wonder. “You’re addled,” he announced. “Why kick up a fuss when you got all this? I’d rather live here than at Alfred’s.”
“That’s because you don’t understand what it’s like.” Squatting in front of the grate, Birdie took a brass-handled poker and thrust it straight up the chimney. “You think it’s all jam tarts and silk shifts, but it ain’t. They won’t let you do nothing without permission. They tell you how to talk and walk and sit and stand—”
“What’s that you’re doing now?” Jem interrupted. She seemed to be dislodging a loose brick. “If you’re trying to bring down the chimney, I’ll not be a party to it.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Birdie’s tone was scornful. “This is how I eavesdrop. The flue leads straight up from the dining room, so if the folding doors are open, I can hear everything they say in the parlor.”
“Oh.” Jem munched on his jam tart as Birdie wriggled into the fireplace. She then put her ear to the hole she’d made, ignoring Jem, who began to inspect the contents of her room. The cane-seated chair was worth about three shillings, he guessed. The washstand had a marble top. Birdie’s brushes were backed with horn, and she had a workbox inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“They’re talking about Ned,” Birdie suddenl
y revealed from her listening post. “She wants to know why Ned can’t help. Mr. Bunce is saying Ned would lose his job if he missed a day.”
“Which is the truth,” said Jem. He picked up a little silver casket, checked inside, and saw that it was full of sugar pastilles. For some reason, the discovery made him furious. “You’re off yer head, wanting to leave this place and live in a dirty garret!” he spluttered.
“You chose to live in an East End cellar,” Birdie rejoined.
“Only because I’m looking for Sarah Pickles!”
“Shhh!” Birdie flapped her hand at him. “They’re talking about me now . . .”
But Jem had already fallen silent. Something was stirring in the back of his mind. Sarah Pickles . . . garrets . . .
Birdie gave a sudden squeal. “Miss Eames says I can do it!” she crowed. “As long as she comes too!” When Jem didn’t respond, Birdie turned around to see why. “Did you hear? We’ll be going down the viaduct together!”
“Shhh!” Jem was holding his temples with both hands. The name was on the tip of his tongue. It was so close, he could almost smell it . . .
“What ails you?” Birdie demanded. “Is it a headache?”
“Eunice Pickles!” Jem blurted out.
“What?”
“Sarah’s daughter! Eunice Pickles!” Jem gazed at her wildly, amazed that he could have forgotten about Eunice. “I seen her in the streets around Newgate! She’s living there, I’d swear to it! And if she’s there . . . why, then, so is her ma!”
13
The Proposition
That night Jem dreamed of Sarah Pickles. He dreamed that he was hiding under the bed in her garret lodgings, which he’d only ever visited twice in all his years of faithful service. The first time, he’d gone there with her son Charlie to collect some tools for a break-and-enter job in Islington. The second time, he’d been sent there all alone with a delivery of silver plate.
On both occasions, Eunice Pickles had been hovering in the background, fat and frumpy and silent. She’d had the look of someone who spent all day sweeping floors and boiling bacon. But in Jem’s dream, she was trying to lure him out from beneath the bed with a plate of jam tarts, as Sarah waited behind her, ax in hand.
A Plague of Bogles Page 8