A Plague of Bogles

by Catherine Jinks

  Birdie sniffed and wiped her nose. Jem muttered, “It wouldn’t have bin so bad if that dozy bluebottle had remembered the trapdoor in the ceiling.”

  “But how can you blame him, when all o’ them boxes was piled underneath it, on top o’ the lift?” Ned spoke up in defense of Constable Pike. “Besides, it ain’t bin used for a good three months. Mr. Ballard said so.”

  “The fault were mine,” Alfred interrupted. “I should have checked. I should allus check.”

  “Upstairs? In a storage bay?” Birdie’s voice was weak and husky. “How could you have known?”

  “Seems to me there’s so many bogles hereabouts, they’ve filled up the lairs they generally favor and have found less likely cribs as a consequence,” Ned remarked.

  “Aye,” said Alfred. “Which is why we’ll not be bogling here again.”

  Jem tried to conceal the relief he felt on hearing this. Behind his bold front, he hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of the latest bogle attack. His hands were still trembling, and he was still gulping down great lungfuls of air. His beautiful new coat looked as if it had been splashed with lye. His arm hurt. What’s more, he couldn’t seem to shake off the sense of impending doom that the bogle had left in its wake.

  Kicking a peach pit along the wet cobbles, he eyed every drain, alley, and doorway, half expecting to see a dark shape uncoiling in the shadows.

  Then, all at once, he spotted a familiar façade. They had drawn level with the Viaduct Tavern, which no longer sported a notice in any of its windows.

  “Where’s that bill?” he asked. “The one Mr. Lubbock posted? I can’t see it.”

  “That don’t signify.” Alfred didn’t even pause. “Come along now, or we’ll miss the bus.”

  “But why post it at all if it were up for only the one night?” Jem had stopped in his tracks, puzzled. He was scanning the tavern’s façade, which looked damp and dismal despite its gilt trim, when all at once Mabel Lillimere emerged from the front door with a bucket of dirty water.

  As she emptied the bucket into a drain, Jem called to her, “Hi! Miss Lillimere!”

  The barmaid glanced up. When she saw Jem, however, she didn’t smile. Instead, she flinched.

  “W-why, Mr. Bunce,” she stammered as her nervous gaze flicked toward Alfred. “Good morning, sir.”

  Then, to Jem’s amazement, she scuttled back inside.

  Jem’s jaw dropped. He turned to Alfred and they stared at each other, astonished. Even Birdie looked perplexed.

  Before she could say anything, however, Jem darted forward. “Miss Lillimere?” he cried. “Begging yer pardon, miss!” He reached the tavern door just as it swung shut but quickly pushed it open again. Alfred caught up with him a moment later.

  “Wait—Jem—” said Alfred.

  He was too late, though. Jem had already crossed the threshold.

  Mabel was hovering just behind a wooden screen that separated the door from the nearest booth. Jem nearly bumped into her as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Slowly her face became visible; he saw her pale cheeks, her furrowed brow, her trembling lips.

  “I’m not to talk to you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “W-what?” Jem couldn’t believe his ears. “Why?”

  “Mr. Watkins said so.” Mabel peered over her shoulder toward the bar. “I’ll lose my place if I do.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry,” she hissed, then turned on her heel and whisked away. Jem would have followed her if Alfred hadn’t grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Leave her be,” said Alfred. “Don’t trouble the poor lass.”

  Jem didn’t protest. He was too stunned. Speechlessly he allowed the bogler to drag him back outside, where Ned and Birdie were still waiting in the rain.

  “What happened?” asked Birdie.

  Jem shook his head. Alfred muttered, “Whatever happened, t’ain’t nowt to do with us.”

  “Are you sure?” Jem couldn’t understand it. “She’s allus bin so friendly, and now . . .” He trailed off.

  “Mebbe it’s that slang cove. What’s his name? Lubbock?” Ned hazarded.

  “No.” A loud voice broke into their conversation from several feet away. “No, I can assure you that I am not responsible.”

  They all jumped. Turning, they saw that Josiah Lubbock was approaching them from the direction of Saint Sepulchre’s Church holding an open umbrella. As Alfred blanched and frowned, the showman raised his free hand in a defensive movement.

  “Give me five seconds, Mr. Bunce, for you’ll want to hear this.”

  “I thought I told you—”

  “To keep clear. I know.” Mr. Lubbock was looking far more lively and well groomed than Alfred’s bedraggled little gang. The showman’s voice was brisk as he soldiered on, ignoring all the glares and scowls confronting him. “I just had a word with Mr. Froome, the sexton of Saint Sepulchre’s, about Miss Lillimere,” he explained. “And though he was reluctant to talk, I finally coaxed a few interesting facts out of him. Would you care to hear them, Mr. Bunce?”

  “No!” snapped Alfred, just as Birdie and Jem said, “Yes!”

  “Then perhaps we should discuss it over there, in private.” Mr. Lubbock flapped his hand toward the churchyard at the back of Saint Sepulchre’s before promptly heading in that direction. Jem followed him—and was soon joined by Ned and Birdie.

  Alfred brought up the rear. He dragged his feet and kept glancing over his shoulder, as if he expected an ambush. He didn’t look happy.

  “I stopped at the Viaduct Tavern earlier, to ask why my bill was no longer posted,” Mr. Lubbock began, as he gathered his audience around him in the shadow of the empty watch house. He went on to describe how both Mabel and Mr. Watkins had refused to speak to him. The reason, according to Mr. Froome, was that someone called John Gammon had told them not to. “Mr. Gammon is a local butcher who took exception to my notice,” Mr. Lubbock revealed. “And since he seems to exert a quite remarkable amount of influence on this little corner of London, Mr. Watkins had to obey—or pay the price.”

  It took Jem a few seconds to absorb this extraordinary piece of news. He was still turning it over in his head when Alfred rasped, “You mean they was threatened? That poor girl and her master?”

  “I believe Mr. Gammon is renowned for it in these parts,” the showman replied.

  “So he’s a punisher,” Jem said bluntly. He knew all about punishers—or “villains,” as they were sometimes called. He’d even met a few of them in his time. “People stump up lest they lose an eye, is that it?”

  Mr. Lubbock nodded.

  “But that still don’t make sense!” Birdie exclaimed. She was so absorbed in his story that she appeared to have forgotten her woes—at least for the present. “Even if Gammon runs the rackets in this neighborhood, why would he care about bogles?”

  “Mebbe it ain’t the bogles he cares about.” Jem was thinking aloud, his mind working furiously. “Mebbe he don’t want no one sniffing around asking questions about missing folk.”

  A sudden silence fell. Birdie shivered. Jem recalled the stories he’d heard about people who hadn’t paid their dues to certain villains back in Bethnal Green.

  Some had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  “You know, if this gentleman is worried about investigations into missing people, he might need our help,” Mr. Lubbock suddenly observed.

  “Oh, no.” Alfred’s long face grew even longer. He took a step backwards. “I ain’t tangling with no butcher in the punisher business.”

  “But this plague of bogles is going to attract a great deal of unwanted attention if the death toll keeps rising,” Mr. Lubbock pointed out. “And if that happens, any local ne’er-do-well is bound to come under official scrutiny. Don’t you think Mr. Gammon might want to prevent this, no matter what the cost?”

  Alfred gave a snort of disbelief. He was already retreating—and hustling Birdie along with him. “If you want to chase down a certified nobbler, that�
��s your business. I’m getting out of here and taking these children with me. They’ll not set foot in this quarter again.”

  “Not even with Mr. Gammon’s cooperation?” Mr. Lubbock leaned toward Alfred in a coaxing manner. “Surely, if I were to convince Salty Jack of the danger he’s in, and the wisdom of hiring a bogler to protect his own interests—”

  “Salty Jack?” Jem interrupted. His voice was so shrill that everyone stared at him. But he had eyes only for the showman. “You mean this Gammon cove—the butcher—he’s Salty Jack?”

  “I believe that’s his nickname.” Mr. Lubbock eyed Jem curiously. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “I know of him.” Jem had heard the man mentioned, once or twice—by none other than Sarah Pickles. He grabbed the showman’s arm. “Where’s his shop? Does he have one?”

  “Why, yes, but—”

  “Where is it? Tell me!” Jem stared wildly at Mr. Lubbock. “I’ve got to know!”

  26

  Red Lion Court

  Jem wouldn’t listen to Alfred. He wouldn’t listen to Ned. Even Birdie couldn’t dissuade him from going in search of John Gammon. Jem was convinced that Salty Jack had to be harboring Eunice Pickles. Why else would she be loitering in the area? And if Eunice was living in Cock Lane, then her mother was almost certainly nearby.

  “If I sneak into that butcher’s shop,” Jem announced, ignoring Ned’s anxious frown and Alfred’s furious glare, “I might spot Eunice—or someone else I know.”

  “If you sneak into that butcher’s shop, you might end up minced!” snapped Birdie.

  And Alfred growled, “You ain’t going nowhere near that villain. D’you hear me? I’m a-taking you home.”

  Jem stubbornly shook his head. Home? He didn’t have a home. And Sarah Pickles was to blame. “I’m doing this whether you help me or not,” he announced, then turned on his heel and headed back up Giltspur Street, toward Cock Lane.

  “I’ll help you.” Mr. Lubbock began to waddle after him. “You’ll need to distract the butcher if you’re to inspect his premises. And I’m very well versed in the arts of distraction.”

  “Jem! Jem! You come back here!” Alfred yelled. “This is yer last chance, boy! I’ll not keep no ’prentice as won’t follow orders!”

  For a fleeting instant, Jem paused, thinking about the shilling tips, free clothes, and omnibus rides that he’d enjoyed under Alfred’s protection. They would all disappear if he stopped bogling—as would his little corner of Alfred’s garret room.

  But then he told himself that Alfred was unlikely to keep bogling in any case. He’d already given it up once, and would probably do it again if Miss Eames kept nagging him to.

  “You won’t need no ’prentice if you ain’t bogling no more,” Jem drawled, comforting himself with the possibility that Mr. Lubbock might have a berth for a nimble lad. Especially if that nimble lad had done him a good turn . . .

  Jem was half expecting to feel Alfred’s hand on his collar. But when he reached Pye Corner unhindered, he realized that Alfred must have taken the other two children home. For one brief, stomach-churning instant, he felt abandoned. Then he reminded himself that he was on his own—that he had always been on his own. And if Alfred Bunce didn’t want to help him, then it was time to form an alliance with Josiah Lubbock.

  “May I ask what happened at the market?” Mr. Lubbock finally asked as they turned into Cock Lane. “I couldn’t help but notice that the little girl wasn’t looking her best . . .”

  “We killed a bogle,” Jem said shortly. He didn’t want to discuss Birdie’s narrow escape. He knew that he would have nightmares about it.

  “I see.” The showman nodded. “And my naturalist?”

  Jem shrugged. He was assailed by a sudden memory of Mr. Gilfoyle’s trembling hands and dazed expression, but pushed it to the back of his mind. He had more important things to think about—like John Gammon’s shop, for instance. Where could it be? Cock Lane was much longer than he’d expected, and very narrow. The Fortune of War public house stood on one corner. Across the street, a little farther down, was the entrance to a court or alley, wedged between a druggist’s and a wholesale provision merchant’s. Then came an ironmonger’s, then some scaffolding, and then . . .

  “There it is,” said Mr. Lubbock from beneath his umbrella. “I believe that might be Mr. Gammon’s establishment.”

  Jem quickened his pace. But as he passed the mouth of the little side alley to his left, he happened to glance down it—and caught a glimpse of Eunice Pickles.

  It took him a moment to realize what he’d just seen. By the time he did, he’d already taken a few more steps. “Damn me!” he exclaimed, then did a complete about-face and bolted back past Mr. Lubbock into the alley.

  “Hi!” The showman halted and spun around. “Where are you going?”

  Jem didn’t answer. He had already lost Eunice. To his surprise, the alley was more than just a dead-end slot. Another narrow court branched off it before taking a sharp left-hand turn—and somewhere in this labyrinth Eunice had hidden herself. Turning corner after corner, she’d managed to duck out of sight.

  Jem was confused by the court’s eccentric layout. There were so many houses opening onto it that he couldn’t tell where Eunice might be living. All the houses were old-fashioned, tall and skinny and half timbered, with protruding upper floors. Some bore curious carvings, black with dirt and damp. Many of the lead-light windows were boarded up. Jem spotted a privy in one corner of the inner yard, under a line hung with limp, wet washing. But he couldn’t see another exit.

  There were very few people about. An old man sat in a doorway, smoking his pipe. A young girl trudged across the muddy cobbles toward the privy, carrying a chamber pot. Somewhere an invalid was coughing and coughing . . .

  Jem swiveled around smartly and retraced his steps. He was halfway back to Cock Lane when he ran into Josiah Lubbock, who had lumbered after him.

  “What’s amiss?” the showman demanded. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost,” Jem replied. “Eunice Pickles.”

  “Aha!”

  “We can’t talk here. She might look out a window and recognize me.”

  Mr. Lubbock was quick on the uptake. He immediately turned and accompanied Jem, using his umbrella as a kind of shield. Only when they were once more in Cock Lane did he finally ask, “Which house is she in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you saw her enter Red Lion Court?”

  “Is that its name?” Jem glanced around, wondering distractedly which of the many painted inscriptions on the surrounding walls was actually a street sign. His heart was racing and his palms were damp. He felt almost feverish, despite his wet clothes. Then he spotted a dark, gaping entranceway just a little farther up the street, between two identical houses. “That there’s a night-soil passage,” he said. “I can watch Gammon’s place and the court if I tuck meself away in there.”

  “And I could go knocking on doors,” said Mr. Lubbock. Seeing Jem blink, he added, “Miss Pickles will not recognize me.”

  Jem couldn’t argue with this. But he also couldn’t understand why the showman was being so helpful. As he hesitated, wondering if there was something he had missed, Mr. Lubbock continued, “What was she dressed in? Can you recall?”

  “Um . . .” Jem eyed the fat, red face hovering above him. It wore an expression of innocent goodwill that didn’t fool him for one minute. But since he couldn’t think of a reason not to answer, he sighed and mumbled, “A plaid shawl, black cloth boots, a straw hat, and a pale green gown, very dirty about the hem.” He frowned as he cast his mind back. “I think it were figured muslin,” he finished.

  “You’re a sharp-eyed lad.” There was real appreciation in Mr. Lubbock’s tone. “And Sarah? I believe you once told me she favors coal-scuttle bonnets?”

  Jem nodded.

  “Then I shall keep that in mind,” said Mr. Lubbock. And away he went, leaving Jem to station himself in the
night-soil passage down the street.

  During his many years as a professional thief, Jem had always nursed a fondness for night-soil passages. Although these dark little alleys may have been designed as throughways for dustmen, they were even more useful as places where a lookout or pickpocket could loiter unnoticed. Since they usually led to dead-end yards full of stinking privies, they were never very crowded. Even courting couples were put off by the smell of urine and piles of rubbish.

  From the night-soil passage on Cock Lane, Jem had a fine view of both the entrance to Red Lion Court and the entrance to John Gammon’s shop. This shop was quite small. Its single display window was shaded by a dirty green awning and plastered with signs that Jem couldn’t read. Sides of pork hung in full view of passersby. A basket of German sausages sat by the entrance.

  Jem’s gaze flicked nervously from one end of the street to the other. He told himself that he was willing to wait here all night if necessary. He saw people scurry past in the drizzle, their hats pulled down and their collars turned up. Some carried umbrellas. One or two lingered under awnings or in doorways. He identified a carpenter from his rule-pocket, a prison porter from his brass-buttoned uniform, a butcher from his blue smock.

  Jem took special note of this butcher, discounting him only when the man passed Gammon’s shop without a second glance. The old woman who shuffled into the shop some time later didn’t look fat enough to be Sarah Pickles. Her hair was white instead of gray. But Jem was careful to monitor the shop door until she emerged again—this time carrying a brown-paper parcel.

  One look at her sweet face told him all he needed to know. While Sarah might have shed weight, lost her teeth, and turned white haired from the stress of living as a fugitive, nothing could have replaced the hard calculation in her eyes with a kind and wistful timidity. Jem realized at once that this old woman was nothing like Sarah Pickles.

  Suddenly he stiffened, catching his breath. He’d spotted Eunice. She was hurrying out of Red Lion Court, hatless and red faced. As she charged toward him, Jem retreated a little.