A Very Peculiar Plague

by Catherine Jinks

  I know yer game, Jem thought, folding his arms as he eyed the man across the desk. Alfred, meanwhile, was frowning.

  ‘Committee?’ he said. ‘What committee?

  ‘The Committee for the Regulation of Subterranean Anomalies,’ Mr Daw smoothly replied. ‘Such a committee would not be utterly unprecedented, since the city’s more ancient records do mention a “Guild of Bogglers and Feend-Seekers”.’ Suddenly he allowed himself a little smirk. ‘Nowadays, I suppose, an exact equivalent might be “the Worshipful Company of Bogle-Hunters”. However, I think that a less showy title would better suit our purposes.’

  He went on to explain that the Town Clerk and the Chief Engineer had agreed to form a committee that would address London’s bogle problem. Mr Erasmus Gilfoyle would be on the committee, as would his friend Mr Mark Harewood. Inspector of Sewers Mr Eugene Wardle would also be included. ‘Mr Gilfoyle has requested that you yourself should sit on the committee, Mr Bunce,’ Mr Daw remarked, ‘along with anyone else you might care to nominate.’

  ‘Miss Eames,’ said Alfred.

  Miss Eames couldn’t suppress a pleased smile when she heard this. She even coloured a little. Glancing at Mr Daw, Jem saw him purse his lips in disapproval.

  ‘It would be very unusual to invite a lady onto a committee of this sort,’ the Principal Clerk observed. ‘However, since it is an unofficial committee, I suppose some advisory role could be arranged—’

  ‘What about me?’ Birdie broke in. ‘And Jem? And Ned?’

  Mr Daw looked as if he had sucked a lemon. ‘This is a serious matter, my dear,’ he said with strained civility. ‘It will require a degree of knowledge and responsibility that no mere child could supply.’

  ‘But we know more about bogles’n Mr Gilfoyle does,’ Jem pointed out. He regarded Mr Daw coolly, his arms still folded. For a brief instant their gazes locked.

  Then Mr Daw gave a sniff. ‘Of course the choice of participants will be your own, Mr Bunce,’ he said at last, addressing Alfred. ‘It is important to realise, however, that you and your fellow members will be charged with a solemn duty, incompatible with the kind of frivolous conduct normally found in a schoolroom.’

  ‘We don’t none of us go to school,’ Jem growled. He was waiting to hear what Mr Daw would say to that when Miss Eames silenced him. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, turned to Mr Daw and asked, ‘What precisely is this committee expected to do, Mr Daw?’

  ‘Why, everything required of it, Miss Eames. If creatures need to be studied, then you will arrange it. If they need to be killed, you will arrange that.’

  ‘It takes money to kill bogles,’ Birdie interposed.

  ‘Six shillings for each bogle, and a penny for the salt,’ Jem added.

  ‘Funds will be supplied for any purpose pertaining to the committee’s frame of reference,’ Mr Daw announced drily. ‘I believe the Town Clerk’s Department has the matter in hand. My advice is that the committee hire Mr Bunce for an agreed sum over a stipulated period of time. But that will be for the committee to arrange.’ He glanced at his fob watch, then explained in a bored voice, ‘It has been proposed that the first meeting be convened next Monday, in the Metropolitan Board of Works building, at ten o’clock. If this isn’t agreeable to you, Mr Bunce, you must address your objections to Mr Harewood, whose office can be found there.’ Raising his eyebrows, he concluded, ‘Have you any questions you’d care to ask?’

  No one did. So Mr Daw stood up and ushered them out of his office, pointing them towards the nearest exit while imploring them not to lose their way. It was easy to get lost in the Guildhall, he said, since it wrapped around a large courtyard.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Miss Eames replied crisply. Sure enough, she remembered exactly where to go, leading the others back to the main entrance through a maze of corridors and stairwells. They passed the Chamberlain’s Office, the Common Council Room, and the almost-completed library. They dodged an endless parade of clerks, who scuttled around like cockroaches in their dark suits.

  After a while, Jem whispered to Birdie, ‘If this here committee hires Mr Bunce, he’ll need a ’prentice or two.’

  Instead of smiling, Birdie frowned. When she saw Jem’s puzzled expression, she lowered her voice to say, ‘I don’t think I can bogle no more.’

  Jem gaped at her.

  ‘I’m too slow,’ she continued glumly. ‘You saw me at the market.’

  ‘But that were an ambush!’ Jem hissed. ‘You can’t blame yerself!’

  ‘I ain’t so sure o’ that. Seems to me you’d have bin quick enough to get away.’ As Jem wondered if she were right, Birdie heaved a sigh and said, ‘I’ve lost the skill of it. Coming so close to a bogle’s teeth . . . ain’t that proof enough?’ Sadly she concluded, ‘It’s bin giving me nightmares. If Mr Bunce needs two ’prentices, he’ll have to hire Ned.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll need two of us,’ was Ned’s contribution. ‘Not now Sarah Pickles is banged up. For the bogles under Newgate is sure to disperse without a regular feed, and that means they’ll not be found close together no more.’

  ‘True enough.’ Jem was impressed by Ned’s reasoning. ‘But what about Salty Jack? He’s still out and about. Suppose he keeps feeding ’em?’

  ‘He won’t,’ Ned murmured. ‘He’s got nothing to feed ’em with. I doubt he’s got a single debtor less than sixteen years old; why would he?’ After a brief pause, Ned concluded, ‘Besides, he may end up in the jug, alongside Sal Pickles.’

  ‘Not he,’ said Birdie, as Jem shook his head. He knew that Miss Eames had consulted a lawyer friend, who had dismissed the possibility of gaoling John Gammon as long as Jem was the only witness against him. It would be Jem’s word against Salty Jack’s, unless Sarah decided to speak out – and at present, she wasn’t saying anything. (‘The proof against Mrs Pickles has been provided by several bereft mothers,’ the lawyer had remarked, after briefly reviewing the case, ‘whereas the proof against Mr Gammon is confined to the recollections of one boy whose character does not appear to be stainless. A good barrister could argue that Mr Gammon thought Jem a thief, and confined him in the hope that the lady would call a policeman. If such a defence was presented, it would be very hard to refute.’)

  ‘Mr Bunce ain’t about to take on Salty Jack Gammon,’ mumbled Jem. ‘Nor will Miss Eames, if she can’t find no lawyer to back her.’

  ‘Then someone should make sure John Gammon knows he ain’t pursued,’ Ned advised Birdie. ‘For if he thinks he’s safe, we can all of us feel safer.’

  ‘You think so?’ Jem didn’t. Not entirely. He’d known other men like John Gammon, and understood that they were always a threat, no matter what their mood. On the other hand, if Jem were hired by the London Sewers Office, his official status would offer some protection against Salty Jack. Why, the very sturdiness of the Guildhall itself made him feel secure and important . . .

  By this time they were outside the Great Hall, heading for the main entrance. Jem couldn’t see any other people about. But suddenly a voice said, ‘Pardon me, sir – are you Mr Alfred Bunce?’ And a porter emerged from a booth near the front door.

  He was an imposing figure, very large and blond and arrayed in a splendid uniform trimmed with gold. At the sight of him, Alfred stopped short. ‘Aye. Bunce is me name,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’ve been asked to convey a request.’ The porter flicked a rapid look around the lofty vestibule, with its vaulted roof and stained-glass windows. Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t in danger of being overheard, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Informal, like. From the kitchen staff.’

  ‘The kitchen staff?’ Miss Eames echoed.

  ‘Yes’m. They heard as how you were expected here today, and would be very grateful if you’d pay ’em a call.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jem, hoping that this ‘call’ might involve gifts of food. But the porter glanced at him nervously, as if reluctant to answer. There was a brief pause.

  Then
the big man stooped and muttered into Alfred’s ear, ‘They think they’ve a bogle, Mr Bunce. In the west crypt, where the wine’s kept. And they want you to kill it before the Lord Mayor’s dinner, next week . . .’

  BAISD BHEULACH a Scottish shapeshifting demon

  BASILISK a legendary reptile reputed to cause death with a single glance

  BAUCHLE to misuse

  BEADLE a minor official who carries out civil, educational or ceremonial duties

  BITE a hoax, humbug

  BLOWEN a girlfriend

  BLUEBOTTLE a policeman

  BLUE RUIN gin

  BLUFFER an innkeeper

  BOGGART a bogle

  BOGLE a monster, goblin, bogeyman

  BOOZING KEN a public house

  BROLLACHAN a Scottish shapeshifting demon that takes the form of whatever you most fear

  CANT slang

  CAPER a criminal scheme

  CHINK money

  COSTER a street-seller

  COVE a man

  CRACKSMAN a burglar, lockpicker

  CRACKSMAN’S CROW a housebreaker’s lookout

  CRIB a house or lodging

  DIDDLE gin

  DOG-SOUP water

  DOWNY cunning

  DRUGGET a coarse woollen fabric used as a floor covering

  DUDS clothes

  DUN to demand payment

  DUNNAGE clothes and possessions

  DUNTERS monsters that infest Scottish castles

  EACHY a species of slimy lake monster

  ERLKING a malevolent creature who haunts forests

  FACHAN a Celtic monster so frightening that it induces heart attacks

  FLAM, FLAMMING a lie; lying

  FLASH showy

  GAMMONING deceiving; lying

  GAMMY false, hostile

  GANGER a foreman or supervisor

  GRIDDLE to beg, scrounge

  GRIFFIN a legendary creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle

  GRINDYLOW a bogeyman from Lancashire or Yorkshire, typically found in bogs or lakes

  HACKNEY CAB a two-wheeled carriage for hire

  HEAVY WET port wine

  HOG a shilling

  HOISTMAN a shoplifter or thief

  HOOK IT move it

  HUMMING deceiving

  KINCHIN CRACK a fine girl

  KNOCKER a small Welsh bogle that lives underground

  JACULUS a small dragon

  LAP tea

  LONDON PARTICULAR thick London fog

  LURK a trick, scam

  LUSH to drink; a drunkard

  MUDLARK a child who scavenges on riverbanks

  MUG I FOG pipe I smoke

  NAVVY an unskilled labourer, especially one who does heavy digging

  NECKCLOTH noose

  NIMM’D stole

  NOBBLER a thug

  OMNIBUS a very large horsedrawn vehicle for moving large numbers of people

  ON THE WAG truanting

  PEACH to inform

  PENNY GAFF a cheap, lower-class theatre or show

  PRIG a thief; to steal

  PRIVY a toilet

  RACKET a shady or illegal pursuit

  RED CAPS monsters that infest Scottish castles

  SCRAGGED hanged

  SELKIE a creature who lives as a seal in water but sheds its skin to become human on land

  SLAVVY a maid-of-all-work

  SLUAGH evil Scottish spirits of the dead that wander the earth

  SLUMMING cheating

  SNECKDRAW a sly, crafty person

  SNEEZER a drink

  SPEEL, SPEELER to cheat; a cheater

  SPRING-HEELED JACK a legendary character of Victorian London known for his startling leaps

  SQUEEZER gallows

  STRETCH hang

  STUMP UP to pay

  TOFF a well-to-do person

  TOGS clothes

  TRAPS police

  WATERHORSE a Celtic monster that’s half-horse, half-fish and lives in bodies of water; otherwise known as a ‘kelpie’

  WORKHOUSE an institution that houses and feeds paupers

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Catherine Jinks was born in Brisbane in 1963 and grew up in Sydney and Papua New Guinea. She studied medieval history at university and her love of reading led her to become an author. Her books for children, teenagers and adults have been published all over the world, and have won numerous awards.

  Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales with her husband, journalist Peter Dockrill, and their daughter Hannah.

  BOOK 3– A SNEAK PREVIEW

  Newgate Market was an empty, echoing shell. Doors hung askew. Windows were smashed. Iron hooks were rusting away. The market clock was no longer ticking, and the stalls were silting up with rubbish.

  All of the butchers had long ago moved to Smithfield, taking their sides of beef and saddles of mutton with them.

  ‘I don’t know why this place ain’t bin torn down long since,’ Alfred Bunce remarked. He stood hunched in the rain with his bag on his back, gazing across an expanse of muddy cobbles towards the central pavilion. Water dripped off his wide-brimmed hat and trickled down his long, beaky nose. Even his drooping moustache was sodden. ‘Ruined buildings breed every kind o’ strife, from coining to murder,’ he added. ‘Bogles would be the least o’ yer problems, round here.’

  Beside him, a brown-eyed boy was scanning the shops that fronted the square. Some of them were boarded up, and those that remained in business were for the most part seedy-looking taverns or coffee houses.

  ‘I don’t see Mr Wardle,’ said the boy, whose name was Ned Roach. He was dressed in a navy-blue coat with brass buttons, very worn about the elbows, and a pair of buff-coloured trousers, damp and soiled. A flat cap sat on his springy brown hair. Despite his missing tooth and scarred hands, he looked respectable enough. ‘Which o’ these here establishments would be Mother Okey’s?’

  ‘Ask Jem,’ Alfred replied. ‘He knows the neighbourhood better’n I do.’

  ‘Jem!’ Ned turned to address another boy, who was lagging behind them. ‘You bin here once. Which pub is Mother Okey’s?’

  Jem Barbary didn’t answer. He was too busy peering at the dark silhouette of someone who was skulking on a nearby doorstep. Ned didn’t blame Jem for being nervous. This was John Gammon’s territory, and Gammon was a dangerous man.

  ‘What’s that feller doing there, lurking like a cracksman’s crow?’ Jem hissed. He was smaller and thinner than Ned, with so much thick black hair that his head looked too big for his body. He wore a bedraggled suit of speckled brown tweed. ‘D’you think he works for Salty Jack?’

  ‘Mebbe he’s sheltering from the rain,’ Ned offered.

  But Jem scowled. ‘I don’t trust him. I don’t trust no one hereabouts.’

  ‘Which is why we should pick up our pace.’ Alfred spoke in a gruff, impatient voice. ‘Wardle said to meet at Mother Okey’s. Any notion where that might be?’

  Jem considered the half-dozen public houses scattered around the market square. ‘T’ain’t that ’un,’ he announced, pointing. ‘That there is the Old Coffeepot. I spoke to the barmaid last time I passed through.’

  ‘And that?’ Alfred nodded at the nearest tavern. Although it had a sign suspended above its front door, none of them could read the lettering.

  ‘There’s a cat on that sign,’ Ned observed, ‘so it’s more likely to be the Cat and Fiddle. Or the Cat and Salutation . . .’

  ‘Here!’ Jem suddenly clutched Alfred’s sleeve. ‘Ain’t that Mr Wardle?’

  It was. Ned recognised the man who had emerged from the old-fashioned alehouse to their right. He was large and middle-aged, with fuzzy side-whiskers and a slight paunch. Though respectably dressed, he had an untidy look about him – almost as if his clothes were buttoned askew. Wisps of wiry grey hair escaped from beneath his bowler hat. His necktie was crooked. There was a crusty stain on his waistcoat lapel, and an unshaven patch on his chin.

  Even w
hen he spotted Alfred, his worried expression didn’t change. The anxious lines seemed permanently engraved across his brow.

  ‘Mr Bunce!’ he exclaimed. ‘You found me!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Alfred, touching his hat.

  ‘I was afeared you might have taken a wrong turn.’ Mr Wardle’s small blue eyes swung towards the two boys. ‘I see you brought your apprentices with you.’

  Alfred gave a brusque nod. ‘Can’t kill a bogle without bait,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mr Wardle blinked uneasily at Ned, who wondered if the Inspector of Sewers could even remember his name. They had first been introduced to each other only a week before, at the Metropolitan Board of Works, where they had all sat down at a very large, round table to launch the Committee for the Regulation of Subterranean Anomalies.

  But more than half-a-dozen people had been present at that meeting, and a lot of business had been discussed. And since neither Ned nor Jem had made much of a contribution, it seemed likely that Mr Wardle had forgotten who they were.

  ‘This neighbourhood ain’t safe for Jem,’ Alfred continued. ‘There’s a butcher as runs all the rackets hereabouts, and he’s got a grudge against the lad. We ain’t bin troubled thus far, since the butcher don’t know where I live. But the longer we stay, the more likely it is we’ll be spotted by one of his cronies. And I don’t want that.’

  Mr Wardle looked alarmed. ‘No, indeed,’ he said.

  ‘So you’d best tell me about this here job, and then we can set to it,’ Alfred finished. ‘Back at the Board o’ Works you mentioned there’s three young ’uns vanished, and one sighting in a sewer. Which sewer, and where was the kids last seen?’

  Mr Wardle hesitated for a moment. ‘Perhaps it’s best I show you what was shown to me,’ he finally suggested, before heading across the cobbled square towards the central pavilion. Alfred hurried after him, with the two boys in tow. As they approached the dilapidated structure that had once sheltered row upon row of hanging carcasses, Ned felt uneasy. There was no telling what might lurk in that labyrinth of dark, rotting wood. As Alfred had so truly said, bogles might be the least of their problems.