A Very Singular Guild

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘You must persuade him. For our sake.’ Jessie leaned towards Ned, twining her arm through his. ‘You must tell him we’re in dire need, and so very frightened.’

  ‘Ladies in distress,’ Victoria confirmed stoutly.

  ‘And think of the poor little children, Ned!’ Glittering tears had welled up in Rosina’s huge, pale eyes. ‘Why, there are twelve in the ballet, as well as all the backstage boys! What will happen to them, if Mr Bunce refuses to help? Surely he couldn’t be so wicked . . .?’

  Ned didn’t know what to say. He was cowed by the girl’s emotion.

  Or was it all just an act?

  ‘M-mebbe you should talk to Mr Bunce,’ he stammered. ‘Mr Bunce’d listen to you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ When Ned began to nod enthusiastically, Rosina said, ‘Then tell him to come to theatre. Tonight. Once he’s finished at the Board of Works.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘Please, Ned. Dear Ned. You know how wretched you’ll feel if you fail us!’ Rosina cried, as Jessie patted his cheek and Frederick clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘I defy you to refuse ’em, my lad, for they’re not the least accustomed to disappointment,’ Frederick warned. Then he drew his watch from his pocket and spluttered, ‘Dash it, is that the time? We have lingered too long, my beauties! Come along, now. Hop to it.’

  ‘Ask for Mr Todd at the stage door,’ Jessie advised Ned, as her brother hustled her away. Rosina blew a kiss and Victoria lifted a graceful hand in farewell.

  ‘We’ll be expecting you!’ they said. ‘Tell Mr Bunce how keen we are to meet him!’

  Soon they were gone, though they left a drifting cloud of scent in their wake. And the crowded street suddenly seemed empty without them.

  Ned was still reeling when he arrived back at Alfred’s lodgings.

  ‘You took yer time,’ the bogler growled.

  ‘I couldn’t help it.’ Ned set down his bucket. ‘Someone stopped me.’

  Over by the fireplace, Jem was poking at embers. He stiffened and looked up. ‘Not Salty Jack?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ As Ned explained what had happened, Alfred’s long face settled into even gloomier creases. ‘I told ’em you don’t take private jobs no more,’ Ned finished, ‘but they wouldn’t listen.’

  Alfred gave a grunt. Jem looked surprised and said, ‘No private jobs? Who told you that?’

  Ned hesitated. He shot a glance at Alfred before mumbling, ‘Mr Bunce said as how we’re all living on public money now, and should allus put official business first.’

  ‘Truly?’ Jem turned to Alfred, eyebrows raised. ‘I never heard no one warn you off yer own work.’

  ‘Not yet, no,’ said Alfred, who was pouring water into the chipped white basin on the washstand. ‘But I’ll not take on no extra jobs till they’re cleared with the committee. For if there’s rules to follow, I’d not want to break ’em.’

  ‘Rules?’ Jem echoed. ‘I didn’t hear no mention o’ rules at the last meeting.’

  Alfred shrugged. ‘We’ll find out soon enough if I’m allowed to take work where I can find it. If I can, we’ll go straight to the theatre from the Board o’ Works. But I ain’t so sure it’ll be worth our while.’ Having splashed his face with water, he wiped his eyes and peered at Ned. ‘Them Vokes young ’uns,’ he continued. ‘Would they be the kind to let their fancies run away with ’em?’

  Ned frowned. Then he sighed. Then he reluctantly admitted, ‘I think their fancies would have a hard time keeping up with ’em.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Alfred. ‘Actors is all the same. Wherever there’s a choice, they’ll favour a tale above the truth.’

  And he started scraping bits of bogle out of his hair with a gap-toothed comb.

  4

  PLANS

  Mark Harewood was a Clerk of Works at the Sewers Office. He was tall and young and vigorous, with flashing blue eyes and a broad, clean-shaven face. Everything about him was sunny: his gleaming smile, his thick blond hair – even his yellow waistcoat.

  Ned had met him only once before, but had quickly decided that he was an excellent fellow. Now, seeing him on the third floor of the Board of Works building, Ned was relieved to know that they were in the right place at the right time.

  ‘Why, here you are!’ Mr Harewood exclaimed, upon catching sight of Alfred and his apprentices. ‘Come in! Take a seat! I’ve something to show you . . .’

  Obediently, Alfred led the way into a room that was lined with oak panelling. Red velvet curtains were draped across two lofty windows, and the walls were hung with oil paintings so dark that Ned couldn’t tell if they were portraits or landscapes. In the centre of the room stood a large circular table surrounded by hard chairs.

  Mr Harewood and Erasmus Gilfoyle, the naturalist, were leaning over this table, studying what appeared to be a map. Mr Gilfoyle was shorter and slimmer than his friend. His wispy fair hair was plastered down with oil, whereas Mr Harewood’s golden fleece fell into his eyes. Though they were both about the same age, they looked very different. Mr Gilfoyle was as neat as a pin in his dove-grey suit, while Mr Harewood was wearing ink-stained shirtsleeves and an unknotted tie.

  ‘Look at this,’ Mr Harewood urged Alfred. ‘D’you see what I’ve done here? Thanks to what you told me last week, Mr Bunce, I was able to mark up the exact location of every bogle you’ve killed in London during the past five years.’ He began to jab at the map with one finger. ‘See those red dots? Each represents a dead bogle. And this is the river, of course, with all its bridges. And this is St Paul’s.’ As Ned edged closer to the map, Mr Harewood retrieved another roll of paper from one of the chairs and said, ‘Now this is a plan of the city’s sewer system, traced onto wax paper. If I put it on top of the map, you will see how our underground waterways intersect with London’s bogle sightings.’

  Ned stared in amazement. Before him lay an intricate network of pipes and channels and gates, superimposed upon an even more complex tangle of streets and squares and canals. The effect was like a three-dimensional model. He had never seen anything so exquisite – or so fascinating.

  He only wished that he could read the street names.

  ‘It’s evident that there must be a connection between subterranean water and the incidence of bogles,’ Mr Harewood went on. ‘Only consider the clusters of red dots here . . . and here . . . and here, of course, near the Fleet Sewer—’

  ‘Is that the Fleet?’ asked Ned. He was so excited that he forgot about keeping his mouth shut. Alfred had told him, over and over again, to hold his tongue while a gentleman was talking. But the sight of London’s innards, spread out before him like something dissected, had pushed everything else out of Ned’s mind.

  ‘That is the Fleet,’ Mr Harewood confirmed. He didn’t seem offended. In fact, he smiled at Ned. ‘And that is the viaduct, and that is Newgate Street—’

  ‘So that must be the flushing tank!’ Ned exclaimed, pointing. ‘The one beneath Newgate Market!’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Mr Harewood lifted his head suddenly. ‘Mr Wardle – you would know, I’m sure.’

  ‘Know what?’ the inspector said. Despite his bulk, he had slipped into the room without attracting much attention. ‘Good evening, Mr Bunce. Mr Gilfoyle. Good evening, boys,’ he added, mopping his red, sweaty face with a crumpled handkerchief. Then, seeing Mr Harewood beckon to him, he moved across to the table. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘So my plans arrived.’

  ‘They did indeed.’ Mr Harewood tapped at the wax paper. ‘This symbol here – does it represent a flushing tank?’

  Mr Wardle squinted at a tiny black star like an inkblot. ‘Why, yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s one of ’em. We have ten altogether – at Newgate, and Leadenhall—’

  ‘If the bogles live in the sewers,’ Ned interrupted, ‘mebbe they could all be flushed out.’ The idea had struck him as he traced the course of a sewer-line from one end of London to the other. ‘If you was to flush the bogles from pipe to pipe, until most o’ the sewers was clos
ed off, would you be able to herd ’em all together like goats?’ he asked Mr Harewood, who grinned his approval.

  ‘An interesting notion, young Ned. I must admit, the same thought crossed my mind when I saw this pattern of red dots. But it would be a difficult task, I fear, what with the variable water pressure, and the number of flushing gates, and the unknown degrees of resistance we’d be facing from the creatures themselves . . .’ Mr Harewood trailed off, his brow furrowed in concentration, before he turned to the inspector. ‘What do you think, old boy? Could we blow ’em all into the Thames?’

  ‘What for?’ asked Mr Wardle. It was a good question. How were the bogles to be disposed of, once they’d been expelled from their lairs? Ned was wondering if Alfred could be positioned over a sewage outfall, where he might spear each bogle as it emerged, when all at once every man in the room snapped to attention.

  ‘Good evening,’ a familiar voice remarked. ‘Forgive us for being so late. St Martin’s Lane was at a standstill, and the porter seemed reluctant to admit us.’

  Looking up, Ned saw that Miss Edith Eames had appeared at the door. She was wearing a mustard-coloured mantle, a matching skirt without frills or flounces, and a slightly peevish expression. Her black brows were knitted together beneath the tip-tilted brim of her modest felt hat. Her face was even paler than usual, and she pursed her lips as she impatiently peeled off her beige kid gloves.

  Clearly she was annoyed about something.

  But Ned barely glanced at Miss Eames. He was far more interested in the girl beside her, who seemed to glitter like cut glass. Her golden curls were even brighter than Mr Harewood’s. Her blue eyes gleamed like stars and her fair skin glowed beneath a light dusting of freckles. From the ribbons on her hat to the buttons on her boots, she was dressed all in white.

  Ned smiled at the girl, hoping to receive a smile in return. But she had already flung herself at Alfred.

  ‘Mr Bunce!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you go to Newgate Market?’

  ‘We did,’ he replied, holding her off. ‘Mind yer pretty clothes, Birdie – I’ve mud on me trousers.’

  ‘Was there a bogle?’ she demanded. ‘Did you kill it?’

  ‘Aye.’ Alfred turned to the Clerk of Works. ‘You should make a note o’ that, Mr Harewood.’

  ‘I shall.’ As Mr Harewood produced a pot of red ink, Birdie McAdam continued to question Alfred about the Newgate bogle. She was particularly curious about its size, its exact location, and the traces that it had left behind. Mr Gilfoyle was also interested; in fact, he began to take notes in a little black book. But Ned knew that Birdie’s interest was more than academic.

  Having once been a bogler’s girl, she still felt personally involved in every job that Alfred agreed to do.

  ‘Samples of the residue would be useful,’ Mr Gilfoyle remarked, when Birdie had finished. ‘Perhaps I should be present at your next encounter, Mr Bunce.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alfred agreed, though he didn’t sound very enthusiastic. Meanwhile, Mr Harewood was carefully drying the new red dot on his map with a piece of blotting paper.

  ‘Now that we’re all here,’ he said, ‘I think we should commence formal proceedings. We’ll start with last week’s minutes, perhaps – unless anyone has any questions?’

  No one did. So they all found a chair and sat down, facing each other across the table. Then Mr Gilfoyle cleared his throat, donned a pair of spectacles, and began to read from a stack of loose papers that had been placed in front of him.

  First he reminded everyone that elections had been held the previous week. As a result, he said, Mr Harewood was now Chairman, Mr Wardle was Treasurer, and he himself was Secretary. He went on to relate that the committee had agreed to meet every Monday afternoon – at which time a sum of fifteen shillings would be paid to Mr Alfred Bunce, by way of a salary.

  ‘Miss Eames then moved that our mission as a committee should be to rid London of its bogles,’ Mr Gilfoyle continued in his gentle, precise voice, ‘and this motion was carried without dissent. The next item on the agenda was a discussion regarding the typical characteristics of a bogle. Mr Bunce, Miss McAdam and Miss Eames all contributed to the discussion, after which the Secretary suggested that he and Miss Eames form a subcommittee entrusted with the task of finding out more about bogles as a species. Mr Gilfoyle undertook to write a report on any information gleaned, in order to classify the creatures in accordance with the standard biological taxonomy of Linnaeus . . .’

  Ned strained to remember what the ‘biological taxonomy of Linnaeus’ meant. Mr Gilfoyle had explained it to him the previous week; it had something to do with the way plants and animals were divided into different classes and families. But the families didn’t have mothers and fathers, and the classes didn’t have anything to do with school. According to Mr Gilfoyle, these were simply scientific terms that gave people a better understanding of the world . . .

  Ned wished that he had a better understanding of the world. Sometimes, when Mr Gilfoyle was speaking, he felt as if he were trying to catch soap bubbles; the meaning of each word either drifted out of Ned’s reach or vanished completely just when he thought he had a grip on it. If only I had some schooling, he thought, shooting a glance at Birdie. Thanks to Miss Eames, Birdie was now educated. She had learned to read and write. And for that reason, perhaps, she was staring at Mr Gilfoyle with an expression on her face that wasn’t blank, bored or bewildered, but intent and absorbed. She looked as if she was really listening to what he said.

  Jem, on the other hand, was twisting restlessly in his seat, his gaze flitting around the room.

  ‘. . . Mr Harewood then proposed that he and Mr Bunce form another subcommittee,’ Mr Gilfoyle continued. ‘He further suggested that this subcommittee’s first task would be to circulate a memorandum among all the municipal offices, asking that they notify Mr Harewood of any unusual subterranean activity that may pertain to bogles. The motion was carried without dissent. Mr Harewood promised to alert the committee if his memorandum uncovered any evidence of bogle activity. He also asked Mr Wardle to provide him with a map of London’s sewage system . . .’

  Jem caught Ned’s eye and grimaced. Ned immediately looked away. Though he sympathised with Jem, he didn’t want to be caught yawning or wriggling. He didn’t feel secure enough for that.

  Of all the committee members, he was probably the least qualified. Birdie had been a bogler’s girl for nearly eight years – since she was just three years old. Her voice was so fine that she could sing any bogle out of its den. Jem was as nimble as a monkey; he had once climbed a six-storey chimney to escape a bogle’s clutches. Mr Bunce was a bogler, Mr Wardle knew the sewer system, Miss Eames was a folklorist . . .

  Ned, on the other hand, had no skills to speak of. He couldn’t even read. He had nothing to offer but sturdy good health, a willingness to work, and an ability to concentrate. Knowing this, he felt dispensable, and always took great care not to offend, intrude or disappoint.

  Since the age of six, when his mother’s death had cast him onto the street, Ned had struggled to find a place in the world. He had worked for a rag-and-bone man, who had beaten him, and for a beggar, who had starved him. He’d spent a very short time in the Whitechapel workhouse, before running away to become a mudlark. And in all that time, no one had cared whether he lived or died.

  But things had changed, thanks to Alfred. And Ned wasn’t about to jeopardise his new life by pulling silly faces.

  ‘. . . and the meeting closed at six o’clock.’ Suddenly Mr Gilfoyle finished reading. He raised his eyes and glanced around the table. ‘Are there any objections to the contents of these minutes? Does anyone wish to amend them?’ Two or three people shook their heads. No one spoke. ‘Very well,’ the naturalist murmured. ‘Then we’ll proceed to the next item on the agenda, which is, I believe . . . um . . .’

  ‘The report of the Chairman’s subcommittee,’ said Mr Harewood. And he reached for the rolled-up map that was sitting nearby.

  5 />
  ALL IN FAVOUR?

  Birdie was very impressed with Mr Harewood’s map. She and Miss Eames both stood with their noses almost brushing against it, marvelling at its complexity, as Mr Harewood explained what the red dots meant.

  ‘As you can see, there appears to be a link between bogles and underground water,’ he said. ‘In fact, it’s been suggested that we try to flush the bogles out of our drains.’ He winked at Ned, then turned to Mr Gilfoyle. ‘Make a note of that, Razzy, will you?

  Mr Harewood to consult the Chief Engineer about flushing the sewers.

  ’ Mr Gilfoyle immediately began to scribble on the paper in front of him, as Ned pondered his surprising nickname. ‘Razzy’ seemed much too undignified for someone so gentlemanly.

  Meanwhile, Miss Eames was frowning at Mr Harewood. ‘Do you propose to exterminate all of London’s bogles by pushing them into the river, and thence to the sea?’ she asked him. ‘Will that have the desired effect?’

  Every eye swivelled towards Mr Harewood, who shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘What’s your opinion, Mr Bunce? Would salt water kill bogles?’

  Alfred scratched his scrubby cheek, but said nothing.

  ‘Salt keeps ’em at bay,’ Birdie pointed out. ‘And cures their bites.’

  ‘Aye. It does that,’ Alfred agreed – at which point Ned raised his hand.

  ‘Thames water is fresh as far as London Bridge,’ he piped up, just in case no one else knew the river as well as he did. After five years spent scouring its muddy banks, he was only too familiar with its habits. ‘Beyond that,’ he continued, ‘’tis brackish until Southend.’

  ‘Brackish?’ Miss Eames echoed thoughtfully. And Jem, who was finally paying attention, said, ‘What’s brackish?’

  ‘Brackish is half-salt, half-fresh,’ Mr Wardle kindly informed him.

  ‘But would brackish water kill bogles?’ Mr Harewood appealed to Alfred. ‘What do you think, Mr Bunce?’