A Very Singular Guild

by Catherine Jinks

  But his astonishment was nothing compared to Ned’s.

  ‘Why, what kind of a wrench is that?’ Ned demanded. ‘I ain’t never seen one like it!’

  The man blinked. ‘This? It’s brand new, from America. They call it a ratcheting socket wrench.’

  ‘And you don’t have to move it off the bolt?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Clever, ain’t it?’ The man proudly demonstrated. ‘Them two pawls have springs inside, which work to hold the ratchet wheel—’

  ‘Ned!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. ‘Don’t dawdle!’

  Reluctantly Ned dragged himself away from the remarkable socket wrench. He followed Miss Eames through the maze of machinery, past the orchestra pit, and into a narrow cellar with a vaulted roof. One side of the cellar was lined with low, blind arches that had been turned into storage bays for bags of coal and planks of wood. Utility pipes ran along the walls.

  Ned identified two water pipes, a possible boiler pipe, and a gas pipe that fed the lamp that hung from the ceiling.

  ‘What an unpleasant smell.’ Miss Eames pressed a handkerchief to her nose. ‘Is it sewage?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ said Alfred. And Ned, remembering something Mr Wardle had told them earlier that afternoon as they left the Board of Works remarked, ‘The Norfolk Sewer lies below.’

  ‘If we’re smelling sewer gas, there must be a hole somewhere.’ Alfred dropped his sack on the floor, then proceeded to rummage through it. ‘And if there’s a hole,’ he continued, ‘it may be big enough for a bogle.’

  ‘I can show you the hole!’ cried Rosina. ‘It’s behind those crates!’ She pointed at one of the blind arches, then turned to her brother. ‘Help him to move them, Freddie, so we can see!’

  ‘My dear girl, are you joking?’ Mr Vokes spread his arms. ‘I can’t afford to tear this costume – it’ll be overture and beginners, soon!’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Alfred. As he lifted the topmost crate, Ned rushed to help him. Together they cleared the storage bay, while Rosina explained that the missing boy had last been seen practising his steps in this very room, well away from the scorn of his fellow dancers.

  ‘He was last seen dancing?’ Birdie interrupted, just as Jem blurted out, ‘Could he have bin singing, as well?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Jem looked at Birdie, who looked at Ned. They all grimaced. Then Alfred dragged another crate from the top of the pile and said, ‘Here it is.’

  He had uncovered a deep, ragged hole in the brick wall.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Miss Eames’s voice was muffled by her handkerchief. ‘You seem to have found the source of that smell, Mr Bunce.’

  Jem began to cough. Rosina clapped a hand across her face. Holding her nose, Birdie turned to Mr Vokes and asked, ‘What is that?’

  ‘I’ve been told it’s the tunnel that once led to the Nell Gwynn tavern,’ he replied, from behind his sleeve. ‘It was bricked up long ago, and then this hole was made – I’m not sure why. Perhaps someone was hoping to find another corpse.’ He started to explain that, some thirty years previously, a skeleton had been discovered behind a wall upstairs. But the bogler wouldn’t let him finish.

  ‘Shh!’ Alfred flapped them all away from the hole, before thrusting his own head into it. Rosina gave a shriek. Ned, who was setting a heavy crate onto the floor, glanced up at her in alarm – but soon realised that she was simply overexcited.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ Jem assured her. ‘Mr Bunce knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Shut yer mouth!’ Alfred suddenly rounded on him, startling everyone with his ferocity. ‘D’you want to lure the bogle out ahead o’ time?’

  Rosina gasped. Her brother struck a dramatic pose. Miss Eames whispered, ‘You think there’s a bogle, Mr Bunce?’

  ‘I know there is,’ Alfred replied. And he began to make his preparations.

  7

  THE TUNNEL

  According to Alfred, the hole did seem to be a tunnel, though it was badly choked with rubble and other debris. ‘Only a bogle could get through there,’ he muttered, as he began to lay a ring of salt on the floor. He placed it at one end of the long, narrow room, while everyone else hovered at the other end, watching him.

  The ring looked very small to Ned, though it was as wide as the available space. He wondered if there was going to be a second circle. Alfred had often said that most bogles were solitary creatures, but it seemed a little risky to assume that they shared their dens only in the neighbourhood of Newgate Market. What if Drury Lane had become overcrowded as well?

  ‘This is as good as a play,’ Mr Vokes said in a low voice, as his sister tried to smother her excited giggles. ‘I’d wager people would pay a shilling a head for this.’

  ‘Aye, but we don’t want no audience down here, getting in the way,’ Alfred rejoined. ‘That’s why I’ll be needing you at the very top o’ them stairs, Mr Vokes. To stop anyone as happens by.’

  The actor’s face fell. ‘Am I not to witness the proceedings, Mr Bunce?’ he lamented. ‘That seems unduly harsh . . .’

  ‘The proceedings, Mr Vokes, might take some time,’ Miss Eames weighed in. ‘And you yourself are due on stage very soon, are you not?’

  Before Mr Vokes could answer, Alfred looked up from his work and said, ‘They both are. That’s why neither of ’em can stay in this room.’

  Rosina caught her breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ Alfred continued. ‘I’ll not have you slipping out suddenly when you’re called, or you’ll disturb the bogle.’

  ‘Oh, but Mr Bunce—’

  ‘I ain’t about to argue.’ Alfred stood firm. ‘If you’ll promise not to move or speak for the next few hours, then you can join us. Otherwise you’d best leave.’

  Rosina looked heartbroken. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her bottom lip quivered. Mr Vokes, however, wasn’t impressed by this display. He flicked her cheek with two careless fingers as he began to hustle her upstairs. ‘Turn off the plumbing, Sarah Bernhardt,’ he said breezily. ‘Mr Bunce knows what he’s about.’ On the landing he paused for a moment to say, ‘If we’re gone when you finish, Mr Bunce, you must report to Mr Todd. But do try not to wander on stage while you’re at it.’

  He then turned a corner and vanished up the second flight of stairs – though not before throwing a sly wink at his unhappy sister. Ned caught the wink, and was puzzled, but didn’t say anything. He knew that Alfred wouldn’t want to hear the sound of children’s voices.

  Not while a bogle was listening.

  ‘There’s a deal too many ways into this cellar,’ Alfred remarked. He was already laying down a second ring of salt near the foot of the staircase, where a door stood opposite the first blind arch. Made of scarred oak, this door was shut, though not bolted. The door on the landing was also shut.

  A third door, at the other end of the room, was standing ajar. It led to a dingy space full of old furniture.

  ‘You’re to go in there,’ Alfred told Miss Eames, nodding towards the storeroom. ‘For I must leave that door open, and don’t want no bogle sneaking through.’

  ‘Then why leave it open at all?’ Miss Eames wanted to know.

  ‘So Birdie has a place to run,’ said Alfred – and Ned saw at once what he was talking about. The cellar in which they stood was so narrow that, if the bogle approached Birdie from behind, she would have only one means of escape.

  ‘Jem, you’re to bolt that door and guard it.’ Alfred jerked his chin at the door near the stairs, which Jem promptly secured. ‘I doubt as how any bogle would try to break it down, but there ain’t no telling. So if a strange noise should trouble you, throw me a signal. And Ned . . .’ Alfred shifted his gaze. ‘I’ll want you on the landing, for I ain’t easy in me mind regarding that other door, up there.’

  Surprised, Ned glanced at the door in question. He couldn’t imagine why a sewer-bogle would want to use such a roundabout route. But then again, the door might lead to a closet. And Ned had often heard Birdie talk about closet-bogles . . .
/>   ‘That door’s locked,’ Jem informed Alfred. ‘I tried it on me way downstairs.’

  ‘It’s still worth watching.’ The bogler’s dark gaze skipped from one boy to the other as he lectured them. ‘You must yell if you see owt as seems untoward. And if yer way upstairs is blocked, just remember – you’ll be safe inside this circle. Ain’t no bogle on earth could pierce it.’

  He stamped his foot, drawing Ned’s attention to the second ring of salt on the floor. It was a closed circle, and looked smaller than the one across the room. But as Alfred explained, it was just a precaution.

  ‘I’m expecting the bogle to come through that tunnel and head straight for Birdie,’ he assured the two boys. ‘It shouldn’t trouble you – not while Birdie’s singing. Just be sure to keep mum and stay still.’

  He waited for a moment. When no one said anything, he went to stand beside the gaping hole, armed with his spear and his bag of salt. The others then took up their own positions. Birdie stepped into the larger magic ring. Jem stationed himself by the bolted door. Miss Eames hurried into the neighbouring room – where she had to hide herself away, since Alfred didn’t want her hovering on the threshold, scaring off the bogle.

  Ned trudged up to the landing. He didn’t have much of a view, from there. Even when he squatted down, he couldn’t see Birdie in her ring of salt. But he could see Jem and Alfred, as well as a tiny sliver of the hole in the wall.

  He could also see Rosina Vokes, who was sitting on the second flight of stairs. When Ned caught her eye, she put a finger to her lips – and flashed him such a soft, pleading look that he couldn’t bring himself to alert Alfred.

  Then Birdie began to sing.

  I’ve travelled about a bit in me time

  And of troubles I’ve seen a few

  But found it better in every clime

  To paddle me own canoe.

  Birdie’s voice was as clear and sweet as a cascade of silver bells. In that confined space it was also very loud, cutting through the air like a razor. Ned found himself marvelling all over again at its strength and purity.

  He saw Rosina’s jaw drop, and her pale eyes widen. But he knew that he shouldn’t be watching the actress. His job was to monitor every visible approach.

  So he flicked a look at the door behind him as Birdie continued.

  Me wants are few. I care not at all

  If me debts are paid when due

  I drive away strife in the ocean of life

  When I paddle me own canoe.

  A slight scuffling sound reached Ned’s ears. Glancing sideways, he spotted Mr Vokes creeping towards Rosina, one step at a time. Birdie’s song appeared to be drawing him back downstairs.

  Ned frowned at the actor before shifting his attention to Alfred, who stood quite still, poised to pounce. Ned couldn’t decide if the sewery smell was getting worse, though he did feel a creeping sense of unease. Did it stem from his own anxiety, or was it evidence of an approaching bogle?

  Suddenly he realised that Rosina had advanced a little more. She was sitting very close to him now, on the first step of the second flight, trying to poke her head around the corner for a better view of the action downstairs. And Ned couldn’t stop her because he wasn’t allowed to move or speak.

  Then Birdie launched into her next verse.

  Love yer neighbour as yerself

  As the world you go travelling through

  And never sit down with a tear and a frown

  But paddle yer own—

  A shriek from Jem cut her off. Something had shot out of the tunnel, slamming into the wall opposite, then bouncing off and hitting the floor. It looked like a giant flea, except that it was jet-black, with a rubbery hide, huge fangs, and four pink eyes as big as dinner plates. It landed by Jem, who acted on instinct. Since the bogle was blocking his route to the ring of salt, he sprang straight up in the air, grabbed one of the water pipes on the wall, and used it to swing himself over the bogle, which hadn’t yet jumped to its feet.

  By the time it did, Jem had turned a midair somersault and landed inside the magic circle.

  But water was already gushing from the pipe he’d wrenched apart at the join. Horrified, Ned saw that this water was rapidly dissolving the salt on the floor. So he lunged towards a likely-looking cut-off valve, which he’d spotted earlier.

  ‘Jem! Duck!’ Alfred roared, as the bogle reared up, hissing. Jem obeyed, and Alfred’s spear flew over his head.

  FOOMP!

  Suddenly there was no bogle. Nothing remained except a rapidly deflating, crusty black thing like an oversized boil on the ground. Alfred’s spear was sticking out of it.

  ‘Jem? Are you hurt, lad?’ The bogler dropped down beside Jem, who was curled up into a little ball. As he slowly uncoiled himself, shaking his head, Birdie descended on him in a flutter of petticoats – with Miss Eames close at her heels. Rosina, meanwhile, was staggering downstairs. ‘Oh, my! Oh, dear! I never did!’ she croaked. Even her heavy make-up couldn’t conceal her pallor; she was as white as the salt that had begun to liquefy at her feet.

  Luckily, Ned had been right about the cut-off valve. Water wasn’t gushing from the pipe anymore.

  ‘That pipe needs to be soldered,’ Ned observed hoarsely. He was still hanging off the valve, trying to stop his hands from shaking. But Rosina didn’t seem to hear. She had reached the little group clustered around Jem, who was on his feet again, looking stunned.

  ‘Are you a circus performer?’ she squeaked. ‘Why, Freddie has the liveliest legs in the business, and he couldn’t have done that!’

  ‘Not to save my life,’ Mr Vokes agreed, from the bottom of the stairs. He had taken off his crown to mop his damp forehead. ‘You ought to be on the stage, boy.’

  ‘And Birdie, too!’ Rosina cried. ‘Have you ever heard such a voice, Fred?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘We must arrange an audition for you.’ By now the colour was returning to Rosina’s face, though she still sounded very shrill. ‘My dear,’ she exclaimed, reaching out to grasp Birdie’s arm, ‘you’ll be the next Jenny Lind! And Jem might be the next Joe Grimaldi!’ ‘Who’s Joe Grimaldi?’ asked Jem.

  ‘Oh, he was a famous acrobat,’ Rosina replied. ‘They say he haunts this very theatre. Don’t they, Fred?’

  As Mr Vokes nodded, Alfred glanced at him and growled, ‘How do you know Jem’s so fast on his feet? You was meant to be guarding the top o’ the stairs.’

  The actor pulled a sheepish face. Then he quickly produced some coins from the purse at his belt, by way of a distraction. ‘For your trouble, Mr Bunce,’ he said. ‘Six shillings and sixpence, was it not?’ As he surrendered the money, the sound of a distant bell made him wince. ‘That’s our call,’ he told his sister. ‘We must go.’

  Rosina grabbed both of Birdie’s hands. ‘Come tomorrow morning. Come for an audition. I’ll arrange one for you. Promise me.’

  Birdie beamed and nodded, her expression radiant. Ned had never seen her look so happy. When Rosina finally released her grip, and retreated towards the staircase, Birdie rounded on Miss Eames and stammered,

  ‘I must go. You – you see that, don’t you? I must!

  ’ ‘Bring Jem with you!’ Rosina cried from the foot of the stairs. Then she disappeared in a flurry of white gauze.

  Her brother followed more slowly, executing an elaborate farewell bow before he rounded the corner on the landing.

  There was a brief silence after they’d left. Finally Ned, whose gaze had drifted towards the bogle’s remains, observed diffidently, ‘We should keep a bit o’ that for Mr Gilfoyle. Don’t you think?’

  8

  OFFICIAL BUSINESS

  Alfred Bunce received an unusual number of visitors the next morning.

  The first of them arrived at around eight o’clock. He was an errand boy from the Theatre Royal, and he carried a message from Mr Todd, the manager’s secretary – who had scribbled down Alfred’s address the night before. ‘Mr Todd says as how Jem Barbary is to report
to Mr Chatterton’s office at eleven o’clock, for an audition,’ the errand boy announced, lisping slightly. He then turned and ran back downstairs, leaving Ned open-mouthed on the threshold.

  Alfred’s next two visitors turned up at ten, while Ned was still darning one of Jem’s socks. (Jem was darning the other one.) It was Alfred who answered the door. He didn’t seem very surprised to see Birdie and Miss Eames on the threshold, though Birdie’s glossy appearance made him blink.

  ‘You look a picture today, lass,’ he said, ushering them into his stuffy garret. ‘You’re off to the theatre as well, I daresay?’

  ‘Mr Todd sent us a telegram,’ Birdie replied. She wore a dress of pale blue satin trimmed with silk braid, and seemed to glow like a gas-lamp.

  Ned was dazzled.

  ‘We thought we might take Jem along with us,’ Miss Eames explained. ‘Though of course we weren’t sure if he had been summoned . . .’

  ‘I have,’ Jem proudly confirmed.

  ‘And you’re going?’ asked Birdie.

  ‘Of course!’ Jem stared at her as if she were mad. ‘Why not?’

  Birdie raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Ned could imagine how she felt. Unlike Birdie, Jem had never expressed any interest in performing. He’d always talked as if bogling was his dream job. So Ned had been very surprised, the previous evening, to hear him babble on about a stage career as they followed Alfred home from the theatre.

  ‘Frederick Vokes is a dancer, and he has a watch worth at least thirty shillings!’ Jem had confided to Ned, behind Alfred’s back. ‘I saw him pull it out!’

  ‘But what about Mr Bunce? You begged him to take you on. Don’t you want to be a bogler’s boy no more?’

  Jem had shrugged. ‘Bogling’s better’n prigging, or sweeping out a grocer’s shop. There ain’t no future in it, though. Soon as I’m too big for a bogle’s stomach, I’ll be out o’ work. T’ain’t the same for theatre folk. Them Vokes sisters – why, they bin on stage since they was babies! And can expect to earn their keep as long as they’re limber.’ Seeing Ned frown, Jem had quickly added, ‘Besides, I don’t see as how there’ll be much call for boglers, now we got a committee doing the same job. Once the committee knows how to kill bogles in a scientific way, Mr Bunce’ll find hisself catching rats for a living. And you’ll be selling fruit out of a coster’s cart.’