‘I think you got a chimney-bogle,’ Alfred announced grimly.
Mr Warington stared at him. ‘A what?’ he said, as Mr Gilfoyle hurriedly produced a little black book from his pocket.
‘It’s a bogle as lurks in chimneys,’ Alfred rasped. ‘I’ve killed a good few.’
Mr Warington’s stare didn’t waver, though his mouth twitched. ‘Mr Bunce, the temperature in our furnaces can reach six hundred degrees Fahrenheit,’ he pointed out. ‘No creature could survive such conditions.’
‘Can we be sure of that, Mr Warington?’ Mr Gilfoyle suddenly came to Alfred’s defence, scribbling away in his little black book as he spoke. ‘After all, our understanding of bogles is in its infancy.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Is that hatch ever left open when there’s fires burning?’ Alfred interrupted. He was addressing Mr Warington, whose thoughtful gaze moved from Alfred to the hatch and back again before he replied, ‘Occasionally. If more air is called for.’
‘In that case, we’ll open it now,’ said Alfred. When he turned to Ned, his expression was grave. ‘It’ll feel hot on yer back,’ he rumbled, ‘and there ain’t no telling what might come out o’ that door. But I’ll be close to you, lad. I can hide behind the chimney.’
Ned swallowed. Then he glanced at the huge pile of coal.
‘You don’t think it’s hiding in that coal-heap?’ he quavered.
‘Mebbe,’ Alfred had to admit – at which point Mr Warington said, ‘You don’t mean to tell me this boy is here as bait?’
‘He’ll be safe enough,’ Alfred said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’ As Mr Warington raised a sceptical eyebrow, the bogler scowled and added, ‘You’d best warn all o’ them folk up there to stay well away till we’re finished.’
‘If you’d be so good,’ Mr Gilfoyle inserted quickly, with a placating smile.
‘Of course.’ Mr Warington began to retrace his steps. Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, however, he paused and studied Ned for a moment. ‘It’s my belief, Master Roach, that you should consider a different job – especially given your interest in steam,’ he remarked. ‘Despite the extreme temperature and caustic chemicals involved in laboratory work, you’d probably be safer here than you are in your present position.’
‘Except when there’s bogles about!’ snapped Alfred. And Mr Warington’s mouth twitched again.
‘True,’ he had to concede. ‘You have a point.’ Then he briskly made his way upstairs.
13
THE SNARE
A drift of smoke curled out of the open hatch. Ned could see it reflected in his mirror. He was standing inside an open ring of salt, with his back to the chimney and his face to the coal-heap. Alfred had given him some extra salt, just in case a bogle happened to emerge from the coal-heap instead of the hatch. ‘You’ll be safe as long as you close that circle,’ Alfred had insisted. ‘If anything attacks you from the front, you can allus drop yer salt and stand fast. But I ain’t persuaded it’ll happen.’
He himself was now skulking by the chimney, ready to leap forward at the first sign of trouble. Mr Gilfoyle was hiding behind the nearest coke-bin. But Ned couldn’t help feeling very lonely as he waited there, his mouth dry and his skin clammy, bleating away like a tethered lamb.
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells o’ St Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings
Say the bells o’ St Martin’s.
Mr Warington was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t returned from his trip upstairs, and Ned wondered what he was doing. Standing guard on the top step? Toiling in the still-house? Either way, he was luckier than Ned – who couldn’t help comparing his own job to Mr Warington’s.
Given the choice, Ned would have preferred to be doing almost anything else: shovelling coke into a furnace, say, or grinding up toxic powders. Mr Warington had been right. Laboratory work was much less dangerous than bogling. If it hadn’t been for Alfred, Ned might have considered applying for a position as laboratory boy. (There were at least two vacancies, now.)
But he couldn’t desert Alfred. It was Alfred who had rescued him from a life of mud and misery. It was Alfred who had given him a home. So when Alfred had needed another bogler’s boy, Ned had willingly volunteered, even though he couldn’t leap like Jem or sing like Birdie.
In fact he was surprised that his cracked voice didn’t frighten bogles away . . .
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich
Say the bells o’ Shoreditch.
Smoke was still curling from the hatch – and it was getting thicker. There was a faint haze in the air now. Ned smelled sulphur and wondered why. Was tainted smoke coming from an upstairs furnace? Or was that sulphurous stench a sign that the bogle was nearby?
Peering into his mirror, Ned could see only smoke emerging from the hatch behind him. But as his eyes began to sting, and his throat became scratchy, something clicked inside his head.
Of course.
There was no need for the bogle to emerge. Not if Ned shut the hatch to stop the smoke. For then he’d be within easy reach of any claws or hooks or tentacles.
‘Mr Bunce . . .’ Ned turned and beckoned to Alfred, who was already harder to see through a haze of smoke. When the bogler scowled, Ned motioned to him even more urgently, knowing that it would be dangerous to close the gap between himself and the chimney-hatch by even one step.
At last Alfred moved towards Ned, still scowling. When the bogler finally reached him, Ned put his mouth to Alfred’s ear and whispered, ‘That creature’s not about to show itself. Not till I go over and shut the hatch.’
Alfred hissed. His eyes widened as his bushy brows knotted together. He glanced back at the chimney.
‘That there is a smart bogle,’ Ned added under his breath. Then he coughed, swallowed and licked his dry lips before quavering, ‘If . . . if you was to give me yer spear, Mr Bunce—’
‘Oh, no. Not that.’
‘Ain’t nothing else’ll work,’ Ned pointed out. He actually preferred the idea of confronting the bogle face-to-face, with a spear in his hand. And he felt sure that Alfred’s reputation would suffer badly if they just walked away without even trying to kill the bogle. ‘Please, Mr Bunce. If you go back to where you was, you’ll be close enough to grab me. Or throw salt. You’ll be there if summat goes wrong.’
‘Which it’s bound to,’ Alfred muttered.
‘No, sir. It ain’t.’ Ned spoke staunchly, striving to ignore the sense of black despair that was creeping over him. He recognised it, of course. It was the gloom that every bogle used to protect itself – and Ned knew, by now, that it had no basis in reality. ‘I already killed a bogle with yer spear, remember? At Smithfield Market. I can allus do it again.’ Seeing that he’d made an impression with this argument, Ned concluded, ‘I can’t jump like Jem nor sing like Birdie, but I’m stronger’n both of ’em. You know that.’
‘Aye . . .’ Alfred was gnawing at his bottom lip, his long face growing longer by the second. ‘All the same, it don’t sit well with me.’
‘It sits well with me. For I’d rather – cough, cough – walk up to that bogle and look it in the eye than wait for it with me back turned.’ By this time the smoke was so thick that Ned could barely see the chimney. Lowering his voice, he concluded, ‘We got to do it now, Mr Bunce.’
‘Aye,’ Alfred said again. Then he surrendered his spear and moved his hand to Ned’s shoulder. ‘Don’t aim twice,’ he warned in an undertone, his dark gaze boring into Ned’s. ‘If you miss yer target, run. You’ve only one chance, lad. Drop that spear if you have to.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s you I want to keep, not the weapon.’ Alfred’s hand fell away as he swung around, heading back to his post by the chimney before Ned could say anything else.
By now Ned’s eyes were streaming. He was afraid that the smoke must be leaking into the laboratory above him. And when he heard Mr G
ilfoyle smother a cough, he realised that he didn’t have much time.
So he took a cautious step towards the chimney, raising his voice to drown the choked splutters coming from behind the coke-bin.
When will that – cough! – be?
Say the bells o’ Stepney.
I do not know – cough!
Says the great bell o’ Bow.
Ned quickly cast aside the salt that he’d been clutching and fastened both hands firmly around the shaft of Alfred’s spear. A cloud of black smoke was billowing towards him. He advanced one step. Then another. Then another. The smoke blocked out the light as he carefully adjusted his grip.
Suddenly he couldn’t see Alfred. He couldn’t see the chimney. But despite the darkness, and the tears in his eyes, he could just make out that there was a dense, black heart to the cloud of smoke – a heart that seemed to be growing bigger.
And though he was gasping for breath, he doggedly kept croaking out another verse of his nursery rhyme.
Here – cough! – comes a candle
To light you to bed – cough, cough!
He raised his spear and aimed it. Then he waited, poised on the balls of his feet, as the black shadow grew . . . and grew . . .
Here comes a – cough! – chopper
To chop off yer HEAD!
And he rammed the spear home.
There was a jolt – then nothing. Darkness. He couldn’t breathe.
Had he failed?
‘Ned?’ Someone was slapping his cheeks. ‘Ned! ’
He opened his eyes. Alfred’s face was hanging over him, drawn and anxious. What had happened to the smoke? When Ned’s gaze shifted sideways, he saw a whitewashed ceiling behind a ring of heads, and realised that he wasn’t in the basement anymore.
‘Ned? Can you hear me?’ Alfred was speaking again. ‘Can you move? Can you talk, lad?’
‘Wha – what happened?’ Ned croaked. He had spotted Mr Harewood, standing between Mr Gilfoyle and Mr Warington. Mr Harewood’s nose was swollen up. One of his eyes was purple and puffy.
‘You killed the bogle,’ said Alfred. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘There was an explosion,’ Mr Gilfoyle added. He was as white as chalk. ‘You were thrown clear across the room.’
‘I killed it?’
‘You did.’ Alfred dangled a dirty rag in front of him. ‘We bin cleaning it off you ever since.’
Ned raised his own hand and saw that it was smeared with grey soot. It was also covered in small, reddish spots that stung when he touched them.
‘It burned you,’ Alfred gruffly explained, on seeing Ned wince. ‘Just a little. Nowt to speak of. You was lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Mr Gilfoyle echoed in disbelief, as Ned struggled up onto his elbows. ‘You call that lucky? He might have been killed!’
‘We’re in the mortar room,’ Ned suddenly declared. He had recognised the drying oven.
‘Aye.’ Alfred flashed a quick look at Mr Gilfoyle, whose clenched features relaxed. Even Mr Warington heaved a sigh of relief.
‘He must be well enough,’ said Mr Harewood, ‘if he knows where he is.’
‘Of course I do!’ Ned sat up. His head was rapidly clearing. ‘When did you arrive, sir?’
‘After you were knogged out,’ Mr Harewood replied. His voice still sounded very odd. ‘I hear you were as brave as a lion, young Ned.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Gilfoyle spoke before Ned could. ‘Though I must confess, I’m still unclear as to why he should have been exposed to such danger. I thought the usual technique was to lure the bogle out of its lair?’
Alfred gave a grunt. He didn’t seem inclined to defend himself. Ned murmured, ‘This ’un wouldn’t never have showed itself. It stayed in the flue, blowing smoke and waiting for me to come to it.’
‘You mean you didn’t see the bogle? Any of you?’ Mr Warington’s tone was drily incredulous. When Ned and Alfred and Mr Gilfoyle all shook their heads, he asked, ‘Then how can you be sure there was one? That noise sounded just like a gas explosion to me. It’s quite possible that you accidentally ignited a combination of volatile chemicals . . .’
‘We didn’t.’ Ned tried not to sound as resentful as he felt. ‘It were a bogle. I could feel it.’
‘So could I,’ said Alfred. He was glaring at Mr Warington. ‘This boy killed a bogle. Don’t you take that away from him, sir. He’s a brave lad.’
Mr Gilfoyle nodded furiously in agreement. Beside him, Mr Warington raised his hands in a half-hearted gesture of submission. Then Mr Harewood remarked, ‘I’m persuaded thad there musd be someone with medical training on these premises. Am I ride, Mr Waringdon?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Warington flashed him a quizzical look. ‘This is the Apothecaries’ Hall.’
‘Then perhaps you could arrange a brief consultation for me? And for poor Ned, here, who musd have a lump on his head as big as a crab-apple.’ Mr Harewood smiled crookedly as he addressed Alfred. ‘Before I hail a cab for us, Mr Bunce, we should probably arm ourselves with a few salves and plasters. Do you nod agree? For I’d argue thad some of us have done enough for one day, and should be off to bed as soon as possible.’
‘Aye.’ Alfred inclined his head, then muttered something about the importance of getting a good night’s sleep. Ned caught the word ‘Derbyshire’, and suddenly remembered.
He was going to be taking his very first railway journey, the next day.
‘Why, yes, of course! Your visid to the Peak District!’ Mr Harewood began to rub his hands together. ‘I musd say, I’m looking forward to your findings, Mr Bunce. If you can discover the secreds of your spear, we shall all be a deal better off . . .’
14
MEETING MOTHER MAY
Ned sat in a second-class carriage on a train heading for Derbyshire. Wedged between Alfred and a fat man with a cold, he didn’t have much of a view out the window. He also felt embarrassed every time he caught the eye of the lady sitting opposite, who would sniff and turn away in a very pointed manner. It was obvious that she regarded him as the sort of person who ought to be travelling in third class.
So he’d spent most of the journey staring at his boots, thinking about recent events as the train rocked and swayed and chugged along. St Pancras Station had been so huge – so magnificent – that he’d been dazzled. From a ticket office fitted with cathedral windows and acres of polished wood, he had emerged into a train-shed so large that he could barely see one end from the other. Seven locomotives had been lined up inside it like horses in a stable, with their carriages arranged neatly behind them. Ned had boarded the very longest of these trains, which was more comfortably furnished than he’d ever imagined it would be; the seats were padded, there was glass in all the windows, and the luggage racks were made of solid brass.
Even the train’s departure had been exciting. The blast of the whistle and the engine’s gathering speed had filled Ned with exhilaration. Plunging into dark tunnels had been quite a thrill, at first. The trip itself, however, had proved to be a bit of a disappointment. The people around him sat quietly, trying not to look at each other. Some of them slept, some of them smoked, and some of them read books or newspapers. The windows quickly steamed up, so that he couldn’t see outside. The carriage was cold but stuffy. Passengers would get on or off, but they never did anything of interest. When the shabbily dressed clergyman near the window peeled an egg into a paper bag, his movements were furtive, and he kept his head down.
Alfred slept. With his arms folded and his chin on his chest, he dozed through stop after stop, as Ned listened to the guards calling out station names. According to Alfred, their destination was a town called Long Eaton. ‘We’ll change trains at Trent,’ he’d explained before nodding off, ‘so you must wake me when we reach Leicester.’
In the meantime, Ned had nothing to do but reflect on his situation. He still ached a little from his job at the Apothecaries’ Hall, where he’d bruised some ribs, bumped his head, and singed his eyebrows. Luckily, he’d bee
n offered a cab ride home afterwards; walking back would have left him feeling much worse. But he’d been forced to spend the whole trip listening to Mr Gilfoyle bicker with Mr Harewood about chimney-bogles. Did the existence of chimney-bogles disprove the theory that bogles used sewers to get around? Mr Gilfoyle had insisted that there were different types of bogles, some of which didn’t need underground water. Mr Harewood had argued that the Fleet Sewer ran beneath the very doorstep of the Apothecaries’ Hall, so there had to be a connection.
Alfred had kept his opinion to himself.
He’d remained very quiet and sombre, even after arriving back at Orange Court – where Jem had been waiting impatiently, anxious to tell them a wonderful piece of news. After spending nearly an hour with Mr Chatterton that morning, both Jem and Birdie had been hired for the Theatre Royal pantomime. ‘We start rehearsing tomorrow,’ Jem had grandly announced, ‘and they’ll pay me two shillings for every performance!’ Birdie would be earning more, he’d added, because she had been engaged as a soloist. ‘I’m only in the chorus, but if I dance well enough they might give me summat special to do. I might even get to dance with Mr Vokes!’
Remembering the radiant expression on Jem’s face, Ned didn’t feel the least bit jealous. A stage career wasn’t something he’d ever wanted; in fact, the thought of performing in public made his blood run cold. And he was glad that Birdie had achieved her heart’s desire, because she deserved to be famous. She was the bravest, prettiest, noblest person he’d ever met, and her voice was good enough to be admired all over the world. As far as Ned was concerned, she belonged in the spotlight.
But with Jem employed elsewhere, the burden of the bogling would now fall on Ned. And Ned wasn’t sure exactly what that would involve. He didn’t even know why he’d been invited to Derbyshire. He had a sneaking suspicion, however, that he wasn’t there just to carry the luggage.
Alfred had some sort of plan in mind.
A Very Singular Guild Page 9