A Very Singular Guild

by Catherine Jinks

  Finally he said, ‘Will you tell Mr Harewood about the summoning herbs?’

  ‘Aye.’ It was barely more than a grunt.

  ‘If they work, you’ll not need a ’prentice no more.’

  ‘If they work,’ Alfred replied. There was so much disdain in his voice that Ned was puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you think she told the truth, Mr Bunce?’

  Alfred shrugged. His face was already damp and red from the effort of hacking away at a thick branch with a small knife. ‘She ain’t called a cunning woman for nowt,’ he spat. ‘She wants more chink – that’s why she spoke at all.’

  ‘I thought she were trying to make us stay a little longer.’ When Alfred didn’t comment, Ned observed hesitantly, ‘She were happy to see you, right enough.’

  ‘All she cares about is money.’ Alfred passed his knife to Ned, then began to tug and wrench at the half-cut bough with both hands. ‘When I were a lad, I heard her say as how ’twould be cheaper to use stray boys, and let the bogles eat ’em, than to keep feeding a ’prentice.’

  Ned’s jaw dropped. He had to swallow before stammering, ‘Oh, b-but . . . she weren’t serious, Mr Bunce? She didn’t mean it?’

  ‘Who knows what she meant? All I know is, she cares for nowt but that hoard o’ coins in her pisspot.’ With a mighty yank, Alfred finally managed to detach his chosen bough from the rest of the blackthorn bush. ‘She married a man for his house, gave him no children on account o’ the expense, and wouldn’t stump up for a train ticket to her own brother’s funeral,’ he finished. ‘If she’s lonely now, she’s got none to blame but herself.’

  Having delivered this verdict, he pocketed his knife, adjusted his hat, and headed back towards the railway station, using his new staff as a walking stick.

  16

  AN EVENING PERFORMANCE

  It was early evening before Alfred and Ned finally arrived at Miss Eames’s house, on their way home from St Pancras Station. Alfred had told Ned that he wanted to acquaint Miss Eames with his latest discovery, so that she could write to Mr Harewood.

  He didn’t expect to find Mr Harewood already on the premises.

  ‘Why, what a stroke of luck!’ the engineer exclaimed, jumping to his feet as Alfred and Ned crossed the threshold of Miss Eames’s front parlour. ‘We were just this moment wishing that you were with us, Mr Bunce, and here you are!’

  Startled, Alfred gazed around the room – which Ned had always admired. Like Mother May’s kitchen, it was very cluttered, but the clutter was beautiful. There were gilded chairs, framed pictures, glazed bookshelves, embroidered firescreens, and crystal vases stuffed with hothouse flowers. An inlaid workbox sat on a carved writing desk. A glossy piano was draped with a fringed damask cloth. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted, and a low table was laid for tea.

  Surrounding this table were half-a-dozen familiar faces. Miss Eames was wielding the teapot, richly clad in a mauve gown with a low neck. Beside her sat her elderly aunt, Mrs Heppinstall, who owned the house and most of its contents. She wore her usual black silk dress, but to Ned’s eyes – fresh from a murky witch’s dwelling in Derbyshire – she looked very clean and cheerful with her neat grey ringlets and starched white cap.

  Mr Gilfoyle was perched on the couch opposite Mrs Heppinstall. He was all decked out in a white tie and black tailcoat. Mr Harewood, in contrast, was dressed for a day’s work, and didn’t look entirely respectable – perhaps because of the bruises on his face. Jem and Birdie were sitting on opposite sides of a plum cake, which was already half eaten. Birdie was as pretty as a china doll in an outfit that Ned recognised; it was made of embroidered pearl-grey satin. But Ned didn’t recognise the sailor-suit that Jem was wearing.

  ‘T’ain’t mine,’ Jem said sharply, when he saw Ned’s raised eyebrows. ‘Miss Eames borrowed it from a neighbour.’

  ‘He couldn’t have come to the theatre in his own clothes,’ Miss Eames quickly explained to Alfred. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Bunce? Ned?’

  ‘We’re going to see Tom Thumb,’ Birdie announced. She had already jumped up, and was guiding Alfred towards a chair. ‘Mr Gilfoyle is taking us. Ain’t you, Mr Gilfoyle?’

  ‘I thought it only proper,’ Mr Gilfoyle agreed, colouring. ‘No lady should have to attend the theatre or ballet unaccompanied . . .’

  ‘I want Jem and Birdie to see the show as audience members, before they actually perform,’ Miss Eames continued. She sounded embarrassed, and as she went on, Ned realised why. ‘Of course you’re welcome to accompany us, Mr Bunce, if you could somehow organise a change of clothes . . . and perhaps a wash . . .’

  ‘Nay.’ Alfred was wet through, and resisted Birdie’s efforts to make him sit in an upholstered armchair. Instead he dropped onto the piano stool, still clutching his blackthorn staff. ‘I’ll wait till Birdie’s up on stage. That’s when I’ll go.’

  ‘And what about you, Ned?’ Miss Eames smiled, but Ned wasn’t fooled. He could sense from her creased brow and preoccupied gaze that she was wondering where, at this late hour, she could possibly acquire a decent set of clothes for him.

  ‘I’ll wait till Birdie’s singing,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll go when Mr Bunce goes.’

  ‘And I’ll go with you,’ Mr Harewood broke in. He had seated himself again, and was rifling through his coat pockets. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dressed for the theatre, at present. In fact I’m not even here at Miss Eames’s invitation.’ He dragged out a handful of papers and said to Alfred, ‘I merely called to show her these. And to find out whether she’d heard from you, of course . . .’

  ‘They’re telegrams,’ Birdie piped up. ‘From all over town.’

  Miss Eames shot Birdie a reproving glance, but Mr Harewood proceeded as if he hadn’t noticed the interruption. ‘I was just telling our friends, Mr Bunce, that the memorandum I circulated among various government departments has had a remarkable response. I’ve heard from the Customs Commissioners, the London Docks, St Bartholemew’s hospital . . . even from some of the railway companies. Word must have got out, I suppose. There seems to be an enormous demand for your services.’ Suddenly he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Which prompts me to ask: did you have any luck in Derbyshire?’

  As Alfred began to describe his trip to Long Eaton, Ned reached for a jam tart. He was very hungry, having eaten nothing since Mother May’s oatcake. Mrs Heppinstall was the only person who noticed what he was up to.

  She poured him a cup of tea while everyone else was listening intently to Alfred.

  ‘. . . henbane, crampweed, and black nightshade,’ he was saying. ‘She greased the head with it. I brung a piece o’ the wood back with me, in case the blackthorn thereabouts is different from London’s. I thought as how we could use it to craft a new spear.’ And he raised his staff, so that his audience could examine it.

  There was a brief silence. At last Mr Gilfoyle observed, ‘Mrs Blewett’s concoction doesn’t sound very difficult to make. I’m sure I could brew it myself, without the assistance of a trained apothecary.’

  ‘We’d need help with the spearhead, though,’ Mr Harewood pointed out. He sounded thoughtful. ‘I know several good stonemasons, and could apply to one of them for help. But where are we to find consecrated stone?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I could do that for you,’ Mrs Heppinstall unexpectedly offered. Having passed Ned his tea, she set down the teapot and looked around the table with a placid smile.

  Miss Eames said quickly, ‘My aunt knows a great many clergymen.’

  ‘Why, then we have our plan!’ Mr Harewood exclaimed. ‘If you can supply the blessing, Mrs Heppinstall, I’ll arrange to have the stone shaped to a point, and Razzy can provide the final touches.’ He beamed at Alfred. ‘You may be testing your new spear by the end of the week, Mr Bunce!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Eames. ‘Won’t that be dreadfully dangerous for Ned?’

  Everyone stared at Ned, whose cheeks were full of jam tart. He flushed.

  ‘It’ll be less
dangerous with two spears than one,’ Jem remarked, just as Alfred cleared his throat.

  ‘There’s summat else I should tell you,’ the bogler said. Then he went on to describe Mother May’s offer of a summoning recipe. ‘She’ll need to be paid, and I ain’t sure we’ll be getting our money’s worth. But I thought as how, if the new spear works, we should mebbe go back and buy the other charm. The one as lures bogles.’

  ‘My word, yes!’ said Mr Harewood. Meanwhile Jem and Birdie were exchanging wide-eyed looks. When they turned to Ned he shrugged, embarrassed by all the attention.

  ‘A summoned bogle is more dangerous, on account of it’s primed to fight,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what the old witch told us. Bait is better, she said.’

  ‘But not if the bait is a child!’ cried Miss Eames. ‘I’ve always maintained that there must be an alternative to using children, and here it is! Though of course we must be sure that the herbs actually work.’ Suddenly she swung around and appealed to the engineer. ‘Would it not be a marvellous thing, Mr Harewood, if Ned could be replaced by a potion?’

  ‘Er . . . well . . . yes . . .’

  ‘Mr Harewood and I were just discussing Ned,’ Miss Eames continued, addressing Alfred. ‘We agreed that he’s a very clever boy, and wasted as a bogler’s apprentice.’ She then turned to Ned. ‘I’m sure you’d prefer to be doing something else with your life. Wouldn’t you, dear?’

  Ned swallowed. It was true; he didn’t like bogling. But he had a duty to Alfred.

  ‘I’m a bogler’s boy,’ he answered at last. ‘Mr Bunce needs me.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Miss Eames reminded him. Her tone was brisk. ‘Not if he can replace you with a herbal solution.’

  ‘Ain’t no herb can replace a good ’prentice!’ Alfred snapped. And seeing the bogler leap to his defence, Ned felt even more indebted to him.

  ‘Mr Bunce needs me,’ Ned repeated. ‘No bogler can do his job without a ’prentice.’

  He wanted to say more, but didn’t get the chance. Suddenly there was a knock on the parlour door and, as everyone glanced around, a maid appeared on the threshold. She had frizzy red hair, and wore a white apron over her black dress.

  ‘Begging yer pardon, Miss, but yer carriage is here,’ she announced.

  ‘Oh, dear. Is it that late? Thank you, Mary.’ Miss Eames stood up, prompting everyone else to do the same. ‘We must go now, Mr Bunce, but we’ll certainly discuss this at a later date,’ she went on. Before Alfred could reply, she said to Birdie, ‘Find your mantle, there’s a good girl. Have you seen my gloves, Aunt?’

  ‘On the piano, dear . . .’

  During the bustle that ensued, Ned and Jem managed to polish off five more jam tarts between them. Mr Gilfoyle offered Alfred a ride to Drury Lane. Mrs Heppinstall wished the theatre party a very pleasant evening, and Alfred said to Mr Harewood, ‘Will you be coming with us?’

  ‘I doubt I’d fit. It will be rather cramped in that vehicle with six passengers, let alone seven.’ When a confused chorus of voices assured Mr Harewood that room could certainly be found – that children could sit on knees – that a spacious hackney coach had been ordered, rather than a hansom cab – he hastily added, ‘I’m heading east, in any case. Please don’t concern yourselves.’

  ‘If you ain’t coming with us, sir, may I ask how you fared with the police?’ Alfred inquired. ‘Only I bin a-thinking on it, and wondering what they might have done about finding the feller as struck you.’

  ‘Oh.’ As every eye turned towards him, Mr Harewood smiled crookedly. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve not had much satisfaction on that front,’ he admitted. ‘There must be so many footpads around Newgate that my black eye simply doesn’t measure up to all the cracked skulls and cut throats that infest the neighbourhood. I certainly haven’t heard from the police. They seemed quite unimpressed when I spoke to them, as I believe I may have mentioned yesterday . . .’

  Alfred frowned. ‘You went to Smithfield station house, did you not?’

  ‘I did indeed. On your recommendation, Mr Bunce.’

  ‘You should have talked to Constable Pike,’ said Birdie.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ As Jem and Ned began to nod in agreement, Mr Gilfoyle declared, ‘Constable Pike is the man you want. He would have helped.’

  ‘Who is Constable Pike?’ asked Mr Harewood.

  Alfred explained that Constable Pike was a market constable at Smithfield, who had helped to arrest Sarah Pickles. ‘He knows all about Salty Jack Gammon,’ Alfred explained. ‘And he’s seen me bogling.’

  ‘Then the next time I’m assaulted, I shall certainly appeal to Constable Pike,’ Mr Harewood remarked in a bantering tone. ‘Meanwhile I must take my leave, or you’ll be late for the theatre. Good evening, Miss Eames. Mrs Heppinstall. Many thanks for the tea. Have fun, old boy.’ He flipped Mr Gilfoyle a mocking salute, bowed to the ladies, and said to Alfred, ‘Let me take your blackthorn staff, Mr Bunce. I want to see what I can do with it. And I’ll look you up tomorrow, shall I? For I’ve a pocketful of bogles here, and you must decide which of them you should tackle first. Personally, I’d begin with Tothill Fields prison, since no one there can actually run away from an attacking bogle . . .’

  Even as he spoke, he was donning his hat. Then he turned on his heel and plunged through the front door, which was standing open. By the time the others had emerged onto the street – fully equipped with hats, gloves and umbrellas – he had disappeared into a thick fog.

  ‘I just hope he don’t get run down,’ Alfred muttered. ‘He’s a fearless sort o’ cove, ain’t he?’

  ‘Which is why he ends up with so many black eyes,’ said Mr Gilfoyle, before rushing forward to help Miss Eames into the waiting carriage.

  17

  BEHIND BARS

  The entrance to Tothill Fields prison was a large granite gateway in a massive wall of beige brick. Its double doors were made of iron, set under a raised portcullis. Its door-knockers were as big as dinner plates.

  As Alfred lifted one of them, and let it drop again, Mr Harewood remarked, ‘Did you see the streets we passed on our way here? Pool Place. Pond Court. I’ve heard that this prison was built on a swamp, and those names seem to confirm it.’

  Alfred didn’t comment. He was too busy watching a little hatch in the right-hand door, which suddenly snapped open.

  ‘State yer business,’ a deep voice growled.

  ‘My name is Mark Harewood.’ Consulting the telegram that he was clutching, the engineer added, ‘This is Alfred Bunce and Ned Roach. We are here at the request of Mrs Spraggs, the Principal Matron.’

  ‘One moment, please, sir.’

  The hatch closed again. Ned heard a murmur of voices, and the squeal of bolts being drawn. Suddenly the door opened, revealing a uniformed warder with brass on his collar and keys at his belt. His waxed moustache was so large that it stuck out on either side of his head, eclipsing his ears.

  ‘Kindly step inside,’ he barked. ‘Mrs Spraggs has bin sent for.’ He then ushered his guests into a little office just inside the gateway, which contained a clutch of chairs, a desk, a small fireplace, and a row of cutlasses strung together on a chain. With four people squeezed into it, the room felt very cramped.

  ‘May I inquire as to what yer business is with Mrs Spraggs, sir?’ the warder asked Mr Harewood, who promptly gave him the matron’s telegram. As soon as he’d read it, a great change came over the warder. He lost his stiff, military air and addressed Mr Harewood in the mildest of tones.

  ‘Are you the bogler?’ he asked.

  Mr Harewood shook his head. ‘Mr Bunce is.’

  ‘Then I’m right glad to meet you, Mr Bunce. Right glad,’ the warder said, vigorously shaking hands with Alfred. ‘It’s time we did summat about this here bogle, for we’ve lost too many girls already.’

  Ned blinked. ‘You have girls in this prison?’ he exclaimed. The telegram had mentioned three missing children – but not that they were girls.

  ‘We take women, girls, and bo
ys under seventeen,’ the warder replied. ‘It’s the females as work in the laundry, and that’s where the bogle is.’

  Alfred frowned. ‘Are you sure there’s a bogle?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I bin told, Mr Bunce.’ The warder went on to explain that the missing girls had all been laundry workers, and had disappeared in the vicinity of a hot closet. ‘The first time it happened, ’twas called an escape. The second time, we thought the first lass had set a bad example. But the third time . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The third time, someone heard a scream.’

  Ned shuddered. Though it wasn’t an unusual story, it somehow seemed much worse in these grim surroundings – which filled Ned with a deep sense of unease. He hadn’t wanted to come to the prison. But after carefully considering Mr Harewood’s pile of telegrams, Alfred had ruled against the job at St Bartholomew’s hospital because it was too close to Newgate. Crossness Pumping Station, on the other hand, would be too far out of London. And the job at the docks would be so close to the job at the Custom House that Alfred had felt they ought to be tackled together. As for Blackfriars Station, or the Thames Tunnel . . . well, they both belonged to private companies, and Mr Harewood wanted the government jobs tackled first.

  So Alfred had decided to start at Tothill Fields prison – despite Ned’s misgivings. Because his own father had died in gaol, Ned had always feared imprisonment more than anything else. And he wasn’t the only one. That very morning, Jem had quietly confessed to an abiding dread of the ‘stone jug’, before wishing Ned good luck with heartfelt sympathy – even though Jem was the one about to face his first matinee performance. (‘I’ll stay at the back o’ the line till I’ve got me steps right,’ he’d declared, when asked if he was ready.) Birdie wouldn’t be on stage for a few nights yet, because she was still working on her new part. But she was far too busy to help Alfred.

  So it was Ned, and Ned alone, who found himself standing next to Alfred inside Tothill Fields House of Correction, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t catch sight of someone he knew among the inmates.