A Very Singular Guild

by Catherine Jinks

  It was still so early that the gas-lamps were lit.

  Constable Evans turned right when he reached a stairwell near the end of the hallway. He led his visitors down two flights of stairs and across a small room cluttered with stacks of loose timber and old paint pots. Dust was lying everywhere – mostly brick and plaster dust. But the air felt damp, all the same.

  ‘I’ll have to fetch a lamp,’ the policeman remarked, as he pushed open a door made of raw, unpainted wood. ‘There’s no gas laid on down here. No steam pipes, either. And no facilities, of course . . .’

  There wasn’t, in fact, much of anything. Ned saw this at once when he peered through the open doorway into the dim space beyond it, which looked half-finished. Old stone walls jostled with new brick ones oozing clots of dried mortar. Rusty, iron-barred grates alternated with neat sets of shelves made from fresh-cut wood. A brand new boiler stood beside a blocked-up fireplace.

  ‘See that gate?’ Constable Evans pointed. ‘There’s a key in the lock. Beyond it lies a disused storeroom.’ He stepped aside, allowing the others to shuffle past him. ‘You’ll find it well supplied with nooks and crannies,’ he continued, ‘though they’ll be hard to see in this light. I’ll fetch a lamp, so you may judge what suits you best. Watch where you put your feet, in the meantime.’

  He disappeared suddenly, leaving his guests huddled together near the door to the stairwell. It was Alfred who finally made a move. He let his bag slide off his shoulder before crouching down to rake through its contents.

  Ned could only assume that he was searching for his dark lantern.

  ‘This place smells bad,’ Ned muttered, unnerved by the darkness and the mouldy, swampy odour.

  ‘It does,’ Alfred grimly agreed. For an instant the match in his hand fizzed and flared. Then he lit his lantern, straightened up, and tossed away the spent match. Ned followed him as he picked his way carefully through the shadows towards the gate, which swung open on creaky hinges when the bogler touched it.

  In the soft gleam of Alfred’s lantern, Ned could just make out a series of cupboard doors set into the wall opposite. Some stood open, revealing black holes framed by fluttering cobwebs. Some were bolted shut.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Bunce?’ Humphrey asked from the stairwell. ‘Is there space enough for the big lad?’

  ‘Hush! Stay back. You too, Ned. Don’t take another step.’

  Ned stared at Alfred in surprise. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Quiet! Keep yer mouth shut, d’you hear?’ As Ned subsided, his heart pounding and his stomach clenching, Alfred turned to the others. ‘I mislike this. T’ain’t what it should be. I’m a-thinking there might be bogles about.’

  ‘Bogles?’ Humphrey echoed, as Ned’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean real bogles?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Ned didn’t understand. He hadn’t felt the presence of a bogle – not the way he usually did. There was no telltale sense of despair.

  But he kept silent, because Alfred had told him to.

  ‘Stay back,’ the bogler repeated. ‘None o’ you come no closer. Not till I give you leave.’ To Ned he muttered, ‘Fetch the spear, there’s a good lad.’

  Ned promptly obeyed. Then he retreated to the doorway at the foot of the stairs, where he stood while Alfred checked the cupboards one by one.

  How can he say I’m a born bogler, Ned thought morosely, when I didn’t feel a thing? It was more than embarrassing; it frightened him. He couldn’t stay safe if he wasn’t skilled enough. And what if he let Alfred down? What if he put them both in danger?

  Beside him, Humphrey Cundle stood hunched beneath the weight of his basket, riveted by the movement of Alfred’s lantern. Eduardo, on the other hand, looked frankly puzzled. Ned would have liked to explain things to him, but couldn’t speak. Not until Alfred gave permission.

  All at once a muffled voice was raised above them, in surprise or anger. Ned heard footsteps overhead, followed by a loud bang. More footsteps followed. They began to move closer until they were clumping down the stairs.

  Ned turned to intercept Constable Evans, who clattered into view carrying an oil lamp.

  ‘Mr Bunce?’ the policeman exclaimed. ‘Your man’s arrived. He came with the rest. Are you ready for him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Ned replied, from the foot of the staircase. ‘Mr Bunce is still checking cupboards . . .’

  ‘Well, he’d better hurry. We cannot hold Fitch for more’n a few minutes, up there. We need him put under lock and key.’

  ‘Mr Bunce thinks there’s a real bogle,’ Humphrey unexpectedly remarked. He had sidled up to Ned, his expression wry, his basket still on his back. ‘I don’t know what that means for me and the big foreigner. Do you, lad?’

  Ned didn’t. He opened his mouth to say so, but was prevented from answering by Constable Evans.

  ‘A real bogle?’ the policeman spluttered. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘T’ain’t nonsense.’ Alfred spoke up suddenly, startling them all. He stood framed in the doorway, his lantern held high, his face drawn and sombre. ‘There’s a bogle in that fumigation cupboard,’ he announced. ‘See for yerselves.’

  He swung his lantern towards the storeroom. As Ned gaped at him, aghast, Humphrey said, ‘You can see it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But . . .’ Ned was confused. Bogles only showed themselves when they were lured out of their lairs. Stealth was their greatest weapon. They didn’t lie around in basements, waiting to be discovered. They crept up on people.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say it were poorly,’ Alfred went on. ‘At first I thought it were a bag o’ coal stuffed in the back o’ the oven, down there. But then it moved.’ In a tone of wonder he added, ‘The light seemed to be fretting it.’

  There was a short, stunned silence. At last Constable Evans said, ‘Are you sure? No one has ever reported anything strange in this basement.’

  Alfred shrugged. ‘Mebbe the bogle ain’t bin here long.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Humphrey demanded. ‘Am I needed or not? Will I be paid, Mr Bunce?’

  ‘You’ll be paid,’ Alfred said shortly. ‘As to whether you’re needed . . . well, I’m inclined to think we must change our plans to fit the circumstances.’

  ‘Mr Bunce.’ Though he was almost too scared to talk, Ned couldn’t remain silent. ‘Please sir,’ he croaked, ‘ain’t . . . ain’t we going to kill it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Alfred’s gaze shifted back towards the wall of cupboards. ‘I want to see what it does.’

  ‘But we’ve no time for that!’ Constable Evans protested. ‘What about Fitch?’

  ‘I want to see what it does to Fitch,’ said Alfred. Then he glanced at the policeman, smiling a cold little smile. ‘Why don’t you go and fetch him?’

  24

  BOGLE BAITING

  ‘What’s all this, then? This ain’t right! I don’t belong in no basement . . .’

  Standing in a circle of salt, Ned heard Tobias Fitch long before the man himself actually appeared. He heard Fitch’s heavy tread and deep, hoarse, rumbling voice, which he recognised from Smithfield police station. He heard grunts and curses. Then he heard Constable Evans say, ‘The basement is just where you belong, Fitch, make no mistake.’ And all at once three figures staggered over the threshold.

  One of them was Constable Evans. With him was another policeman, small and stocky and silver-haired. Caught between them was a big, bald man dressed in corduroy trousers, a red neckerchief, and a frock coat that looked much too tight for his bulging muscles. Though the scar on his eyebrow wasn’t visible in the poor light, there was no mistaking Tobias Fitch.

  Ned felt sick at the sight of him.

  ‘There weren’t but six other coves in that van!’ Fitch growled, as the two policemen shoved him across the room. ‘How can the cells be full? You’ve a round dozen of ’em at least, and I know how tight you pack ’em . . .’

  ‘You weren’t our first delivery, Fitch. Besides, we had C
lerkenwell lags here already.’ Though Constable Evans wasn’t half Fitch’s weight, he somehow wrestled his prisoner through the open gate of the old storeroom – which he managed to shut and lock before Fitch had even turned around. It was only at this point that the prisoner finally noticed Ned and Alfred, both of whom were lurking in the shadows nearby.

  Humphrey and Eduardo had already been dismissed. They had left reluctantly, with many a curious backwards glance, taking with them six shillings of Alfred’s hard-earned money. But the bogler had assured Ned that Jem was worth the price.

  ‘What the devil . . .?’ Fitch spluttered. His face looked like a gargoyle’s, all glaring eyes and gap-toothed snarl. ‘Who’s that? What’s yer caper? I ain’t no mad cove in Bedlam, to be gawked at like a monkey in a cage!’

  ‘This here is Mr Alfred Bunce,’ Constable Evans replied flatly. ‘We hired him on account of our bogle problem. Which is your problem too, Fitch. We have a bogle, see. And it’s in that cell with you.’

  The prisoner snorted. ‘I dunno what you’re prating about,’ he said, without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Ned wondered, with a sudden chill, if Tobias Fitch might be immune to the threat of bogles. It occurred to Ned that Sarah Pickles had spent months feeding babies to a bogle that lived in her chimney, and had never once come to any harm. Maybe Fitch knew that. Maybe he understood that bogles didn’t normally attack adults, unless the creatures felt threatened.

  ‘D’you hear me, Fitch?’ Constable Evans continued, following a script that he and Alfred had already prepared together. ‘There’s a bogle in that cell with you, and unless you tell us the truth about Salty Jack, we’ll not let you out.’

  ‘I ain’t never heard o’ no Salty Jack,’ Fitch retorted. It was such an outrageous claim that both Constable Evans and his colleague had to smile.

  ‘We know you work for Gammon, Fitch,’ Constable Evans said patiently. ‘I don’t believe there’s a soul living between St Paul’s and Chancery Lane who doesn’t know it. But we want to hear it from your own lips, in front of witnesses. We want to hear how John Gammon told you to kill Mr Bunce’s apprentice.’

  Fitch’s blank stare swung towards Ned, who flinched.

  ‘I don’t know Mr Bunce,’ the prisoner growled. ‘Nor his ’prentice.’

  ‘Well, that’s hard to believe, since Mr Bunce is by way of being a famous man.’ Constable Evans spoke in a light drawl, his head cocked and his arms folded. He didn’t hold himself stiffly, like many other policemen of Ned’s acquaintance, and his voice was as flexible as his carriage. ‘Come now, Fitch. This is your last chance. Tell us why Salty Jack wants this boy dead – or I swear, Mr Bunce’ll bring down the wrath of hell upon you.’

  ‘T’ain’t me was attacked!’ Ned blurted out. But Alfred hushed him, and Tobias Fitch spat on the floor.

  ‘You must think I’m glocky,’ the prisoner scoffed. ‘This here is a racket, and you’re all flamming. There ain’t no bogle. And I ain’t no fool.’

  Constable Evans glanced at Alfred, who jerked his chin at Ned. It was the signal that Ned had been waiting for. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and began to chant the first song that sprang to mind.

  This is the house that Jack built.

  This is the malt as lay in the house that Jack built.

  This is the rat as ate the malt

  As lay in the house that Jack built.

  ‘You calling me a rat?’ Fitch cut in, hoarse with fury. ‘Is that yer game? Well, I ain’t bringing down Jack’s house no matter what yer malt is, for I don’t know nothing and I’ll not say nothing!’

  Ned wondered if the prisoner’s loud, angry voice would frighten off the bogle. It seemed likely. Yet Alfred had been willing to take that chance, rather than kill the creature and replace it with a man in a furry suit. According to Alfred, there was no substitute for the real thing. ‘Besides, I don’t fancy putting Mr Miniotto in a cage with Toby Fitch,’ he’d said, ‘for all that they’re a good match when it comes to size.’

  Ned could see why Alfred had chosen the riskier course. And it wasn’t too risky, if the bogle itself was old and sick. Not that they were taking any chances;

  Ned was standing in a closed circle of salt, and the locked gate would provide added protection, should the creature decide to emerge from its lair. But as he listened to Tobias Fitch ranting away, Ned began to doubt that the bogle would emerge. Healthy bogles favoured unaccompanied children. Why should a sick bogle be any different?

  If Birdie was here, he thought glumly, she’d lure that bogle out no matter what. And as he launched into the second verse, he tried to make himself sound irresistible.

  This is the cat as killed the rat

  As ate the malt as lay in the house that Jack built.

  This is the dog as worried the cat as killed the rat

  As ate the malt as lay in the house that Jack built.

  Suddenly Fitch stopped cursing to peer at the wall of cupboards behind him. Then, as Ned paused to take another breath, he heard a faint scraping sound, followed by a dull knock. It was the sound of something rearranging itself inside a small space.

  There was a moment’s silence, which the prisoner finally broke. ‘Hah!’ he exclaimed. ‘So you’ve put a dog in here to scare me, have you? Well, I’m more’n a match for the best ratter in London, and will tear the throat out of any dog as tries to sink its teeth into this carcass!’ He probably would have said more, if a creak of hinges hadn’t interrupted him.

  Squinting into the gloom, Ned saw that a little hatch in the fumigation cupboard had swung open. The doors above it were already hanging ajar, exposing the slatted shelves where lice-ridden clothes had once been stacked before they were engulfed in clouds of sulphur-laden smoke. These shelves were now empty – but the oven below them was not. Ned could just make out a dark, shiny, squirming shape in its depths, despite his obstructed view.

  He immediately tried to coax the mysterious shape out of its bolthole.

  This is the cow with the crumpled horn

  As tossed the dog as worried the cat

  As killed the rat as ate the malt

  As lay in the house that Jack built.

  As he sang, a long, grey, triple-jointed arm slowly unfurled, flopping out of the oven onto the floor. The end of this arm was forked, crowned by two curved talons that buried themselves between the flagstones. Each talon was iron-grey, six inches long, and barbed like a fish-hook.

  Fitch took one look and froze. Ned heard someone gasp. He felt a sudden pang of hopeless dismay that announced, as clearly as any fanfare, that he was in the presence of a genuine bogle.

  Tobias Fitch must have felt something similar, because he clamped his hands around the bars of the gate and squawked, ‘Lemme out! You can’t keep me in here! Lemme out!’

  ‘Not until you tell the truth,’ Constable Evans replied. He sounded shaken, but was obviously trying to remain calm. ‘Who told you to nobble Jem Barbary?’

  Even as he spoke, another long grey arm joined the first, followed by another, and another. Reaching across the flagstones, they groped about in a slow, sinister way, fanning out like antennae.

  The gate began to rattle furiously. ‘Lemme go! Now!’ Fitch screamed.

  Ned’s voice failed him for an instant. He shot an anxious look at Alfred, who caught his eye and gave a nod.

  So Ned kept singing.

  This is the maiden all forlorn

  As milked the cow with the crumpled horn

  As tossed the dog as worried the cat

  As killed the rat as ate the malt—

  ‘Please! Lemme go! I’m begging you!’ Fitch’s voice was a high-pitched squeal. He was reaching through the bars, his eyes bulging with fear. Behind him, the bogle was halfway out of the oven, drawn to Ned’s voice like a fish on a line. Ned caught glimpses of a flabby grey mass puddling on the floor. He couldn’t see much, because of the walls, the bars, and Fitch’s large frame – but it did look as if the bogle wasn’t very well. It moved slug
gishly, its eyes dull.

  ‘John Gammon did it!’ the prisoner wailed. ‘He hired me! He said to kill the kid before he – gawd help us! Lemme go, please!’

  ‘Before he what?’ Constable Evans took a step forward, his face as white as salt. ‘Before he what, Fitch?’

  ‘Before the kid peached on him, and got him nibbed!’

  ‘Will you swear to that in court?’ the constable asked roughly.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’

  ‘Mr Bunce.’ Ned couldn’t stand it any more – the fear, the screeching, the darkness, the groping claws and growing stench. He gazed beseechingly at Alfred, just as Constable Evans threw a harassed look in the same direction.

  ‘Time we killed that bogle,’ said Alfred. Then he and Constable Evans both converged on the gate, one carrying a spear, the other carrying a bunch of keys. Tobias Fitch, meanwhile, was throwing himself against the iron bars in a frenzy. Bang! Bang! Bang! And the bogle was slowly spreading across the floor, like a grey tide with teeth . . .

  CRASH! Fitch fell through the gate as it slammed open, colliding with Constable Evans, who lost his balance. But the other policeman quickly jumped on Fitch, and in the ensuing scuffle, Fitch ended up flat on the floor with both constables piled on top of him.

  ‘Don’t you . . . try anything . . . you’ll regret . . .’ Constable Evans breathlessly warned the prisoner, who was bleating, ‘Shut the gate! Shut the gate, you halfwits!’

  ‘There ain’t no need,’ said Alfred. He had stepped into the storeroom, where he stood prodding the motionless bogle with the tip of his spear. ‘It’s dead.’