Hearing the storm of applause that greeted every one of her songs, Ned thought to himself, She’ll be going to places where I can’t follow. There’ll be no more bogling for Birdie. Then he remembered that there would be no more bogling for him, either. Not unless Alfred could replace his broken spear.
Not if the bogles kept dropping dead all over London.
During the interval, he stayed in his seat, ashamed of his red eyes and shabby clothes. Alfred also remained seated. It was Mr Harewood who went to fetch ice cream, and Mr Gilfoyle who briefly escorted the ladies out to ‘take the air’. For several minutes Alfred and Ned were left alone together. But Alfred would talk only of Birdie, and Ned decided to follow his lead.
When the others returned, the lights were already dimming again. Mr Gilfoyle, however, managed to ask what had happened at the Custom House.
‘We wasn’t needed,’ Alfred replied shortly. ‘On account o’ the bogle were dead already.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mr Gilfoyle. ‘How very odd.’
‘Aye. ’Twere odd, right enough. For the coves working there killed it.’ Hearing Mr Gilfoyle gasp, Alfred quickly added, ‘With a poker. And a cutlass.’
‘But surely that isn’t possible, Mr Bunce?’ Miss Eames protested. ‘Surely those men must be lying?’
Alfred shrugged. ‘There’s a deal o’ sickly bogles about. We saw one dead under Fresh Wharf. The bogle at the Custom House might have bin ailing.’
‘And the Monument job?’ asked Mr Harewood. ‘Did you have time for that?’
Alfred and Ned avoided each other’s eyes as Alfred took a deep breath. ‘We didn’t find no bogle at the Monument,’ the bogler muttered. And that was all he said, to Ned’s relief – for the curtain was rising.
Although the second half of the pantomime was even more magnificent than the first, Ned was distracted by troublesome thoughts. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on Tom Thumb’s adventures. It was only towards the end of the performance that he once again found himself caught up in the spectacle, as showers of sparkling fairy-dust descended on King Arthur’s court. Birdie sang her last song during the grand finale; as a fairy princess, she bestowed her blessings on the whole cast with a wand that jingled like bells whenever its starry tip touched anything. The scene ended with a rousing chorus, two booming silver cannons that disgorged more fairy-dust, and a lot of well-timed acrobatics from the ballet corps. Jem did several backflips across the stage. Frederick Vokes kicked his legs straight up over his own head. Rosina floated through the air on a wire, like thistledown.
Then, as the cast members were taking their bows, Frederick made an unexpected announcement.
As the king of England, he declared, he felt justified in saluting the newest member of their troupe: Birdie McAdam, the Go-Devil girl. ‘The voice that once lured monsters from their lairs is now luring the public into our noble auditorium!’ he exclaimed. ‘And I can take the credit for that, ladies and gentlemen! For when I first saw Birdie confronting a bogle, I thought to myself: this child deserves a far bigger audience than a monster in a basement! And now she has one, does she not? She has an audience that truly appreciates her extraordinary talent!’
His voice was drowned out by an enthusiastic roar, as the costumed performers around Birdie began to clap and grin. Up in her box, Miss Eames cried, ‘Bravo!’, and soon others were following her example. Glancing sideways, Ned saw that Alfred was wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, his face hidden from view.
When the applause finally died down, Birdie began to speak. She had been smiling and blushing, and executing graceful little curtseys. But all at once her smile vanished. With her head held high, and her clear voice pitched even higher, she declared, ‘Thank you, yer majesty. I am so very grateful to you and yer court!’ There was another burst of clapping and cheering, as Birdie waved her wand at the cast gathered behind her. ‘However, we all of us owe an even bigger debt of gratitude to someone else,’ she continued. ‘To someone who’s bin working away, killing the monsters as lurk beneath this city, without expecting no reward nor recognition.’ In the sudden hush that fell over the theatre, Birdie’s silvery tones became slightly strained. ‘The truth is, I never faced down no bogles,’ she finished, a little unsteadily. ‘The man who did that was Mr Alfred Bunce. And I want to thank him for everything . . . for everything he’s done.’
Her voice cracked on a sob, allowing Frederick Vokes to take over. ‘Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘You must all have read about Mr Alfred Bunce, the famous bogler, whose name has adorned many of our most respected newspapers in recent days! Well, last Monday, Mr Bunce destroyed a bogle in the bowels of this very theatre! And what’s more, he is in the audience tonight!’ As a wild cheer erupted, the actor swivelled around to face Miss Eames’s box. ‘Stand up, Mr Bunce – do! Allow the people of London to express their heartfelt gratitude for the work you’ve done in saving so many precious young lives!’
Ned began to clap furiously. Miss Eames and Mr Gilfoyle had already turned in their seats; they, too, were clapping. So was Mr Harewood, and Mrs Heppinstall, and the entire cast of Tom Thumb. It dawned on Ned, as Alfred rose to his feet, that the bogler really was famous, now. Everyone in the theatre seemed to know who he was. Why, everyone in London seemed to know who he was! And more than that – they seemed to appreciate him.
Suddenly, watching Alfred turn a stunned face to the crowd, Ned was struck by a strange, illogical, but quite brilliant notion.
He knew why the city’s bogles were dying.
30
AN EMERGENCY MEETING
‘There have been reports from all over London,’ said Mr Harewood. ‘Shadwell. Limehouse. Millbank – even Pentonville. People are finding dead bogles everywhere.’ He plucked a flimsy sheet of paper from the table in front of him. ‘Why, I’ve just received this request to remove a dead bogle from the Charing Cross Hotel! I can’t imagine how the manager discovered my name. No doubt he’s acquainted with someone at the Board of Works.’
He gazed at the company assembled in Mrs Heppinstall’s dining room. To his right sat Miss Eames, wearing a sober expression and charcoal-coloured clothes. Beside her, Birdie looked a little paler than usual. Ned had been surprised to see her with ruffled hair and purple smudges under her eyes. The night before, at the theatre, she had seemed immortal – like a fairy or an angel. It had been a shock to realise, on arriving at Mrs Heppinstall’s house, that Birdie was still a girl who spilled jam on her bodice and complained bitterly about taking baths.
The chair next to Birdie was occupied by Mr Wardle. Though reluctant to attend an emergency committee meeting on a Sunday, he had finally agreed when urged to do so by his own children. For he had been at the theatre the previous night, along with his entire family. And now his two daughters were keen that Birdie should sign their programmes. ‘I knew I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until I came,’ Mr Wardle had confided to the rest of the committee. ‘So here I am.’
Opposite Mr Wardle sat Jem Barbary, yawning and sighing and rubbing his eyes. He had been dragged out of bed at noon, but still wasn’t properly awake, in Ned’s opinion. Upon being informed that John Gammon was no longer a threat, Jem hadn’t seemed terribly excited. He hadn’t even displayed much interest in the mystery of the dying bogles. ‘If yer spear’s broke, it’s as well all them bogles is wasting away,’ had been his only comment, after hearing Alfred’s account of recent events. ‘But you’re not to worry about paying the rent, Mr Bunce. For I’m to be in the next show, or so Mr Vokes says – and he had it from the manager’s secretary.’
Mr Gilfoyle had positioned himself opposite Mr Harewood. The naturalist had just finished reading aloud the minutes of the last meeting. Now he sat with his brow furrowed, the very picture of concentration – though his gaze did keep slipping towards Miss Eames, Ned noticed.
Ned himself was seated beside Alfred. The bogler was in a morose mood. He’d spent most of the day hunched by the fire in his garret, sipping brandy a
nd ignoring the sound of church bells. When Mr Harewood had arrived on his doorstep, with the news that a committee meeting had been scheduled for that very evening, Alfred had declared himself ‘not fit for the company o’ ladies’.
‘I’ve seen worse,’ the engineer had retorted, evaluating Alfred’s condition with a practised eye. ‘A little coffee and some fresh air will do wonders.’
But Alfred had shaken his head. ‘You don’t need me no more. I ain’t got nowt to contribute.’
Seeing Mr Harewood’s mystified look, Ned had reluctantly spoken up. ‘Mr Bunce lost his spear. It smashed.’
‘Smashed?’
‘On the floor o’ the Monument.’ Ned had gone on to describe this tragedy, while Jem had tended the fire, and Alfred had puffed at his pipe. But Ned’s story hadn’t swayed Mr Harewood one little bit.
‘I understand how such a death must weigh on you, Mr Bunce,’ the engineer had said, ‘no matter how wicked the fellow was, or how deserving of punishment. It does credit to your conscience that you should suffer so. However, your conscience must also tell you that as an officer of the Committee for the Regulation of Subterranean Anomalies, you have a duty to attend every meeting, unless some sort of infirmity prevents it. Indeed, the loss of your spear is one reason why you must attend, since it will be the leading topic of conversation, I feel sure.’
But Mr Harewood was mistaken. The first topic raised in Mrs Heppinstall’s dining room was the mystery of London’s dying bogles. And after Mr Harewood had passed around the letter from the Charing Cross Hotel, Mr Gilfoyle remarked thoughtfully, ‘These deaths seem to be occurring all over the city. There doesn’t seem to be a concentration in any particular spot.’
‘If there was poison in the sewers, we’d be seeing dead rats as well,’ Mr Wardle volunteered. ‘And that hasn’t happened.’
‘Could someone else be killing the bogles?’ asked Miss Eames. ‘You said last night, Mr Bunce, that a bogle had been killed by a customs-house officer. Perhaps other people are doing the same thing, and leaving the corpses.’
Alfred didn’t reply. It was Mr Harewood who said, ‘Even so, that doesn’t tell us why these creatures are suddenly so vulnerable. Once upon a time, they were impervious to everything but Mr Bunce’s spear. Unless I’m mistaken, Mr Bunce?’
‘You ain’t mistaken,’ growled Alfred.
‘Are you quite sure?’ Mr Gilfoyle spoke hesitantly. He cleared his throat before adding, ‘Out of interest, Mr Bunce, have you ever tried to kill a bogle with a . . . what was it? A poker? Or a cutlass? Or anything besides your own spear?’
As Alfred glared at the naturalist, Mr Harewood said quickly, ‘On Thursday, Raz. He used our spear, remember? And it didn’t work.’
‘True. Yes, of course.’
During the brief silence that followed, Mr Gilfoyle nodded thoughtfully. Jem yawned and Mr Wardle shifted in his seat. Then, before Ned could open his mouth, Birdie remarked, ‘Mebbe dead bogles were allus lying about, but people ignored ’em. Mebbe everyone knows what to look for now, on account o’ the newspapers.’
Miss Eames gave a start. ‘Why, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘That could be the case, could it not? Perhaps nothing has changed except the public’s understanding.’
‘But Mr Bunce were in the newspapers last summer,’ Jem reminded her, ‘and no one started seeing dead bogles back then.’
‘Back then he weren’t hired by the Sewers Office,’ Ned weighed in. Glancing around at all the blank faces, he realised that he would have to explain an idea that was very hard to put into words – an idea that had first struck him the night before, at the Theatre Royal. So he took a deep breath and said carefully, ‘Back then, Mr Bunce were just an East End bogler, and folk thought him either a downy cove or a madman. Nowadays they believe he works for the government, like a sewer flusher. So they think bogling is like street-cleaning.’ Ned paused, but there was no response; just the same old puzzled frowns and pursed lips. Seeing this, he tried another tack. ‘Mebbe Birdie got it right when she said bogles was magic,’ he went on. ‘Mebbe bogles was magic, once, when people believed they was. But that ain’t so, no more. To most London folk, bogles can’t be magic if the Sewers Office has taken over their management. For the Sewers Office don’t deal in magic, any more’n the Post Office would be sending telegraph boys to work on broomsticks. I’ll wager most Londoners looked at the newspapers, these past few days, and thought, “Why, bogles is just common vermin! They ain’t magic creatures with strange powers, after all!” And when that happened, the bogles might have changed. For mebbe bogles cannot live without our common belief to sustain ’em.’
There was a long, long silence. Finally Miss Eames began to nod, as Mr Harewood and Mr Wardle looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Even Mr Gilfoyle seemed struck by Ned’s reasoning.
‘By Jove,’ he murmured, ‘that’s an interesting theory. And a logical one, too, though . . . well, the whole notion of magical beasts doesn’t sit well with me . . .’
He trailed off. Ned, meanwhile, had coloured at the sight of Birdie’s approving smile. ‘Why, that must be the answer!’ she exclaimed. ‘How clever of you, Ned! But I always said you were as sharp as glass.’
‘It seems as good an explanation as any, for all that it goes against the grain,’ Mr Harewood conceded. ‘What do you think, Mr Bunce?’
‘I think, if it’s true, it’s a mercy.’ Alfred sat with his arms folded, staring at the tablecloth. ‘For with no spear left, I’ve no chance against any bogle as ain’t dead.’
There was a shocked silence, then a babble of anxious questions. No spear? What did that mean? What had happened? Luckily, Mr Harewood was able to describe the encounter at the Monument, because Ned himself couldn’t have done so. Even hearing about it made Ned feel sick.
Birdie’s sudden pallor, and Miss Eames’s horrified gasp, only served to remind him how narrowly he had escaped with his life.
‘Oh, Mr Bunce!’ cried Birdie. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘We wasn’t about to ruin yer special night, lass.’
‘But yer spear! Yer precious spear!’ Tears began to spill from Birdie’s eyes. ‘How can you be a bogler without that?’
‘I ain’t a bogler no more,’ Alfred said flatly. ‘And won’t need to be, neither, if Ned here is right about them bogles.’
‘But you are a bogler! And you allus will be . . .’ Birdie’s voice cracked on a sob as Alfred’s grim face softened.
‘Don’t let it fret you, lass, for it don’t fret me,’ he said. ‘I’m getting too old to be a bogler. And the flypaper trade ain’t so bad.’ Without warning, he turned to Ned, his voice growing gruffer by the second. ‘The one thing as weighs on me,’ he confessed, ‘is the promise I made to you, lad. For I said you’d have me spear when I’d done bogling, but now . . .’ He sighed. ‘Now there ain’t no spear to have, nor no livelihood with it. I’m sorry, Ned. ’Tis a cruel blow, and not one you deserve. For you’re as good a boy as ever I met, with a hard life behind you.’
Ned didn’t know what to say. Had this, then, been the cause of Alfred’s gloom? Was he worried about Ned’s future, rather than his own? The very idea made Ned feel so guilty that he almost choked on the lump in his throat. For the prospect of becoming a bogler had always filled him with something close to despair . . .
All at once Mr Harewood coughed and leaned forward.
‘You’ve no cause to fret about Ned’s prospects,’ he assured the bogler, with a touch of embarrassment. ‘Only yesterday I was discussing with Gilfoyle how we might further the boy’s education. For I believe he has a very bright future as an engineer if he were properly schooled. Isn’t that so, Razzy?’
Mr Gilfoyle gave a nod, adding, ‘Christ’s Hospital school takes charity boys, as does the Charterhouse school. With our support, I’m sure he’d find a place.’
‘And I could teach him his letters before he enrolled!’ Miss Eames offered. The smile that she bestowed on Mr Harewood was so warm and admiring that it
made him flush. ‘What an excellent notion, Mr Harewood! I do so approve!’
‘Providing the boy agrees, of course.’ Mr Harewood turned to Ned. ‘Would you like to learn mathematics? I’m convinced that you would excel at it – in fact I’m sure you’d be a better student than I ever was! Eh, Gilfoyle?’
Ned didn’t hear Mr Gilfoyle’s answer. There was a buzzing in his ears and a whirling in his head. He kept opening and shutting his mouth, too stunned to speak. Such generosity hardly seemed possible. Why, Mr Harewood hardly knew him! And the others . . . what claim did he have on them, that they should care about his future?
Jem was grinning; he winked as he caught Ned’s eye. Better you than me, his expression seemed to say. Birdie was clapping her hands as she bounced around in her seat. ‘Oh, Ned is so clever, he’ll learn to read much more quickly than I ever did!’ she chirruped, beaming and nodding and blinking back tears.
Alfred was staring at the tabletop. But when Ned looked at him, he glanced up and offered Ned one of his rare, gentle, lopsided smiles.
‘It’d be a weight off all our minds, lad, if you was set on such a course,’ he murmured. ‘For I’d die content, knowing all you children had fine lives ahead of you.’ Seeing Ned’s bottom lip tremble, he frowned. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to be an engineer?’
‘Of course I do!’ Ned blurted out. Then he started to cry, overwhelmed by such unexpected kindness.
Luckily, Mr Harewood seemed to understand that Ned was happy, not sad. ‘Good!’ the engineer said in a bluff and jovial manner. ‘That’s settled, then. And in light of what Mr Bunce has just told us, we should ask ourselves: do we need this committee any longer? For if there are no more bogles, and no more boglers, and no more boglers’ boys . . .’
A Very Singular Guild Page 20