How to Catch a Bogle

by Catherine Jinks

  By this time the bogle itself was just a little heap of black ash, about the size of a dinner plate.

  “Oh dear, oh dear.” Fanny still sounded shaken. “Mercy, but what a terrible big thing!”

  “Shhh. Calm down.” Though Miss Eames’s voice was also a little unsteady, she had recovered quite well from the shock of the bogle’s appearance. “Here,” she said, rummaging through her basket. “This time I brought some smelling salts. . .”

  “You there! What in blazes are you up to?”

  Somebody was yelling at them. Birdie looked around in surprise but couldn’t see any strangers. Then she realized that the voice was ranting away above their heads—and when she turned, she spotted a shining window on the top floor of the infirmary.

  A man was leaning out of it.

  “Who is that?” he roared. “What the devil are you doing?”

  Fanny didn’t answer, having quickly ducked down behind the woodpile. It was Miss Eames who said, with remarkable firmness, “There is no cause to shout, sir, and no need to use such language. Mr. Hobney himself let us in, and we are on the point of asking him to let us out again.”

  Her cultivated tone seemed to mollify the man in the window, whose own accent was that of a gentleman. He continued more softly, though still with a touch of suspicion, “Well, forgive me for my intemperate language, ma’am, but who are you? And why are you here in the middle of the night?”

  “My name is Edith Eames. As to my purpose here, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the particulars. You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Hobney and Mrs. Gudge. Be assured, however, that my colleagues and I are on the premises in a professional capacity, with a view to improving conditions for the younger inmates.”

  To Birdie, it sounded as if Miss Eames was claiming to be some kind of church visitor. The man at the window must have thought so too, because he said, “Hum. I see. But why all the screeching?”

  There was a moment’s pause as Birdie, Alfred, and Miss Eames all glanced at the woodpile. It soon became clear, however, that Fanny wasn’t about to step up and take the blame. So Miss Eames said smoothly, “I’m afraid that was my fault. A rat ran over my shoe.”

  “Well, kindly have more consideration,” the man snapped. “These sick people in here need their rest!” Before Miss Eames could respond, he pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Prating old article,” Fanny muttered as her own head popped into view again. “We never told him nothing, for he don’t believe in bogles. Doctors never do.” Gazing reproachfully at Miss Eames, she added, “Mr. Hobney’ll catch it now. And Mrs. Gudge. Why’d you give ’im their names, miss?”

  “What choice did she have, when you wouldn’t speak up?” Birdie snapped, before it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be trying to defend Miss Eames, even if Fanny was a coward.

  Fanny shrugged. “It ain’t Miss Eames as would be punished for neglect o’ work,” she said. “Besides, she didn’t need me. She done all right by herself.”

  “That she did,” Alfred agreed. “It were a stroke o’ luck you came along, Miss Eames. Thank’ee for yer help.”

  “Help with the doctor, not help with the bogle.” Birdie thought this point worth emphasizing, just in case anyone had forgotten about it in all the excitement. “I knew that pie wouldn’t work. If bogles wanted pastry, we’d be finding ’em in bread ovens.”

  She flicked a triumphant look at Miss Eames, who sighed but wouldn’t admit defeat. “Perhaps I misidentified the creature. Perhaps it was a fuath. Fuaths don’t like sunshine, though they tend to be found in Scotland. . .”

  Alfred, however, wasn’t interested in fuaths. “Come along,” he said to Fanny. “George Hobney owes me six shillings, and you’re a witness to it. I want you there when I claim me dues, just in case he tries to bilk me.”

  “Oh, he’ll not do that, Mr. Bunce,” Fanny promised. “But he might faint dead away when I tell him what happened!” She had come out from behind the woodpile so that Birdie could give her the fallen oil lamp. Alfred, meanwhile, was wrapping up his spear, while Miss Eames watched him, crestfallen.

  “I hope you haven’t lost faith in the scientific approach, Mr. Bunce,” she said bravely. “I still believe there might be some merit in it.”

  “I don’t,” Alfred retorted. And to Birdie’s delight, he went on to declare, “This ain’t no game, miss. It’s dangerous work and shouldn’t be fumbled—not for all the gold in England. You’re allus welcome to join us, but there’ll be no more pies, nor nothing else as would put us in peril. I’m sorry.”

  Then he shouldered his sack and began to walk away.

  14

  Whatever Happened to Billy Crisp?

  Birdie was dreaming about bogles when an urgent rat-a-tat-tat jerked her awake. For a moment she lay helpless, confused by the noise and the glare. Then she realized that it was broad daylight, and that she was still in bed because she had arrived home from the Hackney workhouse very early that morning.

  I must have overslept, she thought vaguely, turning to look at Alfred’s huddled shape on the other side of the room. He was snoring softly in a rat’s nest of soiled blankets and unraveling shawls.

  Rat-a-tat-tat! “Fred Bunce! Are you there?” a voice demanded. It belonged to Sarah Pickles.

  Birdie sat bolt upright. “Mr. Bunce,” she croaked, “you’d best rouse yerself.”

  As Alfred coughed and groaned, Birdie lurched to her feet. She hadn’t bothered to take off her clothes the previous night, so she didn’t have to dress before opening the door to Sarah Pickles—who took one look at her and drawled, “I see you’re a lady o’ leisure, lying about until noon. Fred must be doing well.”

  “We got in late from a job,” Birdie said hoarsely, blinking up at Sarah and her son. Charlie was looking more ferret- like than ever, with his long neck and beady little eyes. His shirttails were flapping beneath an unbuttoned vest, his sleeves were rolled up, and a blue knitted cap was pulled down low over his ears.

  His mother hadn’t shed a single layer of clothing since her last visit, despite the warm weather. Like Alfred, she was all wrapped up in greasy old shawls.

  But most of Alfred’s shawls fell off him when he rose to greet Sarah, revealing that he had gone to bed wearing his green coat over a long nightshirt.

  “Ahem. . . ah. . .” he gurgled, pulling his coat tightly around him. Then he spat on the floor. “What brings you here again?” he rasped, sounding disgruntled. “I’ve a mind to start charging you rent, Sal.”

  “And I’ve a mind to tell you there’s ladies present,” Sarah Pickles retorted. “But I’ve no time to waste, so I’ll not ask you to make yerself decent.” She waddled over to the nearest stool, her face darkening, as Alfred dropped back onto his bed. “It’s bad news, Fred. The worst. We lost another.” She corrected herself, pointing at her son. “He lost another, I should say.”

  “It weren’t down to me, Ma,” Charlie growled. “We done what we was told to.”

  “I never told you to lose Billy Crisp!” she snapped.

  Birdie frowned. Billy Crisp was one of Sarah’s youngest employees—a stunted little eight-year-old with a blank, triangular face and blond hair finer than Birdie’s. Though she had seen him about, Birdie didn’t know him well. She tried to stay away from Sarah’s gang. Alfred had always insisted on it.

  “Charlie and Billy—they bin watching that crib in Clerkenwell,” Sarah was relating. “The one as had them clothes dumped in the garden—”

  “I remember,” Alfred said shortly.

  “I told Charlie to hang about the place and keep his eyes open,” Sarah went on, “which he did, well enough, and came back with particulars. There’s two people live there: a doctor and his maid of all work, who’s an old slavvy as sleeps in the attic. The doctor’s young and works regular hours.”

  “Name of Morton. Roswell Morton,” Charlie broke in, a little sullenly. “Last three days he�
��s left the house between nine and ten, returning between six and eight.”

  “Never in a trap’s uniform,” Sarah added. “And no sign o’ Sam or Nolly or Abel. So yesterday, when the slavvy left for her usual trip to the market—”

  “Which takes her two hours each morning, on account o’ she’s so old and lame,” Charlie commented, before a flinty look from his mother silenced him.

  “Fred’s a busy man and don’t need to hear all the particulars,” she said, before once again addressing Alfred. “When the house emptied out, Charlie decided to take a tour o’ the place. Uninvited, so to speak.”

  Alfred gave a grunt. Birdie looked at her shoes. Listening to Sarah describe how Charlie had spotted an unlatched window at the rear of the house and had made Billy Crisp climb onto the kitchen roof to squeeze through a space the size of a cottage loaf, Birdie wished that she didn’t have to hear any of the details. Alfred had warned her, over and over again, that people had gone to gaol for knowing such things. He made a point of not listening when thieves talked about their lurks and capers.

  “Billy had to come downstairs and open the kitchen door,” Sarah continued, “but he never did. Charlie waited and waited. He waited all night, even after the doctor went to bed, hoping Billy might come out once the house had gone quiet.”

  “He never showed his face this morning, not even after Morton and the slavvy left again,” Charlie revealed.

  “Summat happened to that boy,” Sarah finished. “Same as happened to the others. And we need to know what, Fred.”

  Birdie shivered. Alfred sighed. “Someone could have bin skulking in there,” he suggested. “Someone Charlie didn’t see.”

  Charlie gave a hiss of dissent, but Sarah nodded. “That’s true,” she acknowledged, ignoring her son. “Could have bin the doctor’s lunatic uncle, shut away behind locked doors. Or a collection o’ poisonous snakes. Or a mantrap. Or a greased stair.” She narrowed her eyes. “Could have bin a bogle, Fred.”

  Alfred sighed again. “Sal—”

  “I need you to go in there.” Sarah’s tone was calm and cold. “This time I’ll be sending Charlie with a proper cracksman, as can get through a door instead of a window. They’ll have jemmies and coshes and everything they need to nobble whatever might be waiting for ’em—unless it’s a bogle. If it’s a bogle, they’ll need you.”

  Silence fell. Birdie chewed on her thumbnail, nervously watching Alfred. So did Sarah. So did Charlie.

  Alfred was staring morosely at the floor. At last he said, “You want us all nibbed for housebreaking, is that it?”

  “Won’t happen,” Sarah assured him. “The traps’ll never know.”

  “Speaking o’ traps,” Alfred began, then changed his mind.

  “We can’t bring police into it, Fred. You know that as well as I do.” To Birdie’s surprise, Sarah spoke quite pleasantly. “How can we ask the traps to find a clutch o’ young dippers as spent their time emptying the pockets o’ respectable folk? Why, there’ll be questions asked. Objections raised. It wouldn’t do at all.”

  Alfred sniffed. But he didn’t comment.

  “No traps,” Sarah ordered. Then she put out an arm so that Charlie could help her up. “There’s a lushery on Clerkenwell Green. The Fox and French Horn. D’you know it?”

  “Aye,” said Alfred.

  “Charlie’ll meet you there tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock sharp. You’ll need to be at this doctor’s crib when the slavvy leaves, and gone again by the time she gets back.”

  Birdie couldn’t help snorting. When Sarah looked at her sharply, Alfred tried to explain why his apprentice had scoffed at the notion of a deadline. “If you want the bogle dead, Sal, you might have to wait for it. You can’t set your watch by a bogle.”

  “Then we’ll make sure the slavvy don’t interfere,” Sarah said with a shrug. “If she’s old and lame, the cracksman’ll keep her quiet. I’ll find you a big one, just to make sure.” She bared her gray teeth in an unconvincing smile as she stood over Alfred. “Don’t you worry yer head about details of that kind, m’dear. You’ll have but one job to fret on and must leave the rest to Charlie. He knows what to do. He’s a good boy, same as Birdie’s a good girl.”

  Again she smiled, this time at Birdie—who quickly looked away. Then Alfred said, “If there is a bogle, I’ll be out o’ pocket.”

  Sarah’s smile suddenly vanished. “As will I, Fred. As will I,” she rejoined. “The Lord knows, I’ve already lost all o’ Charlie’s earnings for a day. But I told ’im if anything takes his fancy in that toffken, he’s welcome to it. And I’ll tell you the same.” With a curt nod, she began to hobble across the room, clearly displeased that Alfred had dared raise the subject of payment. “Just be sure to meet Charlie on time,” she added by way of farewell, “and take care not to spout off about this or it might reach the wrong set of ears. We wouldn’t want the traps getting ahold of any names, would we?”

  She didn’t seem to expect an answer, disappearing before Alfred could open his mouth. As the door slammed shut behind Charlie, Alfred and Birdie exchanged a gloomy look.

  “At least some good may come of it,” Birdie muttered at last.

  Alfred didn’t say anything.

  “If Billy’s dead or captive inside that house,” Birdie went on, “then there ain’t no crime in searching for ’im.”

  “There is if Charlie Pickles hoists a sackful o’ silver plate on his way out,” Alfred spat. His face was heavy with resentment. “I’ll not be lagged for thieving, nor work for nothing. There’s only one thing to do. We must take the lady with us.”

  Birdie frowned. “What lady?” she inquired before the answer suddenly dawned on her. “Miss Eames?”

  “Aye.”

  “But—”

  “She’ll pay to come and will defend us if we’re nibbed.” Alfred began to nod thoughtfully as he reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I’d trust her to speak for us in any court, afore any beak.”

  Birdie had to concede that Miss Eames probably was a match for any magistrate in London. “But she’ll not want to burgle no house, and she will want to call in the traps,” Birdie protested.

  “Aye. . . well. . .” Alfred shrugged. “You’ll have to convince her to help us.”

  “I will?”

  “Make her see we ain’t got no choice. Even if the traps believe Sal, which I’m not persuaded of, and even if Sal gives up them clothes, which is our only proof, what do you think the doctor will say when the police come knocking on his door? He’ll say someone threw the clothes into his garden. Over the fence.”

  “But if there’s proof inside—”

  “If there’s proof inside, like clothes or a corpse, well and good—though I’ll wager he’ll claim that every one o’ them kids tried to burgle his house, and who can say different when they was all known thieves? I’ve heard that more’n one man has killed an armed thief on his property and walked away from a murder charge.” By this time Alfred had filled his pipe; now he was fumbling around for matches. “And what if there ain’t no proof inside?” he argued. “That’ll be the end o’ the matter—save that our doctor friend’ll be alerted and will ensure that no one ever finds out what befell them boys.”

  Birdie nodded slowly, impressed by Alfred’s clear and logical reasoning.

  “And if all that don’t convince Miss Eames,” Alfred concluded, “tell her Sal won’t never forgive us if we call in the constabulary. Make that very clear.” He fixed his apprentice with a grim, dark look while he sucked at his pipe stem. “Tell her what it’ll mean, if the matron turns against us.”

  Birdie swallowed. “Can’t you talk to Miss Eames?” she pleaded.

  Alfred shook his head. “She’s more likely to listen if she hears it from you.”

  Even Birdie had to acknowledge the truth of this. An appeal from Birdie would carry far more weight than an appeal from Alfred.

  “You’ll come with me, won’t you? In case I need help?” Birdie entreated.

>   “You’ll not need help,” Alfred said. “And if you’re there alone, she’ll give you the bus fare back, like as not.” Then he dug around in his bedclothes and produced a pair of trousers, which he searched for loose coins. “I’ve things to buy and debts to pay this afternoon,” he revealed, “but we’ll eat a good dinner first, so you’ll have the stomach to do this job.” He tossed Birdie a sixpenny piece. “Here’s a tanner. Take it to the pie shop and buy summat tasty. And if there’s any change. . .”

  He paused as Birdie jumped to her feet. She waited hopefully. Was he about to offer her a penny for her trouble?

  “If there’s any change, bring it straight back,” he finished in a gruff voice.

  He was still counting his money when she left for the pie shop.

  15

  A Very Kind Offer

  Someone was playing the piano inside Miss Eames’s house.

  Standing on the front doorstep, straining her ears, Birdie identified “The Gypsy Girl’s Dream.” But heavy footsteps soon drowned out the faint tinkling of piano keys, and suddenly Mary Meggs was in front of her, wearing a black-and-white maid’s uniform.

  “Oh!” Mary sounded surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to Miss Eames.”

  “Did you, now?” said Mary, eyeing her skeptically from head to toe. Birdie flushed. She knew that she wasn’t looking her best because she’d had to replace her beautiful yellow cape with an old pink mantle that had been so badly mauled by moths and rats that she’d been using it as bed linen. She was also in a muck sweat, having walked halfway across the city. And somewhere on the trip to Bloomsbury, she’d lost a feather from her hat.

  “I’ve a message from Mr. Bunce,” she announced. “Miss Eames will want to hear it.”

  “I’ll see if she’s home,” said Mary. Then she shut the door in Birdie’s face.

  Birdie was annoyed, though not surprised. As a bogler’s girl from Bethnal Green, she wasn’t the kind of visitor that most maidservants would greet with open arms. But she was convinced that Miss Eames would give her a much warmer welcome—and she was right. Barely a minute later Mary opened the door again.