A Very Unusual Pursuit (17 page)
‘Mebbe not,’ Alfred replied. ‘How could he, when Sal had the raising of ’im?’
Their second visitor knocked when Alfred was lighting his third pipe of the day. Birdie half-expected to see Sarah Pickles walk through the door, and was greatly relieved when Ned Roach appeared on the threshold instead. It took her a moment to recognise him because he was so clean, as if he’d never seen a muddy riverbank in his life. His clothes were freshly laundered, his boots were polished, and his face was well-scrubbed. Even his hair looked fluffy.
He carried a penny bunch of violets.
‘These are for you,’ he told Birdie. ‘I heard as how you fell foul of a bogle.’
She coloured. ‘Who told you that?’ she asked, annoyed that Jem had been gossiping.
‘Uh . . . a barmaid I know.’ Ned glanced uneasily at Alfred, who was puffing away in silence. ‘She got it from her brother, as got it from Jem Barbary.’
‘Jem Barbary should mind his own business,’ Birdie grumbled. But she accepted the flowers, knowing somehow that Ned hadn’t stolen them. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered. ‘They smell nice.’
‘You should sit down, lad.’ At last Alfred spoke up. ‘You must be right footsore, if you walked all the way from Wapping.’
‘I live in Whitechapel,’ Ned explained. ‘In a common lodging house. It’s a deal cheaper than the cribs in Wapping.’
‘Ah.’
‘I should move closer to the river,’ Ned conceded. Then he sat down at Birdie’s bedside. There was a long, awkward silence as Birdie remembered that Ned was a boy of few words.
She sniffed at the violets, wondering where he had found money enough to buy them. The thought that he might have sacrificed a meal brought her so close to tears that she became quite cross with herself.
All this crying has to stop
, she thought.
Why am I spouting like a pump-well, all of a sudden?
Aloud she asked Ned, ‘How’s business bin, down at the river?’
Ned shrugged. ‘Not good.’
‘Oh.’ When he didn’t continue, Birdie tried another tack. ‘Seen any more bogles lately?’
‘No.’
Birdie glanced at Alfred, hoping that he would say something. But he just sat there, quietly smoking, his eyes on the empty fireplace.
She felt a guilty sense of gratitude when their third and final visitor rapped on the door. By that time even Sarah Pickles would have been a welcome interruption.
‘Come in!’ said Alfred.
The door opened. Miss Eames entered. She was carrying a covered basket, and had changed into her mustard-coloured suit, but otherwise looked much the same as she had that morning – pale, agitated and slightly dishevelled. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed on seeing Ned. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea you were entertaining . . .’
Ned jumped up so abruptly that he knocked over his stool. As Miss Eames advanced into the room, he started to edge around her, heading for the dingy hallway outside. Her sudden appearance seemed to have alarmed him.
‘Oh, please don’t leave on my account!’ she implored. ‘I wish to stay only for a short time.’
But he murmured something incoherent, and fled. Miss Eames appealed to Alfred.
‘What did I do? Have I caused offence in some way?’
‘Don’t mind him.’ Alfred had risen to pick up the overturned stool. ‘I’m persuaded he ain’t used to mixed company.’
‘I see,’ said Miss Eames, though she obviously didn’t. Turning to Birdie, she smiled and asked, ‘How are you, my dear? How is your wound?’
‘Better,’ Birdie replied, eyeing her warily.
‘I’ve brought you a few things, though I see you already have flowers.’ Miss Eames unveiled her basket and began to unload its contents onto the table. ‘Here is a plain cake, and a pot of jam, and some Bath Oliver biscuits, and a jar of beef tea, which is very strengthening. Also, Mrs Heppinstall has included some stewed apples and a pound of sugar, which I know you will use sensibly.’
‘Thank’ee, miss,’ said Alfred, before flicking a sharp look at Birdie.
‘Thank you, miss,’ Birdie muttered.
‘My cab is waiting outside, so I cannot linger,’ Miss Eames continued. ‘Truth to tell, I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to
find
a cab in this district—’
‘It ain’t.’ Alfred cut her off. ‘You did the right thing to keep it waiting.’
‘I thought as much.’ Miss Eames hesitated for a moment, her gaze drifting over the cracked ceiling and smoke-blackened walls. She looked profoundly ill at ease. ‘Have you had any news from your mysterious acquaintance?’ she said at last. ‘About the punishment to be visited on Doctor Morton?’
Alfred shook his head. ‘I’ve bin busy with other things,’ he answered drily.
‘Yes, of course. I understand.’ Miss Eames glanced at Birdie again. ‘I’m sorry to see her still laid up in bed. Should I arrange a doctor’s visit, Mr Bunce? At no cost to yourself, of course.’
‘Ain’t no need for a doctor,’ Alfred replied. ‘She’ll be on her feet tomorrow.’
‘Well, if you’re
sure—’
‘I’m sure.’
Miss Eames nodded. Then she took a deep breath and launched into a speech that sounded well rehearsed. ‘There is one more matter that I wish to raise before I go,’ she announced. ‘I’ve discussed your situation with my aunt, Mr Bunce, and we both understand how hard it would be for you to earn a livelihood without a trained apprentice at your side. So I have a proposition to make. If Mrs Heppinstall and I were to offer you a small stipend over the next three years, would you undertake to devote the greater part of your time towards developing a more scientific way of attracting bogles?’
Alfred frowned. ‘A stipend?’ he echoed, sounding confused.
‘A stipend is a regular payment. Like a wage.’ Miss Eames was watching him closely. ‘This, of course, would be contingent upon my giving Birdie a musical education. And it would ensure that London’s bogles would not be left to their own devices. You would continue to be a bogler, Mr Bunce, only our aim would be to make bogling a
solitary
pursuit based on technical advancement and a greater understanding of the natural sciences.’
Alfred was staring at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Even Birdie was speechless. She couldn’t believe her ears; was Miss Eames actually offering to pay Alfred for doing nothing?
‘I’ll leave you to consider my offer. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect an immediate decision.’ Tucking the handle of her basket into the crook of her elbow, Miss Eames began to withdraw. On the threshold, however, she stopped and looked back. ‘Do remember, though – the longer you delay, the more often you’ll put Birdie at risk. And I’m aware, Mr Bunce, that you would hate to do that.’
Then, with a nod and a wave, she departed.
Birdie didn’t sleep much that night. She kept wondering how many more nights she would be allowed to sleep in her own bed. She tried to imagine living in Mrs Heppinstall’s house. Would there be cake every day? Would Birdie be allowed to choose her own clothes? How regularly would she be expected to bathe?
She’d never had a bath in her life, and was frightened at the thought of taking one. The prospect of school didn’t appeal much either. Most of all, though, she dreaded having to leave Alfred.
He can’t manage without me
, she told herself over and over again, as she lay in the dark. For years Birdie had cooked their meals and mended their linen. She had bought medical supplies when Alfred was ill. She had cleaned and shopped and delivered messages. Who was going to do all that if she left?
And surely Alfred didn’t
really
believe that he could kill a bogle without the aid of an apprentice?
When Birdie finally did fall asleep, her dreams were haunted by smoke and slime and bogles. She woke up five times, gasping with fear. Each time, however, she would hear Alfred snoring on the other side of the room – and each time the noise made her feel safe.
In the morning, she decided to get out of bed.
‘My wrist ain’t a bit sore,’ she declared. ‘Not a thing is wrong with me. But I
shall
fall ill if I have to lie in this corner, which is so damp and close.’ Having checked her arm, Alfred agreed. ‘This is mending well,’ he said. It was the only thing he did say for several hours. While Birdie got up and made breakfast – which was bread and tea, sweetened by Miss Eames’s jam and Mrs Heppinstall’s sugar – he sat silently gazing at the fireplace, gnawing on the stem of his pipe. He couldn’t actually smoke the pipe because he had no tobacco.
Birdie didn’t dare break into Alfred’s reverie. She knew that he must be thinking about Miss Eames’s offer, and she didn’t want to make a nuisance of herself. So she bustled about, wiping and sweeping, to demonstrate that she was perfectly well again.
Then somebody knocked on the door.
Alfred seemed as surprised as Birdie was. He snapped to attention, looking at her with raised eyebrows, but she shrugged and shook her head. She wasn’t expecting company.
‘Who is it?’ asked Alfred.
The voice that replied was unfamiliar. It was a man’s voice, high and reedy, with a faint Scottish accent. ‘Would that be Mister Alfred Bunce? The Go-Devil man?’
‘Aye.’ Alfred frowned. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Simeon McGill is my name, sir. I need yeer help, and will pay for it.’
Alfred nodded at Birdie, who went to open the door. When she did, she jumped back with a squeak – because the man waiting in the corridor was enormous. He had to stoop to enter the room, where he stood with his scalp brushing against the cornice. His large hands were seamed with dirt; his even larger boots were caked with it. He had the broadest shoulders and the widest neck that Birdie had ever seen, yet his head looked a little undersized, as if it belonged to a different body.
‘We’ve got a bogle, Mr Bunce,’ he said. ‘In the Victoria Park burial ground. I’d swear to it.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘I work there,’ the big man continued, then paused, as if he didn’t know quite how to go on.
‘Are you a gravedigger?’ Birdie asked him, with a touch of alarm.
When he nodded, she had to force herself not to grimace. Alfred, however, seemed completely unmoved.
‘If you’ve had coffins plundered, you’ll not need me,’ he observed. ‘Bogles eat living children, not dead ’uns.’
‘Oh, no, sir, it’s no’ like that.’ Simeon’s squeaky, sing-song voice, combined with his blank blue gaze, snub nose and silky blond hair, gave the impression that he himself was just a child, trapped in a giant’s body. He rocked from foot to foot, twisting his rolled cap in his enormous hands. ‘There’s a mortuary chapel in the park, ye see. People sleep there when the weather’s bad—’
‘At
night
, you mean?’ Birdie interrupted, horrified. She would rather have slept in a ditch than in a graveyard at night.
Simeon nodded, glancing from Alfred to Birdie and back again. He seemed quite happy to be answering questions put to him by a little girl. It was Alfred who frowned at Birdie, indicating that he wanted her to keep her mouth shut.
‘Though we try to chase ’em out, they come back and break the lock,’ Simeon continued. ‘Besides, we cannae work there at night. But now folk say there’s a
ciudach
inside the chapel, which ate two bairns. And that’s bad for business, Mr Bunce.’
Alfred studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed, brow creased. ‘A
ciudach
?’ he repeated. ‘What is that?’
Simeon seemed surprised that he didn’t know. ‘Why, a monster. A thing that lives in caves and eats people.’
‘A bogle, in other words.’
‘Aye. I’m guessing so.’
‘
And who exactly has bin talking about bogles?’ Alfred queried.
Simeon blinked. ‘Folk. Hereabouts.’ After a moment’s intense thought, he said, ‘One of the workhouse chaplains.’
‘Has he seen a bogle?’
‘Oh, no, sir. But he has heard stories. Even the paupers from Waterloo Road workhouse dinnae want to be buried at Victoria Park any longer.’ Simeon went on to explain that sometimes so many coffins were piled up in the cemetery, awaiting burial, that they were attacked by vermin. ‘When it’s rats and dogs, that’s bad enough,’ he confessed, ‘but folk draw the line at bogles.’
‘Bogles don’t eat corpses,’ Alfred flatly insisted.
‘Uh – Mr Bunce?’ Birdie felt that she had to speak, though she quailed a little as Alfred glared at her. ‘There ain’t no telling what a bogle might do,’ she reminded him. ‘
Most
don’t eat corpses, the way most don’t breathe smoke. But who’s to say there ain’t one out there with different tastes . . .?’
She trailed off, knowing that she had made her point. Alfred’s fierce expression had already changed to a pensive one.
‘Whether it eats live bairns or dead ones, this bogle is no’ a good thing for us gravediggers, sir,’ their visitor suddenly remarked. ‘For the park is a business, and must turn a profit if me and Mr Swayles are to keep our jobs.’
‘Is Mr Swayles another gravedigger?’ Alfred inquired. ‘Aye, sir. There’s me and Mr Swayles and the superintendent, Mr Donohue.’ Simeon chanted this list of names like a child reciting a multiplication table, his little round eyes fixed blandly on Alfred. ‘Mr Donohue lives in a house on the grounds, and heard screaming one night, or so he thinks. But he’s a tippler, and hears strange things on occasion.’
‘Did he see the bogle?’ asked Alfred.
‘No.’
‘Did
anyone
see it?’
‘I cannae tell ye that, sir. I misdoubt it.’
‘What about the missing kids? Can you tell me about ’em?’
‘No, sir.’ Hearing Alfred sigh, the gravedigger added, ‘If they were sleeping in a mortuary chapel, they were beggars – or worse.’
Alfred pondered for a moment. ‘Is the park on consecrated soil?’
‘No, sir, it is not. Could that be why the bogle came?’
‘Mr McGill,’ said Alfred, ‘I don’t think there
is
a bogle. Just a lot o’ gossip and silliness, which I can’t do nothing about.’
‘Oh, but ye can, Mr Bunce. Soon as it’s known that ye couldnae find no bogle – or that you
did
find one, and killed it stone dead – why, then our troubles will be over! For the coffins will start coming back again, praise be.’
Catching Alfred’s eye, Birdie didn’t allow herself to snort or wince. She understood that it wouldn’t have been polite.
