A Very Unusual Pursuit (2 page)

‘No.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘That chimney draws as well as it ever did, and there’s been no stink.’ Lowering her voice, she added, ‘The sweep told me them boys must have climbed to the rooftops and run away. They do that sometimes, he said. But he won’t come back, which is strange. And I’ll not send for another sweep, no matter what the mistress wants. Not if there’s a bad ’un up there.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Alfred assured her. Then he raised the subject of his fee. ‘It’ll be fivepence for the visit and six shillings a bogle, with the cost o’ the salt on top. Did Tom mention that?’

The housemaid gave a grunt. She seemed resigned to the expense, which wasn’t unreasonable. ‘Ma’s paying,’ she admitted. ‘She won’t have me in any house that’s bedevilled, but this is a good situation. If I’m to stay, I must stump up, for Mrs Plumeridge never will. Mrs Plumeridge don’t believe in bogles or the like. No, not even white ladies.’

She stopped for a moment to draw breath, giving Birdie a chance to inform her that the first fivepence had to be paid in advance. It was Birdie’s job to ask, because Alfred often forgot. Once Ellen had agreed to these terms, they all trooped into the dining room, which opened off the hall. It was a very dark room, with maroon walls and a thick Axminster carpet. But the white dustsheets on the tables, chairs and sideboard lightened the atmosphere a little – as did the muslin roses in the fireplace.

Ellen pointed at the roses, saying, ‘Mrs Plumeridge dines in here only at Christmas, or when her nephew comes, for she likes to eat off trays. So we rarely light a fire in this room.’

‘Then why clean the chimney?’ It seemed like a foolish extravagance to Birdie, who was finding it hard enough to understand why one person would want so many rooms, let alone so many fireplaces.

Ellen explained that her mistress, who was ‘very particular’, had a morbid fear of rats’ nests in her unused chimneys. Meanwhile, Alfred was examining the marble mantelpiece and shiny steel grate. ‘Have you lit a fire in here since the boys vanished?’ he asked Ellen gruffly.

‘Only once, to see if it would draw.’

‘Did it smoke?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve smelled nothing? Seen no strange marks, nor heard any peculiar noises?’

Ellen thought hard for a moment. Finally she said, ‘No.’

It was Alfred’s turn to grunt. Then he surveyed the room, frowning, and told her in an undertone, ‘We must move that table. And the chairs.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘Else I’ll catch nothing, and you’ll have wasted yer fivepence.’

So Ellen helped Alfred to shift the table, while Birdie moved the chairs. All the furniture was extremely heavy. After a generous space had been cleared in front of the fireplace, Ellen went downstairs to fetch Alfred’s fee, leaving him to make his preparations.

First he rolled up the carpet, until a wide expanse of parquet floor was showing. Then he took a bag of salt from his sack and traced a large circle on the ground. But the circle wasn’t perfect; he left a small break in its smooth line just opposite the hearthstone.

When Ellen returned, he was carefully unwrapping a short staff, which had a sharp end like a spearhead. On catching sight of it, the housemaid blanched.

‘Oh, you’ll not be making a mess in here?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll lose my place if you do!’

Alfred put a finger to his lips. Birdie, who was by the door, took Ellen’s arm and nudged her into the hall, saying, ‘There’s a puddle or two on occasion, but nothing to fret about.’

‘Oh, dear . . .’

‘And you must air the room after. And if you stay to watch, you must keep to the hall, quiet as a mouse.’ Though Birdie spoke with confidence, in a calm and steady voice, her stomach was starting to knot and her heart to pound. These familiar symptoms overtook her before every job. But she had learned to ignore them. ‘And the door must stand open,’ she finished. ‘Open and clear. Whatever you do, don’t shut the door – else how shall I escape, when the time comes?’

By this time Ellen was wringing her hands. ‘Must I stay?’ she whimpered.

‘No. Some like to, on account of they don’t trust us, and think we’re running a caper.’ Birdie grinned suddenly, recalling one man who’d paid for his suspicions with a bump on the head. He’d fallen over in a dead faint, and had afterwards sicked up all his tea. ‘Once they see the bogle, they soon change their tune,’ she remarked, ‘though they’re in no great danger.’

‘I’ll stand clear,’ said Ellen. ‘Beside the front door.’

Birdie inclined her head.

‘With a poker,’ Ellen added.

Birdie didn’t tell her that a poker would have little effect on a monster, because she knew that Ellen wouldn’t need to defend herself. No customer ever had, and none ever would. Not while Alfred was in charge.

Not while Birdie was his apprentice.

‘There’s nothing to fear,’ she insisted, patting the older girl’s apron bow. ‘Why, it’s no more’n catching a rat. For there’s rats as big as bogles where I come from, and they ain’t never eaten us yet!’

Then Birdie laughed gaily, and took Ellen’s fivepence, and went to help Alfred bait his trap.

2

SIX SHILLINGS’ WORTH

Alfred stood to the left of the fireplace, his salt in one hand, his staff in the other. He didn’t speak to Birdie, who took up her usual position inside his magic circle. Though she’d turned her back on him, the little mirror she was holding gave her a clear view of everything that lay behind her: Alfred, the fireplace, the gap in the ring of salt.

She only had to take one step – a single step across the white line on the floor – and she would be safe. But she couldn’t do it yet. Not until they’d lured their quarry out of its hiding place. Not until they’d baited their trap.

Suddenly Alfred gave a nod. It was her cue, and it made her heart leap. The blood was thundering in her ears. When she began to sing, however, her voice was clear and calm.

O come listen a while, and you shall hear

By the rolling sea lived a maiden fair.

Her father had followed the smuggling trade,

Like a warlike hero,

Like a warlike hero as never was afraid.

Birdie didn’t take her eyes off the mirror for a second. She could see that Alfred’s own eyes were fixed on the fireplace as he waited, poised like a cat, for the bogle to emerge. The waiting was always the worst part. Sometimes they waited for hours, and Birdie would sing herself hoarse. Sometimes they waited for no more than five minutes. Whether short or long, though, the wait always seemed endless to Birdie.

She had trained herself to stay alert. She had learned to ignore her growling stomach, bulging bladder and stiff joints. Nothing could distract her; not cooking smells, nor stray dogs, nor the thought of what might happen if she faltered for even an instant. And since she couldn’t afford to let her mind wander, time would slow to a crawl.

Singing made no difference, because she knew her songs too well. She didn’t have to think about the words or the tunes, any more than she had to think about breathing. Since the songs emerged from her mouth without conscious effort, they didn’t help her in the least.

With her pistols loaded she went abroad.

And by her side hung a glittering sword,

In her belt two daggers; well armed for war

Was this female smuggler,

Was this female smuggler who never feared a scar.

By now Birdie could actually
feel
the bogle’s presence. She could often sense when bogles were about, despite their stealthy behaviour. It was the air, she decided. The air seemed dull and lifeless. And the shadows were thicker than normal, no matter how bright the day.

If ever a chill entered her soul, or the hope suddenly drained from her heart, she knew that a bogle was to blame. If ever a room was as glum as a crypt, casting a black pall over the future, then it was harbouring a bogle.

So even though nothing stirred in the fireplace, Birdie kept singing. Because she was sure that, in a nest of darkness somewhere close by, she had a very attentive listener.

Now they had not sailed far from land

When a strange sail brought them to a stand.

‘These are sea robbers,’ this maid did cry,

‘But the female smuggler,

But the female smuggler will conquer or will die.’

There was a puff of soot. Birdie spied it, though it was gone in a flash. She knew what it meant. The bogle was coming. It was heading down the chimney like a sweep’s boy. For an instant she thought of those poor missing children, caught in the darkness, confused and frightened. Then she banished the picture from her mind, before it had a chance to lodge there.

She had more important things to worry about.

When Alfred adjusted his grip on the staff, her own hand tensed in sympathy. The mirror began to shake. Her palms began to sweat. But still her voice remained rock steady.

Alongside, then, this strange vessel came.

‘Cheer up,’ cried Jane, ‘we will board the same;

We’ll run our chances to rise or fall,’

Cried this female smuggler,

Cried this female smuggler, who never feared a ball.

Slowly, silently, something dim and dense surged out of the chimney and onto the hearth. It came in a cloud of soot that blurred its hulking silhouette. It had eyes as red as rubies, and curling horns, and flaring nostrils. Its black scales were like chips of slate. Birdie even caught a glimpse of arms unfolding, but her hand was shaking so violently that the image in the mirror wasn’t crystal clear.

Luckily her voice wasn’t shaky. It soared like an arrow, straight and true.

Now they killed those pirates and took their store

And soon returned to old England’s shore.

With a keg of brandy she walked along,

Did this female smuggler,

Did this female smuggler, and sweetly sang a song.

Then Alfred sprang his trap.

He lunged forward. Birdie did the same. Their timing was perfect; they moved like dancers. He closed the magic circle as she jumped out of it. He threw down his salt as she ran for cover.

When the bogle hissed, she knew it was caught. She knew she was safe. And she turned just in time to see Alfred strike his blow.

He speared the monster from behind, while it was still intent on reaching Birdie. But it couldn’t. The salt was stopping it. And before it could even
try
to retreat, Alfred thrust his staff into its flank.

One jab was all it took. Though the monster was quick, it wasn’t quick enough. It spun around, screeching, as Alfred yanked out his staff and then –
WHOMP!

The foul thing exploded.

Sometimes bogles would deflate, very slowly, like unsuccessful Yorkshire puddings, until they were little more than piles of dust on the ground. Sometimes they would pop and shrivel, then evaporate into thin air. But
this
bogle split open like a giant grape. It erupted. It sent up a geyser of yellow slime that splattered over the walls, the ceiling, the dustsheets, the fireplace . . . and Alfred, too.

Birdie escaped the deluge by ducking into the hall.

‘What
was
that?’ squealed Ellen. She stood by the front door, an iron poker in her trembling hand. ‘Was that the bogle?’

Birdie didn’t reply. She had already darted back into the dining room, which now smelled rancid – like a tannery full of rotten fish. Slime was dripping from Alfred’s staff, and from his beaky nose, and from his bristling chin. Slime streaked his grubby green coat and dribbled off his thick, greying hair.

At his feet, entrapped by a circle of salt, lay something that looked like a huge, burst pimple. Birdie saw that its edges were beginning to shrink and dry.

‘That was quick,’ she said at last.

‘Aye,’ Alfred agreed. ‘It didn’t keep us waiting.’

‘It must have been hungry.’

‘Like enough.’

‘Or very stupid.’

‘That too.’

‘It made a sad mess . . .’ Birdie muttered, as Alfred sprinkled the contents of a small glass bottle onto the putrid remains. He was just returning the bottle to his sack when Ellen stuck her head around the door and screamed.

‘Oh! Oh,
no
!’

Birdie hastened to assure her that the stains would fade quickly – that they were
already
fading – and that the stench wouldn’t linger. Then, seeing that Ellen was weak at the knees and in no condition to open the nearest window, Birdie did it herself.

Alfred, meanwhile, was wiping his staff with a red flannel rag. Only after his weapon had been thoroughly cleaned, and bundled back into his sack, did he ask the drooping housemaid, ‘Would a drop o’ brandy restore you?’

‘Not from this house,’ Ellen croaked. ‘Mrs Plumeridge marks the bottle.’

In response, Alfred pulled a small flask from his sack. But the housemaid shook her head.

‘Ma don’t hold with the grog,’ she told him, ‘for it were the ruin of her own father.’

Alfred shrugged and drank a few mouthfuls. Birdie, by this time, had fetched Ellen’s broom from the hall. She began to sweep up the scattered salt, some of which was now brown and yellow. The bad smell was already fading, and the bogle’s remains had become brittle and crusty.

As Birdie plied her broom, the puffs of air that she stirred up caused some of these dry flakes to crumble, until they were just yellow flecks like grains of sand.

‘Ain’t never much to a bogle,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘You could bury a round dozen in a bread-tin.’

‘You’ve a pretty voice,’ Ellen mumbled, from her post by the door. ‘The prettiest I ever heard.’

Birdie grinned. ‘Which is how I got me name,’ she said. ‘For I’m Bridie McAdam, or would be, save that Mr Bunce thought Bridie a foolish name for a girl as wouldn’t be wed for many a year.’ Leaning on her broom, Birdie added, ‘When he first heard me singing, down by the canal at Limehouse, he thought I sounded like a little bird in a gutter. So he called me Birdie just as soon as he took me in. Ain’t that so, Mr Bunce?’

Alfred ignored her. ‘Bogles is solitary creatures,’ he gruffly informed the housemaid. ‘Weren’t never but one to a lair. So I’ll trouble you for them six shillings, Miss Meggs, and a penny for the salt.’