A Very Peculiar Plague (16 page)
‘So there
is
a bogle?’ asked Jem.
‘Oh, aye. Far as I can tell.’ Alfred addressed a passing cook. ‘Begging yer pardon, Ma’am, but there’s a larder down yonder with nowt in it. Can you tell me why, when the others is packed to the ceiling?’
‘On account o’ the stench. A sewer lies beneath, or dead monks, or summat.’ The cook frowned at him. ‘What’s
your
business here?’
Alfred adjusted the weight of his sack, grimacing. He seemed uncomfortable with the notion of telling a lie. It was Jem who answered, ‘Mrs Kerridge hired us to kill vermin.’
‘Oh.’ The cook nodded, apparently satisfied. Then she trudged away. Watching her, Alfred muttered, ‘We’ll need both o’ you for this – you
and
Birdie. Else I’ll not take the risk.’
‘Miss Eames won’t like it,’ Jem pointed out.
‘Miss Eames won’t like a school turned into a larder,’ Alfred retorted. Then he sighed and said, ‘We’ll go straight to Bloomsbury and challenge her. With luck, she’ll be persuaded in time for us to come back this evening. With Birdie.’
‘Uh – Mr Bunce?’ Jem had his speech all prepared, but found it harder to begin than he had expected. After clearing his throat, he finally stammered, ‘M-may I stay here while you go? For I’ve business in this neighbourhood.’
Alfred fixed him with a sceptical eye. ‘Business?’ he echoed.
‘There’s a girl I saw hereabouts, and wish to see again.’ Jem hoped to mislead Alfred without actually lying to him – and when he saw Alfred’s mouth twitch, he knew he’d succeeded. ‘If I went knocking on doors in search of her, I could ask about bad smells and missing children,’ Jem continued, watching Alfred closely. ‘I could find out how far the monsters range, in these parts.’
‘Aye,’ the bogler conceded. ‘You could.’
‘And mebbe win you more business,’ Jem finished, just as Mrs Kerridge approached them. She was carrying a rust-coloured jacket, cut short and narrow. Her face was flushed with triumph.
‘I think this might fit you, Jem,’ she announced. ‘The sleeves are too long, and a little shiny with use, but a stiff brush and a few stitches will fix that. It’s worsted wool, so it will not lose its shape after washing. Here – why not put it on?’
She held out the jacket as Alfred wearily inclined his head. ‘You’ll want a new jacket, if you wish to impress a young lady,’ he had to admit. ‘Go on. Take it.’
As far as Jem was concerned, this was all the permission he needed to hunt down Eunice Pickles.
Jem’s brown serge coat had horn buttons and a silk lining. There wasn’t a patch or a darn anywhere on it. Mrs Kerridge had turned back the cuffs a little, to shorten the sleeves. She had even sewn his name into the collar.
When he entered the Viaduct Tavern wearing his new coat, Mabel Lillimere exclaimed, ‘Why, what’s this? Has the Lord Mayor come to pay us a call?’
Jem grinned. ‘Handsome, ain’t I?’ he said, raising his voice above the din at the bar. The taproom was noisier than ever; Mabel was already hoarse from shouting.
‘Fine as fivepence,’ she loudly agreed, pushing a pint pot towards a hatless navvy covered in brick dust. ‘How did you come by such a garment? I know it ain’t from Mr Froome.’
Jem’s smile faded. Was she accusing him of theft? ‘Mrs Kerridge gave it to me.’
‘The matron? From the Bluecoat School?’ Seeing Jem nod, Mabel narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a bogle in amongst all o’ them boys?’
As Jem opened his mouth to reply, his gaze snagged on a familiar face at the other end of the counter. Josiah Lubbock was as red as sealing-wax and sweating profusely. He smiled at Jem, then raised his glass and said, ‘I hear you’re something of an acrobat. Have you ever thought of going on the stage?’
Jem gave a snort. He was holding onto the bar for dear life, as larger patrons tried to elbow him out of the way. ‘No offence, Mr Lubbock, but I’d not be beholden to you if I could help it,’ he retorted. ‘I’d not trust you well enough.’ Then he turned back to Mabel. ‘Begging yer pardon, Miss; did you ever see a woman in here, thirty-five or close to it, plump and pasty, with a spotty face and a wall eye? She used to call herself Eunice Pickles, though she might have taken another name.’
Mabel stared at him for a moment, looking surprised.
‘Mousy hair,’ Jem continued. ‘Red nose. Sulky expression.’
She shook her head regretfully, then addressed the patrons lined up in front of her. ‘
Anyone here know a Eunice Pickles? Spotty and fat, with a wall eye?
’
Jem waited hopefully, but the only response was a chorus of negatives. Some of the men chaffed Mabel, claiming that
they
would never dally with such a homely creature.
Mabel cast Jem a harassed, apologetic glance.
‘Where is Mr Bunce?’ a voice murmured in Jem’s ear. It was Josiah Lubbock. Having abandoned his place at the other end of the bar, he had battled through the crowd to reach Jem’s side. ‘He’s not ill, I hope?’
‘No,’ Jem replied shortly. ‘But he’d be sick as a cat if he laid eyes on you now, lurking about like a prigging valet. Why don’t you mind yer own business?’
‘That’s exactly what I
am
doing,’ said Mr Lubbock. ‘I’m minding my own business by attempting to expand it.’
‘By leeching off others, you mean,’ Jem scoffed. He was about to wriggle away when a brilliant notion struck him.
This slang cove wants to make use o’ me
, he thought,
but what if I make use of him, instead?
‘I hear you vanquished two bogles in the Holborn Viaduct this morning,’ Mr Lubbock went on, smiling his greasy showman’s smile. ‘Or so I was informed by that watchmaker over there, who had it from the barmaid—’
He stopped suddenly as a bell began to toll outside. Everyone in the taproom paused to listen. When Jem saw several of his neighbours cross themselves, he realised that the Newgate Prison bell was ringing – and that someone was about to be hanged in the prison yard.
‘May God have mercy,’ the navvy muttered. And an old man said, ‘It don’t seem right, the way they’re scragged nowadays. Ain’t no ceremony to it, with no crowds and no notice, and us here lushing down blue ruin, too ignorant to salute the poor soul’s passing, since we don’t even know what he’s done.’
There was a rumble of agreement. Then Mabel, who was hauling at a beer-tap, remarked, ‘All the licensed victuallers hereabouts is poorer since they stopped public hangings. It was good business, I’ll say that.’
‘Because folk need a spectacle!’ Mr Lubbock insisted, addressing the room at large. ‘Especially if it involves blood-letting. Why, ever since the days of the ancient Romans, people have been demanding blood sports. And they’ll pay good money to see rat-baiting, or cock-fighting.’ He winked at Jem, who jerked his chin at the door.
‘We need to talk,’ Jem mumbled. ‘In private.’
Mr Lubbock nodded. Then he drained his glass, slapped it down on the sticky surface in front of him, and eased his way through the press of bodies around the bar.
He finally caught up with Jem in the street, where the foot traffic had slowed to a dawdle. Everyone was listening to the Newgate bell – even the costers.
‘I’ve a proposition for you,’ Jem announced. ‘A mutual agreement, like.’
‘Fire away,’ said Mr Lubbock.
Jem cleared his throat, trying to ignore the sudden pang of guilt that assailed him. He knew that Alfred wouldn’t approve of his plan. But then again, it was a
good
plan. And it wouldn’t harm anybody.
‘There’s a plague o’ bogles hereabouts,’ Jem began, with a nod at the tavern door. ‘You may have heard the folk in there fretting over it.’
‘I haven’t,’ Mr Lubbock replied. ‘But carry on.’
‘We’ve killed four bogles in this quarter already. What
I’m
about to do is go knocking on doors, to ask about missing children.’
‘And you’d like me to help?’ said Mr Lubbock.
‘I would.’
‘In exchange for . . .?’
Jem didn’t reply immediately. He was too busy thinking. At last he declared, ‘If you find a missing kid, you’ll find a bogle, like as not. From there, it’s up to you.’
Mr Lubbock pursed his lips and regarded Jem shrewdly. ‘You want me to tout for your master?’
Jem shrugged.
‘If I find him clients, and cry up his services, it’s only fair that I profit from my efforts,’ Mr Lubbock pointed out. ‘A small, select audience of spectators could help defray the cost of the bogler’s visit. Why, I could offer his clients a cut of my takings, with which they might pay his fee!’
‘You could,’ said Jem. Though he didn’t like the idea, he realised that it would benefit poorer people who couldn’t afford a bogler. And if Alfred refused to cooperate – well, that wasn’t Jem’s fault, was it? Jem had never once tried to claim that
Alfred
would agree to the plan.
It was shifty behaviour, of course. Jem knew that. But it was no more shifty than Josiah Lubbock.
‘We might have a notice put up in that window, seeking information about children missing locally.’
Mr Lubbock gestured at the Viaduct Tavern. ‘I’m sure the delightful Miss Lillimere would oblige us.’
‘Mebbe,’ Jem had to admit. ‘Though I’ll wager there’s some round these parts as cannot read.’
‘Then others could read it
to
them.’ The showman spoke with complete confidence. ‘I could apply to the landlord. I could appeal to his charitable and neighbourly instincts.’
Jem pulled a sardonic face.
‘I could say to the landlord, “Mr Watkins, will you join me in ridding Newgate of a scourge more terrible than Typhoid? I am proud, sir – proud and eager – to be walking the streets in search of these unholy, bloodsucking vermin.”’ Mr Lubbock cut a sidelong glance at Jem before concluding, in a sly voice, ‘I suppose you don’t need me to approach the Bluecoat School? Since we already
know
it’s infested.’
Jem sighed. The man was incorrigible.
‘So
are
you interested?’ he asked wearily. ‘If not, I’ll be on me way.’
‘To look for Eunice Pickles?’
Mr Lubbock smirked. Jem’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What do
you
know about Eunice Pickles?’ he demanded fiercely.
‘Only that you’re keen to find her. A middle-aged lady, I believe? Pale and plump and wall-eyed?’
They stared at each other for a moment. Mr Lubbock seemed quite pleased with himself. Jem was wondering if he’d made a big mistake.
He’d been hoping to introduce the subject of Eunice Pickles casually, as an afterthought. Yet the showman had such an instinct for ferreting out secrets that he’d already grasped the importance of Eunice Pickles. He seemed to sense that she was the real reason behind Jem’s search for missing children.
It was maddening.
‘Her ma owes me a debt,’ Jem said at last. ‘And since I ain’t the only one she’s dodging, it’s likely she’s changed her name.’
‘I see.’ Mr Lubbock nodded, as if this all made perfect sense. ‘And should I happen to find her, what’s it worth to you? Once she’s paid her debt?’ Seeing Jem blink, he elaborated. ‘A five-shilling fee, perhaps?’
Jem nearly laughed out loud. Suddenly he felt quite at home – and ready to deal with a man who understood that you could put a price on anything.
It occurred to him that Mr Lubbock and Sarah Pickles would have got along very well.
‘No.’ He shook his head, even though he knew that he was bargaining over a cut of nothing at all. ‘That’s more’n she owes me.’
‘Two shillings?’
Jem snorted.
‘A quarter of what you collect, then,’ said Mr Lubbock. ‘That seems fair.’
Jem agreed, with feigned reluctance. ‘But you ain’t to warn either of ’em,’ he growled. ‘Eunice or her ma.’
Mr Lubbock raised his brows. ‘Are they aware that you work for a bogler?’
‘No.’
‘Do I have your permission to name Mr Bunce, then?’
‘It would be better if you didn’t. She knows him too.’
‘Very well.’ Having satisfied himself on this point, the showman tackled another. ‘And may I ask what Miss Eunice’s mother looks like?’
‘Like a leg o’ mutton gone bad,’ Jem spat. Then he realised that he shouldn’t let his hatred show – not to Josiah Lubbock. ‘She’s old, and fat, and wrinkled like a prune,’ he went on, more calmly. ‘Her hair’s grey and she favours coalscuttle bonnets.’
‘And she hails from?’
‘Bethnal Green.’
Mr Lubbock inclined his head. ‘Then I’ll keep my ears pricked for East-End vowels,’ he promised, ‘and my eyes peeled for coalscuttle bonnets.’
‘
You
can take the north side o’ Newgate,’ Jem instructed, pointing up Giltspur Street. ‘I’ll take the south.’
‘And meet again where? At the tavern?’
‘At Mr Bunce’s crib. Tomorrow morning.’ Jem wasn’t going to utter a word about his appointment with Alfred at nightfall. He had no intention of arriving on the matron’s doorstep with Josiah Lubbock in tow. ‘But don’t bother to show yer face if you ain’t got nothing to offer,’ Jem added. ‘For I’ll not be inclined to let you in.’
‘Oh, I always have something to offer,’ Mr Lubbock replied serenely. Then he simpered at Jem. ‘I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart, by the by.’
Jem frowned. ‘A change of heart?’
‘About not trusting me well enough to be beholden to me.’
‘You’ve a good memory,’ Jem conceded, ignoring the twinkle in the showman’s eye. ‘But make no mistake, sir: I still don’t trust you. And I ain’t beholden to you.’ He held out one dirty hand, fixing Mr Lubbock with a bright, challenging look from beneath the brim of his baggy brown cap. ‘This here is plain dealing. Tit for tat. We’ll both get something out of it, and walk away clean.’
‘That we will,’ Mr Lubbock confirmed. Then he shook Jem’s hand, adjusted his bowler, and headed off down Giltspur Street.
Jem hurried away in the opposite direction, towards Warwick Lane.
Jem began his search on Warwick Lane because he’d last seen Eunice heading in that direction. To Jem, Warwick Lane looked like the kind of street that Sarah Pickles and her daughter had always occupied in Bethnal Green. It was narrow, dirty, airless and faintly threatening. But the further he went, the more clearly he saw that a city slum wasn’t quite the same as a rookery in the East End.
