A Very Unusual Pursuit (11 page)

Watching him, Birdie felt deeply uncomfortable. She should have been out there in the circle, not cowering behind a woodpile. Alfred had given her his dark lantern to mind, just in case. (He always made sure that they had an alternative source of light during night jobs, and the dark lantern, with its hinged shutter, could be transformed instantly from a little black box into a shining beacon.) But this wasn’t enough for Birdie. It was as if she’d been demoted. Excluded.

And it was all the fault of Miss Eames.

Not that her silly pie plan was going to work. Birdie kept telling herself this. If the bogle liked pies, it would have been raiding the workhouse kitchen, not picking off children in the dark. The pie was going to fail, and then Birdie would be restored to her proper place at Alfred’s side.

In the meantime, however, she had to put up with Fanny. It was hard to concentrate while Fanny was around, because she was fidgety and restless. For all her faults, Miss Eames remained perfectly still as they waited for the bogle. Fanny, on the other hand, kept scratching and sighing and shifting about until Birdie was tempted to jab her in the ribs. But they weren’t supposed to be making any noise, and Fanny would probably yelp or squeak if she felt the sharp point of an elbow. Birdie couldn’t even
say
anything – not with a bogle listening in. For she had no doubt whatsoever that there was a bogle nearby. She could sense it. She could feel its dark weight in the air. She could smell a faint odour of fish and rotten eggs.

So she tried to stay alert, even though, as the minutes dragged on, nothing happened. The bogle refused to show itself.

At last the workhouse clock struck twelve. Hearing it, Birdie realised that they had been waiting by the laundry for more than an hour. She saw Alfred’s head swivel in her direction. Then he jerked his chin. As Birdie rose, Miss Eames couldn’t suppress a murmur of protest.

But Birdie’s furious scowl quickly silenced her.

Since two of the pauper children had been taken with candle stubs in their hands, Alfred had decreed that Birdie could safely carry a light. Without one, she wouldn’t be able to see the bogle coming. So before stepping into the ring of salt, Birdie exchanged her dark lantern for Fanny’s lamp. And once she’d entered the magic circle, she set the lamp down beside the cooling gooseberry pie.

Then she raised her mirror, checked Alfred’s position, and softly began to sing.

The Lord said to the Lady, afore he went out,

‘Beware o’ false Lamkin, he’s a-walking about.’

The gates they was locked both outside and in

But for one little hole that let Lamkin creep in.

Suddenly Birdie saw the well-cap move. One half of it rose a little, hovering an inch or two above the ground, before it slipped sideways to expose a wedge of darkness. Though the shadows were dense and her view was partly blocked by weeds, Birdie could just make out that a spiky-looking hand, or claw, had lifted the stone cover like a basket lid.

But if the slab made any kind of noise as it settled onto its bed of weeds, Birdie didn’t hear it. Her own voice was ringing in her ears.

He took out a pen-knife both pointed and sharp

And stabbed the wee baby three times in the heart.

‘
O Nursemaid! O Nursemaid! How sound you do sleep;

Can’t you hear them poor children a-trying to weep?
’

Gradually the hole in the ground began to extrude something shiny and black and very long, with limbs that kept unfolding from beneath its belly. Birdie couldn’t tell if the thing was encased in a giant millipede’s shell or in a suit of armour, but she
could
see red eyes glowing beneath what was either a helmet or a hairless skull. The bogle’s body was so long that Birdie began to sweat and shake. What if its bottom half was still outside the circle when it reached her? Timing would be of the essence, if she was to avoid being caught.

Birdie focused all her attention on Alfred, bracing herself for his signal. It seemed to be a long time coming. Crooning away, she wondered why he didn’t pounce.

Here’s blood in the kitchen, here’s blood in the hall,

Here’s blood in the parlour, where the lady did fall.

False Lamkin shall be hung on the gallows so high;

While his bones shall be burned in the fire close by.

When Alfred finally leaped forward, so did Birdie. She rolled across the ground. She jumped to her feet. Then something slashed at her cape – and she realised that one of the bogle’s razor-sharp claws had only just missed her.

Fanny screamed. There was a smell of hot gooseberries. The lamp went out, and suddenly Birdie couldn’t see a thing. But as she cast around frantically, a golden glow flared behind the woodpile.

Miss Eames had uncovered Alfred’s dark lantern.

In its pale light Birdie saw that Alfred must have speared the bogle, which was already curling up into a crispy ball that began to crumble away like burnt paper. The pie was a bubbling pool of goo. Fanny’s lamp had been knocked down.

Fanny was sobbing, but broke off with a startled hiccough when Miss Eames shook her.

‘Stop it!’ Miss Eames ordered. ‘Pull yourself together
at once
!’

‘Are you all right, lass?’ Alfred asked Birdie.

‘I think so.’ Examining her cape, Birdie was grieved to see that the rip was getting bigger. Some kind of poison left there by the bogle’s claws was acting on the yellow silk just like acid; its fibres were shrivelling and its colour darkening.

With a sinking heart, she accepted that she would have to throw away her favourite garment.

‘Me cape’s ruined,’ she sadly informed Alfred, as she untied the bow beneath her chin. ‘The bogle tore it, and it’s spoiling fast.’

‘Then toss it in the circle,’ Alfred advised. So she did. The cape landed in a heap between the melted pie and the toppled lamp. When Alfred sprinkled it with holy water, the browning satin fizzed like soda, then turned into a toffee-like substance that began to melt into the ground.

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!’

‘Shh. 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 bought 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 realised 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 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 emphasising, 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 of course, being Scottish, they normally wouldn’t be living this far south . . .’

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 realised that it was broad daylight, and that she was still in bed because she had arrived home from 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 unravelling 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.’

‘Nnnaugh?’

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, laying 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 shirt-tails 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.’