A Very Unusual Pursuit (12 page)
‘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 man-trap. 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 grey 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 a-hold 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.
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 sceptically 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.
‘You’re to come in,’ she said stiffly. ‘Wipe yer feet first.’
Birdie did as she was told, wiping her filthy shoes on the doormat before stepping inside. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dimness when she heard Miss Eames addressing her from the drawing-room threshold. ‘Birdie!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. ‘How nice to see you! Come in and say hello to my aunt.’
The music had stopped. Birdie wondered if Miss Eames had been responsible for it, but soon saw that Mrs Heppinstall was the one seated at the drawing-room piano. The old lady beamed at Birdie, patting the seat beside her.
‘Come and sit by me, dear. Do you know this song? It’s
very
pretty. My dear friend Mr Fotherington likes nothing else quite as much. I should love to hear you sing it, if you would oblige me.’
Birdie hesitated. She glanced at Miss Eames, saying, ‘I’ve a message from Mr Bunce.’
‘Which I’m eager to receive,’ Miss Eames assured her. ‘But perhaps you’d like some tea first. Or something a little colder? Lemonade, perhaps?’
Birdie licked her dry lips. ‘I’d like a glass of lemonade,’ she admitted.
‘Let me go and tell Mary,’ said Miss Eames. She vanished back into the hallway, leaving Birdie with Mrs Heppinstall.
‘Do you know this song, my dear?’ The old lady struck a few chords. ‘It’s called “The Gypsy Girl’s Dream”.’
‘I know it,’ Birdie said, having heard it many times. Then, as Mrs Heppinstall kept playing, the lure of the tune became irresistible.
Birdie began to sing.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassels and serfs at my side
And of all those assembled within those walls,
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches all too great to count
And a high ancestral name.
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you lov’d me still the same . . .
Birdie had often sung to the tune of a hand-organ in the street, and had once been accompanied by a fiddle. But she’d never before known the joy of having a pianist gently carry her voice through a song. She forgot everything but the pleasure of the notes, and when the last chord sounded, and silence fell, she was shocked to realise that Miss Eames was standing beside her, applauding enthusiastically.
‘Oh, Birdie, that was
beautiful
!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. ‘Utterly flawless!’
‘Pitch perfect,’ her aunt agreed. ‘What a lovely voice you have, dear,’ ‘Good enough for the stage,’ said Miss Eames. She exchanged a quick look with Mrs Heppinstall before adding, ‘Have you ever wanted to go on the stage, Birdie? Have you ever wanted to be a professional singer?’
‘Oh, I’ll never be that,’ Birdie replied. She had once or twice gazed wistfully at the Grecian Theatre, which was often adorned with pictures of lovely ladies singing their hearts out. For Birdie, however, trying to imagine a stage career was like trying to imagine a trip to the moon.
‘But would you
like
to be a singer?’ pressed Miss Eames. ‘My aunt and I truly believe that with a voice like yours, and a little training, you could be the next Jenny Lind!’
Birdie had no idea who Jenny Lind was. Seeing this from her blank look, Mrs Heppinstall explained, ‘Jenny Lind is an opera singer and concert performer of
great
renown. And she was discovered quite by accident, when she was your age.’
‘You’re pretty enough to act in musical theatre,’ Miss Eames observed. ‘You have every advantage, except that your speaking voice needs more refinement. And some musical training would not go amiss.’
‘Even the strongest voice can be grievously damaged unless the singer is properly trained,’ Mrs Heppinstall agreed.
Birdie looked from one lady to the other, confused by their eager expressions. What on earth were they trying to say? At last Miss Eames came out with it.
‘We have been discussing your plight, Birdie, and would be very happy to arrange lessons with a good singing teacher,’ she said. ‘We would foot the bill, of course.’
‘And find a room for you in this house,’ Mrs Heppinstall promised Birdie, whose mouth had dropped open.
‘Yes, you would have to live here,’ Miss Eames hastily added. ‘No
reputable
teachers would be available anywhere near
your
home. We would also arrange a general tutor for you, because even the finest singer in the world cannot perform unless she is able to read lyrics and stage directions.’
