A Very Unusual Pursuit (21 page)
‘Forgive me, Leticia, but I know all about your wanderings,’ Mrs Ayres said reproachfully. ‘According to the doctor, you have made many low acquaintances in the most
unsavoury
slums and rookeries. He insists that none of these wretched people should be allowed anywhere near you.’
‘But—’
‘If you object to this, you must apply to him personally. He’ll be doing his rounds tomorrow afternoon.’ Mrs Ayres began to shut the door, then stopped to give Birdie one more piece of advice. ‘And I would recommend that you address him in a proper way, instead of using that false and vulgar tongue. Otherwise he will simply decide that you are still favouring fantasy over the truth, and won’t listen to a word you say.’
Bang
went the door.
Clink
went the key in the lock. As Mrs Ayres retreated briskly down the corridor, carrying the tea-tray, Birdie shouted after her, ‘
He’s
got the false tongue, not I! He’s a liar and a killer!
He’s the one you should lock up!
’
But Mrs Ayres wasn’t listening. And after Birdie had kicked the padded door a couple of times, she lay down on her palliasse and wept.
Though she was angry with herself for crying, she found that she couldn’t stop. Her head was aching and her arm was sore and her stomach didn’t feel right – she had packed too much bread into it. She was also scared, though not as scared as she had been. Alone with Doctor Morton, she’d been very scared indeed. Now she felt a little braver, because none of the other asylum staff seemed to be wicked or cruel.
They’re just stupid
, she decided.
They’re stupid for not seeing how bad that man really is.
And she realised that if they
were
stupid, she might get the better of them. Doctor Morton or no Doctor Morton.
She was still wondering how to escape when she fell asleep, and dreamt that a bogle was trying to get into her room, through the door. No matter how loudly she called for help, no one answered. So she tried to climb out the window, but it was much too high. And then she realised that there was
another
bogle waiting for her in the garden, disguised as a rag-and-bone man. ‘Old clo’es! Old clo’es!’ it was yelling.
Birdie woke with a start. For one confused moment, she didn’t know where she was. But by now the sun had risen, and the room around her was full of light. It didn’t take her long to recognise the padded walls.
‘Old clo’es! Old clo’es!’ someone chanted. The noise was filtering through the window from the street outside. Birdie sat up suddenly.
So there
is
a street outside,
she thought. Listening hard, she found that she could recognise other noises: the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the distant puff and clatter of a train, a baby crying, a torrent of oaths. But it was the cry of the caffler that really caught her interest. ‘Old clo’es! Old clo’es!’ he intoned as he pushed his barrow past London House. Birdie didn’t recognise his voice. She doubted very much that he was Elijah Froggett.
Even so, she jumped to her feet – and was about to scream for help when suddenly she had second thoughts. Screaming might not be a clever thing to do. Screaming might confirm that she was a lunatic. The people on the street would certainly think her one. Birdie didn’t want to be strapped up again. She didn’t want to be gagged or restrained.
She stood for a moment, biting her thumb. How was she going to attract attention while making absolutely sure that she didn’t upset Mrs Ayres? Pondering this, she heard a hawker’s cry floating high and pure above the muffled clamour of the street. ‘Ripe strawberries ripe! Sixpence a pottle, fine strawberries ripe!’ And in a flash, she had her answer.
All she had to do was sing.
She had neighbours who worked in Hackney. She’d met people who lived there. She and Alfred had killed bogles all
over
Hackney – in a coalhole, a crypt, a wine cellar, and a disused pottery kiln (not to mention an old workhouse well). Perhaps if Birdie kept singing, some passer-by would recognise her voice.
So she sang ‘The Unquiet Grave’, from start to finish. Then she followed it up with ‘The Three Butchers’, ‘The Barkshire Tragedy’ and ‘Robin Hood’s Death’. She had just started warbling ‘Down Among the Dead Men’ when Mrs Ayres appeared, carrying a bundle of clean clothes.
Katie-Ann was with her.
‘Here is your breakfast, Leticia,’ Mrs Ayres announced as Katie-Ann set down a tea-tray and picked up Birdie’s chamber-pot. Seeing Katie-Ann clearly for the first time in broad daylight, Birdie realised that she was very beautiful, with luxuriant chestnut hair and luminous skin.
Mrs Ayres looked rather puffy around the eyes, perhaps because she hadn’t slept well. She didn’t appear to have changed her clothes. Birdie wondered if she’d been to bed at all.
‘You’ve a pretty voice, Leticia, but Doctor Morton won’t be pleased to hear that you have been singing such nasty songs,’ Mrs Ayres continued. ‘You must try harder if you’re to be let out.’ Laying down her bundle, she added, ‘Your family hasn’t sent us your clothes yet, so you must borrow these for a time. They will suffice, I’m sure. And if you eat all your porridge, Doctor Morton will be very pleased, and may consider placing you in a room upstairs, where you will have a proper bed and a nice view of London Fields.’
‘London Fields?’ Birdie echoed. ‘Are we near the park, then?’
‘Leticia.’ Mrs Ayres looked down her long nose at Birdie. ‘What did I tell you about that silly, vulgar accent? Unless you abandon it, the doctor will not let you read or sew.’
Birdie wanted to say that she couldn’t read, but she knew it would be foolish. So she sat mutely as Mrs Ayres shook her head, gave a disappointed sigh, and withdrew. Katie-Ann didn’t leave, though; she stood waiting while Birdie choked down her breakfast. Perhaps she was afraid that Birdie might smear the walls with porridge, or try to fashion a knife from the tin plate.
When the plate was clean and the teacup empty, Katie-Ann helped Birdie to get dressed – for the borrowed gown had buttons all down its back, and the borrowed petticoat needed adjusting.
‘It’s all a mite too big,’ Katie-Ann remarked after surveying her handiwork with her head cocked, ‘but never mind. Yer own clothes’ll be arriving soon.’
‘No, they will not,’ Birdie retorted. Standing there, almost lost in a mass of stiff blue serge, she looked Katie-Ann straight in the eye. ‘Them clothes you took last night is all I got in the world.’
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Katie-Ann glanced away, a delicate flush staining her cheeks. ‘I’ll take this,’ she said, stacking the tea-tray, ‘but you should keep the nightdress.’
‘You know it’s true,’ Birdie insisted, for she had seen something in Katie-Ann’s face: a startled flicker. A fleeting concern. ‘You
know
I ain’t quality.’
‘It’s none o’ my business,’ Katie-Ann replied.
‘But—’
‘I’m a maid, not a nurse. I do what I’m told, and so should you,’ said Katie-Ann. Then she picked up the tea-tray and departed, though not without locking the door behind her.
Birdie sighed. She felt as if she’d taken aim and missed by an inch. Nevertheless, she sensed that she might have a future ally in Katie-Ann. So she turned back to the window with a much lighter heart.
And though her voice was already roughening from over-use, she launched bravely into ‘The Three Ravens’.
There were three ravens sat on a tree
They were as black as they might be
Then one of the ravens said to his mate
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’
With a down derrie derrie down down . . .
Doctor Morton returned that afternoon, while Birdie was singing ‘The Death of Parcy Reed’.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. One set belonged to Mrs Ayres, who jangled keys and rustled a lot of starched petticoat when she walked. The other set wasn’t muffled by layers of fabric; it was a man’s tread, firm and brisk, but not as heavy as Mr Doherty’s.
Then, as Birdie fell silent, the sound of a muted conversation reached her ears.
‘. . . been singing all day long,’ Mrs Ayres was saying. ‘I thought you would have no objection, though they tend to be rather
low
songs—’
‘Exactly. That is
exactly
why I must forbid them. If she has to be gagged, Mrs Ayres, I will not have her singing those songs.’
It was Doctor Morton speaking. Birdie’s heart skipped a beat, then began to pound like a hammer, in double-quick time.
‘Have any of her rough friends appeared on the doorstep?’ he asked, his voice growing louder with every step.
‘Oh, no. I would have told you.’
‘Well, be on your guard. They are people of the very worst type, and would not think twice about breaking into this house. I believe they were befriending her for the purpose of extracting money from her relatives – a form of ransom, if you understand me.’
‘How dreadful!’
‘It
is
dreadful. You can sympathise with her family’s desire to place her in a secure location. Eventually they hope to find a suitable house in the country. But of course one has to be
very
cautious when it comes to rural asylums.’
The footsteps stopped outside Birdie’s door. Someone fumbled with the lock. Looking around wildly for a place to hide, Birdie saw only the chamber-pot and the palliasse.
When the door swung open, she was squatting in a corner, scowling.
‘Here is Doctor Morton, Leticia,’ Mrs Ayres announced. ‘I told him you have been very good, though he wants you to stop singing those nasty songs.’
‘Hello, Letty.’ Doctor Morton’s tone was calm and light, with just a touch of silkiness. He was looking very dapper in a three-piece suit; his moustache was curled, his hair was oiled, and he smelled faintly of lime and sandalwood. ‘How are you today?’
Birdie said nothing. She just glared at him, hoping that she hadn’t gone pale.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ he murmured, with a glint in his eye. Then he turned to Mrs Ayres. ‘Might I have a chair, please? I wish to talk to Miss Partridge, and would prefer not to stand.’
‘Yes, of course, doctor! I’ll fetch one straightaway.’
But before Mrs Ayres could withdraw, Birdie jumped to her feet and cried, ‘No, ma’am! Please don’t leave me with
him
, he’s a devil!’
Mrs Ayres hesitated. ‘Now, Leticia—’
‘It’s true! I swear! He’s killed four kids already, and is like to kill me!’
‘Nonsense. You mustn’t tell such monstrous lies.’
‘I ain’t lying, ma’am!’
Mrs Ayres clicked her tongue. ‘You sound like a street-hawker when you talk that way,’ she said. ‘Now, behave yourself, for I shall return directly. And I can
promise
that you will still be alive when I do!’
She marched off as the doctor stood watching Birdie, his gaze bleached of all colour and emotion. There was something very chilling about it. But Birdie wanted to demonstrate that she wasn’t a bit scared, so she squared her shoulders and snarled, ‘You ain’t the only one as knows a bit o’ magic. Mr Bunce can lay as many curses as there are ailments. He’s laid a curse on
you
, by now. You’ll be feeling poorly afore the day’s over, I expect.’
A smile tugged at the corner of Doctor Morton’s mouth. Leaning against the doorjamb, he smoothly replied, ‘Let me tell you something, little girl. I could have killed you in the cemetery, along with your master, since there are any number of places to hide a corpse in a graveyard. But I didn’t. And the reason I didn’t is that I want to know how to catch bogles.’
He paused, glancing over his shoulder into the hallway. Birdie was about to fill the silence with a scathing remark when he raised his hand and said, ‘Let me finish, please. I didn’t simply ask how it’s done, because I knew that your master would lie to me. Sheer malice would have prompted him to do it, even if he hadn’t been eager to protect his secrets. That is why I have arranged to be with him on his next job. So I can witness the master at work, so to speak.’
‘I already heard this,’ Birdie countered. ‘Whyn’t you tell Mrs Ayres, if you’re so damn proud o’ yerself?
She’d
be a good deal more interested than
I
am!’
‘Ah – but there is something you
don’t
know, my dear.’ The doctor leaned forward, lowering his gentle voice until it was little more than a whisper. ‘You see, Mr Bunce’s next job will be his last.’
Drawing his head back, he regarded Birdie with a satisfied but expectant look, as if waiting for her to erupt.
She gaped at him. ‘Wha – wha . . .?’ she bleated.
‘And once I am rid of your master, then I shan’t need
you
anymore. Shall I?’ Doctor Morton raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell Mrs Ayres that I’m taking you to a well-regarded country asylum, where it won’t be
my
fault if the staff are negligent, the food insufficient, or the medical facilities inadequate—’
‘You don’t scare me,’ Birdie interrupted. She knew that he was goading her, though she couldn’t understand why. ‘You’ll never lay a
finger
on Mr Bunce. He’s too smart and too strong. He’d make short work o’ you, for all he’s much older!’
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of challenging him to a duel,’ Doctor Morton replied, in the very mildest of tones. ‘We’d be sadly ill-matched, for I daresay he favours fisticuffs, while my strengths lie more in swordplay. No, no. You see, when I return his equipment to him, there’ll be an extra drop of something in his brandy flask. Something with a bit of a kick to it.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘If you get my meaning.’
Birdie gasped. But as she darted forward with a cry of outrage, the doctor stepped neatly into the hallway and shut the door in her face.
‘
No-o-o!
’ Birdie screeched. ‘
You devil! You dog!
Come back – you bloody bastard – I’ll kill YOU! I’ll KILL you!
’
She kicked and pounded, yelling at the top of her voice. Then she heard Doctor Morton call for a key as he held the door shut.
‘
He’s going to kill Mr Bunce!
’ she bellowed, her voice cracking on a sob. ‘
Please, ma’am, we’ve got to stop him!
’ The clatter of footsteps and the jingle of keys galvanised her; she started to hammer on the padded canvas, hurting her injured arm. ‘
Let me out! LET ME OUT! I must tell Mr Bunce, PLE-E-EASE!
’
