A Very Peculiar Plague

by Catherine Jinks

  Josiah Lubbock raised his hands in a gesture of injured innocence. ‘I was merely trying to help,’ he murmured, as Birdie edged closer to Alfred.

  ‘Aye – to help yerself,’ the bogler rejoined. Then Constable Pike, who had been rocking impatiently from foot to foot, seized control of the debate.

  ‘So who’s to be in your party then, Mr Bunce? Aside from ourselves, that is.’ He jerked his chin at the naturalist, who was looking bewildered. ‘Will Mr Gilfoyle be coming?’

  Alfred glanced at Mr Gilfoyle, before quickly looking away again. ‘Aye.’

  ‘And the two lads, of course?’ said Constable Pike.

  Jem awaited Alfred’s answer with bated breath. He already knew that Birdie would be joining them, since she couldn’t be sent home alone – not with Josiah Lubbock lurking in the wings, hoping to wheedle his way into her confidence. But with Birdie around, would Alfred even need two boys? And if he didn’t, who would miss out?

  Jem had a feeling that he himself would be the first to go. He wasn’t entirely sorry about it, either. Though he didn’t want to relinquish his share of the fee, the prospect of facing an unknown number of bogles, amidst the carcasses of a thousand slaughtered beasts, made his blood run cold.

  ‘I’ll take all the children with me,’ Alfred announced. His hand dropped onto Birdie’s shoulder. ‘And Mr Gilfoyle – you’re welcome to come along too, sir.’

  The naturalist smiled and nodded, though he still looked confused.

  ‘As for this ’un,’ Alfred went on, glaring at Josiah Lubbock, ‘he’d best stay clear, lest I lose me temper.’

  ‘Now then, gentlemen, let’s keep it civil,’ the policeman intoned, before retreating back over the threshold. He planted himself in the gallery outside, like a theatre footman. ‘This way, if you please. Mr Bunce? Mr Gilfoyle?’

  As Jem shuffled out of the butcher’s office, just ahead of Birdie and Alfred, he heard Josiah Lubbock calling after them, ‘I’ve some information for you, Mr Bunce! Concerning the distribution of bogles in this neighbourhood!’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Alfred mumbled, giving Jem a quick prod.

  ‘But that can wait until you’ve finished!’ the showman added. ‘In the meantime, I shall continue my inquiries – in accordance with your apprentice’s instructions!’

  Jem winced. By that time, however, he was already clattering down the nearest staircase, towards a seething mass of men and meat.

  Soon the roar of haggling butchers had swallowed up the sound of Mr Lubbock’s sharp, reedy, hectoring voice.

  24

  THE SIDINGS

  Constable Pike headed straight for the very centre of the market, where a flight of stairs led down to the goods depot. Alfred and the children followed him, while Mr Gilfoyle brought up the rear. Soon they had left the noisy, crowded trading floor behind them – and had found themselves on an equally noisy, equally crowded railway platform.

  ‘Now, Mr Bunce,’ the policeman said, raising his voice above the hiss of steam, the shrilling of whistles and the shouts of meat-porters, ‘Mr Ballard tells me you’re on the hunt for out-o’-the-way spots. Is that true?’

  Alfred nodded. Beside him, Jem glanced around in dismay. The building upstairs had been bright and fresh, but this underground railway junction was dank and gloomy. Everywhere, wagons full of meat were being shunted around beneath arched vaults. Brakes squealed. Bells rang. Dozens of gleaming, silvery tracks converged into a kind of vast river, which was studded with platforms like sooty little islands. From each of these islands sprouted the pillars that held up the roof – endless rows of them, receding into the distance.

  Jem wondered how large the depot actually was. From where he was standing, it looked as big as the market above.

  ‘It so happens I know all the quiet corners, hereabouts,’ Constable Pike went on, straining to be heard. ‘They’re favoured by those not wanting to be seen, so I make sure I pay ’em a regular visit. That’s why Mr Ballard enlisted my help, I daresay.’

  Alfred mumbled something, but Jem couldn’t make out what it was. Then Birdie spoke up, her high-pitched voice cutting cleanly through all the rumbling and screeching and clanging. ‘This is too noisy for a bogle! ’ she announced, peering up at Alfred. ‘Too noisy and too busy! ’

  ‘Aye,’ the bogler agreed, before turning back to Constable Pike. ‘Where was them young ’uns last seen? The ’prentice and the other boy?’

  ‘That I cannot tell you, Mr Bunce,’ said Constable Pike. ‘I know nothing about either lad, save that one worked on a cartage gang, writing the slips and labels. There’s many a youth employed down here in that capacity.’

  Alfred nodded. ‘And where can they be found, as a rule?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, with their checkers and truckers and callers, Mr Bunce. Else they’re up to no good.’ As Alfred frowned, puzzled, the policeman went on in a dry tone, ‘Some o’ these lads can’t be trusted. I’ve found more’n one little stash hidden about the place. Mostly meat, but sometimes coal.’

  ‘You just told us you don’t know nothing about that boy,’ Birdie protested, ‘and now you’re saying he were a prig!’

  Constable Pike shot her a speculative look from under his thick, dark lashes, as if surprised by her use of a cant word like ‘prig’. ‘No, Miss, I’m not,’ he rejoined. ‘I’m saying that if he strayed into a dark corner, and met his doom there, it cannot have bin for any good reason – since there’s proper plumbing supplied, and rules about using it.’

  Jem realised that ‘plumbing’ must mean ‘privies’. Alfred said, ‘If the boy were hiding summat, or doing owt as would get him dismissed, where would he have gone?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Constable Pike promptly set off again, wending his way between pillars, sacks, trolleys, buckets, crates, coils of rope and knots of labouring men. The place was stuffed with strange machinery – cranes and capstans and things that Jem couldn’t even identify. But it all rushed past him in a blur, because Constable Pike was in such a hurry.

  Mr Gilfoyle, who wasn’t very nimble, began to lag further and further behind.

  ‘Here,’ Birdie said at last, extending her hand to the naturalist after he had run up against yet another obstacle, ‘you’d best hold on to me.’

  ‘W-why, thank you,’ Mr Gilfoyle stammered. ‘You’re very kind, Miss – er . . .’

  ‘McAdam. Birdie McAdam.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And this is Jem Barbary. And Ned Roach.’ Birdie waved her free hand at her two companions. ‘They’re bogler’s boys.’

  ‘I see. And that means—?’

  ‘We’re bogle-bait,’ Jem growled. He had mixed feelings about Birdie. On the one hand, he resented the fact that she would no doubt pocket a share of the fee, even though she didn’t need it. On the other hand, he knew that he would need all the help he could get.

  ‘Forgive me – you’re what?’ The naturalist almost had to shout over the squeal of rolling stock.

  ‘Bogle-bait! ’ Jem repeated. He caught a glimpse of Mr Gilfoyle’s shocked expression before they suddenly halted, having reached a very short, narrow, dead-end tunnel.

  ‘This here siding is abandoned, since the turntable broke,’ Constable Pike explained. He indicated a kind of rotating bridge set into a shallow pit at the tunnel’s mouth. Then he pointed into the tunnel, which was silting up with debris. ‘I’ve found more’n just rats in that rubbish, so it must be commonly visited.’

  Alfred frowned. Then he set down his sack, opened it up, and took out his dark lantern – which he proceeded to light. ‘You three stay here,’ he told the children. To Constable Pike he said, ‘Would you mind if I walked on the rails?’

  ‘They’re not in use, Mr Bunce,’ the policeman replied. ‘You may lie on ’em, for all o’ me.’ Watching Alfred jump down onto the tracks, he added, ‘Will you be needing my help, sir?’

  Alfred shook his head. Then he moved towards the pile of shattered crates, unravelled baskets, torn tarpaulins, smashed g
lass, wheel spokes, crumpled paper and dead rats that was piling up against the back wall of the tunnel.

  Jem pointed out, in a low voice, ‘It smells bad.’

  ‘Not bad enough,’ said Birdie. She sniffed the musty air, as Mr Gilfoyle cleared his throat behind her.

  ‘Do – um – do bogles generally smell bad?’ he meekly inquired.

  Birdie shrugged. ‘Some do,’ she said. ‘But this . . . it don’t feel like bogles.’

  Jem had to agree. There was no sense of foreboding – no creeping dread. He saw that Ned, too, was unaffected by any sudden mood changes; in fact he looked calmer than anyone. Even the noise didn’t seem to trouble Ned, perhaps because he spent so much of his time at Covent Garden Market.

  Jem finally glanced up at Constable Pike – and the expression on the policeman’s face made him blurt out, ‘You don’t believe in bogles! I see what you’re thinking!’

  Constable Pike didn’t so much as blink when everyone else turned to stare at him. ‘What I think is that some folk have jumped to conclusions,’ he drawled, keeping his own gaze fixed firmly on the bogler. ‘And what I don’t think is that enough questions have bin asked, nor lines of inquiry followed. Kids disappear all the time, for any number o’ reasons.’ Before Birdie could take issue with this, he raised his voice to address Alfred. ‘You done here, Mr Bunce?’

  ‘Aye.’ Alfred was already retracing his steps. ‘This ain’t the place. There’s nowt behind that pile o’ scrap. Is there no likelier spot you can show me?’

  There was. Constable Pike led his party straight to an even murkier corner, well away from all the hustle and bustle. Here, behind a low arch set into the wall, was a kind of shallow recess. And though the light wasn’t good, Jem could just make out the tangle of pipes that filled this space, all slimy and bristling with valves.

  ‘Those pipes supply the hydraulic accumulator, which is used to run the freight lifts,’ Constable Pike explained. He didn’t have to shout anymore; it was much quieter away from the sidings. ‘And though it looks tight-packed, you’d marvel at what can be squeezed in with a little effort. I once found a hoistman in here, sleeping off the grog. Not to mention a stolen fire hose.’

  Alfred grunted. Birdie said, ‘What’s in the pipes? Water?’ And when the policeman gave a nod, she remarked, ‘Bogles like water.’

  Mr Gilfoyle immediately began to scribble something in his notebook. Alfred squatted down for a better look at the pipes, while Constable Pike observed, ‘They’re wonderful things, them lifts. Must be a dozen, at least, excluding the ones that need repairs. I’ve seen ’em push half a carload of fat lambs straight up in the air, on a piston less than two foot wide.’

  But no one was listening. Alfred muttered, ‘I don’t like the look o’ this . . .’, and Jem knew exactly what he meant. There was a cold, dead, airless quality about this particular patch of basement. Though it didn’t feel exactly like a bogle’s lair, it did feel like the kind of place a bogle might have passed through.

  ‘You young ’uns wait over there, by them boxes,’ said Alfred, straightening up. ‘Well away, now. Stay clear o’ the walls and corners. And don’t make no noise.’ He gave his sack to Ned, keeping only the dark lantern. To Constable Pike he growled, ‘Where does the water come from?’

  As the policeman murmured something about artesian wells, Jem went to lean against a towering stack of crates. Birdie and Ned promptly joined him. They stood in silence for a moment, watching Constable Pike crouch down to show Alfred where the snoozing drunk had wedged himself. Mr Gilfoyle hovered behind the other two men, still scribbling away.

  ‘Why d’you keep doing this?’ Jem finally asked Birdie, in a low voice.

  Birdie frowned at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You got everything you need – and more. Cake every day. Yer own room. Singing lessons. But you keep chasing bogles.’ Jem folded his arms, regarding Birdie from beneath the brim of his cap. ‘Miss Eames won’t put up with it forever. Don’t that trouble you none? There’ll come a day when she’ll not take you back.’

  ‘You don’t know nothing about Miss Eames,’ Birdie hissed.

  ‘I know she don’t want you bogling,’ said Jem. ‘Neither does Alfred.’

  ‘He does!’

  ‘He does not. I heard him say so. He can do without you, now he’s got me.’

  ‘Tah!’ Birdie made a scornful noise. Then Ned, who had been listening carefully, said to her in his quiet voice, ‘If you’re missing Mr Bunce, you can allus visit him. He’ll not turn you away, even if there ain’t no bogle to kill.’

  Birdie shot him a startled look. ‘I know that,’ she muttered.

  ‘Then why do you want to keep bogling?’ Jem was genuinely curious. ‘Are you bored?’

  ‘I ain’t bored.’ Birdie bit her lip before blurting out, ‘But I ain’t useful! It’s as if I don’t matter no more! All I do is eat and sleep and go to lessons, and what good is that to anyone?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It used to be I took care o’ Mr Bunce,’ she quavered. ‘And I helped kill bogles, and minded little ’uns, and now . . . now I’m just a burden!’ Sniffing, she concluded miserably, ‘If I died tomorrow, I swear I’d not be missed.’

  ‘Why, that ain’t true!’ Ned cried. And then all hell broke loose.

  It happened so quickly that Jem didn’t have time to think. All at once his breath stuck in his throat, choking him. A chill ran down his spine. He caught a glimpse of something uncoiling above his head – and looked up to see a coal-black arm drop through a hole in the roof.

  Birdie screamed. The arm had wrapped itself around her waist. For a split second Jem stood frozen with shock. But as she rose into the air, screaming and kicking, he darted forward to grab her. ‘The spear! ’ he screeched. ‘In the sack! ’

  The sack had already fallen from Ned’s nerveless grip. While Ned pounced on it again, frantically raking through its contents, Jem wrapped his arms around Birdie’s knees. He pulled with all his might, trying to use his own weight as an anchor. But he could feel his feet lifting off the ground.

  Suddenly someone grabbed him. It was Constable Pike. Jem heard a shout. He felt a jerk that almost snapped his spine in two. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Ned hurling Alfred’s spear.

  KA-POW!

  Next thing he knew, Jem was lying on the floor, face-up, covered in a thick layer of yellow goo.

  25

  THE PUNISHER

  ‘Did you see that copper’s face?’ said Jem. ‘White as salt, even arter three nips o’ brandy.’

  ‘You ain’t so rosy-cheeked yerself,’ Ned muttered.

  ‘At least I didn’t faint.’

  ‘Neither did Mr Gilfoyle,’ Alfred growled. ‘It were a dizzy spell, is all.’

  ‘Will you please talk about something else?’ Birdie exclaimed, her voice cracking. And the others immediately fell silent.

  They were walking through West Smithfield, past a curving ramp that led down to the goods depot. It was still drizzling, but Birdie refused to wait for a cab or an omnibus within sight of Smithfield Market. She hadn’t even wanted to linger in Mr Ballard’s office, where she’d been offered everything from smelling salts to a fainting couch. While Mr Gilfoyle had sat with his head between his knees, and Constable Pike had knocked back glass after glass of ‘medicinal’ brandy, Birdie had drunk one glass of water before announcing that she wanted to go. ‘I ain’t staying here a minute longer,’ was how she’d put it, as she limped out the door.

  So Alfred had decided to head down Giltspur Street, towards Newgate.

  Birdie was limping because the bogle had dropped her, injuring her foot. Her skin was peppered with red blotches like sunburn. These marks had been left by the yellow goo; they were itchy, but fading fast. Jem and Ned were also covered in them. As for Birdie’s pretty blue dress, it was now streaked with pale patches where the yellow stuff had bleached it. Around her waist, the braided trim had shrivelled up and turned brown, like scorched egg-whites. The feather on her hat hung limp
and sodden in the rain.

  ‘Miss Eames is going to be so cross with me,’ she quavered, as they trudged past St Bartholemew’s hospital.

  ‘Nay, lass. She’ll be cross with me,’ Alfred said. One of his hands was wrapped tightly around her arm; with the other he clutched his sack. The sack was also looking mottled, though Alfred’s clothes were unscathed.

  He had been wedged under a pipe during the bogle’s attack.

  ‘No more bogling,’ he continued. ‘Not in this neighbourhood. It’s too dangerous.’

  Birdie sniffed and wiped her nose. Jem muttered, ‘It wouldn’t have bin so bad, if that dozy bluebottle had remembered the trapdoor in the roof.’

  ‘But how can you blame him, when all o’ them boxes was piled underneath it, on top o’ the lift?’ Ned spoke up in defence of Constable Pike. ‘Besides, it ain’t bin used for a good three months. Mr Ballard said so.’

  ‘The fault were mine,’ Alfred interrupted. ‘I should have checked. I should allus check.’

  ‘Upstairs? In a storage bay?’ Birdie’s voice was weak and husky. ‘How could you have known?’

  ‘Seems to me there’s so many bogles, hereabouts, they’ve filled up the lairs they generally favour and have found less likely cribs, as a consequence,’ Ned remarked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Alfred. ‘Which is why we’ll not be bogling here again.’

  Jem tried to conceal the relief he felt on hearing this. Behind his bold front, he hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of the latest bogle attack. His hands were still trembling, and he was still gulping down great lungfuls of air. His beautiful new coat looked as if it had been splashed with lye. His arm hurt. What’s more, he couldn’t seem to shake off the sense of impending doom that the bogle had left in its wake.

  Kicking a peach pit along the wet cobbles, he eyed every drain, alley and doorway, half-expecting to see a dark shape uncoiling in the shadows.

  Then all at once, he spotted a familiar façade. They had drawn level with the Viaduct Tavern, which no longer sported a notice in any of its windows.