A Very Peculiar Plague

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘You don’t think this is an ambush, do you?’ Jem whispered, as if he was reading Ned’s mind. ‘You don’t think Mr Wardle is in John Gammon’s pocket?’

  ‘No.’ Ned was sure of that. John Gammon was a ‘punisher’ who liked to threaten local shopkeepers with bodily harm if they didn’t pay over a portion of their earnings to him. But Eugene Wardle wasn’t a local shopkeeper; he was a municipal officer who hailed from Holloway. ‘Ain’t no reason why Mr Wardle should know Salty Jack Gammon. I’m just concerned them missing boys is all a hum. Mebbe Jack’s bin spreading tales, to lure us into a dark, quiet corner—’

  ‘It ain’t no tale.’ Jem cut him off. ‘There’s at least one kid gone, for I heard it from the barmaid at the Old Coffeepot when I were here last.’ After a moment’s pause, he added, ‘She said the lad passed a bad coin at the inn, then legged it into the market cellars. No one’s seen him since.’

  ‘. . . chased a printer’s devil into the cellars, after he passed a counterfeit coin,’ Mr Wardle was saying, as he led Alfred through the gloomy depths of the central pavilion. There was a rank smell of old blood and manure. Water was pooling under leaks in the roof. Here and there a rat would skitter out of the way, frightened by the crunch of broken glass underfoot. ‘The second child was a young thief who went down to look for scrap metal,’ Mr Wardle continued, ‘and never returned to the sister he’d left waiting above. The third was a coal-merchant’s son who used to play in these stalls, though no one can be certain if he found his way beneath them.’

  ‘And the sighting?’ asked Alfred.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Wardle. ‘Well, that didn’t happen up here.’ He stopped suddenly, having reached a kind of wooden booth, behind which lay the entrance to a wide room with an opening in its stone floor. ‘You see, the heads of four sewers meet under Newgate Market. They used to be flushed out regular from a big cistern fitted with iron doors, though it’s not much used these days. I had a team of flushers down there last week, oiling the screws and checking the penstocks. They caught a glimpse of something that scared the life out of ’em. And when they alerted me, Mr Bunce, I thought about you.’ The Inspector stamped his foot, as if marking a spot. ‘That cistern’s close by, and one of the sewers runs beneath the cellar – which used to be a slaughterhouse, or so I’m told. They had to wash down the floors—’

  ‘And the dirty water had to go somewhere,’ Alfred concluded with a nod. ‘There’ll be drains, then.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Alfred dropped his sack and began to rifle through it, pulling out a box of matches, a small leather bag, and a dark lantern with a hinged metal cover. ‘You boys stay up here till I call you,’ he told Jem and Ned, as he struck a match to light his lantern. ‘I need to look downstairs, and don’t want no bogles lured out ahead o’ time.’

  Jem grimaced. Ned couldn’t help asking, ‘You think there’s more’n one of ’em, Mr Bunce?’

  Alfred shrugged and said, ‘Ain’t no telling, in this part o’ the world. That’s why I had to risk bringing Jem.’ He appealed to the Inspector. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d mind the lads for me, Mr Wardle. I don’t favour leaving ’em up here by themselves.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Bunce.’ Mr Wardle sounded more anxious than ever. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer . . .’

  ‘I’ll not be gone long,’ Alfred assured him, before disappearing down the cellar stairs. For a minute or so the others stood mute, listening to his footsteps recede underground. Then Mr Wardle said, ‘You boys can’t be very old, I’m persuaded. Are you?’

  Ned and Jem exchanged a sideways glance.

  ‘I’m eleven,’ Jem volunteered. ‘And Ned, here – he’s just gone twelve.’

  To Ned’s surprise, Mr Wardle shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why would any man of sound mind be nursing a fatal grudge against an eleven-year-old boy?’ the Inspector wanted to know. ‘What kind of offence could you possibly have committed to merit such bad feelings?’

  ‘It weren’t me as committed the offence!’ Jem spluttered. He went on to explain that John Gammon, the butcher, had tried to feed him to a bogle only a couple of weeks before – and was therefore afraid of what Jem might tell the police. ‘Which I ain’t about to tell ’em nothing, since they’ll not believe me in any case,’ Jem finished. ‘But Gammon don’t know that, and is likely not to care.’

  ‘Villains like him don’t never take no risks,’ Ned murmured in agreement.

  ‘But why wouldn’t the police believe you?’ asked Mr Wardle. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Again the two boys exchanged a quick look. Jem flushed; he seemed unable to speak. It was Ned who finally answered, ‘It’s on account o’ Jem used to steal for a living, and wouldn’t make a good witness in a court o’ law.’

  ‘Though I ain’t prigged nothing since last summer,’ Jem suddenly blurted out, ‘and won’t never hoist so much as a twist o’ tobacco ever again! I’m done with all that now – ain’t I, Ned?’

  ‘You are,’ Ned confirmed. Though he’d seen Jem’s eyes latch onto many a passing watch-chain and snuffbox, the former pickpocket had never once given into temptation – not while Ned was around. ‘Besides,’ Ned added, ‘most beaks don’t believe in bogles, and wouldn’t credit any claims to the contrary, no matter who made ’em.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Wardle. He studied Jem for a moment, as if wondering how they’d ended up on the same committee. Then he turned to Ned. ‘And you? Are you a reformed thief?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Ned replied stiffly. For six years he had been supporting himself, and not once had he stolen so much as a dirty handkerchief. ‘I were a mudlark until Mr Bunce took me in. I used to scavenge for scraps along the riverbank.’

  All at once Alfred’s voice hailed them, echoing up from the chamber beneath their feet. ‘Are you there, Mr Wardle?’

  ‘I am, Mr Bunce.’

  ‘Could you send them lads down? And I’ll have me sack along with ’em.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ As Ned picked up Alfred’s sack, Mr Wardle cleared his throat and said, ‘I take it you’ve found something of interest?’

  ‘Oh, aye. This here is a bogle’s lair, make no mistake.’ Alfred appeared suddenly at the foot of the stairs, his lantern raised, his long face grim. ‘What I don’t know is how many of ’em might be a-lurking down here. For I ain’t never seen no den more suited to a bogle’s taste, nor better laid out for the trapping o’ children. If you ask me, Mr Wardle, there’s more’n three kids has met their doom in this rat’s nest.’

  And he motioned to Ned, who reluctantly clumped downstairs with Alfred’s sack on his shoulder.

  BOOK ONE IN THE CITY OF ORPHANS SERIES

  MONSTERS have been infesting London’s dark places for centuries, eating any child who gets too close. That’s why ten-year-old Birdie McAdam works for Alfred Bunce, the bogler. With her beautiful voice and dainty looks, Birdie is the bait that draws bogles from their lairs so that Alfred can kill them.

  One life-changing day, Alfred and Birdie are approached by two very different women. Sarah Pickles runs a local gang of pickpockets, three of whom have disappeared. Edith Eames is an educated lady who’s studying the mythical beasts of English folklore. Both of them threaten the only life Birdie has ever known.

  But Birdie soon realises she needs Miss Eames’s help, to save her master, defeat Sarah Pickles, and vanquish an altogether nastier villain.