How to Catch a Bogle

by Catherine Jinks

  Come on, she thought. What are you waiting for? Then she realized that the bogle still hadn’t entered their trap, though its long arms were already reaching for her. And she suddenly wondered: Just how long were those arms? Were they long enough to pull her out of the magic circle?

  She had to swallow before launching into the next verse.

  “‘I did intend and it was to know

  If you was me one true love, or no.

  For if you’d gave me that ring,’ she said,

  ‘I’d have pulled the trigger and shot—’”

  “Now!” Alfred cried, lunging. Birdie broke off. She jumped out of the circle and bolted.

  By the time she felt safe enough to look back, the bogle was already dead.

  It was melting into the mud like fat in a pan. As the hummock of black slime sank lower and lower, its edges expanded, swamping the ring of salt and forming little pools of stuff that reminded Birdie of creosote, or coal tar. Some of this oily liquid soaked into the ground. Some of it poured down the sewer channel into the river.

  Within half a minute there was nothing left of the bogle except a black stain, a faint sizzling noise, and a lingering smell of burnt rubber and rotten eggs.

  “Oi! Bunce! Are you finished?” Ned shouted. “For yer friend is taken bad up here!”

  Startled, Birdie glanced toward the quayside—where Miss Eames had fainted dead away.

  9

  The Scientific Approach

  “It was real!” Miss Eames squawked the instant she woke up again. “The monster! It exists!”

  She was lying on the ground next to her overturned basket. Her head was pillowed in Ned’s lap. Though her hat had fallen off, Ned had picked it up and was fanning her with it.

  Birdie knelt close by, collecting all the coins and books and handkerchiefs that had spilled out onto the pavement.

  “That’s right, miss,” she said, then called to Alfred, who was still gathering up his equipment. “You got any brandy, Mr. Bunce?”

  “I got gin,” Bill offered. He had rushed to help Miss Eames. “It’s for my cough, like.”

  “You can’t give gin to a lady,” Birdie growled.

  But Miss Eames was already struggling to sit up. Raising her head she croaked, “I saw it! I saw the beast!”

  “Yes, but it’s dead now, miss,” Birdie assured her soothingly, before rounding on all the strangers who had gathered to stare. “Ain’t you got nothing better to do than gawp like dead fish, you pack o’ shirksters?”

  “It was there! It was real!” Miss Eames quavered. “I never thought—I didnt believe—oh, Birdie how dreadful!”

  “Here.” Alfred had reached her side at long last and was trying to thrust his flask of brandy under her nose. “Take a sip o’ this, why don’t you?”

  “No, no.” She waved it aside as she struggled to her feet. “I’m perfectly well. It was the shock. Please don’t make a fuss.”

  “Got any smelling salts on you miss?” said Birdie. “Only I can’t find none in yer basket.”

  “Birdie, I have never fainted before in my life,” Miss Eames declared. Though her voice was still wobbly, it was gaining strength. She was also standing on her own two feet again—with Bill Crabbe’s assistance. “I don’t carry smelling salts because I don’t generally require them.”

  “Is there a respectable place hereabouts where she can lie?” Alfred asked Bill who frowned and said, “Not that ah know of. The Jolly Tar’s a lushery if ever there was one.”

  “We can’t take her to a public house.” Alfred directed a baleful look at the dock laborers and watermen hovering in their vicinity. “Not around here.”

  “I am perfectly well,” Miss Eames insisted. “All I need to do is sit on that step for a few minutes.” She lurched toward the stone stairs that led down to the river, shaking off Bill Crabbe as she retrieved her hat. Birdie followed her. While Alfred buttonholed the tosher, demanding his fee, Birdie joined Miss Eames on the top step, settling down beside her with the basket and a couple of shrewd questions.

  “Did you not believe us, miss? Did you think me and Mr. Bunce was running a racket?”

  “Oh, no, Birdie, not you,” Miss Eames replied. “I know you’re an honest girl, and a brave one.”

  “But you thought he were flamming me,” Birdie insisted. “Ain’t that so?”

  Miss Eames shook her head. “Not exactly,” she said, reaching for her handkerchief. “Mr. Bunce has a living to make. I never doubted his beliefs. I simply wondered if he might be exaggerating his own abilities. . .” She broke off, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Oh dear, oh dear, what a frightful thing. Remarkable, of course—quite extraordinary—but how horrible, all the same!”

  Birdie shrugged. “Ain’t no shortage o’ vermin in this world. And I’d rather be a bogler than a rat catcher.”

  “But it’s so dangerous, Birdie. So unsuitable for a child your age!”

  Birdie couldn’t help laughing. “I’d rather kill bogles than get black lung in a mine. I’d rather be a bogler’s girl than work in a match factory and have me jaw eaten away by acid. Or get stuck in a chimney, or drowned in a sewer, or chopped up by a machine—”

  “Yes, I understand that there are many children who must do perilous things to earn their keep,” Miss Eames acknowledged. “It is a sad fact of life. But surely there must be another way of luring bogles out of their burrows?”

  “No.” Birdie was adamant. “Bogles eat children. All bogles do. Ain’t nothing else they like so much.”

  Miss Eames opened her mouth, then broke off as she spied Alfred shuffling toward them, pocketing his fee. “Mr. Bunce, have you ever thought of approaching your job in a more scientific manner?” she asked him.

  He frowned. “Beg pardon, miss?”

  “It seems to me that you are putting Birdie’s life at risk. Have you considered that there might be other ways of killing bogles?”

  Alfred didn’t reply. He just stared at her suspiciously. So Miss Eames went on.

  “If you knew more about the monsters themselves, you might be able to kill them more efficiently. The ancient texts tell us that different creatures respond differently to different things. For example, the basilisk is killed by the smell of a weasel. And Finn MacCool himself discovered that an Irish buggane cannot touch water.” When Alfred’s expression didn’t change, Miss Eames began to sound a little impatient. “Do you not see the point I am making, Mr. Bunce? If you were to tell me all the characteristics of a particular bogle, I could perhaps find out what its habits and weaknesses are. Then, if it has a documented taste for gold, or sheep, or something other than children, Birdie wouldn’t have to risk death every time she went to work with you.”

  Birdie couldn’t believe her ears. “Gold?” she spluttered. “Sheep?”

  “If you’ve a purse full o’ gold or a spare sheep about you, miss, I’d be happy to take it off yer hands,” Alfred remarked, with a gruff attempt at humor. “For now I’ll be satisfied with the payment you promised. Two shillings, it was. After the shilling paid in advance.”

  “Yes, of course.” Miss Eames drew her basket onto her lap and began to rifle through it, while Birdie sat and grinned. A sheep, of all things! Maybe Miss Eames wasn’t as clever as she looked.

  “You should learn to think like a naturalist, Mr. Bunce,” Miss Eames continued. “A grindylow is a freshwater monster, so it may differ in its tastes from a saltwater monster like the French Tarasque, or the Irish Formori. And these differences may prove to be very important when you’re dealing with it.”

  Alfred, however, was shaking his head. “A bogle is a bogle,” he insisted. “And a child is allus going to lure it into plain sight.”

  “I see.” Miss Eames paused in the act of searching through her basket. She squinted up at Alfred, her lips pursed. “So it doesn’t trouble you that one day poor Birdie might be consumed by one of these awful things?”

  “No. It don’t,” Alfred replied shortly. “Birdie won’t never
fall to a bogle. She’s fast and she’s smart. Which is why I picked her out and trained her up.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Birdie promised Miss Eames in a sympathetic yet cheerful voice. “It’s a good living, and a respectable one.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No one ever taunts a bogler’s girl, any more’n they’d taunt a bogle. Why, I’m safer than you are, miss!”

  “Providing that you don’t trip and fall on your way out of the pentagram,” Miss Eames rejoined. Then she reached up, pressed two shillings into Alfred’s open hand, and said, “At least allow me to do some research for your next job. Where will it be, do you know?”

  Alfred hesitated.

  “I’ll pay you another three shillings to attend,” Miss Eames said encouragingly. “Sixpence in advance.”

  At the mention of payment, Alfred buckled. “It’s at the spike,” he confessed. “In Hackney.”

  Miss Eames looked confused. “The spike?” she echoed.

  “Where the paupers and old’uns go, instead o’ starving,” Alfred explained. “You know. They feed ’em there, and give ’em beds.”

  “The workhouse,” Birdie supplied with a shiver. The very word put a knot in her guts.

  “Oh!” Miss Eames was nodding. “The Poor Law Union! I understand.”

  “There’s four children gone from Hackney spike,” Alfred told her. “The master claims they legged it, but others blame a bogle in the workhouse well on account o’ the stink. And since most of ’em is too poor to stump up for a bogler, it’s the night porter and the cook as decided to fork out.”

  Birdie winced. She herself had mentioned the workhouse job to Alfred, who had then made arrangements with George Hobney, the night porter. But she hadn’t said a word about Jem Barbary’s cruel little trick, or the threat it implied. Had she done so, Alfred might have turned down a perfectly good moneymaking opportunity—and he couldn’t afford to do that.

  Still, she didn’t like concealing things from Alfred. Nor was she thrilled about doing business with one of Sarah’s cronies. Though George Hobney might be a decent enough man, there was always the other possibility. . .

  “Has anyone actually seen this mysterious creature?” Miss Eames was asking. When Alfred gave a nod, she said, “What does it look like? Do you know?”

  Alfred shrugged. “A shadow in the dark. A glimpse is all they ever got.”

  “When are you due at the workhouse?”

  It was Birdie who answered. “Saturday sunset.”

  “I’ll be there.” Miss Eames stood up. “In the meantime, I shall see if I can identify our quarry. We already know that it’s a freshwater monster with a nocturnal habit. The rank smell may also be important.”

  “Lots o’ bogles stink,” Birdie pointed out. She, too, had risen. “Ain’t nothing special about that.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s worth noting.” Miss Eames straightened her hat as she glanced around. “Can you direct me to the nearest omnibus from here? I must confess that I’m a little lost. . .”

  “You shouldn’t be catching no bus,” Alfred mumbled. He turned, then scowled. “Where’s Bill?” he asked Ned.

  “Bill’s gone.” Ned jerked his chin at the tosher’s retreating back.

  Like the rest of the dispersing crowd, Bill had long ago lost interest in Miss Eames—who sighed irritably and said, “I assure you, I shall be perfectly all right.”

  “Not in them togs, you won’t,” Birdie retorted. To Ned she observed, “There must be a place hereabouts where you can catch a cab on the fly, like.”

  Ned pondered for a moment. “There’s the wine vaults. And the Queen’s warehouse,” he finally suggested, in his husky voice. “I seen toffs a-plenty come and go ’round there, in every kind o’ carriage.”

  “Then perhaps you could show me the way?” Miss Eames proposed, scrabbling around in her basket. When she pulled out a penny tip, Ned was quick to accept it.

  “That I can,” he said. “Stay close, now.”

  But as they all set off, it was Alfred who helped Miss Eames to wend her way between the piles of rubbish and puddles of brine. Because Ned had offered his arm to Birdie.

  10

  Bogle Spit

  Birdie sat on her little stool, darning a sock and thinking about Miss Eames.

  In many ways she admired Miss Eames, who spoke nicely and dressed well. Birdie had even thought her clever, at first, though not so much anymore. Imagine believing that you could kill a bogle by waving a weasel under its nose! Birdie couldn’t help smiling when she remembered the weasel. As for the suggestion that Alfred should use gold as bogle bait. . . well, that was just absurd. A purse full of gold couldn’t move out of harm’s way. And what would happen if the bogle swallowed it?

  On the other hand, Miss Eames wasn’t a complete fool. What she lacked in common sense, she made up for in book learning. She knew all about Finn MacCool, and could probably name every bogle he’d ever fought. She’d mentioned an Irish bogle and a French bogle; she’d talked of grindylows and basilisks. Birdie had no idea what any of these things were, but Miss Eames did. And the more Birdie thought about it, the more worried she became.

  There could be no doubt that Miss Eames had hit upon a clever notion, despite all her silly talk about sheep and weasels. What if her books were full of scientific advice about bogles and their habits? What if she went away and learned how to distinguish between one type of bogle and another?

  What if she discovered that the best bait for some bogles might be roast goose, or a human skull? Where would that leave Birdie?

  I’d have no living to make, she realized. Alfred wouldn’t need no ’prentice and would cast me onto the street.

  She shot a worried glance at Alfred, who sat hunched in front of the empty grate, smoking his pipe. Though he seemed no different, Birdie wondered what was going through his head. Perhaps he, too, was anxious about Miss Eames. Perhaps he was concerned that she would figure out how to kill bogles with songs or herbs or charms. Hadn’t she spoken of a bogle that couldn’t touch water?

  “Will you let Miss Eames watch us again, after Saturday?” Birdie said to Alfred. He didn’t reply, so she tried again. “Mebbe you should charge more next time.” When he remained silent, puffing away, she added, “Five shillings?”

  Alfred removed the pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat. “If I ask too much, I’ll scare her off,” he growled.

  Birdie was about to observe that getting rid of Miss Eames might be a good thing when someone knocked at the door. Alfred grimaced. Birdie glanced at him inquiringly, but he shook his head.

  “Who is it?” said Birdie, raising her voice.

  “Why, it’s Sally Pickles. Is Fred Bunce there?”

  Birdie froze. It was Alfred who answered.

  “What do you want, Sal? I already told you, I ain’t got yer boys.”

  “And I believe you, Fred,” Sarah replied. “For I think I know where to find ’em.”

  Even Alfred seemed startled to hear this. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded at Birdie, who stood up and went reluctantly to the door.

  This time Sarah was wearing a straw hat instead of her coal-scuttle bonnet. And she was accompanied not by her son but by a tiny, bent old man in rusty black knee breeches. Birdie knew him, though not very well. His name was Elijah Froggett, and he was a caffler, or rag-and-bone man. Birdie had often heard him calling “Ol’ cloes! Ol’ cloes!” as he wheeled his little cart full of scraps and tatters along the street. He was memorable because he had a long, stringy beard like a piece of frayed rope, and because he had never been known to remove his velvet smoking cap. His nose and fingers were stained brown from years of taking snuff. He wore fingerless gloves, a trailing oilskin coat, and knitted stockings.

  Under his arm was a well-stuffed drawstring bag.

  “I expect you’re acquainted with Mr. Froggett,” Sarah remarked as she waddled over to Birdie’s stool. Alfred politely inclined his head, though he didn’t get up. Birdie, who
was taken aback, offered the caffler an uncertain smile. She hadn’t known that Sarah Pickles and Elijah Froggett were friends.

  “Show ’em what you found, m’dear. Just lay it all out,” Sarah told the caffler, who grunted. While he was emptying his bag onto the table, she addressed Alfred in her harsh, flat voice. “Mr. Froggett knows every one o’ me boys—by sight, if not by name. Ain’t that so, Mr. Froggett?”

  Elijah grunted again.

  “Which is why, when he bought a bundle o’ rags off a muck snipe and reckonized every article, he were downy enough to get more particulars afore he came to me.” Watching the caffler as he carefully spread the remains of a striped shirt across the tabletop, Sarah explained, “That shirt belonged to Sam. So did the weskit. The coat were Nolly’s, and the wipe didn’t once leave Abel’s neck. Them boys might still be missing, but their clothes is found.”

  “Who found ’em?” Birdie couldn’t help asking, in a hushed tone.

  Sarah hadn’t taken her eyes off the striped shirt. There was a sour look on her lumpy face. “A muck snipe, like I told you. A tramp. A moocher. He said as how he found ’em at the back of a big house, on a rubbish heap. Near a privy.”

  “In Clerkenwell,” Elijah interposed. His voice was creaky and breathless.

  “Take a look at ’em, Fred, and tell me what you think,” Sarah went on. “Then I’ll tell you what I think, which ain’t pretty, I warn you.”

  Alfred approached the display of rags, with Birdie close on his heels. Together they inspected thirteen items, all child-size, all smudged, and all covered in a thick layer of greenish slime.

  “It’s likely them black marks is where someone tried to burn the clothes but couldn’t,” Sarah observed.

  “What’s this?” Alfred gingerly touched the gooey green stuff, which clung to his finger like glue. Then he sniffed it and winced. “It don’t smell too good.”