“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 vassals 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 realize 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 theater,” 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.”
By this time Birdie was backing away from Mrs. Heppinstall’s gentle smile and Miss Eames’s bright-eyed zeal. “But I’m a bogler’s girl,” Birdie objected. “Mr. Bunce depends on me.”
“Not for much longer, though,” Miss Eames reminded her. “What will you do when you’re too old to help Mr. Bunce? What will you do when he needs a new apprentice?”
Birdie frowned. Though it was a question she often asked herself, lying awake at night, she tried not to dwell on the future. “Mebbe I’ll be trained up,” she mumbled. “Mebbe I’ll become a bogler in me own right.”
“Is that likely, though? With Mr. Bunce still practicing?” Miss Eames was watching her intently, her gaze as sharp as a pin. “And you’re a female, Birdie. Don’t forget that. Have you ever heard of a female bogler?”
Birdie swallowed, because she never had.
“I only ask out of interest,” Miss Eames said. “I’m still lamentably ill informed when it comes to the bogling profession.”
Suddenly Mary appeared with the tea tray. It was loaded with delicious food: muffins, cakes, buns, and biscuits. Birdie’s mouth began to water at the sight of so much sugar and starch.
“Here is your lemonade, Birdie,” Miss Eames pointed out. “What would you like to eat with it? Some angel cake? A Sally Lunn?”
Birdie wasn’t stupid. She knew quite well that Miss Eames was trying to suggest, with this astonishing tea, that more astonishing teas would follow if Birdie agreed to move in. There would be more teas, and more fresh flowers, and more pretty clothes, and more lovely music. It was all very tempting, especially the food. But when Birdie tried to imagine herself living with the two ladies, she found that she couldn’t. Everything about them was too strange. The Birdie she pictured sitting straight backed at the piano, with a scrubbed face and a soft voice, wasn’t anything like the real Birdie. It was a Birdie she didn’t understand—and didn’t entirely trust.
Besides, she couldn’t leave Alfred. Not while he needed her. Not while London was infested with child-eating bogles.
She was perched on an upholstered chair, folding a Bath bun into her mouth, when Miss Eames remarked, “I hope you don’t decide to follow in Mr. Bunce’s footsteps, Birdie. I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy forcing a poor little apprentice to face death at every turn.”
Birdie decided not to take offense. How could she, while eating so much of Miss Eames’s rich and sticky food? “I do it all the time,” she said thickly, with a shrug.
“But while your own courage supports you,” Mrs. Heppinstall murmured, “you would hesitate, I’m sure, to demand the same of any other child.”
“It would be wicked,” Miss Eames declared, much to Birdie’s annoyance.
“Ain’t nothing wicked about it!” Birdie snapped. “Mr. Bunce and me make a decent living! We save lives! We kill monsters!”
“Yes, but—”
“Which is why I came here.” Birdie decided that it was high time she delivered her message from Mr. Bunce. “There’s four boys gone missing, and we think a bogle might be to blame,” she said. “The only trouble is, we cannot reach the bogle without entering someone’s house uninvited.” She went on to relate the story of the doctor’s house in Clerkenwell, though she was careful not to name anyone, or provide too many details about the boys’ profession. She admitted only that they had been beggars who “sometimes stole.” And she insisted that Billy Crisp would not have broken into the doctor’s house if he hadn’t been trying to find his friends. “They never deserved what befell ’em. Ain
’t no one deserves to be fed to a bogle,” she stoutly declared. “That’s why we need to kill this’un just as soon as ever we can.”
The two ladies listened with many exclamations of shock and horror. Birdie noticed that Miss Eames would sometimes shoot an anxious look at her aunt, as if concerned that such a terrible story would prove too much for her. Certainly the old lady turned very pale and kept pressing a lace handkerchief to her lips. But she never left the room nor asked for her smelling salts. And she didn’t suggest that they inform the police.
It was Miss Eames who raised that possibility.
“No.” Birdie shook her head, wiping the crumbs from her chin. “We can’t.” She began to list all the reasons why the police should be avoided at all costs. When she mentioned how cruelly she and Alfred would be treated by certain parties if they did approach the police, Miss Eames could contain herself no longer.
“Oh, Birdie, this really is too bad!” she exclaimed. “Surely you must see how dangerous it is to consort with such people? Why would you even hesitate to abandon the kind of company you keep in Bethnal Green when you have a chance to improve your prospects immeasurably by living here with us?”
“I can’t leave Mr. Bunce,” Birdie growled. “Not while he needs me.”
She refused to give in. Though Miss Eames peppered her with arguments—though Mrs. Heppinstall gently offered her more cake, new clothes, and an attic bedroom all to herself—Birdie wouldn’t budge. She was almost afraid to. Somehow she knew that if she allowed herself even a pang of doubt, there would be no turning back.
Finally Miss Eames had to admit that she was beaten. “Very well. I can see that you’re frightened to make a change,” she said. “But you must think about it, Birdie. You’re a clever girl and will soon see that if you stay where you are, your future is destined to be short and sorrowful.” With a sigh she abandoned the subject, turning instead to the job in Clerkenwell. “As for this housebreaking business, I find it very disturbing. Since there are lives at stake, however, I understand why Mr. Bunce should have agreed to take part.”
“And you, miss?” asked Birdie. “Will you be coming too?”
“I?”
“You did us a great service last time. Even Mr. Bunce says so. And I’d be easier in me mind if you was there.” Watching the effect this remark had on Miss Eames, Birdie suffered a twinge of guilt, ashamed at having uttered such a bald-faced lie just to get her own way. Because for the past few days, she had been telling herself that she wouldn’t care if she never saw Miss Eames ever again. And despite the offer that had just been made to her, Birdie was still a little wary of Miss Eames, whose intentions were so hard for her to understand.
But when Miss Eames agreed to meet her on Clerkenwell Green at eight o’clock the next Monday morning, Birdie experienced an unexpected surge of relief. And she realized, with utter amazement, that she hadn’t been lying to Miss Eames after all.
16
A Meeting on the Green
Alfred knew that no respectable lady would want to enter a seedy-looking public house like the Fox and French Horn. So he and Birdie arrived at Clerkenwell Green a little before time, to ensure that Miss Eames would not have to wait for them in the rain.
But when he ducked inside to fill his brandy flask, he found that Charlie Pickles was already on the premises. And so was a hulking, grim-faced man who introduced himself as Enoch Moulsdale.
Charlie and Enoch were sharing a nip of gin. They had with them a dirty carpetbag and wore clothes that were a little heavy for the season. Charlie’s thin frame was almost lost in an old-fashioned driving coat that had several shoulder capes. Enoch’s black dreadnought coat was even bulkier. Their hats had wide brims and were pulled down low. Both men sported neckerchiefs.
Hovering on the threshold, Birdie couldn’t see much of Enoch because the taproom was so dark. Only when he emerged into the dull light of the street was she able to determine that she didn’t know him—not even by sight. For such a big man, he had quite small features, which were crowded together in the middle of his fat, mottled face. His eyes were bland and lead colored, and his beard was an auburn fuzz.
Spotting the scabs on his knuckles, Birdie immediately looked away.
“I’m expecting one more,” Alfred informed Charlie, “and won’t go nowhere without her.”
“What?” Charlie wasn’t pleased. “You didn’t say nothing about a third party!”
“Here she is,” Birdie announced. Miss Eames was moving toward them across the green, threading her way through the market stalls. She carried a black umbrella. On one side of her loomed a church spire; on the other, the grim façade of a courthouse.
Perhaps it was the sight of the courthouse that made Charlie feel nervous. He let loose a string of oaths.
“Have you lost yer wits?” he demanded of Alfred in a furious whisper. “This here is a crack job, not a picnic in the park!”
“She knows it,” Alfred replied.
“She knows it?” cried Charlie, appalled.
“She’ll not tell the traps,” Birdie promised. “She swore on the Bible she wouldn’t.”
But Charlie was shaking his head. “I don’t know what Ma’s going to say about this. This ain’t what we planned for. This’ll be the ruin of us.”
“No, it will not.” Suddenly Enoch spoke up. He had a deep, dreary, hollow voice, like someone talking from the bottom of a well. “We can use her. She’s what you’d call an addition.”
Charlie blinked. For a moment he stared at his friend in astonishment. Then he shrugged. “Very well,” he muttered. “You’re the cracksman. But we cannot walk in step with her. She must keep behind us, all the way.”
By this time Miss Eames had joined them. She wore a sober outfit of dark gray, trimmed with black velvet. As she opened her mouth to speak, Charlie said softly, “Have you coins in yer purse?”
“Wh-hat?” Miss Eames was taken aback.
“You should make as if you want to pay us for summat,” Charlie advised her in a low voice. “Else why would you be stopping to chat with the likes of Enoch and me? Not to pass the time o’ day, I’ll be bound.” As a flustered Miss Eames gaped at him, he added, “You must do as you’re told and stay quiet, d’you hear? Or we’ll all fare the worse for it.” Then he glared at her in a threatening manner.
Birdie scowled. “You’ll fare the worst of all if you can’t keep a civil tongue in yer head!” she snapped. It enraged her that someone like Charlie should be telling them what to do. But she fell silent when Alfred laid a warning hand on her head, reminding her that they were in a public place.
“Begging yer pardon, miss,” he murmured, “but you’ll need to stay apart from us till we get where we want to go—on account o’ the looks we might draw if you’re seen in our company.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Miss Eames gave a brave little nod as she pretended to press a coin into Charlie’s hand. “You wish me to follow you at a distance. Is that correct?”
“Aye,” said Alfred.
“And when we reach the crib, she’s to knock on the front door while we hide ’round the back,” Enoch suddenly remarked, addressing Charlie as if Miss Eames weren’t even present. “As a precaution, like. To smoke out anyone as might still be at home.”
“I thought you said the house’d be empty?” Alfred cut in. “Ain’t you got a crow there watching it?”
“Jem Barbary’s our crow and is on the job now,” Charlie said—causing Birdie to blink, then grimace. “But Enoch’s right,” he added. “You can’t never be too careful.”
“If no one answers her knock, we’ll go in,” Enoch finished, still not looking at Miss Eames. Birdie was about to remind him that Miss Eames would be going in with them when Charlie declared that it was time to hook it. The longer they dawdled, he said, the less chance they would have to get away clean.
He then set off down the nearest side street, lugging his heavy bag. Enoch trudged after him. Alfred was about to follow when Miss Eames said,
“A word, Mr. Bunce? Before we do this?”
Alfred paused.
“I don’t know if Birdie has told you about the offer I made yesterday, during her visit to my aunt’s house,” Miss Eames continued. “The offer that we pay for her musical education?”
As Alfred frowned, obviously confused, Birdie mumbled, “I never got a chance.” She hadn’t wanted to consult Alfred the previous evening, which he had spent swigging down cheap liquor. Birdie had learned to tread carefully when he was in one of his morose, gin-affected moods.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t hear about that.”
“Well, I think you should consider it. For Birdie’s sake.” Miss Eames quickly went on to describe her plan, while rain dripped off her umbrella. She finished by saying, “Birdie insists that she cannot leave you because you need her. Though I’m sure her departure will come at some cost to yourself, I find it hard to believe that you would prevent her from pursuing her chance for a secure and stable future. At the very worst. . .” Miss Eames hesitated, then took a deep breath and proceeded bravely. “. . . At the very worst, and however much I might deplore it, you can always hire another child to take her place.”
“No.” Alfred’s tone was flat. “I can’t.”
“But—”
“Listen here.” He thrust his long, sour face into hers, so that the brim of his hat scraped against the spokes of her umbrella. “I lost one child. Once,” he said grimly. “And I ain’t never going to lose another, so help me God. This one don’t make mistakes. She’s the best there is. As long as I have Birdie, I’ll not ever lose no kid, nor have to live with it after.” Straightening, he nodded at Charlie’s retreating back. “We’d best get moving, else we’ll be left behind. Are you coming with us, or ain’t you got the stomach for it?”
How to Catch a Bogle Page 10
