“I can fit,” Birdie assured her, wriggling down between the two women. She couldn’t believe how deliriously happy she was to see Miss Eames (Miss Eames, of all people!), though her happiness was overshadowed by a dreadful, gnawing fear that caused her to blurt out, “Dr. Morton plans to kill Mr. Bunce! He told me so!”
“What?” Miss Eames frowned at her from beneath a tilted hat brim.
“He’s going to poison his brandy flask! We have to warn Mr. Bunce!” Birdie peered out the nearest window. “Where are we going? Back to Bethnal Green?”
“Wait a minute.” Miss Eames laid a hand on Birdie’s arm. “What brandy flask? Explain.”
Birdie took a deep breath. “Mr. Bunce puts his flask in his sack,” she revealed. “But now Dr. Morton has the sack and will poison the brandy afore it’s returned—”
“Samuel!” Miss Eames cried suddenly. She grabbed her aunt’s stick and leaned forward, rapping it against the front window. “Samuel, stop! STOP!”
The carriage jolted to a standstill so abruptly that everyone was nearly flung onto the floor. Then Miss Eames turned to Mrs. Heppinstall, saying, “We cannot go home. We must go straight to Mr. Fotherington’s house.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Heppinstall faltered. “Oh dear. Oh dear me.”
“To your master’s house, Samuel!” Miss Eames bellowed. “Do you hear?”
“Aye, miss!” The driver’s muffled voice only just managed to penetrate the little wheeled box. “Back to Mr. Fotherington’s, is it?”
“Yes, please!”
Birdie, meanwhile, was glancing from face to face, looking for an explanation. “What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Who is Mr. Fotherington?”
“He is a very old friend,” said Mrs. Heppinstall. “When I pleaded with him to give us the use of his townhouse for a few hours, he generously agreed to spend the day at his club—”
“It’s a trick,” Miss Eames interrupted. “Mr. Bunce and I have laid a trap for Dr. Morton. But if what you say is true . . .” She paused for a moment, shaking her head. Her face looked quite drawn, and her dark eyebrows stood out more starkly than usual—perhaps because she was so pale. “If what you say is true,” she finally muttered, “then we may have made a terrible mistake.”
As the brougham bounced and swayed through the streets of Hackney, heading west, Miss Eames proceeded to tell her tale. She had decided to pay Birdie another visit and had taken a cab to Bethnal Green at about noon the previous day—only to discover that Birdie wasn’t at home. Alfred was, though, and he was in a dreadful state, pacing and muttering and wringing his hands.
“He wouldn’t stop talking,” said Miss Eames. “He told me how Dr. Morton kidnapped you, and how he himself had been locked in a crypt—”
“It weren’t a crypt,” Birdie interposed. “It were a chapel.”
“Well, whatever it was, he had been released from it by some unfortunate mother who had come to mourn her dead child.” Miss Eames went on to describe how her frantic conversation with Alfred had been cut short by the unexpected arrival of Elijah Froggett, the rag-and-bone man. Elijah had been at the Hackney workhouse that morning, and in the course of a business transaction had heard a young inmate talking about Birdie McAdam. “It was that foolish girl Fanny, who showed us the disused well,” Miss Eames explained. “She had been sent out on an errand earlier in the day and had heard you singing, Birdie, inside a house that she knew to be a private lunatic asylum. Though she herself regarded the whole incident as an amusing piece of gossip, Mr. Froggett thought it very strange indeed. He made a point of reporting it to Mr. Bunce, who instantly realized what it meant.”
Though Alfred had wanted to rush off and rescue Birdie at once, Miss Eames had cautioned him against it. A man of his description was unlikely to get beyond the front door of London House—and if Dr. Morton had been on the premises, he might somehow have spirited Birdie away before Alfred gained entry.
“I thought it wise to send someone whose respectable appearance would reassure the staff of the hospital,” Miss Eames confessed. “But after I heard from Mr. Bunce about that monstrous Pickles woman, and what she had done—”
“Betrayed us to Dr. Morton!” Birdie cried.
“Exactly. I wasn’t sure if her son had told her about me, or how much she might have passed on to Dr. Morton. So instead of seeking admittance myself, I sent Mrs. Heppinstall. I borrowed Mr. Fotherington’s house for the same reason; I simply don’t know if the doctor has my address.” She suddenly reached over and patted her aunt’s hand. “You did so very well, Aunt Louisa. I cannot thank you enough.”
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” the old lady replied.
“But how did you know?” asked Birdie. “How did you know the doctor told ’em I had a rich aunt as put me in there?”
“Oh, I didn’t,” said Mrs. Heppinstall.
And Miss Eames added, “We knew that the hospital sheltered only well-to-do patients, so we assumed that Dr. Morton must have told lies about your background. And we were hoping that if a rich great-aunt did appear, she would be difficult to turn away. Especially if she brought clothes of exactly the right dimensions.”
“Which I did enjoy buying. They suit you very well.” Mrs. Heppinstall smiled at Birdie, then addressed Miss Eames. “I didn’t ask for her by name, you know. I no sooner mentioned that my niece had been placed there two nights previously than the silly woman actually gave me her name. ‘You mean Leticia Partridge? ’ she said. So foolish!”
“But what about Dr. Morton?” Birdie still couldn’t understand how the two women had pulled off such an audacious plan. “If the doctor had been there—”
“We knew he wouldn’t be. That’s the problem.” Miss
Eames took a deep breath, looked Birdie straight in the eye, and gravely admitted, “At this very moment Mr. Bunce is with Dr. Morton. At Mr. Fotherington’s house. Pretending to catch a bogle.” As Birdie gasped, Miss Eames said, “I’m sorry. It was the only way. And how was I to know about the poison?”
28
To the Rescue
Birdie’s stomach seemed to do a somersault. “Mr. Bunce is with the doctor?” she squawked. “Now?”
“We had to make sure that Dr. Morton wouldn’t be at the hospital when you left,” Miss Eames explained. “So we arranged a diversion.”
“But what if he gives Mr. Bunce that sack?” Birdie began to panic. “There’s poison in the brandy flask!”
“Which is why we are heading straight to Mr. Fotherington’s house.” Miss Eames took Birdie’s face between her hands. “Look at me. Birdie? Listen. When does Mr. Bunce normally drink his brandy? Before or after he kills a bogle?”
Birdie had to concentrate. Her head was in a whirl. “After,” she said at last. “He don’t hold with tippling on the job.”
“Then there’s a very good chance that he is still safe,” Miss Eames pointed out. “He was to stay in the house with Dr. Morton, pretending to work, until I sent word that you were free. I doubt Mr. Bunce will even touch his flask until someone knocks on Mr. Fotherington’s front door—and perhaps not even then.”
“But what if Mr. Bunce is driven to it?” Birdie wailed. “He might if he’s bin fretting! And it’s all on account o’ me!” Tears spilled from her eyes as she wrenched her face away from Miss Eames.
Mrs. Heppinstall, meanwhile, had been quietly pondering. She suddenly said, “Why did the doctor tell you this, Birdie?” And when Birdie didn’t reply, she added, “Why would he reveal his plans for Mr. Bunce? It seems very odd—not to say foolish. Why would he risk being overheard by staff at the asylum?”
Birdie swallowed a sob. In a wobbly voice she answered, “It were a trick. He wanted me to scream like a bedlamite so they’d keep me locked up.” She had realized this the previous night and was ashamed of the way she’d played into his hands. “It worked,” she admitted. “I lost me head and didn’t find it again for hours.”
“Then his threat may very well have been a sham,” Mrs. Heppins
tall suggested, earning a quick, grateful look from her niece.
“Aunt Louisa is right. The doctor may have other plans for Mr. Bunce and might have lied about the poison to upset you, Birdie.”
“Yes. . .” Though not really convinced, Birdie knew that she couldn’t afford to break down. Not yet. Not until they had saved Alfred. “Where does yer friend live, miss?” she said with a hiccup, wiping her damp cheeks. “The one as lent you his house?”
Miss Eames explained that Mr. Fotherington lived near Regent’s Park, in a large house staffed by a cook, a butler, a valet, a housemaid, a kitchen maid, and Samuel the coachman. “But they all have been sent out for the day, and Ellen Meggs has consented to take their place,” she told Birdie, who frowned.
“Ellen Meggs?”
“Our own maid’s sister. It was through their association that I first heard about Mr. Bunce—”
“Oh, Ellen Meggs!” All at once Birdie remembered. “That girl as had the chimney bogle in Westbourne Park!”
“The very same,” Miss Eames confirmed. She went on to relate that Ellen had jumped at the chance of earning half a crown by pretending to be Mr. Fotherington’s housemaid. “Mr. Bunce thought it wise to use someone who’d already had experience of a chimney bogle, and would know what to say. That is why we decided to give Mr. Fotherington’s servants a day off. In case they were not good liars.”
“And Ellen’s answering the door?” asked Birdie, interested despite herself.
Miss Eames gave a nod. “Exactly. Ellen was instructed to behave just as she did when you first called on her, in Westbourne Park. You see, Dr. Morton has been told that there is a bogle in Mr. Fotherington’s chimney, and that Ellen summoned Mr. Bunce to get rid of it. This isn’t true, of course. Mr. Fotherington has never been troubled by missing sweeps’ boys.”
“I must say, I’m glad we employ Mary Meggs,” Mrs. Heppinstall suddenly remarked. “Her sister’s talent and enthusiasm for lying makes me wonder if Ellen is entirely trustworthy as a maid.”
“Ellen should have left the house by now,” Miss Eames continued, ignoring her aunt. “We didn’t want her running any risks. Dr. Morton is a dangerous man, and there is every chance he might try to involve her in some dreadful scheme—”
“But what about the bait?” Birdie interrupted.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” said Miss Eames, waving the question aside in a way that alarmed Birdie—who was struck by a terrible thought.
“You ain’t gone to Sarah Pickles for a kid?” she demanded shrilly.
“Of course not!” Miss Eames sounded hurt. “We would never dream of it!”
“There’s a brave little boy who volunteered to help,” Mrs. Heppinstall broke in. “Edith was quite taken with him—weren’t you, dear?”
Miss Eames nodded. “He arrived at your house while Mr. Bunce and I were making our plans and insisted that he play a part,” she revealed. “Mr. Bunce could not dissuade him—”
“Who is it?” Birdie cut her off. “Not Jem Barbary?”
“I believe his name is Ned,” Miss Eames replied.
“Ned Roach?”
“He came to visit you, Birdie, knowing that you were ill. He hadn’t heard about your abduction, needless to say.” After a moment’s hesitation Miss Eames carefully observed, “He seemed a nice enough boy, and very brave, though not—not a refined person, of course.”
“Perhaps we should say that he is one of Nature’s gentlemen?” Mrs. Heppinstall daintily proposed. “He did, after all, bring Birdie a bunch of violets.”
“Ye-e-es . . .” Miss Eames hesitated long enough for Birdie to jump in.
“You mean Ned wants to be a bogler’s boy?” she yelped. “But he never opens his mouth!”
“He doesn’t have to, Birdie. There is no bogle, remember?” Though Miss Eames spoke gently, Birdie detected a hint of reproof in her tone. “All Ned has to do is stand and wait until word arrives that you have been rescued. Though now, of course, there has to be a slight change of plan. . .”
She glanced out the window, as if checking their progress, while Birdie felt a pang shoot through her like a needle to the heart. Distracted by her conversation with Miss Eames, she had briefly forgotten about the peril hanging over Alfred’s head. This sudden reminder made her panic all over again.
“Where are we now?” she asked breathlessly. “How far away?”
“We’re very close.” Miss Eames had her nose pressed to the glass. “I think we just turned off Great Portland Street—oh!” Without a word of warning, she almost jumped out of her seat, then hurled herself forward and pounded on the roof. “Stop! Samuel! STOP!”
“Whoa!” Samuel’s cry reached Birdie’s ears as the brougham jounced to a halt, throwing her sideways. Before she could ask what had happened, Miss Eames was pushing open the carriage door and shouting at the top of her voice.
“Ned! Ned Roach!”
“Edith, really!” Mrs. Heppinstall was scandalized. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself!”
“Ne-e-ed!” Miss Eames was now hanging out of the carriage, attracting a lot of attention. From behind her, Birdie caught a glimpse of faces turning toward them in the crowded street, which was lined with handsome shops and houses.
But Birdie couldn’t see Ned. Not with Miss Eames blocking her view.
“I don’t think he heard me! Oh dear. Ne-e-ed!”
Birdie was fast losing patience. Pushing Miss Eames aside, she stuck her fingers in her mouth and unleashed a deafening whistle that made Miss Eames clap her hands over her ears.
“Oi! Ned!” Birdie waved her arms—and soon noticed someone waving back. It was Ned, all right; she recognized his blunt nose, broad face, and springy hair.
By this time a few vulgar remarks were being made by passersby. One man even offered to take Ned’s place. But a gruff voice invited him to stow it, and the next thing Birdie knew, Ned was sticking his ruffled head into the carriage.
“Get in,” she told him as Miss Eames cried, “What are you doing here, Ned? You should be with Mr. Bunce!”
“I got sent away,” Ned gasped. He was damp and red faced, as if he’d been running. “Mr. Bunce told me to hook it. . .”
“But why?” Miss Eames demanded. Before Ned could explain, however, Mrs. Heppinstall appealed to her niece.
“For pity’s sake, Edith, will you close the door? It’s so vulgar to attract attention like this!”
So Miss Eames pulled Ned into the carriage and slammed the door behind him. There was a brief moment of confusion while Ned cast himself onto the little fold-out seat that was tucked away opposite Miss Eames, facing backwards. Though he wasn’t that big, Ned seemed to fill the whole carriage. Perhaps it had something to do with his dirty clothes, or his rough voice, or the faint, swampy smell that hung about him, which made Mrs. Heppinstall shrink back into her seat.
“I were looking for a policeman,” Ned rasped. “There’s a lockup in Great Marlborough Street—”
“A policeman?” Miss Eames echoed. And Birdie clutched his arm.
“What happened?” she quavered. “Is—is he dead?”
“Who?” Ned stared at her in confusion. “You mean Jem?”
“Jem?” Birdie didn’t understand.
“Jem Barbary. Sal Pickles must have sent ’im.” All at once Ned launched into a long and slightly garbled explanation, which burst out of his mouth like soda from a siphon. “That doctor knew he were on his way, but I don’t think Jem knew much, or he never would have come—”
“But what happened, Ned?” Birdie cried impatiently, making him scowl.
“I’m a-telling you, ain’t I? That doctor—he arrived in a cab, carrying a box. A big brass box. He said he’d be catching the bogle in it. Mr. Bunce said, ‘How?’ But then someone knocked on the door, so the doctor said, ‘I’ll show you,’ and went down to let Jem in.” Ned winced as Birdie’s grip on him tightened—but he didn’t try to loosen it. “Me and Mr. Bunce followed a little behind, so we didn’t see J
em get jumped. It’s my belief the doctor put cloor-a-form on a wipe and laid it across Jem’s face as he stepped inside. For when I first saw Jem, he were being dragged across the kitchen floor like a drunken sailor.”
By this time Mrs. Heppinstall had covered her own mouth with both hands, which were clad in fingerless gloves made of black lace. Miss Eames said, “Oh, how wicked!” Birdie was chewing her knuckles.
“He put Jem in the brass box,” Ned continued, “and told Mr. Bunce the bogle would be caught when it went in after ’im—”
“Devil!” Birdie croaked.
“—and when Mr. Bunce objected, the doctor said Birdie would suffer if Mr. Bunce kicked up a fuss.” Ned paused for a moment to draw breath; not being a talkative person, he was already beginning to flag. “Now, Mr. Bunce, knowing as how there ain’t no bogle in that house—and not knowing if you’d bin rescued, Birdie—”
“Went along with it,” Miss Eames finished.
“He did,” Ned agreed. “And sent me off home, out of harm’s way. But I don’t like it, miss. Jem Barbary’s bin as good as kidnapped, and drugged besides—”
“And you think it best to summon the police.” Miss Eames nodded briskly. “You’re right. The time has come. We have a drugged boy and a possible case of poisoned brandy. If we summon the police now, that monster will be caught in the act.”
“But Mr. Bunce might die in the meantime!” Birdie protested. Releasing Ned, she grabbed Miss Eames, saying, “You go and fetch the police, miss. Me and Ned, we’ll run back to the house. We’ll hide, we’ll watch, and we’ll wait. But we’ll also make sure that nothing happens to Mr. Bunce.” She then turned back to the hot, begrimed, breathless boy sitting opposite her and barked, “Come on, Ned! Let’s go!”
29
How to Catch a Bogle Page 18
