“Miss Eames needn’t know,” Birdie retorted. “And it’s only this once.”
“I’ll do it,” Ned cut in. “And so will Jem.”
“Please, Mr. Bunce,” begged the navvy.
“The next boy who’s taken will be on yer conscience if you don’t help,” Birdie warned Alfred. “Can you live with that? For I cannot!”
“And me and Jem—we need the experience,” Ned mumbled. “We’ve our hearts set on bogling. ’Tis a respectable trade, and mudlarks don’t make old bones.”
“There’s no one can do this but you, Mr. Bunce,” Birdie argued. “And there’s still more underground lines to build, with boys slated to work ’em. Ain’t that right?”
She appealed to Fettle Joe, who nodded gravely. Meanwhile, Alfred sat hunched in his old green coat, sucking on his pipe, looking tired and worn and grim but somehow indomitable, like an ancient ruin. At last he pulled the pipe from his mouth.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.” Before the navvy could thank him, however, Alfred addressed Birdie in a tone that she knew well—a tone that had governed her life since their first meeting in the Limehouse canal, when she was just four years old. “But this is the last time, d’you hear? The very last. For you’ve passed beyond this, Birdie. I ain’t yer master no more. We’re on different roads now and must stick to ’em.”
“Of course,” Birdie answered—because Alfred was right. He wasn’t her master. They were on different roads. And for this very reason she no longer had to do what he said.
She could plot out her own course, toward her own goal, in her own way. And if that meant a bit of unofficial bogling—well, then Alfred wasn’t going to stop her. Certainly Miss Eames wasn’t. If Birdie wanted to be a music-hall singer with a sideline in bogling, there was no reason why she should abandon that dream.
“So shall we give Jem’s doll a try, while we’re about it?” she suggested, bright eyed and keen voiced. “Since there’s more’n one way to skin a cat, it might be the same for a bogle. Don’t you think so, Mr. Bunce. . . ?”
Glossary
AREA: the basement-level entrance under the front door of many nineteenth-century terrace or row houses, often with railings around the top
BAIRN: a Scottish word for child
BALLAST HEAVER: a person who loads ballast into the holds of empty ships
BASILISK: a legendary reptile said to cause death with a single glance
BEAK: a magistrate
BEDLAMITE: an insane person
BOB: a shilling
BOGLE: a monster, goblin, bogeyman
BROLLY: an umbrella
BROUGHAM: a one-horse carriage with an open seat in front for the driver
BUGGANE: a huge ogre-like creature, native to the Isle of Man
CADGER: a beggar
CAFFLER: see rag-and-bone man
CHINK: money
CIUDACH: a Scottish cave-dwelling monster
COAL WHIPPER: a person who unloads coal from ships
COSH: a blunt weapon
COSTER: a street seller
COVE: a man
CRACKSMAN: a burglar, lock picker
CRIB: a house
CROW: a lookout
DEADLURK: an empty building
DIPPER: a pickpocket
DIMMICK: a counterfeit coin
DOWNY: cunning, false
DUNNAGE: clothes and possessions
EARTH CLOSET: a seat placed over a deep hole in the ground for relieving oneself
FLAM: lie
FLUX: diarrhea
FUATH: an evil Gaelic water spirit
FUSTIAN: coarse, cotton-linen cloth
GAMMONING: lying
GANGER: a supervisor
GAOL: jail
GLOCKY: half-witted
GRIDDLER: a beggar
GRIDDLING: begging
GRINDYLOW: a bogeyman from Lancashire or Yorkshire, typically found in bogs or lakes
GRUBBER: another term for mudlark
HACKNEY CAB: a two-wheeled carriage for hire
HACKNEY CARRIAGE: a four-wheeled carriage for hire
HANSOM CAB: another term for hackney cab
HOBBLER: a boat tower, someone who tows boats
HOBYAH: an English fairy-tale goblin
HOIST: to steal, shoplift
HOOK IT: move it
HURRIER: a girl aged five to eighteen who draws coal in a mine
JACK: a detective
JEMMY: a crowbar
KNUCKER: a kind of water dragon from Sussex, England
LAG: a convict, jailbird
LAGGED: jailed
LAY: method
LURK: a trick, scam
LURKER: a criminal
LUSHERY: a low public house
MERE: a lake, pond
MOOCHER: a tramp
MUCK SNIPE: a tramp
MUDLARK: a child who scavenges on riverbanks
MUMPING: begging
NAVVY: an unskilled laborer, especially one who does heavy digging
NIBBED: arrested
NOBBLE: to hurt
OMNIBUS: a very large horse-drawn vehicle for moving large numbers of people
POTTLE: a container holding half a gallon
PRIG: a thief, or to steal
PRIVY: toilet
QUID: a pound, or about two dollars in today’s money
RACKET: a shady or illegal pursuit
RAG-AND-BONE MAN: a collector of rags for making paper and bones for making glue
SENNIGHT: a week
SHELLYCOAT: a Scottish goblin that haunts rivers and streams
SHIRKSTER: a layabout
SKIPPER: a person who sleeps in sheds and outbuildings
SLAVVY: a maid of all work
SLOPS: old clothes
SPIKE: a workhouse
TOFF: a well-to-do person
TOFFKEN: the dwelling of well-to-do people
TOGS: clothes
TOOLING: pickpocketing
TOSHER: a sewer scavenger
TRAP: a policeman
WHITE LADIES: ghosts of a very particular type
WIPE: a handkerchief
WORKHOUSE: an institution that houses and feeds paupers
WORRICOW: a Scottish hobgoblin
Alfred Bunce lived in a narrow lane cluttered with costers’ barrows and piles of rubbish. Mussel shells and squashed cabbage leaves were scattered everywhere. People filled every window and doorway, smoking or chatting or darning socks. There was a strong smell of rotten fruit.
To reach Alfred’s lodgings, Jem had to lead Mabel up half a dozen flights of stairs in a rickety old house that leaned to one side like a drunkard. On the way, he passed a clutch of dirty, barefoot children who taunted him for carrying a broom. “Did you come here to sweep the mud from our chimneys?” they cried. He ignored them, having better things to do than exchange insults with a pack of idle scroungers.
Alfred’s room was high up under the eaves. When he answered Jem’s knock, a wave of heat seemed to roll out of the doorway into the stairwell—along with a strong smell of turpentine. Though the day was dank and chilly, Alfred wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. A dusting of red powder covered his knobbly hands, his drooping mustache, and his thick, graying hair.
He raised his bushy eyebrows when he saw Jem.
“Well, now,” he said gruffly. “You bin quite a stranger.”
“This here is Miss Mabel Lillimere,” Jem replied, getting straight to the point. “She needs help.”
The barmaid offered up an uncertain smile as Alfred studied her, his dark gaze unreadable. Jem pushed past him without waiting for an invitation. The room beyond Alfred was as hot as an oven, thanks to the fire blazing in the hearth. Dozens of paper strips, each as red as blood, dangled from lines strung overhead. Walls, floor, and furniture were smeared with the same reddish powder that clung to Alfred.
“Why, what’s all this?” asked Jem in astonishment.
“Flypapers,” said Alfred, ushering Mabel
across the threshold.
“You make flypapers now?” Jem was appalled. “That ain’t no job for a bogler!”
“Flies is vermin, same as bogles,” Alfred rejoined. Then he invited Mabel to sit down, though not before quickly dusting off one of the two available stools with his shirt cuff. “This here is all red lead,” he explained. “For coloring the papers.”
“And what’s this?” Jem demanded, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He was peering at the gooey stuff that bubbled in a large pot over the fire. “Not yer dinner, I hope?”
“That’s what catches the flies,” said Alfred. “I lay it on with a brush.”
“Smells like linseed oil,” Jem observed.
“There’s linseed in it.” Alfred turned back to the barmaid, who had seated herself gingerly. “What can I do for you, miss?”
As Mabel explained her plight, Jem inspected Alfred’s room—which he hadn’t seen for some time. The old table was still there, along with Alfred’s bed and tea chest. There was a new washstand. Alfred’s brass scissors were also new, as was the framed photograph on the windowsill. It showed a pretty little girl with fair curls and a glazed stare. She was dressed in shiny clothes trimmed with lace.
On his way to examine the picture more closely, Jem passed Ned Roach’s straw paillasse.
“Is Ned down by the river?” Jem queried, once Mabel had finished.
Alfred looked at him.
“Ned ain’t scavenging no more. He’s a coster’s boy now, selling fruit from a barrow.” Alfred coughed suddenly, then spat on the floor. “Brings home a steady wage. And helps with the flypapers, too,” he finished.
Jem felt a pang of envy, which he attempted to disguise by snidely remarking, “Must be hard for Ned, since he don’t talk overmuch. How does he cry his wares?”
“He’s learning,” Alfred replied, before resuming his conversation with the barmaid. “This tavern o’ yours—where is it?”
“Giltspur Street,” said Mabel.
“Giltspur?” Alfred frowned. “Ain’t that off Newgate?”
Mabel gave a nod.
“There’s a generosity o’ dangerous folk as lurk around Newgate Prison,” Alfred pointed out. He produced from his trouser pocket a clay pipe and a tobacco pouch. “Might yer maid not have fallen foul o’ one?”
“She went down to fetch the sherry, sir, and now she’s gone.” Mabel was dabbing at her flushed face with a handkerchief. Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip. “Could we not open the door, Mr. Bunce? Else I’ll faint from the heat.”
Obediently Alfred lifted the door latch. Jem tried to push the window open a little farther but found it too stiff. Then Alfred said, in his low, rumbling voice, “I don’t bogle no more. Did Jem not tell you? I’ve no ’prentice, see.”
“I could be your ’prentice,” Jem quickly cut in. And when Alfred fixed him with a morose look, he added, “I’m quick on me feet, ain’t I? Quicker’n Birdie, for all that I can’t sing like her. Why, I spent the day dodging hansom cabs on Commercial Road and never once took a tumble. I’d make a prize bogler’s boy!”
Alfred’s gaze shifted to the broomstick in Jem’s hand. “I doubt Mr. Leach would agree with you,” he growled. And Jem flushed.
“I ain’t working for that grocer no more.”
“Oh, aye?” Alfred seemed to be waiting for an explanation. And though Jem didn’t want to give one—not with Mabel in the room, listening to every word he said—there was something about Alfred’s weighty silence that forced him to speak.
“I ate some cheese off the shop floor, and when Mrs. Leach beat me for it, I called her an old cat,” he admitted. “That’s why Mr. Leach let me go—on account of his wife. She never did like me. ‘Once a thief, allus a thief’ is what she used to say. But I never prigged a thing, save for that morsel o’ cheese. And it were picked off the floor like kitchen scraps!”
Alfred sighed as Jem scowled. The barmaid watched them both curiously, still patting her face with her handkerchief. A cross draft was now blowing through the room, making Alfred’s strips of paper dance and spin.
“I’d as soon have you beg as sweep a crossing,” Alfred said at last, still glumly eyeing the broom. “Where do you lodge now? You ain’t on the street?”
“No,” said Jem. To change the subject, he quickly added, “Miss Mabel didn’t tell you, but there’s a cove as runs a penny gaff on Whitechapel Road, and he claims he has Birdie inside, taming bogles and such.”
Alfred’s jaw dropped. He sat down suddenly.
“I took one look and thought, ‘Well, that ain’t true,’” Jem went on, pleased to see the impact he’d made. “I’ll wager Birdie can’t stray as far as her own front door nowadays, let alone set foot in Whitechapel Road.”
“But—but Birdie ain’t singing in no penny gaff!” Alfred spluttered. “Birdie’s being schooled in Bloomsbury! Miss Eames says she could sing opera one day!”
“I thought as much.” Jem flashed a smug look at the barmaid. “Lubbock’s a dirty liar. Didn’t I tell you?”
“Miss Eames ain’t going to like this,” said Alfred, shaking his head in consternation. “She’ll not like this at all. . .”
He trailed off, biting his lip, his pipe in one hand and his tobacco pouch in the other. Mabel watched him for a moment. At last she cleared her throat and said, “Uh—Mr. Bunce?”
“No.” Alfred spoke brusquely. “No, lass, I cannot. I told you, I ain’t a bogler no more.” He gestured vaguely at the strips of paper drying above him as if to prove his point. But Mabel wasn’t impressed. Her dark brows snapped together.
“Mr. Bunce,” she protested, “my employer is hiring a new potboy as we speak. Would you condemn the lad to a fate like Florry’s?”
Alfred didn’t answer. He was stuffing tobacco into his pipe, carefully avoiding her eye as he did so.
“I’m afraid for him—indeed I am. He’s a big lad, but no more’n twelve years old. And I cannot always be chasing him about.” Mabel had a very strong voice when she chose to raise it. Jem suspected that she had strengthened her lungs by shouting orders across a noisy taproom, and grinned to himself when he saw Alfred’s face lengthen. “What about poor Florry?” the barmaid continued. “There ain’t no one else to care what befell her—she hadn’t a single relation to mourn her passing. And you say you’ll not punish the beast that ate her up! For shame, sir!”
Alfred winced. “Miss Lillimere—” he began.
“How much do you charge for your services?” she demanded. “What is your fee, Mr. Bunce?”
Seeing Alfred hesitate, Jem answered for him. “Six shillings for each bogle, fivepence for the visit, and a penny for the salt.”
“I’ll pay you eight shillings.” Mabel stood up suddenly, startling Alfred, who blinked and dropped the match he’d just plucked from his pocket. “Eight shillings down and as much grog as you can drink.”
Jem laughed. “Blimey,” he crowed, “ain’t that the plum in the pudding!” But a glare from Alfred quickly wiped the smile from his face.
“Well?” said Mabel. “Will you help, Mr. Bunce?”
“I told you before, I ain’t got no ’prentice—”
“What’s wrong with the boy?” Mabel interrupted, pointing at Jem. “He’s spry enough.”
“He’s untrained,” mumbled Alfred. “I need Birdie. I can’t kill a bogle without Birdie.”
“But she never comes here no more!” Jem was stung by Alfred’s lack of confidence in him. “And even if she did, that Miss Eames wouldn’t let her so much as soil her clothes, never mind dodge a bogle.” Before Alfred could object, Jem exclaimed, “I can be your boy! It ain’t so hard! Didn’t I see it done on that navvy’s job last summer? All I need is a looking glass and a bit o’ nerve!”
How to Catch a Bogle Page 21
