‘At home,’ Birdie replied. Jem guessed at once that she was a truant. Her defiant voice and elaborate outfit were all the proof he needed.
‘Are you on the wag?’ he asked her, with a sly grin. Birdie flushed. ‘And what if I am?’ she retorted. ‘Why should
you
be the only one to do as you like?’
By this time Alfred was scowling furiously. ‘You missed yer singing lesson?’ he barked. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Ahem.’ Suddenly the policeman cleared his throat, putting an end to their conversation. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Bunce, but I don’t have all day,’ he said, using the dull drone typical of London’s police force. Jem had heard it dozens of times – and had come to the conclusion that bobbies were
trained
to behave like mechanical men.
‘Forgive me, Constable – er . . .’ the naturalist began, then hesitated.
‘Pike, sir. Constable Pike,’ said the policeman. ‘And you are . . .?’
‘Erasmus Gilfoyle.’
‘And I’m Josiah Lubbock,’ the showman weighed in, with a smarmy kind of bow. Jem couldn’t help wondering if he’d had trouble with the police before. ‘Is there a problem, Constable?’
‘No, sir, there is not.’ Though the policeman spoke blandly, there was a glint in his eye as he turned from Mr Lubbock to the bogler. ‘Mr Ballard asked me to show Mr Bunce the underground sidings. Am I to understand that you want these people to accompany us, Mr Bunce?’
‘Not
him,
I don’t!’ Alfred pointed at Josiah Lubbock. ‘
He
ain’t invited!’
‘Oh, come now,’ said the showman, appealing to Constable Pike. ‘Can a citizen
legally
be prohibited from entering the Metropolitan Meat Market?’
‘I rather fancy he can, sir, if the railway sidings are his destination,’ was the constable’s view. But as Mr Gilfoyle started to protest, Josiah Lubbock suddenly – and unexpectedly – surrendered.
‘It is of no consequence, Mr Gilfoyle. As long as you yourself are present, I shan’t insist on being there. Science must be served, after all.’
Jem instantly deduced that Josiah Lubbock had already been paid. He was about to ask the showman how much Mr Gilfoyle had actually stumped up when Mr Lubbock continued, ‘Perhaps you’d like me to take Miss McAdam to her singing lesson, Mr Bunce? Since she appears to be unwelcome here . . .’
‘No!’ cried Birdie. Wide-eyed with alarm, she turned to Alfred – who promptly rounded on the showman.
‘You ain’t to go
near
this girl,’ Alfred spat. ‘Nor the boys, neither! D’you hear me?’
Josiah Lubbock raised his hands in a gesture of injured innocence. ‘I was merely trying to help,’ he murmured, as Birdie edged closer to Alfred.
‘Aye – to help
yerself
,’ the bogler rejoined. Then Constable Pike, who had been rocking impatiently from foot to foot, seized control of the debate.
‘So who’s to be in your party then, Mr Bunce? Aside from ourselves, that is.’ He jerked his chin at the naturalist, who was looking bewildered. ‘Will Mr Gilfoyle be coming?’
Alfred glanced at Mr Gilfoyle, before quickly looking away again. ‘Aye.’
‘And the two lads, of course?’ said Constable Pike.
Jem awaited Alfred’s answer with bated breath. He already knew that Birdie would be joining them, since she couldn’t be sent home alone – not with Josiah Lubbock lurking in the wings, hoping to wheedle his way into her confidence. But with Birdie around, would Alfred even
need
two boys? And if he didn’t, who would miss out?
Jem had a feeling that he himself would be the first to go. He wasn’t entirely sorry about it, either. Though he didn’t want to relinquish his share of the fee, the prospect of facing an unknown number of bogles, amidst the carcasses of a thousand slaughtered beasts, made his blood run cold.
‘I’ll take all the children with me,’ Alfred announced. His hand dropped onto Birdie’s shoulder. ‘And Mr Gilfoyle – you’re welcome to come along too, sir.’
The naturalist smiled and nodded, though he still looked confused.
‘As for this ’un,’ Alfred went on, glaring at Josiah Lubbock, ‘he’d best stay clear, lest I lose me temper.’
‘Now then, gentlemen, let’s keep it civil,’ the policeman intoned, before retreating back over the threshold. He planted himself in the gallery outside, like a theatre footman. ‘This way, if you please. Mr Bunce? Mr Gilfoyle?’
As Jem shuffled out of the butcher’s office, just ahead of Birdie and Alfred, he heard Josiah Lubbock calling after them, ‘I’ve some information for you, Mr Bunce! Concerning the distribution of bogles in this neighbourhood!’
‘Ignore him,’ Alfred mumbled, giving Jem a quick prod.
‘But that can wait until you’ve finished!’ the showman added. ‘In the meantime, I shall continue my inquiries –
in accordance with your apprentice’s instructions!
’
Jem winced. By that time, however, he was already clattering down the nearest staircase, towards a seething mass of men and meat.
Soon the roar of haggling butchers had swallowed up the sound of Mr Lubbock’s sharp, reedy, hectoring voice.
Constable Pike headed straight for the very centre of the market, where a flight of stairs led down to the goods depot. Alfred and the children followed him, while Mr Gilfoyle brought up the rear. Soon they had left the noisy, crowded trading floor behind them – and had found themselves on an equally noisy, equally crowded railway platform.
‘Now, Mr Bunce,’ the policeman said, raising his voice above the hiss of steam, the shrilling of whistles and the shouts of meat-porters, ‘Mr Ballard tells me you’re on the hunt for out-o’-the-way spots. Is that true?’
Alfred nodded. Beside him, Jem glanced around in dismay. The building upstairs had been bright and fresh, but this underground railway junction was dank and gloomy. Everywhere, wagons full of meat were being shunted around beneath arched vaults. Brakes squealed. Bells rang. Dozens of gleaming, silvery tracks converged into a kind of vast river, which was studded with platforms like sooty little islands. From each of these islands sprouted the pillars that held up the roof – endless rows of them, receding into the distance.
Jem wondered how large the depot actually was. From where he was standing, it looked as big as the market above.
‘It so happens I know all the quiet corners, hereabouts,’ Constable Pike went on, straining to be heard. ‘They’re favoured by those not wanting to be seen, so I make sure I pay ’em a regular visit. That’s why Mr Ballard enlisted my help, I daresay.’
Alfred mumbled something, but Jem couldn’t make out what it was. Then Birdie spoke up, her high-pitched voice cutting cleanly through all the rumbling and screeching and clanging. ‘
This is too noisy for a bogle!
’ she announced, peering up at Alfred. ‘
Too noisy and too busy!
’
‘Aye,’ the bogler agreed, before turning back to Constable Pike. ‘Where was them young ’uns last seen? The ’prentice and the other boy?’
‘That I cannot tell you, Mr Bunce,’ said Constable Pike. ‘I know nothing about either lad, save that one worked on a cartage gang, writing the slips and labels. There’s many a youth employed down here in that capacity.’
Alfred nodded. ‘And where can
they
be found, as a rule?’ he asked.
‘Why, with their checkers and truckers and callers, Mr Bunce. Else they’re up to no good.’ As Alfred frowned, puzzled, the policeman went on in a dry tone, ‘Some o’ these lads can’t be trusted. I’ve found more’n one little stash hidden about the place. Mostly meat, but sometimes coal.’
‘You just told us you don’t know nothing about that boy,’ Birdie protested, ‘and now you’re saying he were a prig!’
Constable Pike shot her a speculative look from under his thick, dark lashes, as if surprised by her use of a cant word like ‘prig’. ‘No, Miss, I’m not,’ he rejoined. ‘I’m saying that if he strayed into a dark corner, and met his doom there, it cannot have bin for any
good
reason – since there’s proper plumbing supplied, and rules about using it.’
Jem realised that ‘plumbing’ must mean ‘privies’. Alfred said, ‘If the boy
were
hiding summat, or doing owt as would get him dismissed, where would he have gone?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Constable Pike promptly set off again, wending his way between pillars, sacks, trolleys, buckets, crates, coils of rope and knots of labouring men. The place was stuffed with strange machinery – cranes and capstans and things that Jem couldn’t even identify. But it all rushed past him in a blur, because Constable Pike was in such a hurry.
Mr Gilfoyle, who wasn’t very nimble, began to lag further and further behind.
‘Here,’ Birdie said at last, extending her hand to the naturalist after he had run up against yet another obstacle, ‘you’d best hold on to me.’
‘W-why, thank you,’ Mr Gilfoyle stammered. ‘You’re very kind, Miss – er . . .’
‘McAdam. Birdie McAdam.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And this is Jem Barbary. And Ned Roach.’ Birdie waved her free hand at her two companions. ‘They’re bogler’s boys.’
‘I see. And that means—?’
‘We’re bogle-bait,’ Jem growled. He had mixed feelings about Birdie. On the one hand, he resented the fact that she would no doubt pocket a share of the fee, even though she didn’t need it. On the other hand, he knew that he would need all the help he could get.
‘Forgive me – you’re what?’ The naturalist almost had to shout over the squeal of rolling stock.
‘
Bogle-bait!
’ Jem repeated. He caught a glimpse of Mr Gilfoyle’s shocked expression before they suddenly halted, having reached a very short, narrow, dead-end tunnel.
‘This here siding is abandoned, since the turntable broke,’ Constable Pike explained. He indicated a kind of rotating bridge set into a shallow pit at the tunnel’s mouth. Then he pointed
into
the tunnel, which was silting up with debris. ‘I’ve found more’n just rats in that rubbish, so it must be commonly visited.’
Alfred frowned. Then he set down his sack, opened it up, and took out his dark lantern – which he proceeded to light. ‘You three stay here,’ he told the children. To Constable Pike he said, ‘Would you mind if I walked on the rails?’
‘They’re not in use, Mr Bunce,’ the policeman replied. ‘You may
lie
on ’em, for all o’ me.’ Watching Alfred jump down onto the tracks, he added, ‘Will you be needing my help, sir?’
Alfred shook his head. Then he moved towards the pile of shattered crates, unravelled baskets, torn tarpaulins, smashed glass, wheel spokes, crumpled paper and dead rats that was piling up against the back wall of the tunnel.
Jem pointed out, in a low voice, ‘It smells bad.’
‘Not bad enough,’ said Birdie. She sniffed the musty air, as Mr Gilfoyle cleared his throat behind her.
‘Do – um – do bogles generally smell bad?’ he meekly inquired.
Birdie shrugged. ‘Some do,’ she said. ‘But this . . . it don’t
feel
like bogles.’
Jem had to agree. There was no sense of foreboding – no creeping dread. He saw that Ned, too, was unaffected by any sudden mood changes; in fact he looked calmer than anyone. Even the noise didn’t seem to trouble Ned, perhaps because he spent so much of his time at Covent Garden Market.
Jem finally glanced up at Constable Pike – and the expression on the policeman’s face made him blurt out, ‘You don’t
believe
in bogles!
I
see what you’re thinking!’
Constable Pike didn’t so much as blink when everyone else turned to stare at him. ‘What
I
think is that some folk have jumped to conclusions,’ he drawled, keeping his own gaze fixed firmly on the bogler. ‘And what I
don’t
think is that enough questions have bin asked, nor lines of inquiry followed. Kids disappear all the time, for any number o’ reasons.’ Before Birdie could take issue with this, he raised his voice to address Alfred. ‘You done here, Mr Bunce?’
‘Aye.’ Alfred was already retracing his steps. ‘This ain’t the place. There’s nowt behind that pile o’ scrap. Is there no likelier spot you can show me?’
There was. Constable Pike led his party straight to an even murkier corner, well away from all the hustle and bustle. Here, behind a low arch set into the wall, was a kind of shallow recess. And though the light wasn’t good, Jem could just make out the tangle of pipes that filled this space, all slimy and bristling with valves.
‘Those pipes supply the hydraulic accumulator, which is used to run the freight lifts,’ Constable Pike explained. He didn’t have to shout anymore; it was much quieter away from the sidings. ‘And though it
looks
tight-packed, you’d marvel at what can be squeezed in with a little effort. I once found a hoistman in here, sleeping off the grog. Not to mention a stolen fire hose.’
Alfred grunted. Birdie said, ‘What’s in the pipes? Water?’ And when the policeman gave a nod, she remarked, ‘Bogles like water.’
Mr Gilfoyle immediately began to scribble something in his notebook. Alfred squatted down for a better look at the pipes, while Constable Pike observed, ‘They’re wonderful things, them lifts. Must be a dozen, at least, excluding the ones that need repairs. I’ve seen ’em push half a carload of fat lambs straight up in the air, on a piston less than two foot wide.’
But no one was listening. Alfred muttered, ‘I don’t like the look o’ this . . .’, and Jem knew exactly what he meant. There was a cold, dead, airless quality about this particular patch of basement. Though it didn’t feel exactly like a bogle’s lair, it
did
feel like the kind of place a bogle might have passed through.
‘You young ’uns wait over there, by them boxes,’ said Alfred, straightening up. ‘Well away, now. Stay clear o’ the walls and corners. And
don’t
make no noise.’ He gave his sack to Ned, keeping only the dark lantern. To Constable Pike he growled, ‘Where does the water come from?’
As the policeman murmured something about artesian wells, Jem went to lean against a towering stack of crates. Birdie and Ned promptly joined him. They stood in silence for a moment, watching Constable Pike crouch down to show Alfred where the snoozing drunk had wedged himself. Mr Gilfoyle hovered behind the other two men, still scribbling away.