‘Why d’you keep doing this?’ Jem finally asked Birdie, in a low voice.
Birdie frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘You got everything you need –
and
more. Cake every day. Yer own room. Singing lessons. But you keep chasing bogles.’ Jem folded his arms, regarding Birdie from beneath the brim of his cap. ‘Miss Eames won’t put up with it forever. Don’t that trouble you none? There’ll come a day when she’ll not take you back.’
‘You don’t know nothing about Miss Eames,’ Birdie hissed.
‘I know she don’t want you bogling,’ said Jem. ‘Neither does Alfred.’
‘He does!’
‘He does not. I heard him say so. He can do without you, now he’s got me.’
‘Tah!’ Birdie made a scornful noise. Then Ned, who had been listening carefully, said to her in his quiet voice, ‘If you’re missing Mr Bunce, you can allus visit him. He’ll not turn you away, even if there ain’t no bogle to kill.’
Birdie shot him a startled look. ‘I know that,’ she muttered.
‘Then why do you want to keep bogling?’ Jem was genuinely curious. ‘Are you bored?’
‘I ain’t bored.’ Birdie bit her lip before blurting out, ‘But I ain’t useful! It’s as if I don’t matter no more! All I do is eat and sleep and go to lessons, and what good is that to anyone?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It used to be I took care o’ Mr Bunce,’ she quavered. ‘And I helped kill bogles, and minded little ’uns, and now . . . now I’m just a burden!’ Sniffing, she concluded miserably, ‘If I died tomorrow, I swear I’d not be missed.’
‘Why, that ain’t true!’ Ned cried. And then all hell broke loose.
It happened so quickly that Jem didn’t have time to think. All at once his breath stuck in his throat, choking him. A chill ran down his spine. He caught a glimpse of something uncoiling above his head – and looked up to see a coal-black arm drop through a hole in the roof.
Birdie screamed. The arm had wrapped itself around her waist. For a split second Jem stood frozen with shock. But as she rose into the air, screaming and kicking, he darted forward to grab her. ‘
The spear!
’ he screeched. ‘
In the sack!
’
The sack had already fallen from Ned’s nerveless grip. While Ned pounced on it again, frantically raking through its contents, Jem wrapped his arms around Birdie’s knees. He pulled with all his might, trying to use his own weight as an anchor. But he could feel his feet lifting off the ground.
Suddenly someone grabbed
him.
It was Constable Pike. Jem heard a shout. He felt a jerk that almost snapped his spine in two. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Ned hurling Alfred’s spear.
KA-POW!
Next thing he knew, Jem was lying on the floor, face-up, covered in a thick layer of yellow goo.
‘Did you see that copper’s face?’ said Jem. ‘White as salt, even arter three nips o’ brandy.’
‘You ain’t so rosy-cheeked yerself,’ Ned muttered.
‘At least I didn’t faint.’
‘Neither did Mr Gilfoyle,’ Alfred growled. ‘It were a dizzy spell, is all.’
‘Will you
please
talk about something else?’ Birdie exclaimed, her voice cracking. And the others immediately fell silent.
They were walking through West Smithfield, past a curving ramp that led down to the goods depot. It was still drizzling, but Birdie refused to wait for a cab or an omnibus within sight of Smithfield Market. She hadn’t even wanted to linger in Mr Ballard’s office, where she’d been offered everything from smelling salts to a fainting couch. While Mr Gilfoyle had sat with his head between his knees, and Constable Pike had knocked back glass after glass of ‘medicinal’ brandy, Birdie had drunk one glass of water before announcing that she wanted to go. ‘I ain’t staying here a minute longer,’ was how she’d put it, as she limped out the door.
So Alfred had decided to head down Giltspur Street, towards Newgate.
Birdie was limping because the bogle had dropped her, injuring her foot. Her skin was peppered with red blotches like sunburn. These marks had been left by the yellow goo; they were itchy, but fading fast. Jem and Ned were also covered in them. As for Birdie’s pretty blue dress, it was now streaked with pale patches where the yellow stuff had bleached it. Around her waist, the braided trim had shrivelled up and turned brown, like scorched egg-whites. The feather on her hat hung limp and sodden in the rain.
‘Miss Eames is going to be so cross with me,’ she quavered, as they trudged past St Bartholemew’s hospital.
‘Nay, lass. She’ll be cross with
me
,’ Alfred said. One of his hands was wrapped tightly around her arm; with the other he clutched his sack. The sack was also looking mottled, though Alfred’s clothes were unscathed.
He had been wedged under a pipe during the bogle’s attack.
‘No more bogling,’ he continued. ‘Not in this neighbourhood. It’s too dangerous.’
Birdie sniffed and wiped her nose. Jem muttered, ‘It wouldn’t have bin so bad, if that dozy bluebottle had remembered the trapdoor in the roof.’
‘But how can you blame him, when all o’ them boxes was piled underneath it, on top o’ the lift?’ Ned spoke up in defence of Constable Pike. ‘Besides, it ain’t bin used for a good three months. Mr Ballard said so.’
‘The fault were mine,’ Alfred interrupted. ‘I should have checked. I should allus check.’
‘Upstairs? In a storage bay?’ Birdie’s voice was weak and husky. ‘How could
you
have known?’
‘Seems to me there’s so many bogles, hereabouts, they’ve filled up the lairs they generally favour and have found less likely cribs, as a consequence,’ Ned remarked.
‘Aye,’ said Alfred. ‘Which is why we’ll not be bogling here again.’
Jem tried to conceal the relief he felt on hearing this. Behind his bold front, he hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of the latest bogle attack. His hands were still trembling, and he was still gulping down great lungfuls of air. His beautiful new coat looked as if it had been splashed with lye. His arm hurt. What’s more, he couldn’t seem to shake off the sense of impending doom that the bogle had left in its wake.
Kicking a peach pit along the wet cobbles, he eyed every drain, alley and doorway, half-expecting to see a dark shape uncoiling in the shadows.
Then all at once, he spotted a familiar façade. They had drawn level with the Viaduct Tavern, which no longer sported a notice in any of its windows.
‘Where’s that bill?’ he asked. ‘The one Mr Lubbock posted?
I
can’t see it.’
‘That don’t signify.’ Alfred didn’t even pause. ‘Come along, now, or we’ll miss the ’bus.’
‘But why post it at all, if it were up for only the one night?’ Jem had stopped in his tracks, puzzled. He was scanning the tavern’s facade, which looked damp and dismal despite its gilt trim, when all at once Mabel Lillimere emerged from the front door with a bucket of dirty water.
As she emptied the bucket into a drain, Jem called to her, ‘Hi! Miss Lillimere!’
The barmaid glanced up. When she saw Jem, however, she didn’t smile. Instead, she flinched.
‘W-why, Mr Bunce,’ she stammered, as her nervous gaze flicked towards Alfred. ‘Good morning, sir.’
Then, to Jem’s amazement, she scuttled back inside.
Jem’s jaw dropped. He turned to Alfred and they stared at each other, astonished. Even Birdie looked perplexed.
Before she could say anything, however, Jem darted forward. ‘Miss Lillimere?’ he cried. ‘Begging yer pardon, Miss!’ He reached the tavern door just as it swung shut, but quickly pushed it open again. Alfred caught up with him a moment later.
‘Wait – Jem—’ said Alfred.
He was too late, though. Jem had already crossed the threshold.
Mabel was hovering behind a wooden screen that separated the door from the nearest booth. Jem nearly bumped into her as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Slowly her face became visible; he saw her pale cheeks, her furrowed brow, her trembling lips.
‘I’m not to talk to you,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘W-what?’ Jem couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Why?’
‘Mr Watkins said so.’ Mabel peered over her shoulder, towards the bar. ‘I’ll lose my place if I do.’
‘But—’
‘I’m sorry,’ she hissed, then turned on her heel and whisked away. Jem would have followed her if Alfred hadn’t grabbed him by the elbow.
‘Leave her be,’ said Alfred. ‘Don’t trouble the poor lass.’
Jem didn’t protest. He was too stunned. Speechlessly he allowed the bogler to drag him back outside, where Ned and Birdie were still waiting in the rain.
‘What happened?’ asked Birdie.
Jem shook his head. Alfred muttered, ‘Whatever happened, t’ain’t nowt to do with us.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jem couldn’t understand it. ‘She’s allus bin so friendly, and now . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Mebbe it’s that slang cove. What’s his name? Lubbock?’ Ned hazarded.
‘No.’ A loud voice broke into their conversation from several feet away. ‘No, I can assure you that
I
am not responsible.’
They all jumped. Turning, they saw that Josiah Lubbock was approaching them from the direction of St Sepulchre’s church, holding an open umbrella. As Alfred blanched and frowned, the showman raised his free hand in a defensive movement.
‘Give me five seconds, Mr Bunce, for you’ll want to hear this.’
‘I thought I told you—’
‘To keep clear. I know.’ Mr Lubbock was looking far more lively and well-groomed than Alfred’s bedraggled little gang. The showman’s voice was brisk as he soldiered on, ignoring all the glares and scowls confronting him. ‘I just had a word with Mr Froome, the sexton of St Sepulchre’s, about Miss Lillimere,’ he explained. ‘And though he was reluctant to talk, I finally coaxed a few interesting facts out of him. Would you care to hear them, Mr Bunce?’
‘No!’ snapped Alfred, just as Birdie and Jem said, ‘Yes!’
‘Then perhaps we should discuss it over there, in private.’ Mr Lubbock flapped his hand towards the churchyard at the back of St Sepulchre’s, before promptly heading in that direction. Jem followed him – and was soon joined by Ned and Birdie.
Alfred brought up the rear. He dragged his feet and kept glancing over his shoulder, as if he expected an ambush. He didn’t look happy.
‘I stopped at the Viaduct Tavern earlier, to ask why my bill was no longer posted,’ Mr Lubbock began, as he gathered his audience around him in the shadow of the empty watch-house. He went on to describe how both Mabel and Mr Watkins had refused to speak to him. The reason, according to Mr Froome, was that someone called John Gammon had told them not to. ‘Mr Gammon is a local butcher who took exception to my notice,’ Mr Lubbock revealed. ‘And since he seems to exert a quite remarkable amount of influence on this little corner of London, Mr Watkins had to obey – or pay the price.’
It took Jem a few seconds to absorb this extraordinary piece of news. He was still turning it over in his head when Alfred rasped, ‘You mean they was
threatened
? That poor girl and her master?’
‘I believe Mr Gammon is renowned for it, in these parts,’ the showman replied.
‘So he’s a punisher,’ Jem said bluntly. He knew all about punishers – or ‘villains’, as they were sometimes called. He’d even met a few of them, in his time. ‘People stump up lest they lose an eye, is that it?’
Mr Lubbock nodded.
‘But that still don’t make sense!’ Birdie exclaimed. She was so absorbed in his story that she appeared to have forgotten her woes – at least for the present. ‘Even if Gammon runs the rackets in this neighbourhood, why would he care about bogles?’
‘Mebbe it ain’t the bogles he cares about.’ Jem was thinking aloud, his mind working furiously. ‘Mebbe he don’t want no one sniffing around asking questions about missing folk.’
A sudden silence fell. Birdie shivered. Jem recalled the stories he’d heard about people who hadn’t paid their dues to certain villains back in Bethnal Green.
Some had disappeared off the face of the earth.
‘You know, if this gentleman
is
worried about investigations into missing people, he might need our help,’ Mr Lubbock suddenly observed.
‘Oh, no.’ Alfred’s long face grew even longer. He took a step backwards. ‘I ain’t tangling with no butcher in the punisher business.’
‘But this plague of bogles is going to attract a great deal of unwanted attention, if the death toll keeps rising,’ Mr Lubbock pointed out. ‘And if
that
happens, any local ne’er-do-well is bound to come under official scrutiny. Don’t you think Mr Gammon might want to prevent this, no matter what the cost?’
Alfred gave a snort of disbelief. He was already retreating – and hustling Birdie along with him. ‘If
you
want to chase down a certified nobbler, that’s your business. I’m getting out of here, and taking these children with me. They’ll not set foot in this quarter again.’
‘Not even with Mr Gammon’s cooperation?’ Mr Lubbock leaned towards Alfred in a coaxing manner. ‘Surely, if I were to convince Salty Jack of the danger he’s in, and the wisdom of hiring a bogler to protect his own interests—’
‘
Salty Jack?
’ Jem interrupted. His voice was so shrill that everyone stared at him. But he had eyes only for the showman. ‘You mean this Gammon cove – the butcher –
he’s
Salty Jack?’
‘I believe that’s his nickname.’ Mr Lubbock eyed Jem curiously. ‘Why, do you know him?’
‘I know of him.’ Jem had heard the man mentioned, once or twice – by none other than Sarah Pickles. He grabbed the showman’s arm. ‘Where’s his shop? Does he have one?’
‘Why, yes, but—’
‘Where is it? Tell me!’ Jem stared wildly at Mr Lubbock. ‘I’ve
got to know!
’
Jem wouldn’t listen to Alfred. He wouldn’t listen to Ned. Even Birdie couldn’t dissuade him from going in search of John Gammon. He was convinced that Salty Jack had to be harbouring Eunice Pickles. Why else would she be loitering in the area? And if Eunice was living in Cock Lane, then her mother was almost certainly nearby.
‘If I sneak into that butcher shop,’ Jem announced, ignoring Ned’s anxious frown and Alfred’s furious glare, ‘I might spot Eunice – or someone else I know.’