‘If you sneak into that butcher shop, you might end up minced!’ snapped Birdie. And Alfred growled, ‘You ain’t going nowhere near that villain. D’you hear me? I’m a-taking you home.’
Jem stubbornly shook his head. Home? He didn’t have a home. And Sarah Pickles was to blame. ‘I’m doing this whether you help me or not,’ he announced, then turned on his heel and headed back up Giltspur Street, towards Cock Lane.
‘
I’ll
help you.’ Mr Lubbock began to waddle after him. ‘You’ll need to distract the butcher if you’re to inspect his premises. And I’m very well versed in the art of distraction.’
‘Jem!
Jem!
You come back here!’ Alfred yelled. ‘This is yer last chance, boy! I’ll not keep no ’prentice as won’t follow orders!’
For a fleeting instant Jem paused, thinking about the shilling tips, free clothes and omnibus rides that he’d enjoyed under Alfred’s protection. They would all disappear, if he stopped bogling – as would his little corner of Alfred’s garret room.
But then he told himself that Alfred was unlikely to keep bogling in any case. He’d already given it up once, and would probably do it again, if Miss Eames kept nagging him to.
‘You won’t
need
no ’prentice, if you ain’t bogling no more,’ Jem drawled, comforting himself with the possibility that Mr Lubbock might have a berth for a nimble lad. Especially if that nimble lad had done him a good turn . . .
Jem was half-expecting to feel Alfred’s hand on his collar. But when he reached Pye Corner unhindered, he realised that Alfred must have taken the other two children home. For one brief, stomach-churning instant, he felt abandoned. Then he reminded himself that he was on his own – that he had
always
been on his own. And if Alfred Bunce didn’t want to help him, then it was time to form an alliance with Josiah Lubbock.
‘May I ask what happened at the market?’ Mr Lubbock finally asked, as they turned into Cock Lane. ‘I couldn’t help but notice that the little girl wasn’t looking her best . . .’
‘We killed a bogle,’ Jem said shortly. He didn’t want to discuss Birdie’s narrow escape. He knew that he would have nightmares about it.
‘I see.’ The showman nodded. ‘And my naturalist?’
Jem shrugged. He was assailed by a sudden memory of Mr Gilfoyle’s trembling hands and dazed expression, but pushed it to the back of his mind. He had more important things to think about – like John Gammon’s shop, for instance. Where could it be? Cock Lane was much longer than he’d expected, and very narrow. The Fortune of War public house stood on one corner. Across the street, a little further down, was the entrance to a court or alley, wedged between a druggist’s and a wholesale provision merchant’s. Then came an ironmonger’s, then some scaffolding, and then . . .
‘There it is,’ said Mr Lubbock, from beneath his umbrella. ‘I believe that might be Mr Gammon’s establishment.’
Jem quickened his pace. But as he passed the mouth of the little side-alley to his left, he happened to glance down it – and caught a glimpse of Eunice Pickles.
It took him a moment to realise what he’d just seen. By the time he did, he’d already taken a few more steps. ‘Damn me!’ he exclaimed, then did a complete about-face and bolted back past Mr Lubbock, into the alley.
‘Hi!’ The showman halted and spun around. ‘Where are you going?’
Jem didn’t answer. He had already lost Eunice. To his surprise, the alley was more than just a dead-end slot. Another narrow court branched off it before taking a sharp left-hand turn – and somewhere in this labyrinth Eunice had hidden herself. Turning corner after corner, she’d managed to duck out of sight.
Jem was confused by the court’s eccentric layout. There were so many houses opening onto it that he couldn’t tell where Eunice might be living. All the houses were old-fashioned, tall and skinny and half-timbered, with protruding upper floors. Some bore curious carvings, black with dirt and damp. Many of the leadlight windows were boarded up. Jem spotted a privy in one corner of the inner yard, under a line hung with limp, wet washing. But he couldn’t see another exit.
There were very few people about. An old man sat in a doorway, smoking his pipe. A young girl trudged across the muddy cobbles towards the privy, carrying a chamberpot. Somewhere an invalid was coughing and coughing . . .
Jem swivelled around smartly and retraced his steps. He was halfway back to Cock Lane when he ran into Josiah Lubbock, who had lumbered after him.
‘What’s amiss?’ the showman demanded. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Not a ghost,’ Jem replied. ‘Eunice Pickles.’
‘Aha!’
‘We can’t talk here. She might look out a window and recognise me.’
Mr Lubbock was quick on the uptake. He immediately turned and accompanied Jem, using his umbrella as a kind of shield. Only when they were once more in Cock Lane did he finally ask, ‘Which house is she in?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you saw her enter Red Lion Court?’
‘Is that its name?’ Jem glanced around, wondering distractedly which of the many painted inscriptions on the surrounding walls was actually a street sign. His heart was racing and his palms were damp. He felt almost feverish, despite his wet clothes. Then he spotted a dark, gaping entranceway just a little further up the street, between two identical houses. ‘That there’s a nightsoil passage,’ he said. ‘I can watch Gammon’s place
and
the court, if I tuck meself away in there.’
‘And
I
could go knocking on doors,’ said Mr Lubbock. Seeing Jem blink, he added, ‘Miss Pickles will not recognise
me.
’
Jem couldn’t argue with this. But he also couldn’t understand why the showman was being so helpful. As he hesitated, wondering if there was something he had missed, Mr Lubbock continued, ‘What was she dressed in? Can you recall?’
‘Um . . .’ Jem eyed the fat, red face hovering above him. It wore an expression of innocent goodwill that didn’t fool him for one minute. But since he couldn’t think of a reason
not
to answer, he sighed and mumbled, ‘A plaid shawl, black cloth boots, a straw hat, and a pale-green gown, very dirty about the hem.’ He frowned as he cast his mind back. ‘I think it were figured muslin,’ he finished.
‘You’re a sharp-eyed lad.’ There was real appreciation in Mr Lubbock’s tone. ‘And Sarah? I believe you once told me she favours coalscuttle bonnets?’
Jem nodded.
‘Then I shall keep that in mind,’ said Mr Lubbock. And away he went, leaving Jem to station himself in the nightsoil passage down the street.
During his years as a professional thief, Jem had always nursed a fondness for nightsoil passages. Although these dark little alleys may have been designed as through-ways for dustmen, they were even more useful as places where a lookout or pickpocket could loiter unnoticed. Since they usually led to dead-end yards full of stinking privies, they were never very crowded. Even courting couples were put off by the smell of urine and piles of rubbish.
From the nightsoil passage on Cock Lane, Jem had a fine view of both the entrance to Red Lion Court and the entrance to John Gammon’s shop. This shop was quite small. Its single display window was shaded by a dirty green awning and plastered with signs that Jem couldn’t read. Sides of pork hung in full view of passers-by. A basket of German sausages sat by the entrance.
Jem’s gaze flicked nervously from one end of the street to the other. He told himself that he was willing to wait here all night, if necessary. He saw people scurry past in the drizzle, their hats pulled down and their collars turned up. Some carried umbrellas. One or two lingered under awnings, or in doorways. He identified a carpenter from his rule-pocket; a prison porter from his brass-buttoned uniform; a butcher from his blue smock.
Jem took special note of this butcher, discounting him only when the man passed Gammon’s shop without a second glance. The old woman who shuffled into the shop some time later didn’t look fat enough to be Sarah Pickles. Her hair was white instead of grey. But Jem was careful to monitor the shop door until she emerged again – this time carrying a brown-paper parcel.
One look at her sweet face told him all that he needed to know. While Sarah might have shed weight, lost her teeth and turned white-haired from the stress of living as a fugitive, nothing could have replaced the hard calculation in her eyes with a kind and wistful timidity. Jem realised at once that this old woman was nothing like Sarah Pickles.
Suddenly he stiffened, catching his breath. He’d spotted Eunice. She was hurrying out of Red Lion Court, hatless and red-faced. As she charged towards him, Jem retreated a little.
But she didn’t even glance in his direction. Her anxious eyes were fixed on John Gammon’s butcher shop. When Jem saw her vanish into its depths, he began to gnaw at his fingernails. What on earth was going on? Why were the butcher and the Pickles clan in cahoots like this? Did Sarah know where John Gammon had buried a body or two? Was
that
why he was helping her?
Perhaps she had entrusted the information to a third party, and had threatened Salty Jack with exposure if she was arrested – or, indeed, if he tried to dispose of her. It was the only scenario that made sense. Certainly Sarah wasn’t the type to make friends with a possible rival, even if he
was
from the other side of town.
Waiting nervously for Josiah Lubbock to return, Jem could only hope that Eunice had been flushed out by him. Could she be seeking advice, or refuge? Could she have excused herself to avoid answering questions? If that were so, however, the showman should have been close at her heels.
Unless he was busy talking to Sarah Pickles . . .?
Then, all at once, something dawned on Jem. He gasped and bit down hard on his thumb. Sarah. Mr Lubbock had used the name ‘Sarah’. How had he known it? Jem had never once mentioned Sal’s first name – not in the showman’s hearing, Neither had Alfred, nor Birdie, nor Ned. Yet Mr Lubbock now seemed familiar with Sarah’s identity. Somehow he had put two and two together. Perhaps he’d been reading last summer’s newspaper stories. Perhaps one of the people working for him had jogged his memory.
He’ll try to blackmail her
, thought Jem, with mounting despair.
He’ll threaten to tell the police unless she stumps up.
It was obvious now why Josiah Lubbock had been so helpful. He’d been planning a caper. He was that kind of man. But he had no idea how dangerous Sarah Pickles could be, when cornered.
He was a false, greedy, swindling fool.
Jem was about to slip out of the passage when Eunice suddenly reappeared in the doorway of Mr Gammon’s shop. With her was a burly man in a bloodstained butcher’s smock and leather gaiters. He had a broad chest, massive shoulders and huge hands. All the hair on top of his head seemed to have fled to his bushy sideburns and big, black, handlebar moustache. His pale eyes flashed around the street before he advanced one step beyond his own threshold.
Jem decided that this hulking great butcher was probably Salty Jack. He watched the two of them walk away, Eunice scuttling and the butcher stomping. When they turned into Red Lion Court, Jem was drawn after them. He couldn’t help himself. Though he knew in his gut that the butcher was dangerous – though he himself was very, very frightened – he pulled his cap-brim down to his nose and sidled back into Cock Lane.
His thoughts were careening around in his head like panicky chickens. What should he do? Run away? Keep watch? Go knocking on doors, looking for Mr Lubbock? When he reached Red Lion Court, he stopped and peered into it. Eunice had already vanished. Her companion was entering the crooked side-alley. There was no one else in sight.
‘Jem?’ somebody called.
Jem gave a start. Then he glanced up, his heart in his mouth.
Alfred Bunce was walking along the street towards him.
‘I left the other young’uns at Bloomsbury,’ said Alfred.
‘Now I’ve come to fetch you.’
Though not exactly threatening, his tone had an edge to it. His clothes were so sodden that they looked almost black. His wet moustache drooped. Water dripped from his hat-brim. His shoulders were bent beneath the weight of his sack. All in all, he cut a gloomy, disheartening figure – yet the sight of him made Jem feel almost dizzy with relief.
‘He’s in there!’ Jem gabbled. ‘Lubbock! With the butcher!’
‘What?’
‘He knows who Sarah is! He’s bin scheming!’
‘Woah.’ Alfred placed a hand on Jem’s shoulder, then leaned towards him and said, ‘Slow down. What’s amiss? Tell me.’
Jem explained what had happened. When he described the butcher’s appearance, Alfred’s face began to sag.
‘This here ain’t summat we can deal with,’ Alfred declared. ‘If Salty Jack’s got a-hold o’Lubbock, ’tis a police matter.’ As Jem opened his mouth to protest, Alfred continued, ‘Fetch Constable Pike.’
‘Constable
Pike
?’
‘At the market. Off you go. I’ll stay and keep watch.’
‘But—’
‘If you cannot find Pike, bring another market constable. Or go to the police station at West Smithfield. We passed it, earlier.’
‘But them traps won’t listen to
me
!’ Jem exclaimed. He stared at the bogler in disbelief. ‘They’ll toss me out like a mangy dog, soon as I ever set foot in the place!’ Seeing Alfred frown, Jem knew that he’d struck a chord. ‘
You
go,’ Jem went on. ‘I’ll stay. The crib I’m seeking must be at the rear o’ the inner court, else I’d have spied one of ’em on a doorstep afore now.’
Alfred hesitated. He glanced down the alley, then back at Jem. His grip tightened. ‘You’ll keep watch?’ he asked. ‘Nowt else?’
‘I’ll do nothing foolish,’ Jem promised.
‘If anyone comes out, you’re not to trail ’em,’ Alfred warned. ‘You’re to stay where you are.’
Jem nodded. Still Alfred seemed reluctant to move. At last Jem said, ‘We ain’t doing no good standing here like a couple o’ well-pumps.’
‘You’re right.’ The bogler abruptly released Jem before hurrying back towards Giltspur Street. Jem set off down the alley. He wanted to station himself at the entrance to the inner court. From there, he’d have a good view of every house opening onto the privy yard. He’d even have a sheltering doorway, if the rain got too heavy.