A Very Peculiar Plague (2 page)

‘Who’s Mr Watkins?’ Jem interrupted.

‘The landlord. He keeps the place. And would never have took it on, had he known.’

‘Known what?’

‘About the
beer cellar.
’ Mabel shuddered, as if someone had walked over her grave. ‘The tavern’s fresh-built, but the cellar’s old. There used to be a prison on that very spot, for debtors and the like, and our cellar was where they put ’em. I never go down, if I can help it. Not without Mr Watkins. Even before Florry vanished, I misliked the air. It felt . . .’ She paused for a moment, frowning. ‘It felt
bad
,’ she said at last. ‘Unwholesome. As if someone had died there.’

Jem thought back to the previous summer. He thought about Alfred and Birdie. He thought about the two bogles that still haunted his dreams: the one he’d glimpsed at a gentleman’s house near Regent’s Park, and the one he’d helped to kill some four months later, in a cutting on the London and North Western Railway.

‘How old was Florry?’ he inquired.

‘That I can’t tell you. Twelve, perhaps? But she was very small.’

‘Then it could have bin a bogle as took her.’ Jem tried to inject a note of authority into his voice. ‘You should talk to Alfred Bunce. Mr Bunce will know what to do. He’s a Go-Devil man. He kills bogles with the same spear Finn McCool used to kill fire-breathing dragons, in times past.’

‘But how can I talk to Mr Bunce if I don’t know where he is?’ Mabel objected. Then she narrowed her eyes at Jem, who grinned when he saw her sceptical, measuring look. ‘I suppose
you
do,’ she said wryly. ‘Is that your lurk? Are you touting for this cove?’

‘I’ll take you straight to him for tuppence ha’penny,’ Jem offered. And as she rolled her eyes in disgust, he argued his case. ‘Mr Bunce don’t care to go bogling no more. He changed lodgings a while back, on account of it. Where he is now, there’s no one knows what he used to do, and no one to plague him as a consequence. But he’ll listen to
you
, I’ll be bound.’

‘Why?’ asked Mabel. ‘Why am I so different?’

‘You ain’t,’ said Jem. ‘You got a kid gone, same as all the others. That’s why he’ll listen.’ Seeing her confusion, he tried to explain. ‘Bogles eat children. Mr Bunce don’t like that. He don’t like using kids as bait, neither, which is why he stopped bogling. There’s a boy lodging with him now – a mudlark called Ned – who’d be a deal happier bogling than scavenging on the riverbank. Mr Bunce won’t oblige him, though. Thinks bogling’s too dangerous.’ Jem paused, then took a deep breath. ‘But what if someone should come along, a-weeping and a-wailing, asking for help?’ he concluded. ‘Mr Bunce ain’t got it in him to turn ’em down.
That’s
why he changed his lodgings.’

Mabel nodded slowly. She seemed to understand. ‘Where does he live now?’

‘Near enough,’ Jem replied, ‘if we take a ’bus there.’

Mabel’s lip curled. She raised one finely plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh-ho!’ she exclaimed. ‘So it’s the omnibus fare you’re after now, is it?’

Again Jem shrugged. ‘Unless you want to
walk
to the Strand,’ he said.

‘Mr Bunce lives near the Strand?’

‘Off Drury Lane. But that’s all I’ll tell you.’ Gazing up at Mabel from beneath his cap, Jem held out one dirty palm. ‘Tuppence ha’penny,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll be needing me there to soften him up, like.’

Mabel sniffed. Then she grunted. Then she glanced up at the sky, which was low and grey and as wet as a sponge.

‘We’ll take a ’bus,’ she remarked, before turning to Jem with a crooked smile. ‘By the by, how old are you?’

‘Eleven.’

‘And already you’re bargaining like a Billingsgate fishmonger!’ There was a touch of admiration in Mabel’s tone. ‘I’ll give you a ha’penny up front,’ she said. ‘The rest you’ll get when we reach his crib.’

‘Done.’

‘And if this here is a caper, my lad, I’ll give you
such
a hiding – never mind what I tell the police when I’m done!’

She scowled at Jem, who beamed back.

But then something else occurred to him, and his smile faded.

‘You ain’t acquainted with Sarah Pickles, by any chance?’ he asked, fixing her with with a quizzical look.

‘Sarah Pickles?’ Mabel sounded perplexed. ‘Who’s she?’

‘It don’t signify.’ Sarah Pickles was a private matter, which Jem didn’t want to discuss. Not in the street, with a perfect stranger. So he flapped his hand, turned on his heel, and made for the ’bus stop.

2
FLYPAPER

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 moustache and his thick, greying 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 colouring 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 palliasse.

‘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 of 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 further, 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-draught 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 pot-boy 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 and a penny for the salt.’

‘I’ll pay you eight shillings.’ Mabel stood up suddenly, startling Alfred, who blinked and dropped the match that 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!’

‘Please, Mr Bunce,’ begged the barmaid. ‘I’d not ask if I weren’t going mad with the strain of it. A bogle downstairs – why, it don’t bear thinking on! How am I to work in such a place?’

Alfred sighed. He had retrieved his match and struck it against a wall; now he was drawing on his pipe as he lit it.
Puff-puff-puff.
For a moment his face was obscured by a cloud of smoke.