A Very Peculiar Plague (26 page)
‘I ain’t convinced Mr Bunce’ll ever bogle again,’ Ned muttered, with a nervous glance at Alfred’s back. ‘Not after that job in Smithfield.’
Birdie frowned. Jem swallowed. ‘If there ain’t no more bogling, you’ll not see much more o’
me
,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Mr Bunce won’t want no crossing-sweeper cluttering up his place, bringing in half o’ what’s needed.’ Seeing Birdie’s confounded expression, he whispered, ‘What’re you staring at? It’s the truth, ain’t it?’
‘Is
that
what you think?’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘Seems to me you don’t know Mr Bunce at
all.
’
‘He’ll not cut you loose.’ Ned spoke to Jem in an earnest undertone. ‘He may seem hard on occasion, but he ain’t. He’s as good a friend as you’ll ever find. I’m proof of it, for I had no claim on Mr Bunce, yet he took me in like a Samaritan.’
‘He’d as soon feed a baby to a bogle as throw you onto the street,’ Birdie insisted. She seemed almost offended on Alfred’s behalf. ‘You believe that, don’t you, Jem? You
must
know you’re safe with Mr Bunce.’
Glancing at the bogler, Jem suddenly realised that she was right. Alfred had come back to Cock Lane for Jem’s sake. He had risked his own life to save Jem’s. And though Jem had defied him, lied to him and run away from him, Alfred hadn’t abandoned his half-trained apprentice.
To Jem, masters had always been enemies. They’d squeezed him dry, then thrown him away like orange peel. But perhaps Alfred wasn’t a master. Perhaps he was something else.
‘Er – Mr Bunce?’ A gentle voice suddenly hailed Alfred from across Giltspur Street. Looking around, Jem saw that Mr Gilfoyle was standing near the hospital. As they all paused to gape at him, the naturalist tipped his hat. Then he tentatively approached them, ignoring Mr Lubbock in his eagerness to address the bogler.
‘What a mercy I found you again, Mr Bunce! For I should very much like a word.’ Seeing Alfred grimace, Mr Gilfoyle quickly added, ‘This is not a commercial transaction. This is official business
.
I understand your reluctance to commit yourself, but I am appealing to your sense of civic duty.’
Alfred frowned. ‘Civic duty . . .?’ he echoed.
‘I am asking for your help, sir, not on my own behalf, but on behalf of the Lord Mayor of London. For I know a man on the Metropolitan Board of Works, and he is
extremely
anxious to consult you.’ Taking a deep breath, Mr Gilfoyle concluded, ‘The fact is, Mr Bunce, that news of your prowess has reached the upper levels of our city’s municipal government, where help is desperately needed . . .’
‘Ah. Mr Bunce, is it not? And you must be Miss Eames.’ The gentleman opened his door a little wider. He seemed to shine like a billiard ball, thanks to his gold-rimmed spectacles, glossy silk waistcoat, gleaming bald head and burnished, patent-leather shoes. ‘Come in, please,’ he said, waving his visitors towards the room behind him, where a line of high-backed chairs faced a large mahogany desk. ‘Are these your assistants? They’re much younger than I anticipated . . .’
Jem and Birdie exchanged a quick, nervous glance. Birdie looked like a china doll in her prettiest pink dress. Jem was wearing an outfit bought by Miss Eames especially for the occasion: a three-piece suit of speckled brown tweed, brown boots and a bow-tie. (‘For I don’t want it thought that we are not
respectable
folk,’ Miss Eames had declared.) Even Ned had received new trousers and a new shirt, though Miss Eames claimed that he didn’t deserve them. She was still angry about Birdie’s behaviour the previous week – and Jem suspected that she blamed Ned for it. This was quite unfair, of course, but it allowed Miss Eames to give Birdie ‘one more chance’.
After all the plain food and lectures that Birdie had endured since her escape through the bedroom window, Jem was surprised that she hadn’t run away for good.
He stood now with his cap in his hands, gazing awestruck at the richly furnished office into which they had been invited. The coffered ceiling was made of oak. The stained-glass windows were hung with velvet curtains. The walls were covered in huge, gilt-framed paintings, while the desk in the middle of the room was almost as big as a hansom cab.
‘Welcome to the City of London Sewers Office,’ said the bald man, sliding behind this desk. ‘My name is Mr Joseph Daw, and I am the Principal Clerk. Please do sit down.’
Alfred waited until Miss Eames and Birdie had seated themselves, then followed their example. Jem and Ned did the same. Jem was feeling very uncomfortable; his new suit made his legs itch, and his starched collar cut into his neck. He was also unnerved by all the dark wood in the room, which made him think of a magistrate’s court.
‘I have invited you here today at the behest of the Chief Engineer of Sewers,’ Mr Daw went on. ‘He has heard about you, Mr Bunce, from two sources: namely an Inspector of Sewers named Wardle, and a Clerk of Works named Harewood. Are you acquainted with either of these gentlemen?’
Alfred shook his head, looking almost as uncomfortable as Jem felt. Though he wasn’t wearing any fancy new clothes, he
had
washed his face, and had put on a clean shirt. Even so, he didn’t cut a very stylish figure.
‘Well,’ said Mr Daw, ‘I gather that Mr Wardle was approached by another man named Calthrop—’
‘We know
him
!’ Birdie announced. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by Mr Daw, or his luxurious office – and Jem had to admire her for that. Miss Eames, however, flashed her a warning look. And Mr Daw raised his eyebrows.
‘I see,’ he murmured, peering at Birdie through his spectacles, which were sitting at the very end of his long, thin nose. ‘Then you are undoubtedly aware that Mr Calthrop is the foreman of a sewer gang in the Holborn Viaduct. Mr Harewood, on the other hand, is friendly with a highly regarded naturalist called Gilfoyle.’
He paused for a moment, as if wondering how to proceed. So Miss Eames helped him.
‘Forgive me, Mr Daw,’ she said, ‘but Mr Bunce knows Mr Gilfoyle. In fact, Mr Gilfoyle recently told Mr Bunce that an engineer of his acquaintance had been describing recent building work around London. During the conversation, the subject of missing van-boys had come up. So when Mr Gilfoyle later became aware of certain . . . um . . . unusual creatures infesting the city’s drains, he naturally raised the matter with his friend, the engineer—’
‘Who referred it back to his superior, the Chief Engineer of Sewers.’ Mr Daw finished the sentence for her, as if he were growing slightly impatient. ‘The Chief Engineer has also been hearing complaints from various flushers regarding a plague of very large and dangerous vermin in the area around Holborn.’
‘Bogles,’ said Birdie.
‘Bogles. Yes,’ Mr Daw replied.
Jem felt suddenly convinced that the Principal Clerk didn’t like children, didn’t trust women, didn’t know what to make of Mr Bunce, and didn’t believe in bogles. Somehow this was obvious from the way he looked at Birdie, poker-faced, from beneath his heavy eyelids. But it was also clear that whatever his own views might be, Mr Daw was a very good civil servant, who would follow to the letter any instructions he might receive.
‘After consulting Mr Gilfoyle and your friend Mr Calthrop, the Chief Engineer decided that these . . . er . . .
bogles
might very well constitute a threat to the health of the city,’ Mr Daw explained. ‘Naturally, he was concerned that very little seemed to be known about them. And he was
extremely
anxious not to . . . um . . .’ Again the Principal Clerk paused, as if weighing up various words in his head. When at last he spoke, he did it very slowly and precisely. ‘The Chief Engineer was anxious not to arouse public interest in what might well prove to be a false alarm,’ he concluded. ‘That is why no record of our meeting today will be kept, and why the committee being proposed will be an unofficial one.’
Jem pulled a wry face. He understood exactly what the Principal Clerk was getting at. Mr Daw didn’t believe in bogles, and neither did many of his colleagues. So while they were allowing the Chief Engineer to pursue his little project, he had to do it secretly, in case the newspapers found out.
I know yer game,
Jem thought, folding his arms as he eyed the man across the desk. Alfred, meanwhile, was frowning.
‘Committee?’ he said. ‘What committee?
‘The Committee for the Regulation of Subterranean Anomalies,’ Mr Daw smoothly replied. ‘Such a committee would not be utterly unprecedented, since the city’s more ancient records do mention a “Guild of Bogglers and Feend-Seekers”.’ Suddenly he allowed himself a little smirk. ‘Nowadays, I suppose, an exact equivalent might be “the Worshipful Company of Bogle-Hunters”. However, I think that a less
showy
title would better suit our purposes.’
He went on to explain that the Town Clerk and the Chief Engineer had agreed to form a committee that would address London’s bogle problem. Mr Erasmus Gilfoyle would be on the committee, as would his friend Mr Mark Harewood. Inspector of Sewers Mr Eugene Wardle would also be included. ‘Mr Gilfoyle has requested that you yourself should sit on the committee, Mr Bunce,’ Mr Daw remarked, ‘along with anyone else you might care to nominate.’
‘Miss Eames,’ said Alfred.
Miss Eames couldn’t suppress a pleased smile when she heard this. She even coloured a little. Glancing at Mr Daw, Jem saw him purse his lips in disapproval.
‘It would be very unusual to invite a lady onto a committee of this sort,’ the Principal Clerk observed. ‘However, since it is an
unofficial
committee, I suppose some advisory role could be arranged—’
‘What about me?’ Birdie broke in. ‘And Jem? And Ned?’
Mr Daw looked as if he had sucked a lemon. ‘This is a serious matter, my dear,’ he said with strained civility. ‘It will require a degree of knowledge and responsibility that no mere child could supply.’
‘But
we
know more about bogles’n Mr Gilfoyle does,’ Jem pointed out. He regarded Mr Daw coolly, his arms still folded. For a brief instant their gazes locked.
Then Mr Daw gave a sniff. ‘Of course the choice of participants will be your own, Mr Bunce,’ he said at last, addressing Alfred. ‘It is important to realise, however, that you and your fellow members will be charged with a solemn duty, incompatible with the kind of frivolous conduct normally found in a schoolroom.’
‘We don’t none of us go to school,’ Jem growled. He was waiting to hear what Mr Daw would say to
that
when Miss Eames silenced him. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, turned to Mr Daw and asked, ‘What precisely is this committee expected to do, Mr Daw?’
‘Why, everything required of it, Miss Eames. If creatures need to be studied, then you will arrange it. If they need to be killed, you will arrange
that
.’
‘It takes money to kill bogles,’ Birdie interposed.
‘Six shillings for each bogle, and a penny for the salt,’ Jem added.
‘Funds will be supplied for any purpose pertaining to the committee’s frame of reference,’ Mr Daw announced drily. ‘I believe the Town Clerk’s Department has the matter in hand. My advice is that the committee hire Mr Bunce for an agreed sum over a stipulated period of time. But that will be for the committee to arrange.’ He glanced at his fob watch, then explained in a bored voice, ‘It has been proposed that the first meeting be convened next Monday, in the Metropolitan Board of Works building, at ten o’clock. If this isn’t agreeable to you, Mr Bunce, you must address your objections to Mr Harewood, whose office can be found there.’ Raising his eyebrows, he concluded, ‘Have you any questions you’d care to ask?’
No one did. So Mr Daw stood up and ushered them out of his office, pointing them towards the nearest exit while imploring them not to lose their way. It was easy to get lost in the Guildhall, he said, since it wrapped around a large courtyard.
‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Miss Eames replied crisply. Sure enough, she remembered exactly where to go, leading the others back to the main entrance through a maze of corridors and stairwells. They passed the Chamberlain’s Office, the Common Council Room, and the almost-completed library. They dodged an endless parade of clerks, who scuttled around like cockroaches in their dark suits.
After a while, Jem whispered to Birdie, ‘If this here committee hires Mr Bunce, he’ll need a ’prentice or two.’
Instead of smiling, Birdie frowned. When she saw Jem’s puzzled expression, she lowered her voice to say, ‘I don’t think I can bogle no more.’
Jem gaped at her.
‘I’m too slow,’ she continued glumly. ‘You saw me at the market.’
‘But that were an ambush!’ Jem hissed. ‘You can’t blame yerself!’
‘I ain’t so sure o’ that. Seems to me
you’d
have bin quick enough to get away.’ As Jem wondered if she were right, Birdie heaved a sigh and said, ‘I’ve lost the skill of it. Coming so close to a bogle’s teeth . . . ain’t that proof enough?’ Sadly she concluded, ‘It’s bin giving me nightmares. If Mr Bunce needs two ’prentices, he’ll have to hire Ned.’
‘I doubt he’ll need two of us,’ was Ned’s contribution. ‘Not now Sarah Pickles is banged up. For the bogles under Newgate is sure to disperse without a regular feed, and that means they’ll not be found close together no more.’
‘True enough.’ Jem was impressed by Ned’s reasoning. ‘But what about Salty Jack?
He’s
still out and about. Suppose he keeps feeding ’em?’
‘He won’t,’ Ned murmured. ‘He’s got nothing to feed ’em
with.
I doubt he’s got a single debtor less than sixteen years old; why would he?’ After a brief pause, Ned concluded, ‘Besides, he may end up in the jug, alongside Sal Pickles.’
‘Not he,’ said Birdie, as Jem shook his head. He knew that Miss Eames had consulted a lawyer friend, who had dismissed the possibility of gaoling John Gammon as long as Jem was the only witness against him. It would be Jem’s word against Salty Jack’s, unless Sarah decided to speak out – and at present, she wasn’t saying anything. (‘The proof against Mrs Pickles has been provided by several bereft mothers,’ the lawyer had remarked, after briefly reviewing the case, ‘whereas the proof against Mr Gammon is confined to the recollections of one boy whose character does not appear to be stainless. A good barrister could argue that Mr Gammon thought Jem a thief, and confined him in the hope that the lady would call a policeman. If such a defence was presented, it would be very hard to refute.’)