A Very Peculiar Plague (27 page)
‘Mr Bunce ain’t about to take on Salty Jack Gammon,’ mumbled Jem. ‘Nor will Miss Eames, if she can’t find no lawyer to back her.’
‘Then someone should make sure John Gammon knows he ain’t pursued,’ Ned advised Birdie. ‘For if
he
thinks he’s safe, we can all of
us
feel safer.’
‘You think so?’ Jem didn’t. Not entirely. He’d known other men like John Gammon, and understood that they were always a threat, no matter what their mood. On the other hand, if Jem were hired by the London Sewers Office, his official status would offer some protection against Salty Jack. Why, the very sturdiness of the Guildhall itself made him feel secure and important . . .
By this time they were outside the Great Hall, heading for the main entrance. Jem couldn’t see any other people about. But suddenly a voice said, ‘Pardon me, sir – are you Mr Alfred Bunce?’ And a porter emerged from a booth near the front door.
He was an imposing figure, very large and blond and arrayed in a splendid uniform trimmed with gold. At the sight of him, Alfred stopped short. ‘Aye. Bunce is me name,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’ve been asked to convey a request.’ The porter flicked a rapid look around the lofty vestibule, with its vaulted roof and stained-glass windows. Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t in danger of being overheard, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Informal, like. From the kitchen staff.’
‘The kitchen staff?’ Miss Eames echoed.
‘Yes’m. They heard as how you were expected here today, and would be very grateful if you’d pay ’em a call.’
‘Why?’ asked Jem, hoping that this ‘call’ might involve gifts of food. But the porter glanced at him nervously, as if reluctant to answer. There was a brief pause.
Then the big man stooped and muttered into Alfred’s ear, ‘They think they’ve a bogle, Mr Bunce. In the west crypt, where the wine’s kept. And they want you to kill it before the Lord Mayor’s dinner, next week . . .’
BAISD BHEULACH
a Scottish shapeshifting demon
BASILISK
a legendary reptile reputed to cause death with a single glance
BAUCHLE
to misuse
BEADLE
a minor official who carries out civil, educational or ceremonial duties
BITE
a hoax, humbug
BLOWEN
a girlfriend
BLUEBOTTLE
a policeman
BLUE RUIN
gin
BLUFFER
an innkeeper
BOGGART
a bogle
BOGLE
a monster, goblin, bogeyman
BOOZING KEN
a public house
BROLLACHAN
a Scottish shapeshifting demon that takes the form of whatever you most fear
CANT
slang
CAPER
a criminal scheme
CHINK
money
COSTER
a street-seller
COVE
a man
CRACKSMAN
a burglar, lockpicker
CRACKSMAN’S CROW
a housebreaker’s lookout
CRIB
a house or lodging
DIDDLE
gin
DOG-SOUP
water
DOWNY
cunning
DRUGGET
a coarse woollen fabric used as a floor covering
DUDS
clothes
DUN
to demand payment
DUNNAGE
clothes and possessions
DUNTERS
monsters that infest Scottish castles
EACHY
a species of slimy lake monster
ERLKING
a malevolent creature who haunts forests
FACHAN
a Celtic monster so frightening that it induces heart attacks
FLAM, FLAMMING
a lie; lying
FLASH
showy
GAMMONING
deceiving; lying
GAMMY
false, hostile
GANGER
a foreman or supervisor
GRIDDLE
to beg, scrounge
GRIFFIN
a legendary creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle
GRINDYLOW
a bogeyman from Lancashire or Yorkshire, typically found in bogs or lakes
HACKNEY CAB
a two-wheeled carriage for hire
HEAVY WET
port wine
HOG
a shilling
HOISTMAN
a shoplifter or thief
HOOK IT
move it
HUMMING
deceiving
KINCHIN CRACK
a fine girl
KNOCKER
a small Welsh bogle that lives underground
JACULUS
a small dragon
LAP
tea
LONDON PARTICULAR
thick London fog
LURK
a trick, scam
LUSH
to drink; a drunkard
MUDLARK
a child who scavenges on riverbanks
MUG I FOG
pipe I smoke
NAVVY
an unskilled labourer, especially one who does heavy digging
NECKCLOTH
noose
NIMM’D
stole
NOBBLER
a thug
OMNIBUS
a very large horsedrawn vehicle for moving large numbers of people
ON THE WAG
truanting
PEACH
to inform
PENNY GAFF
a cheap, lower-class theatre or show
PRIG
a thief; to steal
PRIVY
a toilet
RACKET
a shady or illegal pursuit
RED CAPS
monsters that infest Scottish castles
SCRAGGED
hanged
SELKIE
a creature who lives as a seal in water but sheds its skin to become human on land
SLAVVY
a maid-of-all-work
SLUAGH
evil Scottish spirits of the dead that wander the earth
SLUMMING
cheating
SNECKDRAW
a sly, crafty person
SNEEZER
a drink
SPEEL, SPEELER
to cheat; a cheater
SPRING-HEELED JACK
a legendary character of Victorian London known for his startling leaps
SQUEEZER
gallows
STRETCH
hang
STUMP UP
to pay
TOFF
a well-to-do person
TOGS
clothes
TRAPS
police
WATERHORSE
a Celtic monster that’s half-horse, half-fish and lives in bodies of water; otherwise known as a ‘kelpie’
WORKHOUSE
an institution that houses and feeds paupers
Catherine Jinks was born in Brisbane in 1963 and grew up in Sydney and Papua New Guinea. She studied medieval history at university and her love of reading led her to become an author. Her books for children, teenagers and adults have been published all over the world, and have won numerous awards.
Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales with her husband, journalist Peter Dockrill, and their daughter Hannah.
BOOK 3– A SNEAK PREVIEW
Newgate Market was an empty, echoing shell. Doors hung askew. Windows were smashed. Iron hooks were rusting away. The market clock was no longer ticking, and the stalls were silting up with rubbish.
All of the butchers had long ago moved to Smithfield, taking their sides of beef and saddles of mutton with them.
‘I don’t know why this place ain’t bin torn down long since,’ Alfred Bunce remarked. He stood hunched in the rain with his bag on his back, gazing across an expanse of muddy cobbles towards the central pavilion. Water dripped off his wide-brimmed hat and trickled down his long, beaky nose. Even his drooping moustache was sodden. ‘Ruined buildings breed every kind o’ strife, from coining to murder,’ he added. ‘Bogles would be the least o’ yer problems, round here.’
Beside him, a brown-eyed boy was scanning the shops that fronted the square. Some of them were boarded up, and those that remained in business were for the most part seedy-looking taverns or coffee houses.
‘I don’t see Mr Wardle,’ said the boy, whose name was Ned Roach. He was dressed in a navy-blue coat with brass buttons, very worn about the elbows, and a pair of buff-coloured trousers, damp and soiled. A flat cap sat on his springy brown hair. Despite his missing tooth and scarred hands, he looked respectable enough. ‘Which o’ these here establishments would be Mother Okey’s?’
‘Ask Jem,’ Alfred replied. ‘He knows the neighbourhood better’n I do.’
‘Jem!’ Ned turned to address another boy, who was lagging behind them. ‘You bin here once. Which pub is Mother Okey’s?’
Jem Barbary didn’t answer. He was too busy peering at the dark silhouette of someone who was skulking on a nearby doorstep. Ned didn’t blame Jem for being nervous. This was John Gammon’s territory, and Gammon was a dangerous man.
‘What’s that feller doing there, lurking like a cracksman’s crow?’ Jem hissed. He was smaller and thinner than Ned, with so much thick black hair that his head looked too big for his body. He wore a bedraggled suit of speckled brown tweed. ‘D’you think he works for Salty Jack?’
‘Mebbe he’s sheltering from the rain,’ Ned offered.
But Jem scowled. ‘I don’t trust him. I don’t trust
no one
hereabouts.’
‘Which is why we should pick up our pace.’ Alfred spoke in a gruff, impatient voice. ‘Wardle said to meet at Mother Okey’s. Any notion where that might be?’
Jem considered the half-dozen public houses scattered around the market square. ‘T’ain’t that ’un,’ he announced, pointing. ‘That there is the Old Coffeepot. I spoke to the barmaid last time I passed through.’
‘And that?’ Alfred nodded at the nearest tavern. Although it had a sign suspended above its front door, none of them could read the lettering.
‘There’s a cat on that sign,’ Ned observed, ‘so it’s more likely to be the Cat and Fiddle. Or the Cat and Salutation . . .’
‘Here!’ Jem suddenly clutched Alfred’s sleeve. ‘Ain’t that Mr Wardle?’
It was. Ned recognised the man who had emerged from the old-fashioned alehouse to their right. He was large and middle-aged, with fuzzy side-whiskers and a slight paunch. Though respectably dressed, he had an untidy look about him – almost as if his clothes were buttoned askew. Wisps of wiry grey hair escaped from beneath his bowler hat. His necktie was crooked. There was a crusty stain on his waistcoat lapel, and an unshaven patch on his chin.
Even when he spotted Alfred, his worried expression didn’t change. The anxious lines seemed permanently engraved across his brow.
‘Mr Bunce!’ he exclaimed. ‘You found me!’
‘Aye,’ said Alfred, touching his hat.
‘I was afeared you might have taken a wrong turn.’ Mr Wardle’s small blue eyes swung towards the two boys. ‘I see you brought your apprentices with you.’
Alfred gave a brusque nod. ‘Can’t kill a bogle without bait,’ he growled.