A Very Peculiar Plague (6 page)

Birdie shrugged. ‘I helped to kill ’em.’

‘By singing?’

‘That is no business of yours, sir!’ Miss Eames barked.

‘Ah, but it
could
be my business, if the little girl is willing. And very good business too.’ Addressing Birdie once more, Mr Lubbock bent down and placed a hand on each of his knees. ‘I’m pulling in two pounds a night, at present,’ he confided, ‘but if your voice is as sweet as your face, m’dear, the takings could double. And one tenth of that sum could be yours.’

Jem gasped. He immediately began to calculate percentages, even as he wondered if Mr Lubbock could be telling the truth. Birdie’s eyes widened. Alfred blinked.

Miss Eames, however, was unmoved.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she scoffed. ‘Why would Birdie want to work for you? She is studying with Signora Paolini, and is destined for an illustrious career on the stage!’

‘I’m sure she is, Miss Eames, but that doesn’t mean she cannot earn her keep when she is
not
studying,’ Mr Lubbock pointed out. ‘Why, what’s to stop her from studying in the day and performing at night?
I
cannot see any objection to it.’

Neither could Jem. He thought it an excellent scheme – and observed that Birdie, too, seemed struck by the idea.

‘She would learn to crack a whip,’ Mr Lubbock continued, ‘and to handle a snake and wrangle a pony—’

‘A
snake
?’ Jem interrupted, forestalling Miss Eames. ‘What snake?’

‘It is a perfectly harmless python. Not at all venomous,’ Mr Lubbock assured him. ‘As for our unicorn – why, she is the daintiest, most docile creature you ever laid eyes on! And our bogle’s as deft as he is big. Very well trained. He knows what he’s about.’

Alfred snorted. ‘There ain’t a bogle in the world can be trained,’ he said flatly.

‘You’d be surprised, Mr Bunce. Here – let me introduce you.’ Before Miss Eames could object, Mr Lubbock scurried over to the plush curtain, which he pushed aside to reveal a much larger room with a raised platform at one end. In front of this platform were several rows of wooden benches. Behind it, the grubby plaster wall was covered with colourful placards.

Jem decided that the single door to the left of the platform must lead backstage.

‘Hi! Eduardo! Come here at once!’ Mr Lubbock cried. Then he turned to Alfred, who had followed him into the makeshift theatre, and explained, ‘Our bogle is the scion of a renowned Italian family, skilled in all the theatrical arts. But he grew too heavy for clowning or tumbling, and has found his true calling elsewhere.’

‘You ain’t got no box seats,’ Jem remarked, having satisfied himself that the room wasn’t high enough to accommodate a gallery. His gaze snagged on several hooks in the ceiling. ‘Was this here a butcher’s shop, once?’

Before Mr Lubbock could answer, a huge, hairy shape emerged through the stage door. Even from a distance, Jem could see at once that it was a very large man in a brown fur suit made of rabbit or cat. The arms of the suit were enclosed by a pair of fur mittens, topped with claws made of horn or bone. Under one arm was tucked a detached head, complete with snout, tusks and a hinged jaw.

Jem decided that the head was probably moulded out of
papier-mâché,
or something equally light. The teeth were real, though – unless they had been fashioned from porcelain.

Miss Eames wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘
Really
, Mr Lubbock,’ she protested.

But the showman ignored her. Instead, with a theatrical flourish, he introduced Eduardo to ‘the
real
Birdie McAdam’. Then he fixed his little blue eyes on Birdie again. ‘I’ll warrant you’d make short work of
this
bogle – eh, m’dear?’ he said.

‘He don’t look like no bogle I ever saw,’ was Birdie’s response, as the man in the fur suit stared at her blankly. His big, bony, square-jawed face stuck out of his shaggy brown collar like a strange bloom sprouting from a flower pot. His hair and eyes were even darker than Jem’s.

‘I don’ unnerstand,’ he said to Mr Lubbock. ‘Bedelia issa leaving?’

‘No, no, you’re not listening, Ed. This
is
Birdie McAdam. The
real
Birdie McAdam. Now why don’t you put on that head and show her what you can do?’

Eduardo opened his mouth, still looking puzzled. But then someone else broke into the conversation.

‘What do you mean, Bedelia is leaving?’ a shrill voice exclaimed. ‘I’ll have you know I ain’t going
nowhere
! Not without a fight!’

Suddenly two more figures emerged from the backstage door. One was a dwarf wearing a false beard and a wax nose. He was dressed all in green, with a pointed green hat and knitted stockings. The other was a girl with a python draped over her shoulders. She was clad in a blonde wig, a white dress and a blue velvet sash. Jem decided that she was about sixteen years old.

‘Why, Bedelia!’ Mr Lubbock exclaimed, with forced cheerfulness. ‘The show’s in ten minutes – go and put on your slap, there’s a good girl.’

‘Who is
she
?’ Bedelia demanded, as if he hadn’t spoken. She was glaring at Birdie, who glared right back.

‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ Birdie retorted, folding her arms. ‘I’m Birdie McAdam. And
you
ain’t. Why, you’re nothing more than a cheap, false, parrot-voiced impersonator! And if you don’t leave off what you’re doing, I’ll snatch you bald-headed – that’s if you ain’t
already
bald, under that sorry excuse of a wig!’

7
THE PENNY GAFF

Bedelia turned to Mr Lubbock. ‘What does she mean, I ain’t Birdie McAdam?’ the girl cried. ‘You can’t do this! I were engaged for the entire London run!’

‘Now, Bedelia . . .’

‘Don’t you “Bedelia” me, Josiah Lubbock!’ She rounded on Birdie again. ‘Who do
you
work for, then? Pottle? Bland? What shows have
you
done?’

Jem began to laugh. He couldn’t help it. What with the wax-nosed dwarf, and the hairy giant, and the battling Birdies . . .

‘She ain’t here to take yer job,’ he told Bedelia, grinning from ear to ear. But Birdie quickly corrected him.

‘I’m here to make her stop being me,’ Birdie said, ‘and don’t care if she loses her job as a consequence.’

By now Bedelia was starting to look confused. It was her companion, the little man in green, who suddenly exclaimed, ‘You don’t mean
you’re
Birdie McAdam? The
real
Birdie McAdam?’

‘Ain’t that what I just bin saying?’ Birdie replied crossly. Beside her, Miss Eames added, ‘This is a clear case of fraudulent impersonation. I shall take you to court if Birdie’s name is not removed from your advertisements by tomorrow morning. Do you understand, Mr Lubbock?’

Mr Lubbock nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he assured her, with another greasy smile. ‘I had no wish to cause offence. But might I just ask—’

‘No, you may not,’ Miss Eames snapped. Bedelia, meanwhile, was gazing at Birdie in astonishment, open-mouthed and goggle-eyed.

‘You ain’t never the real Birdie,’ she protested. ‘You’re so
young
! Ain’t she young, Rupert?’

‘She is,’ said the dwarf, nodding.

‘I’m eleven years old,’ Birdie stiffly informed them.

‘You’re such a bit of a thing, though – ain’t she, Rupert?’

‘A scrap,’ the dwarf confirmed.

‘And Rupert would know,’ Bedelia pointed out, ‘for he’s worked with some o’ the smallest, in his time.’

Jem shot an inquiring glance at Rupert, wanting to hear more. But Miss Eames wasn’t interested in Rupert’s fairground memories. She reached for Birdie’s hand and said, ‘I see no reason to stay. We’ve delivered our message. You will no longer profit from Birdie’s name, Mr Lubbock, or you’ll be hearing from my solicitors. Good day to you, sir.’ She gave Birdie’s hand a tug, then frowned when there was no response. ‘Come along, dear. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Birdie mumbled. Catching her eye, Jem pulled a sympathetic face. He knew in his heart that she wanted to pet the snake, chat to the dwarf, and examine the exhibits. Why not? He wanted to do it himself.

Miss Eames, however, had no wish to stay. Not while a cab stood waiting outside. ‘We ought to get home,’ she told Birdie. ‘Whitechapel Road isn’t exactly a respectable place to be. Is it, Mr Bunce?’

Alfred shook his head. ‘Off you go, lass,’ he said to Birdie. When she pouted, looking mulish, he fixed her with a flinty gaze. ‘Do as you’re told, now,’ he warned. ‘Miss Eames knows what’s best for you.’ Then he turned and motioned to Jem. ‘You too, lad. Come along.’

‘One moment, Mr Bunce.’ Stepping forward, Mr Lubbock managed to insert himself between Alfred and the door. ‘I wonder if
you
might be interested in a public appearance? On competitive terms, of course.’

Alfred scowled. ‘Get out o’ me way,’ he rasped.

‘You’re a bogler, Mr Bunce. You’ve made a name for yourself. People would pay to see you at work.’ Before Alfred could do more than sniff, Mr Lubbock gestured at Bedelia. ‘A double act, perhaps? You wouldn’t have to do much. Your main contribution would be your name; my associate would take care of the rest. Why, she could be your new apprentice!’

Jem bristled. ‘
I’m
his new ’prentice. I’m a bogler’s boy,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’ For the first time, Mr Lubbock studied Jem with genuine interest. But Alfred shook his head sternly.

‘I ain’t going on no stage,’ he declared, ‘and neither is Jem.’

‘Then may I make another suggestion?’ As Alfred sidestepped him, trying to follow Miss Eames into the vestibule, Mr Lubbock began to talk very quickly. ‘Have you ever considered how valuable a bogle would be? People pay enormous sums to see tigers and elephants – only think how much they’d pay to see a real, live bogle!’ Before Alfred could sidle away, Mr Lubbock grabbed his arm. ‘I’m acquainted with the owner of a travelling menagerie, and I’m sure that, with his help, we could devise a means of caging and keeping any bogle you might catch during the course of your daily rounds—’

‘Listen here, Lubbock.’ Alfred wrenched himself free, then planted his finger on the showman’s chest. ‘In the first place, you can’t trap a bogle. Try and you’ll perish.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘In the second place, I don’t bogle no more. It ain’t a healthy occupation.’

‘Mr Bunce—’

‘And last of all, I don’t work for liars.’ Alfred suddenly turned his attention to Jem, using the same dark, piercing look that he’d used to quell Birdie. ‘Liars is nothing but trouble,’ he declared, very slowly and clearly. ‘They promise you money and it never comes. When they make a mistake, they allus blame you for it. You should remember that, lad. They ain’t worth the time you spend on ’em.’

Jem grunted. He didn’t know what else to do. As an accomplished liar, he felt that Alfred was being a little harsh. But he couldn’t exactly say so.

‘I’m not lying, Mr Bunce,’ Mr Lubbock protested. ‘Why would I want to saddle myself with a vicious creature if it wasn’t going to make us both a fortune? Which it
would
, sir, I promise you. On my mother’s life—’

‘D’you know what bogles eat?’ Alfred interrupted.

‘Do you know what you’d be feeding ’em?’

Mr Lubbock glanced at Bedelia, who shrugged. Beside her, Rupert said vaguely, ‘They’d be partial to a bit o’ meat, I daresay?’

‘They eat children,’ Alfred growled. Then he touched his hat in farewell. ‘You don’t keep bogles, sir, you kill ’em,’ he concluded. ‘Good day to you. I’ll see meself out.’

He moved away so quickly that he was in the street before Jem could catch up with him. Miss Eames was already outside, tearing a placard off a wall. It was drizzling. A line of people stood waiting for the penny gaff to open. The watery reflections of nearby gas-lamps gilded the damp cobblestones.

‘Here!’ said the man at the front of the line, when he saw what Miss Eames was up to. ‘What’s your game, then?’

‘The next show is cancelled,’ Miss Eames informed him.

‘
Cancelled
?’

‘You have been misled. Birdie McAdam will not be performing here tonight.’

Miss Eames was so absorbed in her work that she seemed not to notice the sudden clamour of disappointed theatre patrons. Jem heard it, though. And so did Birdie.

They exchanged an anxious look as several drunken loiterers moved towards Miss Eames, loudly complaining.

‘Ye’re ten minutes late, and now ye’re saying ye’ll not open at all?’ somebody bellowed. Whoever he was, he sounded Irish.

Alfred grabbed Miss Eames’s wrist. ‘Come,’ he said, pulling her towards their hansom cab, which was waiting just down the street. Birdie slipped behind Miss Eames and began to shove her along. Jem tried to distract the Irishman.

‘It’s Josiah Lubbock
you
want. He’s the manager o’ this here gaff,’ Jem announced. He pointed at the shop door, where the showman was skulking. ‘That’s him there – see? He’ll tell you why there ain’t no show tonight.’

As the crowd rounded on Mr Lubbock, erupting into a chorus of complaints, Jem turned and made for the hansom cab. He could hear Miss Eames giving Alfred’s address to the cabman, but didn’t stop to wonder why until he was safely tucked away in the vehicle, opposite Alfred and Birdie. Only when the cab had started to move, heading west down Whitechapel Road, did Jem feel safe enough to speak.

‘Why are we going to Alfred’s place?’ he asked Miss Eames. ‘I thought you was heading home?’

Miss Eames looked at him in surprise. Her complexion was blotchy, her skirt was splashed with mud, and her hair had come loose, falling in damp wisps from beneath her hat – which sat crookedly on her head. Jem was relieved to see her looking so dishevelled. It made her less intimidating, somehow.

‘Oh, I couldn’t let you walk,’ Miss Eames replied. ‘Not barefoot. Not in this weather.’ As Jem blinked, she added, ‘You
will
take Jem for the night – will you not, Mr Bunce? He cannot be left on the street.’

‘Aye,’ Alfred rumbled, sounding resigned. ‘I’ll take him.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find him a suitable position,’ Miss Eames went on. ‘He is not
completely
unskilled, after all.’

‘Mebbe he can sell flypapers,’ Birdie suggested. She was regarding Jem in a slightly resentful way, her arms folded, her eyes narrowed. ‘Mebbe he can work as a “Catch-Em Alive” boy.’