The ganger nodded. He explained that each ventilation shaft ran from the arched ceiling of the sewer, sideways over the house vaults, and then up the party walls. So yes, he said; the opening of the shaft must be close to the manhole.
“There’s a ladder to climb, if ye’ve a mind to it,” Calthrop added. “But ’tis a very long ladder, ending on a very narrow ledge.”
Alfred grunted. Then he dropped his sack, clamped his teeth around the handle of his dark lantern, and lowered himself into the sewer. Soon he was out of sight—much to Jem’s consternation.
It didn’t seem to Jem that they should be splitting up. Not down in the dark, among the bogles.
“Are you a bogler yerself, Miss Eames?” asked Sam Snell after a slightly awkward pause.
“No, Mr. Snell, I am a folklorist,” Miss Eames replied. “I have a scientific interest in bogles. I study them.”
“Ah.” Snell nodded, though Jem wasn’t convinced that the flusher had entirely understood her. It was Hugh Purdy who said, “You’ve come to investigate the plague, I daresay?”
Miss Eames blinked. “The what?”
“The plague o’ bogles hereabouts,” Purdy reminded her.
“Oh.” Miss Eames looked a little flustered, Jem thought. “Well . . . naturally, it concerns me . . .”
“I’ve bin a-thinking on it myself,” Purdy continued, “and wonder if it might be accounted for by the Fleet River. Which runs just beneath here—don’t it, Sam?”
“That it does,” Snell confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “Through the low-level sewer along Farringdon Street, all the way to the Thames.”
“Is that true?” Birdie had been squatting at the edge of the manhole, trying to catch a glimpse of the sewer beneath it. Now she glanced up to address Nat Calthrop. “Is there a river under Farringdon Street?”
“Aye,” said the ganger. “And a burn under Smithfield Market, running along Cowcross to the old Fleet Ditch. And another under Newgate Street—”
“Newgate Street?” Jem exclaimed, before catching Birdie’s eye.
“And all of ’em’s connected through the Fleet,” Purdy concluded. “Which is where them bogles might live, when they ain’t moving about in the streams and sewers.”
He shot an inquiring look at Miss Eames, who opened her mouth, then shut it again. Birdie sat back on her heels, awestruck. “I never knew about no underground rivers!” she marveled, before leaning forward to address Alfred—who was on his way back up the ladder. “Did you hear that, Mr. Bunce? Mr. Purdy says as how all the bogles might be gathering hereabouts on account of a river beneath Farringdon Street!”
Alfred didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to haul himself out of the manhole without dropping his lantern. It was Miss Eames who observed thoughtfully, “A lot of English folk monsters are found in lakes and streams. Eachies and grindylows, for example.”
“So mebbe it’s the river-sewer we ought to be searching,” Birdie suggested as Hugh Purdy reached down to help Alfred out of the manhole.
“We’ll be searching no sewers,” Alfred rasped. “Not today.”
“Why not?” The plumber frowned. “Ain’t there a bogle down below?”
“Oh, there’s a bogle. Mebbe more’n one. But the platform is too narrow.”
“For the ring o’ salt, you mean?” asked Jem.
“Aye.” Alfred straightened, peering around in the gloom. “We must do the job up here, where there’s space enough to lay a trap.” Then he glanced at the two flushers and said, “The fewer folk is on hand, the better.”
Calthrop sniffed. “Ye dinnae want us here?”
“It might take a long time,” warned Alfred.
“Then I’ll bid ye good day, for I maun attend to my business.” Calthrop gave his keys to Sam Snell. “You can let yeer friends out. And I’ll have those keys back on the morrow, at first peep.”
“Yessir.” As his ganger began to clomp away, Snell turned to Alfred. “I cannot leave you in the subway unescorted, Mr. Bunce. It’s against the rules. But I’ll stand wherever you wish.”
“Over there, then. With Miss Eames,” Alfred replied. “And you, lad—I want you just here. Where I can see you.” He gave Jem a prod. “Birdie? I’ll be putting you in the trap today, if you’ve no objection.”
“Oh, no!” said Birdie. “I’ve no objection at all!” And as Alfred fished around in his sack, looking for the bag of salt, her face split into a wide, happy grin.
Jem was amazed. He himself was beginning to feel very frightened, for Alfred’s warnings were echoing around the inside of his head. Mebbe more’n one . . . This corner o’ town ain’t like no other . . . Ain’t no way o’ knowing how many bogles lurk down here . . .
What if he had to face two bogles at once? Or three? Or four? Or fifteen? What if they hunted him down like a pack of wolves?
Even Alfred wouldn’t be able to fight off a whole stampede of bogles . . .
15
An Unpleasant Surprise
Jem skulked against the north wall of the subway, staring at the uncovered manhole about twenty feet away. Behind him, at a safe distance, Sam Snell, Hugh Purdy, and Miss Eames were waiting and watching. Alfred had stationed himself against the opposite wall, to Jem’s right. In front of them both, on the other side of the manhole, a safety lantern stood at Birdie’s feet.
The ring of salt encircled her, sparkling like a diamond necklace.
Then Alfred nodded at Birdie. Though her back was turned to him, she saw his nod reflected in the mirror she was holding. And she immediately burst into song.
“I am a brokenhearted milkman, in grief I’m arrayed
Through keeping of the company
Of a young servant maid,
Who lived on board and wages,
The house to keep clean
In a gentleman’s family near Paddington Green.”
Birdie’s voice echoed off the walls like the chiming of silver bells. Jem was astonished at how clear and strong and sweet it was. She didn’t sound like a street singer; not anymore. Every note cut through the air as cleanly as a knife blade, without a trace of breathiness.
“She was as beautiful as a butterfly
And proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington Green.”
Beyond Birdie’s small, straight, narrow figure lay an empty void. Alfred had thought it unlikely that anything unexpected would creep up on her. There were too many adults in the way, he’d said. Nevertheless, he’d told Jem to keep his eyes fixed on the dim space in front of Birdie, while Alfred himself watched the manhole.
So Jem was forced to ignore the only thing he really wanted to look at, as Birdie trilled away like a canary in a coal mine.
“She’d an ankle like an antelope and a step like a deer,
A voice like a blackbird, so mellow and clear,
Her hair hung in ringlets so beautiful and long;
I thought that she loved me, but I found I was wrong.”
Staring down the tunnel ahead of him, which was lit at regular intervals by the gratings in the roof, Jem wondered gloomily if his brief spell as a bogler’s boy was now over. With Birdie back on the job, he would almost certainly be relegated to some kind of supporting role—and how much would that be worth, in shillings and pence? Not much, he suspected. Why, Alfred might decide he didn’t even need another apprentice. And if that happened, Jem would find himself on the street again. Because why would Alfred want to keep a boy who couldn’t pay his way?
If you weren’t useful, you were expendable. That had always been Jem’s experience.
Of course, it was possible he wouldn’t have to face being sacked. He might be killed first, right here, in the viaduct. They might all be killed by a ravening horde of bogles . . .
Suddenly he gasped. This surge of despair, he knew, wasn’t natural. He realized that the bogle must be very close. Then he heard Birdie’s voice falter—just for an instant—before she bravely began to sing again.
&nb
sp; “She was as beautiful as a butterfly
And proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington Green.”
Jem couldn’t resist glancing at the manhole. What he saw made him catch his breath. Something was squeezing through the hole—something that looked like gravel coated in pitch. But it didn’t spread out into a widening pool. Instead, it reared up and up, swiftly and silently, until it was taller than Alfred, and as broad as it was high. It had a misshapen lump of a head, pierced by several deep, dark holes that might have been eyes, or mouths, or ears; Jem couldn’t tell. Its limbs were blunted stumps, which would suddenly erupt from unlikely spots on its torso before dissolving back again. With each step it took, its legs would disappear and reemerge, disappear and reemerge . . .
It looked molten yet solid—deformed yet shapeless—like a black satin bag full of rocks. And it didn’t make a sound as it heaved itself toward Birdie, whose voice remained steady and firm, though Jem could see light dancing on the mirror that trembled in her hand.
“When I asked her to marry me,
she said, ‘Oh, what stuff!’
And told me to drop it, for she’d had quite enough
Of my nonsense . . . At the same time,
I’d bin very kind,
But to marry a milkman she didn’t feel inclined.”
Slowly the bogle advanced. One stump entered the magic circle—then another, then another. Jem’s heart was in his mouth. Though he stood frozen and speechless, he was shouting at Alfred inside his head: Kill it! Kill it now! But Alfred didn’t move. He was waiting for the bogle to drag its last haunch into the ring of salt.
And Birdie was waiting for him to give her a signal.
“She was as beautiful as a butterfly
And proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington—”
Alfred lunged. Somebody screamed. Birdie threw herself out of the ring as Alfred tossed a handful of salt. Jem yelled, “Birdie! Wait!” because she had kept running, down the tunnel, out of sight.
Then the bogle whirled around, a dozen limbs sprouting from its body. Jem ducked. He didn’t see Alfred’s spear hit home, but he felt its impact. The bogle seemed to explode, sending rocky fragments bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. The shards clanged on pipes and thudded to the floor. Half a dozen of them struck Jem on his arms and head, burning him like hot coals.
He could hear Alfred swearing.
“Birdie? Birdie! Where are you?” cried Miss Eames. She was already brushing past Jem, heading for the magic circle. But Alfred’s arm suddenly shot out to bar her way.
“Wait. Don’t touch that muck,” he warned roughly. Jem saw that a tarry puddle was turning to dust on the floor.
“Birdie!” Miss Eames called again. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Birdie replied. She had stepped out of the shadows into a pool of light. Her face was as white as the salt on the floor. “And I ain’t hurt.”
“I am,” said Jem, examining a gash on his hand. “It’s going black at the edges.”
“Show me,” Alfred demanded. Soon he was rubbing fresh salt into Jem’s wounds, which included a burn and two cuts. The salt stung so badly that Jem tried to pull away, hissing. But Alfred was stronger than he looked.
“Give it a minute,” he rumbled, his fingers clamped around Jem’s wrist. “If the salt don’t work, we’ll try a little holy water.”
“That could have been very dangerous,” said Miss Eames, sounding shaken. “I had no idea those things could erupt like volcanoes. Has it happened to you before, Mr. Bunce?”
“Aye.”
“Then you should not have left these children within the blast radius. Why—only look at Birdie’s hat! It has a terrible scorch mark on it.”
“Oh, that ain’t nothing.” Birdie spoke impatiently. “What about Mr. Bunce? He’s the one as needs attention!”
It was true. Alfred’s green coat was covered in burns. There was a cut on his face that was turning black, like Jem’s. But a pinch of salt, applied to the wound, seemed to bring some relief. Alfred’s strange, spreading bruise immediately vanished, and a normal-looking scab began to form. Soon he was swigging brandy from his flask while Birdie packed up his bag and Miss Eames made notes in a little red book.
It was Jem who first noticed that Sam Snell and his friend hadn’t moved. Once the pain of his injuries had eased a little, Jem became conscious of his surroundings again. He saw that the scattered chunks of bogle had turned to drifts of black dust. He saw that Birdie knew exactly how to wrap Alfred’s spear. And he saw that the plumber and his friend were still rooted to the spot, slack jawed and silent, as if turned to stone by sheer horror.
“Mr. Snell?” said Jem. “Mr. Purdy? Are you all right?”
There was no response from Sam Snell. But Hugh Purdy snapped to attention as if someone had doused him in cold water. He touched his friend’s arm, then muttered soothing words of reassurance until Sam Snell finally roused himself from his trance.
It wasn’t long before the flusher was talking nonstop, stammering and spluttering, as he led the others back toward the viaduct entrance.
“I swear, I ain’t never seen nothing like that there . . . no, and won’t never forget it, neither. What a terrible great thing, Mr. Bunce! And what a noise it made, at the end! The lads won’t believe me when I tell ’em . . .”
No one tried to interrupt him. Alfred wasn’t talkative at the best of times, and rarely had much to say after killing a bogle. Birdie was busy dodging Miss Eames, who kept trying to inspect her skin and clothes for black marks. Hugh Purdy looked stunned. Jem was exhausted. He found himself lagging a few steps behind the others, pining for a sip of brandy. His wounds were still smarting, and he wondered if they were the cause of his sudden fatigue.
“. . . And what a brave little lass she is, Mr. Bunce.” Up ahead, Sam Snell was still rambling on. “Brave as any soldier, and with such a voice! Why, she’d make her fortune on the stage. I thought as how she were frozen with fear, standing there like that, but then—phht! Off she went, fleet as a squirrel—”
“And it’s a mercy there wasn’t no other bogles, or she might have run straight at ’em.” Alfred spoke sharply, cutting Snell off in midsentence. “Jem! What are you doing, dawdling back there? D’you see summat?”
“No,” said Jem. The words had barely left his mouth when a bright glint caught his eye. Tucked away beneath one of the low pipes attached to the wall, gleaming in the light that filtered through an overhead grating, lay a large gold coin. “Here’s a sovereign!” he exclaimed. “It must have fallen down from the street!”
“A sovereign, eh?” Sam Snell began to chatter away as Jem squatted to retrieve the coin. “Well, make sure it’s a good’un. There’s many a coiner will drop his cache when being pursued, in the mistaken belief that them grates lead straight to the sewers—”
“There’s a shilling, as well!” Jem interrupted. Having picked up the two coins, he felt along the floor beneath the pipe, in search of others. Then a pang of dejection went through him. Of course there wouldn’t be any more. And the coins he already had were probably counterfeit, as the flusher had warned . . .
“JEM!” Birdie screamed. “LOOK OUT!”
But Jem didn’t need to look. He’d recognized the misery overwhelming him. He’d heard the scrape of a manhole cover. And knowing what he knew, he didn’t waste time glancing around.
Instead, he sprang up and began to climb the wall, using the layered pipes as purchase. When he reached the topmost pipe, he glanced down. He saw giant teeth snapping at his heels. He saw Alfred and Birdie running toward him. He saw the manhole extruding a massive gray worm, which grew longer and longer as he edged away from it.
“In six months she married, this hardhearted girl,” Birdie sang frantically, “but not to a viscount, and not to an earl . . .”
The bogle lunged. Jem leaped from the pipe and grabbed an overhead grating. Then he swung his f
eet up so that they wouldn’t dangle, and screamed at the top of his voice.
Above him, a female pedestrian stopped in her tracks. “Why, what’s this?” she said, bending over to peer through the bars of the grate.
At that instant, Jem heard a deafening BANG—and was engulfed in a cloud of red steam.
16
A Brief Respite
Within ten minutes of killing the second bogle, Alfred was swilling down brandy in the Viaduct Tavern.
Everyone else had joined him there—even Miss Eames. “I don’t normally frequent such establishments,” she’d murmured upon gingerly seating herself at a corner table, “but I feel in need of a little brandy after such a dreadful shock.” Jem knew just how she felt. He would have ordered a cream gin for himself if Miss Eames had let him. Instead, he had to be satisfied with a glass of cider, which didn’t steady his shaking hands. Every so often he found himself gasping for air, like someone drowning in a heavy sea.
Hugh Purdy paid for the cider. He did it wordlessly, by pushing his money into Mabel’s apron pocket. What he’d seen in the viaduct had rendered him speechless; he hadn’t made a sound since stumbling into Farringdon Street. His friend Sam Snell, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop talking. It was Snell who’d proposed that they visit the tavern—Snell who had ordered the first round of drinks—Snell who now started to pepper Mabel with details of their recent exploits, as she served out nips of gin and pints of porter.
“I tell you, lass, I nearly died o’ fright, watching the poor lad hang from that roof like butcher’s meat, and the monster snapping at his heels. But then Mr. Bunce, here—why, he let fly with his spear, and caught the thing in its soft parts, and BOOM! It blew apart like a dead man’s belly!”