She had always sworn to herself that she would rather die than set foot in a workhouse. And yet here she was.
“Birdie?” Miss Eames stooped to hiss in her ear. “Believe me, I don’t want to make your life more difficult. On the contrary, I’m trying to improve it.”
“Shhh!” Birdie refused to listen. There was a bogle nearby, so she had to stay strong. She had to forget that Miss Eames was plotting against her. One day, if Miss Eames was successful, Birdie might end up in a workhouse just like this one. But for now she had to pretend that Miss Eames didn’t even exist.
So she turned her face away, scowling.
“That’s the infirmary,” Mrs. Gudge suddenly declared. She had stopped at a fork in the path and stood with her lamp raised, pointing toward another large, dense shape to their right. “You’d best wait here while I fetch Fanny. I’ll not be long.”
She scurried off with the lamp, which began to illuminate details of the building that finally swallowed her up. A golden gleam bounced off three stacked rows of blank, dark windows. It brushed across brown brick and green paint. For an instant Mrs. Gudge was silhouetted against a rectangle of light as the infirmary door opened and shut.
Shortly afterward she emerged again through the same door, bringing with her another woman carrying another lamp. Or was it a woman? Squinting at the newcomer, Birdie decided that she was no more than thirteen or fourteen years old—very young for a nurse.
“This is Fanny,” said Mrs. Gudge on rejoining the group in the garden. “Fanny, this is Mr. Bunce, and Miss Eames, and. . . um. . .”
“Birdie McAdam.”
Fanny grinned. With her froth of dark curls, her upturned nose, and her plump red cheeks, Fanny looked surprisingly healthy and cheerful. She wore a shapeless striped gown, a dirty apron, a cotton cap, and flapping slippers. Her front teeth were missing.
“Are you the Go-Devil Man?” she asked Alfred.
“Aye.” He surveyed her warily. “Are you the girl as saw the bogle?”
“That I am!”
“Shhh! Don’t talk so loud.” Mrs. Gudge gave the girl’s arm a shake. “Do you want to get rid o’ this bogle or not?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Fanny said—though she didn’t sound very sorry.
The cook sighed. “I’ll bid you goodbye now, Mr. Bunce, Miss Eames. Fanny will take you back to Mr. Hobney when you’re finished.” She shot Fanny a doubtful glance. “You’ll do that, Fanny, won’t you? You’ll be a good girl?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” As Mrs. Gudge turned away from her with a slightly dissatisfied air, Fanny pulled a grotesque face at her back. Only Birdie saw it happen. And when their gazes locked, Fanny winked.
“Should I collect the rest o’ the fee from Mr. Hobney?” Alfred inquired of Mrs. Gudge in a low voice, before she could leave.
She stopped in her tracks. “Why, yes. At least. . . did he not mention it? Oh dear,” she said, flustered. “I’ll ask him when he lets me out.”
“It’s six shillings more.” Alfred was eyeing her with obvious misgivings. “He gave me sixpence in advance.”
“He has the full sum, I know,” Mrs. Gudge assured Alfred.
But she didn’t seem very confident, and after she had walked away into the night, Alfred muttered to himself, “I’ll wager he ain’t got it, or why would she be fidgeting like a cricket?”
“She always does that,” Fanny volunteered. “Don’t fret—they’ll pay you. Otherwise you’ll fuss, and the master will find out.” She began to giggle, then slapped a hand over her mouth to smother the noise.
Birdie couldn’t help smiling. But Miss Eames wasn’t amused.
“Can you tell us where you saw the bogle?” she asked Fanny, her tone crisp and impatient.
“I’ll show you where I saw it,” Fanny offered, starting forward. Alfred, however, pulled her back.
“Not yet,” he said. “We’ll talk here first. Tell me where you think the bogle is.”
“Oh, it has to be in the well.” Fanny eagerly explained that the schoolhouse block occupied its own fenced yard, which had a gate that was locked at night. So the vanished children had been let out by either the schoolmaster or the schoolmistress, both of whom had custody of the keys. “Up to the gate, them kids was safe and sound,” Fanny insisted, wriggling with excitement. “Mr. Winch recalls letting ’em out—and Miss Percy, too.”
“Is Miss Percy the schoolmistress?” Miss Eames wanted to know.
“That she is.” Fanny rolled her eyes. “And wouldn’t help a poor, sick child cross the grounds at night—oh, no. Every one of ’em had to walk past the laundry all alone, though some was bent double with the flux, poor lambs.”
Fanny spoke in a kind of low, pious chant, as if she were imitating someone else. But when she returned to the subject of the bogle, her voice quickened again, becoming squeaky and breathless. “The old well lies between the laundry and the infirmary, though it’s closer to the laundry. And its cover’s broke in two.”
“There’s a cover on the well?” Birdie interrupted.
“Of course! D’you think they’d leave an open well among the weeds, to swallow every passerby?” Then, realizing that she was talking too loudly, Fanny began to whisper again. “That stone might be heavy, but two men can raise it. I seen ’em with me own eyes when they dragged the well.”
Alfred grunted. After a moment’s thought he said, “You found no trace o’ the children?”
“Not a hair,” Fanny replied with exaggerated solemnity.
“Not even a lamp?”
“There weren’t no lamp to find. Two o’ the bigger boys had to risk being spiked on a bean stake, for Mr. Winch don’t hold with lamps when the moon’s bright.” Fanny’s tone was drenched in scorn. “The other two took candle stubs which weren’t never seen again—and don’t think we stopped hearing o’ that in a hurry. The master claims they was stolen. ‘No different from stealing a watch,’ he says—”
“But you saw something.” Alfred cut her off. “When was that?”
“Last week,” said Fanny. “Two nights after little Matilda went missing. I needed a breath of air, so I came out that door, Mr. Bunce. . .” She gestured at the infirmary. “And I walked down toward the laundry a bit and saw something move.”
She stopped, then shivered. Birdie wondered just how scared she really was. For a workhouse girl, anything that broke up the monotony of life would probably be welcomed, even if it was a child-eating bogle. Perhaps that was why Fanny seemed almost to be enjoying the drama of the occasion.
As she went on to describe the large, dark, slithering shape that she’d glimpsed in the shadows, Alfred began to frown. When she revealed that she hadn’t mentioned it for several days, he fixed her with a baleful look. “You didn’t go out for no breath of air,” he objected.
“I did!” Fanny yelped, before hastily lowering her voice. “There’s sick folk inside, and lots o’ bad smells. . .”
She trailed off, because Alfred was shaking his head. “You’re little and tender, like a spring lamb,” he pointed out. “That bogle were coming for you, or you’d not have seen it. But summat scared it off.”
“Were you meeting someone, Fanny?” asked Miss Eames. She leveled a bright, accusing gaze at the pauper girl, who bridled and retorted, “What if I was?”
“We won’t tell no one.” Birdie hastened to assure her before Miss Eames could take Fanny to task and spoil everything. “We just need to know what happened.”
“Well. . .” Fanny hesitated for a moment. Then she shrugged, smirked, and proudly confessed, “There’s a feller I know from the infirmary. But it’s against the rules for us to meet, so we do it in secret.”
“And you arrived first, and saw the bogle, but yer friend came along and it disappeared.” Alfred had been leaning close to Fanny so that he wouldn’t miss a word she let fall. Now, as she nodded, he pulled away from her and rasped, “You can walk me to the well but don’t say a word. Don’t nobody say a word. For it’s a quiet night, and this
bogle don’t like crowds.”
“Mr. Bunce.” Suddenly Miss Eames weighed in. “Will you please allow me to bait your trap with a pie before you place Birdie at risk? I understand you’re both reluctant to change your ways, but I did pay sixpence in advance, if you recall.”
Birdie felt her cheeks burning. Before she could open her mouth, however, Alfred said to Miss Eames, “I’ll take the rest o’ that money, then, if you’re still of a mind to interfere—though I can’t see the sense in it.”
“Of course not! It’s a stupid idea!” Birdie was about to say more when Alfred’s hand closed on the back of her neck. He thrust his face into hers, so that she shrank away from him, subdued by his stony glare.
“What did I just tell you?” he growled. “Didn’t I tell you to hold yer tongue?”
She nodded.
“And is that what you’ll do? Or will you keep blabbing till you scare off the bogle?”
“I’ll shut me trap,” Birdie muttered.
“Good.” Releasing her, Alfred addressed Fanny and Miss Eames. “The same goes for the rest o’ you. I’ll not have a word said, or you can hook it. Is that clear?”
Fanny grinned, nodding enthusiastically. Miss Eames took a deep breath, folded her lips into a tense line. . . and swallowed hard before giving a quick little jerk of her head.
Alfred sniffed. “All right, then. You can show me the well now, and mind you tread as soft as a kitten.” He was speaking to Fanny, but before she could reply, he abruptly shifted his attention to Miss Eames. “And when the circle’s drawn, I’ll place the pie. I’ll give it one hour, and if the bogle don’t bite, I’ll send Birdie in.”
“But—”
“We ain’t got all night, miss. You can take it or leave it.”
Miss Eames took it. And after giving Alfred his money, she once again bent her lips to Birdie’s ear. “If that creature doesn’t take the pie, you may eat it yourself,” she offered. “My cook makes a wonderful gooseberry pie.”
Birdie didn’t answer. Alfred had warned her to hold her tongue, so she was holding her tongue. Had she been allowed to talk, however, she would have told Miss Eames to stick her pie where it would hurt the most.
I’d like to throw it in her face, Birdie thought.
She didn’t say so, however. She just kept stomping along in Alfred’s wake, grim-faced and silent.
13
A Taste of the Pie
The abandoned well was tucked between the laundry and the drying lines. Unlike the neat rows of vegetables and clipped fruit trees that led to it, this patch of ground had an untidy, neglected appearance. A pile of old lumber, waiting to be turned into firewood, was stacked against the laundry wall. Weeds sprouted around the heavy slab of the well cap, while the grass under the drying lines was so trodden down that it was scattered with bald spots.
Alfred chose one of these bald spots for his magic circle. In the light from Fanny’s lamp, he carefully arranged a ring of rags on the damp earth. Then he poured out his salt and removed the gooseberry pie from its basket.
After placing the pie in the center of the circle, he moved away again. But he didn’t join his three companions. Instead, he positioned himself by a rusty washtub that had been dumped near the well, his salt in one hand and his spear in the other.
Watching him, Birdie felt deeply uncomfortable. She should have been out there in the circle, not cowering behind a woodpile. Alfred had given her his dark lantern to mind, just in case. (He always made sure that they had an alternative source of light during night jobs, and the dark lantern, with its hinged shutter, could be transformed instantly from a little black box into a shining beacon.) But this wasn’t enough for Birdie. It was as if she’d been demoted. Excluded.
And it was all the fault of Miss Eames.
Not that her silly pie plan was going to work. Birdie kept telling herself this. If the bogle liked pies, it would have been raiding the workhouse kitchen, not picking off children in the dark. The pie was going to fail, and then Birdie would be restored to her proper place at Alfred’s side.
In the meantime, however, she had to put up with Fanny. It was hard to concentrate while Fanny was around, because she was fidgety and restless. For all her faults, Miss Eames remained perfectly still as they waited for the bogle. Fanny, on the other hand, kept scratching and sighing and shifting about until Birdie was tempted to jab her in the ribs. But they weren’t supposed to be making any noise, and Fanny would probably yelp or squeak if she felt the sharp point of an elbow. Birdie couldn’t even say anything—not with a bogle listening in. For she had no doubt whatsoever that there was a bogle nearby. She could sense it. She could feel its dark weight in the air. She could smell a faint odor of fish and rotten eggs.
So she tried to stay alert, even though, as the minutes dragged on, nothing happened. The bogle refused to show itself.
At last the workhouse clock struck twelve. Hearing it, Birdie realized that they had been waiting by the laundry for more than an hour. She saw Alfred’s head swivel in her direction. Then he jerked his chin. As Birdie rose, Miss Eames couldn’t suppress a murmur of protest.
But Birdie’s furious scowl quickly silenced her.
Since two of the pauper children had been taken with candle stubs in their hands, Alfred had decreed that Birdie could safely carry a light. Without one, she wouldn’t be able to see the bogle coming. So before stepping into the ring of salt, Birdie exchanged her dark lantern for Fanny’s lamp. And once she’d entered the magic circle, she set the lamp down beside the gooseberry pie.
Then she raised her mirror, checked Alfred’s position, and softly began to sing.
“The Lord said to the Lady, afore he went out,
‘Beware o’ false Lamkin, he’s a-walking about.’
The gates they was locked both outside and in
But for one little hole that let Lamkin creep in.”
Suddenly Birdie saw the well cap move. One half of it rose a little, hovering an inch or two above the ground, before it slipped sideways to expose a wedge of darkness. Though the shadows were dense and her view was partly blocked by weeds, Birdie could just make out that a spiky-looking hand, or claw, had lifted the stone cover like a basket lid.
But if the slab made any kind of noise as it settled onto its bed of weeds, Birdie didn’t hear it. Her own voice was ringing in her ears.
“He took out a penknife both pointed and sharp
And stabbed the wee baby three times in the heart.
O Nursemaid! O Nursemaid! How sound you do sleep?
Can’t you hear them poor children a-trying to weep?”
Gradually the hole in the ground began to extrude something shiny and black and very long, with limbs that kept unfolding from beneath its belly. Birdie couldn’t tell if the thing was encased in a giant millipede’s shell or in a suit of armor, but she could see red eyes glowing beneath what was either a helmet or a hairless skull. The bogle’s body was so long that Birdie began to sweat and shake. What if its bottom half was still outside the circle when it reached her? Timing would be of the essence, if she was to avoid being caught.
Birdie focused all her attention on Alfred, bracing herself for his signal. It seemed to be a long time coming. Crooning away, she wondered why he didn’t pounce.
“Here’s blood in the kitchen, here’s blood in the hall:
Here’s blood in the parlor, where the lady did fall.
False Lamkin shall be hung on the gallows so high,
While his bones shall be burned in the fire close by.”
When Alfred finally leaped forward, so did Birdie. She rolled across the ground. She jumped to her feet. Then something slashed at her cape—and she realized that one of the bogle’s razor-sharp claws had only just missed her.
Fanny screamed. There was a smell of hot gooseberries. The lamp went out, and suddenly Birdie couldn’t see a thing. But as she cast around frantically, a golden glow flared behind the woodpile.
Miss Eames had uncovered Alfred’s
dark lantern.
In its pale light Birdie saw that Alfred must have speared the bogle, which was already curling up into a crispy ball that began to crumble away like burnt paper. The pie was a bubbling pool of goo. Fanny’s lamp had been knocked down.
Fanny was sobbing but broke off with a startled hiccup when Miss Eames shook her.
“Stop it!” Miss Eames ordered. “Pull yourself together at once!”
“Are you all right, lass?” Alfred asked Birdie.
“I think so.” Examining her cape, Birdie was grieved to see that the rip was getting bigger. Some kind of poison left there by the bogle’s claws was acting on the yellow silk just like acid; its fibers were shriveling and its color darkening.
With a sinking heart, she accepted that she would have to throw away her favorite garment.
“Me cape’s ruined,” she informed Alfred sadly as she untied the bow beneath her chin. “The bogle tore it, and it’s spoiling fast.”
“Then toss it in the circle,” Alfred advised. So she did. The cape landed in a heap between the melted pie and the toppled lamp. When Alfred sprinkled it with holy water, the browning satin fizzed like soda, then turned into a toffee-like substance that began to melt into the ground.