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
‘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
Similar Books
