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.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Alfred. But Jem didn’t want to sell flypapers. He wasn’t about to walk around London with a loaded flypaper tied around his cap, singing, ‘ Catch all the nasty beetles and flies, catch ’em from teasing the baby’s eyes. ’
‘I ain’t no hawker!’ he snapped. ‘I’m a bogler’s boy, now!’ Appealing to Alfred, he continued, ‘We killed a bogle today. Don’t that make me a bogler’s boy?’
‘Not if I ain’t a bogler,’ Alfred replied shortly.
‘But you are!’ Jem exclaimed. ‘How can you sit there with a bogler’s bag on yer knee and claim you ain’t a bogler?’
‘I’m a retired bogler.’ Alfred frowned at Jem. ‘That’s what you’re to say, next time anyone comes to you with tales o’ missing scullery maids and such. D’you hear?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Jem nodded. He didn’t have much choice. He was wet, tired and hungry, with no shoes, no job, and barely a penny to his name. He wasn’t in a position to argue with Alfred.
‘And if you’re to stay with me, you must pull yer weight,’ Alfred went on. ‘First thing you can do is sweep the place out, since you left yer broom there. If you don’t know how to cook, Ned’ll teach you. Aside from that, there’s water to haul and a fire to keep stoked.’ Before Jem could say that he would be happy to do all these things, Alfred warned, ‘But if you ever bring home another prospect like you done today, you’ll be out o’ there faster’n a swift can fly. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ Jem mumbled.
‘The last thing I need is you pointing me out to every stray barmaid as comes along. Why, I moved halfway across London to prevent it!’ Leaning forward suddenly, Alfred glowered at Jem. ‘And another thing – I’ll not have you chasing Sarah Pickles.’
‘But—’ ‘It’s too dangerous. She’s too dangerous, living or dead.’ Something about Alfred’s tone made Birdie shiver and Miss Eames wince. ‘If she’s dead, then those as killed her won’t take kindly to you nosing about,’ Alfred continued. ‘And if she’s living . . . well, I’ll not have you vanish into thin air, like all them other poor souls as crossed Sal, over the years.’
‘But she sold me as bogle-bait!’ Jem protested.
‘Aye, and you’re lucky to be alive,’ the bogler agreed. ‘Which is how I want you to stay. Alive . Else I ain’t got no use for you.’
He waited as Jem swallowed, clenched his fists and finally said, ‘All right.’
‘Long as you’re under me roof, you’ll not chase Sal?’ Alfred pressed.
‘No,’ Jem answered. And he was telling the truth – up to a point. How could he chase Sarah while he was under Alfred’s roof? It wasn’t as if she lodged there.
Jem knew that, when he did find Sarah, it would be somewhere else in London . . .
8
THE MISSING APPRENTICE
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A knock on the door awakened Jem the next morning. For an instant he didn’t know where he was. But then he raised his head, rubbed his bleary eyes, and realised that he was in Alfred’s room, under a pile of old clothes.
‘Ned?’ he squawked, as the rapping continued. Rat-tat-tat-tat! Judging from the pale light creeping through the window, it was still very early – yet Ned Roach was nowhere to be seen. His boots were gone.
‘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.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Alfred. But Jem didn’t want to sell flypapers. He wasn’t about to walk around London with a loaded flypaper tied around his cap, singing, ‘ Catch all the nasty beetles and flies, catch ’em from teasing the baby’s eyes. ’
‘I ain’t no hawker!’ he snapped. ‘I’m a bogler’s boy, now!’ Appealing to Alfred, he continued, ‘We killed a bogle today. Don’t that make me a bogler’s boy?’
‘Not if I ain’t a bogler,’ Alfred replied shortly.
‘But you are!’ Jem exclaimed. ‘How can you sit there with a bogler’s bag on yer knee and claim you ain’t a bogler?’
‘I’m a retired bogler.’ Alfred frowned at Jem. ‘That’s what you’re to say, next time anyone comes to you with tales o’ missing scullery maids and such. D’you hear?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Jem nodded. He didn’t have much choice. He was wet, tired and hungry, with no shoes, no job, and barely a penny to his name. He wasn’t in a position to argue with Alfred.
‘And if you’re to stay with me, you must pull yer weight,’ Alfred went on. ‘First thing you can do is sweep the place out, since you left yer broom there. If you don’t know how to cook, Ned’ll teach you. Aside from that, there’s water to haul and a fire to keep stoked.’ Before Jem could say that he would be happy to do all these things, Alfred warned, ‘But if you ever bring home another prospect like you done today, you’ll be out o’ there faster’n a swift can fly. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ Jem mumbled.
‘The last thing I need is you pointing me out to every stray barmaid as comes along. Why, I moved halfway across London to prevent it!’ Leaning forward suddenly, Alfred glowered at Jem. ‘And another thing – I’ll not have you chasing Sarah Pickles.’
‘But—’ ‘It’s too dangerous. She’s too dangerous, living or dead.’ Something about Alfred’s tone made Birdie shiver and Miss Eames wince. ‘If she’s dead, then those as killed her won’t take kindly to you nosing about,’ Alfred continued. ‘And if she’s living . . . well, I’ll not have you vanish into thin air, like all them other poor souls as crossed Sal, over the years.’
‘But she sold me as bogle-bait!’ Jem protested.
‘Aye, and you’re lucky to be alive,’ the bogler agreed. ‘Which is how I want you to stay. Alive . Else I ain’t got no use for you.’
He waited as Jem swallowed, clenched his fists and finally said, ‘All right.’
‘Long as you’re under me roof, you’ll not chase Sal?’ Alfred pressed.
‘No,’ Jem answered. And he was telling the truth – up to a point. How could he chase Sarah while he was under Alfred’s roof? It wasn’t as if she lodged there.
Jem knew that, when he did find Sarah, it would be somewhere else in London . . .
8
THE MISSING APPRENTICE
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A knock on the door awakened Jem the next morning. For an instant he didn’t know where he was. But then he raised his head, rubbed his bleary eyes, and realised that he was in Alfred’s room, under a pile of old clothes.
‘Ned?’ he squawked, as the rapping continued. Rat-tat-tat-tat! Judging from the pale light creeping through the window, it was still very early – yet Ned Roach was nowhere to be seen. His boots were gone.
Similar Books
