Someone was playing the piano inside Miss Eames’s house.
Standing on the front doorstep, straining her ears, Birdie identified ‘The Gypsy Girl’s Dream’. But heavy footsteps soon drowned out the faint tinkling of piano keys, and suddenly Mary Meggs was in front of her, wearing a black-and-white maid’s uniform.
‘Oh!’ Mary sounded surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to talk to Miss Eames.’
‘Did you, now?’ said Mary, eyeing her sceptically from head to toe. Birdie flushed. She knew that she wasn’t looking her best, because she’d had to replace her beautiful yellow cape with an old pink mantle that had been so badly mauled by moths and rats that she’d been using it as bed-linen. She was also in a muck sweat, having walked halfway across the city. And somewhere on the trip to Bloomsbury, she’d lost a feather from her hat.
‘I’ve a message from Mr Bunce,’ she announced. ‘Miss Eames will want to hear it.’
‘I’ll see if she’s home,’ said Mary. Then she shut the door in Birdie’s face.
Birdie was annoyed, though not surprised. As a bogler’s girl from Bethnal Green, she wasn’t the kind of visitor that most maidservants would greet with open arms. But she was convinced that Miss Eames would give her a much warmer welcome – and she was right. Barely a minute later, Mary opened the door again.
‘You’re to come in,’ she said stiffly. ‘Wipe yer feet first.’
Birdie did as she was told, wiping her filthy shoes on the doormat before stepping inside. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dimness when she heard Miss Eames addressing her from the drawing-room threshold. ‘Birdie!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. ‘How nice to see you! Come in and say hello to my aunt.’
The music had stopped. Birdie wondered if Miss Eames had been responsible for it, but soon saw that Mrs Heppinstall was the one seated at the drawing-room piano. The old lady beamed at Birdie, patting the seat beside her.
‘Come and sit by me, dear. Do you know this song? It’s very pretty. My dear friend Mr Fotherington likes nothing else quite as much. I should love to hear you sing it, if you would oblige me.’
Birdie hesitated. She glanced at Miss Eames, saying, ‘I’ve a message from Mr Bunce.’
‘Which I’m eager to receive,’ Miss Eames assured her. ‘But perhaps you’d like some tea first. Or something a little colder? Lemonade, perhaps?’
Birdie licked her dry lips. ‘I’d like a glass of lemonade,’ she admitted.
‘Let me go and tell Mary,’ said Miss Eames. She vanished back into the hallway, leaving Birdie with Mrs Heppinstall.
‘Do you know this song, my dear?’ The old lady struck a few chords. ‘It’s called “The Gypsy Girl’s Dream”.’
‘I know it,’ Birdie said, having heard it many times. Then, as Mrs Heppinstall kept playing, the lure of the tune became irresistible.
Birdie began to sing.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassels and serfs at my side
And of all those assembled within those walls,
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches all too great to count
And a high ancestral name.
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you lov’d me still the same . . .
Birdie had often sung to the tune of a hand-organ in the street, and had once been accompanied by a fiddle. But she’d never before known the joy of having a pianist gently carry her voice through a song. She forgot everything but the pleasure of the notes, and when the last chord sounded, and silence fell, she was shocked to realise that Miss Eames was standing beside her, applauding enthusiastically.
‘Oh, Birdie, that was beautiful!’ Miss Eames exclaimed. ‘Utterly flawless!’
‘Pitch perfect,’ her aunt agreed. ‘What a lovely voice you have, dear,’ ‘Good enough for the stage,’ said Miss Eames. She exchanged a quick look with Mrs Heppinstall before adding, ‘Have you ever wanted to go on the stage, Birdie? Have you ever wanted to be a professional singer?’
‘Oh, I’ll never be that,’ Birdie replied. She had once or twice gazed wistfully at the Grecian Theatre, which was often adorned with pictures of lovely ladies singing their hearts out. For Birdie, however, trying to imagine a stage career was like trying to imagine a trip to the moon.
‘But would you like to be a singer?’ pressed Miss Eames. ‘My aunt and I truly believe that with a voice like yours, and a little training, you could be the next Jenny Lind!’
Birdie had no idea who Jenny Lind was. Seeing this from her blank look, Mrs Heppinstall explained, ‘Jenny Lind is an opera singer and concert performer of great renown. And she was discovered quite by accident, when she was your age.’
‘You’re pretty enough to act in musical theatre,’ Miss Eames observed. ‘You have every advantage, except that your speaking voice needs more refinement. And some musical training would not go amiss.’
‘Even the strongest voice can be grievously damaged unless the singer is properly trained,’ Mrs Heppinstall agreed.
Birdie looked from one lady to the other, confused by their eager expressions. What on earth were they trying to say? At last Miss Eames came out with it.
‘We have been discussing your plight, Birdie, and would be very happy to arrange lessons with a good singing teacher,’ she said. ‘We would foot the bill, of course.’
‘And find a room for you in this house,’ Mrs Heppinstall promised Birdie, whose mouth had dropped open.
‘Yes, you would have to live here,’ Miss Eames hastily added. ‘No reputable teachers would be available anywhere near your home. We would also arrange a general tutor for you, because even the finest singer in the world cannot perform unless she is able to read lyrics and stage directions.’
By this time Birdie was backing away from Mrs Heppinstall’s gentle smile and Miss Eames’s bright-eyed zeal. ‘But I’m a bogler’s girl,’ Birdie objected. ‘Mr Bunce depends on me.’
‘Not for much longer, though,’ Miss Eames reminded her. ‘What will you do when you’re too old to help Mr Bunce? What will you do when he needs a new apprentice?’
Birdie frowned. Though it was a question she often asked herself, lying awake at night, she tried not to dwell on the future. ‘Mebbe I’ll be trained up,’ she mumbled. ‘Mebbe I’ll become a bogler in me own right.’
‘Is that likely, though? With Mr Bunce still practising?’ Miss Eames was watching her intently, her gaze as sharp as a pin. ‘And you’re a female, Birdie. Don’t forget that. Have you ever heard of a female bogler?’
Birdie swallowed, because she never had.
‘I only ask out of interest,’ Miss Eames said. ‘I’m still lamentably ill-informed when it comes to the bogling profession.’
Suddenly Mary appeared with the tea-tray. It was loaded with delicious food: muffins, cakes, buns and biscuits. Birdie’s mouth began to water at the sight of so much sugar and starch.
‘Here is your lemonade, Birdie,’ Miss Eames pointed out. ‘What would you like to eat with it? Some angel cake? A Sally Lunn?’
Birdie wasn’t stupid. She knew quite well that Miss Eames was trying to suggest, with this astonishing tea, that more astonishing teas would follow if Birdie agreed to move in. There would be more teas, and more fresh flowers, and more pretty clothes, and more lovely music. It was all very tempting, especially the food. But when Birdie tried to imagine herself living with the two ladies, she found that she couldn’t. Everything about them was too strange. The Birdie she pictured sitting straight-backed at the piano, with a scrubbed face and a soft voice, wasn’t anything like the real Birdie. It was a Birdie she didn’t understand – and didn’t entirely trust.
Besides, she couldn’t leave Alfred. Not while he needed her. Not while London was infested with child-eating bogles.
She was perched on an upholstered chair, folding a Bath bun into her mouth, when Miss Eames remarked, ‘I hope you don’t decide to follow in Mr Bunce’s footsteps, Birdie. I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy forcing a poor little apprentice to face death at every turn.’
Birdie decided not to take offence. How could she, while eating so much of Miss Eames’s rich and sticky food? ‘I do it all the time,’ she said thickly, with a shrug.
‘But while your own courage supports you,’ Mrs Heppinstall murmured, ‘you would hesitate, I’m sure, to demand the same of any other child.’
‘It would be wicked,’ Miss Eames declared, much to Birdie’s annoyance.
‘Ain’t nothing wicked about it!’ Birdie snapped. ‘Mr Bunce and me make a decent living! We save lives! We kill monsters!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Which is why I came here.’ Birdie decided that it was high time she delivered her message from Mr Bunce. ‘There’s four boys gone missing, and we think a bogle might be to blame,’ she said. ‘The only trouble is, we cannot reach the bogle without entering someone’s house uninvited.’ She went on to relate the story of the doctor’s house in Clerkenwell, though she was careful not to name anyone, or provide too many details about the boys’ profession. She admitted only that they had been beggars, who ‘sometimes stole’. And she insisted that Billy Crisp would not have broken into the doctor’s house if he hadn’t been trying to find his friends. ‘They never deserved what befell ’em. Ain’t no one deserves to be fed to a bogle,’ she stoutly declared.
‘That’s why we need to kill this ’un just as soon as ever we can.’ The two ladies listened with many exclamations of shock and horror. Birdie noticed that Miss Eames would sometimes shoot an anxious look at her aunt, as if concerned that such a terrible story would prove too much for her. Certainly the old lady turned very pale, and kept pressing a lace handkerchief to her lips. But she never left the room, nor asked for her smelling salts. And she didn’t suggest that they inform the police.
It was Miss Eames who raised that possibility.
‘No.’ Birdie shook her head, wiping the crumbs from her chin. ‘We can’t.’ She began to list all the reasons why the police should be avoided at all costs. When she mentioned how cruelly she and Alfred would be treated by certain parties if they did approach the police, Miss Eames could contain herself no longer.
‘Oh, Birdie, this really is too bad!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely you must see how dangerous it is to consort with such people? Why would you even hesitate to abandon the kind of company you keep in Bethnal Green, when you have a chance to improve your prospects immeasurably by living here with us?’
‘I can’t leave Mr Bunce,’ Birdie growled. ‘Not while he needs me.’
She refused to give in. Though Miss Eames peppered her with arguments – though Mrs Heppinstall gently offered her more cake, new clothes, and an attic bedroom all to herself – Birdie wouldn’t budge. She was almost afraid to. Somehow she knew that if she allowed herself even a pang of doubt, there would be no turning back.
Finally Miss Eames had to admit that she was beaten. ‘Very well. I can see that you’re frightened to make a change,’ she said. ‘But you must think about it, Birdie. You’re a clever girl, and will soon see that if you stay where you are, your future is destined to be short and sorrowful.’ With a sigh she abandoned the subject, turning instead to the job in Clerkenwell. ‘As for this housebreaking business, I find it very disturbing. Since there are lives at stake, however, I understand why Mr Bunce should have agreed to take part.’
‘And you, miss?’ asked Birdie. ‘Will you be coming too?’
‘I?’
‘You did us a great service last time. Even Mr Bunce says so. And I’d be easier in me mind if you was there.’ Watching the effect this remark had on Miss Eames, Birdie felt a twinge of guilt at having uttered such a bald-faced lie, just to get her own way. Because for the last few days, she had been telling herself that she wouldn’t care if she never saw Miss Eames ever again. And despite the offer that had been made to her, Birdie was still a little wary of Miss Eames, whose intentions were so hard for her to understand.
But when Miss Eames agreed to meet her on Clerkenwell Green at eight o’clock the next morning, Birdie experienced a sudden surge of relief. And she realised, with utter amazement, that she hadn’t been lying to Miss Eames after all.