Alfred and Birdie went home in a hansom cab, accompanied by Miss Eames.
They had left Doctor Morton’s house together shortly after killing the bogle. No one had said much, at first; Alfred had told Charlie that the bogle was dead, while Miss Eames had suggested in a feeble, breathless voice that they catch a cab. Alfred had then thrust Birdie’s injured arm into his bag of salt before packing away the rest of his equipment. He had ignored Charlie’s questions. Jem’s murmured thanks had elicited no more than a nod and a grunt.
Birdie hadn’t felt equal to walking any distance, so Alfred had carried her through the kitchen and out of the house. He had also carried her to the end of the street, which was too poor and narrow to attract many hansom cabs. Luckily, the rain had stopped. And Miss Eames, who had followed Alfred with his sack in her arms, managed to hail a cab almost as soon as they reached the broad sweep of Farringdon Road.
It was only after they had all settled into the vehicle, with Birdie tucked between her two companions, that they were finally ready to speak again.
‘Show me that wrist, lass,’ Alfred said. When Birdie obediently drew her arm out of the bag of salt, he inspected her wound with narrowed eyes. ‘Mmmmph. That’s looking better.’
‘Is it poisoned?’ Miss Eames asked faintly.
Alfred shrugged. ‘If it is, the salt will draw out the rot.’ But he sprinkled a few drops of holy water onto Birdie’s wrist, just in case. ‘Leave yer hand in the salt,’ he recommended, ‘and I’ll clap a poultice on it when we reach home.’
‘Perhaps Birdie would be better off at my house. Perhaps she would be more comfortable there.’
Alfred shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ve all that’s needed for bogle-bites under me own bed,’ he assured Miss Eames.
‘Oh, but this ain’t no bite, Mr Bunce,’ Birdie croaked. ‘It’s claw-marks.’
‘Which is a mercy,’ said Alfred, ‘since bites can be fatal.’
Silence fell at the sound of the word ‘fatal’. Miss Eames frowned. Alfred sighed. Birdie swallowed and tried to think about something else. It wasn’t easy. She kept seeing the gaping mouth in her mind’s eye. She kept feeling the weight of black smoke in her lungs.
So she tried to concentrate on the scenery flowing past them: the houses, the churches, the shops, the squares. Everything looked grey and damp and dirty. Flags hung limply from their poles. It had started raining again.
‘No wonder that wicked man believed he had conjured up a demon from the fires of hell,’ Miss Eames said at last. ‘With all that smoke, I might have thought the same thing.’
‘Aye.’ After a moment’s pause, Alfred remarked pensively, ‘I ain’t never seen owt like it.’
‘Really?’ Miss Eames sounded surprised. ‘Never?’
Again Alfred shook his head. ‘And want to see nowt like it again,’ he growled. Birdie shuddered.
‘Was it breathing the smoke?’ Miss Eames wanted to know. ‘Did you see where the smoke was coming from?’
‘No,’ Alfred replied.
‘A smoke-shrouded creature . . .’ Miss Eames grimaced. ‘It couldn’t have been a dragon, surely? I’m convinced it wasn’t that.’
Alfred said nothing. There was another long silence, as they rattled past the Shoreditch Vestry Hall – which looked like a huge, elaborate wedding cake. Then Miss Eames suddenly stiffened.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I forgot the journal! I left it there! How stupid of me!’
Alfred didn’t seem very concerned. He scratched his chin and gave another shrug.
‘Maybe we should go back,’ Miss Eames continued, but Birdie cut her off.
‘Go back? Not me!’ The thought made Birdie feel cold and sick. ‘I ain’t never going back there!’
‘Nor I,’ Alfred agreed.
‘But that journal is proof, Mr Bunce! Proof that Doctor Morton killed all those poor boys!’ Miss Eames leaned towards him slightly, raising her voice above the clatter of horse’s hooves. ‘We could show it to the police! It is our written evidence.’
Alfred snorted. ‘Evidence o’ what? That a doctor’s gone mad and thinks he’s a warlock?’ Before Miss Eames could protest, he added, ‘Ain’t no trace o’ them boys, miss. Ain’t no bogle in that house – not anymore. Ain’t nothing but rants on a page.’
‘Which that doctor might say is for a penny dreadful,’ Birdie interposed. While she had never read any of these cheap, flimsy, paperbound books, she knew the kind of sensational stories they told. ‘He might claim he’s writing The Curse o’ the Necromancer, or suchlike.’
‘If you tell the traps,’ Alfred informed Miss Eames, ‘the first thing they’ll do is nib us all for housebreaking. Birdie, too. On account o’ Jem’ll hoist that silver cup, sure as I’m breathing, and I’d not trust Enoch to keep his hands off the rest.’
‘Then I shall speak to the police. Without mentioning any of you.’ Though Miss Eames spoke bravely, there was a quaver in her tone. ‘I shall say that the housemaid let me in, and that I saw the journal while I was waiting for Doctor Morton. If the housemaid is very old, she could easily have forgotten that she admitted me into the house. I’m sure the police would give more weight to my account than they would to hers.’
Birdie was astonished. ‘Don’t lie to the traps, miss. No good will come of it,’ she said gravely, causing Miss Eames to flush. The flush deepened as they stared at each other.
At last Miss Eames exclaimed, ‘I know it’s wrong! Of course I do! But something has to be done!’
‘Something was done,’ Alfred retorted. ‘We killed the bogle.’
‘Which won’t kill no one else,’ Birdie added.
‘And Doctor Morton? What of him?’ Miss Eames appealed to Alfred. ‘He must answer for his crimes! He is a murderer, Mr Bunce! He murdered four children!’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But—’
‘It were the bogle as killed them kids, not the doctor,’ said Alfred. ‘He just put ’em in harm’s way.’
These words seemed to hang in the air for a while. Alfred abruptly turned his head and stared out at the passing street – which looked vaguely familiar to Birdie because they were crossing from Shoreditch into Bethnal Green. But she wasn’t interested in the cab’s progress. She was far more concerned about Alfred. He thinks he’s just like that doctor, she thought, aghast, and opened her mouth to insist that feeding boys to bogles was completely different from using a trained apprentice to lure bogles out of their lairs.
Miss Eames, however, was too quick for her.
‘You almost lost Birdie today, Mr Bunce. Perhaps you should reconsider the offer I made.’
Birdie’s stomach lurched. There were dozens of things she wanted to say: that she had never truly been in danger – that no bogle would ever get the better of Alfred – that Miss Eames was overreacting. But for some reason, she found it hard to speak.
So Miss Eames ploughed on, addressing Alfred’s profile.
‘I understand your difficulties. I realise that bogling is your livelihood, and that my experiment with the pie was unsuccessful. But could you at least give some thought to alternative baits? Children’s clothes, perhaps?’ When Alfred didn’t respond, Miss Eames tried another suggestion. ‘What about hair? Or baby teeth?’
‘Baby teeth? For a bogle?’ Birdie found her voice at last. ‘Why not try to catch a whale with a chestnut?’
‘I know it sounds odd,’ Miss Eames argued, ‘but teeth might have some value as a lure. Baby teeth have been offered up to spirit-creatures for centuries, all over the world.’
‘Not to bogles, I’ll be bound,’ Birdie scoffed.
Suddenly Alfred spoke up. ‘I might become a ratcatcher,’ he mumbled.
Miss Eames blinked. Birdie gasped. She goggled at him for a moment, before recovering her breath.
‘What?’ she squawked.
‘You can make a good living out o’ rats. There’s more rats than bogles in London.’
‘But you’re a bogler!’ Birdie shrilled. ‘Bogling’s a respectable job!’
‘Ain’t no shame in rat-catching,’ Alfred said.
‘Ain’t no pride in it, neither!’ Birdie couldn’t believe her ears. Was Alfred joking? Was he trying to placate Miss Eames? ‘A bogler’s a hero! A ratcatcher’s like a ferret, or a dog!’
‘I think it’s a very good idea,’ Miss Eames interjected.
Birdie rounded on her furiously. ‘You don’t know nothing!’ she spat, before resuming her attack on Alfred. ‘What’s to be done about all them bogles still in London? Who’s going to stop ’em eating kids, if you ain’t bogling no more?’
Alfred wiped a hand across his tired, morose, pouchy face. He seemed to be wavering. So Birdie went in for the kill.
‘People need you, Mr Bunce! Children need you! And you need me!’ she cried.
‘I don’t need you dead, lass.’ Alfred was shaking his head. Without looking at her, very calmly and quietly he murmured, ‘Not you. Never you.’
Birdie gulped, hiccoughed, and burst into tears. It was all too much. She felt as if the foundations of her world were crumbling away. Her wrist was hurting and her stomach was churning and she was shaking all over.
But when Miss Eames tried to wrap an arm around her, Birdie pushed it aside angrily. ‘Get off!’ she sobbed. ‘I’m tired, is all!’
Then the cab stopped.
‘We’re here,’ muttered Alfred.
Miss Eames peered through the rain, towards the crumbling, sooty structure that Alfred called home. ‘Perhaps I should come in with you.’
‘No!’ Birdie didn’t want Miss Eames hovering over her bed, babbling on about police and baby teeth and singing lessons. ‘Go home. This ain’t no place for the likes o’ you.’
Alfred was more courteous. ‘Birdie’ll be all right, miss. I know how to tend a bogle-wound.’
‘But we haven’t finished our talk,’ Miss Eames complained. ‘We haven’t decided what to do about Doctor Morton.’ As Alfred heaved a weary sigh, she said sharply, ‘He has to pay for what he’s done!’
‘Oh, he’ll pay,’ Alfred assured her. ‘There’s people will make sure o’ that, don’t worry.’
Miss Eames frowned. ‘What do you mean? What people?’
‘People you don’t need to know about.’ Alfred flicked a warning glance at Birdie, who understood that he didn’t want her mentioning Sarah’s name. ‘People as lost an income when they lost them boys.’
‘Are you talking about Charlie and Enoch?’ Miss Eames demanded.
‘I’m talking about the person Charlie reports to.’ Hearing the cab-driver clear his throat impatiently, Alfred pulled the lever to release the door. ‘Thank’ee, miss. You go home, now. Have a cup o’ tea – or summat stronger. You earned it today.’
‘Oh!’ Miss Eames gave a start, then fumbled at her waist. ‘On the subject of earnings, I owe you some money—’
‘No, you don’t. Forget the three shillings.’ Alfred paused as he climbed down from the cab. Looking up, his sack on his shoulder, he offered Miss Eames a lopsided smile and said, ‘I might have lost more’n that, if you hadn’t bin there.’
Then he reached for Birdie.