A Very Singular Guild by Catherine Jinks
‘We ain’t neither of us bin back to Smithfield yet,’ remarked Jem, who was sitting in one corner of the carriage. Ned offered him a weak smile.
Alfred didn’t seem to notice Jem at all.
‘What’s this about?’ he demanded, peering at Mr Harewood.
The engineer shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but I’ve a notion it may have something to do with today’s newspaper article.’ Dropping into the seat opposite Ned, he thumped on the roof with his stick and cried, ‘Guildhall, please! Quick as you can!’ As the carriage gave a lurch, he added, ‘This is my fault. Someone must have passed my memorandum to the press. But what else could I have done? After all, we can’t investigate bogles unless we know where to find them. And how can we possibly find them without the public’s help . . .?’
22
MR DAW’S DISPLEASURE
Mr Joseph Daw’s office at the Guildhall was handsome enough to be a chapel. It had stained-glass windows, a coffered ceiling, velvet curtains and dark, heavy furniture. Mr Daw himself was dressed in priestly black. His waistcoat was made of silk, and his spectacles were gold-rimmed. Despite his slight build and sickly complexion, he somehow managed to fill the room with an atmosphere of chilly disapproval, as though he were a schoolmaster confronted by eight disobedient children.
‘I assume that you have all read this piece,’ he said, pushing a newspaper clipping across the desk in front of him.
Mr Harewood nodded. So did Mr Wardle. Mr Gilfoyle murmured, ‘I’m afraid so . . .’, as Miss Eames leaned forward to get a better look.
‘Oh, dear,’ she remarked. ‘Yes. I did see that.’
Ned and Jem glanced at each other, but didn’t comment. From the moment of their arrival, Mr Daw had treated them as if they didn’t exist. Perhaps it had something to do with Jem’s missing coat, or Ned’s muddy shoes. Whatever the reason, Ned knew that anything they said would be roundly ignored. So, like Jem, he remained silent.
It was Birdie who spoke up. Because she was so nicely dressed, in chestnut cashmere trimmed with silk braid, she had received a guarded nod from Mr Daw upon entering his office. Now she sat up straight and defiantly announced, ‘Not everyone here can read, Mr Daw.’
‘Aye, but I know what’s in the newspaper,’ Alfred hastened to assure her. ‘Mr Harewood told me the gist of it.’
‘I see.’ Mr Daw’s stern gaze travelled from Alfred to Birdie, then from Birdie to Miss Eames. After skipping over Jem, Ned and Mr Wardle, it finally came to rest on Mr Gilfoyle, who was standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr Harewood, because there weren’t enough chairs. ‘Did I, or did I not, convey to you from the very start that this committee was convened unofficially?’ said Mr Daw. ‘Did I not make it clear that the Chief Engineer was anxious not to arouse too much interest among the public?’ Without waiting for an answer, he ploughed on. ‘Perhaps the wisdom of this request has become apparent to you, now that the Sewers Office is a laughing stock. May I ask, Mr Harewood, how this came about? As Chairman of the committee, you must have some notion.’
Mr Harewood shifted uncomfortably. He was looking a little ink-stained, and his black eye was turning mauve and green and yellow. ‘I’m not sure how the news got out,’ he confessed, ‘but it might have had something to do with my memorandum.’
He then explained what he had done, as Mr Daw’s expression became more and more sour. When the engineer proposed that some government clerk must have leaked the memorandum to a journalist, Mr Daw produced from one of his desk drawers a wad of crumpled paper. Some of the sheets were telegrams; some were letters; some appeared to be jottings on ledger-leaves.
‘Since the article was published, I have received more than two dozen requests for help,’ he said tightly. ‘Some of these messages concern missing children. Others relate to sightings in sewers. One is about a blocked drain.’ He shot a withering look at the engineer. ‘This is not what I had in mind when the committee was formed, Mr Harewood.’
‘No, sir. I quite see that.’ The engineer fished a handful of papers from his own pocket. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve also received further communications this morning. From a military barracks, and the Treasury Department—’
Mr Daw cut him off – quite rudely, Ned thought. ‘Clearly the problem is widespread. Are you confident of solving it, at this point?’
There was a pause, as everyone else looked at each other. It was Miss Eames who finally answered Mr Daw’s question.
‘I believe we have made strides. At present we have high hopes of reproducing Mr Bunce’s spear. And with more spears we can train up more boglers—’
‘Ahem.’ Mr Daw raised his hand suddenly. ‘The Sewers Office does not work with boglers. The Town Clerk has already made a statement to this effect.’
Ned caught his breath as his eyes swivelled towards Alfred. Even Mr Gilfoyle looked startled.
‘The Committee for the Regulation of Subterranean Anomalies has undertaken to hire Mr Bunce,’ Mr Daw continued, ‘but this committee was never convened by the Sewers Office.’
‘Not officially, perhaps—’ Mr Harewood began, as he stuffed his telegrams back into his pocket. But he was quickly corrected by Mr Daw.
‘Neither officially nor unofficially. Your committee was formed on a whim by various interested parties, including Mr Eugene Wardle, who happens to work for the Sewers Office but who has been participating in a private capacity, and whose presence in no way implicates this department.’
Mr Wardle’s jaw dropped. Aghast, he stammered, ‘B-but Mr Daw . . . you’ve already covered a good portion of our expenses—’
‘Because of a payroll accounting error. The money you received was in advance of your wages, Mr Wardle, and must be repaid.’
‘But—’
‘Luckily, Mr Edward Rider Cook, a member of the Metropolitan Board of Works, has undertaken to fund the committee as a private patron. So the Sewers Office will apply to him for recompense. I would advise that you communicate with Mr Cook as soon as possible, at his address in Woodford Green.’ Mr Daw pushed another slip of paper across his desk, ignoring the gasps and stares that greeted this announcement. ‘Naturally, the Sewers Office will be interested in any discoveries you might henceforth make,’ he went on. ‘And we’ll do our best to provide assistance where it’s needed. But the Sewers Office will have no direct involvement in the funding of boglers or bogle-related research.’ Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers and let his chilly gaze sweep over the people arrayed before him. ‘Do you understand me, gentlemen? Ladies? I hope I have made myself clear?’
‘Quite clear, thank you,’ Miss Eames replied crisply. Ned caught Birdie’s eye and grimaced. He knew exactly what was going on. Mr Daw didn’t want any more newspapers accusing his department of wasting rate money. So he had devised a clever, roundabout way of ensuring that the committee continued to exist without his direct involvement.
Not that it mattered much. As long as Alfred was being paid, Ned didn’t care where the money came from.
‘You must address your reports to Mr Cook, in the future,’ Mr Daw advised the engineer. ‘He is a soap manufacturer with a high regard for all forms of scientific research, though he has a special interest in chemistry. No doubt he will keep me apprised of your progress.’ Rising, he executed a stiff little bow and said to the group as a whole, ‘May I wish you the very best of luck in your endeavours? If you have any further questions, you should direct them to Mr Cook.’
The others exchanged stunned glances. Birdie was scowling. Mr Wardle had turned pale. Alfred didn’t look at all impressed.
Mr Harewood asked, with an edge to his voice, ‘May we hold our next meeting at Spring Gardens, Mr Daw? Or is it closed to us, now?’
‘As I said, Mr Harewood, you should apply to Mr Cook for an answer. He is, after all, on the Board of Works.’ As Mr Wardle opened his mouth, Mr Daw added, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy. I had to postpone several meetings to make time for this one. You know your way out, I think? It’s
Two minutes later, the entire committee was standing in a Guildhall corridor, cut adrift like castaways.
‘Well,’ Mr Harewood said at last, ‘I suppose I should have foreseen that. Clerkish fellows always scuttle for cover when a storm threatens.’
‘But what is expected of us, Harewood?’ Mr Wardle spoke plaintively, his plump face creased into anxious lines. ‘Is it our duty to attend these meetings? Will we benefit from doing so? Is the committee part of my job anymore, or not?’
Mr Harewood shrugged.
‘I’m persuaded that Mr Daw wants you to continue as before, but doesn’t want to know anything about it.’ Miss Eames turned to the naturalist. ‘Did you receive that impression, Mr Gilfoyle?’
‘Perhaps. It’s hard to say. Mr Daw was curiously oblique in his manner.’
‘You must go and speak to Mr Cook,’ Birdie suddenly declared. She was addressing Mr Harewood, her tone sharp, her cheeks flushed. ‘You must go now, and tell him that Mr Bunce needs his wages. Every week.’
Miss Eames winced and clicked her tongue. Alfred quickly said, ‘He cannot go now, lass. He’s wanted in Smithfield. Urgently.’
Alfred then went on to explain that the man suspected of assaulting Mr Harewood was being held at Smithfield station house. But he didn’t mention Jem’s violent encounter with Fitch the previous night.
Ned wondered if he was afraid that Miss Eames would kick up a fuss.
‘I’ll go in search of Mr Cook as soon as I’ve formally identified this Fitch blackguard,’ Mr Harewood promised Birdie. ‘Once I’ve discovered Mr Cook’s plans for us, I’ll make sure you’re all acquainted with the particulars.’ He shuffled aside to let a black-suited clerk hurry past. ‘Meanwhile, we must carry on as before. Our best hope still lies in replicating Mr Bunce’s spear. I believe Gilfoyle is on the trail of a cross that we can use for a spearhead. Isn’t that right, old boy?’
‘It is,’ Mr Gilfoyle conceded. ‘Though I cannot imagine what difference it will make. Whether you consecrate the stone before or after it’s carved, you end up with the same material, scientifically speaking.’
‘Except that bogles ain’t scientific,’ Birdie pointed out. ‘They’re magic.’
Mr Gilfoyle sniffed, but said nothing. It was Ned who quietly remarked, ‘I used to think the same, Birdie. Now I ain’t so sure. There’s things in this world we don’t understand – mebbe bogles is one of ’em.’
There was a brief silence. Mr Gilfoyle studied Ned with a gratified look on his face. Finally Mr Harewood cleared his throat and said, ‘Once the cross is in our hands, I’ll arrange to have a new spearhead made. And while that’s being done, Gilfoyle will be testing his herbal mixture on some of the samples he’s collected. As for you, Mr Bunce . . .’ The engineer once again produced a handful of rustling telegrams from his coat pocket. ‘I assume you’ll keep responding to every legitimate appeal for help?’
‘Aye. I’ll do that,’ Alfred mumbled.
‘As I said earlier, I’ve received several more – from St George’s Barracks, and the Treasury, and the Monument—’
‘I’ll get to ’em.’ Catching Ned’s eye, Alfred added, ‘First I’ve some business to attend to, back in Drury Lane.’
Ned knew what that must be. Having secured Eduardo’s services, Alfred now wanted to hire one of the gas-men at the Theatre Royal. According to Jem, this was the stagehand who could produce a cloud of smoke at the drop of a hat.
‘You won’t forget about tomorrow night, Mr Bunce?’ Birdie piped up. ‘You’ll come and hear me sing? You and Ned?’
‘We’d not miss it for nowt,’ Alfred replied solemnly. ‘Would we, lad?’
‘No.’ Ned racked his brain for a pretty way of assuring Birdie that he would sooner miss tea with the Queen. Before he could think of the right words, however, Mr Harewood forestalled him.
‘I believe we’ll all be there. Isn’t that so, Wardle?’
‘Oh . . . er . . .’
‘The research subcommittee will certainly be attending,’ Miss Eames interjected. ‘Mr Gilfoyle has kindly offered to escort me to the theatre.’
Ned saw Mr Harewood shoot a sideways look at the naturalist, who coughed and rubbed his nose. Then Alfred rasped, ‘Mebbe you can tell us about Mr Cook tomorrow night, Mr Harewood.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ the engineer drawled. ‘We can have a committee meeting in the theatre’s crush bar, like civilised people.’ He spoke in a sardonic tone that Ned found puzzling. It wasn’t until later, when Mr Harewood and Mr Gilfoyle were being terribly polite to each other about sharing a cab, that Ned suddenly understood.
Mr Harewood was jealous.
23
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
Clerkenwell Police Court stood next to Clerkenwell station house. They were separated by a large iron gate, which opened onto a cobbled yard behind the two buildings. Peering through this gate, Ned could just make out that the yard was enclosed by a string of smaller structures: a stable block, a carriage house, and a row of prison cells, small and mean and dismal in the murky dawn light.
‘Gives you the jitters, don’t it?’ said Humphrey Cundle, the gas-man from the Theatre Royal. He was wizened and middle-aged, with a mouth so full of big, yellow teeth that he couldn’t seem to shut it properly. His scalp gleamed through his close-cropped grey hair, and his sallow skin was spotted with burns, scars and splotches.
On his back he carried an enormous basket, tied across his shoulders with a pair of leather straps.
Ned could only assume that the basket contained Humphrey’s apparatus – a smoke-pot, perhaps, or a flash-box. The previous afternoon, Humphrey had shown Alfred and Ned a huge collection of stage equipment, starting with a tiny jar of magnesium and ending with a large pair of bellows mounted on a brazier. The tour had been accompanied by a running commentary, as the gas-man tried to explain the function of every pipe, flap, wire and screen. ‘A flash-box is full o’ lycopodium powder. If you blow the powder through a flame, you get a nice, bright flare . . . Or I can make you a smoke-pot out o’ sugar and saltpetre. You’ll get more smoke from a smoke-pot, though it ain’t so easy to manage . . . A bit o’ salt will turn a flame yellow . . . Coloured smoke’s best done with lights and gauze . . .’
In the end, Alfred had told Humphrey to bring along whatever he thought suitable – and had grudgingly agreed to pay an extra twopence for sulphur. ‘It’ll give you a lovely brimstone stench, as if yer bogle’s come straight from the fires of hell,’ Humphrey had promised, on pocketing Alfred’s twopenny bit.
Now, as they stood outside the station house waiting for Eduardo to arrive, the gas-man was talking again. Excited, perhaps, to have a captive audience after so many years spent working in the wings, he entertained Alfred and Ned with grisly tales of all the backstage accidents he’d witnessed until a policeman suddenly hailed them from the door of the station house.
‘Hi! You, there! Would you be the bogling party, by any chance?’
The policeman was young and slim, with shiny black hair and thick black eyebrows. There was a five o’clock shadow on his chin, despite the early hour.
He looked just like a gypsy, Ned thought.
‘Aye,’ said Alfred. ‘I’m Bunce the bogler.’
‘And I’m Constable Evans.’ The policeman darted forward to shake Alfred’s hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Bunce – I read about you in the newspaper. Seems you’ve made quite a name for yourself.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Alfred didn’t look very pleased.
‘Len Pike told me what you wanted, and I think I’ve found it. But you’d best hurry in, for your felon will arrive with the next delivery, and I’m expecting that within the hour.’
‘We’re a-waiting for one more—’ Alfred began, but Ned interrupted him.
‘There he is.’ Ned pointed. ‘There’s Mr Miniotto.’
An enormous figure was lumbering towards them down King’s Cross Road, which was practically deserted and swathed
Constable Evans blinked at the sight of him.
‘Well, now,’ said the policeman, ‘I hope that one’ll fit in the basement.’
‘You’re taking us down to the basement?’ Alfred asked, frowning. ‘But I saw a dozen cells off the yard, back there . . .’
‘You’ll not find what you want in those court cells. They’re whitewashed boxes, and noisy besides. But this station house is brand new, built straight over the old cellars, and down below there’s a lot still left unfinished. It’s where you’ll find any number of boltholes, ideal for your purposes.’ The policeman’s blue eyes glinted as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll tell your friend Fitch that we’ve run out of room in the cells, and must confine him downstairs, instead.’
By this time Eduardo had joined them. He was quickly introduced to Humphrey and Constable Evans, both of whom regarded him warily, as if he were an exotic animal. ‘He ain’t no Englishman, that’s clear enough,’ mumbled the gas-man. And the constable declared, in a dry voice, ‘Len Pike has vouched for you, Mr Bunce, and I know you’re well respected in your profession. But I tell you now, if this gentleman here makes one misstep, or smuggles anything untoward into the lock-up – such as might be used as a weapon – he’ll end up in the same cell as Toby Fitch. For I know foreigners are partial to stiletto knives, and the like.’
Ned wasn’t sure if Eduardo fully understood what was being said; there was a puzzled expression on the performer’s big, square, unshaven face. It was Alfred who scowled at Constable Evans and rasped, ‘You’ve no call to insult Mr Miniotto. He’s a working man like me. And there’s nowt in that bag but his bogle-pelt.’
‘If you say so, Mr Bunce.’ The policeman shrugged, then turned on his heel and plunged back into the station house – which was a looming box four storeys high, made of brick and stone and dull grey slate. After a moment’s pause, everyone else followed him. They passed through the front entrance into a lofty hallway that was lined with closed doors. The air smelled of soap, sweat and fresh paint. The scarred walls were hung with signs that Ned couldn’t read.