Free A Very Peculiar Plague by Catherine Jinks Page B

thanks to you and your ’prentice.’
    Alfred grunted. Jem grinned. Purdy, meanwhile, was peering around the room, which was almost deserted.
    ‘Is Sam not in yet?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have me usual, by the by.’
    ‘I ain’t seen Sam, but I expect to,’ the barmaid told him. She had already measured out Alfred’s brandy-and-water. ‘Anything for the lad, Mr Bunce?’
    Delighted, Jem opened his mouth to order a quart pot of Dutch bitters. But Alfred spoke first.
    ‘A dram o’ cider,’ he said, before knocking back his brandy in one gulp.
    Jem glowered at him.
    ‘How did you fare on that roof?’ asked Mabel. She seemed very well informed. As Hugh Purdy explained what had happened, Mabel listened intently. And though her eyes never left his face, she didn’t spill a single drop of the various orders that she was dispensing.
    When the plumber finished, she nodded slowly. Then she turned to Alfred.
    ‘There’s someone needs to consult you, Mr Bunce,’ she declared. ‘He’s sexton at the church across the road.’
    ‘ Sexton? ’ Jem echoed, almost choking on his cider. His experience with churchmen had never been good. They seemed to do nothing but preach at him – perhaps because he’d spent so much of his life picking pockets.
    Though Alfred didn’t say a word, his expression became wary.
    ‘I can take you over there while Mr Purdy waits for his friend,’ Mabel continued. ‘Mr Froome would be so grateful. He’s a lovely man, sir, and mortal worried.’
    ‘About what?’ Alfred growled.
    ‘Why, about his missing choirboy!’ Mabel was already untying her apron. Before Alfred could protest, she turned her face to the nearest door and shouted, ‘ Edgar! Where are you? Come here at once! ’ To Purdy she said, ‘Edgar will look after you while I’m gone, since I’ll not be more’n a minute away.’ Then she raised her voice again. ‘ Edgar! You’re to mind the bar, d’you hear? ’
    ‘I hear,’ Edgar replied, lumbering into view. He was a boy of about twelve, large and raw-boned, with red hands, bloodshot eyes, and coarse, gingery hair. He wore a calf-length apron spattered with grease.
    ‘I’ll be back directly,’ Mabel told him. She produced a bonnet from some unseen locker, then stepped out from behind the bar. ‘Edgar’s our new pot-boy,’ she informed Alfred, dragging her bonnet onto her head. ‘He’s strong for his age, and cheap at the price. But he can thank you for his job, Mr Bunce. We’d not have dared hire him, if you hadn’t killed that bogle!’
    Jem was amused to see how meekly Alfred followed Mabel out of the tavern. With her hand tucked under his arm, she steered the captive bogler straight across Giltspur Street as if he were no older than Jem. He seemed unable to resist her. Though he dragged his feet and muttered under his breath, his dour expression was no match for the barmaid’s bustling confidence.
    Jem trailed after them. He kept his eyes peeled, but saw no familiar faces on his way to St Sepulchre’s. The church sat in a modest yard behind a fence of iron railings. Its main entrance lay further down Newgate Street, beneath an elaborate porch. Here an elderly man in a rusty black coat and knee-breeches was sweeping dead leaves off the flagstones. He didn’t see Mabel until she was almost on top of him.
    ‘Why, it’s Miss Lillimere!’ he said, in a cracked and quavering voice like the bleat of a broken reed instrument. His hair was white, as were his side-whiskers. But he wore no beard or moustache. ‘Ye’re too late for the morning service, lass.’
    ‘I didn’t come for that, Mr Froome.’ Releasing Alfred, Mabel laid a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘This here is Mr Alfred Bunce, the Go-Devil man. He kills bogles for a living.’
    ‘The Go-Devil man . . .?’ Mr Froome peered at Alfred with small, pale, rheumy eyes. Alfred stared back morosely, adjusting the weight of his sack.
    In the lengthening silence, Jem’s gaze began to wander. He noticed