A Very Unusual Pursuit Read Online Free Page A

about taking Birdie with him, since Mary kept insisting that there were no bogles in the house where she worked. But Sarah Pickles had heard everything. She had even accompanied Alfred out to the cab, where Mary was waiting for him. Left behind, Birdie would have found herself alone with Sarah and Charlie Pickles.
    Alfred hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t trust Sarah. So he’d taken a cautious approach, loading up the cab with his equipment as well as his apprentice. ‘Sal might steal our bedding while we’re gone,’ he’d muttered, as Sarah waved them goodbye, ‘but she’ll not take you with it, lass.’
    ‘Because I’d never go with her!’ Birdie had scoffed. ‘Not if she forced me at gunpoint!’
    ‘Which it might yet come to, if Sarah has her way.’ Alfred’s grim tone had sent a chill running down Birdie’s spine. But she’d done her best to ignore it, stoutly declaring that she’d faced too many monsters to be scared by an old crock like Sarah Pickles.
    Later, parading through London on real leather seats, she asked herself, in pure exultation: How could Sarah ever top this? I have the best job in the world! Not that the first leg of their journey filled Birdie with wonder; she knew Bethnal Green and Shoreditch too well to marvel at the sights that greeted her as they bowled along. She saw the usual collection of dirty streets lined with pie shops and pawnbrokers, costers’ stalls and public houses. Down the side-alleys she glimpsed even dingier yards full of donkeys and dustheaps, where people were engaged in smelly occupations like boiling tripe, or melting tallow. She saw matchgirls and watercress girls, men carrying rolls of cloth and men pushing barrows laden with furniture. She even recognised a few faces, and was pleased when a clothespeg maker named Sam Wilson gaped like a fish upon beholding her.
    She waved to him regally as she passed by.
    Gradually, however, the city changed. Houses and shops became neater and more respectable, though here and there a patch of slum intruded. Imposing churches thrust their steeples above the crowds. A bustling market took Birdie’s breath away; she was dazzled by all the bright fruit and fluttering ribbons. In a green park she spotted a white baby carriage that looked like a little cloud on wheels. In Holborn they went straight past the Royal Music Hall, and nearly knocked down a gentleman in a high hat as he tried to avoid a pile of horse manure.
    ‘There’s some would rather die than dirty their shoes,’ Alfred quietly observed, after they’d left this furious pedestrian far behind. It was only the second or third remark that Alfred had made since leaving Bethnal Green. Mary hadn’t been very talkative, either; she seemed nervous to be sharing a coach with Alfred, and would speak only when spoken to. Luckily, Birdie wasn’t afraid to ask questions. And by the time they reached Bloomsbury Square, Mary had admitted that she was, indeed, related to Ellen Meggs, who had told her all about the bogle in Mrs Plumeridge’s chimney.
    ‘Ellen had her evening free, last night. She came all the way from Westbourne Park to tell me, and though she stayed in the kitchen, Miss Eames must have heard every word from upstairs.’ Suddenly Mary reached up to tap at the hatch in the roof. ‘Turn here!’ she told the cabman, before fixing her attention on Birdie once more. ‘Ellen said you was there. In that room, with the bogle.’
    ‘Of course,’ Birdie replied.
    Mary shuddered, drawing her shawl tightly around her. But she didn’t say anything else until they reached their destination, which was a neat and narrow brick house in a line of almost identical houses, tucked away near St George’s church. While Alfred and Birdie alighted, Mary paid the fare. Then she headed for the area steps, stopping only when she heard her name spoken.
    ‘Ah! I thought so.’ The lady who had appeared at the front door of the house was dressed in several shades of mustard, with a