Read Online A Very Peculiar Plague by Catherine Jinks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Jinks
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rubble. ‘I growed up near here, on Katherine Wheel Court, and that’s gone, too. Like they put a scythe through Snow Hill.’
The plumber finally stopped in front of a large terrace that was going up on the south side of the viaduct, near St Andrew’s church. It was a tall, handsome building made of fresh-laid bricks and newly carved stone. The front door hadn’t been painted, but all the windows were glazed – including the shop windows downstairs. A load of banisters had been dumped near the main staircase. No one had yet sanded the floors, papered the walls, or installed any fireplace mantels.
Everything inside was coated with a thick layer of plaster dust.
‘Do bogles leave tracks?’ Jem asked Alfred, as Purdy ushered them into the vestibule – where the floor-tiles were a mess of powdery footprints.
‘Not as a rule,’ Alfred replied. ‘But that don’t mean a thing.’ He sniffed the air like a bloodhound as he followed Hugh Purdy into the first room. Here someone had left a mangy broom and a wheelbarrow. The fireplace was just a square hole in the wall. The floor in front of it was covered in footprints, all of them made by hobnail boots.
‘Can’t see no traces here,’ Alfred observed, after hunkering down to peer up the flue. When Purdy asked him what traces he would expect to find if a bogle was in residence, Alfred shrugged and said, ‘Depends on the bogle. Some might leave a stain, or a smell. Most don’t leave nothing at all.’
Jem sneezed. The only things he could smell were sawdust and plaster, with a little linseed oil thrown in. It was the same in the next room, and the one after that. As they slowly ascended, past door after door without knobs or architraves, Alfred checked every fireplace in the building – and found nothing in any of them.
‘If there’s a bogle haunting the roof, then it’s staying up near the chimneypots,’ he finally declared. ‘Else I’d be feeling its presence, which I ain’t.’
‘You’d feel it?’ said Purdy, with a touch of alarm. ‘How?’
Alfred shrugged. ‘You’d feel it too,’ he replied. ‘Everyone’s mood allus slumps when there’s a bogle about.’ By this time he was kneeling by a fireplace in one of the attic rooms, where the brick walls hadn’t yet been plastered over, and where the huge, heavy roof beams were still exposed. There were several discarded tools on the floor near him. Jem eyed them wistfully, knowing that the hammer had to be worth at least a shilling, and the chisel double that.
But he resisted the urge to pick up even a nail punch, since Alfred would almost certainly tell him to put it down again.
‘If you want to inspect the roof, Mr Bunce, you’ve only to step out onto the slates,’ Hugh Purdy remarked, pointing at a nearby dormer window. It was circular, like a ship’s porthole, and framed a view of the elaborate stone balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. ‘I’ve put a ladder out there, and can tie a rope around your middle. But you’ll see for yourself, there’s plenty to hold on to . . .’
Alfred rose to his feet. Jem dashed past him and climbed up onto the windowsill. Below it was a wide gutter that separated the balustrade from the sloping roof. To his right, a ladder had been propped against the slates, leading up to the roof’s apex. To his left was a bank of chimneys, practically within touching distance.
The lowering grey clouds seemed almost as close as the chimneys. Jem wondered how long it would be before the rain started, making it too wet to go crawling across a pitched roof.
‘Oh, this ain’t so bad!’ he announced. ‘I seen much worse than this!’ While working for Sarah Pickles, he had often broken into houses by lifting roof slates. Sometimes he had even done it in the middle of the night. Climbing onto a balustraded roof in broad daylight, with a ladder to help him and no slimy pigeon droppings to slip him up, seemed like pleasant work in comparison. ‘Let me go
The plumber finally stopped in front of a large terrace that was going up on the south side of the viaduct, near St Andrew’s church. It was a tall, handsome building made of fresh-laid bricks and newly carved stone. The front door hadn’t been painted, but all the windows were glazed – including the shop windows downstairs. A load of banisters had been dumped near the main staircase. No one had yet sanded the floors, papered the walls, or installed any fireplace mantels.
Everything inside was coated with a thick layer of plaster dust.
‘Do bogles leave tracks?’ Jem asked Alfred, as Purdy ushered them into the vestibule – where the floor-tiles were a mess of powdery footprints.
‘Not as a rule,’ Alfred replied. ‘But that don’t mean a thing.’ He sniffed the air like a bloodhound as he followed Hugh Purdy into the first room. Here someone had left a mangy broom and a wheelbarrow. The fireplace was just a square hole in the wall. The floor in front of it was covered in footprints, all of them made by hobnail boots.
‘Can’t see no traces here,’ Alfred observed, after hunkering down to peer up the flue. When Purdy asked him what traces he would expect to find if a bogle was in residence, Alfred shrugged and said, ‘Depends on the bogle. Some might leave a stain, or a smell. Most don’t leave nothing at all.’
Jem sneezed. The only things he could smell were sawdust and plaster, with a little linseed oil thrown in. It was the same in the next room, and the one after that. As they slowly ascended, past door after door without knobs or architraves, Alfred checked every fireplace in the building – and found nothing in any of them.
‘If there’s a bogle haunting the roof, then it’s staying up near the chimneypots,’ he finally declared. ‘Else I’d be feeling its presence, which I ain’t.’
‘You’d feel it?’ said Purdy, with a touch of alarm. ‘How?’
Alfred shrugged. ‘You’d feel it too,’ he replied. ‘Everyone’s mood allus slumps when there’s a bogle about.’ By this time he was kneeling by a fireplace in one of the attic rooms, where the brick walls hadn’t yet been plastered over, and where the huge, heavy roof beams were still exposed. There were several discarded tools on the floor near him. Jem eyed them wistfully, knowing that the hammer had to be worth at least a shilling, and the chisel double that.
But he resisted the urge to pick up even a nail punch, since Alfred would almost certainly tell him to put it down again.
‘If you want to inspect the roof, Mr Bunce, you’ve only to step out onto the slates,’ Hugh Purdy remarked, pointing at a nearby dormer window. It was circular, like a ship’s porthole, and framed a view of the elaborate stone balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. ‘I’ve put a ladder out there, and can tie a rope around your middle. But you’ll see for yourself, there’s plenty to hold on to . . .’
Alfred rose to his feet. Jem dashed past him and climbed up onto the windowsill. Below it was a wide gutter that separated the balustrade from the sloping roof. To his right, a ladder had been propped against the slates, leading up to the roof’s apex. To his left was a bank of chimneys, practically within touching distance.
The lowering grey clouds seemed almost as close as the chimneys. Jem wondered how long it would be before the rain started, making it too wet to go crawling across a pitched roof.
‘Oh, this ain’t so bad!’ he announced. ‘I seen much worse than this!’ While working for Sarah Pickles, he had often broken into houses by lifting roof slates. Sometimes he had even done it in the middle of the night. Climbing onto a balustraded roof in broad daylight, with a ladder to help him and no slimy pigeon droppings to slip him up, seemed like pleasant work in comparison. ‘Let me go
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