A Very Unusual Pursuit by Catherine Jinks

his stool, so that he was once more facing the fireplace. ‘Ain’t nothing to do with us.’
    And he refused to discuss the matter again that day.

11
    THE SPIKE
    George Hobney introduced himself in a hushed voice as he admitted Alfred and Birdie into the Hackney workhouse. At first sight he looked like a typical night porter, gruff and burly, with a square jaw, a straight back and a solid frame. But close up, Birdie could see that Sarah Pickles had left her mark on George Hobney – or was it the bogle making him so anxious? His mouth kept twitching. His small eyes jumped around nervously as he ushered his guests through the lobby of the main administrative block, which was a three-storeyed brick building with windows set so high that Birdie couldn’t see out of them.
    She and Alfred had already spent several minutes trying to find the right entrance. The workhouse itself was a large collection of buildings, ringed by high walls and spread across several acres of land. In the dusky half-light, among a tangle of unfamiliar, mean little streets, it had been hard not to get lost.
    ‘The master don’t know nothing o’ this,’ George murmured, ‘so mind you keep quiet.’ He went on to explain (very softly) that the master was upstairs in his quarters, and that almost everyone else had gone to bed. ‘But Mrs Gudge is in the kitchen. It’s down that passage, third door on the left.’
    ‘Who’s Mrs Gudge?’ asked Alfred.
    ‘She’s the cook. She’ll show you where Fanny saw the . . . um . . .’ George hesitated, rubbing his small, neat, gingery moustache. ‘That thing,’ he finished, grimacing.
    ‘It’s fivepence in advance,’ Alfred said flatly. ‘And a penny for the salt.’
    While George fished around in his pocket, Birdie eyed her gloomy surroundings. The entrance hall in which they stood had whitewashed walls and no furniture. A dark flight of stairs vanished into the shadowy realm above her head. An invisible clock ticked somewhere close by.
    ‘There’s a lady coming to join us,’ Alfred observed. ‘Name of Eames.’
    ‘She’s already here.’ George handed over six pennies. ‘In the kitchen, with Mrs Gudge.’
    So Alfred and Birdie made for the kitchen, leaving George at his post. The kitchen door was standing open, unlike most of the others that Birdie passed on her way down the passage; all Alfred had to do was steer towards the strip of light that lay across the floor ahead of him. Sure enough, when he reached the door through which the light was spilling, he met a woman on the threshold. She was tall and gangly, all elbows and neck, with untidy hair and a scarred face. Her dress looked like a brown paper bag tied round the middle with string.
    ‘Oh!’ she yipped. ‘Is that – are you—?’
    ‘I’m Alfred Bunce.’
    ‘And I’m Birdie.’ Peering past Mrs Gudge, Birdie saw that Edith Eames was sitting near the kitchen hearth, which was huge and sooty and cavernous. In her subdued grey outfit, complete with kid gloves and a small felt hat, Miss Eames cut a far more respectable figure than she had at her last meeting with Birdie.
    ‘Hello, Birdie,’ she said. ‘Hello, Mr Bunce.’
    ‘Hello, miss,’ Birdie replied warily, as Alfred set down his sack.
    ‘I have been talking to Mrs Gudge about the bogle,’ Miss Eames went on, her eyes sparkling, her expression keen, ‘and everything she said confirms me in my opinion. I believe the creature in question is either a knucker or a hobyah.’
    Alfred and Birdie exchanged glances.
    ‘Oh, aye?’ Alfred muttered.
    ‘According to my research, knuckers are water spirits known for attacking livestock, as well as people. They live in “knuckerholes”, and are native to Sussex. I have been unable to determine whether they prefer hunting at night or during the day.’ Miss Eames spoke rapidly, as if she sensed that Alfred and Birdie weren’t very interested in what she had to offer. ‘Hobyahs, on the other hand, are nocturnal in their