A Very Unusual Pursuit by Catherine Jinks Page A

habits. They are from further north and eat children, though I’m not sure if they attack livestock. I also don’t know where they usually live.’
    ‘Aye. Well. That’s very interesting,’ Alfred remarked. ‘But—’
    ‘What I have found out,’ Miss Eames quickly added, without letting him finish, ‘is how each of these creatures has been captured and killed. And in neither case , Mr Bunce, was a little girl used as a lure.’
    Birdie scowled. Once again, her livelihood was being threatened. Before she could protest, however, Miss Eames continued.
    ‘According to tradition, the knucker at Lyminster was killed by a huge poisoned pie, which was left beside its knuckerhole. Then its head was cut off. The hobyahs, on the other hand, are vulnerable to dogs. They have been known to fall victim to large dogs, and to flee from the sound of barking.’ Miss Eames suddenly addressed the cook. ‘Is there a workhouse dog, Mrs Gudge?’
    ‘Ah . . . no.’ Mrs Gudge was looking flustered. She kept wiping her bony hands on her apron. ‘We’ve a lot o’ chickens, see.’
    Miss Eames shot a triumphant glance at Alfred, who was growing more and more irritable.
    ‘We ain’t got all night,’ he said gruffly. ‘Birdie’ll tire if we don’t start soon.’
    ‘Yes, but I wanted to tell you that I have brought a pie with me,’ announced Miss Eames. Stooping to pick up a basket from the floor beside her, she explained, ‘Though it’s not a poisoned pie, I thought we might use it to test my theory about alternative baits for your trap.’
    Birdie could restrain herself no longer.
    ‘You want to put a pie in my place?’ she squawked, flushing bright red. ‘You think a pie will draw a bogle out of its lair?’
    ‘It’s freshly baked,’ said Miss Eames. And as she flipped back the linen towel that covered her basket, a heavenly aroma filled the kitchen.
    Even Alfred seemed impressed.
    ‘That smell’s enough to raise the dead,’ he admitted, ‘but I don’t know as how a bogle’s got the same appetite we do . . .’
    ‘I’ll pay you two more shillings,’ Miss Eames blurted out. ‘A crown in total. Would that be fair?’
    Birdie glared at Alfred, who removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and said hesitantly, ‘Aye. That would be fair, on account o’ the risk.’
    ‘It’s too big a risk!’ Birdie objected, so loudly that Mrs Gudge winced and peered anxiously at the smoke-blackened ceiling.
    ‘Shh! Someone might hear you upstairs!’ the cook warned.
    Obediently, Birdie lowered her voice. ‘You kill bogles the way boglers always have done, and it works every time!’ she hissed at Alfred. ‘Why change now?’
    ‘Because the old way isn’t necessarily the best way, Birdie,’ Miss Eames broke in. ‘Certainly not for you.’
    ‘It is the best way for me!’ Birdie snapped. ‘What do you know? You’re not a bogler!’
    ‘Nevertheless, I believe that I can help Mr Bunce shoulder his burden in a more scientific way—’
    ‘Bogles ain’t steam engines!’ Birdie interrupted furiously. ‘Bogles ain’t got nothing to do with science!’
    ‘ Please will you all stop shouting?’ Mrs Gudge begged. She sounded desperate. ‘You’ll have to go if you don’t!’
    ‘Our apologies, ma’am.’ Rounding on Birdie, Alfred fixed her with a warning look, his bloodshot eyes hard and cool. ‘You shut yer mouth, now, or I’ll shut it for you.’
    Birdie subsided. But she sniffed and folded her arms, making it clear that she wasn’t happy.
    ‘Now, ma’am . . .’ Alfred turned back to Mrs Gudge. ‘Would you tell me more about this bogle in yer well?’
    ‘I-I’ve not seen it,’ the cook stammered. ‘Someone else did.’
    ‘Where?’ said Alfred.
    Mrs Gudge went on to relate that the four missing children had all left their beds late at night. Though the master was stubbornly insisting that they must have decamped from the workhouse, no one else believed it because the children had been sick, and on