A Very Unusual Pursuit by Catherine Jinks Page A

thing was encased in a giant millipede’s shell or in a suit of armour, but she could see red eyes glowing beneath what was either a helmet or a hairless skull. The bogle’s body was so long that Birdie began to sweat and shake. What if its bottom half was still outside the circle when it reached her? Timing would be of the essence, if she was to avoid being caught.
    Birdie focused all her attention on Alfred, bracing herself for his signal. It seemed to be a long time coming. Crooning away, she wondered why he didn’t pounce.
    Here’s blood in the kitchen, here’s blood in the hall,
    Here’s blood in the parlour, where the lady did fall.
    False Lamkin shall be hung on the gallows so high;
    While his bones shall be burned in the fire close by.
    When Alfred finally leaped forward, so did Birdie. She rolled across the ground. She jumped to her feet. Then something slashed at her cape – and she realised that one of the bogle’s razor-sharp claws had only just missed her.
    Fanny screamed. There was a smell of hot gooseberries. The lamp went out, and suddenly Birdie couldn’t see a thing. But as she cast around frantically, a golden glow flared behind the woodpile.
    Miss Eames had uncovered Alfred’s dark lantern.
    In its pale light Birdie saw that Alfred must have speared the bogle, which was already curling up into a crispy ball that began to crumble away like burnt paper. The pie was a bubbling pool of goo. Fanny’s lamp had been knocked down.
    Fanny was sobbing, but broke off with a startled hiccough when Miss Eames shook her.
    ‘Stop it!’ Miss Eames ordered. ‘Pull yourself together at once !’
    ‘Are you all right, lass?’ Alfred asked Birdie.
    ‘I think so.’ Examining her cape, Birdie was grieved to see that the rip was getting bigger. Some kind of poison left there by the bogle’s claws was acting on the yellow silk just like acid; its fibres were shrivelling and its colour darkening.
    With a sinking heart, she accepted that she would have to throw away her favourite garment.
    ‘Me cape’s ruined,’ she sadly informed Alfred, as she untied the bow beneath her chin. ‘The bogle tore it, and it’s spoiling fast.’
    ‘Then toss it in the circle,’ Alfred advised. So she did. The cape landed in a heap between the melted pie and the toppled lamp. When Alfred sprinkled it with holy water, the browning satin fizzed like soda, then turned into a toffee-like substance that began to melt into the ground.
    By this time the bogle itself was just a little heap of black ash, about the size of a dinner plate.
    ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’ Fanny still sounded shaken. ‘Mercy, but what a terrible big thing!’
    ‘Shh. Calm down.’ Though Miss Eames’s voice was also a little unsteady, she had recovered quite well from the shock of the bogle’s appearance. ‘Here,’ she said, rummaging through her basket. ‘This time I bought some smelling salts . . .’
    ‘ You there! What in blazes are you up to?’
    Somebody was yelling at them. Birdie looked around in surprise, but couldn’t see any strangers. Then she realised that the voice was ranting away above their heads – and when she turned, she spotted a shining window on the top floor of the infirmary.
    A man was leaning out of it.
    ‘ Who is that? ’ he roared. ‘ What the devil are you doing?’
    Fanny didn’t answer, having quickly ducked down behind the woodpile. It was Miss Eames who said, with remarkable firmness, ‘There is no cause to shout, sir, and no need to use such language. Mr Hobney himself let us in, and we are on the point of asking him to let us out again.’
    Her cultivated tone seemed to mollify the man in the window, whose own accent was that of a gentleman. He continued more softly, though still with a touch of suspicion, ‘Well, forgive me for my intemperate language, ma’am, but who are you? And why are you here in the middle of the night?’
    ‘My name is Edith Eames. As to my purpose here, I’m afraid I’m not at