Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square

by William Sutton

  “Numpty,” Worm hissed, “take a stroll.”

  The overcoated man turned abruptly. “What do you want, Worm?” he said in the cantankerous tones of the north of England. “I’m busy.”

  Worm tilted his head in my direction.

  “I’m Lawless, sir.” I held out my hand. “Campbell Lawless.”

  Worm sighed. “He’s the Watch Man, like as you asked for, old cove.”

  Inspector Wardle of the Yard barely gave me a glance. He tossed a sixpence to the boy, and turned back towards the spout.

  Worm checked the coin with his teeth and flipped it into the air, where it vanished. “Come on, Numpty,” he said, pulling the sixpence out of his friend’s ear. “While you stand agog at my dexterity, old chum, opportunities are going a-begging. That brolly man needs a helping hand…”

  Wardle was a good deal older than me, a man as short as his overcoat was long. His hair was white, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and perspiration glistened on his brow.

  I stood upright and steady, trying to restrain my curiosity. At length I felt so uncomfortable, I made an effort at conversation. “Fairly comical accident, sir.”

  “You won’t see me laughing,” he said. He glanced darkly across the crowd. “Accident, you reckon?”

  True enough, it seemed a strangely elegant disaster. I looked over the crowd and considered the spectacle. The great station buildings lay quiet to our left, closed to passengers for the night. In the boarding houses fringing the square, a surprising number of lamps were burning. Closer, the fair people of Euston made an ugly mob. They crowed and shouted, buying and selling, eating and drinking, while a shocking number of children amused themselves around the great hulking machinery, splashing in the puddles. On night duty we charged beggars and borough councillors for misdemeanours perpetrated under the influence. Could this be a drunken jape, only on a bigger scale?

  Wardle narrowed his eyes. “There’s a man hurt. Porter’s watching him for now.”

  “How bad, sir?”

  “Worse for wear, let’s say.”

  “The machine blew up on him, did it?”

  “Else he fell. Meddling somehow, like as not.”

  “Maybe he was trying to finish the building job. With the masons’ strike, you know. Only he botched it…” I trailed off. The inspector hadn’t asked for my theories.

  “We’ll deal with that soon enough,” said Wardle brusquely. He turned to me at last, looking me up and down. “You know clocks, do you?”

  I caught my breath, dismayed.

  “Do you know them, yes or no?”

  “I do, sir. You want me to fix your mainspring?”

  “Might and all.” He did not smile. Not quite. Instead, he walked all the way around me, as if I were a tree. Then he pointed up at the pinnacle of the crane. “Up and have a look, then, before any more meddling’s attempted.”

  I peered up at the crane. Now that I looked more carefully, I could see: it was no monumental stone hanging there. I could make out the face of a gigantic timepiece, dangling aloft in front of the columns, held in a timber frame: the station clock, reading twenty to two, the time of the late train, an hour past.

  “Oh, do keep away, won’t you?” A bearded man in tails struggled out from the crowd, trying to shoo away children from the machine. They kept darting around him, yelping with delight. The man looked around, tugging at his beard, until he spotted us. “Who is in charge here? Officer, is it you who are in charge? I say! Could we keep these people away? My equipment has suffered enough tomfoolery for one day, don’t you think?”

  Wardle looked at him.

  The man scratched at his forehead, where his bony temples protruded from uneven hair. He made an effort to collect himself. Deciding that I was more amenable than the inspector, he approached me first.

  “Roxton Coxhill,” he assured me with a damp, enthusiastic clutch. “Gerhart Roxton Coxhill. Bloody awkward bloody name. Friends call me Roxton. Simpler, eh? Otherwise you end up with Gert or Coxers, or Gertie boy, which won’t do at all. Call me Roxton, do. And you are?”

  The inspector intervened. “Wardle. We’ve met.”

  “Have we? I don’t recall.”

  “Inspector Wardle, Scotland Yard.”

  “Ah, yes! Good. Capital, in fact. Just the man. Quite clear what’s happened. Porter’s asleep, some fool’s been tampering with the apparatus. It’s a bloody disgrace and a considerable embarrassment to me, and I shall be pleased to see it dealt with pretty damn quick. Now can we clear this rabble?”

  “Mr Coxton—”

  “Roxton Coxhill.”

  “Your contraption,” Wardle snapped, “has left a man injured—”

  “Serves the villain right, don’t you think?”

  “Who is to blame, Mr Coxton, I can’t say. But this spectacle is not helping any of us. If your equipment is so ill-maintained that any Tom, Dick or Harry can crack it open—”

  “Steady, now!”

  “You may be liable,” Wardle soldiered on, “for damages. Criminal negligence. Wouldn’t you say so, Watchman?”

  I nodded, quietly impressed with Wardle’s doggedness.

  “I see. Quite.” Coxhill cast a sidelong glance at Wardle, as if to size him up. He turned and looked up at the crane, as if he were staring into the future. “It’s a question of confidence, you see. They’re trying to ruin confidence in me.”

  Wardle glowered. “We’ll investigate that for ourselves. The minute you turn it off.”

  “Shouldn’t bloody well be on, that’s what’s so galling. Can’t see how it is, not at this hour of the night. My reservoirs will be quite emptied.”

  “Reservoirs?”

  “Yes, it’s revolutionary engineering. Reservoir’s two miles away, up by Hampstead, but three hundred feet up, you see. All that weight of water, concentrated into pistons no more than an inch and a quarter across—”

  “Shut down your bloody machine,” said Wardle, “and let my constable make his own judgement.”

  “Quite.” Coxhill looked around uneasily. “You see, I would, of course.” A boy with an upturned nose was standing quietly behind us, spinning a top along a length of string, from one hand to the other. Coxhill swatted irritably at him, but the little chap ducked away and made good his escape. “It’s just that my fellow should be here, by rights. Dashed nuisance. He’d have the thing off in two ticks. He’s a veteran of Sevastopol, don’t you know.”

  Wardle snorted. “Watchman, shift that crowd. Then up and look at the clock for us.”

  I stared at the crane. There was a ladder fixed to its side, but it must be sodden. Coxhill leapt in. “Oh, I hardly think that safe, Inspector.”

  “You would warn us, I’m sure, if there were any danger of it exploding.”

  “Of course, Inspector. Not that it will. These idlers, though. If we could clear them away… Ha! Here’s Hunt, with the chaise. Marvellous.”

  A stylish carriage, embossed with florid lettering in gold leaf, pulled up behind us at the edge of the square. A bull terrier of a man leapt out and marched over to us. He seemed ill at ease in his starched shirt, suit and tie. “What’s this bloody monkey business, sir?”

  Coxhill coughed, to draw the man’s attention to us. “This is Hunt. My right-hand man, you know.”

  With a glance at his master, Hunt turned to us with a military bearing. “Hunt, HECC. At your service.”

  Wardle looked unimpressed.

  “Excuse me,” I frowned, “but what is the HECC?”

  Roxton Coxhill smiled. “You’ve surely heard of the Hydraulic Engines Corporation of the Capital?”

  I indicated that I had not.

  “Well, you soon will. Won’t they, Hunt?”

  “They will, sir.”

  “I’d say we’re attracting considerable interest, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Considerable. There’s talk in the City, you know.” Coxhill tapped the side of his nose. “Next big thing. Inve
stment mania. It’ll outstrip the railways, mark my words.”

  Wardle looked at the spout. “With equipment like this?”

  “Early days, Inspector, early days.” Coxhill stuck out his jaw. “You’ll see. These machines of mine can lift an elephant, or cut a man into thrupenny bits.” His eyes gleamed. “They’re giving us statutory protection. I have the Prince of Wales’ assurance. A Royal Seal is on its way.”

  I couldn’t help but picture a portly seal, with Coxhill’s whiskers, flopping up the Euston Road towards us. He went on, his poise entirely recovered. “Now, Hunt, my good man, help the poor constable by turning the thingummy off, while I have a nice chat with the inspector.”

  THE HYDRAULIC DEVIL

  The colonnade stood high and proud, like the entrance to a Greek temple. The crane in front of it towered above the crowd too, the height of twenty men. I buttoned up my greatcoat, pulled my regulation oilskin tight around my neck, and strode forwards.

  For the first time in my career, I felt the rabble’s hostility to the uniform’s blue-and-white striped cuffs. The crowd was gathered before the metal railings surrounding the two patches of withered grass at the heart of the square. As I asked them to move, they turned their backs. They eyed me with suspicion, or with loathing. For a moment, my courage failed. My first chance to shine, I thought, and I’m not able for it.

  Then I noticed another constable in the crowd. And another, and another. Of course. There was a series of fixed posts along the Euston Road. I even knew a couple of the fellows by sight, from walking home after night duty. They were watching, already helping, quietly cautioning people away from the spout. Once I realised this, the mob seemed to resume its aspect of genial indifference. Most of them at least stayed well back. A few children played games closer to the machine; the odd merrymaker splashed around with an umbrella, but never for long.

  Soaked already, I approached the body of the crane. I raised the tarpaulin to reveal a door. I turned the handle tentatively, half expecting a flood to knock me off my feet. To my surprise, it opened as easily as any door, and I peered into the gloomy engine room.

  At the mess of sopping levers and cables, gear shafts and cogs, I frowned. I am no engineer, nor do I wish to write a manual for saboteurs and activists. Yet one part of the apparatus appeared distinctly makeshift. Cogs affixed to the timber ceiling fed slender wires from the hydraulic levers to the pistons and cylinders at the machine’s heart; several pieces resembled watch parts, albeit on a massive scale. From these emerged twine cords and a rope that passed through a duct in the ceiling. It must be there that some valve or pipe had come into play as a vent for the pressurised water. Hence the spout.

  I little understood the levers, but I could surely work out how to shut off the machine. That would earn me points in Wardle’s book. He was right: it hardly seemed an accident.

  I heard the slosh of footsteps behind me.

  “Oi! Want to get yourself killed?”

  I turned to face the terrier’s glare. “I’ve to look at that clock up there.”

  Hunt glanced aloft, wiped the water from his eyes, and grinned at me. “On you go then.”

  “While your machine empties the London waterworks on us?” I narrowed my eyes. “I’d rather switch it off first.”

  “I’ll deal with that,” he said.

  “Will you now?”

  “I will,” he replied, pushing past me, “with your inspector’s say-so.”

  I stepped back reluctantly.

  “Have their guts for garters, I will,” Hunt muttered. “Bloody tampering monkeys.”

  I looked over towards Wardle, but he was nowhere to be seen, doubtless collecting the evidence, examining every detail, interviewing every suspect. I would have to take the terrier’s word for it.

  “Clear out of it, copper. I’ll have it sorted in two shakes.”

  I left Hunt on his tiptoes, peering into the machine. He growled under his breath, as he tugged at one lever after another, favouring force over finesse. Remarkable that I could form such a dislike for the man in the space of such a short exchange. I should have guessed that he understood hydraulics no better than I.

  I withdrew to the side of the machine, where the narrow ladder was fitted. It looked like a relic of the siege of Sevastopol. I looked up at the streams of water coursing down over the scaffold’s upper platforms. I am no more fearful of heights than the next man, but I did not relish the prospect of climbing that ill-functioning contraption while it spouted like a victory fountain. Yet I must impress. I must keep my wits about me. Others might deal with injured men and malfunctioning machines. I had been chosen to glean something from the maltreated clock. I had been summoned by an inspector of the Yard, no less.

  I turned to the colonnade’s scaffolding, leaving Hunt to his mischief. This ladder looked hardier. As I ventured my ascent, the fine insistent spray became a regular torrent, cascading down upon me. From the first platform I could see the gleam of some kind of silver piping, wedged atop the body of the crane where the great cables emerged: the source of the spout.

  Steadily I clambered upwards, grateful for my oilskin cape. The timber was devilish slippery and my hands numb from cold.

  It was some minutes before I reached the upper platform. The wind on high was biting. With runnels from my hood dripping over my brows, I thought it wisest to crawl across the sodden timbers on hands and knees to inspect the piece.

  The crane’s apex rose up above the level of the scaffolding, a few feet out from the platform. Dangling from the winches, just above me and out of reach, the clock juddered and swirled with the force of the spout. An elegant piece it was, fine workmanship evident in the tidy lettering: the IIII perfectly balancing the VIII.

  But from my vantage point I could see only the face of the clock. To garner more information, I would have to examine its reverse. I could see no alternative. I would have to clamber across onto the crane.

  I reached out, but it eluded my grasp. Sacrificing elegance for safety, I lay down flat on my stomach. I could feel the water soaking through my clothes as I inched my way to the very edge of the platform. I swung a leg out into space, and grabbed hold of the crane. With a fearful lurch, I tugged myself across the gap and onto the next ladder.

  The crane swayed for a moment, and there was an outburst of applause from below. When it stopped swaying, I glanced down. I wished at once that I had not. They had doubtless offered odds on my chances, half the crowd were rooting for me to conquer the summit. The rest would gladly see me impaled on the railings of the square. A fine end that would be.

  My heart was pounding. I noticed silhouettes in the windows of the boarding houses. I shivered, feeling myself part of a lurid show, but who had organised the piece I did not know. Coxhill and Hunt wanted their machine rescued from ignominy. Wardle needed some revelatory detail from my scrutiny; probably the inspector was already extracting confessions from the injured man. All I could do was play my little role, dangerous as it was. I felt strangely alone. Then I caught sight of someone waving far below. Worm stood with a thin-faced man in a bowler hat. For a moment I thought it was Hunt, but the terrier was still making mischief at the base of the crane beneath me. Worm and companion looked up at me in friendly fascination. Amongst that sea of avid countenances, I was reassured to make out his amicable features. I took a deep breath and turned to my task.

  The clock swung some feet above me, sloshed hither and thither by the streams of water. Gingerly, I climbed a couple of rungs, praying that the sodden wood wouldn’t give way. My left boot slipped. I clutched on for grim death, ignoring the shouts from below. I held my breath, climbed two more rungs, then wound my arms and legs through the crane’s framework to hold myself firm.

  I reached out to pull the clock’s timber frame towards me. A precarious prospect, but it was lighter than I expected, and I easily drew it close. I strained to read the clockmaker’s name, inscribed in minuscule print on the casing. I had it all but deciphered—Allnutt &
Gatz of Clerkenwell, or maybe Allnutt & Franz—when the timber frame jolted.

  I looked down in alarm. I had better hurry, before Hunt did something foolish. I gently rotated the framework to examine the back of the clock. I felt in my cape pocket and breathed a little prayer of relief. Watchmaker habits die hard. I had with me the screwdriver-cum-wrench that I used for odd jobs and on-the-spot repairs. Father considered this a slovenly approach. Each timepiece, he said, requires the implement most apt for the job. But this was no time for niceties. I hooked my arm through the clock’s packing frame, and tugged it closer still. I was surprised to see that the water seemed to be coursing right through it. A station clock that could not withstand the elements made no more sense than a house without a roof. My curiosity was piqued. The back panel was just accessible between the timbers. I set myself to undo the corner screws of the panel, anticipating that familiar reverie of puzzling at cogs and querying springs until the parts should connect and the clock’s secrets be mine. The casing I saw was beautifully effected. Yet how slackly the screws were driven in. Father had a point: to inspect such a clock’s workings, by rights, a man should require a full set of tools. This panel was too easily shifted. Indeed, there were already scratches around the screw holes. Strange, on a brand new clock.

  I swung the panel round to lay bare the clock’s innards and gasped in surprise. The mechanism had been removed. The pendulum was there, dangling from the barrel that was affixed to the great wheel, as you would expect. But the rest of the wheelwork was nowhere to be seen.

  Could it simply never have been installed? Unthinkable. Granted, they would have to put the clock in place before lowering the pendulum and setting it in motion. But to wait until it was perched thirty yards aloft before installing the rest? That would be not just awkward, but downright stupid. Stupid too to leave it hanging in mid-air, with the platform right there beside it. Why not pull it to safety onto the scaffolding? Or into its rightful place, crowning the colonnade?

  I stared at what was left of the workings. The key to the mystery lay before me, if only I could fathom its intricate augury. I determined to note every detail. It might have been by chance or design that the clock showed twenty to two, but there was nothing to propel the hands. The frame had been neatly opened, and the most delicate parts of the gearing mechanism—pinions, spindles and motion work—were gone. Judging from the scratches on the casing, the mechanisms had been extracted in some haste. Coxhill might well complain that his hydraulics had been tampered with, but the clock had seen equal mischief.