More pleas to help the unhelpable. Charles Dickens gave a reportedly rousing address to raise funds for the Hospital for Sick Children. Perhaps the popular novelist should look a little more to his own affairs. He repeatedly turned down a lucrative offer from Spiers and Pond of the Café de Paris in Melbourne, Australia, for a reading tour. The rebuffed entrepreneurs have instead invited HH Stephenson’s All England team to tour the colony, where they plan to cash in on the public’s obsession with cricket, the latest euphemism for gambling and gaming. Dickens, meanwhile, will mount another royal command drama at the Gallery of Illustrations to raise funds for the hospital.
Should we not remember Samuel Smiles’ dictum that “No laws, however stringent, can make the idle industrious, the thriftless provident, or the drunken sober”? The claims of the Association for the Preservation of Infant Life, that unwanted children are being murdered for the sum of £12 by unscrupulous widows, though serious, are not credible. In the last twelvemonth, the four hundred and sixty-four cases of suspicious child deaths investigated have produced just fourteen prosecutions and seven convictions, presenting no reason to amend the Bastardy Clause of 1844. After all, if Mr Darwin is to be believed, the Survival of the Fittest is only part of the Great Struggle for Life. Thus, for mankind’s sake, all these sickly unwanted children would be better off left to fend for themselves.
PASSAGES IN MUDIE’S LENDING LIBRARY BOOKS
MARKED WITH CIPHER ANNOTATIONS
…Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that Caesar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,
That he has grown so great?
Cassius, Julius Caesar, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring,
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood…
England 1819, P.B. SHELLEY, writing of the House of Hanover
DIRTY LAUNDRY
It was on my way to Charles Dickens’ house that I stopped in at Brunswick Square and had an unpleasant run-in with Glossop, the carrot-haired companion of my first months in the police.
Wardle had fallen into a dismal funk. They were still thieving, up in Hampstead, over in Bayswater, and right under our noses along Whitehall.
“And what have we got?” Wardle exploded. “Nothing. They’ll be taking Victoria’s petticoats next.”
Several puzzles baffled us. The list of the robbed made impressive reading: industrialists, parliamentarians and literary men, the well-heeled and the well-known. There were a couple of gentlemen’s clubs, a music hall, a brothel and a lunatic asylum. It made sense, of course, to rob the wealthy, yet, having gone to so much trouble, why take so little? And how did our thieves get in and out without leaving a trace?
At first, Wardle stuck doggedly to his theory from Pearson’s, that we were sniffing out industrial saboteurs. While it was unlikely that servants in each household were executing identical crimes, it was nonetheless possible that a contact paved the way in each case, passing crucial details to the thieves and allowing them access. We gathered lists of tradesmen and the like, but no recurring names jumped out. What kind of mind would it need to orchestrate the thing? When Wardle started demanding full guest lists for the month prior to robberies, I realised he was considering the notion of gentlemen thieves, who might be best placed both to steal ideas and to sell them on, if one can sell ideas. Continually we asked if any blueprints or manuscripts had gone astray. Continually the answer came in the negative, and we remained confounded.
I had also failed to find Wardle his bargaining chip with the Bugle, but I had confirmed that they, like every newspaper in town, were owned or part-owned by railway barons. The press had got bored of the story, though, thank goodness, which took the pressure off a little.
Reports of other thefts kept drifting in from other boroughs, some so minor they were barely noticed, others unmistakably like ours, with pennies taken and a piece of furniture, and a bone left behind. Everyone dragged their heels in sending the information I requested, especially the recalcitrant City Police.
And then there were the bones. Why leave a bone in houses that had no dog?
“Can we not have someone look at them?” I asked Wardle. “Find what kind of bones they are, or where they’re from?”
He shot me a withering glance. “What’s the use? If they’re dog bones, the man’s from the Isle of Dogs? If it’s a cat, he’s a Manxman? Come off it, Watchman. This isn’t an after-dinner puzzle, and I don’t need poxy zoologists soliloquising over skulls in my office.”
Though I knew he had no time for newfangled ideas, his derision stung. There were days he arrived grumpy and morose, with little will to work on the thefts. I often wondered what other cases he had on the go, hidden from my eyes.
Then a terse note from Jackman arrived, proposing that I check on the theft at Dickens’ house. It struck me as odd that a man who had worked with Wardle for years sent no word of greeting to his old inspector. I went straight to the cabinet. The Dickens theft was two months before Pearson’s. The file mentioned only petty cash, but Jackman hinted something about a bone.
On my way to Tavistock House, I took the chance to drop in at the old constabulary. Coxhill’s blathering about the importance of insurance had piqued my curiosity. I wanted an address for Mr Wetherell, the retired insurance man I’d saved from the over-zealous publican. Perhaps he could shed light on the HECC’s dealings.
“Enjoying life at the top, Yard boy?” Glossop smirked, flicking through the files. He had clearly been preparing quips for months.
“Surviving,” I replied. “How are things here?”
He ignored me, concentrating on writing out the address in laborious script.
“Oh, come on, Glossop. Out with it, if you’ve something to say.”
“All high and mighty, are you now?” He pushed the address across the desk with a filthy look. “I know why you got the nod.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why it was you got promoted.”
“And not you, Glossop?” I had to hold back a laugh. “Is that your meaning?”
“I asked the superintendent,” he insisted. “Your great inspector asked for someone biddable. He wanted someone easy to order about and they gave him Campbell Lawless. Because you’re weak-willed. Ha!” He wiped his nose and looked at me squarely. “I’m doing fine too, thanks, since you ask.”
I took the address and walked out.
* * *
Dickens’ residence was in disarray. When the butler opened the door, after a long wait, servants were flitting hither and thither and I could hear voices raised. With my heart accelerating at the prospect of an interview with a famous man, I asked if might speak to Mr Dickens.
“No, sir.”
“Is he out of town?”
“No, sir.”
“Where is he, then, may I ask?”
“Mr Dickens is at home, sir.”
The man was beginning to irk me. “Then why mayn’t I speak to him?”
“Mr Dickens is writing, sir.” He spoke as if the subject were distasteful to him. “It doesn’t do to disturb him. Could you come back in the afternoon?”
With so much traipsing ahead of me, I had no wish to return to what was most likely a dead-end enquiry. “Is Mrs Dickens available?”
The butler’s jaw tightened. “I am instructed to say that Mrs Dickens is down in the country.”
“No family members at all?”
“Miss Dickens, Miss Dickens an
d Miss Dickens are at home, sir.”
“Then, I pray you, ask the eldest’s indulgence for an interview.”
He sighed, as if he wished I would vanish. “Is the matter pressing, sir? Only the house is rather occupied at the moment and the Miss Dickenses are not of age.”
“The matter is urgent,” I said.
No sooner was I ushered into the reception room than I fell under that spell which entrances us members of the public when first confronted with fame. Was this the desk at which the great man thought of Pickwick? No, that was of course upstairs, for he was writing at it. Were those the windows against which he pressed his nose as he dreamt up David Copperfield? Of course not, for this house was bought on the proceeds of that novel.
“Officer?” The young woman who interrupted my daydreams was not beautiful, but appealing in the flush of her excitement. “I am sorry, but you have been needlessly summoned. Really, all’s well. You needn’t have come. A storm in a teacup. Father will be appalled at the hullabaloo when he comes down.”
“The hullabaloo?”
She bit her lip and sniffed nobly. “It was just my mother departing, again. This time I fear it is for good.”
The butler, till then silent, coughed.
The girl looked round in annoyance, but returned to me with a charming smile. “I’m sorry. I have forgot my manners. Catherine Dickens. And you?”
I took her hand. “Miss Dickens. I am Sergeant Lawless, of Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“I have come on quite another business, about the theft, a year and a half back. But if I can be of help in your current crisis—”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. A misunderstanding on all sides. Come now, sit down.”
“Thank you. I need to confirm some details. Did you discover anything further missing, beyond money?”
She sat opposite me, warmth returning to her face, as if glad to be distracted from domestic cares. “Money? I’m not sure there was any money taken.”
I frowned. “Nothing at all, then.”
“I recall father was concerned about his manuscripts. He used it as an excuse to take an office in Camden, which only roused mother’s suspicions. Ridiculous, of course.”
“And were manuscripts taken?” I asked quickly.
“No, no. Father was quite deluded.” She turned again to the butler. “Perkins, what the deuce are you fretting about?”
Perkins was a man whose features seemed carved in stone. “Miss Dickens, I would suggest that such matters should wait till your father is available.”
“Perkins, father has expressly stated that in mother’s absence I am the lady of the house. Kindly comply with his wishes.” She gave me a sweet little smile as if to assure me that, despite her severity with the servant, she was a sweet young thing.
“Miss Dickens,” I went on. I was becoming irritated. “Have you noticed any suspicious behaviour on the part of any servants?”
“Suspicious?” She inclined her head, eyes narrowed in deliberation. “Perhaps I have. Perkins, wouldn’t you say Agnes has been out of sorts?”
A certain stiffness of the lip gave the impression that Perkins had just swallowed something unpalatable. “Agnes, Miss Dickens?”
“Come, Perkins. I have seen her slipping out after dinner, in fancy new frocks.”
“Is there a crime in that, Miss Dickens?”
“Don’t hedge so, Perkins. You know something. I do believe you are blushing.”
“Not at all, Miss Dickens.” He coughed as if the topic were distasteful to him. “I am given to understand that she is courting. With a Frenchman.”
“A Frenchman? Heavens!” Miss Dickens shot me an amused look. “That hardly explains her new clothes, though. How does she afford them? Perkins, you look furtive. You are not lending her money, are you?”
“By no means, Miss Dickens.”
“Sergeant?”
It was exactly the kind of thing Wardle watched for. I sighed. “Can we speak with this Agnes?”
“Perkins, call Agnes, will you?”
The man hesitated. “The girl is not fit to speak with the police.”
“Fetch her, Perkins. And you are dismissed.”
The butler bristled with indignation, then departed.
Miss Dickens looked troubled. “You will be kind, I hope? Agnes is no thief, Sergeant. She will die of anxiety if she thinks herself suspected.”
“I’m afraid you will have to trust me. I will try not to scare the girl.”
“Oh, Sergeant. I humbly request that you do not dismiss me, now the thing looks interesting, just because I am of the distaff side. You see, we are devotees of Mr Wilkie Collins, who declares no mysteries are more enthralling than those that lie at our own doors.”
I was fool enough to allow her to stay. Despite my suggestion that she leave the questioning to me, Miss Dickens plunged in and asked Agnes how she could afford her new clothes. I cringed, thinking we would learn nothing. To my amazement, the poor girl started chattering about resignation and her shame and what would become of her. It was all we could do to calm her down enough to explain.
The crime to which Agnes confessed came as a surprise. A few years back, she had let out space in the cellar to a family of indigent relatives, newcomers to town. They insisted on paying her the few shillings they could afford for her troubles. These she had saved up, until this fellow came along. Her relatives had avoided notice by coming in through the servants’ entrance after dark and leaving before morning, of which deception she was sorely ashamed. Yet she assured us that her cousins were the most honest souls in Christendom. Besides, they had left three years ago, well before the theft I was investigating.
“She’s a good girl, and methodical,” said Miss Dickens when we dismissed the maid, “but I am afraid what father will say.”
We recalled Perkins.
“Did you know about our subterranean tenants, Perkins?”
Perkins’ stony features betrayed nothing. Only in a certain hesitation in his voice did his embarrassment show. I began to think he might be the one, the inside contact of Wardle’s theories.
“Come on, man,” I said. “We have no ill intentions against you. But you are responsible for the household. Do you not see that access to the cellar means access to the house?”
Seeing himself suspected, Perkins finally yielded. He had known about Agnes’ relatives. But that was not all. Such goings-on, he claimed, were prevalent throughout London. It was nigh on standard practice. He couldn’t claim he was proud of it, but he made no practice of taking a percentage, as many butlers did. The girl had asked him most properly and most piteously, thrown herself on his mercy, in fact, when her cousins had been freezing down by the docks. Though Agnes had dealt with the minutiae, he felt that no breach of trust had occurred. “Of course,” he said, marshalling his dismay, “I am prepared to take full responsibility, should it come to that.”
“Leave that for now,” I said, gripped by a strange excitement. I must inspect the cellar. This could be the key. “Perkins, tell me. Was there anything unusual found after the theft?”
“There may have been.”
“Good God, man, there either was or there wasn’t.”
“It’s the household, you see, sir. We’ve been in such disarray. But, yes, I admit it. I myself discovered it, some time after the theft.”
“What, man? What?”
“It was behind the mantelpiece clock, you see. Tucked away, where nobody could see. You could fault the staff, under normal circumstances, but I shouldn’t want anyone taken to task in this case.”
“For heaven’s sake, it is not my concern to cause you embarrassment over household chores. What did you find?”
“Why, sir.” He looked pained. “An old bone.”
* * *
I descended the narrow stairs with my mind whirling. Could all the houses have had invisible lodgers? If a whole family could come in and out of a house without the master’s knowing, what
other scallywag or mountebank might enter likewise?
Perkins gave me a lamp. “If you must inspect the cellar, sir, of course you may, but you should remember that it is not only the coal vault but a former cesspit. Since all the new sewerage work, I do not know what is attached where, nor how any of it functions.”
The stairs were strong, though a broken handrail almost saw me pitched in among the musty old barrels and boxes. I ducked under a stone arch, my nose clogging with coal dust. God Almighty, it broke your heart to think of humans condemned to live in this dim prison.
I stooped under the next vaulted arch and peered under into the darkness. The stink all but made me retch. Besides my lamp, weak light filtered through glass bricks high above. I must be under the street already.
I stiffened at a noise, drawing back the lamp so suddenly that it went out. The noise had seemed unmistakably human, like someone licking their chops. Were there new residents since Agnes’ cousins? Covering my mouth, I hunched down and waited. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I saw straw spread over the floor and a wealth of thick clay pipes disappearing into a dark corner.
A sudden movement caught my eye, darting into the blackness. There was a small splash. I sprang forward, raising my hand to protect myself from the low vaulted arches. But the intruder had vanished, swiftly and silently. In the furthest corner, where several pipes disappeared into the ground, I felt metal beneath my feet. I dropped to my haunches and ran my fingers over a grate. I braced myself against the wall and tugged at the metal. To my surprise, the thing opened with barely a squeak. I squeezed through, feet first.
I dropped down into low, foul-smelling conduit, inclining downwards. I was certain I could hear movement ahead. The only way to move was on all fours. I splashed down towards a dim light. The base of the conduit was curved, and I found I could avoid the worst of the watery sludge beneath me by crawling with hands and knees wide apart.
Soon enough, I reached the end of the passageway and the source of the light: a second metal grate, stout and vertical like a portcullis. I peered through it, keenly hoping for a sight of my quarry. What I saw amazed me. Stretching into the distance in either direction was a great brick tunnel, oval-shaped, perhaps nine feet by six. Lit at intervals, it carried a steady flow of dark liquid. The cellar dweller must have already outpaced me. I cursed myself for coming so close and failing. Then the noise came again, further along the tunnel. I could see no one, but it sounded only yards away. They must have climbed through to hide out of view.
Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square Page 17