Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square

by William Sutton

  “Well, then,” he sighed. Bazalgette lowered his tone as we strode on and quickened his pace somewhat. “I see your concern, Sergeant. Come to my office and I’ll share a few things with you, in the light of which I hope you may take a reasonable view, should these little fellows prove to be involved in your thefts. Mischievous scoundrels, some of them, it’s true.” He peered into the distance. “But they’re damned good workers, I tell you.”

  He began by telling me the story of the Sewer Commission.

  “It’s hard to remember what it was like back in ’48. Revolutions across the continent. Five million signatures on the Chartist petition. Hundreds of thousands marching through the streets, smashing lamps at the Palace and chanting “Vive la République.” They evacuated Victoria to the Isle of Wight, you know. Bloody awful state the country was in. Somebody had to sort it out. They passed Reform Acts, poor statutes and colliery laws and still twenty thousand a year were dying of cholera. We call ourselves civilised, yet we spend our summers bored in Brighton, while the other half are dying in ditches. It’s a scandal, of course, but people don’t want to know.” He pulled his deerstalker on more firmly as the smell and darkness intensified. “In ’48 the Commission flushed the sewers. A mistake: the cholera turned epidemic. They decided to survey the whole shambles. Only chaps kept dying in mysterious ways. I had one man suffocated, two blown to bits and more wasted away with the ague. So when I discovered a veritable army who knew the old system like the back of their hand, I took them on like a shot. Pig-headed not to.”

  “Do you employ these tosher children?”

  “I certainly do. A pittance we pay them, but they think it a handsome wage. The taxpayer gets good value out of them. A job I had convincing the damned politicians. Had to do a little persuading work. You recall the Great Stink?”

  “I’ve heard tell of it.”

  “The Thames was backed up something rotten. The city was a graveyard. But, of course, the ruling classes simply fled the city. So my little toshers orchestrated a special concoction of aromas outside Parliament.” He chuckled. “They had to soak the curtains in chloride of lime. What I’d failed to achieve in ten years of meetings, they did in sixteen days. Disraeli ran from the chamber and they gave us the money. Ah, look here.”

  The filth beneath our feet began to swell as we approached a massive metal grate across the whole tunnel. The sewer beyond it was in full working use, deep sludge flowing away from us, fed by innumerable adjoining passages. Foul and stinking, but navigable in waders. Could you remove a Tom Thumb chair thus, without ruining it, without being afraid you would drown?

  Bazalgette led me up metal rungs set in the sewer wall and pushed open a manhole. We emerged into broad daylight on the embankment, near Westminster, and headed for a makeshift cabin.

  “Here already, sir?” said a small round man brightly, leaping up from his deskwork to fill a porcelain basin and put the kettle on the hob. Bazalgette wasted no time in throwing off his accoutrements and scrubbing his face and hands with carbolic soap. The small man turned to me and introduced himself as Jebb. “Glass of water, officer? And warm yourself up, now, you look proper chilled. What do you make of our catacombs?”

  “Extraordinary,” I said, moving over to the stove. “I can’t believe the extent of it all.”

  “Oh, the London sewers were long enough to reach to Constantinople even before we started,” said Jebb. “Thousands of millions of gallons of filth flowing into the Thames.”

  I put down my glass. Above the stove hung a display cabinet, contents neatly labelled: Roman coins, pots and whale bones.

  “Office is full of bones some days,” remarked Jebb. “Wherever you dig, you unearth the past. Found a whole Roman bath under Parliament Square, water still in it.”

  I frowned. “And what do you do with it all?”

  “Depends. Human remains we take off to the charnel house—”

  “Thank you, Jebb,” said Bazalgette briskly. “Fetch me the map, will you? And off to lunch with you.”

  Jebb deferentially vanished and Bazalgette unrolled before me a map of London thrice the size of mine. His great sewers were traced in different colours, continuous from the east into town but dotted as they headed on to the south, west and north.

  He placed on top of the map a series of apocalyptic engravings: Daniel and the lion; Noah’s Flood; the Tower of Babel. “This Royal Academy fellow, John Martin,” he said, “has a penchant for mythological images.” He placed a further sheet on top. “Looks like something from Dante’s Inferno, eh? Sinners drowning in trenches of excrement. But it’s a vision of London, you see. Martin’s plan for trenches through the heart of the city, intercepting the old sewers perpendicular to the river, drawing the capital’s filth out eastward. But you have to dig the trench before you let the sewage in.” He pointed to a demoniacal figure releasing a sluice gate into an empty channel. “That’s the moment for your thieves, before the sewer’s fully operational. Like the stretch you saw today.”

  He removed the prints and I looked again at the map. The five snaky lines, traversing the metropolis, were labelled with opening dates. I ran through my mental list of thefts from Pearson’s onward. Each one tallied with one of Bazalgette’s lines.

  Seeing my expression, he sat down heavily. “Cunning little schemers. This is deuced unfortunate. Sergeant, how can I impress it upon you? These boys have saved us innumerable injuries, deaths even. They are curing the city of its most deadly ills. They deserve the bloody George Cross, not prison.” He clenched his fist in frustration. “And I need them. I am trying to make London the greatest city on this earth, and I need their help.”

  I nodded. Something was pulling at the back of my mind. “Mr Bazalgette, tell me. How on earth did you come to engage this group of vagabonds?”

  He looked up. “Chap called Skelton.” The kettle whistled to celebrate my utter confusion. Berwick seemed to be everywhere I had been and everywhere I would go. “Are you quite all right? Have a cup of tea, old fellow.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said as if in a dream, “but this Skelton. How did you meet him?”

  He looked a little surprised by my interest. “At a Sewer Commission hearing. If I remember, he was pleased by my notion that we have a duty to sanitise the whole city, including the poorer regions. He impressed upon me the added duty of rehousing those dispossessed by the work, a measure for which I have convinced Parliament to pay.”

  “Good of you.”

  “There’s enough ways we steal from the poor,” he said impassively. “Sharp fellow, though. Surprising knowledge of hydraulics.”

  I nodded breathlessly. “I believe his father worked with Brunel.”

  “For Brunel, you say?”

  “As an engineer, I thought.”

  He frowned. “If you say so, old man. I was under the impression he came from labouring folk. Did rather well for himself, I thought.”

  I thought of old Madame Skelton in her great brass bed. Could it be that she had deluded herself about the grandeur of their origins?

  “Still, I have a high opinion of the chap. Saved us a deuce of work with these tosher fellows. They were reluctant at first. Congenitally shy of all things legal. I had my own qualms: child labour, grim conditions. But I’m convinced it’s for the best. At their old game, the poor souls would have ended up dead or in prison. This way, we benefit from their estimable knowledge and dependable advice. They get bathing facilities, money in their pocket and tremendous pride in work that will safeguard the capital for the future.”

  “Skelton organised all this?”

  “The teams have their own little leaders, all answerable to the Tosher King.” He gave me a little smile as he pronounced these words.

  “The Tosher King?”

  “There was an old duffer, a bit harum-scarum, who passed away. His brother runs it now.”

  “The old boy,” I asked, short of breath, “did he have a club foot?”

  “That’s the chap. Know him,
did you?”

  “Not exactly. And the brother?”

  “Goes by the name of Smiler. More efficiency about it, though I’m concerned he skims the cream off the boys’ wages.”

  “Where can I find them now?”

  “All sorts of little hidey-holes they have. I offered to house them but they wouldn’t have it.”

  “And Skelton is still involved?”

  “No. Bigger fish to fry. Writing for magazines. Committees. Dynamo of energy.”

  “Would any of your fellows still know him?”

  Bazalgette took his tin cup and beckoned me outside. His secretary was skulking at the bold new wrought-iron railing, looking down at the Thames.

  “Jebb,” said Bazalgette pleasantly. “Do you have an address for Skelton?”

  “Don’t believe so, sir. But he pops through occasionally, checking on the boys. Sergeant, you haven’t any tea. Can I fetch you a cup?”

  I spoke slowly. “Could you let me know if he popped through again?”

  “Last saw him on the mid-level northern, sir. While back.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out,” Bazalgette assured me. He hesitated. “Will you be pursuing my little army? It will be deuced difficult to decide who is responsible for what.”

  I sighed. “Mr Bazalgette, I have no wish to embarrass a cause as worthy as yours. My inspector is also averse to public embarrassment. Before I can give you any assurance, however, I’d like a chat with one of your little toshers.”

  “I’ll arrange a rendezvous. I’d leave the uniform at home if you don’t want to frighten the chap witless. You’ll be wanting a copy of our map, I imagine.”

  “Please. The Yard can pay the draughtsman’s costs.”

  We stood for a moment looking out at the river. Gone was the debris I had spied from Waterloo Bridge two years before. The Thames splashed happily against its new embankment. I was alarmed to feel a rumble beneath my feet.

  “Pneumatic train,” Bazalgette nodded. “Test stretch. Plan for all eventualities, I say. There’s so much shoddy work done these days, drives me potty. No wonder Pearson has the Fleet ditch bursting in every two seconds; nobody has the faintest idea what lies where. We’ve laid the water, gas and hydraulics into this thing ourselves.”

  I blinked. “You’re not working with Roxton Coxhill, are you?”

  “Ditched him. Bloody idiot.”

  “But you know him?”

  “One of those for whom life never quite matches up to Eton. I imagine his finest hour was torturing some fag over a spit in the dining hall. His engine burst the day they installed it and he wouldn’t take the rap. Must be off in two ticks, Sergeant. Anything else?”

  I turned to him. “Good luck, sir. A monumental task you’ve taken on.”

  “Pleasure to talk to someone who sees what I’m at.” He sipped his tea, enjoying the moment of calm. “A little vision, that’s what’s needed. Babylon, Knossos, Rome—they all had it. London could be the greatest city the world has ever seen. Of course, drains aren’t newsworthy, Sergeant. No glamour. But someone has to sort out the bloody mess. That fellow Skelton saw it.” He sighed. “Wife says I’m obsessed with faeces. Cloacal fixation, she calls it. I tell her I’m trying to save the country, damn it. Good day, Sergeant.”

  With that the great engineer shook my hand and strode off along his bold new embankment to forge the greatest city in the world.

  BAIT FOR A WORM

  Miss Villiers took out a file, looking around to check we were unwatched. She looked exhausted. “Pshaw,” she said. “I’m fine. Behind on my college work, that’s all.”

  I wondered if I was wasting her time with this code-breaking. If she failed her final examinations, her family struggles would have been in vain. She pressed the tips of her fingers into her forehead. Thinking she was on the verge of tears, I suddenly found myself telling all about Bazalgette and the sewers and the map.

  “What am I to do?” I whispered. “There’s no escaping it. The thefts must have been carried out by Bazalgette’s toshers. Perhaps there was no coordinated plan. More likely opportunism. Word of mouth. Yet what did they take? Those who have nothing steal a pittance from those who have everything. Should they be transported for it?” I screwed up my eyes. “What if Worm’s lot are involved? Am I to cause their downfall?”

  “Scare them off, then. Have a word with Worm. Better still, catch them at it.”

  “Catch them? I never thought of that,” I said ironically.

  “Why not?” She stuck out her chin. “You have the maps. We can pinpoint the stretches at risk. They only steal from the wealthy. So we post constables in the most eligible cellars and you’ll catch one soon enough. Offer him to Wardle on a platter. That should scare off the others. Better lose a soldier than the whole army be routed, don’t you think?”

  I nodded glumly, picturing Worm and the Professor languishing in Cold Bath Fields. “Might get the poor blighters that Wardle nabbed for it off the hook as well.”

  Ruth looked at me strangely. “You’re a good man, Campbell,” she said and locked her fingers with mine for a moment.

  * * *

  Bazalgette sent the map as promised, on which it was clear which stretches were at risk, and a note. One of the head toshers would meet me. Bazalgette had characterised me as an interested benefactor so as not to scare the timid fellow. Dressed for the part, I waited at Seven Dials for several hours one morning. The fellow never showed up. I did, however, spot Numpty shuffling along.

  “Numpty! Long time, no see.”

  He curled up into his coat, like a frightened hedgehog in the dusk.

  “Come, come, Numpty, it’s me, Watchman. Listen, do you recall the night we met, at Euston Square? That old fellow, Shuffler. You didn’t know him, did you?”

  As if reciting lines learnt by rote, Numpty denied it.

  “Don’t panic, wee man. Ask Worm to pop in, will you? Haven’t seen him for ages.”

  He nodded vigorously and, as Worm might have put it, scarpered.

  * * *

  I went directly to the Chief Superintendent to moot the notion of coordinating an operation in Wardle’s absence.

  “There’s rumours of copycat thefts from our source, sir. Think I can nip it in the bud.”

  “Wardle speaks highly of you, my boy.” The big man scratched his chin, while I wondered what Wardle had said of me. “How many constables do you want?”

  I was assigned three giants with the unlikely names of Watkins, Atkins and Atkins (no relation), who seemed only too happy to regard me as their superior. They ran errands to Bazalgette’s office, for this seemed one task I could not entrust to the Worms. When it came to our plan, they were in no way discomfited at the prospect of a week’s vigil in the cellars of Shepherd’s Bush.

  How many early birds do you need to catch the worm? The Professor brought Miss Villiers along to the Yard one evening, and I smuggled her in under the auspices of an interview about a theft. This minor deception was amply rewarded by the look of wonder on her face on entering the Yard. Perhaps I could have made my plan of action without her; but I had seen the library stack, and it seemed fair to show her our inner sanctum.

  After a decent period of nosing around our office, she fell to studying Bazalgette’s sewer plans. “Think how much time must go into each of these lines, every twist and turn revised and double-checked, above ground and below, before they commit it to paper.”

  It struck me that other plans were being forged with such detail. How much groundwork was going into Berwick’s new stratagems, whatever they might be? To what lengths would such a man go, once he decided to destroy his enemy?

  The most recent thefts had exploited all three sewer lines north of the river. The low and high levels were both advancing through warrens of streets, affording an impossible guessing game. The mid level, by contrast, underpinned a wealthy mews along the Bayswater Road.

  “You should plead your injury,” she said excitedly, as we put the final touches to our plan.
“Stay in the office while the boys do the dirty work.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. We need to cover as many houses as possible.”

  She seemed suitably impressed. “Leading from the front.”

  * * *

  Samuel Smiles’ basement in Palmer Mews, Notting Hill Gate, stank. From a discreet but thorough search, I had discovered four houses on the street with grates large enough that a boy might enter. Miss Villiers cooked up stories for the owners about routine checks on underground rivers and Roman remains. Samuel Smiles, the sage of self-help so admired by Coxhill, was an overbearing little Border Scotsman with little interest in archaeological remains, unless there was coinage involved.

  Watkins, Atkins and Atkins (no relation) were posted in equally plush houses with equally foul cellars.

  These were the grimmest nights I had passed since my fever. I decreed candles impermissible. We must occupy the darkest corner, sweating away in gloves, galoshes and regulation greatcoats. Lavender posies for the stench were allowed, and beer in a wooden tankard. As I crouched in my corner, rheums surged afresh through my joints, the memory of fever ran in my veins. In the mornings I could hear the work in the sewer starting up, and I thought ruefully how we declined to visit Pearson’s cellar all that time ago. I thought shamefacedly of my three hulking charges huddled down the road, far from their families with little clue what they were achieving. I could not have been a general, sending men to their deaths. Indeed, Atkins (no relation) did contract an ailment over the following weeks, despite all our protective clothing. I never knew if it was in his cellar he caught it, but Simpson could not cure him, and I felt the dismal shame of robbing his little ones of their father.

  By the fifth night of our vigil, the Saturday, I was shattered. Even if they did not strike, I would have to call a halt, for Wardle was due to return Monday, and I was already too tired to be of use to anyone.