Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square

by William Sutton

  “Who?”

  “The actress, Nellie? I understand she and her charming friend are to appear in our play again?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Dickens. Something of a distance has developed between us. Our marriage has been postponed.” He stared out of the window.

  Strange as it was, though I wanted to congratulate him on his fortunate escape, I managed to look sufficiently demure. “Oh, I am sorry.” I flashed him my sincerest smile. “I do hope that won’t prevent you from coming to see us.”

  He seemed not to hear me. What a change had come over him, as if his energy had been drained quite away. He stared across at the gentlemen with a tightness round his eyes. “I’m sorry? No, of course not.” He gave a faint smile. “As long as I’m welcome.”

  Once rehearsals started, however, we saw him no more, and rather too much of Mr Coxhill. Imagine my disgust, when I noticed Coxhill slip his arm into Hester’s after rehearsal. I made some comment to father.

  He burst out rather improprietously, “Yes, and Nellie has a new fellow too.”

  * * *

  He mentioned Mr Skelton to me once, perhaps a year later. It was when he was starting his periodical, All the Year Round, under his own finances.

  “I may be doing a foolish thing,” he said, “but Berwick, at least, would be proud of me.”

  What with Two Cities along with Mr Collins’ The Woman in White, father stood on his own two feet, just as Mr Skelton had predicted.

  Suffice it to say that Mr Skelton vanished from view. Nellie’s name is eternally damned in our house, as she left father in the lurch in the late stages of rehearsal for The Lighthouse. To me, it seemed like the world was ending. When the mantel clock stopped, nothing could have been more appropriate. Then Mr Collins introduced me to his brother, Charles, and now we are married. Father disapproves, of course. When does he not, these days, despite the questionable nature of his own conduct? Only now that Charles and I have eloped to freedom here in Italy do I feel free of the burdens weighing down my poor, estranged family.

  Mrs Charles Collins

  INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITIONIST

  “Our machines are the apex of all that’s new,” announced Coxhill, brandishing a flute of champagne in front of his exhibit, “in this epoch to outdo all others.”

  The glory of the epoch was hard to dispute, looking around Captain Fowkes’ Kensington Greenhouse during the opening shindig. A million square feet, thirty thousand exhibits, and I was the linchpin in checking them all. I had just had an unpleasant run-in with Hunt by an adjacent exhibit of taxidermy, where towering bears roared silently in a painted Alaskan glen.

  “What’s all this about?” the little man challenged me. “Why’s the place swarming with coppers?”

  “Standard security,” I replied.

  “Why?” He hunched up his shoulders. “Had some sort of threat?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Don’t play high and mighty, mister la-di-dah copper. You’re supposed to be protecting Mr Coxhill.”

  “I thought he had quite enough protection with you snapping at his heels.” I made to walk away, but Coxhill spotted me.

  He was lecturing in front of his display of steel and hydraulic valves, convincing a herd of businessmen and their wives to invest in his scrip; that is, a kind of share in a share. It amazed me that, despite his verbosity and his glazed look, he seemed to be winning the crowd over with his relentless self-promotion.

  Wardle had given us a dour talk to the effect that we were upholding British standards on the stage of the world. His talk served more to startle than prepare us. For if he was concerned, how should we remain calm? His trip with Bertie had left him tired. Probably none of the fresh-faced new constables noticed. But to me he seemed like a runner, so long in control of the race that he has grown weary of it. What he fears is not being overtaken by another—that is only to be expected—but rather making a foolish mistake, tripping over his own feet, so that he will leave the arena with laughter ringing in his ears, in place of the applause he deserves. I never saw Wardle prepare for anything so assiduously. He even studied the promotional literature, which spoke of drawing the world closer in brotherhood and commerce. We wage war on them one moment, then invite them to a show the next. It never failed to draw adverse comment from Wardle too. The ’51 Exhibition, when Albert addressed the multitude, would forever be the pinnacle for him, not only of his career but of Britain’s glory in the world. To him now, the light of Empire would never be as lustrous.

  Of my night-time escapade, I had told him very little. I reported how I had laid the trap and been overpowered by the two accomplices, without mentioning that one was a child. Not that I was ashamed of my failure. I hoped I had scared the thieves off and there would be no need to delve deeper.

  Luckily, Wardle only had thoughts for Fowkes’ Greenhouse. Perhaps he had put himself in Berwick’s place and decided that Albert’s dream Exhibition in the heart of London was the perfect place to strike. So we assigned other targets to local constabularies, freeing our lot to comb the Greenhouse’s labyrinthine intricacies.

  “Do you know what the next mania will be?” Coxhill enthused, champagne dribbling down his tuft of a beard. “Piping! The future is in piping. Our network offers power outlets all along the Marylebone, Euston and Farringdon Roads. Opening any day now! Stock like hot cakes, you know. I have some scrip here. Everybody’s after it.”

  It was the first time I’d seen him since our prodigal night out. I was keen to ask him about Berwick, and about his insurance set-up, but I had no wish to stand by listening to his old spiel, as if I was giving my blessing to the enterprise.

  “Mr Coxhill—Roxton—I can’t stop now, we’re run ragged, but could I have a word with you later? It’s about Berwick Skelton.”

  “Come and join the banquet, Cameron. You’ve worked hard enough.”

  “For God’s sake, Roxton, let the poor fellow go.” Charles Pearson emerged from the crowds, looking tired and careworn. “Officer,” he said to me, “you mustn’t let this blighter bully you around.”

  “Nonsense,” Coxhill blustered on. “The poor chap doesn’t understand what’s on offer, that’s all. Remember the railway mania? The millions people made? Rags-to-riches stories on all sides. Once our pipes are pumping, beneath the very streets, Sergeant, dividends will soar. Some are predicting four per cent. I’ve even heard of six!”

  Coxhill continued his monologue as I stepped away with Pearson. “Thank you, sir. Are you quite all right?”

  “I am fed up,” he sighed. “It’s an embarrassment and an insult. We’re ready to open, but they’ve obstructed us at every turn. Board of Safety won’t approve our smokeless locomotives, and we’re obliged to deal with the oafs at the Great Western.” He massaged his temples, then looked up brightly. “It runs beautifully, though. We’re having a trial in a few weeks. Did I hear you mention the Reform League chap, Skelton?”

  I blinked. “Why, do you know him?”

  “Bazalgette recommended him. Did some liaising. Good with the men.”

  “He works for you?”

  “Long gone now,” he shook his head. “Embarrasses me, actually. We’ve exceeded our budget, trying to outwit the bloody Fleet Sewer between King’s Cross and the City, and I’ve had to renege on my promise to rehouse those made homeless. The Fleet has made a liar of me.”

  He looked on a sudden so pale and ill, I suggested he would be better off at home. As I packed him into a cab, he leaned out the window. “Something else I meant to tell you, officer. I did have something go missing after all.”

  “That day at your house, sir?”

  “A set of plans. For the hydraulics that run along the line.”

  “Why did you not report it?”

  “It was only a set of copies. I’d rather you didn’t mention it to Coxhill. He’ll think it’s some competitor stealing his ideas. Sees intrigue everywhere. Can’t see what good they’d do anyone. They were ab
solutely specific to our network. Now I come to think of it, a few things from the office went astray around the same time. Bits and pieces we found during the diggings, you know.”

  I recalled the whale bone in Bazalgette’s office. “Fossils and the like?”

  He nodded, rather sheepishly. “That’s right. You wouldn’t believe the things you find in the old Fleet Ditch. I am under the weather, Sergeant. I shall bid you good night.”

  * * *

  “Certainly, I know him,” said Kenelm Digby, pushing his glasses back up his nose. I had expected him to be difficult, but he seemed a man from whom all the fire has gone, his wispy hair falling away from a distracted face. “Knew him rather.”

  “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “Dear me, no. I haven’t seen him lately, that’s all. Do come in, officer.” He led me through the Red Lion Centre, a club for working men. Posters advertised all manner of opportunities for self-improvement: classes, bursaries and legal advice.

  “Quite an establishment you have here, Mr Digby,” I said.

  “I am merely a cog in a machine,” he laughed nervously and set about tidying his papers. “The passivist wheel, you might say. Bringing change from within. Strange you ask about Berwick. It’s due to him I’m giving up.”

  “Giving up?”

  “Berwick was more of the activist persuasion. Such energy, such commitment. Sorry to lose him, of course.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Off to Australia, didn’t you know? Had a crisis, you see. Made himself sick with it. I caught him weeping outside meetings. Shocking to see this genial chap reduced to an angular bag of bones. I feared he was consumptive, but he insisted it was simply over-exertion. Tireless activist. Gave talks, wrote papers, brought old Shuffler and his crowd into legal work.”

  “You knew Shuffler?”

  “Amusing old chap, yes. One of the old breed with his gang of willing slaves. Like the feudal system, I thought it, but he treated them well, as far as I could see. He took such an interest in our industrial compensation seminar I actually thought he might join the cause. Many hands make light work, you know. Sad when he died. The brother, though, was a different story.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yes. Splasher, wasn’t it? They had divided it into three kingdoms: earth, water and underworld, like Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto. Shuffler with the toshers, Splasher on the river, and Smiler with the street grubbers. All over now, of course, with the new legislation. Progress at last, but people in power don’t stop to think how progress hurts the little man, cast aside in its wake.” Digby clearly thought he was the one to spare that thought.

  I nodded dourly. “Are you in contact with the toshers?”

  “They pop in once in a while, when they’re in a spot of bother.”

  “Can you put me in touch with them?”

  “No, no. Even if I knew their whereabouts, League connections are confidential.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “If Berwick’s brother comes in I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  “Berwick’s brother?”

  “Half-brother, is it? Fairfoul. Bright chap.” He coughed and continued tidying his desk. “Let your faith be as your stockings, Sergeant, spotless and ready to gird on. My wife tells me what a fool I am. I have been known to give the shirt off my back to poor unfortunates on the way home from church. But my wife says to me, Kenelm, they are waiting for you to visit the Kensington Arcade for the latest fashion.”

  I frowned. “And what has Skelton to do with your giving up?”

  “Oh, that?” He hesitated. “We had an ongoing quarrel about the movement. My view was that everybody wants to end poverty and hunger. Berwick, on the other hand, lost his faith in the goodness of mankind. He insisted that the great and good have no interest in sharing wealth. They need these inequalities to promote labour and demand. Not that they’re necessarily bad men, just pessimists. If humanity is such a low species, then somebody will profit from it. If someone is going to profit, it might as well be them. Reform talk is just hot air, fooling the masses into suffering in silence in pursuit of some illusory justice.” He dropped the sheaf of papers he had been tidying neatly in the wastepaper basket and turned to me with a sad smile. “That’s why I’m giving up. Because he was right.”

  BAD ODOUR

  “More pudding, Sergeant?”

  “I couldn’t possibly, Mrs Wardle.”

  “Go on, or it’s wasted. Jack won’t have it and I oughtn’t. I’d give you more shepherd’s pie, only it wouldn’t be right to go back to savoury now.”

  Mrs Wardle was a hard woman to refuse. In my father’s house, if you were offered more, you were to say no and mean no. Pleased by their invitation, I was just a little disappointed when there turned out to be a further motive.

  “Just another mouthful, Mrs Wardle, then I’ll get to looking at the clock.”

  Wardle had gone outside, taking advantage of the evening light to work on his azaleas. While his portly wife bustled around me, I tucked into the stewed apples. We had shared a bottle of port to celebrate our recent work. We talked of the skeleton thefts, deciding further traps were unnecessary if we could just spread the word that we knew the modus operandi. At least we had kept these latest thefts out of the press, and there need be no more scapegoats. The poor devils Wardle had pinned it all on would just have to stay put. The puzzle that remained outstanding was the bones.

  We talked of the Exhibition too. Three weeks it had been going and our panic was gradually subsiding. With a list of foreign dignitaries as long as my arm, we were calling heavily on politicians to stand in for the absent royals. Mr Gladstone was signed up for Pearson’s trial run. Mr Disraeli kept giving stirring speeches. The low attendance figures were attributed to economic malaise in the wake of Albert’s death. But we had fulfilled our function. Indeed, perhaps we had overreacted. Perhaps Berwick had just wanted to scare Bertie off Nellie. Maybe now that Bertie was far away, Berwick would try to win her back—though whether he was in Brisbane or Bethnal Green I could not be certain.

  A little tipsy, I went to check their grandmother clock in the hall, while Mrs Wardle talked away, ten to the dozen.

  “It’s a great relief to me that he has an agreeable assistant like yourself. Last chap drove him potty, dotting i’s and crossing t’s.” She unclasped the window and looked out. “Oh, he was that upset when Albert passed away. So many years he’s worked for him. It makes you afraid too. What if the things you were promised get forgotten? Ever since he was your age, Jack’s said he would retire at sixty and spend his dotage back in Yorkshire. There’s a cottage he has his eye on, a lovely place with a garden, and a stream for his fishing. He deserves it. We both do.”

  I oiled the guilty sprocket and delicately set the pendulum swinging. Not too hard. I went over to stand by Mrs Wardle, looking out at her husband working in the garden. Seeing him there, away from the fight of the town, with the rich evening sun glinting through the trees, I liked him more at that moment than ever before. He too held secret dreams. Long-cherished dreams, never secure. Would he be happy away from the bustle? Why not? Why couldn’t a man have two sides so different?

  “Yes, Mrs Wardle. You deserve it.” A rose nodded before the open window. I leaned forward to smell it, but it was dried up with blight or worm. All I could smell was the oil on my fingers.

  THE SIXTH PERIOD

  (MID 1862)

  THE BUGLE—ARTICLE IN THE BEEHIVE—CODE BREAKING WORM CORNERED—HAIL & FAREWELL (NARRATIVE OF RUTH VILLIERS)—AQUAE SULIS (LAWLESS’ NARRATIVE RESUMED)—FINALLY NELLIE—THE GREENHOUSE THE VENGEANCE

  EUSTON EVENING BUGLE

  12th June, 1862

  OUR FRIENDS FROM ABROAD

  Whence this welter of strange accents prevalent across the capital today?

  The discerning Bugle reader will identify around town exhibitionists of every extraction, hoping to cash in on a bonanza as big as the fair of ’51. Sadly, our great Queen’s refusal to ce
lebrate her Silver Jubilee has cast a pall over the nation in general and in particular over the “Not-So-Great Exhibition.” Nonetheless Captain Fowkes’ Conservatory has attracted thirty thousand expositions and innumerable foreign dignitaries, at a cost to the nation of four hundred thousand pounds.

  The well-informed money is on Bessemerised steel and its upshots, such as the HECC’s new hydraulic network alongside Pearson’s underground train. Their next proposal is a visionary scheme to underlie the whole city. Water, pressurised through reinforced piping to five hundred and forty pounds per square inch, will power not just dockyard machinery, but West End curtains and Mayfair elevators. Do we sniff a Royal Statute?

  The biggest seller remains the stereoscope, that larksome device which will turn us all cross-eyed.

  The biggest dodo is a new type of hobby-horse. Made of metal in place of wood, this “bi-cycle” employs an ingenious pedalling device to propel it forward. Shame, then, that only a circus acrobat could hope to keep it upright, and the saddle sits so high from the ground that a fall at speed would inflict grievous injury upon the intrepid rider.

  The other influx of accents is due to discontent in the hungry north. The Cotton Famine caused by our American cousins’ inconsiderate Civil War has brought the Lancashire mills to a standstill. Talk of riots, turmoil and a militia rising may be exaggerated, but the Bugle advises you to look after the shirt on your back.

  What greets these incomers to the world’s greatest city? Apocalyptic hoofbeats, fires, famine, and the spectre of King Cholera re-establishing court over the East End, our own Father Thames a bringer of plague.

  THE PIT INTO WHICH WE ARE PLUNGING

  Even the ever-optimistic Charles Pearson seems defeated. The Member for Lambeth promised us the greatest engineering project since the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Yet the opening of his “Metropolitan Railway” has been postponed again, the Board of Safety unimpressed by his “smokeless” engines. Undoubtedly, the public will not trust the scheme until the engines are run by a well-known and trusted company, for instance the Great Western.