“Which ain’t exactly stealing, if them things ain’t wanted.”
“And is not exactly legal, whether they are or no.” I pursed my lips. “Do you find my little tale credible, by any chance?”
He looked at me equably. “I’ve heard queerer.”
I laughed in exasperation. “Worm, we know the ruse.”
“And you don’t want Numpty going to college?” He raised his eyebrows. “Prison, that is to you, old cove.”
“I need them warned off. Won’t you spread the word for me?” I turned away and went up to pay. I thought for a moment he had vanished, but there he was, right behind me.
“Tell us, Watchman, do you know how Shuffler died?”
“He was bruised. Like he’d fallen.”
“Fallen?” He looked at me expectantly.
“Yes, but long before the spout. Somebody put his body there.”
“Oh, yes? Why did they do that then?”
I looked at him squarely. “You know, don’t you? You know who did it.”
He laughed. “If I did, do you think I’d say in a court of law?”
“Why not, if it’s the truth?”
“Watchman, don’t you know what a precarious thing the truth is round here?”
“Speak plainly for once, can’t you?”
“There’s influential people who don’t want the truth known.” He gave me a look. “The grounds for keeping mum are very persuasive.”
“Are you telling me you’re scared? You, Worm? I had you down for fearless.”
He looked at me with something approaching respect. “Good talker you are, Watchman. You know, if I tell you, I’ll be giving you my life.”
“I see. And I already owe you mine.”
He nodded reflectively. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I look out for you and yours. Because I need your help.”
“And if one day I should require a service of you?”
I hesitated, as if on the banks of the Rubicon. Strange to say, but I had an indefensible respect for this boy. I could not believe he would demand something outwith the bounds of my duty. “Whatever you want, Worm. Tell me who killed Shuffler.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Watchman. If you tell a soul, I’ll be dead before the week’s out.” He shook his head and blinked. “Who put his body there, I can’t say. But who did for him, with nary a scruple, is clear as day. It was them hydrollah-rolical people. No wonder there’s people on their trail. They killed Shuffler and hid the doing of it with the stupid accident. They killed him because he was an enterprising old cove. All sorts of operations on the go, licit and a little less than licit, I warrant you. One of those operations involved asking a few pounds from them in return for not blabbing, you know, keeping quiet about certain mishaps they’d had.”
“Blackmail?”
“Just doing the rights, if you take my meaning, but doing them nice and civilised, like. Look where he ended up. Beaten and dead in a ditch. There now. I’ve said it, and I’ve trusted my life to you. Don’t look so flabbergasted, Watchman, nor try telling me there’s no such thing as doing the rights where you come from. I’m off. Ta for the pie.”
Dear Sergeant,
You cannot imagine how greatly your visit was appreciated. In such a hovel as ours, taedium weighs heavy, despite one’s attempts at jollity.
I fear, however, I was of little help to you. I have bethought me of a possible connection that may be of help to you. There was a priest at the chapel of St Thomas on Old Street who knew our family. Canon Symon was his name, though he may be long gone.
Fond regards,
Madame Pierrette Skelton
NARRATIVE OF RUTH VILLIERS
Hail and Farewell
I said it to Sergeant Lawless. A man who hobnobs with authors cannot help but dream of getting into print. It’s only natural. You see that the authors behind these ever so popular stories are only flesh and blood. You think to yourself, why not my story? If your story is the story of changing the world, then of course people will sit up and take notice. I was sure of it, even then. Mr Skelton had looked at the world, evaluated it soberly, and decided that it must be changed. To this end, he constructed a plan. How far-reaching and elaborate this plan was, we had at that time no idea. But there was little doubt in my mind that he would have written it down, complete with historical arguments and philosophical underpinning, even if it was treasonous.
With my final examinations upon me and my studies in disarray, I only worked fitfully on the code through the summer months. Substituting the letters I had already deciphered, I wrote out the marginal annotations over and over, gradually chipping away at the rest of the letters until I had the whole thing. It was a disappointment. Despite the satisfaction of transforming it all into real words and phrases, there was nothing revelatory. His annotations were no more shocking than my own scribbles in the margins of John Stuart Mill and Thomas Hobbes. On reflection, why should there have been? He was educating himself in those years of reading; his own constructions must have come after. Somewhere he must have written his own magnum opus—most likely in code, if it was as incendiary as his politics.
I sent to Sergeant Lawless, asking him again to hunt out that book he had seen. He replied brusquely: he was doing his utmost. I wrote again, suggesting we could discuss it over a stroll round the Exhibition. I was puzzled—peeved, I suppose—to receive no reply. So I set aside the cryptographer antics and returned to my studies. A grim task, the set books, written by our lecturers, had none of the honesty, none of the vision of the great thinkers that had drawn me to the subject. Revising at the library checkout desk, I would find myself glancing instead through notes from my meetings with Campbell. Hence my discovery of Berton Kelswick and his agitatory articles.
It’s hard to remember the indignation of those days, when even the Times consistently harangued the government over slum conditions. Still, Berwick’s writing was too blistering. Moral outrage was ten-a-penny, even conventional, but to criticise Progress—railways, viaducts and the like—was too much. I admired his fervour, righteous anger that only highlighted the sterility of the academic texts I was being forced to swallow.
* * *
In late summer, Worm accosted me outside the Library. His dapper appearance, when acting as intermediary for my communication with Campbell, had always been remarkable. Today he looked like death. His boots were muddy, his hair matted and his eyes ringed by dark shadows.
When he saw me he leapt to his feet. “Miss, Miss, I’m dreadfully sorry to bother you.” He paused, knitting his brows.
“Get on with it, young chap. I’m late for work, as always.”
He looked terribly distracted. “For work? Ah, that’s a pity.”
“Out with it, Worm.”
“Only I was wanting to beg a great favour.” He looked up at me, eyes filled with such entreaty that I was fairly touched.
“Go on.”
“It’s my… my friend, the Professor. Had an accident. A most awful accident.”
“Well, I’m no good to you,” I said. “You need a doctor.”
“We’ve took him, Miss. Straight to the Children’s Hospital, we did. Only they won’t let me in. So as I don’t even know if… if the Professor’s all right.”
“Why don’t you ask your friend, Sergeant Lawless?” I said, rather sharply.
His face fell. “I would, Miss, only… Begging your pardon, but is our conversation confidential, like?”
“If you so wish.”
“Then, you see, me and mine have been in a spot of bother with the authorities of late. Nothing shameful, mind. Only I can’t be consorting with policemen right now, not for my sake nor his. Which leaves me without my normal resources. And you being such a friendly and kind lady.”
I gave him a sceptical look. But I recalled Campbell’s dilemma over the thefts, his reluctance to get his friends into hot water, even if the Worms were involved. I called to the museum porter. “Withers, take a
message in for me, would you? Tell them I’m sick.”
“Sick, Miss?”
“Sick as a dog,” I said and coughed deliberately. “You see? Off to hospital right now.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
I held out my arm for Worm to escort me. He squeezed my hand and off we went.
* * *
“Half-drowned, poor wight,” said the ward sister. “Working down in those sewers. Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“It isn’t allowed,” I said. I would have words with Worm.
“Came in filthy as a pig,” the nurse said, “coughing, puking and half-dead.”
“And now?”
“Needs sleep. Doctor will be in later. My fear is the diseases: rat’s pox and cholera.”
There was nothing to be done. I agreed with Worm we would return that night. I would try and sneak him in on condition he scrubbed his face and hair and put on some clean clothes which I would bring for him. He nodded gratefully.
That evening I returned to Great Ormond Street earlier than I had promised, but Worm was already waiting. The doctor on duty looked at him askance and asked me to come in alone. The Professor was looking much worse, yellow in the face, greasy-haired and sweating. I demanded to know what had happened.
“Sewer fever.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Nothing to be done. Sometimes they get through, sometimes not.” He looked at me. “You’re the mother, are you?”
“Certainly not. But the boy outside is a relation.”
I was allowed to bring Worm in. When he saw the little yellow face, he stood a moment in shock. I withdrew to a chair across the room, while he went up and stroked that tousled hair, emanating a silent dignity beyond his years. After long minutes, the Professor stirred and Worm knelt down by the bed. Something in their faces struck me with the force of a train.
“Worm,” I said quietly. “Tell me. The Professor is not just one of the boys. You’re brothers, aren’t you?”
He seemed barely to hear me. He took the Professor’s hand from under the covers and clutched it, whispering quiet words of comfort and urgent affection. “Forever hail and farewell,” I heard him say. A few minutes later, he stood up and came towards me. “Miss Villiers, I must go now. I know not how to thank you.”
“Don’t think of it, young fellow. We will not give up without a fight.”
He smiled and sadly made as if to leave.
“Tell me one thing, Worm, in case…” I frowned, unable to say it. “What is the Professor’s real name? Given name?”
He lowered his eyes to the floor, then looked me decisively in the eye. “Molly,” he said. “She’s my sister.”
I stared at the mop of ginger hair poking out of the covers and her little upturned nose and thought how foolish everything seemed and how awful.
* * *
That week I studied long hours. During the day I sat in the college, failing the papers set by my miserable lecturers. It seemed as well to study the evenings away at Molly’s bedside rather than return to my dismal quarters and fret there alone. It gave me strength to see the fight the little girl put up against her fever. She would stir and twist and groan, as if trying to wrest some demon from her flesh.
The second evening, I spoke again to the doctor. There was nothing they could do, he said. She was too weak for leeching; she was losing substance because they could not feed her; the longer the fever possessed her, the less chance there was. This filled me with an impotent rage.
The third evening, I stared unseeingly at my books, racking my brains. I had no money to be hiring doctors. If I asked the aunt, she would want to know everything. It would be no good dissembling that it was I who needed the assistance, as she would assume I was pregnant or worse and choose a doctor who would report back to her in full, Hippocratic oath or no. All I could hope for was to call in some favour. I wrote a furious letter to Campbell, demanding that he turn a blind eye to whatever the Worms might be entangled with, for now the Professor was entangled in a fight over meeting her Maker, and suggesting that, even if he could not come in person, he could use some influence to send along a competent doctor. Dickens, for instance, had raised money for the hospital. He must know doctors in high places.
Before the evening was out, a wonderful new doctor came. I do not remember Dr Howie’s method, except that he gave us tasks, and thus inspired our confidence. We must get her system into flux again. Make her drink, and sweat, and micturate, in the hope that the passing of fluid through her slight frame might drag the fever out with it. We held hot compresses of rosemary to her temples. We loaded her bed with covers. Whenever she seemed half awake, we put water to her lips. The nurse raised eyebrows at all this. But the poor thing did seem to take some water, and I left that night, filled with hope.
The fifth evening, she had taken a turn for the worse. I cursed myself and all doctors. Uncertainly, we kept up his regimen of treatment. Just before I had to leave, fearing gravely that I might never see the little girl alive again, I was rewarded. Her lips opened to the water I was offering. A few moments later, she stirred.
“Molly?” I said and took her hand. “Molly, can you hear me? This is Ruth. Ruth Villiers. A friend of your brother, Worm.”
The eyes opened heavily and she smiled a smile so weak it broke my heart. “I do know you, lady. I do. Is Worm here? I ’spect he’s busy on business.”
“Molly, take some water.”
“Thank you. I think I just might.” She drank long and full.
“Don’t tire yourself now. You must rest to get better.”
She looked at me reproachfully. “There is no need to fool me, Miss. I thought I was already long gone. Drownded. How he got me out I don’t know. Miss Bilious?”
“Yes, Molly,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Can I request something of you?”
“Of course you can, my dear girl.”
“When I die, bury me out in the green fields, far far from here. Not them burying grounds.”
I stared at her in dismay.
She smiled and went on cheerily. “It’s this filthy city has killed me. I ain’t no foundling, I’m one of Mr Skelton’s best boys, and I’d rather be buried out there, on one of them hillsides, looking at the cows and maybe a river and trees, if you’d be so kind.”
With that, her eyes closed and her breathing settled. When finally I dragged myself away, her fragile little hand was still holding mine. I was late for my boarding house and had to tap on the poor chambermaid’s window for half an hour for her to undo the bolts and let me in without incurring my landlady’s wrath. I was also late for my exam the next day. Worst of all, I couldn’t seem to care.
* * *
The sixth evening, there seemed no sign of improvement. I tried to study but couldn’t keep my eyes open. I dreamt I saw a man by her bedside, a kindly thin man, whispering soothing words to her, who murmured as he passed me, “Bless you, lady,” and silently left. When I awoke, I asked the nurse, but nobody had been in besides me.
The seventh evening, the yellow tinge was gone from her face. I feared at first that we had lost her. Dr Howie appeared, smiling approvingly. “What she will be needing, Miss Villiers, is affection and care and some feeding up.”
I looked at him in consternation.
“Has she a home?”
“She is loath to speak of it. I can only imagine it is some windy slum.”
“You wouldn’t know of any philanthropic folk willing to take in such a wight while she’s recovering from her close call?”
“She is recovering?”
“She is.”
I smiled valiantly. “These philanthropic folk. Would they need to be kin?”
“The Children’s Hospital is accustomed to unusual family set-ups. I’m sure a special dispensation can be arranged.”
I smiled. The next evening I left clear word that, if anyone should ask for her, they should be directed to visit at my lodgings. Still poorly and shi
vering, the Professor moved in with me.
SERGEANT LAWLESS’ NARRATIVE RESUMED
Aquae Sulis
A visit to the Old Street church proved inconclusive. The priest whom I interrupted whilst working on his sermon was Canon Symon’s replacement. He promised to dig out his predecessor’s new address. When I said I must have it now, he left aside his sermon and our exchange became rather strained. However, I left with a scrap of paper bearing the name of a small parish on the outskirts of Bath.
Over and over I studied Mme Skelton’s note, as if it could yield up secrets. The spindly writing seemed familiar. I supposed it no surprise that it should resemble Berwick’s, if she had taught him his letters. Was it foolish to rush off in pursuit?
The Exhibition would close the following evening with a gathering of luminaries, but more important was the Garden Party at the Palace the day after. Although the Queen had not budged an inch out of mourning, her canny courtiers were gambling on a repeat of last year’s triumph.
How different everything was now. The country seemed in crisis. Riots, famine and anger wherever you turned. The government obsessed by far-off squabbles, and not a drop of confidence in it at home. The party at the Palace must go smoothly, Wardle declared, so that the assembled aristocrats and chairmen and dignitaries would fan back across the country, spreading the word that all was hale at the heart of things. Perhaps such moments really do occur, when the hub of things must hold firm, so that the rest of us can carry on revolving happily around it.
Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square Page 31