“What will you do now, sir?”
“Off to Yorkshire for Christmas,” he said. “Not coming back. Go on and dig up secrets, if you want to make sense of it all. I’ll be leaving a recommendation for you, son. You’ll be an inspector yourself one day.”
We fell silent, nursing our drinks. I hid my disappointment. When he bade me good night, I sat there watching him go, holding down my bile, until I headed home in silence.
THE SEVENTH & FINAL PERIOD
(EARLY 1862)
THE BUGLE—“THE KIND-HEARTED REVOLUTIONARY” SPEAKING ILL OF THE DEAD—GARDEN PARTY THE HOUSE FOR FALLEN WOMEN APOLOGIA CALAMITATIS—FROM THE CRIMINAL PRISONS OF LONDON—OUR NATION UNDERGROUND WORM’S FINAL FLING—WORM’S TALE—THE PLOT RETURN TO EUSTON SQUARE—A CODED NOTE RUTH VILLIERS’ FINAL NARRATIVE BERTIE’S REPORT—THE GHOST TRAIN
EUSTON DAILY BUGLE
(incorporating the Clerkenwell Horn]
2nd November, 1862
DIABOLICAL MURDER IN THE GREENHOUSE
In a sour finale to the Kensington Exhibition, two bodies were found dead yesterday on the closing night of the seven-month extravaganza. Scotland Yard hinted that the killings mark a final end to the affair which so thrilled Society last season, the Skeleton Thefts. Inspector Wardle was reticent. “We are still tying up loose ends, but we are confident there will be no further trouble.” It seems that the investigation put pressure on the criminal elements. Rival underground leaders met in a fearful showdown over territorial issues, choosing the Greenhouse in a daredevil display of criminal bravura.
These events will not affect the social calendar’s most glamorous event, the Palace announced this morning. This afternoon’s garden party will provide a glittering finale to the summer, as dignitaries gather to celebrate the Exhibition’s close. The Queen disdains to cast off mourning, but rumours are afoot that the Prince of Wales may be back from the continent to preside with his famed hospitality.
The Prince’s return will give the Queen something to smile about, as his engagement to Princess Alexandra of Denmark is now confirmed as something more than court gossip. The wedding will take place in Westminster Abbey as early as March of next year. The Queen must be relieved at this long hoped-for (long despaired-of) sign of the heir to the throne’s maturation. Nonetheless, the Prince’s cronies were secretive about his birthday plans. We can expect a few last bachelor indiscretions before his coming-of-age.
KNOW-HOW
The trouble-beset Metropolitan Railway is to be rescued by the mighty Great Western. The late Charles Pearson passed away a disappointed man, his project still in the balance with its smokeless engines a costly failure. The Board of Safety’s objections proved well-founded when the Fleet Sewer burst into the works between Farringdon and King’s Cross. Mr Gladstone and those who braved the trial run in May cannot have known the risk they were running. Imagine the scandal, at the underground banquet planned to celebrate the opening of the line, the great and good might have been deluged with filth as they tucked into the pheasant.
Thankfully, the Great Western has stepped into the breach, offering matchless know-how, in addition to engines with chambers that hold smoke and steam for release at the ends of the run. Promised an opening on 1st May, 1st September, 1st October and 1st November, the public have lost patience with the Metropolitan. Under the new management, we can breathe a sigh of relief and expect a prompt opening in the New Year. A passageway already links the GWR’s terminal to the Underground platform, at last an end to the madness of the trip from Paddington to the City taking longer than that to Bristol.
EXCERPT FROM THE KIND-HEARTED REVOLUTIONARY
by BS (Deciphered by RVL)
“What need for change?” say the powerful few. “Everyone is satisfied with the status quo; at least, anyone with any sense.”
Such insular perspective leaves no option. Too long have we fought amongst ourselves, passivists and activists, arguing moral force against physical. Too many, indeed, have ceased from mental fight, naively trusting that our masters share our goals of equality and justice. Yet what we have builded here? Not Jerusalem, but hell.
For my single self, too far steeped in blood already, my sword shall not sleep in my hand. When a nation is so cast down that it does not even know it is oppressed, violent remedies must be tried. Such a pass have we reached. Fawkes used fire; so shall we. Rama fulfilled his destiny; so shall we. Samson cast down the pillars of the Temple; so shall we.
For the death and destruction, I shall be sorry; but I do not repent of it. Even though I should fail, I dare to hope that the legend of my revolt may live on. (I imagine the Russian serfs overthrowing their Tsar, the Balkans boiling over, even the Irish regaining their own land.) Should I succeed in starting the quake, the floodgates will open for the people to walk into the Palace of Westminster and seize hold of their own country for the first time and forever.
SPEAKING ILL OF THE DEAD
I rose early, despite macabre dreams, and headed for Farringdon beneath skies that would not brighten all day. I would not ask Madame Skelton to identify the body, but it was my duty to let her know that her son’s long struggle was over.
The cowshed had gone. The great space it had covered was already pockmarked with new foundations.
A newspaperman on the corner saw me standing, mouth agape, in the rain. “Lost somefink?”
“I was looking for somebody.”
“In the old shed? All gone. Last week.”
“Where to?”
“God knows. Some other purgatory.”
I wrote her a brief note, saying I had grave and urgent news, and gave it to the man, with a half-crown. I walked away in vexation. I had no way to find Fairfoul, and Nellie I had promised to leave to Wardle. I might find Hester in the musical halls, but first I would question Coxhill. If he maintained the fiction that he hardly remembered Skelton, he wouldn’t do for identification, but an interview might be revealing. He had been a wreck after we found the bodies, sweating abundantly and whimpering nonsense. The one thing he had managed to confirm was that the gun in Skelton’s hand belonged to Hunt, his rifle from the Crimean dragoons.
* * *
Coxhill was only too ready to confess. The HECC yard was quiet as the grave, with no sign of activity and Hunt’s little hut apparently burnt to the ground. Whether Pat was late or had been sacked, I didn’t ask. I found Coxhill in his office, already murmuring away to himself in a fever of penitence. He was still in the same clothes as the night before. He hadn’t slept, I reckoned, or washed.
“Dear God, dear God,” he muttered, gazing down on his kingdom, while sickly smoke from his pipe filled the room. I coughed to catch his attention. He stared at me as if I were a ghost, and for one moment I thought he would fall against the window.
“Dear God, Sergeant. I thought for a moment… I don’t know what I thought.” He slumped against the wall, giving an unconvincing chuckle. “Standing there silhouetted with your blasted policeman’s hat.”
I set him upright at his desk, where he curled up, holding his pipe to his forehead. Poor man, I had little fondness for him, but I couldn’t wish that anyone be turned to such a gibbering fool.
“You cannot imagine the shock, Sergeant. And the guilt. I’m tormented.”
“Guilt?”
“I know! I shouldn’t feel guilt, should I? It’s not my fault, not legally, not in any sense. But one still feels this moral culpability.”
“For what Hunt has done?” I sat down across from him. “Why should you feel responsible?”
“You know, Cameron… May I call you Cameron?” He continued before I could put him right. “I had a high opinion of Hunt. A man of simple principles, but he’s served me deuced well.” He spoke on feverishly, explaining how Hunt had come into his service. A fusilier in the Crimea, Hunt was a wild soldier. Certain black rumours circulated about his untoward behaviour in battle. I can only assume that he was downright barbarous, for the army are not in the habit of criticising their o
wn for killing the enemy.
Around the time of his court-martial, Coxhill was looking for a valet-butler. Due to certain problems with his new company’s solvency, he rather fancied a tough right-hand man.
“Look, Cameron, I don’t mind telling you, now that Hunty’s vanished. Out in the desert, he got to know some mad Turks, known as Gilzais. They taught him the methods of the Hashisheen, a lunatic band who nerve themselves to fight by drinking hashish, which the Indians call bhang. Hunt learned how to concoct it so as to fuel himself to any lengths of passion.” He drew deeply on his pipe.
“The Assassins?” I said sceptically. It sounded like a story from the penny press.
“That’s right, old man. Hunty boy used the stuff to great distinction in the storming of Sebastopol, but he overstepped the mark and was disgraced. His nickname was the Dentist, he so loved to extract the source of his enemies’ pain, that is, their lives.” He laughed, an ugly heaving guffaw, then sat back, suddenly pensive. “I heard he was in a pickle from a mutual friend—Eton and the Guards, you know—and I pulled a few strings for an unconditional discharge. I suppose he regarded me as something of a saviour. He’d stop at nothing for me. Protected me to the hilt.”
“In the same style as his military service?”
Coxhill pulled at his beard. “I am responsible, morally. I do see that. But the fellow must have said something quite out of order to drive Hunty to such extremes.”
“Which fellow?”
“Last night,” he said discomfited. “The smiling one.”
The image of the corpses in the display case flashed before my eyes. “Did you know him?”
“Not as such.” He started filling his pipe again. “He’d been bothering us, saying he was going to squeal on us to the authorities.”
“Squeal about what exactly?”
“Hmm? Oh, I’m not entirely clear. Hunt was dealing with it, you see, as normal.” He relit his pipe, then licked his lips nervously. “Hunty’s been under a deal of pressure. We all have, with the Exhibition and the uncertain market, you know. We’re launching new shares, any day now. Perhaps you—”
I cut him off. “Hunt dealt with such complaints?”
“I deal with professionals. Hunty takes care of the rest. This fellow was a real joker. Talked about some injury done to his brother. Claimed we’d given him his dashed limp, and then he’d died. Such theatricality! He’d been limping from birth.”
The stories no longer added up. “Enough half-truths. You met Smiler. You know about Shuffler. And you know Berwick Skelton better than you know me.”
“Knew,” he retorted, fixing me with those birdlike eyes. “You’re right, Cameron, of course. You must excuse me for pretending not to know Skelton. Your fellow, Waddle, told me categorically not to breathe a word about it. Sorry, old man. Thought you’d been sent to test me! Must accustom ourselves to the security game, eh, if we’re to gad about with a future king.”
I found his over-familiarity galling. “So, before he was found dead, Shuffler asked you for compensation, is that right?”
“It was nothing to do with us. Why did they go upsetting poor Hunty by putting the bally corpse there? Then his brother turns up making unpleasant insinuations.”
I lowered my eyes. “And you asked Hunt to shut him up?”
“No, no.” He drew on his pipe and smiled. “Not in so many words. I asked him to have a word in his ear. Deal with it as he saw fit.”
I turned away in disgust. A word in his ear, and there he lies in the morgue.
“I am morally at fault. I own that. My father… Have I told you about my father? He was unflappable in a tight spot. Revelled in ’em. Hunty, though, got himself into such a state. The Crimea, you know. It’s no wonder he’s finally cracked.” He sniffed valiantly. “One has to be firm, Cameron. At times you feel the whole world is out is to take a piece of you.”
“Firm?” I gasped. “It seems Hunt has been a little too firm.”
He stood up, nodding seriously. “It’s a terrible show he put on. Must have quite blown his top. No other way to explain it. As if he meant it as a warning. Do you see? Protecting the company even as he ran.”
“You’re sure he’s gone? Where to?”
“The colonies, I’d imagine. Australia, or the Argentine.” He paused for a moment. “I recall reading him a call for mercenaries from the Times. Some Frenchman’s setting up a kingdom out there. He was tickled pink at the thought. Thinks a lot of the French, since the Crimea. That’s it, I’ll bet. He’ll be on some steamer set fair for the Southern Seas. Shame, really. If he’d gone to Australia, he could have watched the cricket.” Coxhill gazed out at the dismal sky above his deserted yard and I almost thought he was going to cry. As I rose to leave, he recovered himself suddenly. “By the way, you don’t know if the Prince of Wales is back, do you? If I could only get a message through, he’d let me know himself. Only I’m planning this rather exciting birthday do with a few chums.” He tapped the side of his nose.
It might well be Wardle blocking the channels of communication. Coxhill had never proved the restraining influence he had hoped for, and Bertie must have been warned off him. “I can’t help you.”
He fixed me with those birdlike eyes, then reached suddenly for my hand, shaking it with a damp two-handed grasp. “I like you, Cameron. Liked you from the first. Now that the thing is over, one is inclined to reflect. What a senseless waste.” He shook his head. “Is it worth it, the casualties that fall by the wayside in the jostle for profit and preference? The great struggle for life. Who knows? Damn it, I don’t.”
I returned his grasp, managing a half-hearted smile before I disengaged myself, murmured my farewell and made my escape in contrition and disgust.
GARDEN PARTY
It was difficult to credit the possibility of revolution in the Palace gardens, as the quadrilles got under way, punctuated by cucumber sandwiches and cake. The gowns were flowing, and the champagne. I wondered if the Queen was peeking out of an upper window at this extravagance. Would she find it immoral? Would she envy it? Footmen flitted to and fro, lighting torches to spread warm pools of light in the gathering gloom of the great lawn. I spotted Wardle, enveloped by bewhiskered dinner jackets.
“Caught those bally thieves, old chap?”
“We have.”
“I heard you’d thrown ’em in the river.”
Wardle grunted. “Don’t go giving me ideas, sir.”
“The wife didn’t sleep for weeks. Longing to be robbed.”
“Then my apologies to her, sir, but I couldn’t retire without finishing the job.”
“Jolly good work.”
That’s right, I thought, jolly good work, pinning the crimes on a few unfortunate old marketeers. If I told him that Numpty and Co. were involved, he would string them up without a thought. At least I had kept my word to Worm and told no one it was he who enlightened me as to how Shuffler died. As far as Wardle was concerned, Hunt had solved all our problems at a single stroke.
As we were checking the invitations of the early birds, Wardle had seemed filled with an unusual excitement. I thought at first he was nervous after the fiasco with the Parliament clock. Then I realised that this was his swansong. In his long service of the royals, he had encountered countless luminaries. I could not doubt their respect, as they bade him good luck for the future, Palmerston and Gladstone, Trollope and Thackeray.
It struck me, as I looked on, that Wardle had succeeded less through brilliance than a mix of perseverance, self-confidence and good fortune. Though I was beginning to believe in my investigatory abilities, I felt cursed by doubts. They say that in some countries the police are popular heroes, the guardians of the people. Here in England, with constables peppered around the Palace walls, we seemed instead the strong arm of privilege.
“Cameron. Good to see you.” Coxhill clapped me on the shoulder, looking around nervously. “Must have a word with your inspector. Have a cigar, won’t you?”
He gave me
a puny cigarillo and moved off to buttonhole Wardle, doubtless begging to know if Bertie was back. Wardle turned to him tight-lipped, as if obliged to suffer his attentions.
As the ladies began drawing their menfolk away, and the single men became rowdier in their cups, I wandered away from the lights towards an ornamental pond. Toying with the cigarillo, I leaned against a stone palisade that rose from the paved walkway up to a pretty stone bridge. In the pale pink light of evening, I saw in the water what I took to be my own reflection, only my reflection was at the wrong angle, and it seemed to be wearing a hat.
At a cough from the shadows above me, I turned abruptly. On the parapet of the bridge sat a figure, legs dangling jauntily, like Humpty Dumpty ready to fall. Except this Humpty Dumpty was not so round, as far as I could make out in the dim light. He seemed to have a weary smile upon his face, framed by cheery muttonchops.
“Want that thing lit, old chap?”
I looked at the cigarillo. “Why not?” I said. “You’re only young once.”
“If ever. Toss it up, then.”
A match flared and the cigarillo seemed to float down to me, surprisingly easy to catch, except it had turned into a grand Havana cigar. I laughed. “Thank you.”
“Welcome, old man. Might as well live a little, eh?” He lit a cigar of his own. “I understand you are the young sergeant working so hard to keep scandal at bay.”
I blinked in confusion. “I’m not at liberty to discuss such things.”
Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square Page 34