Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square

by William Sutton

  In the minute it took me to decipher Worm’s note, I was seized by anxiety. This was little relieved when I identified “Notgniddap” as backslang. I had so readily discredited Molly’s description of their plot to destroy the Monstrous Rotundity.

  I wasted precious time in panicking and uselessness. I could bang on the door, shout and wail, or call to passersby from the kitchen window, but anyone bold enough to break the door down would be unlikely to let this maiden in distress run off. More likely they would dose me. As for telling the truth, no one in their right minds would believe me.

  The vegetable broth boiled over. I could do nothing right. I curled up on the ottoman and gave way to weeping. To think of the hours, the days, I had wasted on this tangled web of lost causes! This Skelton we had so long pursued began to transmogrify in my mind. His writings had entranced me, I confess, with radical ideas and poetic statements. More substantially, the Nation Underground seemed a genuine boon for the Worms. In Molly’s telling of it, he was a benign dictator, the absolute monarch of Hobbes’ Leviathan, to whom the people readily subject themselves. But could I trust a little girl’s judgement? How many signs pulled the other way? He had them breaking into houses, thieving, working down the sewers, God damn it. He had threatened the Prince, thrown London into panic, not just with diverting spouts but with murders. Now he had left his little charges to carry out some unnamed atrocity. No, this was no kind-hearted dictator. This was instead a Leviathan of the depths, calling to him all the little Jonahs and Jobs, to swallow them up in one final disaster. And how we ran, all of us, still at his beck and call. Was the Prince, unsuspecting, even now being summoned by some ruse to this Feast of Fools, this macabre Last Supper?

  A distant explosion drew my eye to the window. Far to the north, a bright rocket lit up the early evening, foretelling the fireworks to come. The window, I thought. I recalled some heroine of literature climbing to freedom by means of her sheets. I tore mine and Molly’s from the beds, knotted them round the stout kitchen table and tugged until satisfied. It would hold my weight, if I could climb down it.

  I formed a plan. The urchin Numpty had taken me for one of his own in Mr Mayhew’s cape. I threw on my drabbest clothing, jammed the table beneath the sill, and wrapped the aunt’s travelling rug around me.

  As I hefted open the window, an evening chill was already in the air. I looked down. Living on the fourth floor was in the main pleasant, high above the noise and smells, with a view over Regent’s Park. The prospect of shinning down forty feet to the street, however, was less appealing. A fine thing it would be to tumble past my landlady’s window to my death.

  This would never do. Too long I had sat puzzling at codes and bookishly studying. Bravado took me down the first few feet, wedging my toes into ledges and crevices. I was aided by a stout drainpipe, which led me to the outcrop of a second floor window. Through the lace curtains, I saw a family gathered round a fine high tea, laughing and joking. My shoulders were aching, my hands sore. My impromptu rope slipped with a startling creak. My stockings tore against the wall, and I thought I was falling, but I came to rest on the lintel of the first floor window. I pressed on, realising too late that the sheets gave out ten feet shy.

  I dropped from the sky like a stone, landing at the feet of a bemused passerby, by luck a small boy who used to run errands for me. I was bruised all right, but the aunt’s rug saved my skin. Should I run to Scotland Yard? Campbell might be at Paddington already, putting a stop to the whole foolish business. His sour-faced inspector would hardly be at the Yard on a Sunday evening, and I would have to explain all to some flat-footed drudge who would take me for cracked. “Fiendish plot, dear? How nice for you.”

  I took out Worm’s note, with my scribbled translation, and wrote Campbell’s name on it, gave the boy a shilling to take it to Scotland Yard. If Campbell hadn’t wheedled the plan out of Worm, that would summon him with reinforcements. Whatever differences we’d had, I might yet be of help.

  I dusted myself off and ran for the omnibus shelter. Never one when you need it, then they all come at once. I paced up and down, in such agitation that a gentleman approached me.

  “May I entreat you to accept this good little book?” he said, proffering a New Testament filled with cautionary bookmarks. “I feel sure it will benefit you.”

  “Dear me, you’re mistaken, sir,” I retorted. “I am no social evil, I’m awaiting the omnibus.”

  Arriving at Paddington Station as the evening drew in, I spotted an unofficial-looking little chap slumped at the head of a new passageway, the entrance to the Metropolitan. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

  It was still early evening. Nobber o’ the clock this very notchy, Worm had written: nine o’clock tonight. I bided my time, spied on the chap from a distance. He seemed asleep, but I could see no way to squeeze past his outstretched legs without waking him. I mustn’t be seen, not before Campbell appeared. Besides, we had to catch them red-handed. If they knew we’d got wind of them and called the thing off, it would all be in vain. With Berwick martyred, they would go to ground, mull over the lost chance, and strike again another day. Worst of all, we would never convince a soul that such a preposterous plan had ever been afoot.

  After a time, a pair of Worms rolled up with a cart of clinking crates and hampers. They coughed for attention, spoke some kind of password. The little chap sat bolt upright, alarmed to be caught catnapping on duty. As they squeezed the crate through the gap, a couple of lettuces fell to the ground.

  I dug my hands in my pockets and scuttled over, trying to walk Molly-fashion, a mix of humility and affectation. I scooped up the lettuces as if I were the cart-pullers’ help, and thrust them under the guard’s nose. Blinking wildly, he broke into a smile, tipped his hat, and let me pass unhindered.

  Descending the dark steps, I seemed to enter the realm of fairy tales. I arrived in a great chamber. Long platforms stretched away in either direction, bordering a sunken railway that disappeared into black tunnels. The chamber was vaulted over, with sleek tiling above the platform, brickwork over the tracks. Light filtered through skylights, and gas lamps flickered, illuminating a train that stood proud in front of me.

  I drew back into the shadows of the stairway. I could smell food cooking. To my right, fumes rose from the squat engine. Dark fears assailed me. It looked diabolical, a banquet for cannibals.

  I breathed deep and looked again. Turning on the spit was a boar. Come along, I told myself, there will be no human sacrifices here. The aromas of smoked fish and cheeses mingled with the roasting meat. A weaselly engine driver appeared on the backboard and set two Worms a-shovelling.

  The final carriage held but a handful of Worms, engrossed in their chores.

  The cart boys I had followed were unloading their cargo to the central carriage, a fine open car adorned with baubles and tinsel, the rude wooden sides draped in opulent red velvet to give the impression of luxury. The carriage was mostly taken up by a dining table covered by a white cloth. Their chores quitted, the boys retired to the end carriage.

  I had to hide. I could never maintain my disguise under close scrutiny. Emerging from the shadows, I scurried across the platform and scrambled on board. To my surprise, there were only three chairs round the table; it could have seated sixty. An extra serving table stood by the end nearest the engine. On it lay chopping boards and carving knives, a platter of cheeses under muslin, and elegant decanters. This table too bore an elegant white cloth.

  I glanced at the group huddled round the engine’s furnace. The driver was schooling the Worms in using the bellows, the chefs basting the hog. I ducked under the tablecloth. Though elegant from above, the table was nothing but planks on stacked crates. I settled on a spot in the corner, resting against the crates where the cloth hung low. I could peek out down the length of the table. I would see anyone who boarded, and I should remain invisible.

  I had to trust that Campbell would appear in time. I steeled myself to stay attentive, and to wait.
It was a most peculiar sensation, secreted there in the world’s latest marvel, waiting for the plot to unfold. Cataclysmic imagery flashed through my mind, as a delicious warmth emanated from the engine behind me. The strong aromas, distant babble of urchins, and the shovelling of the coal—it all seemed strangely agreeable.

  * * *

  I came to my senses to find myself amidst a hum of activity. Sheer exhaustion had fuddled my wits. There was babble all about me, somebody checking off the items on a menu. Forequarter of lamb? Yes, sir! Veal and salmon, lobster and pigeon. Ham, tongue, duck, cherries, strawberries, blancmange. Whipped cream and coffee. Did they intend to feed him till he burst? Then I heard Molly’s voice.

  “Ho, there, youngster! Opened that wine yet?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Well, get it decanted. It has to breathe, you know.”

  Molly might be a little girl to me, but she must be prominent in the hierarchy, though it seemed implausible that she should know the finer points of wine.

  “No hanging about now,” she insisted.

  Wine bottles clinked, and the table above my head quivered. I curled myself up in fear and alarm. I would be discovered. Molly would sense I was there. But the bottles were decanted right there above me, and nobody the wiser.

  When they moved away, I peered out. An army of Worms went about the preparations with a festive air. The time must be nigh, for they bore wine and caviare to the table, platters of meat, fresh baked bread, and fruit baskets.

  A bell sounded far off. I nearly died of fright as an answering bell rang out behind me. All of a sudden, the hubbub was silenced. Only a handful of immaculately presented waiters remained.

  I heard adult voices approaching. The lights brightened, showing off the marvel of the train. Two rather portly gentlemen stood looking about in amazement, with a good number of “Ho-ho!”s and harrumphing. The third man came up the carriage towards me. He was slighter, bearded, and dressed as the Master of Ceremonies. He stepped directly up to my table. My heart was pounding so, I would not have been surprised if he had snatched up a carving knife and run me through. Instead, he spoke quietly to his helpers. A cork popped, summons enough to bring the other men hurrying towards us.

  “Gentlemen,” said the third. “Your health.”

  The three men drank a toast. All I could see was trouser legs. I concentrated on the voices.

  One of the three kept gabbling away, mingling boasts and excuses. “I can’t apologise enough, Your Royal Highness. The fellows from your club, you know, and the college johnnies, they could have come, but, dash it, I thought it too risky.”

  “Really, old chap?” The second chap sounded amused.

  “Risky,” repeated the first fellow, too anxious to pick up his friend’s playful tone. “I was anxious they’d blab. And I wanted it to be your special birthday treat, Your Highness.”

  “For God’s sake,” rejoined the second, “call me Bertie after all this time, won’t you?”

  It really was the Prince. I peered at the royal shoes, as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  The first man I knew at once for Roxton Coxhill. Campbell had often enough impersonated his plummy accent and foppish demeanour. To my mind, the tremulous tone in his voice suggested a man on the brink of collapse. “Of course, Your Highness. Bertie, I mean. What I mean is, one can’t be too careful, eh?”

  “We’ll have a hoot all the same. Quite a set-up you’ve got here.”

  The third man began to say something, but Coxhill interrupted, basking in the Prince’s favour. “Oh, I assure you, you’ve never had a surprise like it.”

  Of course. The spout was for the Prince’s eighteenth birthday, three years back. Now this for his coming-of-age. Should I leap up and shout, “Dear Prince, you are played false?” Ridiculous, me in my ragged clothes, shabby and exhausted, like some madwoman. They would spirit me off and explain it away to the Prince with some half-cock excuse. No, I would have to wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  “You’ve gone out of your way,” said the Prince. “I can see that. Jolly kind of you.”

  “Nothing but the best for Bertie. This is the latest word in engineering science.”

  “Bosh and tripe to that, Roxy. Can one tuck in?”

  “You must be famished,” said the third man, quietly exultant. “Please, take your places. Off we go, John!”

  The little helpers guided Coxhill and Bertie to their seats, and commenced to serving the banquet. Behind me, the whistle gave an almighty toot. There followed a hissing, a screeching and a series of groans, as the engine roared into life. Fear surged through my bones as we started moving. I had travelled by train before, and I had no fondness for it. But this was worse. Sulphurous smoke billowed out around us, and I clutched the tablecloth to my mouth, trying not to cough. What use the cavalry now?

  We entered the darkness of the first tunnel, lit only by occasional lamps. The door of the final carriage opened, and a chorus of Worms struck up a song, their voices echoing above the engine’s roar like the harmony of angels.

  Fast, oh, fast fade

  The roses of pleasure …

  As we emerged into a second station, the rasping smoke receded a little, before we plunged again into the darkness. I stared out at the phantasmagoric feast, frightened out of my wits, convinced we were hurtling towards our final end. Yet they had done nothing barbarous yet. They were not attacking the Prince. They were feasting him, treating him to a private show of the eighth wonder of the world. Perhaps it was all over. Perhaps, with Berwick’s death, they had decided to bury the hatchet and abandon the grudge. The singing came to a climax with a rendition of that tuneless ditty, “God Save the Queen”, at which the diners must have risen to their feet, albeit reluctantly.

  I could hear Coxhill, shouting from the far end of the table. Bertie I could just make out above the salvers of pink crayfish. He tucked his lace napkin under his chin and merrily tore the legs off the hapless crustaceans. “Well, well!” he cried and, “I say!” as the little helpers bustled about, serving platter after platter. I have never seen anyone attack their food as the Prince did on that journey. If I had screamed out that he was in danger of his life, he would have asked me to wait for dessert.

  The third man sat only feet away from me. I studied him in the intermittent gaslight: a pale thin face; a thoughtful expression. And though the food was piled high in front of him too, he barely touched a morsel. Strange that the others seemed not to know him. They treated him as a glorified servant, a major-domo. As we passed through another station, he frowned, then smiled broadly, clapping his hands as a youth leapt aboard right in front of my eyes. Worm! The little chancer had escaped Campbell.

  My hopes of rescue were in vain.

  Worm ducked under the dining table, out of sight. Moments later, he crawled out at my end of the table, and looked about him. The thin man bent down to clasp him by the shoulders. “Well done, old cove,” he said.

  “All present and correct, Mr Skelton,” Worm replied brightly. “Full steam ahead, eh?” He glanced in my direction, and I shuddered.

  The train lurched, the lights were extinguished and a scream of excitement went up from the little helpers as we accelerated into the darkness.

  I clutched at the crates to steady myself. So this was he, Berwick Skelton, sitting not two yards from me. What kind of man was he? They killed him, and he came back from the dead. I tried to shake off my foolishness. If it was he, it was not some diabolical resurrection, but because he had never been killed. It made sense. A master of tricks and deceptions, nothing would serve him better than our believing him dead. How calm he looked, now the moment of reckoning drew near.

  The sulphurous smoke grew oppressive. There were bones glowing in the tunnel walls, skulls hung from the vault. We were roaring into the pit of hell. But as I looked up, I glimpsed pale light high above. We emerged into a mighty cutting, overarched by bridges and monstrous pipes, buildings silhouetted against the sky, as if we were bu
ried in the ground, looking out of our graves. The brakes shrieked, and we drew up in a broad station, deserted of people. The Prince clapped and shouted to the thin man—the man I now knew to be Skelton—what a terrific jape it was. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that he was making peace with his enemies, forgiving them everything. But I could not credit it.

  The magician’s cape flashed past me, and Skelton disappeared from my view as we drew to a halt. I was tempted to run for it. I could whisper a warning to the Prince and pull him away. Except that two rather burly Worms were standing in front of my table, one of them dandling a lettuce. Had I been seen?

  With a clunk and a grinding hiss, light shone in under my table. I feared I was discovered, but no. The door behind me, that led to the engine, had come ajar: a serendipitous exit?

  I peeked through the gap. The station was alive with activity. The engine had been decoupled. It stood ten yards from my carriage, its furnace glowing dimmer now. There was a great grinding of gears, and the glow began to move sideways. To my astonishment, the entire engine began to rotate, the funnel end drawing nearer and the driver’s board turning away from us.

  “Ho-ho, look at that!” Coxhill brought Bertie up to my end to watch the spectacle. “Turntable’s powered by HECC hydraulics, y’know.”

  “Pass the gateau, won’t you, Roxy?”

  “The smoothest of mechanisms—”

  “Hush,” said the Prince. “The show’s starting.”

  The moment the engine stopped rotating, perpendicular to us now, the Worms draped a curtain between the funnels and down over the running board facing us, then formed into tidy rows in front of me. My view left something to be desired, but I have been less comfortable in the West End.