Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square

by William Sutton

  A hush fell.

  “Ra, ra!” called Bertie, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Yes,” echoed Coxhill, somewhat less sure of himself. “Jolly fine show.”

  Gas lanterns were trained onto the makeshift stage, and little Worms burst across it, crisscrossing acrobatically in front of the engine, as a jolly trio—drums, accordion and tuba—struck up an oom-pah refrain. The scene was filled with colour as they did cartwheels and back somersaults. One teetered back and forth on a wooden cask; another spun a top into the air and caught in on a string. My breath caught in my throat as I recognised Molly.

  Then came Skelton. Uproarious applause broke out as the makeshift curtain swished open, and he strolled along the running board, skipping up on to the engine, quite as if it were the Haymarket stage. His cape swirled, coloured handkerchiefs poked from his pockets, and his twirling cane gleamed under the lights. He despatched the little acrobats with a clap of the hands, like a circus ringmaster, and launched into stock tricks, rolling his bowler hat up and down his arm, and making his handkerchiefs appear in unlikely places. He fanned a deck of playing cards from hand to hand, set it down, and, with a show of concentration, drew it unsupported into the air. That done, he promptly walked off the engine into midair, looked around comedically as if surprised at these levitations, and fell back to the engine with a clunk. The trio accompanied his antics with jolly tunes and the odd drum roll.

  “That’s kind of you, little fellow,” said Bertie. The smell of fresh coffee drifted past me. “Any chance of a drop more port?”

  I pinched myself, trying to shake off the lurid clutch of the show. There might be a moment when all were engrossed and I could spirit Bertie away. No, it was hopeless. The burly Worms sat perched on the carriage wall, goggle-eyed. One last little helper was still attending the revellers, plying them with drinks and desserts.

  “For my first trick,” Skelton began, his voice cutting through the air like a knifeblade, “I require the loan of a banknote. Would a gentleman be so good as volunteer one?”

  “Here you go,” shouted Bertie, mouth full of cake.

  One of the burly Worms bore Bertie’s offering through the audience.

  “Ten guineas,” said Skelton, testing the note against the light. “That ain’t from the cheap seats. Must have royalty in tonight.”

  Laughter all around.

  Without a scruple, he ripped it in two. Gasps all round. He lifted the cap of the funnel with his cane, releasing a cloud of steam, and popped in one half. The other he folded, and threw into the air like a paper dart. It fluttered and took flight, up and away from the Worms’ outstretched hands, transformed into a dove.

  As we applauded, Skelton rapped his cane on the engine. The funnel spouted steam again, and out flew a banknote. He snatched it from the air and tugged it straight. “Please, return the money to the gentleman. And might I borrow his watch?”

  I had to dive for my corner, as the burly Worm hopped up onto the end of the carriage.

  “Here you go,” said Bertie gamely. “Careful with that, my mother gave it me.”

  The boy jumped back down, and I peeked out again.

  “Careful, you say?” said Skelton. He took the watch, and at once feigned dropping it. But it was still in his hand, glinting in the light. “Don’t worry, sir, I wouldn’t dream of being careless with—” Whereupon it fell from his hand down the side of the engine and smashed on the turntable for all to see. Skelton looked up. “Oops-a-daisy.” He coughed awkwardly. “Moving on, can I have a little volunteer to be sawn in half?”

  I peeked back to see how the show was being received. Coxhill was trying to restrain his giggles. Bertie was stroking his whiskers. He poked his friend in the stomach.

  “I say, you don’t think—”

  “Not at all,” Coxhill tittered. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  I took hold of the tablecloth, ready to pull back it back and whisper my warning. The voice that volunteered stopped me short. It would have to be Molly. I glued my eye to the peephole as she clambered up to Skelton. He placed a wooden box on the running board, and she climbed in eagerly. The musicians raised the tempo. I watched, sick to my stomach, as he took up a saw and severed the box quite in half. Had she recovered her health only to meet her end at the hands of this madman, deep in the bowels of the earth?

  I cried out. I couldn’t help myself.

  But the whole audience was shouting now, and I remained undiscovered. I was ready to run out and take on the lot of them myself. But no sooner than the box was severed, he spun it to show us Molly’s little legs waggling gaily. He picked up the other half and out popped Molly’s head, still alive and giggling. Indeed, I’d never seen the little girl as happy as when she was receiving our applause.

  “What have you got there, Professor?” said Skelton. He reached out and extracted from her ear the Prince’s pocket watch, back in one piece.

  “Ho, ho,” said Bertie, clapping behind me. “The old devil!”

  “Return the watch to the gentleman, if you’d be so kind, Professor,” said Skelton, shutting her back in the box. He rapped on the lid and opened it up. She had disappeared entirely. Not the first time today, I thought, amidst the applause and hilarity.

  “For my penultimate trick, I need a very special volunteer.” He looked around with mock drama, then lighted on the carriage. “Sir, would you be so kind?”

  “Me?” spluttered Coxhill. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Go on, Roxy!”

  “No, I’m absolutely stuffed, and a bit tipsy, to be honest… Eh? Whoah, there. Unhand me, you brutes. I do say! Your Royal Highness. Bertie. Help, ho, someone!”

  A wave of Worms boarded the carriage, shunting my table aside. The cloth fell, and I was revealed. Nobody noticed. They were busy carrying Coxhill down, through the door that had been my lookout post, onto the edge of the turntable. Bertie sat tight, chortling merrily, only too glad to get his own back after Coxhill’s laughter. The music took an agitated turn.

  “Please,” Skelton called above the hubbub, “do not be alarmed.”

  “Sir,” I began, crawling out from my corner.

  Bertie glanced down and gave me a friendly nod. “Cracking show, ain’t it?” he said, chuckling to himself.

  “Your Highness, you must flee this place.”

  “All in good time,” he said. “Looks like Roxy’s going to get it in the neck.”

  I turned back. Coxhill had given up the struggle and acquiesced, pinned down by the Worms on a strange wooden contraption, not unlike the mediaeval stocks. A hush fell over the mighty chamber.

  “How hilarious,” Coxhill called out. “How very, very droll.”

  Skelton leapt down towards him, blackly illuminated in the light of the lanterns. I shall forever remember the image of him, poised to exact the vengeance he had so long planned. With consummate showmanship, he shut Coxhill’s wrists and neck into the grooves of the stocks. He stepped back and locked Coxhill’s ankles in hefty manacles.

  The retributive verses of Skelton’s tome began running around my head. Did anyone else know the depth of his anger?

  “You stand accused,” said Skelton, “of crimes against humanity.”

  “What’s he done?” called Bertie gamely.

  “Such dreadful crimes, sir, I do hesitate to name them here.”

  Bertie guffawed.

  “Have you anything you wish to say?”

  “Now you mention it,” Coxhill began, stretching his neck, “this thing’s dashed uncomfortable.”

  There was a shout from the darkness of the station. Skelton looked up and gave a theatrical signal. The Worms drew back, and the great grinding hiss of the turntable gears reverberated again. The engine began to move.

  Coxhill started muttering. He could not see what we could. His head and arms were affixed to the solid rails in front of my carriage. But his legs were chained fast to the turntable, now beginning its inexorable rotation.

  Coxhill struggled at
his bonds in earnest. His whining set Bertie laughing at the comic spectacle. The Worms went about clearing up. Skelton gazed impassively at Coxhill, then looked up at the Prince.

  Coxhill scratched at the stocks. He tried to turn and make sense of what was happening, but he was held fast. “Help. Somebody. God help us!”

  Bertie spoke at my shoulder. “Terribly convincing, ain’t it?”

  “Sir,” I said, tearing my eyes from the awful show. “We’re in grave danger—”

  “Look at that,” said Bertie admiringly. “You’d almost believe they were doing him mischief.”

  Out of the darkness of the station Worm appeared. He ran straight to Skelton and laid his hand on the man’s forearm, conveying some urgent message. Skelton looked away across the station. Energised anew, he led Worm to the engine.

  “Mr Prince, sir?” said a familiar voice. “You’ll be wanting your watch back, will you?”

  Bertie looked down at Molly. In those dreadful moments, I was surprised at the way he addressed her, respectful and gentlemanly. “Kind of you, little fellow,” he said.

  She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. “Shame.”

  “Molly!” I said.

  “I’d love to give it you,” the Prince smiled, “but Mama would have my guts for garters.”

  The engine rumbled back into life. Coxhill screamed. He had been gently stretched at first, but now the rotating turntable had him drawn out full length. His arms were strained to breaking point, his eyes bulging in their sockets.

  “Molly,” I said desperately.

  “Sorry, Miss Bilious,” Molly frowned. “I don’t think this show is fit for ladies.”

  “Have they no mercy?” I cried.

  Bertie shook his finger knowingly. “Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “It’s doubtless the same trick as with my watch. Fooled us good and proper, mark my words.”

  I never thought that I should see such cruelty. I do not know by what infernal power the turntable was driven, but I can tell you that it pulled that man apart as easily as you or I might shell a pod of peas or break bread into our soup. His shrieks as he was dismembered I will never forget. I turned away, struggling for breath. I no longer thought of saving the Prince, or myself. A foul smell stained the air, and I thought I would faint. The engine belched a mighty blast of steam and began rolling towards us. Coxhill fell silent.

  There was a great cry from the depths of the station.

  “Here comes the Heavy Brigade,” said Bertie. Even he looked troubled now, like a child who fears the joke has gone too far. “Best make ourselves scarce, had we? I say, are you quite all right?”

  I found myself taken up by strong arms. These are not children, I thought, as the Worms lifted me from the carriage. These are tough young men, an underground army. I watched in awe as they coupled the engine back onto the carriages and bolted. At once the train eased away, rolling back down the line towards the tunnels. I turned my weary head to see Campbell and his inspector appear from the shadows, followed by a troop of policemen. Too late. The train headed for the tunnel. The furnace was stoked high, Worm tending the engine. Bertie remained at the end of the table, smiling uneasily. The last thing I saw was Skelton walking calmly up the running board. He strode through the door of the open carriage, closed it neatly behind him, and stepped up to the Prince.

  REPORT OF ALBERT EDWARD SAXE-COBURG-GOTHA, PRINCE OF WALES, AS TRANSCRIBED

  by Sgt Lawless

  A most extraordinary birthday. This time next year I’ll be married and sensible. Seemed silly to miss out on one last blast of foolishness.

  Roxy’s mishap, though, did leave me feeling distinctly queasy. Then the organiser chap, who’d been absolutely top-ho throughout the escapade, heads us back into the tunnel and strolls up to confront one, man to man, you know.

  What an ass Roxy made of himself. Deuced unfortunate, but I remain convinced it was his own stupid fault. Flailing around like a bird in a cage. It’s no wonder the apparatus got tangled around him. It did rather tarnish what was otherwise a frightfully rousing birthday treat.

  Poor old Roxy. Pretended to me that he hadn’t invited the others for fear they’d blab. Not true, of course. Nobody would go near him. Messed things up good and proper, he had. He wasn’t a bad sort. Never harmed me, at least. Just tried too hard. I don’t know. Life seems hard enough to me. I used to say, that chap’s a German, I don’t like him. Then I thought, that man’s a bounder, it’s him I’m against. Nowadays I think everyone’s got a tough enough trot of it, and we should bally well pile in and be civil to each other, as far as we’re able.

  So Wardle rolls up with his henchmen and puts an end to the magic show. Off we set into the darkness again. Back to Paddington, I assume, and I’m ready to say my thank yous and head for Buck House. I sit down at the table again, as it seems a shame to waste the blancmange. Then, hey presto, the magician chap appears beside me, all thoughtful-like, you know. He takes off the beard and the magician’s garb, and I’m dashed if I don’t know him from somewhere. Couldn’t say where, but I know we’ve met before. He looks at me in a most peculiar way. In he starts about this plan he had to have hundreds of men at the banquet, all the top sorts, only he’s settled on me and Roxton as the cream of the crop.

  “Very good of you,” I mutter, beginning to think the chap’s a bit potty. “Care for a drop of Chablis?”

  He fixes me with this blue-eyed stare. “Don’t you know me?” says he.

  “You do seem familiar,” I confess, trying to inject a bit of jocularity back into proceedings, “but you meet a deuced lot of fellows in my line. Have to help me out, old man.”

  “The Frozen Deep,” says he, all tight-faced.

  True enough, the tunnel’s damnably chilly, and I’m about to offer him my greatcoat. Then I recall that dashed play that dear Nellie was in when I met her. “What kind of set-up is this?” I ask, as he has me quite nonplussed. “I say, who put you up to this? Not one of Wardle’s cronies, are you?”

  At this, the chap smiles, shakes his head. Doesn’t give me much relief as we’re accelerating into the pitch black. I hear Papa’s voice in my head. What you need, you cunning lazybones, is an almighty scare to frighten some sense into you. Suppose it’s the champagne and the phantasmagoric surrounds, but I start to take the notion that this chap is acting on Papa’s behalf.

  True to form, the chap starts banging on with a list of my weaknesses—fecklessness, recklessness, carelessness—and ends up with a cutting remark about Nellie. I finally get it, this is the chap Nellie stiffed when she started to step out with me. And he’s still sticky over it.

  “Look, old chap, I was just an impetuous youngster with more spunk in me than I knew what to do with, and she is a fearful seductress of a woman, as you well know. The world and his wife are besotted with her, and I fell as readily as the next man. I had a true fondness for her. Never intended any compromise of her honour. Besides, it’s all over. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll soon be married and sensible, like the good son father wanted.”

  The fellow looks at me with a plaintive, elegiac expression. The train lurches with a jolt to tighten the old testiculars, and we’re into the darkness again. There’s a fearful bang, and the walls seem to explode. Yet this fellow’s still looking at me, sizing me up.

  “Gosh,” I find myself babbling, “you must really despise me, old man. I can see that. But I really did like Nellie. Does that count for nothing?”

  The chap’s face falls.

  At this point, something flies past my face and I look down to see my blancmange covered in muck. There’s a terrible din and a stink to rival the Palace compost heap. There’s dung raining into the carriage. I cry out like a damn fool, and hold up my hands. I thought the sky was falling in, I tell you.

  The fellow glances around, then looks back at me sadly, as if he rather regretted the whole shebang. I can’t help but feel tremendously sorry for him, even though he has me scared half to death.

  “Look, old man,”
I say, the wits frightened out of me. I hold out my hand. “Please accept my sincerest apologies, won’t you?”

  He shakes my hand, with this strange expression as if it’s the end of the world. Next thing, I’m being tugged from the train, floating in filth, and swimming for my life. That’s the last I recall.

  SGT LAWLESS’ FINAL NARRATIVE

  The Ghost Train

  I was furious with myself for missing the train at Gower Street. For precious moments I sat on the platform, listening to the engine carry the Prince away. All our efforts had brought us so close; and at the critical moment I had fallen.

  Except I knew where they were headed. The end of the line. What more fitting end than there, where his borough—his world—had vanished in the name of Progress?

  The Euston Road of a Sunday night was as busy as ever. I promised the driver a handsome tip to spirit me to Farringdon fast as the wind. The traffic was blocked solid at King’s Cross. As the man urged the horse through the vehicles, we all but crashed into Wardle, standing disconsolately by his hansom. He had closed the station, acting on my words to the tea-boy. Darlington was reporting to him when he saw me. Wardle started in at once, lambasting me for my carelessness.

  I had no time for his protests. “Get in or be damned,” I told him.

  He climbed up. “What wild goose chase is this?”

  “Send men to the Farringdon Road Metropolitan station,” I shouted to Darlington. “Pray God we’re not too late.”

  * * *

  As I raced down the steps to the platform, I felt I was entering a labyrinth. The bellows of the engine echoed up the passageways. To one side lay broad platforms, partly open to the sky, and the tracks that headed back up the line. But the engine’s roar came from deeper in beneath the station. I sped down the dark walkways, Wardle straggling behind me.

  All at once I emerged into a broad open space, alive with activity. There in front of me lay a great turntable. The strange squat engine was just beginning to push the train back down the line. To the right, little figures ran off into the shadows.