Lawless and the House of Electricity

by William Sutton

“That’s one word for it. Hemyng, you wouldn’t suspect he had a hand in orchestrating them?”

  “Lodestar? No fear. A greater patriot you couldn’t meet. A bigot for John Bull, if ever there was one. A xenophobe. A Francophobe!”

  “You didn’t find it odd for an incomer to be so patriotic?”

  “Not at all. These sons of empire are more vehement in admiring the homeland’s greatness. And overlooking its flaws. And his old pa had a beef with Napoleon. Injury at Waterloo. Buy us a drink, won’t you?”

  * * *

  I executed the same squeeze on Overend and one or two others from the Hounds Club. Nobody spilled the whole stratagem. Nobody mentioned Hellfire. But two spoke of recent investments in property, and Overend had recently opened a profitable branch on Guernsey.

  Lodestar Senior was by no means injured in the Napoleonic Wars, as he was a child at the time; but he may have spun that yarn to his young sons, avid for tales of Europe at war. He had brought them up on a diet of French plots. Could that be where the Guernsey papers originate, with a disaffected Home Office renegade, obsessed by Waterloo?

  Ruth’s researches dug up further anomalies about Lodestar Senior. He was never consul to Mozambique and the Interior, as Overend believed. On the contrary, he had covert instructions to penetrate the Portuguese Zambesi, dealing with tribes in Nyasaland and Bechuanaland, with a view to future absorption in the empire. Lodestar Senior was a hard man, whom the Home Office was happy to risk, if not glad to see the back of. (He may have called his farm a British protectorate, but that was personal fancy, not by royal decree.) Another thing Lodestar had omitted to tell was that his father was effectively exiled from Britain after serious misdemeanours. Ruth discovered, back in the thirties, a coterie within the Hounds Club rejoicing in the name of “Hellfire Hounds”. I went into Ripon’s files to investigate this banishment, but the documents were incomplete. A dead end.

  * * *

  I sped around the country, speaking to foremen and contractors who dealt with Lodestar frequently. He was universally known for getting the job done, with minimum fuss. That sounds complimentary, at first. Once they realised we were not company men, though, they were inclined to give a rounder view.

  Take the harbour master in Portsmouth, for example, where I visited to prepare the details for my meeting on behalf of Bazalgette. He liked Lodestar, but there was a twinkle to the eye that invited further questions. “There was that one time.” He glanced down at the mudflats underlying the pier. Lodestar, it turned out, had a habit of throwing workers off their cranes and into the mud, as a warning against complaints. This gave the mudlarks a laugh, but it was not smart practice. “I told him off for it. I said, there’s no use getting the cranesmen in a strop. He’d broke one bloke’s ankle.” The man whistled. “The look he gave me. Let’s just say, I backed down. Looked like he would skin me alive.”

  FRUITLESS [LAWLESS]

  All our efforts to prove the blasts connected proved fruitless. Enquiries, interviews. Each outrage had been meticulously planned and yet rather carelessly executed. No trace was found of the perpetrators, or their bosses, yet the outcome was ineffective.

  Ripon called me in. He coughed uncomfortably. “Do you think, Lawless, that you may have overstated the French threat to the parliamentary committee?”

  “You’ve changed your tune.” I stared at him. “Sir.”

  “No, no.” He held up a finger. “Not fair, old man. I had no tune. I simply asked you to investigate.”

  I stared at him. Ripon had whipped up the French panic from the first day we met him. “We found convincing evidence of malevolent French interference.”

  Ripon looked smug. “The Guernsey papers.”

  “Yes, sir. So where’s the overstatement?” I said. “The alleged overstatement, sir.”

  He chuckled. “As word gets out about those papers, well, you must have heard the rumours. The press is saying that these are antique plans. All this fuss. Over old threats. And the French have neither the capacity nor the will to do anything of the sort now.”

  “That could be true, sir.” I shrugged. “But that’s what the French would want us to think. My trust in the press’s intentions is shaky. I’m down to Portsmouth this week, to negotiate a deal on bricks. I’ll see what they think.”

  Ripon put his head in his hands. Whether justified or not, these forts were in danger of ending his cabinet career, and he wouldn’t hesitate to blame Jeffcoat and me for the whole scheme.

  “Before you go,” he said, “forgot to mention. Your Jacques the First, the real Frenchman. One of our plain-clothes saw him boarding a train at King’s Cross.”

  * * *

  SKITTLES AT HOME [LAWLESS]

  Skittles was at home, and welcomed me warmly. She did enjoy the investigative tasks I set her, and she had made quick work of getting on top of the French secret service.

  “I can absolutely guarantee you.” She poured: a beautiful brew. Her many admirers competed over having cases of tea delivered to her. “It is not the French.”

  “Bloody hell.” I had a thirst, after my scorching from Ripon. “You can’t absolutely guarantee it.”

  She took up the half-lemon and squeezed it into her cup, with a thoughtful look. “The head of the Sûreté has a fetish. Le Mouchard likes to extract information with a tiny bit of torture. In turn, I have discovered, he doesn’t mind a playful tying up himself. I took the chance to interrogate him. All in fun, you understand. I made him beg. And I am good at distinguishing what is said in love play and what in earnest. This was in earnest. He knows nothing about it. She squeezed the lemon dry and tossed it aside. “Not a thing.”

  NEWS FROM AFRICA [LAWLESS]

  That same week, Ruth heard back from Africa. She came in at once. A peculiar letter, somewhat hysterical in tone. We pored over it. The estate had fallen on hard times, since the departure of Lodestar Senior from this vale of woe. They wrote of his son and heir, Nathan Chichester Lodestar, of his childhood illnesses and continuing frailty, of his decision despite poor health to set out for the Cape and the steamer to Britain, accompanied only by his father’s valet Zephaniah. They had heard nothing since, beyond the curtest of cards, saying he had arrived in London, he was winding up his father’s sorry affairs, and they should hear no further from him.

  “And here.” Ruth, with the satisfaction of a lawyer delivering the clinching point, laid a photograph in front of me. “Dated 1857. A year or more before our man sailed for Britain.”

  Lodestar Senior was a beguiling dragon, by the looks of it, surrounded by native servants, mostly female.

  That was not the most striking thing. The thing that changed everything was his son, seated next to him. Nothing like Roxbury’s vivacious swarthy right-hand man, he was spindly as a rake, with fair hair and piercing eyes, and teeth prominent like a rabbit’s.

  “The only thing we know for certain about ‘Nathan Lodestar’,” said Ruth, “is that his name is not Nathan Lodestar.”

  MOLLY AT THE BEDSIDE [MOLLY]

  Lady Elodie lay still, a picture of poetry. Clouds scuttered darkly past the window of the turret: the gorge fell away beneath us, sparkling and forbidding. I approached her, dumbstruck. Her body was at rest, and yet the face showed a lack of ease. The restful repose to which we dedicate ourselves in the haven of our bedchambers was denied to her. Had she not been through enough? She twitched imperceptibly, and I leapt back, stumbling into Birtle.

  He patted my shoulder, to sit me down. I watched, awestruck, as this magical nymph lay there, pale and wan, but alive. Drawn features, pinched white cheeks. Yet in her limbs a statuesque grace.

  Again she twitched, and I imagined that in her dreams she was running, on a beach somewhere, the cells of her brain struggling to throw a ball, and to catch it, millions of nerves sending messages back and forth, to the faraway parts of the body, striving to alert them to stir the body, to wake it from these dreams and tell it that all was working and alive.

  I turned and looke
d at Birtle. Their obsessive behaviour and strange absences: it all made sense now.

  He stared at her, noting the twitches. I began to understand Skirtle’s account of her phases of somnolence and waking.

  “Is she all right?” I said.

  He stood, dampened a cloth in the glass of water on the bedside table, and dabbed at her brow. “She is… unrestful these last days.”

  It seemed wrong to speak of her like that, in front of her. And now that I write of her phases, nearer to consciousness, and further from it, I wonder if there are the patterns in this wakefulness.

  * * *

  When we came away, he told me more: how Patience tends and bathes her. She sometimes manages to rouse her, stand her up, sit her on the end of the bed, bring her to the window, open the windows, try to get her to breathe the air of Roxbury.

  Every so often she does wake, or seem to wake. Then she feeds her, tentatively, soft fruits and drinks and whatever she can manage, though she never speaks, never ever speaks. Skirtle used to tell Roxbury whenever she was awake, but it made him so wild with grief, she desisted. He visits still, but he has not seen that still she stirs sometimes, and the fit comes upon her, and then they are able to rouse her from her stupor.

  “Does he not try to rescue her?”

  “He tried.” Birtle shook his head. “Oh, Molly, he has tried. He tried so many, many things, Miss Moll.”

  “But he has given up?”

  Birtle, hesitantly, melancholically, nodded.

  I thought for a moment. I thought of the glasshouses, the parrot, the monkey. Has he given up? Has the earl given up?

  Not likely.

  LODESTAR’S PENULTIMATE VISIT [MOLLY]

  WATCHMAN,

  LODESTAR NOT ALL HE PURPORTS TO BE.

  DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

  TAKE CARE.

  MOLL

  Dear Miss V,

  Lodestar’s latest visit has set my head spinning.

  I was late to breakfast. I was on the window seat, sketching the view, as the rains hammered down. Up span his phaeton, mud splashing in its wake. He leapt down, throwing down the reins before Birtle could put up his umbrella. Into the house he strode, throwing off his wet things, shouting for coffee and clothes.

  He breezed into the breakfast room. He seemed tired, yet always that roguish energy within him. Unaware of me, he slumped on a chair, loosening his collar. His shirt clung to his shoulders, sodden. For a man of business, he was muscular. All the business dinners he attended, and still he kept the sculptural physique. He began peeling off his shirt.

  I thought it time to pipe up. “Why, Mr Lodestar, the roads must be miserable today.”

  He gave me an insolent glance, and pulled off his shirt anyway. “Not at all, with the destination so… delectable.” He ran his tongue deliberately around his lips.

  He expected me to avert my eyes. He did not know that I grew up in mixed lodgings, where the sexes mingle indecorously without wasting effort. As a young lady, more or less, I knew he shouldn’t bare his torso in my presence. To remonstrate, though, would accomplish nothing; Jem has told of Lodestar’s angers, when provoked or contradicted. Besides, it was not my way to comment on dress.

  “Beautiful indeed, sir.” I turned deliberately back to my drawing. “If only I could capture it.”

  He threw down the wet shirt and looked for the coffee pot, which sat by me.

  “It should still be warm.” I brought a cup to the table near him and returned demurely to my window.

  He reached out, amused by watching me not watching him. He took a lingering sip, craning his neck to see my work. “Captured beauty I never find as attractive as beauty wild and loose.”

  I turned to the window, ashamed of my blushes. Turncoat flesh.

  The maid came in, with dry clothes. Upon seeing him half-clad, she shrieked. She dropped the bundle, scooped it up again, all but threw it at him and fled. The atmosphere was rarefied, as if sparks were flying between us. I stared out the window, affecting a casual tone. “What brings you to Roxbury in this inclement season?”

  He looked at me impudently. “Hellfire!” he declared.

  I stared. He had pulled on a dry shirt, so this was no indecency. His eyes were big and wide beneath those dark brows. He thought his oath would shock me. Ha: he is a squeaking rantallion in oath-making, compared to my Oddbody friends.

  “I am perfecting new explosives. Testing for the Portsmouth Forts. I’m to meet your detective there, what’s his name?”

  “Lawless. Not my detective. Miss Ruth’s.”

  His look suggested untoward thoughts. “I thought you were well acquainted.”

  “I am well acquainted, sir, with much of London’s society, as are you.” I wondered why he was trying to rile me; perhaps it was just habitual, now that he’d noticed me, sitting in the window, framed by the thunderous skies. “And how are your scientists progressing?”

  “Not my scientists. Roxbury’s.” Touché. He drank down the coffee I had poured, something carnivorous in his manner. “Progress for me is progress for the nation. Which also entails progress for the earl and his private endeavours. It’s a satisfactory establishment.”

  “And yet its one fault is that it is not yours.” I don’t know what provoked me into such provocation: his arrogant air, I suppose. I turned back to drawing. “Galling to receive the plaudits, but not the profits.”

  By luck, the serving maid returned with fresh coffee to distract him from my insults. As she set it down, timidly, she gave a yelp: sure enough, Mr Lodestar had removed his trousers and was reaching for the dry pair. The maid’s shock amused him. He made a grab for her behind, as she fled in a panic.

  I stared at him.

  He continued to dress, deliberate and unhurried.

  This disregard for decency no longer surprised me. Until now, I had seen him ever charming, if offhand.

  Something told me this was the real Lodestar, unobserved; or rather observed by those who could not report his behaviour and be believed. If the maid told, or if I told, we would be suspected of encouraging him, flirting, or worse. His indecency would brand us loose-moralled.

  Lodestar’s behaviour galled me, but also thrilled. It made me want to beguile him. Yes, to cast a noose around his vanity and draw it tight. What would impress this fast gent in his swift phaeton? He might scoff at my humble station, or yours, Miss Ruth; but there are people he’d consider worthy of notice, and we know them. What could impress him more than royalty?

  “The sergeant will be back here soon enough.” I gathered my things, nonchalant. “Miss Villiers and he have plans for a very important visitor. I’m sure you know all about it.”

  He did not, of course. As you know, I was making it up.

  I felt no guilt at inventing this diversion, Miss Ruth. I’ve felt Lodestar’s grandiosity growing with every visit. I am drawn to him, but I do not trust him. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. If we stand in his way, he will not hesitate to clear us aside. I cannot flee: I cannot desert my commission, nor leave Roxbury and Elodie under his influence. But his strength is flawed. He desires the world’s approval—oh, how he longs for it. He loves the company of the powerful, and needs to feel their equal.

  Hence my plan, improvised in that moment (which, I pray, you will help me fulfil).

  He was, for a moment, on the back foot.

  I made for the door, but he interposed his frame.

  “Explain yourself, little one,” he purred, “won’t you? Miss Molly, isn’t it?”

  No doubt he was a powerful specimen. He had noticed me finally. But I have spent these last weeks caged with pythons and jaguars, and I have emerged unscathed. I would not have him dominate me, nor presume upon my favours. I looked up at him. The dark bristles on his chin contrasted with the crisp linen collar. He smelt of rain. I shook myself, debating whether I’d have more chance kicking him in his privates, or insulting them.

  “Sir?” Birtle appeared in the doorway, thank God. He reached ou
t and took my hand, kindly, for the maid must have warned him I should be fetched to safety. “The earl will see you now, if your apparel is to your satisfaction.”

  “Birtle?” Lodestar stepped aside, disgruntled. “Right. New developments, eh?”

  Birtle retreated to the stairs, satisfied that he had saved my honour, at least for now.

  “Miss Molly.” Lodestar lingered at the door, adjusting his belt, and lingered over my name. “One moment. You are the one sending letters, is it true?”

  “Yes.” I edged out the doorway, stony-faced.

  “Daily. Encoded letters.”

  “Yes.” I faced him. “Why?”

  He ran his tongue around his lips. “Don’t.” He swept past, with a lingering look, up the stairs towards the tower.

  * * *

  Miss Ruth, here is my suggestion, and I hope you will agree to facilitate it. We must pretend that the Prince of Wales is going to visit. This will keep Lodestar at bay. Though amoral and reckless, he is a royalist and a narcissist.

  For an introduction to royalty, he would sacrifice much. If we are the key to that introduction, it will tether him to decency, for the time being, and keep us safe, for the time being.

  I shall tell Roxy the ruse, without explaining why; neither he nor I will answer if Lodestar asks of it, beyond the vaguest hints.

  Nerve Stimulation [British Medical Journal]

  Stimulation therapy offers a new treatment for epilepsy. It involves a stimulator connected to the left vagus nerve in the neck, generating electrical pulses within the body.

  Dr Hughlings Jackson has long studied faints, vagal attacks, megrims, and cataplexy. Building upon the advances of Fritsch and Hitzig, who provoked seizures by stimulating dogs’ brains, Jackson has understood epilepsy on a pathological and anatomical basis, identifying the localised cortical lesions that cause epileptic convulsions.

  Based on his study of convulsions, the doctor sends a regular, electrical stimulation through the vagal nerve. This appears to calm the irregular electrical brain activity that leads to seizures. “Epilepsy,” says the doctor, “is occasional, sudden, excessive, rapid and local discharges of grey matter.”