Lawless and the House of Electricity

by William Sutton

  I was truly astonished. But it took me only a moment to convert my surprise according to Ruth’s directions. “Oh, not Bertie?” I cringed. “And who’s that fellow he’s with? Not Victor Hugo. Talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

  “An exploded donkey?” Lodestar’s joke fell flat, though he thought it tremendous. He was as excited as a schoolgirl on jubilee day. “And the woman?”

  “Some floozy of Bertie’s.” I craned my neck. “Might have known: Skittles.”

  “The famous Skittles?” He was agog. “Ask them over. We could invite them to come north—”

  I tugged him into a booth, as if embarrassed at his ingenuousness. “Don’t let’s bother him. Ideas above his station, that boy has, and so indiscreet.”

  “Above his station?” Lodestar whistled silently.

  “He hates commoners.” I leaned close and whispered, “He’s also a dreadful bore.”

  “Not what I’ve heard. Not what I’ve heard at all.” Lodestar raised an eyebrow in thought. “I’ll invite him to see the Roxbury works.”

  “He hates engineering. Prince Albert used to torture him with it.”

  “Introduce us, won’t you?”

  “I couldn’t bear his spoiling our trip.” I had surprised him with my unpatriotic outburst. “I wish our bomber would blow him up.”

  Lodestar narrowed his eyes in dismissal. “Pah. You don’t really know him at all.”

  I banged the table, in exasperation, ready to go and prove my claim.

  Upon the signal, Bertie pushed back his chair and walked over, bringing his colleagues. Lodestar shrank back into the darkness. He might be an amoral scoundrel, unobservant of social boundaries, but a prince still cowed him. Let me describe the scene as he saw it.

  I reluctantly stood up.

  Bertie leapt to embrace me, as if I were a long-lost friend: it was an act, but he threw himself into it. “Lawless, old chum, you scrumptious periwinkle. You know Monsieur Hugo?”

  “What pleasure, Monsieur Chien de Garde, to re-encounter.” The great novelist gripped my hand, managing both to quote from Les Misérables and to translate my nickname, Watchman (or near enough).

  Skittles emerged from behind Hugo’s bulk. She grasped my hands and drew me to her for a kiss, as if I were an old flame; and a kiss from Skittles never went amiss.

  Bertie burst out, “I do hope we’re not interrupting.”

  Lodestar’s eyes bulged. “Not at all,” he managed, hoarsely, but I cut him off.

  “Bertie old man, you are.” I was thoroughly enjoying my licence to extemporise, as rudely as I wished, for Bertie always treated me rather cavalierly. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, as always. Interrupting important business.”

  “Pardon.” Unabashed, Bertie launched into some anecdote about a bishop, a tart and a Guernsey cheese.

  I let him witter on a bit, before gesturing over at poor Lodestar. What look on his face. The childlike expectancy, mixing hope and fear, not knowing whether he would secure his longed-for royal introduction.

  Bertie took pity on him. “And your friend?”

  “Excuse me, Bertie. I ought to present Mr Lodestar here. Roxbury’s right-hand man, you know.”

  “Oh.” Bertie’s face fell, right on cue. “Oh, I do know.”

  Lodestar kept up his hopeful smile.

  Bertie rubbed his whiskers, glancing awkwardly between us. “I say, Lawless, would you step aside with me, just a mo?”

  We left Skittles regaling Hugo with Parisian gossip, Lodestar listening in envious awe.

  Two minutes later, I returned to my seat.

  Courtesan and novelist made their excuses, and rejoined the prince.

  Lodestar stared, his egotistical dream evaporating before his eyes. “What happened? Did you explain who I am?”

  I made a face.

  “You argued.” He was dismayed. “What did he say?”

  “He knows you’re behind the forts.” I sighed. “Bertie knows Roxbury, and I’m sure he’d love to visit, but he’s on Bazalgette’s side. He’s a Londoner; of course he wants to stop cholera. I told him you’re just the engineer overseeing.” I tutted. “Shame. He does love a fishing weekend, especially where the cellar is as good as Roxbury’s.”

  “Do you think—?” He blinked, eager as a puppy. “Is a royal visit possible?”

  “Not without the bricks.” I waggled my finger. “Sort that deal for Bazalgette. Then Bertie may come around.” A neat ploy.

  Lodestar looked at me. He stood up and went straight over to Bertie. He returned, moments later, beaming. “You’ll never guess. I gave in on the bricks—”

  “You did what?” I thought of his pose on No Man’s Land Fort: it showed his need to dominate, more than anything.

  He brushed aside my indignation. “I don’t give a hoot for the bricks. I’ll wire the idiot in the government. I told him, if he ever fancies a trip…” He gestured to the tracks, and the north.

  Molly had hit on the perfect scheme. The one thing to impress Lodestar: my knowing the prince. He was a royalist, full-blooded and unrepentant. Ruth had judged the scene just right, and Bertie played his role so admirably. He owed me a favour or two, and this was payment in spades. They’d raised my stock with Lodestar. That would protect us against his wiles—for the moment.

  “Tell you what, gents.” Bertie reappeared. Tugging up his sleeves, he leaned on our table. “We’re hopping aboard with you now. I’ve ordered a case of Moët.”

  ON A TRAIN TO THE FROZEN NORTH [LAWLESS]

  Often enough have I travelled the Great Northern Railway. Never has the trip been so fraught with awkwardness and expectation.

  Talk, the whole way north, badinage and chatter. We laughed, drank, and talked more. Bertie cracked a bottle at once, and Bertie always poured with a heavy hand. I feigned that I was matching them, drink for drink; but I kept swapping my full glass for Bertie’s empty, so as to keep my wits.

  Lodestar took no such precaution. At first, he kept his distance from Hugo, frowning at the Frenchman’s pronunciation as if the words stank of garlic. He fawned over Bertie, falling over himself to show what a supporter he was of queen and country. As he began to gauge Hugo’s anti-Louis stance and Bertie’s lax European morals, things changed.

  * * *

  Another bottle, and then a third.

  Hugo spoke of France in the forties: the Paris Commune. Lodestar lapped it up. Louis Napoleon’s corruption. Hugo’s exile. “And they threaten me. How they threaten me.” He thumped the seat proudly. “Still! Whenever I criticise the soi-disant emperor.”

  “A veritable monster.” Lodestar waggled his finger.

  “Old Louis,” I said, with a cough, “is a friend of Bertie’s.”

  “I’m sorry.” An ironic apology. Lodestar frowned at the prince, slurring slightly, “But I am a patriot, and I cannot be silent. Louis is a nasty piece of work.”

  * * *

  We must keep him talking. The import of the messages from Ruth, Molly and Jeffcoat was just sinking in. If Lodestar had profited from the outrages, and directed his friends to profit too, what had he known about them? How deeply was he entangled? If he had information in advance about bombs, was he consorting with French extremists? But he was such a patriot: surely he would have turned them in? The more he said, the more he was likely to incriminate himself, and the more we could bear witness to any confessions he made.

  I kept quiet, as far as I could—until the oysters arrived, and Hugo nudged me. “And, Monsieur Watchdog, what is afoot at Scotland Yard?”

  “Victor,” Bertie remonstrated. “You’re only looking for plots for your next filthy romance. State secrets. He can’t possibly reveal them.” He turned to me, bright-eyed. “You can hint a little, though.”

  I laughed. He was giving me a chance to unnerve Lodestar. “I cannot say much. Let me tell you, though, that we are damnably close to solving the mystery of the blasts.”

  “The London hooha?”

  “Not just that. Erith, C
amden, the Florence Veigh. Everything.”

  “I heard some fellow got away.”

  “That fellow’s not important.” I watched Lodestar closely. “What matters is who’s giving the orders. That’s who we’re after.”

  * * *

  Stevenage, Peterborough. Lodestar, enjoying himself thoroughly, offered to go down to the dining car for brandy. This was my chance to snoop.

  “Might have a smoke in the corridor.” Bertie glanced at me in delight. “We’ll watch out,” he whispered, once Lodestar was out of sight. “Give you three coughs when he’s coming back.”

  In his travelling bag, I found cash. French letters. More cash.

  A patent application for a new compound of oil residues, named Parkesine, for use with brushes, umbrella handles, and billiard balls.

  His notebook. Shabby, stuffed with slips of paper and calling cards, crammed with names and dates and addresses. He used it as an appointments diary. I flicked back to the dates of the outrages. Notes upon notes, densely scribbled, appointments and assignations.

  Erith, in late June. But June? A week before the blast.

  Suddenly I understood what Molly meant. She meant that Lodestar had been to the location of each blast before the outrage took place. (Except one; he had scribbled “Guernsey” ten days in advance of that blast, and written underneath: “Overend.”)

  It was beyond coincidence. Had he known about them in advance, all of them? Each place: Erith, Camden, Liverpool, Clerkenwell. He’d visited them all. Why had he been there? Could it be—I stared about in disgust—could he be responsible for them? Travelling the country, laying the groundwork for the blasts?

  Molly was right to mention it. I looked closer: the fire at the docks too. And hold on: the fire at the Princess’s Theatre. The blaze that Ruth still had nightmares about—damn his eyes— was commemorated thus:

  Jaunt to Oxford St.

  Adam and Eve Alley.

  Terrific circus:

  set the house ablaze.

  Damn the man’s arrogance. This changed everything. My plans were naive. I had imagined I might find incriminating bank accounts, to prove collusion in the Hellfire Hounds’ opportunism. I never imagined he was the font of the evils. I should have arrested him there and then. Something prevented me: a kind of hubris, I suppose. Twice he had nearly killed my Ruth. And he thought himself so enchanted, so worthy of Bertie’s attention, or the world’s admiration.

  I glanced out at Bertie in the corridor. My breath ran short. Here was the heir to the throne. I couldn’t let him travel further with this monster. I turned the pages, seeing not words but the rubble at Clerkenwell, at Erith the bodies blown apart, and us trying to collect the pieces. How much had he explained of his crimes here? Would this stand as proof of his murderous orders? How many had he killed?

  I would catch him red-handed. He thought himself beyond our morality. He had stepped out of his African world into ours, bringing the laws of colonial rule with him. I would trick him into confirming his crimes. His plans for the next outrage. Catch him admixing explosives. Preparing detonators.

  Bertie coughed.

  What else was there? Arsenical soap. Comical, to think of Lodestar desperate to “lighten his countenance”, if it were not entwined with such carnage.

  And there was his waistcoat, damn it, with the watch hanging out of the pocket. I set it back five minutes, as requested. It was the work of moments.

  But as I did it, I realised how poorly prepared we were. It was too late to communicate the depth of the danger to Ruth, to Molly. They were relying on me to be strong, to be cunning. I must manage him myself.

  Cough. Cough, cough. I could hear Bertie valiantly delaying Lodestar in the corridor. I bundled the watch into the pocket and the notebook into the travelling bag, catching a glimpse of twists of bright copper wire. Alongside it, tucked in a side pocket, a slim elegant volume: Jacques the Fatalist, by Diderot.

  Hugo elbowed the door urgently, and Lodestar appeared round the compartment door, brandishing a bottle. Debonair and carefree, he set down four crystal glasses. Nobody would guess him the plotter of terror. “Brandy?”

  * * *

  Doncaster, Leeds. Hugo and Bertie welcomed the brandy with an uproar, thank goodness, for it gave me a few moments to collect myself. Lodestar was blind to my furtive glances, as he basked in the glory of his famous companions. This was company befitting him, the company he deserved for his talents and his labours.

  I had been naive. I had underestimated my adversary. I knew enough now to convict him—and enough to fear for our lives, if he realised that I knew. I had seen his flashing temper in Portsmouth; I had seen his duplicitous self-satisfaction. In all my career as a detective, I have never been so dismayed. What more was Lodestar capable of? If I had so misjudged his venom, was I not underestimating his capacity for vengeance?

  I must send Bertie to safety, when we changed trains.

  I would proceed alone with Lodestar to Roxbury and let him implicate himself. I was scared. I would have wished to be better prepared. But I had allies: Jeffcoat, if he could get there; Ruth, though she was there for Roxbury in his hour of need; and of course trusty old Molly.

  * * *

  At the change for the branch line, Lodestar went to wire ahead, for Jem to pick us up.

  I whispered to Bertie that he and Hugo must make an excuse.

  “And miss all the fireworks? No fear.”

  “As they said to Guy Fawkes.” I gave him such a look that he piped down. “For your own safety, you must go.”

  Hugo clapped his hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “A night of repose, my prince.”

  “Really?” Bertie sighed. “Glad of it, if I’m honest. He’s a blabbing spoony, if ever there was one. Wouldn’t trust him to black my shoes.”

  I laughed: I should have guessed that two such egotists, who both charmed the world and his wife, wouldn’t take to each other. “Go, sir.”

  “You going to be all right, old man?” Bertie whispered to me. “I’ve got him as sozzled as I could. As long as you get to Roxbury House in one piece. Your Miss Villiers tells me they’re terribly occupied—medical high jinks—but if you can secure him there tonight, she’s confident there’s evidence enough to send him down for good, come the morning.” He glanced at Hugo. “Come along, monsieur. We’ll find some entertainment in the Railway Tavern. I’ll make our excuses and bunk off.”

  “All set?” Lodestar approached, clapping his hands. He handed me a slip of paper. “A wire. Molly, I imagine.”

  WATCH-MAN,

  CHINKER OF MEZZY NOCHY

  ESUOHPMUP.

  MOLLY

  I perused it surreptitiously. Molly’s best parlyaree and backslang: five to midnight at the Pump House.

  Bertie put on his best repentant look. “Look, Lodestar, old chap. We’ve decided to stop over here.”

  Lodestar was crestfallen. For all his amorality, he could not contradict a prince.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll come on tomorrow. Wouldn’t do to have the servants all a-flutter.” Bertie patted his shoulder and edged away, Hugo at his side. “Besides, Lawless wants to inspect your electrical rigmarole tonight, which I couldn’t give two hoots over.”

  Hugo gestured to a young lady stood outside the tavern.

  “Hush, now, Hugo.” Bertie grinned. “None of your continental immorality.”

  “Your Highness,” Lodestar began, too desperately, “I can arrange—”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, old man. See you tomorrow, eh? Behave yourselves. No dastardly mischief—at least none that I wouldn’t approve of.”

  PARKESINE: A NEW ERA

  Forswear the expense of ivory, and save the elephants’ pains.

  A new era, a new material: buttons, combs, pens. Parkesine is malleable and transparent. It retains its moulded shape upon cooling. It is adaptable to everything from brooches and hair combs to billiard balls. Collars and cuffs can be easily cleaned.

  Alexander Parkes, scientist-inve
ntor, first demonstrated his organic compound, of nitrocellulose, at the London Exhibition of 1862.

  Today we see before us a new world of inventions and products.

  (Warning: upon impact, items may combust.)

  TO CATCH LODESTAR [LAWLESS]

  “Just the two of us.” Lodestar poured two brandies.

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Shame Bertie couldn’t come along.”

  “You were right, though. A dreadful bore.” He waved away my apology. The change of plan dented his egotism; but he made an effort to conceal his disappointment. “I can indulge myself, showing you some of our electrical experiments.”

  I raised my glass and sipped at the brandy. I had to recover my bonhomie. I mustn’t ignite his suspicions. I must hide what I knew.

  And I must swallow my disgust at not having worked it out sooner. I was complicit in his crimes.

  “Something wrong?” he said. “You look a bit green around the gills.”

  “No, no.” The strain of the recent weeks was beginning to show, and I tugged at my collar. Had I contracted a chill in the morning fog?

  “You wouldn’t prefer to knock it on the head?” He smiled, like a school matron teasing a recalcitrant footballer to stir his school spirit. “Head home while you can?”

  “I’ll see it through, thank you very much.” I rubbed my eyes, as he refilled his glass.

  “A toast, my friend?” Lodestar twitched his head, a distinctly un-English gesture. He topped me up with a hefty measure. “To our provincial pasts.”

  I drank to that. “And to our imperial future, why not?”

  “Why not?”

  I would flatter him. Admire him. Persuade him I thought him a friend, even a hero. My energy was fluctuating strangely. Something about the way he proposed the toast struck me—I had better drink no more, just in case—but I would show willing. The brandy had revived my spirits. I had to keep him talking.

  Once the branch line train set off, it was not too hard. What a lot we had in common: both of us immigrants to the greatest city in the world. Escaped from provincial backwaters, under tyrannical fathers, to shine our light on the bigger stage of world affairs.

  Lodestar listened, drawing me to speak, even as I tried to open him up. He had that easy natural way. He could have charmed a tax inspector. It was a blessing Aunt Lexie would never meet him. He overflowed with confidence. I found myself reflecting his manic glee. If he should tire of me now, see through my plan, his vengeance would know no limit. His crimes were proof of that.