Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  “You are sure it is missing?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure,” the engineer says bitterly. “Just as I’m sure the blame will be laid at my door.”

  “Where was it being kept?”

  “In the chemist’s shed. Which was locked.”

  “And who is in charge of the key?”

  “I have one key; he has the other.”

  “And both keys are ...?”

  “In their correct places.”

  “A mystery, then.”

  “But one with consequences. Do you know exactly how much damage one small can of nitro-glycerine can do?”

  “I do not need to know. It is sufficient that you are concerned enough to report it. And what would you like me to do?”

  The engineer wrings his hands.

  “I do not know. I kept hoping that it would turn up ... as things do. But it hasn’t. I thought I’d better tell somebody official ... in case ...” his voice tails off miserably.

  Greig thinks rapidly.

  “The other cans?”

  “We used them today.”

  “So, there are none on the site at the moment.”

  The engineer shakes his head.

  “Then you must hope that whoever has taken it realises what they have got before it is too late.”

  The engineer gives him a stricken look.

  “I suggest you put some warning posters around the area.”

  The engineer nods.

  “And maybe make the site as secure as you can in future, yes? I shall make a note of what you have told me. If you can throw any further light on the matter - such as the names of any suspects, do not hesitate to call by.”

  The engineer mumbles his thanks, rises and stumbles to the door.

  “Keep me informed, won’t you?” Greig calls after him.

  He exchanges an exasperated look with the desk constable, and shakes his head.

  “That young man seems to attract trouble like jam attracts wasps.”

  “That’s the yoof of today for you, sir,” responds the day constable smugly, who can only be a couple of years older than the engineer. “Is he in trouble?”

  “He will be if what he has lost has fallen into unscrupulous hands,” Greig says. “I only hope for his sake that it has not.”

  A few hours later Inspector Greig sits at his desk in his room on the second floor of his lodgings. He is writing his fortnightly letter to his widowed sister in Scotland. He dips his pen into the pot of ink, chews the end of it, then begins.

  Dearest Jeanie (he writes)

  I hope this letter finds you and the babes well. I am sending a little more money than usual as I know it is Ishbel’s birthday next week, and I should like you to buy her something nice from me to celebrate her special day. I leave the choice of gift up to you, as you probably know what she would like.

  The weather here continues to be clement, so I have managed to shake off the cold that plagued me for so many weeks and can now enjoy - if that is the right word, the various smells of the city.

  Mainly this is horse dung, though it is said that around Temple Bar, the air smells of brown stout. That I have not noticed, but as I walk through Islington, I always smell odours of fried fish and damaged oranges. The worst place is Marylebone which stinks from all the back-street piggeries, though to me, everywhere smells of smoke and drains.

  What would I not give for a few good lungfulls of pure Highland air! And some peace and quiet. Here, the noise is deafening; everywhere you go your ears are assaulted by it and yourself assaulted by all the people rushing past like maniacs along the streets.

  Today has been a busy day as usual. My investigations are going well - except in one area: the mystery of the disappearing biscuits continues. Another one has gone from the box.

  A bit of ‘light relief’ if I may call it such was provided by a young woman who turned up claiming her young brothers had gone missing. She was in quite a distressed state, having wandered across town and not had a bite to eat all day.

  Luckily once we provided her with tea and a sandwich and then accompanied her back to her home where it turned out the two boys had merely stopped off to watch a Punch & Judy Show and were not lost at all.

  Such is the life I lead in this great city, but it pays the bills - for us both. My dearest love to Ishbel and Donald. I expect they have grown since I left, and will soon forget all about their ‘Uncle Lackie’!

  My best and warmest regards to you,

  Your devoted brother,

  Lachlan

  He blots his signature and sits back in his chair. It has been an eventful day, culminating in the dramatic appearance of Miss Letitia Simpkins. An interesting young woman, no great beauty for sure, but with opinions. He wishes her well.

  Greig listens to the church clocks chiming the quarter hour. He does not like to admit it, but the young woman has put him in mind of another young woman, much prettier than her, who also had opinions.

  But that is in the past and since she, whose name he no longer mentions, has made her choice and it is not him, he has put all thoughts of love and romance as far from him as possible. And as many miles distance as he can.

  ****

  To understand how a small amount of the highly dangerous oily liquid explosive known as nitro-glycerine has managed to go missing from the railway construction site we must go back to a certain balmy May evening a short while ago.

  The Hind Street Anarchists are holding a special meeting upstairs in Persiflage and Waxwork’s lodgings. The minutes have been read and approved, and the business now turns to the welcoming of new members.

  There is only one new member: a tall cadaverous young man called Georg Beckford Muller. His arrival is directly linked to a toothache suffered by Waxwing which has necessitated numerous visits to the local chemist for oil of cloves and other medicines and it was on one of these visits that Waxwing got into conversation with Muller, the chief chemist.

  Neither can now recall how the existence of the group came up in the conversation, but somehow it did, and now here is Muller in a threadbare brown coat, tobacco stained trousers and a clay pipe, making himself at home in the second-floor bedroom of number 18 Hind Street.

  It is Muller’s opinion that the city is being overrun by foreigners and it is all the Government’s fault for allowing them in. In particular, he objects to the presence of the Irish, who turn up at the chemist’s shop regularly. They demand medicines and cordials and then haggle over the price.

  As the evening wears on and the drink goes down, the talk turns to more pragmatic matters, namely the ways and means to bring their grievances to public attention. Persiflage’s relationship with Millie is pored over. It is agreed that this is certainly the most effective way. But the means - ah, that’s quite another dish of fish.

  At which point Muller stands up, albeit a little unsteadily, and gestures towards the landing.

  “And out zere, my good friends, is the means. Just sitting and waiting to be taken.”

  Seeing the clerks exchange puzzled expressions, he continues.

  “I refer to the works taking place.”

  The clerks mentally contemplate the infinite chaos of timbers, shaft hole and winches with chains and buckets, all visible from the landing window of the lodging house, which itself has now been shored up with huge timber beams to make it safe.

  “Ye-es, but I still don’t see ...” Waxwing begins.

  “Somewhere on the ozzer side of those tall boards is a small hut. That is where the chemist works and where they keep the explosives. All we need to do is to get our hands on some of it.”

  Persiflage’s smile is thin and bitter.

  “Yes. I see. Then we take it to ... and ...”

  Silence falls. A silence that thickens and spreads, filling the room like a terrible dark fog. As if prompted by the same malign force, all three rise from their seats and go out onto the landing to take a look.

  Below the window the construction site is a desert of
clay, planks and piles of rubble. A line of picks and shovels leans against a cart. The whole area is a series of fortifications surrounded by huge scaffolds that resemble guillotines.

  Overhead is a cheese rind moon and a sprinkling of stars, small and bright and pitiless. Muller points to a small wooden hut, dimly visible, perched on a wooden platform.

  “Zere, my fellow comrades, is our quarry.”

  Waxwing eases up the window.

  “If we had some rope, we could tie it to the bannisters and climb down,” he says thoughtfully.

  “A rope, a basket and something to remove a couple of planks from the side of the hut,” Persiflage says. “A crowbar or jemmy would do the trick.”

  “Gentlemen, I see you are already making a plan,” Muller says. “I will be on hand to help transport the explosives back - for I must warn you, any jolts or shocks or bumps and BOOM!”

  Waxwing’s eyes widen.

  “We are extremely grateful to you, Mr Muller,” Persiflage says smoothly. “Let me think this out a little more. Then, when we are ready to act, I will write to you.”

  “I will await your instructions,” Muller nods. “And now I sank you for your hospitality and I bid you both goodnight.”

  He touches the brim of his hat before descending the stairs. Waxwing follows to let him out. Persiflage remains on the landing, staring dreamily out over the construction site.

  “And then ... Boom!” he murmurs softly. “Boom.”

  ****

  Hatton Garden is, according to a contemporary handbook of London: a place where cheap barometers, thermometers, mathematical and philosophical instruments produced by Italians can be purchased.

  You can also purchase books, artificial flowers, confectionary, optical instruments, croquet mallets and false teeth made from hippopotamus ivory. If you so desire to.

  Alas none of these commodities, fascinating as they are, have any attraction for Daisy Lawton. Here she comes tripping along the pavement, straw bonneted and sprig-muslined, and as fresh as her name suggests.

  Here too is her Mama, also got up in new spring clothes. For ‘tis the Season, and there are parties and balls in the offing - indeed the Lawton’s drawing room mantelpiece positively groans with invitation cards, because if one moves in the upper echelons of society, and one’s husband is a surgeon of some repute, and one is in possession of an eligible daughter, this is how it is. And invitations to balls and parties require new clothes and new clothes require new jewellery, as everybody knows.

  Daisy and her Mama are here to look for a necklace - something simple but good, to adorn Daisy’s swanlike neck and draw the young men’s eyes to her. Daisy secretly hopes that the eyes of a certain handsome Dragoon Guard will be drawn to her.

  This is her plan.

  Mama however, has pinned her hopes on the son of an MP, although she hasn’t spoken of this to Daisy. She will do, after she has met and talked with the young man’s mother (an old school friend) and they have reached an understanding.

  This is her plan.

  It is a bright morning and the streets are alive with people. Little children swarm in and out of courts crowded with human life. A boy with a red fez and long black tassel lounges against the window of a print shop. Women with bright shawls stand in doorways gossiping in a strange language. They pause and eye Daisy curiously as she goes by.

  Daisy’s Mama holds her by the elbow and steers her carefully along the street. Many of the shops have strange exotic names painted above the door: Ortelli & Primavesi, Negretti & Zambra. It is like being in another country.

  At last they reach a small jeweller’s shop. They pause to admire the window display of diamond rings and finely worked gold chains and bracelets.

  “This is the shop, my love. Your Papa has always bought my jewellery here,” Mama says.

  They enter, to be greeted by the dark-eyed jeweller. Mama is offered a seat by the counter. She explains the purpose of their visit. The jeweller studies Daisy with a professional eye.

  “For such a pretty young lady, I would recommend a simple gold chain, finely worked, with a pearl flower pendant. Nothing fussy that might detract from what Nature has already endowed her.”

  Mama nods.

  “May we see what you have in stock?”

  The jeweller unlocks a drawer behind the counter and lifts out a tray. Daisy’s eyes shine with delight as she stares at the delicate gold necklaces with their tiny pendants, some heart shaped, some like dainty flowers or tiny cameos.

  “Oh Mama!” she breathes. “How lovely!”

  The jeweller picks one necklace out from its velvet bed. It has a narrow gold chain, intricately wrought with tiny gold hoops and daisies and at the end, a minute seed pearl flower, each petal set in gold.

  “If your Mama would permit me,” he smiles coming round the counter. He places the chain round her neck, not letting his fingers touch her skin.

  “Would the signorina like to view herself in the mirror?”

  Daisy trots over to the gilt mirror, peers closely, turns sideways and sighs.

  “Oh yes - it is lovely.”

  And it is. And she is.

  “This is the one I want, Mama,” she says, twirling away from the mirror and touching the chain with her slim white fingertips. “I have seen one similar in Godey’s.”

  “The young lady looks charming, does she not?” the jeweller smiles, and Mama nods her agreement, for who would not agree with such a compliment paid to their daughter.

  “We will take it,” she says, producing her card. “Please have the bill made out and sent to my husband.”

  Later, when she is alone in her room, Daisy takes out the necklace from its little corded bag and places it round her throat. Her eyes sparkle as she imagines herself waltzing in the arms of her Guardsman. In a few days’ time, she is going to her very first ball. It is all too exciting for words. She can hardly wait.

  ****

  In the early morning, before the chimneys of factories and houses have begun to fill the air with smoke, London is a different place altogether. The city looks clean. Smells clean. The morning sun rises, lovely and genial, gilding roof tiles and steeples with pure light, whitening arches and the pillars of bridges and buildings.

  Sweeping machines travel in rumbling lines down the street, removing any last traces of dust and dung that have not been scavenged during the previous day, for very little goes to waste.

  After them come the great market-gardeners’ carts and wagons, moving briskly along to be in time for early buyers. Brewers' drays and coal wagons lumber in, followed by the light carts of butchers, fishmongers and hoteliers, all after the best and freshest on offer.

  Covent Garden on market day is a sight to behold. Children prowl about the place, their naked feet pattering on the pavement as they dive for offal or vegetable peelings or anything they can lay their hands on.

  Look more closely. As the streets lighten and the church spires stand out against the clear sky with a sharpness that will be soon obliterated by smoke from a million chimneys, here come the coffee-stall keepers, ready to set up on street corners.

  In Covent Garden, close by Bow Street police office, there are no less than three coffee-stalls. Here, early coffee is to be got and toast to go with it. The stalls consist of a springbarrow on top of which are four large brightly polished tin cans full of tea and coffee.

  Beneath each is a small iron fire-pot, fuelled by charcoal to keep the drinks hot during the day. There is a tub under the stall where the cups and saucers are kept and there are wooden compartments for bread and butter, sandwiches and cake.

  The coffee-stall keepers appear around four in the morning to be ready for the delivery drivers, for after all the carts and wagons have unloaded, the drivers are sharp set, and always make their way to their favourite stall for a drink and a ham sandwich, or a doorstep of bread and butter.

  And here is the first customer of the day. Not a carter though. A good-looking young woman, neatly dressed
and shawled. Her face is pale and tired, but does not bear the expression of habitual depravity that marks out the loose girls who patronise the night-stalls.

  She approaches one of the stalls and asks in a low voice for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. The stall-holder pours the steaming drink into a white china cup and invites her to choose her bread from the jagged slices arranged on a tin plate.

  She makes her selection, hands over two pence and walks her cup and slice to one of the pillars where she sinks down, leaning her back against it. It is only when she stands up and stretches wearily, placing one hand flat against the small of her back, that her condition becomes clear.

  The young woman brings back her empty cup. She thanks the man, then asks for directions to the nearest cheap lodging house. He tells her and she sets off once more, picking her way delicately over the shit-spattered cobbles.

  The coffee-stall keeper watches her leave the square. Same thing the whole world over, he thinks. No wedding ring. Well, good luck to you my gal, and to the babby. Gawd knows you’re going to need it.

  ****

  A few hours later. A thousand chimneys have belched forth their smoke; hundreds of shops have opened, and river boats and omnibuses have landed their living freight in the heart of the city.

  Now London is busy doing what it does best: buying and selling. Pavements are crowded with people and roads with vehicles of all descriptions. Oxford Street, long enough to take the population of a small town, fills with private carriages, fashionable loungers, women on horseback, men of business and curious strangers.

  The shops provide a similar mix from elegant drapers shops to the lowest oyster-stall, and there are legions of costermongers and shoals of advertising vans.

  By contrast, here in this pretty sitting room, overlooking the garden of a large town house in Belgravia, all is seclusion and exclusion. The town house has a grand porch with classical columns and a balustrade above.

  Its palatial splendour befits its occupants: Margaret Marie Barnes Baker (formerly Hammond), and her husband Chatham MP Richard Barnes Baker (currently about his Parliamentary business). Margaret is the mother of Digby Barnes Baker. Here she is awaiting the arrival of her dear school friend Charlotte Lawton (formerly Lightowler), the mother of Daisy.