Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square (41 page)

He was right. I was foolish to think we had a friendship. It was a professional relationship, an exchange of services.

“Though you,” he piped up, swallowing the last of the pie, “I probably could trust.”

Because I was his friend? No. As if I were a fool, incapable of guile. Indeed I felt strangely guilty, trying to wheedle information out of him. But I had to stop the thefts. I sighed. “Indulge me for a moment, Worm. Picture, if you will, a little tosher, who’s learned his trade well, in the old style. Like a magpie, can’t resist a shiny thing. Let’s say he now finds himself working for the government. An ironical twist, banned by parliament one day, paid by them the next. This little tosher, going about his business surveying the sewers, spots something shiny in a cellar. And he reasons that a shiny thing abandoned in a cellar won’t be missed. In fact, in the scheme of things, it would be rude not to take it. When he gets this shiny thing back to his friends, and his guv’nor, they’re curious as to its provenance. They encourage him to expand his search a little, go up the cellar stairs, try the door, why not, pick the lock if need be, because careless folk leave other shiny things lying round their households it would be equally rude not to take. All his friends and acquaintances get involved, selecting the aptest spots and spicing up the daywork with little night jaunts. Thus is born a beautiful new scheme.”

“Which ain’t exactly stealing, if them things ain’t wanted.”

“And is not exactly legal, whether they are or no.” I pursed my lips. “Do you find my little tale credible, by any chance?”

He looked at me equably. “I’ve heard queerer.”

I laughed in exasperation. “Worm, we know the ruse.”

“And you don’t want Numpty going to college?” He raised his eyebrows. “Prison, that is to you, old cove.”

“I need them warned off. Won’t you spread the word for me?” I turned away and went up to pay. I thought for a moment he had vanished, but there he was, right behind me.

“Tell us, Watchman, do you know how Shuffler died?”

“He was bruised. Like he’d fallen.”

“Fallen?” He looked at me expectantly.

“Yes, but long before the spout. Somebody put his body there.”

“Oh, yes? Why did they do that then?” I looked at him squarely.

“You know, don’t you? You know who did it.”

He laughed. “If I did, do you think I’d say in a court of law?”

“Why not, if it’s the truth?”

“Watchman, don’t you know what a precarious thing the truth is round here?”

“Speak plainly for once, can’t you?”

“There’s influential people who don’t want the truth known.” He gave me a look. “The grounds for keeping mum are very persuasive.”

“Are you telling me you’re scared? You, Worm? I had you down for fearless.”

He looked at me with something approaching respect. “Good talker you are, Watchman. You know, if I tell you, I’ll be giving you my life.”

“I see. And I already owe you mine.”

He nodded reflectively. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I look out for you and yours. Because I need your help.”

“And if one day I should require a service of you?”

I hesitated, as if on the banks of the Rubicon. Strange to say, but I had an indefensible respect for this boy. I could not believe he would demand something outwith the bounds of my duty. “Whatever you want, Worm. Tell me who killed Shuffler.”

“I’ll be straight with you, Watchman. If you tell a soul, I’ll be dead before the week’s out.” He shook his head and blinked. “Who put his body there, I can’t say. But who did for him, with nary a scruple, is clear as day. It was them hydrollah-rolical people. No wonder there’s people on their trail. They killed Shuffler and hid the doing of it with the stupid accident. They killed him because he was an enterprising old cove. All sorts of operations on the go, licit and a little less than licit, I warrant you. One of those operations involved asking a few pounds from them in return for not blabbing, you know, keeping quiet about certain mishaps they’d had.”

“Blackmail?”

“Just doing the rights, if you take my meaning, but doing them nice and civilised, like. Look where he ended up. Beaten and dead in a ditch. There now. I’ve said it, and I’ve trusted my life to you. Don’t look so flabbergasted, Watchman, nor try telling me there’s no such thing as doing the rights where you come from. I’m off. Ta for the pie.”

Dear Sergeant,

You cannot imagine how greatly your visit was appreciated. In such a hovel as ours, tædium weighs heavy, despite one’s attempts at jollity.

I fear, however, I was of little help to you. I have bethought me of a possible connection that may be of help to you. There was a priest at the chapel of St Thomas on Old Street who knew our family. Canon Symon was his name, though he may be long gone.

Fond regards,

Madame Pierrette Skelton

NARRATIVE OF RUTH VILLIERS

Hail and Farewell

I said it to Sergeant Lawless. A man who hobnobs with authors cannot help but dream of getting into print. It’s only natural. You see that the authors behind these ever so popular stories are only flesh and blood. You think to yourself, why not my story? If your story is the story of changing the world, then of course people will sit up and take notice. I was sure of it, even then. Mr Skelton had looked at the world, evaluated it soberly, and decided that it must be changed. To this end, he constructed a plan. How far-reaching and elaborate this plan was, we had at that time no idea. But there was little doubt in my mind that he would have written it down, complete with historical arguments and philosophical underpinning, even if it was treasonous.

With my final examinations upon me and my studies in disarray, I only worked fitfully on the code through the summer months. Substituting the letters I had already deciphered, I wrote out the marginal annotations over and over, gradually chipping away at the rest of the letters until I had the whole thing. It was a disappointment. Despite the satisfaction of transforming it all into real words and phrases, there was nothing revelatory. His annotations were no more shocking than my own scribbles in the margins of John Stuart Mill and Thomas Hobbes. On reflection, why should there have been? He was educating himself in those years of reading; his own constructions must have come after. Somewhere he must have written his own
magnum opus
– most likely in code, if it was as incendiary as his politics.

I sent to Sergeant Lawless, asking him again to hunt out that book he had seen. He replied brusquely: he was doing his utmost. I wrote again, suggesting we could discuss it over a stroll round the Exhibition. I was puzzled – peeved, I suppose – to receive no reply. So I set aside the cryptographer antics and returned to my studies. A grim task, the set books, written by our lecturers, had none of the honesty, none of the vision of the great thinkers that had drawn me to the subject. Revising at the library checkout desk, I would find myself glancing instead through notes from my meetings with Campbell. Hence my discovery of Berton Kelswick and his agitatory articles.

It’s hard to remember the indignation of those days, when even the
Times
consistently harangued the government over slum conditions. Still, Berwick’s writing was too blistering. Moral outrage was ten-a-penny, even conventional, but to criticise Progress – railways, viaducts and the like – was too much. I admired his fervour, righteous anger that only highlighted the sterility of the academic texts I was being forced to swallow.

In late summer, Worm accosted me outside the Library. His dapper appearance, when acting as intermediary for my communication with Campbell, had always been remarkable. Today he looked like death. His boots were muddy, his hair matted and his eyes ringed by dark shadows.

When he saw me he leapt to his feet. “Miss, Miss, I’m dreadfully sorry to bother you.” He paused, knitting his brows.

“Get on with it, young chap. I’m late for work, as always.”

He looked terribly distracted. “For work? Ah, that’s a pity.”

“Out with it, Worm.”

“Only I was wanting to beg a great favour.” He looked up at me, eyes filled with such entreaty that I was fairly touched.

“Go on.”

“It’s my… my friend, the Professor. Had an accident. A most awful accident.”

“Well, I’m no good to you,” I said. “You need a doctor.”

“We’ve took him, Miss. Straight to the Children’s Hospital, we did. Only they won’t let me in. So as I don’t even know if… if the Professor’s all right.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend, Sergeant Lawless?” I said, rather sharply.

His face fell. “I would, Miss, only… Begging your pardon, but is our conversation confidential, like?”

“If you so wish.”

“Then, you see, me and mine have been in a spot of bother with the authorities of late. Nothing shameful, mind. Only I can’t be consorting with policemen right now, not for my sake nor his. Which leaves me without my normal resources. And you being such a friendly and kind lady.”

I gave him a sceptical look. But I recalled Campbell’s dilemma over the thefts, his reluctance to get his friends into hot water, even if the Worms were involved. I called to the museum porter. “Withers, take a message in for me, would you? Tell them I’m sick.”

“Sick, Miss?”

“Sick as a dog,” I said and coughed deliberately. “You see? Off to hospital right now.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

I held out my arm for Worm to escort me. He squeezed my hand and off we went.

“Half-drowned, poor wight,” said the ward sister. “Working down in those sewers. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

“It isn’t allowed,” I said. I would have words with Worm.

“Came in filthy as a pig,” the nurse said, “coughing, puking and half-dead.”

“And now?”

“Needs sleep. Doctor will be in later. My fear is the diseases: rat’s pox and cholera.”

There was nothing to be done. I agreed with Worm we would return that night. I would try and sneak him in on condition he scrubbed his face and hair and put on some clean clothes which I would bring for him. He nodded gratefully.

That evening I returned to Great Ormond Street earlier than I had promised, but Worm was already waiting. The doctor on duty looked at him askance and asked me to come in alone. The Professor was looking much worse, yellow in the face, greasy-haired and sweating. I demanded to know what had happened.

“Sewer fever.”

“And what are you doing about it?”

“Nothing to be done. Sometimes they get through, sometimes not.” He looked at me. “You’re the mother, are you?”

“Certainly not. But the boy outside is a relation.”

I was allowed to bring Worm in. When he saw the little yellow face, he stood a moment in shock. I withdrew to a chair across the room, while he went up and stroked that tousled hair, emanating a silent dignity beyond his years. After long minutes, the Professor stirred and Worm knelt down by the bed. Something in their faces struck me with the force of a train.

“Worm,” I said quietly. “Tell me. The Professor is not just one of the boys. You’re brothers, aren’t you?”

He seemed barely to hear me. He took the Professor’s hand from under the covers and clutched it, whispering quiet words of comfort and urgent affection. “Forever hail and farewell,” I heard him say. A few minutes later, he stood up and came towards me. “Miss Villiers, I must go now. I know not how to thank you.”

“Don’t think of it, young fellow. We will not give up without a fight.”

He smiled and sadly made as if to leave.

“Tell me one thing, Worm, in case...” I frowned, unable to say it. “What is the Professor’s real name? Given name?”

He lowered his eyes to the floor, then looked me decisively in the eye. “Molly,” he said. “She’s my sister.”

I stared at the mop of ginger hair poking out of the covers and her little upturned nose and thought how foolish everything seemed and how awful.

That week I studied long hours. During the day I sat in the college, failing the papers set by my miserable lecturers. It seemed as well to study the evenings away at Molly’s bedside rather than return to my dismal quarters and fret there alone. It gave me strength to see the fight the little girl put up against her fever. She would stir and twist and groan, as if trying to wrest some demon from her flesh.

The second evening, I spoke again to the doctor. There was nothing they could do, he said. She was too weak for leeching; she was losing substance because they could not feed her; the longer the fever possessed her, the less chance there was. This filled me with an impotent rage.

The third evening, I stared unseeingly at my books, racking my brains. I had no money to be hiring doctors. If I asked the aunt, she would want to know everything. It would be no good dissembling that it was I who needed the assistance, as she would assume I was pregnant or worse and choose a doctor who would report back to her in full, Hippocratic oath or no. All I could hope for was to call in some favour. I wrote a furious letter to Campbell, demanding that he turn a blind eye to whatever the Worms might be entangled with, for now the Professor was entangled in a fight over meeting her Maker, and suggesting that, even if he could not come in person, he could use some influence to send along a competent doctor. Dickens, for instance, had raised money for the hospital. He must know doctors in high places.