Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square (10 page)

“Mr Ganz. The Euston clock.”

“Must you torment me with it? My finest work and it will never be seen.”

“You’re not making a replacement?”

“The London and North-Western Railway,” he said, through clenched teeth, “has decided against it.”

“You were paid for your work, though, were you not?”

“That,” he burst out, “is not the point! It was a showpiece. There’s stations going up all over the world. They ship them out, you know, every nut and bolt. I’ll wager there’s already Hottentots and Pygmies telling the time from my clock, or flagrant copies of it.”

An idea began to form in my mind.

“It’s indescribably painful to me,” Ganz went on, “to think of such trolls and Visigoths hacking it apart, pillaging my ideas to boost their profits.”

“You suspect a corporation of orchestrating the charade?”

“And I wouldn’t be surprised if the railway owners are on the board of directors.” He shot me a look. “Your own commissioner, like as not. They’re all in on it.”

I began to wonder whether Mr Ganz’s sense of persecution might be a trifle exaggerated. Nonetheless, I scribbled my name on a card, beneath the Scotland Yard legend. “I’ll see what I can find out. If you come across any more clocks similarly tampered with, would you contact me?”

BAD BUSINESS

On the Monday, I arrived at the HECC yard before eight in the morning, hoping for a brief word with Coxhill. It was a small detour and I aimed to get to work more or less on time, knowing that Wardle tended to come late Mondays to avoid the rush on the train. I was uneasy conducting these investigations without the inspector’s approval, but it seemed foolish to upset him with it until I’d uncovered something. Someone, it seemed from the ward book, had something to hide. Could it all be a diversion? Like the bone at Pearson’s, perhaps the corpse and the spout made it look like an accident, when after all they were simply stealing Ganz’s clock.

Arriving at Coxhill’s yard reminded me of my first arrival in London, a year before. As the train had groaned towards King’s Cross, I had looked out at that wasteland, dotted with the flotsam and jetsam of the railway mania. On patches of unclaimed land, unscrupulous landlords had thrown up death traps of rotten timber. I had glimpsed those hordes of indigent incomers, their days and nights tormented, who would never escape the roar of the trains.

It was here that the premises of the Hydraulic Engines Corporation of the Capital were situated. At first I thought I had turned through the wrong gate. I don’t know what I was expecting. A hum of activity, perhaps, smelters, smiths and panel beaters amidst vast clanking machinery. Instead I found a muddy circle of machines, like the stones of a druidical cult, and in their midst a solitary grey-haired workman.

He looked at me quizzically. “Lost, are thee?”

“This is the HECC, is it not?” He didn’t deign to nod, but I was encouraged enough to go on. “I was after a little chat.”

He wrinkled his nose at my oil-skin cape. “Don’t like thy face.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We don’t speak to Scotsmen where I come from.”

I took a deep breath. “Where would that be?”

“You’ll be wanting the manager, if you’re so full of questions.” He pointed to a squat structure standing desolate in the mud. The lower doors were open, revealing a mess of machines. Attached to the side of the building, a rickety staircase led up to an unfinished timber door. I went over to it hesitantly.

The workman watched me with an amused look. “He’ll be in later,” he grinned. “Happen as not, leastways. That is, he does sometime come in, on a Monday.”

At that moment, the HECC chaise swept in through the gate, with Hunt up on the driving board. Roxton Coxhill descended, a little unsteadily, mumbling good-byes, and Hunt drove off again at speed. Coxhill was dressed, somewhat incongruously, in tails, as if he had come straight from a night on the town. Disraeli had declared that we were a nation divided, but I found it hard to believe that this was how the other half lived.

Coxhill looked around, rather wildly, and the workman made himself scarce. Spotting me, Coxhill started, then recovered himself, with an effort that seemed all the greater for his attempt to conceal it. He then marched over and welcomed me as if I were his long lost aunt. He smelt of smoke and perfume.

“Sergeant! It’s fine to see you. Yes, fine.” He ran a hand through his wispy hair. “Don’t look so surprised. I never forget a face. Especially those working with Inspector Waddle.” He ushered me up the steps and into his office, a single room with a closet and a window looking down onto the yard. He sat down heavily at his desk, took up an ivory letter-opener in the shape of a small animal, and began ripping an old magazine into squares. “Your man’s highly esteemed by the royals, you know.” He nodded sagely. “Please, please, sit down. Make yourself at home. Our premises may seem rudimentary, but you know how it is. From mighty acorns and all that. May I say, we are glad to have your watchful eye protecting us in these early days.”

Somewhat unsettled, I told him not to mention it. I was not convinced that he remembered me at all.

“Ah, but I do mention it,” he insisted, stringing the squares of paper together. “Because I value it, you see. The early days are the most vulnerable. The hounds of commerce delight in preying upon the little creatures, so to speak, picking them off for sport. Do you think George Hudson could have become the Railway King, without some helping hands in high places?”

He pronounced “railway” more like “whale way”. I smiled awkwardly, for I seemed to recall that Hudson’s fame had long since turned to notoriety.

“It is now that we need your assistance. And let me make it clear that we shall not forget our friends when we reach the top. Now, Sergeant, you must try our new water closet. Just installed. It really is the go.” He clamped his hand onto my shoulder and led me over to a strange closet in the corner. “Look at that quality. Cistern made of glazed stoneware, piping of impermeable clay, and a guaranteed flush with every pull. Here’s some paper, if you need.”

“Thank you, no.”

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s not for general use. Workmen have an outdoor privy, so you won’t catch anything – unless it should be from one of our lady visitors.” He laughed a devilish little laugh and went in, clutching the paper. “Anyway, if you don’t mind…”

In he went. I looked around the office, thinking that I ought to note salient details of the furnishings. On the wall was Reynolds’ new map of London, marked with strings of coloured pins. A luxurious sofa boasted a bearskin rug, complete with snarling head resting on the arm. On the desk lay some books, among them
Self-Help
by Samuel Smiles and a biography of George Stephenson, the inventor of the locomotive.

Beside the books stood a framed daguerreotype of two bright-eyed girls in theatrical costumes. It was this I was inspecting when there was a fearful gurgling of water behind me. I turned in alarm to see Coxhill approaching at speed, his bony temples oily with sweat and his ginger beard hanging limply from his chin, as if it might fall off. He took up
Self-Help
and declaimed.

“‘Heaven helps those who help themselves.’” He breathed in deeply. “A marvellous work. Explodes the belief that talent is thinly spread. We all have our talents, but few of us have the energy, and the confidence, to make the most of them. Borrow it, Sergeant, if you like. I draw constant inspiration from its pages. Ah, I see you’ve spotted our hoofer friends. As young ladies go, I recommend them. The liveliest sort of girl, and by far the best value. Perhaps I offend your sensibilities. You’re more literary sorts, you Scotch. My father taught at Heidelberg University, you know. That’s how we know the Saxe-Coburgs.”

“Mr Coxhill–”

“Do call me Roxton, please.” He sat down again and tugged at his beard.

“I was hoping, sir, to clear up a couple of questions. From the night we met.”

He shot me a glance with his birdlike little eyes. “Ah, yes. A bad business, that.”

I went on. “Did you discover who the impostor repair man might have been?”

He drew out a pipe from a drawer and began to prepare it. “The chap who blew himself up? No idea.”

“No, sir. The other man. Your repair man, or so I was given to believe, if you recall, by the night porter.”

“That old seadog? Had him dismissed. Soaked, he was.” He lit his pipe and inhaled deeply. The thing had a visibly calming influence on him. “We weren’t at fault, you know. The machine was tampered with. Your man, Waddle, said it.”

“No doubt, sir. I just thought you might have looked into it. How they did it, if not who.”

“Bloody Fenians, don’t you lot reckon?” He gazed out at the machines in the yard. “A feckless crowd, aren’t they, those Irish?”

“I’m not at liberty,” I said, “to reveal our lines of enquiry.”

He leant forward. “Sergeant, I’d be grateful if you would make known your conviction that we were not at fault. The HECC must be seen to be spotless. I realise such a request lies outwith the bounds of duty, but I’m sure I can trust you to scupper any rumours you encounter.”

I frowned. “May I speak to the man who repaired the machine?”

He seemed not to hear me. Turning in his chair, he gazed up at the map. Jabbing the end of his pipe at it, he spoke in a voice full of excitement. “The greatest city in the world, Sergeant. London.” He let the word resonate around his mouth, as if he were tasting fine wine. “Do you know what London is?”

I looked at him.

“It is a city crying out for power. Gas is all well and good for street lights that are the envy of Europe. But machinery? Look! Here are the docks, needing engines and cranes. Here are the theatres, wanting safety curtains. Mayfair hotels, installing passenger elevators. Construction all over, roads, railways; statues erected; bridges thrown across the river. London is hungry for new sources of power.” He sucked again at his pipe, the peculiar aroma of the smoke beginning to fill the room. “And I intend to satisfy that hunger.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he was in a world of his own.

“How shall I do it? I shall do it – through pipes.” He spoke in hushed tones, with eyes glinting, as if the subject were sacred. “Blood vessels for the city, pumping life through veins and arteries of Bessemer steel, beneath the feet of the unsuspecting citizens. As Frankenstein brought his monster to life, so we shall vitalise London.”

“With hydraulic power?”

“What other power can spread its tentacles so wide? The force required by the great engineering feats for which our nation is renowned – nothing can supply it but hydraulic power. It is an invention of genius.” He beamed in self-satisfaction.

“This piping, sir, will contain water at high pressure?”

“Hundreds of pounds per square inch. We’re laying the prototype network. I tell you, Sergeant, every era thinks it’s the apex of modernity. But this one truly is. Could old Stephenson have dreamed that his engine would revolutionise the country? No! But now we can move an army from Land’s End to John o’Groats in a day.” The birdlike eyes gleamed darkly and he went on in a thrilled whisper. “It’s only twenty years since William Armstrong invented the hydraulic engine. We can barely begin to dream how it will affect our lives. We’re installing an hydraulic elevator in Marlborough House – for the Prince of Wales, you know. With support such as that, it won’t take long to finance our network. We’re to receive a Royal Seal, you know. I have the Prince’s assurance.”

I could not help but picture once more that circus seal with its whiskers, gliding along the whaleway, powered by Coxhill’s hydraulics. “Mr Coxhill,” I said, “if your crane proved so vulnerable, how could such a network be safe?”

“People die crossing the road at Oxford Circus, officer. Hydraulics are safer than gas, more robust than the combustion engine. Have no doubt. These cranes are playthings beside the network I am planning to create.” He lowered his tone. “The railway mania is over, Sergeant. Finished. Power,” he intoned, his voice brimming with conviction, “is the next thing, and I intend to be in the vanguard. Our network will power everything from printing works to hat-blocking presses. The Royal Mint, why not? You should consider investing, you know.”

With my £58 per annum, thought I? With all this chatter, though, I would be late for work. I had learnt next to nothing from him. “Mr Coxhill–”

“Roxton, old chap. Do call me Roxton.”

“Of course,” I replied uneasily. “One last thing, sir. That night, at Euston. How did you get there so quickly?”

“Why,” he replied ingenuously, “didn’t you know? I was on the late train.”

I stared.

“Still, no serious damage done,” he said. “We must turn these little setbacks to our advantage.” He stood up and squeezed my shoulder meaningfully. “I do thank you for your concern, though. Must you be going so soon?”

“I must. Sir, if I could talk to the workman who repaired the machine?”

“That chap?” he said. “No longer with us, I’m afraid. Tell you what. Are you heading into town? Will you accept a little something to entertain you on your trip? It’s a little trifle of my own composing. Privately printed, but I think nonetheless worth your perusal.” He drew from a drawer a sheet printed with stanzas and pressed it into my hand. He began to declaim the verses aloud, rhythmically, insistently. I tried to control my dismay, as he droned on, looking not at the paper but into the middle distance, and giving no pause for interruption.