Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square (7 page)

“You’ll need a lamp for the cellar, sir,” said Mrs Laing, tugging at the stout door, “and a peg for your nose.” She turned her face away, as an earthy aroma arose, accompanied by a fearful banging. “God-awful racket. All that digging. Mr Pearson says it’s for the good of the city and we must grin and bear it, but it drives me barmy, I don’t mind telling you.”

Wardle screwed up his nose. “Any opening to the street? Coal hatch, delivery chute?”

“None, sir.”

He nodded briskly. “Needn’t brave the dark, then.”

Which left the chimneys. As the inspector peered up the drawing room flue, Mrs Laing allowed herself a smile. “Saint Nick about early this year, sir?”

Wardle did not smile. “I’ve known many little snakesmen in my time,” he said, “but you’d need a trained chimpanzee to get in this way. Such a chimp would leave a trail of soot. Even if it cleaned up after itself, it could never get a chair up there.”

Mrs Pearson was right then. He did think this had been an “inside job”.

“Mrs Laing, I’d be glad if you’d keep an eye on the staff for me.”

“Oh, I ain’t doing no spying on my fellows, if that’s what you mean,” she said, but she was clearly relieved to be judged trustworthy.

“Not at all. Just in case anyone’s behaving strange. All right?”

He asked Mrs Pearson to be similarly watchful, and arranged to keep in touch over further developments.

Further developments? I couldn’t see how we could solve the crime once we left. We were hardly likely to stumble upon the Tom Thumb, nor could we expect the servants to turn each other in. I was surprised to be leaving without any notion who had committed the crime. I hadn’t even an inkling how it was committed.

What else was I expecting, though? Wardle was surprisingly polite and reassuring, different from the gruffness I had witnessed at Euston Square. A good policeman, I reflected, must recognise when his words count for more than his actions, and when the contrary is true.

He must also have noticed things I had not. Did he have suspicions? Surely. Yet to spout guesses, as I would have felt obliged to do, would only have undermined his authority, and forewarned the culprit. So he had kept his thoughts to himself, elaborating his thesis neither to the Pearsons, nor to me. Yet we left a satisfied and composed household behind us. It was a fine display of detective work from a thorough professional, and I felt privileged to be in attendance.

As soon as we had left the house, his hands plunged into his pockets. When he headed for the riverside tavern, I hesitated, anxious that I hadn’t sufficient money.

“My treat, Watchman,” he barked gruffly. “I haven’t forgotten what it’s like living on a constable’s wages.”

It was true, I wasn’t accustomed to eating out. My landlady, Mrs Willington, left a cold platter for me daily in the larder; the rest of the time I got by on scraps at the station and from the market.

Inside, Wardle turned his back on the spitted pig the landlord was keen to show off. “The chicken and spinach. Dose of ginger pudding to follow.”

Too nervous to think about food, I asked for the same. Glossop would have chosen the most expensive dish, no doubt, and asked for double helpings.

“Ginger,” nodded Wardle. “Clears the head.” He made for the corner snug, away from the gamblers and the snoozers, and we sat in silence. “So,” he said finally, as the barmaid brought plates piled with pie and bread. “What do you think?”

I glanced at the barmaid and back at him in some confusion.

“About the crime, Watchman.”

I blinked. Here was my chance. I had to come up with a theory. But I had nothing better in my head than Mrs Pearson’s surmise. “One of the servants,” I hazarded.

“Oh, yes?” he said, tucking in. “Why?”

I looked at him blankly. “They needed money?”

“No, no, no.” He didn’t look up from his plate. “Why do you think it’s one of the servants?”

I coughed. “If entry hasn’t been forced, the theft can only have been done by someone already inside the house.”

He frowned. “Not necessarily.”

My heart was pounding. Stupid, really. I would have thought I’d developed some kind of self-confidence by now, but here I was, acting like a schoolboy who hasn’t done his homework. “Somebody with a contact in the house, then. Who knew one of the servants.”

“Or the family.”

“Yes.”

“Or someone who happened,” he went on, mouth full of pie, “to have a key. Delivery boy. Service man. Local keycutter.”

I was on firmer ground here. “Mrs Pearson was quite clear, sir, that there were no other keys.”

“Was she now?” He wiped his mouth thoughtfully. “Good. Mrs Laing too.”

As he fell to thinking, I searched for something intelligent to contribute. I was annoyed with myself for being so green after all this time.

“Whoever it was, Watchman,” he said, suddenly quiet and intent, “Why did they take such a risk?”

I considered. “Maybe a servant is in need of ready money.”

“A few shillings?”

“They couldn’t find more. They stole things to sell.”

“A footstool? There’s things easier to shift.”

“They weren’t thinking clearly. They took it on the spur of the moment.”

“And left the clock?”

I felt my cheeks smarting. Had I really made such a fool of myself?

Wardle began mopping up his gravy with a monstrous doorstop of bread. “Possible. If they’re that desperate, we’ll have them soon enough.”

“How, sir?”

“It’s not so hard to instil confidence, Watchman, and confidence inspires loyalty.”

“Right, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t follow.”

“Mrs Laing took to us.” He sat back and belched contentedly. “The lady of the house didn’t much like the cut of my jib, but you charmed her good and proper. Good work. If there’s anything amiss, we’ll hear of it.”

I nodded, somewhat taken aback.

“Happy household, do you think, Watchman?”

I thought of Mr Pearson’s gentle words and Mrs Pearson’s elegant smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you risk your position in a household like that for a few pennies and a joint stool?”

Had Mrs Pearson been mistaken? He didn’t suspect the servants after all, unless there were other gains that would have made it worth the risk. Think, Campbell, think. Wardle had asked about documents. “They wanted something else.”

“Like what?”

“Something easily stolen, but valuable, in the right hands.”

Wardle pushed away his plate and snapped his fingers for pudding. “Go on.”

“Something of Mr Pearson’s. He’s an important man.”

“Well connected too.”

“Some kind of industrial theft. Someone paid one of the servants, bribed them, whatever you want to call it, to steal something important. There’s money to be made in stealing plans. Designs. Even ideas.”

“Not spur of the moment?”

“No. On the contrary. Well-planned. They’d need to know exactly what to look for. They’d need to know Pearson had the documents in the house. So what went wrong?”

Wardle licked his fingers methodically. “Who says it went wrong? We’ll see. I’ll wager Pearson discovers something has gone missing after all.”

“Why steal the cash, then, sir? Why the chair?”

He just looked at me.

The barmaid plopped the ginger pudding in front of us and I snapped my fingers. “To make it look like an ordinary break-in.”

“Good, son. And the bone?”

“To throw us off the scent. Make it look like they didn’t know the household.” Now I was talking with my mouth full. “Hadn’t we better speak to him, sir?”

“I’ll have a word. He seemed very confident of his security. But if they didn’t get what they wanted, I’ll wager they’ll have another go within the week. Can’t solve crimes before they’re committed.” He drew the pudding towards him. “One other notion. Is our thief a dolt or a fool?”

I felt more confident now. “Well, he left no trace, and he has the household thrown off the scent. Smart enough, I’d say.”

“Who is the cleverest man in that house?”

“Mr Pearson, I imagine. Sir! You’re not suggesting that–” I looked around, and lowered my voice. “That Mr Pearson is our thief? He’s stealing from himself?”

He stirred his pudding around with quiet relish. “I was chasing a theft a few years back. Irish financier, dabbled in politics. Two hundred and thirty thousand pounds went missing from a Tipperary bank he happened to be manager of. Tricky one, that.”

“He did it himself?” I stared at my pudding. “Did you get him, sir?”

“In a manner of speaking. He took prussic acid on Hampstead Heath before we could send him down. It was me that found the suicide note tucked away with his papers.”

I blinked, trying to imagine it all. “But, sir, Pearson?”

“Keep an open mind, son. Like as not, we’ll never know.” He saw my look of surprise. “Don’t misunderstand me, son. Nothing we can do, that’s all. I’ve forty years of cases in my head. What does it help to fret about them? Drive yourself barmy.”

The second sharpest mind in the country started shovelling pudding into his mouth. I sat spooning at mine, agog at his way of thinking, blunt and incisive.

“Like being a copper, do you?”

Taken aback by the question, I hesitated.

He coughed, and spat a lump of pudding back on to his plate. “That bad, is it?”

“It isn’t quite what I was expecting, sir.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an object wrapped in canvas. The bone. His face clouded over a moment, then he thrust it back in his pocket, unopened, and looked at me squarely. “What did you expect? Violence? Mystery?”

He was right, of course, however I would have liked to deny it. If he could tell as much from my hesitations as he’d gleaned about the crime, there was no point in hiding anything. But I had rid myself of illusions now, trying instead to find some kind of dignity, or satisfaction at least, in my everyday tasks. I sighed. “I may have had a few foolish notions, yes.”

He thought for a moment, picking strands of ginger from his teeth. Then he smiled, which caught me quite off guard, and raised his glass. For a moment I thought he was about to propose a toast, but he simply finished his beer and said, “Thought of joining the Yard?”

After that lunch, I was tired. I had started my shift at Brunswick Square before six, which meant rising at four, near enough. The walk from Lambeth back to Scotland Yard wasn’t so far, but the examination Wardle had put me through in the pub left me exhausted, and I was glad that he kept silent most of the way. He led me to his office, sat me down and gave me some paper.

“Don’t need a literary masterpiece, mind.” He sat down at the larger desk and prepared his pipe.

I was enthralled to be there, in his office, if a little confused as to what was going on. But, as I tried to focus on my task, I felt muddle-headed and stupid. I glanced over at him every so often. He had gone into a kind of reverie. So that was genius at work. I sat there dumbly, struggling to get the pen to work.

The thing seemed so unresolved. At Brunswick Square, things always seemed clear-cut. Someone damaged this, someone stole that. Anything more complex was sent up to the Superintendent. Now, although I had been to the scene of the crime myself, everything seemed temporary. I forced myself to jot notes before attempting to put anything coherent on paper. Three times I started and bungled. My greatest achievement came near the day’s end, when I worked up the courage to ask him where the paper was kept.

Wardle made nothing clear. Every so often, he wandered out of the office for fifteen minutes. On one of these occasions, a cheery face popped around the door.

“All right? I’m Darlington. Next door. How you doing?”

I introduced myself, glad to be greeted as if I belonged there. I admitted I was struggling with my report.

Darlington hopped into the office. He was a bright-eyed sort, always hopping and popping and hovering in doorways. He looked over what I had written and made a face. “I’d have another go, old man,” he said, tugging an old report from the filing cabinet. “More like this, see?”

I flushed with embarrassment, staring at it. The style was simplistic; the details were minimal. “I don’t mention suspects?”

This seemed to trouble him. “I wouldn’t.”

“No theories? Nothing speculative?”

“Want to solve it all at once, do you?” He laughed. “No, my friend. I’d stick to solid facts. Write it, file it, let the big man worry about the rest. Good to have new blood around, though. Oops, here’s himself.” And, as swiftly as he’d appeared, he vanished.

“That Darlington prying already?” said Wardle. “Watch out for him. There’s to be nothing told him or anyone else, not without my say-so. All right?” Selecting some papers from his desk, he made ready to leave. He glanced over my pages of scribbles. “What’s all this, eh? Justifying God’s ways to man?”

I managed an anxious smile. I was finding it hard to concentrate. After all, I had no idea where I stood. Would I be working with him again? Or was this it, another one-off, then back to night shifts at Holborn?