Read Online Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square by William Sutton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Sutton
Tags: detective, Terrorism, Victoriana, anarchists, Victorian London, Campbell Lawlless, Scotsman abroad, honest copper, diabolical plot, evil genius
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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?
Wardle paused at the door. “Tomorrow I’m out at Windsor. Get your things and settle in. I’ve sent word to Brunswick Square. Finish up that report and go home.”
NOBODY TO BLAME
At eight o’clock next morning, I bade farewell to Brunswick Square and headed for the Yard. One day fixing mainsprings on night shift; the next, assistant to a renowned detective. Within the week, I signed papers awarding me the rank of sergeant and the princely sum of £58 per annum. I was to assist Wardle principally with legwork and paperwork. The tag in my jacket was changed from Holborn to Whitehall, and I swore a silent oath that he shouldn’t regret his choice.
There was a certain interest in me as an outsider. Though not unheard of, bringing in someone from outside meant passing over the constables within the Yard. I chose to say as little as possible. This proved wise. Darlington decided that my silence hinted of secret experience; he broadcast impressive rumours about past successes, of which I was not permitted to speak. He frequently asked about my work with Wardle. The questions were harmless, born of curiosity and fun, but I thought it best to parry them, remembering Wardle’s injunction that first day. Darlington thought this secrecy a hoot. “You tight Scotsman,” he would say, “aiming for the top, are you? You’ll be in the foreign service before long!” He was also kind enough to invite me out every so often. I occasionally went for a drink after work; but I refused weekend invitations, afraid that if I got to know him off-duty I would be found out as a fraud and a new boy. He soon decided that I was a cold fish and stopped asking.
Every so often, Wardle would summon me along to a case, in the main little different from Brunswick Square affairs; but it all seemed grander to me. I took to making assiduous notes so that future reports might not cause me so much anguish.
These outings gave me the chance to see the great man at his work. Throughout, he would keep his hands thrust deep in those coat pockets. Shaking hands he did rarely, as if wary that some ague might assail him. Writing was anathema to him. When there were notes to be taken, it was I who took them. Though some found him a difficult little man, he always seemed to get the answers he wanted. He was disarmingly
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?
Wardle paused at the door. “Tomorrow I’m out at Windsor. Get your things and settle in. I’ve sent word to Brunswick Square. Finish up that report and go home.”
NOBODY TO BLAME
At eight o’clock next morning, I bade farewell to Brunswick Square and headed for the Yard. One day fixing mainsprings on night shift; the next, assistant to a renowned detective. Within the week, I signed papers awarding me the rank of sergeant and the princely sum of £58 per annum. I was to assist Wardle principally with legwork and paperwork. The tag in my jacket was changed from Holborn to Whitehall, and I swore a silent oath that he shouldn’t regret his choice.
There was a certain interest in me as an outsider. Though not unheard of, bringing in someone from outside meant passing over the constables within the Yard. I chose to say as little as possible. This proved wise. Darlington decided that my silence hinted of secret experience; he broadcast impressive rumours about past successes, of which I was not permitted to speak. He frequently asked about my work with Wardle. The questions were harmless, born of curiosity and fun, but I thought it best to parry them, remembering Wardle’s injunction that first day. Darlington thought this secrecy a hoot. “You tight Scotsman,” he would say, “aiming for the top, are you? You’ll be in the foreign service before long!” He was also kind enough to invite me out every so often. I occasionally went for a drink after work; but I refused weekend invitations, afraid that if I got to know him off-duty I would be found out as a fraud and a new boy. He soon decided that I was a cold fish and stopped asking.
Every so often, Wardle would summon me along to a case, in the main little different from Brunswick Square affairs; but it all seemed grander to me. I took to making assiduous notes so that future reports might not cause me so much anguish.
These outings gave me the chance to see the great man at his work. Throughout, he would keep his hands thrust deep in those coat pockets. Shaking hands he did rarely, as if wary that some ague might assail him. Writing was anathema to him. When there were notes to be taken, it was I who took them. Though some found him a difficult little man, he always seemed to get the answers he wanted. He was disarmingly
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