Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square (29 page)

Wardle headed down the hill with an air of quiet triumph. I could barely contain myself.

“Sir,” I said, “I sometimes have the feeling we’re not working together at all.”

He shot me an amused look. “Come now, Watchman. There are matters I’m obliged to conceal. National security. Just as there are matters you feel obliged to conceal from me.”

I caught my breath. I had no idea how much he knew of my investigations. But I could not be cowed into silence, not this time. “So you chaperone the Prince of Wales?”

“I protect him from his own excesses.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “His father doesn’t know the half of it.”

I shook my head. “You have little time for the young Prince?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen enough types of depravity to last me several lifetimes. The boy indulges in vices I find hard to condemn. Albert had him studying continental literature when he was still in his cot. Now, his valet checks through the
Sporting Times
for him and that’s all the reading he does.”

“After your own heart, sir.”

He snorted. “He likes a drink. Smoking, gambling–”

“Women?”

“And what of it, if he kept it quiet? He hasn’t realised he’s under the scrutiny of an Empire. He must at least be seen to be beyond reproach.”

“But he enjoys the company of… well, the sort who tend to be indiscreet.”

“Unless they’re given strong reasons for discretion.”

I nodded. We were walking along a broad avenue beside the green pastures of the great school. I took a deep breath. “I spoke to Hester, sir, but she wouldn’t talk.”

“Scholes must use methods more persuasive than yours,” he said. That made me bristle. He eyed me sharply. “Got to you, did she?”

“It wasn’t her who spilled the beans, sir.”

“Whoever it was. Should have thought twice. Deep waters, these. The less people that hear of Bertie’s peccadilloes, the fewer stories we’ll need to hush up.”

“Won’t stop hydraulic engines going off in our faces.”

A shout went up beside us, and I gazed up at a group of youths throwing each other into the mud in pursuit of a leather ball. Wardle looked at me. “What have you found out, then, son?”

“A lot that wasn’t in the report.”

“Should I describe it in writing? Prince of Wales, unceremoniously soaked as he struts drunkenly into town, on his arm a dancing girl wearing a fine gold watch given him by his mother.”

“I would have thought you’d investigate who did it.”

“That I did, son. That I did. But as long as the Prince is unhurt, why dignify the charade with official charges? I packed the Prince and the girl away from the scene before they were spotted. That’s what mattered most. I told him to break it off. Thought he had. Now it seems he’s been sneaking around with her behind my back. Silly tart’s got a mouth on her, so now it’s got to stop.” He gestured down a lane. “This is me here.”

I hesitated before heading on for the station. It occurred to me for the first time how strange it was that Wardle, living out here, got to the spout so swiftly. “Sir, that night, how did you come to be at Euston?”

He looked at me with a mixture of censure and approbation.

I stared at him, electrified. “You were there. You knew in advance.”

He nodded. “There was a tip-off.”

“From whom?”

“Anonymous. Threat, you could call it. Some nonsense about Guy Fawkes. Coxhill passed it on to us.”

“You were there when the spout went off?”

“In the station. Nothing I could do. It was less serious than I’d feared, though.”

“Were they trying to hurt the Prince?”

“Don’t know. Don’t rightly care. No point in making a fuss over a stupid joke. Thought at first it was some trick of Coxton’s, trying to impress Bertie. But his affairs are none of my concern, except as they mess with the Prince’s.”

“And the report was filed with no mention of the dead man? Nothing suspicious?”

“Can’t have the Prince of Wales mixed up in intrigues.”

“But you’re no longer concerned?”

“No. He’ll have forgotten about her by now, the good-for-nothing scoundrel the Prince’s little trollop jilted. You know these simple folk.” He turned and walked off towards his home.

There flitted through my mind the image of Berwick’s desk, the political books, the articles, the strange cipher writing. I had the feeling that mixing Bertie up in intrigues was exactly his intention. Fairfoul said Berwick had gone, but the spout at the Evans suggested otherwise; it suggested he had far from forgotten. My head was buzzing as I boarded the train. I recalled Glossop’s accusation, that Wardle chose me for my malleability, and it rankled. Yet at least Wardle’s intentions were honourable, even if his methods left me dumbfounded. At least we were on the same side.

PHILANDERING?PRINCES &?CRAZED CUCKOLDS

Winter bit early. I watched in amazement out the Yard window as people stomped past, suffering through the harsh mornings. Every night I walked home by a different route, recovering strength in my knee. Sometimes I headed up York Way, with the trains from King’s Cross puffing mournfully north below me. I would turn when I reached the canal, head through the dark maze of ill-designed tenements, until thankfully gaining the sanctuary of my little room. There I would sit, gazing out the grimy window at children with ragged kites, until the melancholy clip-clop of hooves announced the arrival of the costermonger, his aspect so fierce that the little ones went running before him, while his threadbare horse plodded the glistening cobbles, despairing of a return to its stable.

I took the new tram down the Kennington Road to meet Mr Wetherell, the retired underwriter, at the Surrey Cricket Ground, where he had come to renew his membership. He led me into the pavilion and lost no time in calling for two whiskies. Down on the fine expanse of turf, some hardy children practised wild bowling actions. I asked if he shared Wardle’s nostalgia for the old styles.

“Quite the contrary. Only an old fuddy-duddy could hold with that antique opinion. These new boys, you should see the artifice they use on the ball. It’s thrilling. They spin it, they swerve it midair, they work magic. The top players invent it, and within a year the whole country copies it. It’s like business, really. One year you make a mint on railways, next year everyone’s in on it. Then it’s boom time until the wheels fall off the bandwagon and we all go bust. We’re all children playing games at heart. Though some bend the rules a little, I grant you.” He set down his whisky. “I didn’t call you here to talk cricket.”

“What have you found?”

“Your Coxhill,” he began, “is a dreadfully lucky man. Wherever he goes there are explosions and disasters, yet the chap walks off unscathed. Amazing, wouldn’t you say?” It took me a moment to grasp Mr Wetherell’s tone of careful irony. “You have stumbled upon a nest of vipers, wherein the businesses with the worst records walk off with the fattest profits, in the short term at least. Venture capital, they call it. If I can convince you to invest in my company, why go to all the bother of producing anything? When somebody actually asks to see your product, much easier to burn the thing down and claim the insurance. The goods never need exist. Do you smell a rat?”

He had discovered HECC insurance policies all over. The legislation was due for reform, as multiple claims were common.

“Coxhill is still making claims for stocks in Tooley Street that nobody ever saw. By contrast, despite all his mishaps, I can’t find a trace of one successful compensation claim against his company.” Mr Wetherell leant forward. “These are godless times, Sergeant. At least in the past men thought there were things worth dying for; God, Queen and Country. Nobody believes anything these days. Who can blame them, when the pillars of society are built upon money alone? That bloody war, fighting with the French against our friends, the Russians; there’s a deal more scandal to come out, I tell you. Someone has done very well through the mismanagement of army amenities. A man who steals two-and-six, you call him a thief. A man steals two thousand from his investors, you call him Sir. What do you call a man who throws away two million? Prime Minister.”

He raised his glass and we drank each other a toast. “Something’s rotten and you’re on the scent, old man,” said Mr Wetherell. “What other swindles go on, I can barely guess. I tell you, they’ll burn the Crystal Palace down if they think it’ll pay out.”

A month after our visit to the castle, I stepped down onto the platform at Windsor for a second time. Wardle was sitting on a bench, staring blankly ahead.

“Sir?”

He looked up as if surprised to see me. “Watchman? Good of you to come.”

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Take a walk, shall we? Nothing to be done. Might as well enjoy the air.” He led me off among the playing fields of Eton. The youngsters were still hurling each other onto the now frosty ground, and I wondered if they were allowed home for Christmas. Wardle stopped at the corner of the biggest pitch, gazing up at the castle. The flag was flying at half-mast. “He just slipped away. All month they’ve been saying he’s on the mend. Getting him out of his sick bed, tramping the stone hallways, him with that fearful chill. What use are they? This medic, Jenner, he discovered bloody typhoid. Yet one minute, he hasn’t got it; the next he’s dead of it. The finest man in the country.”

I looked at him. Shocked though I was to think of the Prince Consort gone and the Queen a widow so young, I was more amazed by the strength of Wardle’s sorrow.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“He died there, in the Blue Room. The King’s Room. What’ll the country do now? I shouldn’t have told him. Not everything at once. Such a refined man. The shock went right through him.”

“Perhaps we should have told him as it happened. Lessen the shock.”

“Sometimes things have to be concealed,” he barked. “I don’t like it any more than you do. He expects too much, the young scoundrel. Gadding about with a tart. I’ve covered his back since he was a little boy. And why? For this!”

“The Prince Consort knew nothing about it before we spoke to him?”

“Nothing. Which is a miracle. Bertie’s been bothering women since he was old enough to walk.”

“Including his nurse?”

Wardle didn’t pick up on my meaning. “This one now he’s had on the go for three years. Blasted Royal Performances. Clapped eyes on her and lost his heart, he told me. Lost his brain, more like. I spoke to that Coxhill: they’ve houses enough between them to hide a wealth of iniquities. I told him to look after the tyke. But he’s a fool of equal proportions.”

I recalled how, at the spout, Coxhill had barely recognised Wardle, too incensed about his damaged engine.

He clenched his fists in useless anger. “I hired them a closed box at the music hall. Laid on special trains for him. Got him a closed view of the Tunnel fête. It’s never enough, not for this boy. He wants it all. Wants to step out with the girl in public. No notion of repercussions. Having her in a Dublin barracks is one thing. Even Marlborough House, playing billiards with his cronies. But back here in Windsor! The Queen will never forgive him.”

“Sir, if his father died of typhoid, it’s hardly the boy’s fault.”

Wardle gave me a look. “Prince Albert travelled to Cambridgeshire, in ill-health, mind. He walked out in the cold, with no precaution for his health, he was that livid. Now it’s killed him.” Wardle slumped down on to a bench by the road. “Why couldn’t it be the youngster who slipped away? I sometimes believe in this damnable curse.”

I thought again of Jackman’s nonsensical rantings. It was as if Berwick Skelton was making himself the agent of the curse, softening up Bertie, in preparation to exacting his vengeance.

“I don’t think,” I said nervously, “that the Hungarian monk is the only one angry with the Saxe-Coburg clan, sir.”

“What’s that?”

I took a deep breath. “Why did you allow the spout to be hushed up?”

“What was there to know?”

“Weren’t you concerned he would do something else? Something worse?”

“Of course I’m concerned. Watchman, I’ve been a policeman since before you were born. You can’t be preventing crimes before they’re committed.” He sighed. “Say the prankster was the girl’s previous fellow. What should we do? Catch him? Air his grievances in a courtroom?”

I gritted my teeth, annoyed to see sense in his equivocal behaviour. “Why did you conceal all this from me?”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“I wasn’t to be trusted.”

“You were new, son. We had to wait and see.”

“What other secrets have you kept from me? Like this threat before the spout. Was there a threat before the Evans?”

“The Evans? Coincidence.”

“Come off it, sir. Bungled hydraulics, in a West End theatre?”

“It was a burst pipe.”

“I heard it was a spout. Bertie and Nellie in the box, by any chance, were they?”

“Who told you this?”

“Hester told me. And the other incidents? The Haymarket. The Embankment? The man seems able to conjure disasters wherever he feels like it.”

“Well, he won’t need to any more. Bertie’s well and truly warned off.” He turned away and sat heavily on a bench, gazing up at the castle, as if the thing was too much to think about. It made me feel ashamed to be haranguing him so.