Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square by William Sutton Read Free Book Online Page A

clocktower. Ah!” he cried out, as if he had deciphered the Rosetta Stone. “Leg it to Charing Cross, grab a hansom on Waterloo Bridge, you’ll be there like the wind.”
    Leaving the dullard and his wind behind, I walked up Whitehall as in a dream. My Superintendent had sent me off with his blessing, as if he was expecting the summons. Glossop was crestfallen that I had been requested ahead of him. Now this Yard subaltern had recognised me. Was I to be part of it all, at last?
    I had been in London nine months without once crossing the river. From the hansom, I saw a London quite new to me. Fine buildings gleamed as far as the eye could see along the riverbanks; below them, ramshackle slums tumbled down to the turgid sludge.
    As we crossed the bridge, the stench was shocking. For a moment, I thought our horses had defecated, but it was worse than that. This was the notorious Stink. In the pale summer sun the water was filthy brown. Far below us, ill-clad children splashed in the shallow water: Josiah’s mudlarks, like little magpies in search of treasure. I could not help but imagine legions more, all struggling to get to the surface, suffocating in those treacherous shallows.
    Lambeth too was like an open sewer. We travelled slowly, crossing and recrossing roadworks, where teams of navvies seemed to be digging down to hell itself. I paid the fare grudgingly, fearing that Wardle would have long quit the scene of the crime.
    Inside the house of Charles Pearson, MP for Lambeth and solicitor for the Corporation of London, all was calm and peace. The portly housekeeper showed me into the drawing room, where a scene of quintessential English hospitality met my eyes.
    “Watchman,” said Wardle absently. “About time.” He sat hunched over in his overcoat, stranded in the middle of a chaise longue, clutching a cup of tea in both hands. It seemed the wrong moment to correct his misunderstanding of my name. “Go on, Mr Pearson.”
    The honourable gentleman turned back to his wife. “It’s hardly life and death, dearest, and I have pressing business with the Metropolitan.”
    “Charles, we have been burgled,” she said. “Most peculiarly burgled.”
    “My dearest, nothing has been taken. The servants would have noticed.”
    “But, Charles,” said Mrs Pearson in exasperation, “one of the servants may be the culprit.” She looked at Wardle tellingly.
    “Well,” Pearson wafted a hand in the air, “they’re servants, dearest. They have a right to steal from us.”
    “Do be serious, Charles.”
    “Better they steal from us who trust them than cause bother stealing from others.”
    “Really, Charles, one can be too flippant.” She sighed, but she clearly shared his affectionate indulgence for their servants. “We ought to call upon the City Police Force.”
    “Inspector,” said Pearson, “should we call the City Police?”
    Wardle grimaced, as if woken from a reverie. “With respect, sir, you might as well call upon the royal menagerie’s parrots.”
    I watched in a state of awe. Wardle smoothed out none of the northern roughness from his voice for these people, and yet he seemed to speak their language. He was anatomising the couple’s exchange, I was sure of it. He appeared impassive, but actually he was sifting it all for details overlooked, or suppressed.
    “You see, dearest?” Pearson sprang to his feet and reached for his briefcase.
    “One moment, sir.” Wardle held up a hand, half-rising.
    “My house has been burgled, Inspector,” Pearson interrupted charmingly, “I own it, I lament it, I rue it. But nothing has been taken, nobody has been hurt, and so–”
    “You are sure, sir, that absolutely nothing of import has been removed?”
    “You have something in mind, Inspector?”
    “Something less obvious.” Wardle affected a casual gesture. “Papers. Receipts.”
    Pearson considered. “My business work I keep at the office. Parliamentary documents at the House. The Metropolitan’s are