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

secure in this case.”
    Wardle frowned. “The underground scheme? Is that proceeding, sir?”
    “Proceeding apace, if I do say so myself.”
    “After twenty years of bargaining and begging,” added his wife.
    “We sank the first shaft in February,” said Pearson, eyes twinkling, “and already we have a mile of tunnel cut, and the New Road relaid on top of it – or the Euston Road or whatever they call it now.”
    “So,” Wardle nodded, “the devil is to have his own railway.”
    Pearson laughed. “They won’t call it the devil’s work when they get from the City to Paddington for tuppence. Picture a labourer who toils all day at the cattle market, say, then has to walk all the way home. It’s no wonder he beats his wife and terrorises his children. Don’t you think, once he travels in luxury, he may retain a little kindness to spread around the hearth?”
    “Of course, dear,” said Mrs Pearson. She had heard all this before.
    “There’s a moral side too. If they can afford bigger premises by living further out, then these operatives can have their bed in a different room from their children.” He coughed significantly. “I’m sorry to be beastly, dear, but these things must be spoken of.”
    Wardle gave no sign of being moved. “You anticipate profits?”
    “Profits? I anticipate mania. Buy property in the suburbs. Underground trains will redraw the map of London. Every city in the world will want them.”
    “And you’ll be digging up our roads for the next fifty years?”
    “On the contrary, Inspector, we will be open within the year. Unless we wait for the Prince Consort’s new Exhibition.”
    Mrs Pearson turned in my direction. “I still say it’s a pity they didn’t choose the high-level train. Gleaming bridges arching over the city. Think of the dramatic views.”
    “Through the smog, dearest.”
    “At night, then.”
    “Poor views, in the dark, dearest.”
    “But honestly, Charles, under the ground! The odour from the horses!”
    “They’re trains, dearest, not omnibuses.”
    “Sulphurous fumes, then. We shall be smothered. Why not put the filthy things on the streets?”
    “That will come, dearest,” said Pearson, struggling to maintain his good humour. “They’re laying rails on the streets next month, special omnibuses running in trammel lines. I’m pushing for one up the Kennington Road.” He coughed, suddenly gaunt, and leaned over to kiss his wife’s hair. “Really, I must fly. I am frightfully late already.”
    “Trains under the ground,” she sighed as he left. “My mother told me I was marrying a dreamer. Whatever next? They’ll be sailing to the moon, given half a chance.”
    Wardle set down his teacup and leant forward. “Mrs Pearson, we must establish exactly what has gone.”
    The housekeeper was called. Between the hours of eleven and six, without sign of forced entry, several bits of furniture had been moved around. A miniature “Tom Thumb” chair and footstool were missing, and a few coins from the kitchen jar. The housekeeper hesitated.
    “Spit it out, Mrs Laing,” said Mrs Pearson.
    Mrs Laing took a deep breath. “Happen as we’s found, Old Joseph, that is, being who found it, wrapped up in canvas by the mantelpiece clock, as has stopped, mind, what Old Joseph found there, that he’s put in the larder, madam, which I say ain’t right–”
    “Mrs Laing.”
    “It’s a bone, madam!”
    Wardle frowned.
    “Mrs Laing,” said Mrs Pearson, “please keep to the subject. The mantelpiece clock is hardly the inspector’s domain, and, heaven forfend, a bone! Pray what do you mean?”
    The housekeeper prayed indulgence that she meant what she said and she said what she meant.
    Wardle narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say it’s not right, putting it in the larder?”
    “I won’t make stock from it,” said the good woman. “I don’t know where it’s been.”
    “What I meant was,” Wardle continued gently, “what kind of bone is it?”
    “Oh,