Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  “One word from you or your son and I will have no hesitation in going to the police and to the newspapers. I think your son’s chances of being elected an MP may subsequently be rather less than you both hoped.”

  He folds his arms, staring Barnes Baker down, daring him to respond.

  “I think we are done here,” he says in a voice that could cut teak. “The ring has been returned to your son, with a letter explaining how things stand. I do not expect to hear any more on this matter. If I do, you both know what the consequences will be. Do not put me to the test, Barnes Baker. I am used to cutting out diseased limbs. It would give me no greater pleasure than to excise you and your rotten offspring from London society forever.”

  Having thus successfully delivered his parting shot, Lawton spins on his heel and marches out, his head held high.

  ****

  Persiflage and Waxwing are not so much marching home as dawdling. This is partly because the press of other homeward people on the pavements prevents any speedy progress. It is also because Waxwing keeps stopping to look in the windows of various clothes shops, where the new summer attire is temptingly displayed.

  “I do like that straw hat,” he says, peering into a hatter’s. “Look Edwin - it has a curly brim.”

  I’ll curly brim you one of these days, Persiflage thinks darkly, rolling his eyes.

  Since the incident of his birthday, Waxwing has ceased to offer his fellow clerk the deference and homage that Persiflage feels is his due as instigator and founder of the Hind Street Anarchists.

  Even when Persiflage outlined his plan for the Big Boom, with accompanying escape map, courtesy of the guileless Millie-girl, Waxwing seemed less than overwhelmed with admiration.

  Muller, now, Muller - Persiflage was pleased with his response. Muller is the coming man. Waxwing is rapidly becoming disposable. In fact, Persiflage’s intention is to make the thought an act: Waxwing will be the one chosen to remain in situ to light the fuse and it is in Persiflge’s mind to make it a very short one.

  The man is becoming a liability - his drinking habits are an embarrassment. And when drunk, he is loud and boastful. It won’t be long before he spills the beans on the Hind Street Anarchists. To have got so far and then to be stopped in his mission by a stupid drunken oaf is unthinkable.

  The two clerks dart across the busy road and venture into the quieter streets that lead to their lodgings. They pause to buy a heel of cheese, a loaf of bread and some bruised apples for their supper.

  “Are you coming out tonight? Eddy?” Waxwing asks.

  Persiflage quells him with a look.

  “I have no time for ‘coming out’ as you put it. I have plans to finalise, Danton. Fine tuning and such like. The Big Boom must run like clockwork. Not that I expect you to understand.”

  Waxwing studies his shiny boots as they walk abreast towards the chemist’s.

  “Um ... about this Saturday, Danton. I was wondering ...”

  But Persiflage will never know what his co-conspirator is wondering, for barely are they in sight of the shop when a first-floor window is flung open and Muller’s head appears in the gap.

  “Run!” he shouts, “Ze police are here!”

  Waxwing freezes, like a rabbit caught in the coach lights, as a couple of burly police officers suddenly detach themselves from a doorway and race towards them. A third man starts beating on the shop door, yelling to Muller to open up at once.

  Persiflage takes to his heels. As he dodges round the corner, he hears the sound of boots on the pavement behind him and voices shouting at him to stop in the name of the law.

  But Persiflage does not stop. He keeps on running. And the boots keep on sounding and the voices calling for him to stop keep on calling. And then it begins to rain.

  ****

  Inspector Greig sits behind a desk in one of the Bow Street interview rooms. In front of him is Danton Waxwing and a long evening.

  “So, let us begin at the beginning once more, Mr Waxwing. What do you know about the explosion that took place at number 18 Hind Street?” he says patiently, for the third time of asking.

  “Nothing. I know nothing,” Waxwing repeats woodenly.

  “Are you going to deny living there?”

  “I deny living there.”

  “And your friend Mr Persiflage? Did he live there?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Do you also deny any knowledge of Mr Georg Muller?”

  Waxwing blinks.

  “Who is he?”

  Greig sighs deeply.

  “He is the man you rent from. The one who tipped you off that the police were waiting for you. So, let’s try again: do you know Mr Georg Muller?”

  Waxwing studies the ceiling for some time as if it contains the answer to this perplexing question.

  “I don’t know,” he ventures at last.

  It is like wading through treacle, blindfold, in the dark, Greig thinks disgustedly. And he is running out of patience. What he first put down to a stupidity habit is now looking progressively like low cunning. If the clerk admits nothing, there is nothing they can hold him for.

  Greig has already sent a constable hotfoot to Scotland Yard with a note summoning Detective Inspector Stride. In the interim until Stride arrives, he must keep up the pressure on the suspect.

  “So,” he says, sitting back and folding his arms behind his head. “If I were to tell you that Mr Muller has confessed to knowing both you and your friend Mr Persiflage very well, what would you say in reply?”

  Waxwing adopts an expression tantamount to imbecility and shakes his head.

  “Why did your friend run away?” Greig persists.

  Waxwing shrugs in an ‘am-I-my-brother’s-keeper’ sort of way.

  “So, you aren’t denying that he is your friend?”

  “Who?”

  Greig reminds himself that he is a man of principle and beating up people who have not (yet) been accused of any crime is not only barbaric but morally unacceptable. Though tempting. He stares at Waxwing, who refuses to meet his eye.

  There is a knock at the door.

  Finally, he thinks.

  He rises to his feet and hurries across to usher Stride into the room. But it is not Stride. Instead Sergeant Ben Hacket stands outside the door. In his hand is a small green covered notebook.

  “Found at the premises,” he says, handing it over to Greig.

  Greig returns to his desk, holding the book. As he peruses it, there is a gasp from the suspect. He glances up. All the colour has suddenly drained from Waxwing’s face and his expression has changed from village idiot to blind panic.

  Greig lays the book down on the desk, open at the last entry.

  “So, Mr Waxwing, what can you tell me about the Hind Street Anarchists? In particular I’d like to know about a meeting that took place on June the fourteenth, where the following people were present: Mr Danton Waxwing, Mr Edwin Persiflage and Mr Georg Muller. The topic under discussion was the placing of an explosive device in the cellars under the Palace of Westminster.”

  He leans forward slowly, cupping his chin in his hands, and waits for Waxwing to answer.

  “Look, it was nothing. It is nothing,” Waxwing blusters. “Just a joke, that’s all. A bit of a lark. We were only mucking about. It doesn’t mean we were actually going to do it.”

  He swallows, meets Greig’s gaze and drops his eyes despairingly to his bunched fists.

  ****

  Meanwhile Persiflage continues running, pushing people out of his way, ducking and diving between carriages and drays. He is an outlaw. A fugitive from the law. He is almost enjoying himself.

  This is what he craves, the raw naked excitement of taking control, of making things happen. Finally, he is the centre of attention.

  He dodges down a footstreet, the houses on either side reduced to piles of rubble hidden behind hoardings. At the end of the street he sees a tunnel. It is the entrance to one of the sewers. To Persiflage however, it presents
an opportunity to evade his pursuers, albeit temporarily.

  He enters the brick archway and leans against the wall, his breath ripping out in rags. He is standing at the head of one of the labyrinthine crumbling brick-lined tunnels that transport London’s rivers and London’s waste down to the Thames, where filthy beggar children comb the mud under its mouth.

  The dreary passageways wonder for miles under the city. Persiflage hears the sound of shallow water lapping below him at the base of some brick steps. Then he hears men shouting his name. A dog barks. Footsteps are coming closer to his hiding place. Holding on to the wall, he descends the slimy steps.

  The water is around his ankles. Far ahead the tide is coming in and it is a late Spring tide, unusually high for the time of year. Persiflage, however, does not know this. He is only aware of the shouts at his back and the need to evade capture at all costs. He walks on into the darkness.

  Gradually he loses all sense of time. He could be anywhere. Every now and then he hears noises overhead from the concourse of London streets. He can even hear people talking. In his tortured imagination, they all seem to be calling his name. Occasionally he glimpses a glimmer of light from a grating above.

  All the while the water is rapidly rising. It reaches his knees. Persiflage turns, but he is unable to work out how to return. The darkness is absolute. There are no distinguishing marks to help him find a way back. The water rises to his hips.

  Persiflage has no sense of direction any more. He is utterly cut off from the world above, lost deep under the city. The water reaches his chest. He starts swimming, the foul air hurting his lungs. The water is at his throat; it covers his mouth. He closes his eyes.

  ****

  Dinner is over at the Simpkins residence, but there is still no sign of the master of the house. Letitia has rechecked the note: it said he would be ‘late’; it did not stipulate how late he would be. She asks the cook to put a plate in the warming oven for him. Then tells her to make that two plates, just in case.

  The evening wears on. Rain falls, painting the pavements so that the street lights are in pieces on the ground. For something to do to pass the time until bed, Letitia decides to start studying the English history paper, even though she knows she is unlikely to sit it.

  The syllabus focuses on the century from 1715 to 1815, ending at the Battle of Waterloo. It all seems such a very long time ago. But then, last week seemed a very long time ago, she reminds herself.

  Last week, she lost her best friend for telling her the truth. Now that same truth has regained her friendship once more, but too late to make any difference to the future, as she’d explained to a tearful Daisy once the stammered apology had been warmly accepted.

  Letitia listens to the rain stuttering against her window. Reconciliation with Daisy has been the one positive thing in her life. At least she will be able to write to her from Harrogate, if she is permitted. Maybe visit occasionally.

  Evening turns into night, a dark and stormy one and still her father does not come. Finally, when she can keep her eyes open no longer, Letitia blows out her candle and retires to bed.

  She is awoken some hours later by a loud crash. Heart racing, she sits bolt upright, groping for the candle and box of lucifers. Lightning flashes stitch the sky as she cautiously tiptoes her way across the room to the door.

  Letitia hears noises on the stairs, stifled female laughter, her father’s slurred voice, the sound of a loud smacking kiss. Shocked to the core of her being, she stands by the door, her mind picturing the scene just feet away.

  Her father’s bedroom door opens, then closes. After a few seconds, Letitia ventures out onto the landing. She can see light under the door, hear muffled sounds. Sick at heart she turns and scurries back to her own room.

  She had always suspected there was a relationship of some sort between her father and Mrs Briscoe; she had even joked about it to Daisy, but to be suddenly faced with the brutal reality is like a body blow.

  So soon after Mama’s death, she thinks. So wrong on every level. And what will the twins make of it? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Letitia lies awake listening to the summer storm raging outside and the clock ticking in the corner while the unrelenting awfulness of what is taking place slowly seeps into her soul.

  ****

  The engineer wakes in the centre of a dream that is no dream, a nightmare that is no nightmare. The screams breaking from him are his own screams. He flails with the bedclothes, pushing them off his body as if they are burning embers.

  Semi-awake, the engineer falls out of bed, crawls to the window, heaves himself upright and leans out. The rain has stopped and the moon is high in a sky as black as his thoughts. Street lights turn the surrounding city into a network of silver lines and shadows.

  The engineer takes deep breaths of rain-laced air while his mind tries to reassemble the fractured jigsaw of his thoughts. There has been a letter from Mr Joseph Bazalgette. At least, he thinks it was from him. There has definitely been a letter.

  The surgeon whose name escapes him has told him that he is to move to another place. It will be all right. He has spent the evening sorting through his many drawings in case Mr Bazalgette wants to see them when he arrives.

  Tonight, after his supper, he went and sat on the top step of the landing, waiting for his beloved Angel to appear. When she finally came, she looked happier than he had seen her look for many days. She glanced up and smiled shyly at him.

  He remembers her smile. He pictures it now as he sits down in his chair, pulling a piece of paper towards him. He does not need to turn on the light; he knows the contours of her face so well that he can draw her by the light of the moon.

  The engineer experiences that old familiar feeling of rising energy bordering on madness. He knows it will be succeeded by a peculiar glass-clear sense of clarity. When he arrives at the new place, he will show Mr Bazalgette the drawing he has made. He will explain about his Angel. He is sure the great man will be interested. He draws on.

  ****

  Morning is already establishing itself by the time Letitia Simpkins creeps down to the kitchen. She has woken up late. She has not woken up in any happier frame of mind either. Pausing at the top of the steps, she hears raised female voices coming from below. It seems that a massive row is taking place between Mrs Briscoe and the cook.

  “You can’t give me orders,” she hears the cook declare. “You ain’t my employer.”

  “In the absence of your employer, you take your orders from me,” Mrs Briscoe says coldly.

  “I take my orders from Miss Letitia. Always have done ever since her Ma - God rest her soul - passed on. You ain’t nobody round here.”

  There is a harsh indrawing of breath.

  “You will do what I tell you or you will live to regret it, my good woman,” Mrs Briscoe says, venom etching every syllable.

  “No, I won’t. Coz why? Coz I ain’t going to stay here to be ordered about by the like of you - whoever you think you are. Soon as I’ve washed these pots, I’m off. You can find some other mug to cook your dinners and put up with your carping and criticising. And I’m not your ‘good woman’. Never was, never will be, and that’s you told!”

  “If you go, you leave without a character. My fiancée will not write a word of recommendation, I shall make very sure of that.”

  Letitia claps her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. Surely she has not heard aright? Her father and Mrs Briscoe cannot be engaged to be married?

  She hears the cook laugh harshly.

  “Fiancée? So that’s the way of it, is it? Well, good luck to you. I wouldn’t be married to the likes of him if he was the last man alive on earth.”

  “You. Leave. Now!” Mrs Briscoe hisses.

  “I’m going. Believe me. Only person I feel sorry for is Miss Letitia. She’s worth a hundred of you and him, nasty piece of work that he is. I could tell you things about him. But I ain’t going to. You’ll find out soon enough and serve you right.”

&nb
sp; There is the sound of someone moving around and throwing things into a basket. The area door opens, then slams shut. Letitia is just puzzling over the final part of the exchange when Mrs Briscoe’s heavy tread is heard coming up the stairs.

  “You? What are you doing skulking here?” she demands roughly, then when Letitia does not reply, “Go and bring your brothers their hot water. And then you can start on their breakfast.”

  “Where is father?” Letitia asks.

  “He is arranging train tickets for Saturday, when we will be leaving London for good.”

  “Saturday - so soon?” Letitia cries in dismay.

  Mrs Briscoe stares at her malevolently.

  “Oh, YOU won’t be coming with us,” she says.

  Letitia’s heart leaps.

  “I am to stay in London?”

  “Hardly. You will be going as live-in companion to an elderly aunt of mine. She is bedridden and owns an isolated house by the Yorkshire moors, so she struggles to get servants. Finally, you will be of some use instead of idling your life away in frivolous pursuits. Now get on with what I told you - your brothers need to rise and begin sorting their things. There is little time to waste. Go!”

  She thrusts out her arm, pushing Letitia towards the stairs.

  Letitia grabs the handrail to stop herself falling head over heels straight into the kitchen. As she steadies herself, she catches the look of scorn and triumph in Mrs Briscoe’s eyes.

  Pinching her lips together, Letitia descends to the kitchen, where she sinks into one of the worn Windsor chairs. The revelation of what has been planned for her future has left her shaken to the core.

  She simply cannot go as a companion to some ghastly relative of Mrs Briscoe, to be harried and bullied for years and years. She must find some way to get her father to change his mind. But how is that to be managed in three days?