The Darkest Walk of Crime (12 page)

“I might take your advice.”
Mendick slipped the stiletto inside his boot, feeling the steel cold and
criminal against his ankle.

“There’s also a bull’s-eye
lantern.” Ogden handed it over. “And lastly, there is this.” Slipping to a dark
corner of the shed, he returned with a wickerwork basket about two feet square.

“My lunch?” Mendick hazarded,
until Ogden opened the simple catch at the top revealing three pigeons.

“Your couriers,” he corrected,
grinning. “All you have to do is tie a message to one leg, throw them into the
air, and they fly to Whitehall. When there is a return message, the pigeon will
fly back here.”

“What?” Mendick stared at the
nearest bird. The same blue-grey colour as a normal pigeon, it was taller and
more slender, with a large cere above its beak. “What’s wrong with using the
telegraph?”

Since its invention ten years
previously, the telegraph had revolutionised communications across Britain,
with every main post office possessing the apparatus that could send a message
across the country in minutes. He had intended to use the telegraph to send his
intelligence to London.

“You can’t trust the operators,”
Ogden said quietly. “The Chartists have infiltrated the network. They have men
in just about every telegraph office between Glasgow and the Solent.”

Mendick glanced down at the
basket of pigeons. “Is it really that bad?”

“It is.”

He whistled. “These people are
more dangerous than I realised; Scotland Yard knows that there’s something
brewing up here, but if the Chartists control the telegraphs . . .” He stared
at the pigeons, realising that the musty smell and the rustlings both emanated
from this basket. “How will these beasts find their way?”

“They are specially trained.”
Ogden was obviously pleased at being able to educate the Scotland Yard man.
“People have been using pigeons to carry messages for thousands of years, and
mine are among the best, believe me,” he said. “Indeed, pigeon racing is
something of a speciality of mine. Unfortunately, the Chartists also
communicate by pigeon; that’s how they organise their rallies so competently.”

He gave precise instructions in
the elementary care and feeding of pigeons. “Do you have somewhere safe you can
keep them?”

Mendick shook his head. “I share
a cottage with a rather large Chartist,” he said, “and I’ll have to get back
soon or he’ll become very agitated.” The prospect of an angry Peter was not
pleasant. The prospect of Armstrong returning to find Peter loose was worse.

“Then you will have to keep them
in the basket and feed them daily,” Ogden said. “And hope that they’re not
closed in for long.” He looked doubtful at the thought of allowing his precious
birds into the care of an amateur, but finally relented. “I suppose it’ll be
all right,” he said. “You
are
from Scotland Yard.”

Mrs Ogden’s voice sounded
through the night.

“There’s tea for you both and a
nice hunk of bread and cheese for Mr Mendick, if that’s all right with you,
Nathaniel?” The papers in her hair made her look ridiculously domestic in a
setting of pepperpot revolvers and secret messages.

The table was carefully set with
a china teapot standing proudly on a fresh linen cloth and a candle stretching
tall from its brass holder.

“Thank you, dear.” Ogden drew
back a chair for his wife before sitting down himself. He said a few words of
grace as Mendick waited awkwardly, hoping he could escape quickly without
causing offence. While Mrs Ogden watched and ate nothing, her husband asked
questions, wanting to know how he had infiltrated himself and what his cover
story had been.

“I just told part of the truth,”
Mendick said, cautiously, “about my time in the army, but I said that I was
part of a Chartist group in the Indies.”

“Oh, do tell me more,” Mrs Ogden
asked, and glanced at Ogden, “if you agree, Nathaniel?”

“I do not.” Ogden held up his
hand. “I don’t think we should know too much.”

Jennifer nodded. “If you say so,
Nathaniel; you know best.” She bowed her head in submission.

After they had eaten, Mrs Ogden
excused herself. “I will retire now and leave you men to your duties. Come back
to bed whenever you are ready, Nathaniel, and Mr Mendick, it was good to make
your acquaintance.”

“Surely you don’t have to return
to the Chartists,” Ogden said, “if you have already gathered so much
information?”

The prospect of catching the
next train to London was so tempting that Mendick almost agreed, but he knew
that the job was not even half done yet. He had a few names and the address of
one meeting place, but when did they intend to act, and where? Would they march
on London, or set the north alight? Even more importantly, was there somebody
funding them, and if so, who was it?

He shook his head. “I have to go
back.” He was not foolish enough to believe there were only fifty men being
trained, but so far he had no proof there were any others. He would have to
return, sit out the danger and see what he could learn.

After the cosiness of the
Ogdens’ cottage, the night seemed unfriendly. Mendick crouched against the
wind, holding the basket close to his chest as he entered the woodland behind
Chartertown. Even using the bull’s-eye lantern it took him an hour to find a
suitably sheltered hollow in which to conceal the basket, and another ten
minutes of fumbling to tie his message to the leg of the first pigeon.

He watched the bird flutter into
the dark sky, its wings flickering for only a minute before it disappeared into
the night.

“God speed, little messenger.”

Suddenly he felt very alone; the
hour or so of domesticity had reminded him of Emma, and he sighed as he tramped
through the dark toward his cottage, with the pepperpot an unaccustomed weight
against his body and the stiletto uncomfortable in his boot. What would Emma
have thought about him carrying such things?

He was still wondering when the
heavy hand closed on his shoulder.

“So there you are!” Peter’s
voice grated in his ear.

Lancashire: December
1847

Mendick froze, wondering if he
should draw the revolver or stoop for the stiletto, but Peter’s next words
dispelled both ideas.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” he
said. “I thought that I had chased you away.” He thrust forward his hand in his
familiar, abrupt gesture of friendship. “I did not mean to hurt you; it was the
drink, and I wasn’t cheating, I promise.” He looked around at the trees, nearly
invisible against the pre-dawn dark.

“I don’t think you would cheat,
Peter,” Mendick reassured him. “It seems that you are just a better card player
than I am.” He took Peter’s hand again. “I had no desire to fight you either.”
He rubbed his arm, where a bruise was steadily spreading. “You’re a far better
fighter than I am too, and you looked so angry I thought that I had better stay
away for the night.”

Peter shook his head, repeating
his apology. “Please don’t tell Mr Armstrong what happened, James.” He was
trembling with genuine fear. “He’d put me in the black hole for days, he
would.”

“I won’t tell him anything,”
Mendick promised. “We’ll keep it between ourselves.” He looked curiously at
Peter’s muscles. “But Peter, why do you let him treat you like that? You could
kill him with one finger.”

Peter fidgeted uncomfortably.

“But it’s Mr Armstrong, I can’t
touch him; it’s not allowed. Besides, if I did, they’d lock me in the dark
again forever and ever, Mr Armstrong said, always in the dark, forever.” Just
the thought had brought a sheen of sweat to Peter’s forehead, and Mendick
nodded.

“I see. Well, Peter, you have
nothing to fear from me. I won’t say a thing, and I promise never to put you in
the black hole, or any other dark place.”

Peter looked at him with total
gratitude. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Mendick said. “Now,
I got myself lost running away from you, Peter, so I’ll need some sleep before
I start work again.”

“You can have the bed.” Peter
seemed genuinely pleased to make the offer. “But I didn’t cheat, Mr Mendick,
because we’re fellow Chartists.”

*

Armstrong appeared almost as
soon as Mendick's men were assembled on parade. “How are they?”

“Like nothing I have ever
trained before,” Mendick told him. “They’re as keen as mustard.”

“Are they ready to fight?”

“They’re willing to fight,
rather, but not yet ready. They need arms, and they’re weak as kittens. Unless
they’re better fed, they won't last an hour against regulars.”

“Weapons I can supply, but food
is hard to come by this season; agricultural depression, don’t you know.” The
sneer was obvious, and Mendick suddenly realised what was happening. Armstrong
was deliberately keeping his men on short rations so they would be desperate to
fight.

“As you wish, Mr Armstrong, but
even Boney said that an army marches on its stomach.”

“Aye, and look what happened to
him.” Limping away, Armstrong withdrew the bolts on the lockup door. “Out you
come, Peter. Your time is up.”

Mendick was surprised that Peter
had the sense to look terrified as he emerged, blinking in the grey light of
dawn. He looked at Armstrong like a rabbit at a circling stoat.

“Well, have you learned how to
drive?”

“Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter
augmented his words with a vigorous nod.

“I hope so.” Armstrong jerked a
thumb toward the assembled volunteers. “Now, Mr Mendick is here to train the
men in military matters,” he said, “nothing else. I do not want him to leave
Chartertown for any reason whatever, and if he does, I’ll lock you in the black
hole for a week. You keep him safe and secure, Peter; do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr Armstrong.” The
prize-fighter nodded, eager to please. “He’ll be safe with me.” He glanced at
Mendick. “We’re both fellow Chartists.”

“That’s it Peter, fellow
Chartists all, and we must stick together, mustn’t we?” Armstrong waited for
the nod of agreement before continuing, “Well, you stick to him like two peas in
a pod.”

“I’m sure we can have
interesting political conversations together,” Mendick said, searching in vain
for a spark of intelligence behind Peter’s dull eyes.

“Fellow Chartists, all.” Peter
repeated the words as if they were a mantra.

“You remember that, Peter. I’m
relying on you.”

“Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter was
nearly glowing with embarrassed pride when Armstrong hunched away.

“He didn’t find out, and he’s
relying on me.” He looked curiously at Mendick for a second, with his face
screwed up in puzzlement. “You didn’t tell him.”

“Of course not; we’re friends.”
Mendick held Peter’s dull eyes. “You could have killed me last night, Peter,
but you did not. I challenged you to fight, remember, and you went very easy on
me.”

Peter shook his head. “You still
didn’t tell him.”

“Well, it’s too late now, and I
hope that you don’t object.”

Shaking his head, Peter backed
away, but his forehead was creased, as if his slow brain was struggling with a
new problem, and twice Mendick caught the prize-fighter’s puzzled eyes on him.
However, Peter was a minor worry; far more important was the passage of his
message to London. For a moment he pictured the pigeon fluttering over the damp
fields and through the filthy smoke of industrial England, and wondered that so
much depended on such a vulnerable little creature.

*

“We can’t play cards tonight.”
Peter sounded disappointed. “You’ll be all alone.”

“Oh? Why is that, Peter?” After
a week of Peter’s company, Mendick hid his delight at the prospect of an
evening to himself.

“Mr Armstrong needs me. I’m to
drive him to meet somebody important.”

“Oh?” Mendick tried to appear
disappointed. “When are you going?”

“We’re going now,” Peter said.
He pointed to the stable lad who had obviously delivered the message. “So
you’ll be alone all night.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mendick told
him, “but you drive carefully, or he’ll put you back in the black hole.”

For a moment there was dread in
Peter’s face, but he recovered quickly. “I’ll drive carefully,” he promised.

Following Peter to the stables,
Mendick kept in the shadow of the trees as Armstrong lifted himself on board
the blue and yellow coach, and then he trotted in their wake. His first idea
had been to follow from a distance, but he decided that it would be easier to
hitch a lift. Perhaps Peter’s ‘somebody important’ was the man who financed the
Chartists. If so, he could find out tonight and catch the first train back to
London tomorrow.

Waiting until the coach jolted
over the first ruts, he hauled himself on to the luggage step at the rear, holding
on to the rail with both hands and relying on the mudguards to protect him from
the worst of the dirt kicked up by the wheels. He knew that if he crouched low
he would be safe from observation, for there was no rear window, while Peter
was far too fearful to take his eyes off the road.

The coach jolted over the
atrocious tracks for half an hour before turning left between a pair of stone
pillars and grinding on to a smooth gravel road. With his arm muscles screaming
in protest and his face and body spattered by mud, Mendick tried to see where
he was. Lamps pooled yellow light onto a manicured lawn surrounded by
flowerbeds, so they were within the grounds of a large property. As the coach
slowed further, he guessed that they were nearing their destination, dropped
off and quickly rolled away into the darkness.

He watched as Peter turned the
brougham in a tight circle to halt beside the front door of an impressively
elaborate lodge house. Lights glowed behind Venetian windows that flanked a
columned door while the roof rose behind a castellated parapet. The door opened
the moment the carriage halted.