The Darkest Walk of Crime (15 page)

“It’s the times in which we
live, Robert. Everything’s changing, so we have to make sacrifices and
compromises.” She then said something Mendick did not catch.

“The Traffords have been here
for centuries, dammit. We’re part of the blood and bone of England, and now I’m
pandering to Radicals and . . .”

“Oh, Robert, there you go again.
Just think of the end result; think of the power you will have. Uncle Ernest
will be as much in your debt as you are in his. You might even be able to fly a
white horse yourself.”

Mendick was unsure if Trafford
was laughing or grunting as he walked up the stairs, but he remained still for
some minutes, pondering over their words. It made no sense that Rachel Scott
should be in Trafford Hall at all, yet alone that she should be speaking to
Trafford. Even more strange, why should she come to the house by coach, with
her own coachman, and dressed in such fashionable attire? And what were the
allusions to Germans and Ernie and a white horse?

Mendick shook his head; there
was a lot here that did not add up. He already knew there was a strong link
between the Chartists and Trafford, but where the mysterious Ernie came into
it, he could not imagine. It was obvious that Sir Robert Trafford was a central
figure, but how and why, was unclear.

Even more startling was Scott’s
chameleon-like ability to alter her accent depending on her company, and he
wondered if Monaghan knew about this nocturnal visit to Sir Robert. Obviously,
she was not just the factory hand she had claimed to be in the Beehive, but who
or what she was Mendick did not know. However, he suspected that some of the
answer lay within that carefully locked cellar. If he could get inside, he
might have some valuable information for Mr Smith, but that would mean
borrowing Trafford’s key.

Very aware of the night time
sounds in this ancient house, Mendick hugged the darkest shadows as he followed
the voices. Candlelight bobbed ahead of him as Trafford and Scott meandered
along the corridors, and Mendick followed as closely as he thought was safe.
Twice he had to duck into deep doorways as floorboards creaked alarmingly, but
in a building as old as this such things were to be expected and aroused no
suspicion from the couple ahead.

Scott seemed jumpy, though,
turning to look behind her on three separate occasions and Mendick kept further
back than he liked. Eventually Trafford unlocked the door of a room,
disappeared inside for a bare two minutes and reappeared.

“Now to more amenable pursuits,”
he said, and Scott laughed again, lifting her face to his.

“Oh, Sir Robert,” Her tone was
mocking. “You do like to live up to your reputation, don’t you?”

Gliding an arm around her waist,
Trafford whispered something which made her smile before he led her gently
away. As soon as the candlelight had faded along the corridor, Mendick tried
the door. The lock was simple, responding immediately to his stiletto, and he
slid inside.

Trafford’s library was large and
surprisingly modish with glass-fronted bookcases lining three walls and tall
windows taking up most of the fourth. There were only three pictures. One
showed Sir Robert as a young man in full hunting fig, the second was of a
young, stern-looking woman with blonde hair and direct blue eyes and the third
was a surprisingly cheap print of a distinguished-looking man on a white horse.

“The white horse,” Mendick said,
looking at the picture for inspiration. The man glowered belligerently down on
him, his whiskers neatly combed and his nose aristocratically curved. “So who
the hell are you?” He shrugged and turned away. “I doubt it matters very much.”

Faint light from the windows
revealed a roll-top desk standing proud with a brass candlestick on top and a
leather-bottomed chair squared underneath. Trafford had been in and out of the
room in two minutes flat meaning he must have thrown the key either on top of
the desk or in one of the drawers. It took just a second to scratch a Lucifer
from the box on the desk and apply it to the wick of the candle. Faint light
illuminated the room.

He carefully rolled the desk
open and was surprised to find it immaculately neat, with a brimming ink well,
a blotting pad and a selection of quill pens. A penknife sat at their side,
with the blade gleaming in the light of the candle.

There were three brass-handled
drawers; the first contained a box of cigars and a notepad, with a short
barrelled pistol placed carelessly on top; the second a small box of loose
change, a collection of pornographic prints showing plump blonde women in
various positions, a wash leather bag containing shaved dice and a pack of
well-used playing cards. The third was empty save for a map of Chartertown and
a folded document tied with a linen ribbon.

Holding the candle close, Mendick
unfolded the document and attempted to interpret what was obviously legal
jargon. He cursed and shook his head as candle wax dripped on the paper while
the single flame cast fitful shadows across the page. Neither his police nor
his army training had prepared him to decipher such terminology. Retrieving the
notepad from the top drawer, he dipped a pen in the inkwell and began to copy
the words, hoping to analyse the contents when he had more time.

It was tedious work, laced with
the anxiety that somebody might walk in. After fifteen minutes he thought he
heard voices outside the door. Shielding the light, he ducked behind the desk
with his heart hammering and one hand hovering on the revolver inside his
jacket.

The voices rose and fell, ending
in a laugh as they passed. He returned to his pen, dripping ink on the paper as
he scribbled.

“Sweet Lord,” he said, as the
import of the words gradually became clear. “Sweet Lord.”

The document was from Dobson and
Bryce, a firm of London solicitors, demanding that Sir Robert paid a large sum
of money that he owed to their client. If the monies were not paid, the
solicitors would take legal action, including seizing Sir Robert’s property and
lands, and if their sale did not realise a large enough sum in such depressed
times they would have Sir Robert thrown into a debtor’s prison until his
creditors were paid.

It seemed that the rich Tory
aristocrat of Trafford Hall had exceeded his income and was in the hands of
moneylenders. So how could a man in such a precarious fiscal position promise
help to the Chartists? He could hardly supply what he did not have and surely
would be too preoccupied with his own misfortune to be concerned about members
of the working classes. Suddenly the contents of the locked cellar increased in
importance.

Carefully replacing the
document, he closed the drawer. Only then did he notice the candlelight
reflecting off a small brass object beneath the desk.

“There you are,” he whispered,
and lifted the key. Dousing the flame, he cut a small piece from the candle and
trimmed the wax until he had a useable wick. Putting the miniature light in his
pocket together with two of Trafford’s Lucifers, he left the room and
negotiated the dark corridors, grasping at the wall for guidance as he fumbled
down the stairs.

The key opened the padlock to
the cellar in seconds, and he unravelled the chain before using his stiletto to
push back the lock of the door. The chamber was dark but the perfume of gun oil
was very familiar. He scratched a Lucifer on the wall and lit the wick of his
candle stump.

“Good God!” When the flame rose
he saw the walls were lined with long crates. Although most were securely
sealed, the one nearest to the door gaped open, and Mendick peered inside.

Having recognised the shape of
the crates, he was not surprised to see a dozen Brown Bess muskets, smoothly
greased and neatly packed in straw.

“Third model India Pattern,” he
told himself, lifting the topmost like it was an old friend. He cocked the gun
with the ease of long practice, sighted along the barrel and experimentally
squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the falling hammer
reawakened old memories. For a moment he was back in uniform amidst the
humidity and horror of China, but he shook away the image; that past was gone.
He remembered that Trafford had promised to find weapons for Armstrong but
wondered again how a man as deeply in debt could afford such expenditure for a
cause so far from his own interests. He smoothed his hand over the
thirty-nine-inch barrel; there seemed to be a great deal of mystery surrounding
Sir Robert Trafford and his friend Rachel Scott.

Replacing the musket, Mendick
moved around the cellar. There were many more crates of muskets augmented with
boxes of the lethal seventeen-inch bayonet used by the British Army. There were
also barrels of black gunpowder, boxes of lead shot and a single box of
long-barrelled pistols.

He swore. Training the unarmed
volunteers had seemed like play-acting; he had never expected them to possess
muskets. Now Trafford had enough firepower to equip half the population of
Lancashire, let alone a few score Chartists. He shook his head as he thought of
his eager, disciplined men marching through England, well armed and as full of
bitter hatred as a lifetime of repression could make them.

Scotland Yard had to know about
this development. He had to inform Mr Smith so the uprising could be halted
before it became deadly serious. He ran his eyes over the crates, calculating
the quantity of weapons, and wondered where they had come from. Unless there
was a very corrupt quartermaster at Horse Guards, they had not come from the
War Office, so they must have another source.

That thought was interesting for
there were not many manufacturers who would be able to mass-produce quality
muskets. As the candle began to gutter he scanned the crates for a factory
name, but they were plain wooden boxes with no distinguishing mark. In an age
of blatant commercialisation, the manufacturers had neglected to proclaim their
affiliation to the wares, which was nearly as mysterious as a debt-ridden
landowner aiding the Chartist cause.

The candle finally died, leaving
him in the dark. He sighed. He would send this intelligence tonight and let his
superiors worry about the meaning. With luck they might recall him back to
London where he did not have to share a cottage with a brainless giant and did
not have to be careful of everything that he said and did. He quietly blessed
the forethought of Sergeant Ogden in providing him with a clutch of pigeons to
carry messages. But first he would have to return the key.

By now he was familiar with the
layout of the house and hurried through the unlit passages, almost running up
the stairs and through the corridors. He was nearing the door of Trafford’s
library when he turned the last corner and walked straight into somebody soft
and pliable.

“Oh, my God!”

Mendick swore with the sudden
shock of collision, automatically putting out his hands. He felt the rounded
warmth of a woman’s body and started as her alarmed howl echoed around the
house.

“Who’s that? Mary, are you all
right?” A man’s voice sounded from further down the corridor, and Mendick
turned and ran.

“You! Stop!”

The accent was rough, a servant
rather than a master. Mendick cursed that he had not bluffed it out, but it was
too late now. He must have disturbed some clandestine romantic liaison and it
was just bad luck they were in the corridor at the same time as him.

“Stop! Thief!”

Mendick swore again, for those
words would rouse the house. He heard confused calls, the sound of opening
doors and saw the glimmer of a candle while dogs barked and the unknown woman
still screamed in alarm.

“Why is there all this
shouting?” There was authority in the voice, even through the blurring of
sleep.

“I thought I heard a noise, Mr
Sims, and I came to investigate. There’s a strange man in the house.”

“Some blasted thief no doubt!
Bring lights and we’ll soon have him by the heels!” Mendick thought the voice
belonged to the butler.

“You! Make sure nobody enters
the Master’s rooms! Oh God, why did this have to happen tonight when the Master
has company? Move quickly now!”

Mendick could see more candles
and hear the baying from what sounded like a mastiff.

“Keep that damned dog quiet or
Sir Robert will have our hides!”

Mendick dashed into a side
corridor feeling more like a hunted thief than a Scotland Yard officer. If he
were caught, he could hardly explain his presence by saying he was stealing
food for the neighbouring Chartists. He cursed and felt for the key. Trafford
was sure to miss it and would know that his secret was discovered; no casual
sneak thief would break into his library only to steal a key.

He would have to return to the
library.

“For the love of God, don’t
disturb the Master.”

Mendick heard the phrase
repeated as candles flickered along the corridors and soft-footed servants
peeped nervously into darkened rooms. Silently blessing his good fortune that
he had chosen a night when Trafford was busy with a woman, Mendick edged
cautiously forward, dodging into door recesses when servants came close,
padding along the echoing corridor whenever it seemed safe.

He heard voices as he approached
the library and saw a stout man standing outside holding a lantern in a shaking
hand. Mendick watched for a second, saw the man test the door handle nervously
before sighing audibly and walking away with the lantern casting erratic
shadows all around.

Easing forward, he slipped his
stiletto behind the lock and slid into the library, sliding shut the catch
behind him. Replacing the cellar key exactly where he had found it, he stepped
toward the door.

“What’s all the blasted
commotion in this house?”

 Mendick recognised the rich
tones of Trafford and froze as a strong hand rattled the door handle.