The Darkest Walk of Crime (20 page)

Mendick shrugged. “Not really.”

A swallow of brandy fortified
him, the smooth spirit warming him against the malignant chill that emanated
from these people. They had calmly and brutally murdered an officer of the law
and were now speaking as if nothing untoward had happened. He took another
drink, closing his eyes in remembered pleasure.

“Oh, I think you are,” Scott
said softly.

Monaghan finished his brandy
with a quick jerk of his head. “Like the rest of us, Miss Scott, Mr Mendick is
only one individual fighting to restrain the excesses of the Whigs and to bring
work for all through reforms to the electoral systems.” Monaghan shook his head
as if bewildered that the authorities did not immediately accede to the demands
of the Chartists. “Is that too much to ask? To improve the lot of the people?”

“Revolutions are never easy.”
Scott barely sipped at her brandy. Her voice had softened in conjunction with
her eyes which never strayed from Mendick’s face.

By now the alcohol had entered
his bloodstream, relaxing him so he leaned back on his chair, stretching out
his legs as Monaghan smiled at him over the rim of his glass.

“As Miss Scott says, Mr Mendick;
you are an interesting man. I believe that we can trust you.” As he leaned
closer, the amiability hardened into something vicious. “Indeed I think we have
to trust each other now, for you are deeply involved. You have knowingly
trained men for a revolution, which is treason, and have participated in the
death of a police officer, which is murder.”

“I understand that, but you have
no need to distrust me. I am as dedicated to the Charter as you are.” Even a
single glass of brandy had made Mendick loquacious.

“Aye?” Armstrong raised his
skeletal face. “You were the Queen’s man once, and still you fomented mutiny.”

“And in doing so, proved his
loyalty to our cause,” Scott’s eyes still washed over Mendick.

“Even so,” Monaghan mused, “even
so.” He looked up. “You’ve done a good job so far; I feel sure that you will
continue. I would not be pleased if you were to revert to any earlier
loyalties.”

“I assure you, Mr Monaghan, I
only have one loyalty,’” Mendick told him.

Reaching for the decanter,
Monaghan refilled Mendick’s glass. “Let’s hope that it’s the right one, shall
we?”

The second brandy was even more
warming than the first, and Mendick felt himself mellowing, although the image
of Ogden being dragged to his death was horribly imprinted on his mind.

“It will be.” Scott was smiling
at him, and then she shook her head. “Oh, how I hate all this formality. We
have already dispensed with titles and ranks, so we should not need such things
as misters and misses. Mr Mendick, if you permit me, I will call you by your
given name, which is?”

“James.” With two glasses of
brandy inside him, he found it easy to return her smile. “And may I call you
Rachel?”

“I would be offended if you did
not!” She gave that strange, whooping laugh that he remembered from Trafford
Hall.

Mendick allowed Monaghan to
refill his glass once more. By now the brandy was an old friend, warming him as
it removed his reserve.

“Then Rachel it is, and Josiah?”
He raised his glass to Armstrong, who nodded coldly.

“Mr Armstrong will do nicely; as
will Mr Monaghan.”

“I see.” Mendick shrugged; he
knew that brandy affected his judgement, but it seemed that only Rachel was
friendly here, and he smiled to her again.

Monaghan was examining him as if
he was some strange creature dropped from the heavens.

“Are you certain that you were a
soldier, Mr Mendick?”

“Of course!” He lurched to his
feet, holding the brandy glass as if it were a weapon. He glared at Monaghan.
“What sort of damn-fool question is that?”

Monaghan smiled slowly, lifting
a placatory hand. “Now, now, there’s no need for that attitude. My point is
that you’re the first soldier I’ve met who can’t handle a mere three glasses of
spirits.”

“Handle three glasses?” Reaching
for the decanter, Mendick filled his glass to the brim, spilling brandy on to
the desk. “I can handle a hell of a lot more than three.”

“No, no.” Scott laid a soft hand
on his arm. “I do not think you are a drinking man, James.”

When Scott leaned closer her
face seemed to metamorphose into somebody entirely different until Mendick
imagined that his wife sat next to him, with that serene smile hiding her
mischievous nature and her husky laugh ready to tease him to distraction.

“I am all of that,” he said, but
he did not object when she gently removed the glass from his hand and replaced
it on the desk.

“Come on.” She was shaking her
head, a sister chiding her wayward brother, a mother her son. “You’re in no
state to travel, James. We’ll bed you down here for the night.” Her touch was
so gentle that he could not resist as she guided him into a small anteroom,
where a splendid red coverlet lay atop a single bed.

“Sleep tight.”

As Scott helped him remove his
outer clothing, Mendick allowed the brandy to drift him away to a place where Ogden’s
screams resounded through his mind and Emma was standing in the shadows,
shaking her head disapprovingly.

Lancashire: March
1848

“Have you heard the news?”
Armstrong eased himself out of the coach even before it halted. “It’s
revolution, red, raging revolution.”

 “What? Is the Queen still on
her throne? When did it start?” Mendick stared at him, suddenly feeling very
sick. He had been training his men in volley shooting, extolling the stopping
power of the Brown Bess musket while his mind raced over the mysteries that he
had yet to unravel. The arrival of Armstrong’s coach upset his entire parade;
the volunteers were crowding around listening to the news and raising
undisciplined cheers. He looked around, contemplating the chilling prospect of
his men facing the rolling volleys of regular British infantry.

“Not over here but on the Continent
– Naples, Palermo, Paris; the monarchs are tumbling like skittles.” Armstrong
grabbed his arm, jerking it like the handle of a water pump. “Our revolution is
going to happen, Mendick, and you and I are going to be right in the middle of
it. Just imagine, we can boast to our grandchildren of the day we toppled the
Whigs and established the Charter.”

“So it’s not happened yet.”
Mendick tried to calm Armstrong down, holding both thin shoulders. “We’ve not
had a revolution here.”

“Not yet,” Armstrong admitted,
“but soon. Monaghan has called a general meeting of all the delegates,
including you and me.”

“Where and when?” If he could
inform Scotland Yard about such a meeting, the police could pick up all the
Chartist leaders simultaneously and end any insurrection with a minimum of
violence. As he could no longer use the pigeons, he would have to slide away to
the railway station and get the next London-bound train.

“This afternoon, at Trafford
Hall.” Armstrong’s words ended any hopes of a swift resolution. “So come on,
Mendick, nearly everybody is already there; just you and I are missing.”

“Trafford Hall? Sir Robert’s
place?”

Armstrong’s wink revealed how
light-hearted he was feeling. “Why not?”

*

It felt strange to roll up to
the front door of Trafford Hall in Armstrong’s coach and to have a stony-faced
flunky open the door for him as if he were somebody important rather than a
masquerading police constable.

Feeling as apprehensive as he
had when approaching the walls of Amoy, Mendick stepped up the broad steps and
into a hall that had obviously been designed to impress. Fluted pillars soared
upwards from the marble floor to explode in Corinthian splendour on an ornate
ceiling. Between them, two crystal chandeliers swung low, their multitude of
sparkling lights amplified by mirrors that covered half the walls. Classical
sculpture added to the splendour, with an array of white marble deities
presiding from raised plinths.

The Chartist delegates appeared
ill at ease amidst such opulence; a few were affecting loud bravado, but others
were shrinking into the corners or standing with arms folded and faces
furrowed. Only Rachel Scott appeared relaxed as she contemplated the muscles
and manhood of Michelangelo’s David.

“A good copy,” she said.

Monaghan swept into the room,
puffing on a cheroot and wearing a very plush morning coat.

“This way, gentlemen.” He
indicated a side door and the entire gathering trailed through, some slouching,
others putting on a betraying swagger.

Monaghan took them through a
lancet arch door into a much simpler hall, a primitive chamber with a flagstone
floor and an oak-beamed ceiling. Great logs crackled in the huge fireplace as
servants set out rows of wooden benches for the convenience of the delegates.
Mendick found a space close enough to the wooden platform to hear what was
being said but far enough back to appear inconspicuous. He avoided Armstrong,
who sat right at the front, but was strangely disappointed that Scott walked
past him with hardly a glance.

“I won’t keep you long.” Monaghan
spoke so quietly that everybody had to strain to hear him. “We all have a great
deal to do. You will have heard about the revolutions taking place all across Europe,
and now it is our turn.”

They cheered at that, simple,
desperate men alongside the cynical and the cunning, the honest worker and the
devious politician, all ostensibly committed to the Chartist cause.

“You are all aware that Feargus
O’Connor has organised yet another petition and a massive march that will end
in a rally in Kennington Common in London. If Parliament accepts our five
points – only five, note, not six, for we are allowing them some leeway – then
we will have won.” Monaghan waited for the excited buzz to fade away before he
continued.

“But if they do not,” he said,
and his voice had a new edge to it, “if Parliament does
not
accept the
Charter, then it will be our time, brothers, and all our work here will be
needed. If Parliament ignores our demands, then we will be embarking on more
direct, and much more physical, action.”

This time the cheers were
shorter, ending in a general chant of “Tell us how” and “Name the hour” from a
small but vociferous group at the front of the meeting. Recognising Armstrong
as a prominent member of these men, Mendick reasoned that Monaghan had instructed
them on what to say and when to say it.

“We will take part in O’Connor’s
march and rally, so if the Charter is turned down, we will be in London and
ready to rise. We will gather in the Midlands and travel south in our units,
with our weapons carried in carts.”

The hiss and crackle of the fire
seemed a suitable backdrop as the delegates listened to Monaghan’s words.

“We will not make a Moscow of
Manchester, instead we will strike at the political and economic heart of this
nation; we will take over London and dictate our terms to our oppressors!”
Monaghan paused, allowing the audience to wait for the final words they knew he
would announce: “We will achieve the Charter!”

Strangely, the climax sounded
weak. Mendick had expected something more inspiring, but the Chartists still
erupted in spontaneous applause. Monaghan had to raise both arms to achieve
quiet.

“O’Connor’s rally at Kennington
Common is planned for the twelfth of April, so we will start to travel south a
fortnight before. That is only a few days away. Our brothers in London will
welcome us, and we will recruit them to our cause.”

April the twelfth. Mendick
closed his eyes. Now he knew the plan, and he knew the date. Monaghan intended
to infiltrate his Physical Force Chartists into what would otherwise be a
peaceful gathering, and if the government did not accept the Charter, he would
lead an uprising in London itself. It was very simple but could also be very
effective, with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of armed and trained men already
in position amidst a disgruntled and angry populace. The recent uprisings
across Europe had showed how easy it was to topple an unpopular government;
perhaps it was Great Britain’s turn next.

He tried to ignore the secondary
mystery of Scott’s Uncle Ernest and that teasing mention of a white horse. The
relationship between Scott and Trafford was unimportant compared to ensuring
that this attempted revolution did not go ahead. He would have to act like a
Chartist this afternoon. Later, he would slip away and return to London with
his information.

Standing up, Mendick cheered and
thrust his fist in the air to announce his approval of the plan to turn London
into a city of devastation and horror, with dead bodies in the gutters and
half-trained Chartists exchanging fire with the Brigade of Guards.

“We will achieve the Charter!”

Armstrong was beside him, hand
extended in comradeship.

“The day is announced, brother:
the day of our liberation!” He was grinning, his eyes brighter than Mendick had
ever seen. “The process will be painful, but picture the results: a full
franchise, full employment and equality.”

Taking his hand, Mendick shook
it vigorously, realising that all around him, men were doing the same. They
were cheering their own revolution before it had taken place, congratulating
themselves for initiating their own destruction. If he closed his eyes, he
could recall the sordid reality of that faraway war in China, the valour and
slaughter of the assault on the Bogue Forts, the rotting corpses, the shrieking
wounded, the row after row of the sick on their hammocks; did these people
really want that here? Did they have any idea what a civil war would do to the
country? And then he remembered the misery of the brick streets of Manchester,
the dripping cellars with their hopeless occupants, the dying children and
weeping mothers; did the moneyed classes understand what they were doing to the
country? Did they care, so long as it did not impinge on their own comfortable
lives?