The Darkest Walk of Crime (28 page)

“Why would anybody want to
murder the Queen?” Perhaps because he had lived all his adult life in a
disciplined and loyal service, Mendick could not comprehend such an idea.

“Listen.” Jennifer calmed
herself with a deep breath. “Maybe that’s the other part of the Chartist plan;
kill the Queen and form a Chartist republic? We can’t let that happen, James.”

“It wasn’t the Chartists who said
that,” Mendick explained. “It was Sir Robert Trafford and Rachel Scott. They
were planning to use the Chartists as cover for the murder.”

As the coach careened over the
appalling road, he told her everything he had heard. Jennifer listened, her
eyes nervous and her hands twisting together.

“The Queen and Germans and a
white horse?” She shook her head. “What can that mean, James?”

“I wish I knew,” Mendick said,
“but whatever it is, Sir Robert Trafford is in it up to his neck. He and
somebody called Ernie, or Uncle Ernest.”

Jennifer started back in her
seat and stared at him. “Ernie? Are you sure it was
Ernie
and a white
horse?”

“Yes! Maybe the man you saw back
there!” Mendick jerked his thumb behind him. “Maybe this Ernest fellow plans to
take over when the Chartists have toppled the government.”

“I’ll wager that he does,
although he won’t be riding any white horse at the head of a Chartist rising,
that’s for certain.” Jennifer was suddenly very calm.

Mendick frowned. “Do you know
who he is?”

“Oh yes.” Jennifer was quiet
again. “I know who Ernie is and where the white horse comes into it, and so do
you, if you would only think about it for a moment and forget about the
Chartists.”

“I don’t know any Ernie,”
Mendick said.

“You do. Ernest Augustus, the Duke
of
Cumberland
?” Jennifer’s voice rose in
exasperation as it became obvious that Mendick did not recognise the name. “You
must know him; he’s the Queen’s cousin, and he became the King of Hanover a few
years ago? The white horse is their royal symbol, and he was nearly our king!”

At last Mendick understood. “Oh,
him . . .”

“Exactly,” Jennifer said
meaningfully. “Him.”

“But I don’t see what he’s got to
do with the Chartists.” Mendick stared at her as he finally grasped the
terrible possibility. “Sweet God. Do you think that the King of Hanover is
planning to murder the Queen?”

There was a few moments silence
before Jennifer replied.

“It sounds like it; he wanted the
throne before
Victoria
was crowned, and he’s a queer
chum, a bad man; remember the death of his servant Joseph Sellis? They tried to
say it was suicide, but everybody knows that Ernest murdered him. Now he’s King
of Hanover, but
Great
Britain
is far
bigger, and far wealthier.”

Mendick whistled. As a police
officer in
London
he was used to dealing with all
the darker walks of crime. He had seen house-breakers and pickpockets,
confidence tricksters and drunkards, prostitutes, pimps and blaggards, and the
overwhelming majority had come from the lowest possible level of society. Like
everybody else, he knew that the upper classes had their own strange lives, but
they were so separate from him he had never taken any interest. Now he had to
consider the possibility that one of the highest in the land, a man of royal
blood, a king in his own right and a cousin of the Queen, might be planning
regicide. The thought was frightening for a newly created detective constable,
but the few facts that he knew all seemed to point to the same conclusion.

Ernest Augustus, the Duke of
Cumberland, was known to be an unpleasant man. At one time only his cousin
Victoria stood between him and the British crown, and it was no secret that he
hoped for power. It was also no secret that scandal clung to Ernest like a
second shadow, with sadism haunting his army career, rumours of incest tainting
his personal life and accusations that he murdered his valet, Joseph Sellis. If
he had already committed one murder, another, and one that would bring him
great advantage, was certainly not impossible.

The coincidence of the name,
Ernest, and the repeated mention of the white horse, the symbol of
Hanover
, was too marked to ignore. Mendick
ducked as a low branch nearly swept him from his perch.

“So where does Sir Robert fit in?
Why should he help a German king murder the Queen?”

Jennifer sighed. “Don’t you know
anything about the people that rule us? Don’t you take any interest in the
nobility and how they operate?”

“None at all,” Mendick admitted
frankly.

“Well, Sir Robert is mucked; he’s
a gambling man and has been cleaned out; the bailiff’s men are hammering at his
noble door. That’s no secret.”

“God yes! I’ve seen the papers! A
London
firm called Dobson and Bryce is
acting for his creditors . . .”

“Well, there you go then,”
Jennifer said. “Everybody knew he was short of readies when he discarded half
his staff. He even let me go.” She glanced at him. “I worked in the kitchen
there once.” She shrugged. “But that was in a different life.”

“Even so, what has Trafford’s
financial position got to do with
Hanover
?” Mendick tried to recall everything he had heard in Trafford Hall.
“When I first overheard Rachel Scott and Trafford, she was speaking in some
foreign language, and then she mentioned something about the Germans pulling
him out of a hole. She said that if he did what Uncle Ernie wanted, everything
would be fine. All he had to do was focus on the money.”

Jennifer nodded. “That’s clear
enough, then. Sir Robert needs the blunt to pay off his creditors, Ernest has
money but wants the British crown, so they’ve done a deal of some sort.’ She
ducked as another low branch brushed the roof of the coach. ‘I would say there
is no doubt Sir Robert is helping Ernest to murder the Queen.”

“Sweet Lord,” Mendick said.

Having seen the deprivation in the
industrial north, and having met men of the calibre of Armstrong and Monaghan,
he could understand the demands of the Chartists. They had reasons and some
validation for their actions, but there was no justification for a gentleman to
ally himself with a foreign monarch to assassinate the Queen. Such an action
was treason – purely selfish and diabolical.

Only a few moments ago he had
assumed that the darker walks of crime encompassed thieving, murder and
prostitution, but Sir Robert Trafford’s regicidal intentions eclipsed the worst
of them. Sir Robert was following the darkest walk of all.

“I thought that Armstrong was an
evil man,” Mendick said slowly, “but his actions are small beer compared to
this titled gentleman. Trafford and Ernest are pretending to befriend the
Chartists while they use them to create trouble and unsettle the nation. They
are using the Chartists to create a diversion, and when the army and the
Chartists are battling it out on the streets of
London
, they will send somebody to
Buckingham
Palace
to kill the Queen.” He was astonished at the enormity of
Trafford’s corruption.

“He is creating the possibility of
civil war, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of deaths and enormous
suffering, so he can pay his
gambling
debts.”

“He is a perfect and inveterate
scoundrel,” Jennifer agreed. “And whatever happens, the Chartists still lose,”
she sighed. “After all their efforts, after all these years, the common people
are still unheeded, only pawns in the hands of the rulers.” She looked up. “It
would be sad, if we did not know how unpleasant the Chartists can be.”

Remembering the sensation of
acceptance in the back room of the Beehive and again at the Christmas
festivities in Chartertown, Mendick looked away.

“Only some of the leaders are
unpleasant,” he said quietly. “I believe the majority are hard-working,
respectable people desperate to create a better world for their families. I
think they are far better people than Sir Robert or Ernest, King of Hanover
will ever be.”

“Perhaps that is the reason why
they will always be exploited.” Jennifer was equally quiet. “Perhaps the meek
inherit the earth, but first they must suffer.” She sighed. “Your decent people
will suffer most, James, if this civil war occurs.”

He nodded. “That’s for certain.
And if we have a murderer as king then God help the Chartists. He was a
martinet when he commanded the 15
^th
Hussars, flogging and picketing
without mercy. God only knows what he would do to perceived rebels; he would
destroy them, root and branch, once they have done their work.”

“He would devastate the industrial
areas of
Britain
,” Jennifer agreed. “Like William
the Conqueror did to the north or Ernest’s own namesake, the Duke of
Cumberland, did to the Scottish Highlands.”

They were quiet for a minute,
picturing the English Midlands and North under the brutal regime of a
Hanoverian tyrant, with military law imposed, Chartists hanging in their own
doorways and dragoons swinging their sabres against unarmed Radicals.

“We cannot allow that to happen,”
Mendick said.

“Whip up, James, and let’s get
moving.” Jennifer sat forward on the seat. “We have to get to
London
.”

The roads became busier the
further south they travelled, slowing the brougham to a crawl. Shaking his whip
at the cart in front, Mendick demanded passage, but the men who sat amidst its
heaped up straw only smiled slowly and waved to him.

“We’re going to London,” they
shouted, “to get the vote!”

“What?”

“We’re going to get the vote,”
the man repeated. “Mr O’Connor said so.”

It seemed like half of Britain
was travelling south. They were blocking the highways, tramping the roads and
even crossing the neatly enclosed fields in their desperation to join
O’Connor’s rally at Kennington Common.

Mendick recognised some of the
banners, the hopeful beehives on the calico Chartist flags. He saw an
embroidered harp, gold on green, in recognition of the Irish connection, while
other banners carried brave, defiant words. He saw a disciplined group of men
with the distinctive broad shoulders and small stature of miners marching
southward to London to demand democracy from a reluctant government.

“How many people are involved in
this movement?” He jerked his chin to indicate the long column of vehicles
inching southward, the determined men marching, the drays and carts and
carriages that jolted onwards with their mixed cargo of Chartists and dreams.
“Maybe even Ernest has underestimated the dragon he has unleashed.”

“A dragon of expectation.”
Jennifer sounded sober. “The people of the nation are trying to speak in the
only way they know how. God, don’t they understand that they don’t matter a
damn? Nobody cares for their hopes and aspirations! They are here to pay their
taxes and work for their rulers.
That’s
their only function in life.”

“Perhaps they do realise,”
Mendick said, “and that’s why they are uniting in such anger. They are
beginning to demand more.”

“Well,” Jennifer was frowning,
“they’ve chosen a fine time to do it. Tell them we must get past or they’ll
probably all be killed.”

“I doubt they’d listen to me,”
Mendick said, “but we’ll have to get in front of them somehow.”

“Let me try.” Jennifer faced
him, suddenly smiling. “I’m going to use your idea. What was the name of that
woman again? Scott?”

“Rachel Scott,” Mendick told
her. “But why?”

There was a sudden flash of spirit
in Jennifer’s eyes. “You’ll see, but I’ll have to get back inside the carriage
first.” She hesitated for a second. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” he said, “but . .
.”

“But trust me then, and pull
over for a moment.” Her grin was pure mischief. “And this time, all you have to
do is follow
my
lead!”

“As you wish.”

He waited as Jennifer leaped
from the seat and ducked back inside the coach. He regretted the time they
would lose but knew that the horse would welcome the rest, for it was visibly
flagging. She returned within five minutes and without as much as a
by-your-leave folded a shaped piece of red material on his head.

“I wear a scarlet flannel
petticoat,” she confided. “It’s a bit rough and ready, but it’ll do from a
distance.”

“I don’t understand,” Mendick
said, and Jennifer smiled.

“You said you would trust me.’

“I do,” he began, “but . . .”

“Then but me no buts,” Jennifer
told him. ‘Drive on slowly.”

Very aware that half of Jennifer’s
petticoat decorated his head, Mendick flicked the reins, and the coach lumbered
forward again. Beside him, Jennifer rose to her feet, with one hand holding
onto the top of the coach for balance and the other instinctively clutching her
bonnet. She raised her voice above the rumble of wheels and the slow padding of
hooves.

“Can you hear me? Fellow
Chartists! Can you hear me?”

One or two faces turned in her
direction, and one man nodded.

“You may have heard of me; I am
Rachel Scott, and this is Josiah Armstrong. You’ll know him from the scarlet
cap of liberty;
everybody
has heard of Josiah Armstrong!”