The Darkest Walk of Crime (31 page)

All the time, the coach kept easy
pace a few yards behind. Reeling from exhaustion, Mendick pulled Jennifer
close, leaned against the corner of the White Swan public house and looked back
down the Highway. Amidst the scores of women and their maritime companions, the
brougham looked an obvious interloper. Peter pulled it up and dismounted,
helping Armstrong down to the street.

“That man,” Armstrong pointed an
accusing finger, “is a police spy! Don’t let him escape!”

While most of the denizens of
the Highway completely ignored his words, some began to watch, and a few even
supported Armstrong, either by shouting insults or by moving towards Mendick.

“We’ll have to split up,”
Mendick decided quickly. “Armstrong’s not interested in you; it’s me he wants.
Get to Scotland Yard.” He backed against the wall of the pub.

“Which way?” Jennifer glanced
around the Highway. “Which way do I go?”

“That way.” He gave her a gentle
push. “Run, Jennifer, and warn them. Somebody’s got to.”

After a few seconds hesitation,
Jennifer nodded. She looked utterly wearied, with sweat having drawn great
scores down her dust-smeared face, her hat hanging by its pin and her feet
dragging on the ground.

“You run too.”

“Go!” Mendick ordered. “I’ll
slow them down.”

Armstrong advanced toward him,
Peter a giant shadow at his back. Jennifer began to move, slowly at first, but
as she realised there was no pursuit, she hitched up her skirt and ran, hardly
glancing over her shoulder.

“Well, Josiah, it’s just you, me
and Peter.”

Mendick glanced around for a
weapon but found nothing. Keeping his back to the wall, he slid his left foot
forward and prepared to fight. He knew he could take Armstrong without much
difficulty, but Peter was far too powerful for him. Nevertheless, he had to try.
If he delayed them for even two minutes, Jennifer had a chance to warn
Inspector Field. And himself? He hid his shrug; Emma would be waiting for him.

“Come on, you bastard!” He
beckoned Armstrong closer. “You’re too stupid to realise that Trafford is just
using you, Monaghan and the whole Chartist network!” He raised his voice,
taunting Armstrong into losing his temper so he might rush forward to easy
destruction. “Don’t you realise that he’s teamed up with Rachel Scott in an
attempt to murder the Queen?”

Armstrong frowned and reached
inside his pocket for the pistol. “What the hell are you talking about, Peeler?
You’re a bloody liar!”

“No lies, Armstrong, just God’s
own truth that killing me won’t cure.” Mendick noticed that an appreciable
crowd was gathering, some listening, others already discussing his words.

“Your friend Scott’s betraying
you from Sunday to Christmas, pounding the mattress with Trafford and planning
to put some tin-pot Hanoverian on the throne. She’s a traitor, Armstrong, and
you’re a bloody fool to listen to her!”

“You lying bastard!”

Pulling back the hammer of his
pistol, Armstrong aimed directly at his face. Mendick had expected this and
rolled forward under the muzzle, kicking out with his right heel. He felt the
satisfying thrill of contact and straightened up, weaving to avoid Peter's
inevitable counterattack.

Armstrong’s arm was down, the
gun pointing to the ground as he clutched his knee, but the acid returned to
his eyes as he adjusted his aim. Mendick saw the flare from the right muzzle
and felt the scalding wind from the shot hiss past his ribs. He dropped down,
twisted, swivelled on his hip to sweep his right leg in a half circle and
kicked at the back of Armstrong’s knees.

Armstrong fell at once, roaring
away his agony as he landed on his damaged back. Rising quickly, Mendick
smashed his heel onto the Chartist’s wrist, hearing the bone crack as he
twisted his foot hard.

“That’s for Sergeant Ogden!” He
dived for the pistol, just as Peter’s massive foot clamped down on it.

“Peter!”

The giant looked up and then
gave a sudden yell and grabbed at his leg, lifting his foot high in the air.

“Thanks, Peter.” That was
Jennifer’s voice. She scooped up the pistol and tossed it to Mendick. “Here,
James. Back, you!” She jabbed at Peter with her hatpin for a second time.

Mendick scrabbled for the
pistol. “I told you to run!” he shouted.

“You’ve no right to tell me to
do anything!” she responded. Mendick realised that Peter had recovered and was
moving toward him. He lifted the pistol grateful it had twin barrels though
wishing it was his pepperpot revolver. One ball might not be enough for a man
the size of Peter.

“James . . .” Peter had his arms
extended, hands open. “Don’t shoot me! Fellow Chartists all?”

“Fellow Chartists all,” Mendick
confirmed, grateful Peter had not destroyed him when he was busy with
Armstrong.

He noticed the Ratcliff crowd
was still watching, but not a single person had moved when the pistol had
fired. Murder was part and parcel of the day’s entertainment along the Highway,
and the identity of the victim was immaterial.

“Is he dead?” Peter looked down
at Armstrong, who was writhing on the ground, nursing the agony of his injured
back and wrist.

Mendick shook his head. “Would
you want him dead?”

“Yes,” Peter said, “then he
could not put me in the black hole again.” He looked up, his eyes narrow and a
frown of intense concentration on his face. “I could kill him now.”

“You don’t have to kill him,
Peter,” Jennifer said, “but you don’t have to do his bidding either. Why don’t
you just run away and get a different job? This is London. There is plenty of
work here.”

Peter screwed up his face as if
he were considering such a novel idea. “I’m going to run away,” he decided, and
the frown disappeared in a smile. “I’m going to run away from Mr Armstrong and
find a different job.”

He glanced at Mendick, as if for
approval, held out his hand, appeared to change his mind and turned aside.
Peter stepped over Armstrong, then moved off, his initial short, hesitant
strides quickly altering to a light, loping stride.

“Good luck, Peter,” Mendick
called, amazed how the situation had changed in a few seconds. He knelt down
beside Armstrong. “Listen, Josiah. You’re a murdering savage, but I honestly
believe there is still some good within you. I think that you do care for the
working people. Get on your feet.”

When Armstrong shook his head,
Mendick hauled him upright, ignoring his protests.

“For Christ’s sake, you can’t
send me back to Van Diemen’s Land!”

“I certainly can’t leave you
alone to raise rebellion. You’re under arrest, Armstrong.”

There was no weight in the man,
and not a single person tried to stop Mendick as he dragged Armstrong along.
After being chased half the length of England, it felt good to be back in
charge.

“We’ll drop him off at Scotland
Yard,” he told Jennifer, “and Scotland Yard is exactly where you should be now,
rather than endangering yourself along the Highway.”

Jennifer gave a sweet smile as
she replaced her hatpin in her hair. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re a spunky little thing,
aren’t you,” Mendick said sourly. “That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

“I knew this hatpin would come
in handy,” Jennifer told him, “but I thought I would be sticking it in you, not
some great ox of a Chartist.”

“Speaking of such,” Mendick
reminded her, “we’d better disguise our companion. Somebody might recognise
him.” He removed his coat and threw it over Armstrong’s head before he
continued dragging him along.

There were more Chartists in the
streets, some gathering beneath their green banners, others spilling out from
gin palaces or beer shops, singing stirring songs and eyeing the uniformed
policemen with obvious dislike. A few carried makeshift pikes, while one
smallish man wore an iron breastplate, as if expecting an attack by Cavaliers
rather than the metropolitan constabulary. The tension from the industrial
north had been transported south; London would be the cockpit of the struggle
when decades of repression came to a bloody head amidst the ancient streets and
graceful squares of the capital.

“Not far now.” Mendick looked at
Jennifer as they turned the corner into Whitehall. She was weary and
travel-stained, her dress splashed from the stable. “But I think we should have
cleaned up before we meet Inspector Field.”

It was strange that he included
her in his plans. He had always kept his private life and his duty apart before
but now . . . he shook his head; Jennifer was part of his duty. He knew her
only because of her husband, and once this situation was resolved, he would
never see her again. Yet, paradoxically, he felt close to her at that moment,
as if their adventures in the brougham had created a bond between them.

“Cleaned up?” Jennifer asked.
“Why?” Her face was red with exertion, her hair a tumbled net across her face.

When she smiled at, him he
realised she had a dimple in her left cheek that had no match on her right; the
lopsided effect was strangely appealing, as if she was composed of two halves
that had not quite been correctly matched.

“We don’t exactly look like the
most respectable people in the country,” he told her. “I doubt the inspector
will be too impressed by our appearance. We should get back to my house and
tidy up. There is a mirror there . . .” he stopped himself from offering
Jennifer some of Emma’s clothes.

“Is there?” Something in her
tone warned him that he had said the wrong thing. Jennifer stepped away from
him, the dimple fading as quickly as her smile. “No, James, I don’t think that
I will be going to your house, even if you do possess a mirror. Indeed, I think
it would be best that we part now.”

He frowned at this rapid
alteration in her mood. “I don’t understand; are you not coming with me to
Scotland Yard?” Stepping toward her, he took hold of her arm. Suddenly he
wanted her solid common sense when he spoke with Inspector Field and the
penetrating Mr Smith. “You must come, Jennifer, it’s your duty.”

She shook off his hand. “There
is no
must
about it, and I no longer owe a duty to anybody.” Her eyes
narrowed in genuine anger. “I’ve already told you that you cannot order me
around, James. Nobody can order me around.”

“I’m not trying to order you
around, Jennifer . . .” Mendick began, but she had stopped, placed both hands
on her hips and leaned toward him.

“We needed each other to get
here, and we’ve worked well enough together, but now that we have arrived, I
will follow my own life, and so should you. I’m sure you will manage just fine
without me.”

Fuelled by the tension of the
past weeks and the strains of the last few hours, anger replaced Mendick’s
caution.

“Well, Jennifer, before I came
along you were a frightened little woman cowed by her husband and afraid of
being useless.” He shrugged and turned his back. “Return to that if you will;
if you can’t find anywhere else, there might be a place for you along the
Highway.”

Dragging Armstrong with him,
Mendick began to stride away, already regretting his final insult. Perhaps her
experiences had made Jennifer temperamental, but she was good at heart and had
proved a steady friend in time of need; she did not deserve such treatment. Cursing
his temper, he turned to apologise, but Jennifer was also hurrying away with
one hand holding her skirt clear of the ground and marching like a guardsman.

“Jennifer!”

She quickened her step slightly.

“Jennifer! I didn’t mean that!”

Without looking back, she turned
a corner and disappeared from view. About to follow, Mendick shook his head;
she obviously neither desired nor needed his help. His duty was clear and Ogden’s
widow could not distract him.

“Come on, Josiah. Let’s get you
tucked up nice and quiet in your cell.”

London: April 1848

It felt strange to be back in
the room where it all started, with the same traffic noises intruding from Whitehall
and the same brass chandelier swinging slowly above his head. There was a new
grandmother clock in one corner, the hidden pendulum softly ticking away each
passing second and the brass face engraved with the maker’s name and the words
Tempus
Fugit
. Mendick stood at attention, knowing he was unshaven and extremely
untidy and that Inspector Field was examining him through those quizzical,
knowing eyes, shaking his head slowly and very disapprovingly. He wished he had
taken his own advice and spent an hour at home polishing and brushing before
reporting to Scotland Yard, but he had considered his duty more important than
his appearance. Perhaps he had been wrong.

Closing his eyes for an instant,
Mendick’s mind was swamped with images of Chartists marching under green
banners, of volunteers drilling with new Brown Bess muskets, of the Chartist
roadblock in the Midlands and of acrid smoke rasping in his lungs as he
struggled in that hellish chimney.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, wondering if he saw
concern in Inspector Field’s eyes rather than disapproval.

“You look terrible.” Field held
up a podgy hand as the door opened. “Ah! Here comes Mr Smith now, so you can
make your report.”

“Constable.” Smith did not waste
time in a preamble. He strode into the room, acknowledging Mendick with a terse
nod of his head. “We had heard that you were killed.”

“No, sir, I’m still alive. It
was Ogden who was killed.”

“Ah.” Smith swept back the tails
of his frock coat before carefully positioning himself on a seat by the fire.
He looked strained; his mouth was set tighter than before. “That might explain
things. I’m delighted that you’re alive but sorry to hear about Ogden; he was a
good man.”

“He was a good police officer,
sir,” Mendick agreed. After hearing Jennifer’s tales, he was no longer sure
that Ogden had been a good man.