The Darkest Walk of Crime (35 page)

“Mr Foster!” The barman
restrained him. “We haven’t time for that. We’ve things to do before we reach
Godalhurst.”

After landing a final kick,
Foster pulled a silver watch from his pocket. “Aye, it’s about time. Let’s get
to work.”

“What about him?” The barman
jerked a thumb toward Mendick.

Foster grunted. “Tie him and
leave him; he’s in no condition to do anything.”

Mendick groaned. His ribs were
on fire, and the burn blisters on his legs had opened up, weeping yellow
moisture through his trousers and onto the floor. He watched, unable to move as
Foster opened the door and swung himself outside.

The barman ripped a cord from
one of the royal packages and looped it around Mendick’s ankles before
attaching his wrists to a strut on the inside of the carriage.

“Lie quiet now,” the barman
mocked and followed Foster outside, leaving Mendick alone.

For a long minute Mendick nursed
his pain then forced himself to move. Foster had betrayed him to the Chartists,
Foster had played him for a fool ever since that day in the Holy Land, Foster
had destroyed Emma’s picture.

Pain stabbed at his chest as he
shifted sideways, toward the metal strut running the length of the carriage
wall. He had hoped he might unravel the knot with his teeth, but the barman had
done a good job. He swore, jerking at the cord in frustration. If he did not
escape, Foster would crash the train, the Queen would die, and a new Hanoverian
dynasty would rule the country. Despite all that, it was the memory of Emma’s
ripped picture that made him fight the pain.

He tried again, pulling at the
cord until it began to slide, oh-so-slowly, along the metal strut. He tugged,
ignoring the warm blood that dribbled down his wrists as he sawed the cord
against the metal, biting away the pain as he thought of Foster tearing at
Emma’s picture.

One by one the strands of the
cord frayed and parted until a final agonised effort wrenched it apart.
Gasping, Mendick hugged his wrists to him until the initial torture faded and
he could untie his ankles and plan his next move.

He hauled himself upright,
wincing, but the memory of Emma encouraged him. She was urging him to move, to
save his life and that of the Queen. Holding onto the spars for support, he
staggered as the train swayed around a great curve. Foster had gone outside, so
he had to follow. He had to endure the pain as Emma had suffered the agony of
childbirth. Edging onwards, he wrestled with the iron catch on the external
door and thrust it open.

The blast of fresh air and
soot-smuts nearly tore him from the tiny metal step, and he looked forward,
across the tender and on to the engine. The driver was standing very stiffly,
with Foster’s pistol pressed against the back of his neck. The barman leaned
back negligently, pointing the pepperpot at the firemen.

The railway line ran on into the
distance, twin steel arrows that should mark security for the Queen and
stability for the nation. The lovely Surrey countryside spread on either side,
a picture of perfection leading to the stiff climb of the Downs where, far in
the distance, tall stone arches marked the fateful Godalhurst viaduct.

Mendick swore; the tender was
rattling ahead of him, with the nearest two thirds securely covered, but a haze
of black dust above the loose coal that slid and slithered next to the engine.
Beyond the tender the engine footplate was open to the elements but crowded
with the three railwaymen and two potential murderers. The only way to stop
Foster was to clamber forwards.

Gasping at the pain from his
ribs, he hauled himself to the front of the carriage, braced himself and
stretched across the couplings and onto the coal tender. The covered part was
easy enough, but the final third was treacherous. One irregular coal lump
shifted beneath his feet, and he fell heavily, landing agonizingly on his
injured ribs.

Biting away the pain, he rose,
very aware that the ground was a moving blur on each side and hoping that
Foster was too preoccupied with the driver to turn around. The firemen were
still working hard, ignoring him as they shovelled coal into the furnace.

“What the Hell are they doing?”
Mendick mumbled to himself as he negotiated the treacherous coal, one hand
pressed to his ribs and the other scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the
truck. He saw the driver grasp one of the levers that worked the engine, but
Foster pushed him back, gesticulating with his pistol.

Mendick had no interest in steam
engines, but he knew that the fire heated the boiler, which supplied steam to
power the engine. If the driver did not regulate the pressure, the boiler could
burst, with calamitous consequences. Only then did Mendick decipher Foster’s
plan. By having the firemen constantly add fuel, he was increasing the pressure
inside the boiler, so all he had to do was prevent the driver from releasing
excess steam until the whole thing exploded. Naturally Foster and the barman
would have already left the train when it was travelling slowly up the incline
of the Downs.

If the Queen and her family were
not killed outright, Foster and the barman would be on hand to finish them off.
It would seem as if the exploding boiler had caused the crash. Nobody would
suspect King Ernest; he would step on to the throne, and the white horse of Hanover
would be back in its British stable. The plot was so simple that for a second
Mendick admired its audacity. He then thought of the innocent victims: the
maids and nannies and cooks and could only despise its inherent evil.

The train was climbing now,
producing more smoke as it struggled with the incline of the Downs, and the
driver was shouting at Foster and pointing toward his levers and dials.

Wiping sweat from his forehead,
the nearer and smaller of the firemen stopped shovelling for a second, but the
barman rammed his pistol against the man’s back and pushed him forward. The
fireman staggered and would have fallen into the furnace if his giant companion
had not extended a hand to catch him.

The train was slowing by the
second, tilting to one side so that Mendick could pick out villages and
cottages spread out like a spring green map at the foot of the Downs. He sensed
the driver’s confusion as the steam pressure mounted. The driver pointed to one
of the dials, where a hand was edging steadily into the red, and lunged toward
one of the levers. With his broken left hand awkward within his jacket, Foster
slashed him with the pistol.

“Stop!”

Mendick jumped forward, landing
on the very edge of the footplate and tottering as the train rattled onto the
top of the incline. He swore, clutching at his chest as his ribs screamed protest.

“Shoot the driver!” The barman
shouted above the noise of the engine. “He’s done his job. Look!” He pointed to
the dial where the hand indicated the farthest edge of the red danger zone.

“It’s going to blow!” the driver
yelled, high-pitched. “It’s going to bloody
blow!
”

They were cresting the Downs:
the ridge falling away on both sides and the tall stone arches of the
Godalhurst viaduct striding across the gap a hundred yards ahead. As the
firemen continued to shovel coal into the furnace the wheels altered their
rhythm and the train began to pick up speed again. Mendick marvelled at the
timing involved.

If Foster and the barman jumped
now, they would be safe, but the train would roll on to the viaduct, pick up
speed and explode. The lucky would die at once, the survivors would plunge onto
the ground far below. If, by chance, the Queen or any of her children were
still alive, Foster or the barman could finish them off.

“You can die with the rest.”
Foster aimed at Mendick, his face totally devoid of expression.

Mendick threw himself forward,
knocking the barman aside as he grabbed at Foster, but the Scotland Yard
detective was equally as agile and more experienced. Turning his injured arm
away, he raised his right elbow and caught Mendick a glancing blow to the eye,
not enough to damage but sufficient to deflect his rush. Mendick fell sideways,
put out his hand for balance and yelled as he touched hot metal. The pain
forced him back, and Foster was in control.

The muzzle of the pistol looked
huge as it focused on Mendick’s forehead, and the sneering face behind the
weapon seemed far away and out of focus. Mendick saw Foster’s finger whiten as
he increased pressure on the trigger and the hammer rose to its apex. Within
half a second it would begin the rapid descent that would end when it made
contact with the percussion cap, sending a half-inch thick lead ball crashing
into his skull.

He had failed. Foster would win,
Ernest of Hanover would take the throne, and the future of Britain would change
forever. But Emma was waiting for him, smiling just beyond a dim veil, and her
hand was stretching toward him in welcome.

“Hey!”

The deep voice was shockingly
familiar as the large fireman moved up. In the excitement, nobody had paid him
any attention, but now he danced forward, one huge arm sweeping Foster aside as
if he were a featherweight.

“It’s me, Mr Mendick.”

“Peter!” Mendick looked up in
surprise as Peter grabbed Foster’s hand and removed the pistol as easily as he
would a rattle from an infant.

“I got myself a job, just like
the lady said,” Peter told him as he casually lifted Foster by the back of his
neck. “What will I do with him?”

“Throw him overboard, please.”

Peter obliged and tossed Foster
out of the moving train. He hit the ground at the side of the railway and
rolled rapidly four or five times before he lay still.

The barman was already locked in
a desperate struggle with the driver, each man’s hand clamped on the throat of
the other; Mendick reached across and dragged the barman away until Peter was
able to fetch him a single blow to the chin and push him after Foster.

Immediately he was free, the
driver leaped frantically to his charge and pulled on a brass lever. There was
a scream of escaping steam, and the hand wavered from the red mark.

“What in God’s name was that all
about?” he asked, checking the line ahead.

“We’ve just saved the Queen from
an assassination attempt,” Mendick explained and laughed until he fainted from
the agony of his smashed ribs.

London: May 1848

Mendick leaned back in his new
chair at his new table in the otherwise empty room, scanning the pictures and
desultorily reading the pages of the
Illustrated London News
. He read
about the ‘monster meeting’ of the Chartists at Kennington Common on the
twelfth
of April and the presentation of the petition to the House
of Commons. Apparently Feargus O’Connor had been extremely polite to the
authorities. Thanks partly to Mendick’s warning, the government had been
prepared for great violence, with pickets of the Foot Guards at the park gates,
detachments of yeomanry hidden around the capital, artillery ready to hold the
bridges over the Thames and armed men waiting at every public building.

In the event, there was hardly
even a skirmish as the Chartists returned home peacefully. With O’Connor past
his prime and Josiah Armstrong under arrest, they lacked conviction. Without
his chief supporter William Monaghan had proved a disappointment. He was a fine
orator but not noted for being in the forefront of any physical action and had
hardly protested when the police arrested him. Mendick nodded sourly; things
were as they ought to be, he had helped prevent a bloody outbreak in London and
should be pleased.

He read on, learning that the
Chartists had grossly exaggerated the numbers of those who signed the petition,
and many of the signatures proved to be forgeries. He smiled sourly when he
learned that the Duke of Wellington had apparently signed the Charter on
numerous occasions, and the final signatory had been Queen Victoria herself.
Not surprisingly, the House of Commons once again rejected the petition.

“So things have not improved for
the working classes,” he murmured. “After all that effort, all that planning,
all their hopes, they are as neglected as they ever were.’

Jennifer looked over her
shoulder at him and nodded.

“Some things never change,” she
said. “But others do. You’ll have heard about Sir Robert Trafford?”

Mendick shook his head, folding
the newspaper neatly.

“Not a word.”

“The bailiffs got him; he tried
to run abroad, but they stopped him as he boarded the ship, and he’s locked
away in the Queen’s Bench Prison while they sell everything he once owned. For
him, that’s worse than being hanged.”

Mendick nodded. “That sounds
like justice,” he agreed. “Where did you read about it?”

“In the scandal pages, of
course,” Jennifer grinned to him. “That’s where you find the juicy bits.”

“Let’s have a look.”

He took her paper and she pointed
to the page. Most of the names in the columns dealing with society balls and
marriages meant nothing to him, but one small piece interested him. Tucked away
between an advertisement proclaiming that Monsieur Meyer had a large selection
of
corsets perfectionnés
and another announcing that James Lough,
chimney sweep, was ready to execute all orders with which he may be entrusted
were four significant lines:

Miss Rachel Scott, natural
daughter of Sir Henry Scott of Southerby House and first cousin to Sir Robert
Trafford of Trafford Hall, has been found drowned off Heligoland. It was
supposed that Miss Scott had been swimming with some friends from
Hanover
,
but they have proved elusive in giving intelligence of her recent activities.
On her mother’s side, Miss Scott was a distant relative of Ernest, King of
Hanover
.