The Darkest Walk of Crime (4 page)

Mendick eyed the decanter
guiltily before he shook his head. “Thank you sir, but no.” He was unsure what
was happening, but he knew that he should retain as clear a head as possible.

“As you wish. You don’t mind if
we indulge?” Smith sloshed generous amounts of Field’s brandy into two of the
glasses. “Now,” he said as he sipped quietly, “no doubt you are wondering why I
am here?”

Mendick nodded slowly, watching
as Smith swirled the brandy.

“Good, you’d be less than human
if you were not. Tell me,” his eyes pierced Mendick’s impassive mask, “in your
opinion, what is the function of the police?”

The question was so unexpected
that for a moment Mendick could only stare. He recovered with a start, trying
to recall Peel’s nine principles of policing that he had learned when he first
started tramping the beat.

“To prevent crime and disorder,
sir, as an alternative to their repression by military force; to maintain a
relationship with the public . . .”

Smith pursed his lips and
flapped his hands in the air. “That’s the official line, but not what I wanted
to hear. Now, Inspector Field, what would you say to the same question?”

Field had not touched his
brandy. “We patrol a volatile border, protecting the rich from the desperate
and preventing anarchy from overwhelming respectability.” He mused for a
second. “However, I would say that the primary function of the police is to
protect the seclusion of respectable neighbourhoods.”

“That may be more accurate,”
Smith agreed. “A touch cynical, but not far off the mark. So would you both
agree, then, that one purpose of the police force is to guard the respectable
and propertied classes from the effluvia of society, the residuum, if you
will?” He waited only a second for the answer before continuing. “Or would you
say that the police have the task of ensuring that society retains its natural
shape and should remain unaffected by those who would wish it otherwise?”
Although he addressed the question to both, it was to Mendick that Smith looked
for an answer.

“I would say so, sir, but I see
my principal duty as a defender of the law, more than as a protector of any
particular class of person . . .”

“Ah!” When Smith held up his
hand, calloused ridges showed across the base of his fingers. Whatever position
he presently held, at one time Smith had known hard manual labour. “Define that
word; define that word,
law
.”

Mendick found he was unable to
look away from Smith’s quizzical stare. He struggled for clarity. “Law is the
rules by which we live, a collection of regulations that maintain the balance
and fairness of society . . .”

“And there you have it
precisely, sir.” Smith rose from his chair, jabbing a long forefinger at
Mendick. “Well done, Constable
;
you hit it when you said the
balance
of
society. We must all do our utmost to
preserve
that balance, or we may
see this nation crumble. That is our duty, sir, and that is
your
duty.”

“I understand, Mr Smith.”
Mendick
would have liked to look toward Field, but Smith’s near mesmeric gaze held him
securely.

“Good, then we are in
agreement.” Smith sat back down, seemingly content that he had made his point.
“Now, Constable, you will be attuned to the present unrest in the country? You
will know of the repeated demands for the People’s Charter and other subversive
nonsense?” Smith had assumed his previous air of chilling detachment, but
Mendick was aware of the passion beneath. He nodded. “Nobody in Britain can be
unaware of the underlying unease among some of the lower classes, sir.”

“So tell me what you know,
Constable.”

“Yes, sir. The People’s Charter
was born after the 1832 Reform Act when the middle orders obtained the vote but
the aspirations of the workers to achieve the same were discarded. The Charter
demands six electoral reforms, including secret ballots, payment for MPs and
the franchise for all males over the age of twenty-one. Those who support the
Charter are known as Chartists, and in 1839 they presented their demands to
parliament in the form of a petition.”

“All correct so far, Constable.”
Smith’s eyes never strayed from Mendick’s face. “Pray continue.”

 “Parliament rejected the
petition out of hand, but Chartists are persistent, and whenever the economy
dips and there is unemployment and distress in the country, there is more
support for them.”

“That’s accurate enough,
Constable, as far as it goes.” Smith looked toward Field, who gave a brief nod.
Mendick realised that Smith was unsure exactly how much information he could
safely impart to a lowly police constable.

Helping himself to Field’s
brandy decanter, Smith recharged their glasses and poured a third, which he
pushed toward Mendick. “You may need this before I am finished, Constable.” The
glass sat on the silver tray, its contents an amber temptation as Smith
continued, “There are new developments among the Chartists. You are obviously
unaware of the militancy that is increasingly gripping these people. There is
something extremely nasty brewing up north, Constable, something that they term
Physical Force Chartism.”

Mendick nodded. He knew of the
split in the Chartist ranks. While most of the Radicals believed in Moral Force
Chartism and hoped to persuade the government to accept their demands by
peaceful protests and great petitioning, others were more militant. Led by
Feargus O’Connor, the only Chartist Member of Parliament, the Physical Force
Chartists spoke of armed revolution unless the government accepted the six
points of the Charter.

Smith sipped at his brandy and
continued, “We are unsure exactly what these people contemplate, perhaps a
worker’s strike or a
national holiday
as they term it. Perhaps they plan
a series of such strikes that may well cripple the economy of the country, or
perhaps something even worse, but we would like you to find out.”

Mendick curled a hand around the
crystal balloon and swirled the liquid inside. The smell of the brandy was
sharp and inviting, but still he desisted. He knew that even a single drink
could induce him down the sweet descent to stupidity.

“Me, sir?”

“You, sir.”

Once again Smith was ice-cool.
“Mr Field speaks most highly of your resourcefulness and I have witnessed your
dedication and courage myself. We need somebody to enter the ranks of the
Chartists, pose as one of them and relate their intentions to us.”

“I see, sir.”

Mendick had expected a Scotland
Yard detective would investigate murders and serious theft, but he was being
asked to act as a spy, the very thing that British people hated most about the
plain-clothes police service. The brandy exploded reassuringly inside his
stomach, and he paused for an instant, relishing the sensation even as he
assessed Smith’s proposal.

“But why me? There must be many
other officers with more experience.”

“There are,” Smith agreed. He
glanced at Field again. “Look,
Constable, this matter is more delicate
than you yet realise. Inspector Field did not select you at random. Firstly, we
require an officer who would be at ease in the north, and you are no Londoner.”

“No, sir, I am from further
north.” Mendick could feel the brandy weakening his normal reticence, as he had
feared it would. “But there are many established Scotland Yard officers from
outwith London.” The brandy pushed him into continuing, “There is more to this
case than you are revealing.”

“Much more,” Smith agreed.
Sighing, he reached for the valise, placed it on his knee and snapped it open.
He looked up, and Mendick chilled at the force of his eyes. “What you are about
to see must remain strictly within these four walls, Constable. Is that clear?”

“It is sir.” Mendick took
another sip of the brandy, closing his eyes as the spirit warmed the inside of
his mouth and eased into his system. Strangely, now that he knew what he was
being asked to do, he felt neither apprehension nor excitement. He had desired
a transfer to the detective branch of the service since his first day of duty,
but obtaining it had been an anticlimax. Unconsciously, he placed two fingers
beneath his leather stock; he would certainly not miss the constant chafing at
the tender skin of his throat.

“Right then, Constable. What do
you think of these?” Reaching into the valise, Smith produced a bound notebook
and placed it carefully on Field’s desk.

Mendick bent closer. Each page
held a pen-and-ink sketch of the head and shoulders of a man, with two
paragraphs of detailed description. “These are well executed.” He read the first
paragraph.

Mr James Tyler, born 16
^th
January
1810 in
Maidstone, Kent. Ten years’ service in G or
King’s Cross Division
,
transferred to the Criminal Investigation
Department, Scotland Yard, on its conception in 1844.

He skipped to the next:

Mr William Gilbert, born 3
^rd
June
1809 in
Peckham, London Eleven years’ service in H or
Stepney Division, transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department,
Scotland Yard in 1845.

The third face stared at him,
the features familiar.

Mr George Foster, born
13
^th
February 1810
in
Carlisle
. Fifteen years’ service
in A or
Westminster
Division, transferred to the Criminal
Investigation Department, Scotland Yard on its conception in 1844
.

Mendick looked up. “These appear
to be details and pictures of Scotland Yard officers, sir.”

“That’s exactly what they are,
Constable. Each page gives a picture and a written description of one
plain-clothes man.” Smith leaned closer. “But more important is from where this
information originated.”

Mendick was already used to
Smith’s use of a dramatic pause to highlight anything he considered of
importance. He waited and wondered about the significance of the notebook while
balancing his mounting desire for the brandy against the knowledge of its
subsequent effect.

“A man died to secure this book,
Constable. It was recovered from these so-called Physical Force Chartists.”
Smith leaned back, watching Mendick’s reaction.

Mendick drew a quick breath. “I
understand, sir. How did they get the information about our detectives?”

“We do not yet know that,
Constable, but we suppose that they have somebody working within Scotland Yard,
perhaps a clerk or similar. Pray stop for an instant and consider the
ramifications.”

Mendick nodded. “If we presume
that the Chartists have other copies of this book, then they would recognise
any established Scotland Yard officer who is sent to them, which means that an
unknown man must be used.”

“Precisely,” Smith agreed. “And
that is where you come in.” He leaned back once more. “One of our people found
this notebook in Manchester and brought it to a local police sergeant named Ogden.
Unfortunately, our man died doing his duty.”

“I see, sir.”

“The Chartists butchered him,
Constable
.
He may still have been alive when they tore him to pieces.”
Smith waited to allow the information to sink in before he continued.

“Sergeant Ogden seems to be a
good officer, but we do not consider him suitable material for this type of
undercover work, and we need more information. We require somebody on the
inside, somebody the Chartists will trust.” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes
intense.

“I see, sir. You want me to take the place of the
officer the Chartists killed.”

“There is more.” Inspector Field
had been listening, his eyes fixed on Mr Smith. “And it may be the most
important point of all.”

Mendick fortified himself with
more brandy, waiting for whatever horror Field unleashed on him. He could feel
the spirits working on his mind, muddling his thoughts yet simultaneously
pressing him to drink more.

“You see, Constable, we think
that there is a new mind directing the activities of the Physical Force
Chartists. Feargus O’Connor, who, as you know, has led them for years, has
advocated force but has never backed his rhetoric with action. Indeed, we
believe that the great O’Connor is a spent volcano. We suspect that someone
more formidable has taken his place, and Constable, this person seems to have
money.”

“But I thought that the
Chartists were impoverished workers, sir.”

“That is precisely my point,
Constable. Most can barely afford to live, let alone contribute money to their
cause, but the Chartists are buying land. So somebody with more resources must
be backing them.”

“I see, sir.” Mendick nodded.
“And you wish me to find out whom?”

“I do. And more than that.”
Field glanced at Smith before continuing, “The death of our officer is
unprecedented and, given the horrendous circumstances, extremely disturbing. We
think that he came across something else the Chartists wished to keep hidden,
and that is why they killed him. I fear . . .
we
fear there may be an
Irish dimension, Constable, so you may be embarking on a very perilous
investigation.”

Mendick nodded. He had seen
death enough before, but to willingly enter an operation where a police officer
had been savagely murdered was not pleasant. He sighed, reviewing the facts:
the Irish connection with the Chartists was no secret, but years of famine had
created a new desperation in that island, and desperate men were capable of
terrible acts. This combination of unemployed English workers and starving
Irish immigrants may have added a new dimension to the Chartists, but news of a
wealthy patron was perhaps even more alarming.

Field rose from his chair to
pace the room, stopping to stare out of the window at the bustle of Whitehall.