THE DARKEST WALK OF CRIME
Malcolm Archibald
For Cathy
© Malcolm Archibald 2011
The author asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of the work in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,
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Published by Fledgling Press 2011
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ISBN: 9781905916313
PRELUDE
Lancashire, England: August 1847
Sir Robert Trafford pulled at his cheroot and allowed the tip to glow bright red before slowly exhaling blue smoke above the heads of his companions. They watched him carefully, their expressionless faces hiding the rapacity of hunting hounds. Eventually one spoke.
“Are you going to play?”
“I will play when I am ready.” Sir Robert eyed the pile of money and promissory notes occupying the centre of the table. He smiled, lifted the glass of brandy that stood at his elbow and drained it in a single swallow.
Standing at his shoulder, a slender woman pressed against him as she glanced at his cards. When he ignored her, she pouted and walked to the fireplace, emphasising the swing of her hips so the rustle of her dress competed with the low crackle of the fire in an otherwise hushed room.
“Play then, damn you!” The speaker leaned across the table, his face florid with tension and drink.
“As you wish.” Sir Robert flicked the ash from his cheroot into the fireplace, then placed his cards on the table, one at a time. Every man in the room counted the numbers. Only the woman appeared unconcerned. He held the last card for an agonising moment before displaying it with a sneer.
The woman smiled as the florid man threw down his hand. The cards splayed across the smooth green baize.
“Damn you! Damn you Trafford! You’ve ruined me!”
The woman’s laugh mocked him. “You ruin yourselves, I think, chancing all your possessions on the turn of a card.” She brushed past each of the four players in turn, stopping opposite Sir Robert.
He looked up, smoothing a hand over his unfashionably long hair.
“What is life without adventure? The fun of the game is being prepared to risk everything, or gain nothing.” Scooping up the pile of money and documents from the centre of the table, he lifted his eyebrows. “These are all mine, I believe?” He rose from his seat and paced the length of the room, stopping only to pour himself another glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.
“Without adventure, Sir Robert, there is no life.” The woman did not conceal her interest as she allowed her hand to momentarily rest on his arm while her eyes roamed slowly from his face to his feet.
“Will you at least give us the chance to win something back?” the florid man asked. He followed Sir Robert to the sideboard, sloshing brandy into an empty glass.
“No.” He was dismissed with a shrug. “What can you possibly have that I should want? I already own everything you ever had.”
The third man looked up and spoke slowly, “I believe you may be mistaken, Sir Robert. I have something you desire.”
Sir Robert halted under the great chandelier so the light played on the glossy mane of his hair. “And what might that be, Sir Henry?”
“He has me,” the woman said simply.
“I can have any number of women,” Sir Robert told her.
“You can have any number of bobtails, bunters and hell-cats,” the woman corrected his statement, “but not a high flier like me.”
Sir Henry laughed then, the sound harsh in the warm room, until Sir Robert fixed him with a venomous stare.
“She has you there, Sir Robert,” the florid man said. “You’re a ladies’ man of note, but your reputation precedes you. No lady of quality would touch you, by God!”
“Oh, I would do more than touch him,” the woman said, “but only if he proves himself worthy.”
She stroked his arm with a gloved hand. Sir Henry smiled while the fourth man, tall, whiskered, and erect as a guardsman, merely looked bored.
“Sir Robert has already won this evening,” he said. “There is no need for him to gamble further.” He looked over to the woman and smiled coldly. “Besides which, perhaps he is not quite as willing to risk all as he says he is.”
Sir Robert might have ignored the challenge, had the florid man not laughed. The sound was short and ugly.
“Not willing?” Sir Robert banged the decanter down on the polished walnut, his voice a whisper. “By God, I’m always willing. Make your wager, Sir Henry. What must I chance to gain your daughter?”
Sir Henry looked at the woman and smiled. “What should we say, my dear? What are you worth?”
“The question is not what I am worth, Father, but rather what value does Sir Robert put on his word?” She swayed over to Sir Robert and leaned against him. “Would you risk everything, as you said?”
The atmosphere in the room changed as everybody looked at Sir Robert. While the florid man was openly triumphant, Sir Henry appeared merely curious, and the whiskered man swirled brandy around his glass.
“Well, Sir Robert?” The woman stepped back, smiling. “I’m sure that you are man enough to keep your word,” she hesitated coyly, “but some of these gentlemen are less certain.”
“Damn it!” Sir Robert’s laugh was explosive. “Shall we have another hand, gentlemen?”
“Let’s make it simpler,” Sir Henry suggested. “Let us have a straight cut of the cards; if you win, my daughter is yours. If you lose, I have all your winnings and the value of your property in hard currency.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Sir Henry,” Sir Robert said.
“Am I not worth it?” Widening her eyes, the woman allowed her hand to drift across Sir Robert’s shoulder.
Sir Robert drained and refilled his glass. “I will have to find out,” he said, handing the cards over to the tall, whiskered figure of the Duke of Maldon. “The game’s the thing . . .” “The game’s the thing. Shuffle the cards, Your Grace, and let fate decide.”
They sat around the table, with the chandelier casting wavering shadows and the woman watching over her father’s shoulder. The Duke shuffled slowly, building up the tension before he handed the pack over to Sir Henry.
“I would be obliged, sir, if you would care to cut first?”
There was a second’s pause as Sir Henry accepted the cards. “My dear, your future is in my hands.” He winked at his daughter and cut quickly, placing the top card face down in front of him before sliding the pack over to Sir Robert.
”And it soon will be in mine.” Sir Robert divided the cards and selected one.
“Turn over your cards on the count of three, gentlemen,” His Grace said, and slowly counted. “One . . . two . . . three.”
The hiss of a piece of coal shifting in the fireplace was the only sound until Sir Robert flicked over his card. The hooded eyes of a king stared sightlessly upward as he breathed out slowly and looked up in triumph.
“King of spades, by God,” he gloated and extended a hand to the woman. “Come here, my dear. I believe you are now my property.”
“Not so fast with my daughter, sir.” Sir Henry paused, still holding his card. He turned it slowly, grunted, and looked to His Grace. “Well now, there’s a pickle. What the devil do we do now?”
The card was the king of hearts; there was no winner.
The Duke decided for
them: “You have both won, so the solution is obvious. Sir Henry gains the value of Trafford’s property and his previous winnings, and Sir Robert gets Sir Henry’s daughter.”
“You’ll give me time to raise the readies, of course?” Sir Robert accepted the decision with equanimity.
“You may have three months,” Sir Henry told him, rising from the table. “I leave you with my daughter, sir. Good day to you.” He left the room without a backward glance, followed by the florid man.
Sir Robert was quiet for a long moment, and then he looked up at the woman.
“Winning you has impoverished me,” he said quietly and poured out more brandy. He emptied the glass in a single swallow and refilled it quickly before making an ironic salute to the closed door. “I hope you are worth the price, my dear.”
“You’ll find that I am worth every penny,” she told him evenly. “I have a rich uncle, you see, and he would hate to see his niece live in penury.”
“Indeed?” Sir Robert passed a glass toward her as the Duke silently watched.
“Of course, he will require a favour in return.” The woman took his arm, smiling. “I fear that we must walk a darker path for a while, Sir Robert.”
CHAPTER ONE
London: November 1847
“Ready?” Sergeant Restiaux blinked the drizzle from his eyes and looked upwards to where drab dawn cracked open the terrible dark of a London night. ‘Pray to God that we don’t get lost today, lads.’
“I thought you knew this place like the back of your hand?” Constable Mendick nodded towards the ugly morass of the Holy Land, whose foul stenches only enhanced the feral reputation of the inhabitants.
“As well as any man on this side of the law,” Restiaux agreed and quickly qualified his statement, “Well enough to have no desire to linger.” He lifted a black-gloved hand. “Listen.”
Mendick heard the chimes of St Giles, an oxymoron of hope beside the seething slum that crowded its walls. Unconsciously, he counted out loud, feeling the familiar hollowness in his stomach, “Four, five . . .”
Restiaux nodded and slowly intoned the old words, “Lord, I shall be very busy this day; I may forget thee, but do not forget me.” He exaggerated his wink. “These are good words to remember at times like these.” He turned to the silent man who stood at the back. “What do you think, Foster?”
Foster nodded. “Anything that helps is worthwhile.”
The only man among them who did not wear the blue uniform of the police; he straightened his arm and brandished the blackjack he carried in lieu of a truncheon. The foot-long sausage of reinforced linen was weighted with sand and tipped with solid lead.
“Now, I’ve chased this man to Manchester and back, so let’s make sure that he doesn’t escape this time.”
“We’ll do our best.” Restiaux lifted his head as St Giles clattered its final message. “Seven o’clock. And in we go!”
Raising his voice to a yell, he rose from the shelter of the scarred brick wall. For a second he was silhouetted against a candlelit window, his prominent nose verifying the French ancestry his name suggested, and then he was moving forward, head up, booted feet splashing through the unthinkable filth on the ground.
The two constables followed, checking that their long staffs were secure in their pockets and directing the beam of their bull’s-eye lanterns to illuminate Restiaux’s path. The lights jinked over walls weeping tears of dirt, passed windows blank with despair and settled on a repellent door.
“God knows what depravity is hiding behind that,” Restiaux muttered. Mendick sighed. Was this what his life was reduced to? Crawling about in the dark chasing insignificant criminals through the back slums? Surely all those hours poring over books as he painfully learned to read and write must have had more purpose.
“Keep the light steady there!” Constable Williamson slammed himself against the wall beside the door, waiting for Restiaux to take the lead and Foster, the Scotland Yard detective, to follow.
Restiaux lifted his foot. “No point in knocking politely,” he explained, “not in the Holy Land.” He smashed his massive boot against the bottom panel, which shook but held so he kicked again, putting his entire weight behind the blow. Candles began to flicker in the adjoining windows.
“The Holy Land is awakening,” Mendick warned.
Dogs began to bark, their racket echoing in the crooked street.
“For Christ’s sake, boot that bloody door in!” Foster looked around in some apprehension; nobody wanted to linger in the Holy Ground.
Taking a step back, Restiaux tried again, this time grunting with satisfaction as the wood splintered. “That’s it! Light!”
Mendick’s lantern illuminated the panel, and in a series of short, savage kicks, Restiaux created a jagged hole. Kneeling, he thrust his arm through and withdrew an iron bolt.
“Stand aside, sergeant!” Williamson pushed past, staff in hand.
“Be careful, you young blockhead!” Restiaux warned, but Williamson clattered ahead, his boots echoing on a flight of stone steps that led downward to a black abyss. The stench of dampness and human waste rose to greet them. Restiaux shook his head.
“Shine that light just ahead of me, Mendick, and don’t stray. God alone knows what’s down here.” He produced a pistol from his pocket. With its four inch barrel and wide muzzle, the weapon would be deadly at close range. “This barker has a three quarter inch bore, so it can stop an elephant dead, but let’s hope we don’t need it.” With the pistol held in his right hand, he began the descent.
“Blake’s the most efficient forger you’ll never want to meet,” Foster said quietly, “but I need him alive, not face up in a coffin.” He glowered at Restiaux. “He’s far too valuable.”
“So are my men,” Restiaux said bluntly. “So if he is a threat to any of us, I won’t hesitate to shoot him.” Turning his back on the detective, he nodded to Mendick. “Ready?”
“Aye.” Mendick looked into the darkness ahead. He did not feel ready, but did it really matter?
The lantern light picked out crumbling stone steps descending through darkness into a stink that seemed so tangible it could be cut up and packaged. There was a loud cry ahead, a hollow shout that echoed for agonisingly long seconds.
“Williamson!” Restiaux yelled, but there was only the sound of scurrying footsteps, followed by solid silence.
“What the hell’s happening?” Foster sounded alarmed as he tapped the blackjack against the wall. He peered narrow-eyed down the steps.
“Williamson!” Restiaux called again, but the empty echo mocked him. He lowered his voice. “It looks like there’s trouble ahead; have you anything more lethal than your staff?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Mendick patted his shoulder holster, where his pistol nestled uncomfortably but reassuringly against his breast. Emma had never been happy with his choice of profession, but she had insisted that he should at least be prepared for trouble.
Restiaux nodded. “After me then, and don’t worry about taking Blake alive.” He ignored Foster’s savage glare.
Testing each step, they negotiated the remaining twenty stairs with the light flickering and bouncing from chipped stone and crumbling mortar.
“What’s that?” Foster pointed to a darker shadow ahead.
“It’s Williamson.”
The constable lay crumpled across the bottom step, blood oozing from a ragged wound in his scalp. Beyond him, faint light flickered and coarse voices grumbled from behind a closed door.
“I told him to wait!” Kneeling at Williamson’s side, Restiaux checked his pulse. “He’s alive, thank God.” He glanced at the door, and grunted. “Spring your rattle.”
Hauling the rattle from his inside pocket, Mendick swung it around his head. The spring pressed a wooden tongue against a ratchet wheel, creating a distinctive sound that would immediately summon all available police constables.
“Christ, man, that noise will warn anybody for half a mile.” Foster looked behind hi
m to the cruelly crowding dark.
“That’s the idea. Now, follow closely and mind your backs!” Restiaux poised himself then kicked open the door and rushed through, his pistol levelled in front of him.
From the darkness of the stairway they rushed into a scene of which Dante would have been proud. Lit by the guttering remains of three candles, a mass of human bodies covered the floor of a low room and piled onto a grease-darkened bench. There were men and women of all ages from twelve to sixty, some whitely naked, others clad in itching rags and one in the remains of a clerical suit. Some were stirring, rising from torpidity to suspicion as they struggled to see who had entered, but others merely glanced up and returned to the anonymity of the mass.
“He’s not here,” Foster said at once and prepared to move on, but Restiaux placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Wait. Somebody will know,” he advised, and raised his voice: “We’re looking for Thomas Blake!”
Mendick flashed the lantern across the chaos, catching a poisonous eye, a scarred back, a tangled mess of lousy hair or the slender curve of breast or buttock.
“Who?” the man in the suit asked, blinking as the light focussed on his face.
“Flash Tom,” Restiaux said. “You know him.”
When the man shook his head, Restiaux sighed. “Remind him, Constable.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Pulling his staff from its pocket, Mendick stepped forward, ignoring the squeal as his nailed boot thumped on the leg of a teenage draggletail.
“No!” The clerk cowered backward, seeking sanctuary from companions who seemed only too eager to allow him all the attention of the police. “I don’t know him at all!”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” Mendick pressed the rounded edge of his staff, with the VR lettering in faded gold, hard against the clerk’s chin. “Where is Thomas Blake?”
“I don’t know,” the clerk said, but for a second his eyes flickered toward a door at the far end of the room.
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