“Lantern!” Mendick hissed, and Eccles obliged, directing the narrow beam around the room. Heavy wooden tables lined three walls, while unmarked boxes sat solidly on a shoulder-high shelf.
“It’s some sort of store room,” Duffy said.
“So I see,” Mendick said, as Eccles flicked the light around boxes of soap and candles, polish and paint. “No food, though.”
“That would be too easy,” Eccles said. “Let’s keep going.”
Closing the window, Mendick pulled a piece of dark paper from his pocket and placed it over the missing pane.
“If anybody should look in now, they won’t see anything or feel a draught. Now keep quiet.”
“Jesus, Sergeant, that was impressive.” Eccles looked at him with new respect.
“Aye, we learn lots of interesting skills in Victoria’s army.”
Their boots echoing on stone slabs, they moved through the ground floor, with Mendick not sure exactly for what he was searching but hoping for some sign. Duffy cleared his throat.
“Is the food not usually stored in the cellars?” Mendick berated himself for missing the obvious.
“Find a stairway, then,” he ordered, and within minutes Duffy was leading them down a twisting stone stair, feeling their way along a rough wall that took them to a short corridor lined with doors.
“Cellars. Maybe wine cellars.” Preston licked his lips.
“They’ll be locked.” Duffy looked to Mendick.
“Not for long.” The army had taught him a plethora of tricks for foraging, but it was the people he had met as a police officer who showed him how to pick locks. The cumbersome, old-fashioned doors of this part of Trafford Hall were not even a challenge. The first cellar contained racks of bottles, filmed with dust.
“That’ll do me.” Preston reached for the nearest until Mendick pulled him away.
“Food,” he reminded him. “We’ve got an army to feed.”
The second cellar was filled with sacks of meal, interspersed with rounds of cheese and boxes of apples.
“That’s better,” Mendick approved. “Everybody select a sack of meal, some cheese and whatever else you fancy. I’ll see if I can find anything else.”
“Right, Sergeant.” Eccles had already taken a huge bite of an apple and was chewing lustily, while Duffy was sampling one of the rounds of cheese.
To the delight of Preston, the next cellar was filled with jars of honey and jam, but the fourth was double locked, with a massive padlock holding a heavy chain in place. Mendick frowned as his police-trained mind switched on; what could Sir Robert Trafford possibly have that was so valuable it merited such precautions? He selected the most intelligent of his volunteers.
“Eccles, you lead everybody home and for the love of God, don’t get caught.”
“Are you not coming, Sergeant?” Eccles sounded nervous at the sudden responsibility.
“You just go ahead,” Mendick ordered. “I’ll not be long behind you.”
Waiting until the volunteers had slipped into the dark, he knelt down to work, but after five minutes of frantic jiggling with the stiletto he realised that it would take an expert to pick this padlock. He swore and then froze as voices echoed along the corridor. There was the flicker of candlelight, a yellow glow that bounced along the wall in his direction and a deep-throated laugh.
“Dear God.” He glanced behind him to where the corridor ended abruptly in a brick wall that blocked any prospect of escape. There remained only the food cellars, so he slid into the nearest just as two figures loomed at the far end of the corridor. Closing the door with his foot, he crouched in the dark and cursed again when the lock failed to connect and the door creaked open. With no time to close it a second time, he could only hide and hope that nobody noticed.
He looked around, momentarily panicking as he realised how vulnerable he was. The cellar was a place of stone. Stone walls sloped upward to a groined stone ceiling, while deep stone shelves held various sacks and boxes. Where was best to hide? Ducking down, he crawled into the lowest and furthest away shelf, dragging a sack of meal in front of him for additional concealment.
There were two voices; one belonged to Sir Robert Trafford, and the other to a woman who shared his confident, educated upper class accent. No doubt she was the same woman who had arrived in the landau. Why were they down here at this time of night?
The voices became louder until it sounded as if they were just outside the storeroom, then they abruptly stopped. Mendick tensed, wondering if he had been seen, but just then he heard the rattle of a chain and realised Trafford was entering the neighbouring cellar. Silence stretched for long moments, but as Mendick crawled out of his hiding place Trafford began to speak again.
The acoustics of the cellar created a frustrating echo; Mendick only caught the occasional word, but Trafford appeared to be an entertaining speaker for the woman was laughing. The sound was distinctive, with a curious whoop of breath that he had heard before, although he could not recollect where. Weighing the fear of discovery against his duty to ferret out information, he peered through the gap between the door and the wall.
Trafford was locking the padlock and speaking with the woman, who had one hand on his arm in a most companionable fashion. He seemed to listen with only half his attention, but then he smiled to her, bent closer and kissed her briefly on the lips.
Mendick choked back his surprise as the lantern glow fell fully on the woman. Last time he had seen her she was dressed in worn clothing and had the rough voice of a mill worker; now she wore a fashionable dress and her accent was entirely upper class. The woman who returned Trafford’s kiss was Rachel Scott.
CHAPTER SIX
Lancashire: December 1847
“Oh, Robert, how forward you are.” Scott pressed against him, hands moving down his flanks and on to the hips of his skin-tight trousers, and then she smiled, said something in a harsh, foreign language and pushed him away.
“Speak English, at least,” Trafford commanded; Rachel Scott shook her head.
“If the Germans are good enough to pull you out of a hole, Robert, you could have the courtesy to learn their language.”
“Courtesy be damned, woman! Ernie’s not pulling me out of any hole. He’s using my misfortune to set his damned white horse galloping all over his cousin.”
“Temper, temper, Robert. That’s no way to speak of kind Uncle Ernie.” Scott’s tone was mocking, but Mendick sensed the steel behind the words. “Don’t forget what will happen if he decides to withdraw his offer.”
“I won’t forget, but damn you, Rachel, you know that I’m right.” There was almost a whine in Trafford’s voice as Scott again gave that curiously indrawn laugh and slapped his arm teasingly.
“Oh, Robert, don’t be so serious. Just do what Uncle Ernest wants, and everything will be fine again. Think of the money, and remember I’m here to help you.”
Trafford’s laugh was loud but unconvincing.
“Of course you’re here to help me, Rachel, but . . .” His tone changed from cajoling to sudden anger, “Damn these idle servants! Look at that, the blasted door is open, despite my explicit instructions!”
Mendick shifted back, trying to merge with the shadows and not make any noise as Trafford put his hand on the door handle.
“I’ll have somebody’s job for this.”
Scott laughed again, “Luckily, it was that cellar.”
“Only I have the key for the other,” Trafford said, as their footsteps receded. “It’s an inconvenience, though, all this sort of thing.” His tone changed again and he seemed to be confused. “We’re damned odd bedfellows, don’t you think? Us and the Chartists?”
“It’s the times in which we live, Robert. Everything’s changing, so we have to make sacrifices and compromises.” She then said something Mendick did not catch.
“The Traffords have been here for centuries, dammit. We’re part of the blood and bone of England, and now I’m pandering to Radicals and . . .”
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“Oh, Robert, there you go again. Just think of the end result; think of the power you will have. Uncle Ernest will be as much in your debt as you are in his. You might even be able to fly a white horse yourself.”
Mendick was unsure if Trafford was laughing or grunting as he walked up the stairs, but he remained still for some minutes, pondering over their words. It made no sense that Rachel Scott should be in Trafford Hall at all, yet alone that she should be speaking to Trafford. Even more strange, why should she come to the house by coach, with her own coachman, and dressed in such fashionable attire? And what were the allusions to Germans and Ernie and a white horse?
Mendick shook his head; there was a lot here that did not add up. He already knew there was a strong link between the Chartists and Trafford, but where the mysterious Ernie came into it, he could not imagine. It was obvious that Sir Robert Trafford was a central figure, but how and why, was unclear.
Even more startling was Scott’s chameleon-like ability to alter her accent depending on her company, and he wondered if Monaghan knew about this nocturnal visit to Sir Robert. Obviously, she was not just the factory hand she had claimed to be in the Beehive, but who or what she was Mendick did not know. However, he suspected that some of the answer lay within that carefully locked cellar. If he could get inside, he might have some valuable information for Mr Smith, but that would mean borrowing Trafford’s key.
Very aware of the night time sounds in this ancient house, Mendick hugged the darkest shadows as he followed the voices. Candlelight bobbed ahead of him as Trafford and Scott meandered along the corridors, and Mendick followed as closely as he thought was safe. Twice he had to duck into deep doorways as floorboards creaked alarmingly, but in a building as old as this such things were to be expected and aroused no suspicion from the couple ahead.
Scott seemed jumpy, though, turning to look behind her on three separate occasions and Mendick kept further back than he liked. Eventually Trafford unlocked the door of a room, disappeared inside for a bare two minutes and reappeared.
“Now to more amenable pursuits,” he said, and Scott laughed again, lifting her face to his.
“Oh, Sir Robert,” Her tone was mocking. “You do like to live up to your reputation, don’t you?”
Gliding an arm around her waist, Trafford whispered something which made her smile before he led her gently away. As soon as the candlelight had faded along the corridor, Mendick tried the door. The lock was simple, responding immediately to his stiletto, and he slid inside.
Trafford’s library was large and surprisingly modish with glass-fronted bookcases lining three walls and tall windows taking up most of the fourth. There were only three pictures. One showed Sir Robert as a young man in full hunting fig, the second was of a young, stern-looking woman with blonde hair and direct blue eyes and the third was a surprisingly cheap print of a distinguished-looking man on a white horse.
“The white horse,” Mendick said, looking at the picture for inspiration. The man glowered belligerently down on him, his whiskers neatly combed and his nose aristocratically curved. “So who the hell are you?” He shrugged and turned away. “I doubt it matters very much.”
Faint light from the windows revealed a roll-top desk standing proud with a brass candlestick on top and a leather-bottomed chair squared underneath. Trafford had been in and out of the room in two minutes flat meaning he must have thrown the key either on top of the desk or in one of the drawers. It took just a second to scratch a Lucifer from the box on the desk and apply it to the wick of the candle. Faint light illuminated the room.
He carefully rolled the desk open and was surprised to find it immaculately neat, with a brimming ink well, a blotting pad and a selection of quill pens. A penknife sat at their side, with the blade gleaming in the light of the candle.
There were three brass-handled drawers; the first contained a box of cigars and a notepad, with a short barrelled pistol placed carelessly on top; the second a small box of loose change, a collection of pornographic prints showing plump blonde women in various positions, a wash leather bag containing shaved dice and a pack of well-used playing cards. The third was empty save for a map of Chartertown and a folded document tied with a linen ribbon.
Holding the candle close, Mendick unfolded the document and attempted to interpret what was obviously legal jargon. He cursed and shook his head as candle wax dripped on the paper while the single flame cast fitful shadows across the page. Neither his police nor his army training had prepared him to decipher such terminology. Retrieving the notepad from the top drawer, he dipped a pen in the inkwell and began to copy the words, hoping to analyse the contents when he had more time.
It was tedious work, laced with the anxiety that somebody might walk in. After fifteen minutes he thought he heard voices outside the door. Shielding the light, he ducked behind the desk with his heart hammering and one hand hovering on the revolver inside his jacket.
The voices rose and fell, ending in a laugh as they passed. He returned to his pen, dripping ink on the paper as he scribbled.
“Sweet Lord,” he said, as the import of the words gradually became clear. “Sweet Lord.”
The document was from Dobson and Bryce, a firm of London solicitors, demanding that Sir Robert paid a large sum of money that he owed to their client. If the monies were not paid, the solicitors would take legal action, including seizing Sir Robert’s property and lands, and if their sale did not realise a large enough sum in such depressed times they would have Sir Robert thrown into a debtor’s prison until his creditors were paid.
It seemed that the rich Tory aristocrat of Trafford Hall had exceeded his income and was in the hands of moneylenders. So how could a man in such a precarious fiscal position promise help to the Chartists? He could hardly supply what he did not have and surely would be too preoccupied with his own misfortune to be concerned about members of the working classes. Suddenly the contents of the locked cellar increased in importance.
Carefully replacing the document, he closed the drawer. Only then did he notice the candlelight reflecting off a small brass object beneath the desk.
“There you are,” he whispered, and lifted the key. Dousing the flame, he cut a small piece from the candle and trimmed the wax until he had a useable wick. Putting the miniature light in his pocket together with two of Trafford’s Lucifers, he left the room and negotiated the dark corridors, grasping at the wall for guidance as he fumbled down the stairs.
The key opened the padlock to the cellar in seconds, and he unravelled the chain before using his stiletto to push back the lock of the door. The chamber was dark but the perfume of gun oil was very familiar. He scratched a Lucifer on the wall and lit the wick of his candle stump.
“Good God!” When the flame rose he saw the walls were lined with long crates. Although most were securely sealed, the one nearest to the door gaped open, and Mendick peered inside.
Having recognised the shape of the crates, he was not surprised to see a dozen Brown Bess muskets, smoothly greased and neatly packed in straw.
“Third model India Pattern,” he told himself, lifting the topmost like it was an old friend. He cocked the gun with the ease of long practice, sighted along the barrel and experimentally squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the falling hammer reawakened old memories. For a moment he was back in uniform amidst the humidity and horror of China, but he shook away the image; that past was gone. He remembered that Trafford had promised to find weapons for Armstrong but wondered again how a man as deeply in debt could afford such expenditure for a cause so far from his own interests. He smoothed his hand over the thirty-nine-inch barrel; there seemed to be a great deal of mystery surrounding Sir Robert Trafford and his friend Rachel Scott.
Replacing the musket, Mendick moved around the cellar. There were many more crates of muskets augmented with boxes of the lethal seventeen-inch bayonet used by the British Army. There were also barrels of black gunpowder, boxes of lead shot and a single b
ox of long-barrelled pistols.
He swore. Training the unarmed volunteers had seemed like play-acting; he had never expected them to possess muskets. Now Trafford had enough firepower to equip half the population of Lancashire, let alone a few score Chartists. He shook his head as he thought of his eager, disciplined men marching through England, well armed and as full of bitter hatred as a lifetime of repression could make them.
Scotland Yard had to know about this development. He had to inform Mr Smith so the uprising could be halted before it became deadly serious. He ran his eyes over the crates, calculating the quantity of weapons, and wondered where they had come from. Unless there was a very corrupt quartermaster at Horse Guards, they had not come from the War Office, so they must have another source.
That thought was interesting for there were not many manufacturers who would be able to mass-produce quality muskets. As the candle began to gutter he scanned the crates for a factory name, but they were plain wooden boxes with no distinguishing mark. In an age of blatant commercialisation, the manufacturers had neglected to proclaim their affiliation to the wares, which was nearly as mysterious as a debt-ridden landowner aiding the Chartist cause.
The candle finally died, leaving him in the dark. He sighed. He would send this intelligence tonight and let his superiors worry about the meaning. With luck they might recall him back to London where he did not have to share a cottage with a brainless giant and did not have to be careful of everything that he said and did. He quietly blessed the forethought of Sergeant Ogden in providing him with a clutch of pigeons to carry messages. But first he would have to return the key.
By now he was familiar with the layout of the house and hurried through the unlit passages, almost running up the stairs and through the corridors. He was nearing the door of Trafford’s library when he turned the last corner and walked straight into somebody soft and pliable.
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 11
