“It’s indecent.” He stared at her for a moment as she looked scornfully back at him.
“It’s necessary. Shirt too, please; we’d better do this properly.”
Her logic was inescapable, and he peeled off his shirt and trousers, gasping at the scrape of cloth against his scorched and blistered skin. He stood naked before her, covering his decency with both hands. She surveyed him, pursing her lips.
“Turn around. You’re a mess, aren’t you?” She touched the wounds on his left hip, and he winced and pulled away. “Don’t be such a baby. What did you do? Fall in a fire?”
“Something like that.” Mendick thought it best not to say too much.
“I take it the Chartists lit it.” Jennifer Ogden was no fool.
“They did,” he agreed. “The same Chartists who murdered your husband.”
“We’ll talk about them later, too.”
She had heated up the water and began to work on him, starting with the minor scrapes on his back and working her way down to his legs, washing away the blood before applying goose grease to the burns, tutting in sympathy whenever he winced but still thoroughly cleaning each wound before moving on to the next.
Embarrassed at first, Mendick soon found it strangely soothing to have a competent woman attending to him. He watched her frown in concentration as she dabbed at his wounds, ignoring his discomfort in her determination to do a good job.
“Thank you, Mrs Ogden,” he said, humbled and strangely ashamed. “I am deeply indebted to you.”
She looked up, brushed a stray strand of hair from her face and nodded, unsmiling.
“It was necessary; anyway, doing this takes my mind off things.” She stood up, cleaning the grease from her hands on a cloth. “I’ll find you something to cover yourself with. You won’t mind wearing Nathaniel’s clothes, will you? And when I make us something to eat, you can tell me what’s happened and how it affected my husband.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t tell me that he was not involved, because I know he was.”
While Mrs Ogden bustled with pots and plates, Mendick gingerly pulled on Ogden’s clothing and related his story to her, glossing over the details of her husband’s death but emphasising that he died bravely.
“Of course he did.” She seemed to accept Ogden’s murder calmly. She had placed a tray of soup, bread and cheese on the table. “He was always a brave man if nothing else. The question you should be asking is why I am not upset about it.”
“What?” When he looked up Mrs Ogden was facing him squarely.
“You heard me, Mr Mendick. My husband is dead, yet I am not weeping a bucketful of tears. In truth I have not shed a single one nor do I intend to. Indeed, you may have noticed I am not even wearing mourning togs.”
“People mourn in different ways . . .”
“I am not in mourning.” Again Mrs Ogden was challenging, waiting to parry the inevitable questions.
“He was my husband, Mr Mendick. During his lifetime it was my duty to love and obey him; now he has gone I owe him nothing, not loyalty, not even a memory. In fact, I fully intend to forget him as soon as I can.”
“I am sure you don’t mean that; he was a good man . . .”
“Was he? Was he indeed?” Mrs Ogden’s voice was syrup-sweet, but there was no mistaking the steel behind those eyes.
His meagre education had taught Mendick that women were not intended for the harsh existence of a policeman or a soldier. Women were to be kept secure, worshipped from afar and, while eminently capable of running a household and caring for any number of children, did not possess a man’s capability to deal with life’s more severe tasks. Experience, however, had shown him that this perception was untrue. Emma had been his equal in life, and more recently he had seen Rachel Scott intrigue with the best of them, become involved with the nastier side of politics and even participate in the murder of Ogden and his own attempted demise. Mendick realised that Jennifer Ogden had continued to stare directly at him.
“What are you going to do about these Chartists, Mr Mendick?”
The change of tack took him by surprise, but he answered with the truth.
“Tell Scotland Yard all that I know,” he said.
“I will help,” Mrs Ogden told him. “These people killed my husband, such as he was, and now you say they are planning to kill more husbands, sons, daughters, wives.” She stopped and swallowed hard before continuing. “Is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Mendick agreed.
“But if you get your intelligence to Scotland Yard, they might stop that from happening?”
“That’s right,” he nodded.
“So you get yourself down to that telegraph office right away, Mr Mendick, and send off your information.” Mrs Ogden folded her arms, seemingly pleased that she had solved his problem so easily.
“I can’t use the telegraph,” Mendick told her quietly. “The Chartists have infiltrated the system, and it was Mr Ogden himself who told me they were also in the local police force.”
“I see,” Mrs Ogden nodded. “So what do you intend to do?”
“I must travel to London and deliver the information in person.”
“I’m coming with you,” Mrs Ogden told him. “When do we leave?”
Mendick stared at her. He had not anticipated this turn of events and certainly did not want her slowing him down.
“I’ll leave as soon as I can . . .”
“Good. We can catch the train.” She spoke as if the decision had already been made.
“All my money is in Chartertown.”
“I’ve got some money,” Mrs Ogden said at once. “I’ll pay for both tickets. Ogden would approve.”
“Mrs Ogden.” Mendick wondered how he could dissuade her painlessly. “I would be faster on my own. This information must get through.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs Ogden dismissed his argument with a single word. “The train travels at the same speed however many passengers are on board, and I have the money. Either we go together, or you find some other method of transport.”
Looking at those brittle eyes above a face so determined, Mendick knew he had only one card left to play.
“It might be dangerous,” he said weakly.
“So was living with Ogden,” Mrs Ogden told him, unsmiling. “Let’s leave as soon as we can. I hate this place and all that it stands for. I want a new life with no ties to the past. Now. I want to go now.” She stood up, and for the first time Mendick saw there were tears in her eyes.
“All right, Mrs Ogden. Let’s go together.”
He remembered how he had felt when Emma died and how he had thrown himself into his job, working every hour he could and not caring about time or anything at all. Mrs Ogden was unfortunate—she did not have such an avenue of escape.
“We’ll do that.” Mrs Ogden put her hand on his arm, shaking her head. “But call me Jennifer and I will call you James. I don’t ever want to be known as Mrs Ogden again.”
“As you wish,” he said and looked away when Jennifer made no effort to stop the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“There’s Ogden’s second best frock coat,” Mrs Ogden said, “and his top hat. You’ll look most respectable in that.”
As they stood at the front door of the cottage, with Jennifer in a green coat long enough to hide her ankles and with a pretty feathered bonnet on her head, she looked back inside.
“And there we have it,” she said. “A house full of memories, the grave of my dog and the physical remains of ten years of marriage and shared existence.” When she looked at him, her eyes were bitter. “Do you understand what that means, James? Ten years of your life? Ten years . . . and now it is gone.”
Mendick said nothing. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook it away.
“I don’t want sympathy, James.” Her voice was as edged as he had ever heard. “Look inside my home, James. Can you see anything missing?”
“Missing?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry Jennifer, but
I don’t understand the question.”
“No? Then you certainly don’t understand, James, do you?” For a second he thought she was about to break into tears again, but she recovered. “Step back, please.”
He did so, wondering, as she lit a candle and allowed the flame to play on the curtains by the window.
“Careful!”
“No!” She pushed him back. “Let it burn. Let it all burn down.” Her voice was acid but the tears on her cheeks soft and round. “I am burning my bridges. This is ended now, and I won’t be back. Take me away, James; take me far, far away.”
As they walked down the lane, smoke was coiling from the cottage and orange flames lit up the sky, but Jennifer squared her shoulders and did not look back.
*
“There is no direct train to London,” Mendick said. “We’ll have to travel to Birmingham first and change at the station there. Wrap up well; there's no glass in the third class windows.”
“I’m not travelling third class with all the riff-raff.” There was finality in Jennifer’s tone. “It is far too long a journey to bounce around on a hard seat in a filthy coach like a cow or a sheep going to market, and I’m not wasting money on foolish profligacy by travelling first, so second it will be.” Her smile took him by surprise. “It’s all right, James, I have a capital head for figures.”
“I’m sure that you have,” he agreed, moving closer, but Jennifer stepped back.
“And James,” she fixed him with a stern look, “I’m quite sure we'll be travelling through tunnels, and I warn you I am wearing my longest hat pin, so I want no shenanigans in the dark, if you please.”
“There will be no shenanigans,” Mendick promised. He wondered if she was joking until he saw the pin thrust through her hat. “You are quite safe with me.”
“Oh yes,” she told him, thrusting forwards her chin. “I am quite safe.”
Manchester London Road Station had opened only six years before and was the main departure point for London and all other points south. The station was busy, with crowds of businessmen in frock coats and tall hats pulling at their whiskers as they discussed the latest downturn in trade, a few prosperous-looking gentlemen looking for the first class compartments and a mass of obviously third class passengers talking in hopeless optimism of the jobs they would find in the next town or maybe the one after that.
It still seemed a marvel to Mendick that within the last decade these railways had spread across the country, slicing the time it took to travel from one end to the other. In his youth it had been quicker to travel by steamboat rather than use even the fastest of the stagecoaches, and far cheaper. Now iron rails linked the whole country together and new branch lines and stations were being opened every year. The thought of all this progress jeopardised by revolution and Britain dragged down to the level of some petty European state did not bear thinking about.
“Well, now we are on our way.” He had purchased their tickets from a clerk who studied his face suspiciously before accepting his money. He edged close to Jennifer, who moved aside so that not even their clothes touched. Sighing at his inability to understand this woman, he watched the crowd instead.
“Let’s hope this train is on time.” Jennifer seemed intent on keeping her distance. “I want to see this Inspector Field of yours.”
Mendick frowned. “I’m not sure if Inspector Field will actually see you.”
“He’d better . . .” Jennifer stopped, grabbing hold of his arm. “James! Look at that! On the wall.”
The poster was neatly made: an accurate sketch of his face and a short but bold caption beneath:
This man is James Mendick, and he is an enemy of the Charter. He is dedicated to destroying the hopes of the working classes of this country. If you see him, ensure that you shout out his name.
“God in heaven!”
Mendick stared for a second, wondering at the ingenuity of the Chartists, and then he remembered the notebook with the picture of each Scotland Yard detective. There was obviously a talented artist within the Chartist ranks, and once the picture had been drawn, it would be a simple matter to print off a poster, possibly on the same press that produced their Morning Star newspaper. He cursed; no wonder the ticket clerk had stared at him.
“And there’s more.” Jennifer dropped her hand from his arm. “See?”
There were other posters scattered around the station. On walls, on pillars, even on the outside of the ticket booth – each poster showing Mendick’s face, and each portraying him as an enemy of the Charter.
“Keep your head down,” Jennifer advised, “and pull down that hat. Thank God that it’s too big for you.”
He did so, immediately feeling that every eye in London Road Station was fixed exclusively on him.
“Maybe there are no Chartists here,” Jennifer said hopefully, “and we can just slip on to the train and keep quiet until we leave Manchester.”
“Please God that you are right,” Mendick said, glancing around him. He shook his head and rammed the top hat even further down as he felt his stomach heave. “There’s Josiah Armstrong himself, in the red cap, and the monster at his side is his guard dog.”
Armstrong leaned against a pillar at the entrance to their platform, with his revolutionary red cap on his head, a stubby pipe in his mouth and his arms folded across his scrawny chest. He was surveying the crowds much in the fashion of a police officer at a fairground, checking and identifying each person before passing on to the next. Beside him Peter looked like some circus exhibit—the strong man of Manchester—more than a head taller than Armstrong, twice as broad in the shoulder and with the lowering expression of a stag in the rutting season.
“They must have guessed I’d go straight for the train,” Mendick said, hating himself for underestimating the Chartists’ intelligence. “And they’ll probably have people at every station in the area too.”
He imagined Monaghan alerting the entire Chartist network; there could be men, some of whom he may even have trained himself, standing beneath posters all across the North. The thought was frightening, a private army within the nation, scores, maybe hundreds of potential revolutionaries looking for him.
“We’ll have to think of something else.”
“So that’s Armstrong.” Jennifer stepped clear for a better view until Mendick pulled her back. “Let me go. I want to see the man who murdered Nathaniel.”
“It’s not safe,” Mendick protested as she shook him off irritably, and he could only watch as she walked forward, her eyes never leaving Armstrong’s face.
“God, Jennifer, don’t do anything foolish,” he muttered, torn between the need to leave the station as quickly as he could and the desire to follow her to ensure she was not hurt.
Jennifer stopped a yard short of Armstrong and spoke a few words. Trying to merge into the anonymity of the crowd, Mendick watched as they spoke for a few moments, and then Jennifer nodded and walked slowly back to him. She was shaking, and he saw that all the colour had fled from her face.
“I wanted to speak to him, just once,” she said, with a tremble in her voice.
Mendick nodded; he could empathise with her feelings. After the death of Emma he had wanted to hurt people, anybody, just to express his bitterness.
“That was hard for you,” he said.
She nodded. “Take me away from here.” Her voice was taut, and she could not hold his eyes. “Ogden could be brutal, James, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to pure evil as I was just now.”
Mendick agreed although he could not have put his feelings into words. Before Armstrong had been transported he had been known as a vociferous supporter of the Charter, a noted orator and a firebrand, but his experiences in Van Diemen’s Land had embittered him. Genuine concern for his fellow workers had warped into a crusade against every factory owner, and he was prepared to use any method to achieve his objective. In a sense, the authorities had created Armstrong from their brutality, and Armstrong intended to unleash
the whirlwind of his revenge on London.
“We’ll have to stop him,” Jennifer said quietly.
“We will,” Mendick agreed. “But not by catching a train at this station.”
Several men were reading the posters when Mendick hurried from the station and back into the bustle of Manchester’s streets. He saw the same pinched faces as before, but now they seemed sinister, as if every eye was watching him and every man’s hand was turned against him. Manchester had appeared a place of languishing industry, hectic anticipation and desperate poverty, but now it seemed to host a nest of watchful Radicals, a fermenting broth of revolution and physical Chartism; he had to leave as quickly as he could.
“Where can we go?” Jennifer clung to his arm. Speaking with Armstrong had drained her more than Mendick had realised. “Could we catch the stage coach?” She raised her eyebrows. “We’d be in London in a day or so.”
“I doubt they’ll have forgotten about that,” he said. “I suspect there will be Chartists all over the damned place.”
There was a bill-sticker outside the station, busy with paste pot and brush as he plastered portraits of Mendick over every vacant wall. Passers-by stopped to watch, and one famine-thin woman deliberately spat on the poster.
“Whatever we do,” Mendick decided, “we can’t stay here.” He glanced around, fearful of recognition. “Let’s just walk.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere, nowhere; I just need to think.”
Keeping his head down, he chose a street and strode on, hoping to come to a solution. The most obvious would be to walk straight into a police station, say who he was and ask for help, but Ogden’s warning of Chartist sympathisers in the police ranks had been very stark. If he could not trust the police, then who was left? Was he the only loyal man in Manchester? Was he the only loyal man in Great Britain?
The thought was appalling and carried its own negativity, for if there were only a few loyal men then he was in a minority, and did that not make him the rebel and the majority the true inheritors of the nation? He shook his head; to think that was to discard everything he had ever believed; he must try to be rational. He swore, limping as the burns on his legs began to ache.
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 18
