The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Where are we going?” Jennifer sounded plaintive, and Mendick realised she was lifting her feet in distaste and picking her way through horse manure. He had led her into a narrow lane of arched doorways and stables.

  The nearest door was open, and he peered in. There was a single carriage, its dark paint highlighted by a distinctive yellow stripe he remembered, and the shock of recognition was so sudden he nearly ran away. He had taken Jennifer straight to the courtyard of the Beehive, the heart of Monaghan’s Physical Force Chartists. He, who had acted been so concerned for her safety, had led her to the most dangerous place imaginable.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Manchester: March 1848

  “Sweet God in heaven!” The idea was so sudden and so extreme that it shocked him. He felt his excitement rising and squeezed Jennifer’s arm.

  “We’re going to London, Jennifer, and we’re going in style.” He stopped squeezing when she violently pulled free.

  “Let me be, James.”

  He apologised at once but continued, “Listen. Your name is Rachel Scott and you’re an important Chartist. Can you repeat that?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked at him, forehead furrowed. “My name is Rachel Scott, and I am an important Chartist, but why . . .?”

  “Don’t think. Just do it. Now, follow my lead and look arrogant.”

  “What?”

  Rather than arrogant, Jennifer only looked perplexed as Mendick straightened his shoulders and marched into the stable. For a second he hesitated in case Peter was inside, but remembering that the prize-fighter was on guard at the railway station, he raised his voice in his best imitation of an officer of the 26th Foot.

  “Is anybody here? I said, is anybody here?”

  A short man emerged from one of the stalls, wiping his hands on a wisp of straw.

  “Who are you?” Recognising the voice of authority, he gave a small, obviously reluctant, bow.

  “McGill.” Mendick gave the name of the sergeant who had terrorised him as a recruit. “Is Mr Armstrong’s coach ready yet? He wants it now.”

  The man scowled suspiciously.

  ”Where’s Peter? Mr Armstrong always sends Peter for his coach.” He leaned back for a better view of Mendick. “I don’t know you at all.”

  “And I don’t know you either; nor do I want to.” Mendick adopted his most supercilious expression. “You might not know me, but you will know Miss Scott, here. Everybody knows Rachel Scott.”

  Jennifer stepped forward, acting as one born to expect obsequiousness from underlings.

  “And you are?”

  The man stepped back, bowing with genuine respect.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Scott, I did not know . . . I have never seen you before, although naturally I know all about you . . . I am Robert Peach, the ostler for the Beehive, and of course I'll help you in any way I can.”

  “I know that,” Jennifer said, but Mendick interrupted:

  “Put a good horse in the traces,” he ordered. The fear of recognition made him more authoritarian than he intended. “And make sure that it’s a fresh horse, well rested and fed.”

  “Of course, sir,” the ostler agreed.

  “And you’ll have food prepared for us?” Jennifer asked sweetly, opening her mouth in apparent horror when the ostler shook his head.

  “I was not given orders . . .”

  “Then I am giving you orders now! Get some food, and fast!” She looked over to Mendick. “I thought Mr Armstrong had matters better arranged that this, Mr McGill. I shall have words with him, severe words.”

  “I’ll send the boy right away,” the ostler promised, “but . . .”

  “Do that,” Jennifer ordered.

  “We haven’t got time,” Mendick began and Jennifer shot him a look that could have frozen lava.

  “We have to eat,” she hissed.

  Mendick gestured outside, where a man was busy with paste pail and posters. He guessed that his portrait was about to decorate even this insignificant alleyway. Jennifer nodded.

  “Ostler,” she snapped, “tell the boy to make sure he is back before the carriage is ready or I’ll take a whip to him.”

  “You’ll both be sorry, by God.” Mendick lowered his voice. “So get to it!”

  He watched the billsticker slap the poster onto a stable door and walk closer, the pail swinging from his left hand. Jennifer pulled him inside the stables and pushed the door shut.

  “You are distracting the ostler,” she told him, severely, “and the good man is doing his best for us.”

  Within ten minutes Mendick was sitting on the driver’s seat of the brougham, holding unfamiliar reins in his hand as he manoeuvred out of the lane and into the streets of Manchester. He had no plan except to head for London and no clear idea of the direction, but it was good to be doing something positive again, good to have cocked a snook at Armstrong and his band, and better to be leaving behind the Chartist heartland.

  “Let’s hope that we don’t break a wheel,” he said, and Jennifer threw him a look that would have curdled milk.

  It was many years since he had driven, and he was out of practice, pulling the horse first this way and then the other, and the brougham rattled uncertainly over the greasy cobblestones.

  “Careful, James,” Jennifer shouted from inside the coach, “or I’ll take over the reins.”

  “Sit still and keep quiet,” he replied, too tense to act the gentleman. Determined to prove himself, he whipped up the horse, which jerked forward and nearly clipped a brewery dray lumbering in the opposite direction. It was only the fact he was driving a private coach and possessed an extremely baleful glare which prevented anything more serious than a brief exchange of insults.

  With the centre of Manchester congested, he had to quickly relearn old skills. Wagons and carts, carriages and stagecoaches all crammed onto the roads, and he was too busy controlling the horse to pay much attention to the direction of travel.

  “Which way is it?” he asked hopelessly, and Jennifer pointed to a black-and-red coach.

  “That’s Peveril of the Peak,” she said, “the London stage. Follow it!”

  As the coachman’s horn blared a warning to keep clear, Mendick tucked in behind the Peveril, hoping there were not too many stops. Dark rain squeezed through the seemingly permanent pall of smoke oozing from those cotton mill chimneys that were still working, but he tried to ignore the depression. Easing over the River Irwell, he passed the Cathedral and looked ahead for a sight of the hurrying stagecoach.

  “What delicious weather.” Jennifer had opened the window and thrust her head outside.

  “Oh aye, the day is incapable of improvement.” Mendick huddled beneath the rain. “You stay inside the carriage and keep dry.”

  “How long will it take us to reach London?”

  “I have no idea,” he admitted. “Two or three days, perhaps, but we don’t have to drive all the way. We’ll have to avoid the turnpikes too, in case the keepers are Chartists; we can stop further south and take the train when it is safer.”

  “No.” Jennifer shook her head emphatically. “We’ll drive all the way. If the Chartists are in one railway station, they could be in them all. We’ll find a decent, out-of-the-way inn for the night and rest the horses.”

  The industrial revolution had given Manchester some fine architecture, but its growth had spawned a city which contrasted a prosperous centre with shocking housing and ugly factories. However, as they drove south, the brick terraces gradually eased into some of the most delightful country Mendick had ever seen. His spirits rose as the city disappeared behind him and the rain eased to a pleasant drizzle.

  Spring had enlivened the countryside, pushing the dreary winter away in a blush of green grass and flowers. Daffodils nodded from the gardens of cottages, ploughed fields were already flushed with growth, and birdsong sweetened the crisp air as the brougham pulled further away from Manchester’s bitter memories.

  “This is better.” Je
nnifer poked her head out of the window, holding on to her bonnet as the breeze washed her face. “How far will we go today?”

  Mendick glanced backward to reply, “As far as we can, or rather, as far as the horse is willing to pull. I’d like to get a fair distance before dark. Armstrong will soon discover that his carriage is missing, and it won’t take him long to guess who has it. If he controls the telegraph system, he’ll certainly warn his minions to watch out for us.”

  “I never thought of that,” Jennifer admitted. “So what’s best?”

  “Follow your plan of finding an out-of-the-way place to spend the night. A country inn with no recourse to the telegraph would be best.”

  Jennifer’s forethought had ensured they had enough food for that day, and in the evening Mendick eased them off the main road and into a village where a handsome inn slumbered under a glorious sunset. With its beams and thunderous log fire, he had never seen anything so inviting. The landlady booked them in as a married couple, and Jennifer, practical as ever, did not object.

  “Only married people or a brother and sister can respectably travel together,” she reminded him, “so we will just have to make the best of it.” Her smile softened the confusion in her eyes. “Just remember I have my hat pin.”

  “I would not take advantage of you,” he told her.

  “You will not have the chance,” Jennifer promised sweetly.

  Their room overlooked the village green, where ducks huddled in a pool of muddy water and a gaggle of barefoot children resisted the efforts of their parents to drag them home.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jennifer said. “It’s so pleasant after the industry and bustle of Manchester.”

  Mendick agreed. At one time not too long ago, most people in England would have lived somewhere similar; being forced to the cities to find work must have broken their hearts. No! He shook his head. If he continued with that train of thought he would find himself supporting the Chartists again. He sighed, cursing Armstrong and Monaghan for latching on to what had been a relatively peaceful movement and turning it into something sordid.

  “It’s a perfectly well-conducted inn, too,” Jennifer said quietly, “but we might have a slight problem tonight.”

  One bed dominated the room, and the chambermaid bustled about cheerfully, talking about the weather and the terrible state of affairs in France while checking that there was water in the triton pitcher, laying out fresh linen and commenting on the fine carriage that they were driving.

  “Well, Mr and Mrs Brown,” she said, “I’ll bid you a good night, then.” She curtseyed and left them with a single candle burning and the fire glowing red against the evening chill.

  “So here we are.” Mendick watched as Jennifer sat gingerly on the bed, testing it for comfort and cleanliness, just as Emma would have done.

  “Here we are indeed,” she agreed. She was obviously waiting for him to speak.

  “So how do we proceed?”

  “Simple,” Jennifer told him, pulling the hatpin from her hair. It was about ten inches long and looked wickedly dangerous. “You sleep on the floor, and I have this by my side.”

  “You have no reason to be afraid of me,” he tried to assure her. “I would not insult you in any way.”

  “No.” She ran two fingers along the length of the pin. “I have no reason to fear you at all.” She raised her chin defiantly, and then suddenly she was crying; her shoulders shaking as the repressed emotion of the past few weeks escaped. She tried to control herself, gulping for air as her face screwed up. “That’s just what Ogden said on our wedding night; those were his exact words!”

  “Oh God!” He extended a hand in sympathy, trying to pat her shoulder but she rounded on him, jabbing with the pin so he withdrew hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. . . ”

  Her face was twisted as she snarled at him across the breadth of the bed, “No! You have no idea, no idea at all!” She was sobbing violently now, taking great whooping breaths, and then she turned away from him and lay on the bed with her face buried in the covers. He did not know what to do. He would have known exactly how to soothe away Emma’s grief, but Jennifer was an unknown entity, somebody with such unexpected mood swings that he was left feeling confused and powerless.

  Standing by the bed, unable to help but unwilling to leave Jennifer to suffer alone, Mendick could only watch as she lay there, her shoulders heaving. He cursed Armstrong and the Chartists anew. Whatever their high ideals, all they seemed to do was leave a trail of misery and suffering in their wake.

  Blackbirds eased them into the night, and fresh rain softly caressed the windows as the fire gradually faded. Mendick sat on the only chair, occasionally putting out his hand but always withdrawing it before he made contact with Jennifer’s tormented body. When the candle burned low he lit another, unwilling to leave her in the dark.

  When Jennifer finally looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She swallowed hard, but when she spoke her voice was very controlled. “Can you remember when I asked you what was missing in my . . . the house in Manchester?”

  “I remember,” Mendick said quietly. In the confusion of trying to escape from the Chartists he had not given the question any more thought.

  “So, James, what was missing?” Jennifer seemed to be biting back the words.

  “Your husband? Mr Ogden?” he hazarded, and saw the anger flare again, uncontrollable and frantic.

  “Not Ogden! Not ever Ogden! What else? What should there be after ten years of marriage?” She nearly screamed the words, heedless of being overheard.

  “Children, of course! Children! I have none, can’t you see that?”

  Mendick backed off from her fury. This was not the demure domestic woman that he had first met, but a spitfire full of bile and bitterness.

  “I had not thought . . .”

  “Of course you had not thought.” Jennifer took a deep, shuddering breath. “But try to think now, James. I cannot have children, James. What do you think of that?”

  He remembered Emma carrying their child, he remembered her pride and beauty, the way she swelled and the way she suffered.

  “My wife died in childbirth,” he said quietly, controlling his own emotion. “If she had been unable to have children, she would still be with me.”

  Deep in her own grief, Jennifer brushed aside his experience. “You say that now, but what would you have said then? I saw the look in your face just now; you despised me.”

  “Despised you?”

  Mendick had been married long enough to realise that he could not console a woman in such a frame of mind. Jennifer was looking for a quarrel and would twist whatever he said. She had been hurt and wanted to hurt somebody else, and he was the most available person. Yet he knew that she was also at her most vulnerable, scared, newly alone in the world, so he must ensure he did not distress her further.

  “No, Jennifer, I do not despise you.” He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, but instead she sighed.

  “No? You would if you were my husband. You would if you wanted sons to follow you.”

  Suddenly he thought he understood. Jennifer had nothing of Ogden, no child to carry his memory, and she believed that Ogden would have been disappointed.

  “Nathaniel married you, Jennifer, for yourself. As soon as I saw you together, I knew that you were happy. He would not mind; he would understand.”

  “Would he?” Jennifer raised her eyebrows in a display of such scepticism that Mendick knew he was wrong again. “Would he indeed?” She stood up, still brandishing the hatpin. “No, he would not. He wanted children, Mr Mendick, and I failed him. I was infertile and produced no heirs.” She slapped at her crotch, deliberately obscene. “This is useless; I am useless, and he hated me for it.”

  “No,” he tried to console her, “I’m sure he did not.”

  “You’re sure of an awful lot, Mr Mendick, and all your sureties are incorrect. He hated me for it, and . . .” she paused, shaking her head as her face
collapsed, her mouth open in howls.

  Once again he took a single step forward but stopped. He could only watch and wait for Jennifer to regain her composure. By the time she recovered, the bed was a rumpled mess and her face was blotchy and swollen.

  “He beat me, Mr Mendick, that’s how much he understood. He beat me, and that’s how happy we were together.”

  “Oh sweet Lord.” Mendick sat on the bed. “I had no idea.”

  “No,” Jennifer said quietly, ‘you had no idea. You saw him as a good man because even Scotland Yard knew that. You saw Ogden’s public face, the smiling, dedicated police officer who always did his duty, the man with the docile wife and the respectable occupation. I saw the real Nathaniel Ogden, the ranting failure who married a woman who couldn't even produce a child. I saw . . .” she shook her head. “I saw a different man, Mr Mendick, and I do not care that he is dead.” She looked up through eyes liquid with tears. “Now do you despise me? A woman who can't produce children and a wife who doesn't care that her husband is dead?”

  “He beat you?”

  Mendick tried to equate his vision of the cheerful Sergeant Ogden with a man who beat his wife. He had encountered other such men, one or two of whom he had arrested, but they were usually drunken brutes who took out their frustrations on the most vulnerable person they could find; he had not thought of Ogden as a failure, a drunkard or a brute. He glanced at Jennifer, searching for some residual evidence, a fading bruise, perhaps, or a swollen lip. She read his look with ease.

  “He hit me where it would never show,” Jennifer confirmed. “Where only he would ever see it, if you understand?” She passed a quivering finger over her body.

  “I think I do.” Mendick felt his lip curling. “My God, but I’m sorry, Mrs Ogden . . .”

  “Jennifer. Call me Jennifer.” Her voice had risen to a hysterical scream. “Never use that name again. I do not want that name!”