The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  Slowly but definitely, the crowd edged away to the verges of the road, creating a narrow corridor for the coach to squeeze through. Hoping that nobody had actually seen Armstrong in person, Mendick drove as quickly as he could, keeping his head down and praying that the red cap would provide sufficient camouflage.

  The words of the song bellowed around him. People were cheering, laughing, wishing him luck, but others were grimmer, and he saw gaunt exhaustion amidst the defiance, the hollow cheeks of hunger, the dazed, defeated eyes of men to whom the Charter offered a last forlorn hope.

  He felt familiar pangs of guilt. He was cheating these men whose only crime was poverty, these men who sought only a better life for their families. As Jennifer had pointed out, they were just pawns, disregarded by everybody. Their march was pointless; they existed only to create wealth for others, and he was an agent of their oppressors. He knew that he was not their enemy, but he also knew that neither was he their friend.

  He sighed; he was only one man, he could not solve the problems of the country, but he might be able to help prevent an ugly civil war and save the life of the Queen, and even of many of these deluded, desperate and dangerous men.

  “Let me pass, please, boys,” he whispered, hating himself as he drove his horse through the ranks. “Let me pass and I will deal with the creatures who are duping you, the men who promise what they cannot deliver and who are leading you to certain defeat.”

  There were gaps ahead, short stretches of the road free of Chartists, and whenever there was congestion, the magical names of Armstrong and Scott cleared a lane for them to push through. By the late afternoon Mendick was hoarse from singing his Chartist song, and his arm ached from waving to the hundreds of supporters who wished him God speed and success.

  “It’s working.” Jennifer sounded triumphant. “So who is useless now, eh?”

  “Not you,” he reassured her. “Certainly not you.”

  They exchanged grins, but Jennifer looked quickly away as they eased into the first outlying houses of the London sprawl. The gentle April dusk made even this ardent city look benign as the brougham rolled through the outskirts, the road lined with new villas interspersed with patches of dense industrial housing and a few remaining market gardens.

  “Rather than go directly to Scotland Yard, could we not just report to the first policeman we see?” Jennifer asked.

  Tempted for a moment, Mendick shook his head.

  “I’m not sure if we can trust them,” he said simply. “I’d hate to come this far only to throw everything away. If the highest in the land is corrupt, how can we trust a bobby on a guinea a week?” He pulled at the reins as the horse began to falter. “Come on, boy.”

  “The horse cannot keep pulling,” Jennifer said. “The poor thing’s about dropping.”

  “It has to keep going.” He plied the whip harder than he had ever done before. He felt sympathy for the beast, but the suffering of one animal was unimportant when compared to the safety of the country and the life of the Queen.

  “We’ll be in Whitehall in a couple of hours.”

  He looked ahead. Even here there were Chartists. There was a small group of men marching on the road, one man carrying a furled banner over his shoulder and the remainder walked with their heads bowed and tired legs dragging in the dirt.

  “That horse will not last a couple of hours,” Jennifer told him simply. “Unless you allow it to rest, it will die, and you’ll never get to Scotland Yard.”

  He knew she was correct. The horse was drooping in its harness, its head down and its hooves trailing. Without rest it would simply collapse and he would have to walk through the streets. While his duty demanded that he drive onward, common humanity dictated that he should stop.

  “You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly, “we should find some stables and hire another; any old hack will do for the short distance we have left.” He looked around to check their location. “We’re not too far from Horatio Chantrell’s.”

  “What?” Jennifer looked at him.

  “We’re not far from Chantrell’s Great Northern Inn. It’s not the grandest inn, but it has one of the best tables in this part of the country.” He grinned suddenly. “Are you hungry?”

  Jennifer nodded, suddenly animated. “Starved,” she admitted cheerfully. “When did we last eat?”

  Mendick shrugged. They had breakfasted before they left the inn that morning and had long since finished off the last of the bread the ostler’s boy had brought them three days ago.

  “Many hours since.” He looked across to her. “The Great Northern it is. Every lord and duke in creation stops there if they get the chance. Chantrell’s food is famous from Reading to the Romney Marsh.” He enjoyed the look of anticipation on Jennifer’s face. “We’ll be there inside the quarter hour.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  London: April 1848

  At one time London had a dozen great coaching inns, but the advent of rail travel had ended that flamboyant era. Now there were few, but Horatio Chantrell’s Great Northern continued the tradition, defiant in the teeth of progress. Chantrell stood in the cobbled courtyard to personally greet every one of his customers, his plump and jovial face a byword for hospitality. More important for Mendick, his establishment was equally celebrated for its stock of horses, hosting anything up to twenty at any one time and hiring them out to passing travellers.

  He eased the brougham to a halt within the arched gate, dismounted stiffly and fondled the ears of the horse that had performed so splendidly in pulling them down half the length of England.

  Chantrell stepped forward, a smile widening his already broad face. “A suitable horse, sir? Mr . . .?”

  “Armstrong.” By now Mendick was so used to using the name that he replied automatically, “Josiah Armstrong.”

  “Mr Armstrong, of course, sir.” Chantrell carried his belly before him and his mutton chop side-whiskers wagged as he spoke, but he bowed as best he could and examined the coach with shrewd eyes. “You have been travelling far, I see, and your nag is weary.”

  “Far enough,” Mendick agreed. “But not long to go now.”

  “I see, sir. It’s always good to come to the end of a long journey. You’ll have a bite to eat, of course,” Chantrell said. “I have a fine table inside, and good company.” He continued to look at the coach, narrowing his eyes as if confused.

  “More than a bite,” Jennifer said, “for we are both famished.”

  “Ah!” Chantrell gave a conspiratorial smile. “I like a lady who enjoys her food.” He bowed in appreciation. “Then, while your horse rests and feeds, you can enjoy the pleasures of my table. How does steak and fried oysters sound?”

  “It sounds wonderful, and thank you, we shall enjoy it,” Jennifer answered for them both. “Come, Josiah.”

  “We cannot spare too much time.” Mendick sensed that Jennifer would welcome a prolonged stay at the table of the Great Northern. “As soon as the horse is rested, or when Mr Chantrell can find us a suitable replacement, we should be moving on.”

  “Food,” she commanded. “I refuse to go a single yard further until we have dined, and dined properly.”

  “The lady knows her own mind.” Chantrell sounded amused. “How exactly like my own better half.” He gave a throaty chuckle but glanced again at the brougham, as if hoping to confirm something.

  Already regretting his weakness in halting there, Mendick bobbed briefly to Chantrell and followed Jennifer inside the inn.

  The Great Northern had a common board, with travellers of all types sharing a single room where massive, smoke-darkened beams stretched across the ceiling and a fire crackled comfortingly within the hearth. After days cooped in the coach, the hubbub of noise seemed almost overpowering, but the conviviality was so enticing that Mendick felt himself relaxing, particularly as the clientele were a complete contrast to the poverty-pinched people of the north. Here were well-fed, affable men and their padded, red-faced wives, successful merchants an
d roaring members of the lesser gentry laughing and joking together in cheerful conversation.

  In such a place, thoughts of Chartist insurrections and attempts on the life of the Queen seemed surreal. Mendick smiled; he was back in the London he understood, where rich and poor co-existed in different worlds; each happily prepared to accept the other as a potential victim, if nothing else.

  He pulled back a chair for Jennifer and then eased down on his own. For a second he leaned back, nearly drifting into sleep in the friendly atmosphere and warmth, until Jennifer nudged him in the ribs.

  “Is that not Armstrong?”

  “What?” Mendick opened his eyes, peering through the smoky atmosphere. “Where?”

  “There you are, sir.” Chantrell was smiling down at them. “This is the gentleman. He not only shares your name, he also has a coach with the same colours as yours, which is quite the strangest of coincidences I ever saw. I wondered if you might be related? It would be quite a thing if two cousins arrived here at the same time and entirely by chance.”

  Standing to the left of Chantrell, Armstrong nodded once. The red cap he wore bobbed, but Mendick was on his feet before the hand came out. Pushing past Chantrell, he thumped his knee hard into the muscle of Armstrong’s thigh and shouted to Jennifer.

  “Run! Jennifer, run!”

  She did not need a second warning. Without hesitation, she fell backward from the table, rolled on the floor and rose to her feet, glancing from side to side as she sought the best escape route.

  About to follow her, Mendick was just a second too late; he swore as a great hand closed on his neck and held him close. He had not heard Peter approach, but now the prize-fighter was breathing in his ear and dragging him up from the chair. Mendick tried to jerk his head backward, flailing with heels and elbows.

  “Run, Jennifer! Run!”

  There was a sickening thump as his head made solid contact with something. Peter’s grip loosened for an instant, and Mendick elbowed backward as hard as he could, feeling the thump as he smashed against Peter’s ribcage. The prize-fighter grunted slightly, but tightened his grip on Mendick’s neck with his left hand while wrapping an arm like a wire cable around his body.

  “Peter, it’s me, your friend. Let go, for God’s sake.”

  “Keep quiet, James,” Peter spoke softly, “and please let me carry you away.”

  “Take him outside.” Armstrong’s voice was strained, and Mendick hoped his thigh was painful. “I’ll get the woman.”

  Mendick saw that Jennifer was hesitating, one hand gripping the table and the other held out as if she could restrain Peter by herself. He saw Armstrong move toward her and yelled again, as loud as he could,

  “Run, Jennifer, for your life! Please!”

  Moving quickly for a damaged man, Armstrong lunged forward, dodged between two diners and grabbed at Jennifer. His hand closed on her sleeve, but she turned quickly and landed a stinging slap against his scarred back. Gasping, Armstrong released her.

  “Help!” Jennifer raised her voice in a high-pitched screech. “Help me, please!”

  “Jennifer! Run!”

  As the crowd in the room looked on in astonishment, Jennifer aimed a wild kick at Armstrong, missed by a yard and ran to escape, still screaming as she knocked down chairs and upset plates in her passage. She slipped, staggered and jumped for the door.

  “Stop her!” Armstrong ordered, still with one hand holding his back. “She is a thief!” But instead the crowd closed ranks behind Jennifer.

  “Shame!” somebody shouted. “Leave the lady alone.”

  “You leave her be,” a countryman in a white smock ordered. Leaning back in his chair and not at all overawed by Armstrong’s sinister appearance, he thrust out a stubborn chin. “She wasn’t doing you no harm, and I won’t have you do any to her.”

  Others in the crowd nodded, although when Peter danced across in support of Armstrong, dragging Mendick with him, most of them backed away. Peter’s size was enough to intimidate even the bravest of men. Only the countryman rose from his seat, holding a blackthorn staff in front of him as he defiantly blocked Peter’s path.

  “You can’t bully me, mister; I’ve faced bigger men. Put that fellow down and fight me fair and square!”

  Still struggling in Peter’s grip, Mendick roared encouragement until a large hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his lips against his teeth.

  “You’ve to keep quiet, James, when you’re told.”

  “We’re leaving,” Armstrong ordered, his voice desperate. “Peter, forget the baggage; she doesn’t matter. Bring the spy.”

  Mendick tried to bite at Peter’s hand, but his grip was too strong, so instead he lashed out with his hands and kicked wildly with his feet, occasionally landing on flesh that seemed as unyielding as granite.

  “Now you keep still!” Peter admonished, holding him securely and barging through a crowd that had lost interest as soon as they realised Jennifer was safe. A group of ostlers looked up in astonishment as they stormed into the courtyard.

  “What’s all the commotion?”

  “Never you mind,” Armstrong snarled. “Just get out of my way.”

  Armstrong’s coach had the familiar blue and yellow paintwork, but the horse was fresh, and the bodywork was not disfigured with scrapes and mud. Mendick presumed that Chantrell had ordered it should be cleaned as a further example of his service.

  “Toss him inside, Peter, quickly now.”

  Peter threw Mendick face down onto the damp straw on the floor and pinned him with a knee in the small of his back as Armstrong tied him hand and foot.

  “You lie still, you Peeler bastard, until I decide what to do with you.” Armstrong pulled the cord so tight it bit into Mendick’s wrists and re-awakened the raw burns on his ankles.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Mendick yelled. “Trafford is using you and all the other Chartists! Listen to me!”

  “I’ve had enough listening to you.” Armstrong’s voice was a sinister hiss. “Quieten him down, Peter; gag the bastard!”

  “No! Listen!” Mendick said desperately. “You’re all being duped . . .” He grunted as Peter pulled a spotted handkerchief from his pocket, stuffed it in his mouth and tied it securely in place. He gagged, almost choking, and wriggled in impotent frustration.

  “That’s better. Drive on, Peter,” Armstrong ordered. “Take us somewhere quiet.” He viciously kicked Mendick’s ribs, grunting with the effort. “Then we’ll take care of this rubbish.” Slamming the door shut, Armstrong eased himself down beside Peter on the driving seat.

  Wriggling helplessly on the floor, Mendick felt the coach jerk forward, moving slowly as Peter negotiated the awkward gate into the Great Northern, and then it suddenly stopped. He heard Armstrong’s sibilant voice followed by the sharper tones of a Londoner, and then the coach door jerked open and Jennifer was there, dragging him across the floor with his shins scraping sharply against the legs of the seat and his face rubbing through the straw.

  “Help me then,” she panted. “Kick with your feet or something!”

  He found purchase against the seat and propelled himself awkwardly forward until he tumbled painfully on to the straw-strewn cobbles. Looking up, he saw that Peter had tried to leave just as another coach was entering, and both coaches were jammed in the entrance. Armstrong and the other driver were shouting at each other, and Chantrell was bustling over on fat legs to try and keep the peace.

  “Come on! We haven’t much time!” Jennifer spoke in a harsh whisper although the driver of the incoming coach was making so much noise it was unlikely anyone would have heard even if she had yelled at the top of her voice. She wielded a short knife, presumably lifted from the inn, and sawed desperately at the cords.

  “This blade is dull,” Jennifer complained, hacking away furiously and making little impression on the tight cord. “It couldn’t cut butter.”

  Mendick grunted, trying to hold his legs as still as possible to make her task easie
r. He looked up, aware that Armstrong was only a few yards away, and if he should happen to glance down, he could not fail to see him lying helpless on the ground. He widened his eyes, trying to urge Jennifer to greater speed. Twice her hands slipped and the blade rasped painfully against his ankle, but finally the cord snapped, and he stood up.

  Perhaps it was the sudden movement that alerted Armstrong, but he looked downward at just that second.

  “Peter!” Armstrong jerked a thumb backward. “The peeler’s free!” He clambered down from the seat and reached inside his jacket.

  “Run!” Grabbing hold of Mendick, Jennifer pulled him across the courtyard, stumbling over uneven cobbles. “Come on!”

  Mendick followed, still with his hands tied behind his back and the foul gag in his mouth. A groom looked up in surprise and held a currycomb in front of him like some makeshift weapon.

  “Is there a door? Another way out?” Jennifer demanded.

  The groom pointed the comb at the furthest and darkest corner of the building, his mouth open in an adenoidal gape and his eyes questioning the tied and gagged man Jennifer dragged behind her.

  Without pausing for a thank you, Jennifer lifted her skirt clear of the filthy ground and ran for the corner. Mendick joined her; he heard Armstrong’s feet clattering across the cobbles. He heard Armstrong shout, and then Jennifer pushed him through an amazingly small door.

  They emerged into a street bustling with activity. Two women were peering into the window of a shop, an omnibus rattled past and a group of workmen were busily building next year’s slum. Everything seemed so normal that Mendick hesitated.

  “James! Don’t look back! Just run!”

  Unable to speak, he nodded and lengthened his stride, following Jennifer as she disappeared into a side street that delved crookedly into the heart of London. People watched from low doorways and broken windows, throwing the occasional raucous insult as they passed.