“I’m not trying to order you around, Jennifer . . .” Mendick began, but she had stopped, placed both hands on her hips and leaned toward him.
“We needed each other to get here, and we’ve worked well enough together, but now that we have arrived, I will follow my own life, and so should you. I’m sure you will manage just fine without me.”
Fuelled by the tension of the past weeks and the strains of the last few hours, anger replaced Mendick’s caution.
“Well, Jennifer, before I came along you were a frightened little woman cowed by her husband and afraid of being useless.” He shrugged and turned his back. “Return to that if you will; if you can’t find anywhere else, there might be a place for you along the Highway.”
Dragging Armstrong with him, Mendick began to stride away, already regretting his final insult. Perhaps her experiences had made Jennifer temperamental, but she was good at heart and had proved a steady friend in time of need; she did not deserve such treatment. Cursing his temper, he turned to apologise, but Jennifer was also hurrying away with one hand holding her skirt clear of the ground and marching like a guardsman.
“Jennifer!”
She quickened her step slightly.
“Jennifer! I didn’t mean that!”
Without looking back, she turned a corner and disappeared from view. About to follow, Mendick shook his head; she obviously neither desired nor needed his help. His duty was clear and Ogden’s widow could not distract him.
“Come on, Josiah. Let’s get you tucked up nice and quiet in your cell.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
London: April 1848
It felt strange to be back in the room where it all started, with the same traffic noises intruding from Whitehall and the same brass chandelier swinging slowly above his head. There was a new grandmother clock in one corner, the hidden pendulum softly ticking away each passing second and the brass face engraved with the maker’s name and the words Tempus Fugit. Mendick stood at attention, knowing he was unshaven and extremely untidy and that Inspector Field was examining him through those quizzical, knowing eyes, shaking his head slowly and very disapprovingly. He wished he had taken his own advice and spent an hour at home polishing and brushing before reporting to Scotland Yard, but he had considered his duty more important than his appearance. Perhaps he had been wrong.
Closing his eyes for an instant, Mendick’s mind was swamped with images of Chartists marching under green banners, of volunteers drilling with new Brown Bess muskets, of the Chartist roadblock in the Midlands and of acrid smoke rasping in his lungs as he struggled in that hellish chimney.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, wondering if he saw concern in Inspector Field’s eyes rather than disapproval.
“You look terrible.” Field held up a podgy hand as the door opened. “Ah! Here comes Mr Smith now, so you can make your report.”
“Constable.” Smith did not waste time in a preamble. He strode into the room, acknowledging Mendick with a terse nod of his head. “We had heard that you were killed.”
“No, sir, I’m still alive. It was Ogden who was killed.”
“Ah.” Smith swept back the tails of his frock coat before carefully positioning himself on a seat by the fire. He looked strained; his mouth was set tighter than before. “That might explain things. I’m delighted that you’re alive but sorry to hear about Ogden; he was a good man.”
“He was a good police officer, sir,” Mendick agreed. After hearing Jennifer’s tales, he was no longer sure that Ogden had been a good man.
With his duty to Ogden’s memory completed, Smith could move on.
“We heard nothing from you during your absence; pray tell me everything that happened in the north.”
Mendick could hear the ticking of the grandmother clock as he began, and then he was caught up in his own story, speaking first of the plot to murder Queen Victoria, and then recounting the intended Chartist uprising. His audience listened intently, scribbling notes or raising their eyebrows in astonishment.
“Entire cases of muskets? Extraordinary!”
“Sir Robert Trafford? Unbelievable!”
When he mentioned Josiah Armstrong’s name, Mendick noticed Field’s face tauten, and the inspector wrote furiously for a few moments before returning his attention to what was being said.
The clock seemed even more audible when Mendick ended, and a piece of coal settled with a perceptible sigh.
“Well now.”
For the duration of Mendick’s report Smith had not moved from his position in front of the fire, but now he paced the few steps to the window, twirling one of the tails of his coat in his right hand.
“Well now, Constable. You seem to have had yourself quite the adventure, haven’t you? And you have certainly opened a large can of worms.”
He looked out of the window for a few minutes while one hand continued to work busily at his coat tail and the fingers of the other tapped a tattoo on his thigh.
“You have informed us of two separate threats to the stability of the realm. The first threat, of which we were already aware, comes from the Chartists. According to you, these radicals have become highly organised and have an unknown number of trained detachments ready to rise in rebellion.” Turning swiftly, he raised his eyebrows. “Is that correct?”
“It is, sir,” Mendick agreed.
“All bad so far,” Smith said, “except for your single-handed capture of Armstrong, of course. That was a notable piece of work. Quite extraordinary, I would say. We all hoped that Armstrong would die quietly in Van Diemen’s Land, but now it seems he will be hanged instead.”
“I agree the man will be none the worse for a good hanging,” Field said, “but in doing so, we may create a martyr for the Chartists.”
When Smith looked up, the steel in his face matched anything that Mendick had seen from Armstrong.
“By the time I have finished, Inspector, there will be no Chartists.” He nodded grimly. “And as for William Monaghan, I intend to have him transported shortly also.”
Mendick nodded, remembering Ogden’s screams and the horror of that flue.
“Yes, sir. However, not all the Chartists are of the same stamp. Monaghan is certainly a dangerous man, but the group of delegates who meet in the Beehive Inn seem to be sincere in their attempts to help the working people . . .”
Smith stopped his flow with an upraised hand.
“All of which is well and good, Constable, but certainly no concern of yours. Pray allow the politicians to take care of politics while you attend to your own duty.”
“Yes, sir.” Mendick realised Inspector Field was also frowning at him. “But if I may be permitted . . .”
“You may not, Constable. You have made your verbal report; now please remain silent unless I ask you a direct question.” Smith stepped back from the window. “So, to continue; these Physical Force Chartists are coming to London in the train of O’Connor’s circus, and if Parliament does not agree to all their demands, they will attempt a revolution either here or in the north.” He paused, still twisting his coat tail in his hand. “Is that correct?”
“It is, sir,” Mendick agreed.
“All right.” Smith nodded to Inspector Field. “Then we shall take measures to counter this intended insurrection.” He hesitated for a second. “I presume there is no doubt about any of this intelligence, Constable?”
“None whatsoever, sir,” Mendick said. “As I mentioned, I was present at some of the meetings with Monaghan and Armstrong,” he paused, “and Rachel Scott. I saw the gathering of volunteers in the Midlands, sir, hundreds, possibly thousands of men, some with muskets, collecting in a very disciplined manner.”
“It is the discipline that worries me most,” Smith admitted. “The army is quite capable of dealing with any size of mob, but a disciplined and trained force is a horse of an entirely different colour.” He looked up. “White, perhaps?” He gave a brief laugh at his own joke but stopped abruptly when
nobody else joined in.
Inspector Field left his seat to pile more coal on the fire, looking over his shoulder to Mendick as he did so.
“You were involved in the actual training of these militant Chartists, Constable. How do they shape up?”
“Very well,” Mendick said. “They are fine material.”
Smith nodded, frowning.
“Aye, well, I think the less said about the training the better. Some people could construe such actions as treason. Rachel Scott, however, interests me. I have not come across her name before, and her description is equally unfamiliar, yet you tell me she is heavily involved in both the Chartist plot and this alleged assassination attempt.”
“Rachel Scott is an interesting person, sir,” Mendick said, “but I am also unclear about her role in either affair. She is friendly with Monaghan as well as Trafford, but she is a chameleon; she alters to suit her surroundings.” He shook his head. “And she has a connection with the man she calls Uncle Ernie.”
The tail-twirling stopped as Smith again resorted to his notebook, leaning on the desk and writing non-stop for a full two minutes before he looked up.
“I would be obliged if you kept that information within these walls, Constable. Much of what you say is conjecture and speculation, and there is enough trouble in Europe without this country becoming engaged in an ugly diplomatic quarrel.”
Mendick nodded. “Of course, sir. I was merely doing my duty in bringing these matters to your attention.”
“Indeed,” Smith said. “You have certainly done that, Constable. I believe you have acted with commendable zeal and some bravery, although, your interpretation of events may not be infallible.”
Mendick said nothing; he knew that if he was correct, his superiors would accept the credit, but if he were wrong the blame would fall squarely on him. In that respect the police force was no different from the army.
“I am not at all sure about your alleged conspiracy involving Cumberland, or the King of Hanover as he is now, particularly as Sir Robert Trafford is known to me personally.” Smith raised his eyebrows as if waiting for Mendick to comment. “On the other hand, it would be foolish to take any chances, and Her Majesty may well be under threat from the Chartists, so I shall advise that she leaves London for a time.”
Mendick nodded. It seemed that Mr Smith was covering his options; nobody could blame him for advising the Queen to leave London in the face of massed radicals, and in doing so he was not completely dismissing the intelligence about the assassination attempt.
“And as for these Chartists . . .” Smith took a deep breath, “We shall swamp the streets with special constables, and we will use every uniformed officer we can scrape up. If the Chartists march down with ten thousand, I will have ten times ten thousand.” He glanced down at his notes.
“I will ask the Duke of Wellington to take charge of the defence of London. He may be eighty years old, but he is still the best in the business.”
Mendick nodded. The thirty years since Waterloo had not dimmed Wellington’s military star.
Smith continued, “The Guards are on hand, of course, and we have yeomanry and line regiments within a day’s march. We will cover the bridges with artillery and have cavalry ready to break up the mobs.”
“My men are prepared,” Inspector Field said, “and we have already called up thousands of specials.” He looked at Mendick. “Your intelligence will ensure we are not caught unprepared, Constable.”
Again Mendick said nothing although he was impressed at the speed in which decisions were being made. With Smith and Field in charge of arrangements and Wellington commanding the military, it seemed that Monaghan would have to whistle for his utopia.
“You said the Chartists had infiltrated the telegraph system, Constable.” Smith ticked off another of the notes that he had made. “We will commandeer the system and, if necessary, we will take control of every railway line in Britain. By God, sir, we’ll show these Radicals.”
“Yes, sir, but remember not all the Chartists are set on destruction, sir. Most just want a decent standard of living . . .”
“Then let them work for it, Constable, let them work for it.” There was no sympathy in Smith’s face. “You, sir, have done your duty well. Rest assured that I intend to do no less. I will sew up London so tight that not even a Chartist mouse can enter, and to keep you happy, I will ask Her Majesty to retire to a safer place.” He nodded to Mendick. “Inspector Field will ensure you are present on that occasion, but for now, Constable,” he held out his hand, “you have the thanks of the country.”
Guessing that Smith was awarding him a great honour, Mendick took the hand. There would be no more reward for a man who was merely performing his duty.
“Right, Constable.” Inspector Field resumed his authoritarian tone. “You had better get yourself cleaned up. You look more like somebody fit for the cells than one of the guardians of law and order. Report for duty as normal tomorrow. That will be all.”
Pulling himself to attention, Mendick saluted. This seemed to be the end of his adventure in the north. There would be neither fanfare nor effusive praise. Inspector Field had reminded him that he was nothing more than a very small cog in a disciplined machine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London: April 1848
Something was wrong. Perhaps it was an instinct developed through years of police work, but Mendick felt the tingle of apprehension the second he stepped into Hart’s Lane, the street in which he lived. Ignoring the burning sensation in his legs, he increased his speed and stopped just outside the brick building with its narrow windows and sagging roof.
“Oh, good God in heaven!” His front door was swinging drunkenly on its single remaining hinge. Belatedly he remembered the Chartists had already paid his home a visit. Swearing, he pushed inside and looked around at the wreckage of what had once been his home.
Somebody had gone through the house systematically destroying everything that could be destroyed, either for the sheer love of destruction or in a calculated attack on his life and memories. Leaning against the wall, he took a deep breath.
The rocking chair on which he had spent so much time and labour had been broken; its curved runners were splintered, the back shattered and the seat with its carefully sewn cushions hacked to pieces. Worse, much worse, was the mirror, in front of which he always imagined Emma. Now the frame was destroyed and thrown to the four corners of the room and the glass scattered in a thousand reflective shards. The legs had been hacked from the table, his chair lay charred in the fireplace and the bed, his marriage bed, was smashed beyond repair. Feathers from the mattress were strewn all around the room and the fabric ripped by a sharp knife.
“Oh, sweet Lord,” Mendick said. Possessions had never meant much to him, but everything in his house attached him to Emma.
“Somebody’s been busy.” Jennifer looked through the open door. She spoke quietly, hiding any emotion.
Mendick felt too sick to be surprised at her presence. “I thought you had gone on to manage your own life.”
“I changed my mind.” Jennifer hesitated, one foot inside the room. “May I come in?”
“Of course you can come in.” Mendick extended a hand. “Mind you wipe your feet first, though; Emma was very house-proud.”
He crunched over the broken glass to the far wall. Emma’s silhouette had been torn down and was now scattered around the floor in a hundred ragged pieces. Ignoring Jennifer, he began to gather together the scraps of paper. He felt numb, as if he was looking from above as someone else knelt on the shattered glass, retrieving fragments of Emma's picture from the ground.
“What is it?” Lifting her skirt from the knee, Jennifer joined him. “What are we doing?”
“It’s my wife’s picture,” he explained, and she nodded, scrabbling on the floor. After a few moments he warned her, “Watch your fingers for the broken glass.”
“Only if you watch yours,” she retorted. “I’m not completely usel
ess, you know.” Then she glanced at his face and looked hurriedly away. “I’m sorry; I should not have said that.”
The portrait had been torn in half, then quartered, and then torn again, but with Jennifer’s help Mendick managed to gather most of the pieces. He held them helplessly, unsure what to do next, until Jennifer reached out.
“Let me take care of them,” she said, quietly.
“No.”
For much of the time in the north he had clung to Emma’s memories as a safe haven in a world gone mad. Now these shredded remains were the only tangible reminder he had, and he could not let go.
“Trust me,” Jennifer pleaded, and her eyes were as sympathetic as he had ever seen them.
His nod was reluctant, and she reached over and gently took control.
“It will be all right, James. I promise.”
He looked at the shambles of what had once made Emma proud and remembered Rachel Scott producing the document that Scotland Yard had sent to him. Perhaps it had been she who had ripped his life apart, but more likely she had sent a minion.
“Hell mend them,” he said, hearing the break in his voice. “Hell mend whoever did this to my wife.”
Suddenly any sympathy he had for Armstrong and the Chartists disappeared and with it his last reserves of strength. He began to shake, and he did not object when Jennifer put her arms around him.
“What’s it all about, Emma? Tell me, what’s it all about?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Jennifer told him, her eyes equally shadowed with memories.
For the first time since Emma’s funeral he gave way to his tears.
*
“Come along there, clear the way.” Back in uniform for the occasion, Mendick pushed along the platform of Nine Elms Station using his staff to ease away the crowd. In common with most railway stations in Britain, Nine Elms was used as a meeting spot for lovers and a haven for loungers, gazers and pickpockets as well as being a place for respectable travellers. None were pleased when the Metropolitan police arrived to clear them out of the way. There were protests, angry words and the occasional scuffle as young men pushed back and respectable ladies lifted parasols in self-defence, but eventually the police achieved a platform that was empty except for themselves and a few trusted railwaymen.
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 24
