“Good work, gentlemen.” Inspector Field dabbed at the sweat that coursed down his round face. He glanced at Mendick. “We can only hope that all this effort is not wasted, Constable.”
“Let’s hope not, sir.” He tugged at the all-too-familiar stock which seemed already to be wearing a groove in his neck
With the travellers and loafers dispersed, a column of special constables marched through the neo-classical entrance. Mendick had imagined Smith would send a score of men, but hundreds streamed in to the station to ensure that no Chartists dared to enter. They took up position at every doorway and along every platform, standing sentinel with their staves held across beefy middle class chests and with disapproving frowns on faces more used to surveying balance sheets and poring over ledgers than braving the outdoors.
At around ten in the morning a dark green train chuffed into view, excess steam hissing from its boiler and proudly displaying the gold-painted name Elk on its side. The royal banner and decorative gingerbread work made it obvious for whom the three carriages were intended, and the open sided luggage van seemed like a scolded servant as it sulked in the rear.
“You stay close, Constable.” Inspector Field had remained to ensure the operation proceeded smoothly. “You are the only person who knows what these alleged assassins look like, so I want you at my side.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mendick watched as the driver clamped his pipe between his teeth and reversed against the platform. Despite the importance of his charge he looked as excited as a marble statue. In contrast, the smaller of the two firemen stopped working to stare at the ranked police while his giant companion kept his back turned and continued to shovel coal.
The specials formed a cordon around the train, standing with their staves held ready and their faces impassive. For a moment Mendick wondered what sort of mess Eccles and his Volunteers would make of their immaculate ranks but pushed the thought aside.
“I can’t imagine anybody would get through this lot, sir.”
“That’s the general idea, Constable.”
At ten twenty there was a stir, and the men sprang to attention. The laconic engine driver stiffened in anticipation as a small convoy of coaches halted just outside the station and the passengers filed out in an orderly and colourful procession.
“It’s Her Majesty,” somebody whispered, and every eye swivelled to watch Queen Victoria cross the platform.
It was the first time Mendick had seen the Queen in person, and he was surprised at her youth and lack of size. He knew she was a small woman, but although she walked as proudly erect as any seven-foot guardsman, Queen Victoria was only five feet tall. Her entourage followed respectfully a few steps behind, headed by the elegant, moustached figure of Prince Albert and most of the royal children. A nursemaid carried Louise, the youngest of Victoria’s brood.
A troop of superior ladies’ maids came next, with two ladies-in-waiting in case Her Majesty should grow bored on the short trip south. Finally there was a gaggle of nurses and a group of dark-clothed equerries, valets and servants.
There was one other man there, and Mendick realised that despite his apparent cynicism, Inspector Field was not taking any chances. Foster, the veteran detective from Scotland Yard, was also with the royal family. Although he posed as one of the servants, he looked the very opposite of servile as he stared into the face of every special constable he passed and examined the engine driver as if he were some sort of personal enemy.
“Is the royal train expected to stop en route, sir?” Mendick wondered, but Field shook his head.
“Not even once, Constable. Her Majesty will travel directly for Gosport, where she will be conveyed to Osborne House in the Isle of Wight. And in case you think Hanover might attempt some rash attack in the Solent, Admiral Ogle has a squadron of the Royal Navy standing by.”
“You seem to have thought of everything,” Mendick said.
“Aye, but it was your intelligence that brought Her Majesty’s possible danger to our attention,” Field graciously admitted. “And we’ve spent a great deal of money and inconvenienced a great many people in humouring your allegations.”
Appearing as relaxed as if she were out for a stroll in Windsor Great Park, the Queen passed along the platform, with the parade of specials stiffening to attention and the uniformed officers saluting. Only Foster and one of the dark clothed servants looked elsewhere as they scanned the station and everybody inside.
“Who’s that, sir?” Mendick nodded toward the inquisitive servant. “I seem to recognise the face, although I am damned if I remember from where.”
“How the hell should I know who he is? He looks like one of Her Majesty’s footmen, or maybe an equerry, a cousin of the blood or similar.” Inspector Field was having difficulty keeping his spreading stomach under control as he stood to attention. “Keep saluting and don’t ask damn-fool questions.”
Prince Albert held the door open for the Queen to board, and then the royal children swarmed aboard. While the nurses curtsied to the railway official who helped them into the rearmost carriage, the ladies-in-waiting were too imperious to even acknowledge his existence.
“How many servants does she need for one train trip?” Mendick wondered but quickly closed his mouth when Field glared at him.
There was a flurry of petticoats, skirts and bonnets as the female servants boarded. The third stumbled, giggling, so that Foster had to help her up, but most kept their heads down and their dignity intact. The male servants were next, separated from their female counterparts by the royal carriage, and finally Foster slipped aboard, taking a last long stare over the platform before he closed the door.
“So that’s that then; all safe and serene,” Field said. “Duty done, Constable, and we can get back to our proper business of defending the city against these Chartist friends of yours.”
“James!”
The voice was so unexpected that Mendick started. He turned to see Jennifer waving through the assembled top hats of the specials.
“Who in God’s name is that?” Inspector Field pulled at his whiskers.
“Jennifer Ogden,” Mendick said. “She wouldn’t come here without a good reason.” He raised his voice. “Stand aside there. Let her through!”
The ranks opened, and Jennifer bustled up.
“How did you get past the specials?” Field sounded more intrigued than annoyed.
“I said I was your daughter,” Jennifer told him quickly. “But watch that man.” She pointed to the closed door of the male servants’ carriage, now partially concealed as the engine ejected surplus steam. “You can’t let him go with the Queen!”
“What man?” Mendick asked. “They’re all royal servants.”
“Maybe they are, but I’ve seen him before. When I worked at Trafford Hall, I saw him visit Sir Robert.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Field told her. “Maybe he worked there too.”
“He wasn’t dressed as a servant then.” Ignoring Field, Jennifer nudged Mendick. “Are you going to take the chance, James? You’re here to make sure that Sir Robert Trafford does not murder the Queen; you can’t allow a friend of his to travel with her.”
“That bloody servant!” Mendick swore. “I knew there was something wrong about him.”
He began to move forward, easing through the uniformed ranks and barging aside the specials. He had brought the information about the intended assassination in an attempt to save the Queen, but instead he had persuaded her to travel on a closed train with her killer. All his efforts had only managed to put the Queen in even greater danger.
“Constable! What are you going to do?” Field was only a step behind.
“I’m going to save her Majesty’s life,” Mendick shouted over his shoulder.
The train was moving, pulling slowly through clouds of hissing steam and shrouding the assembled specials in smuts of black smoke.
“I’ll telegraph Gosport to warn Foster!” Inspector Field tried to shout a
bove the engine. “What’s the man’s name? I said, what’s the man’s name?”
As he strained to board the van, Mendick grabbed at the handle of the leading carriage, missed, and stumbled onto the platform. He fought to recover his balance and tried again as the central and then the final carriage thundered past. Lunging forward, he clutched hold of the wooden struts, gasping at the sudden strain on his arm.
“James!” That was Jennifer’s voice, hoarse with anxiety.
Swearing, he clutched at the struts as the train rattled through the station, building up speed for the run down to the south coast.
Aware of the gaping faces of the specials, he clung on desperately, with his feet scraping along the platform and the wood rough under his fingers. He felt the top hat flick off his head and for an instant saw it suspended in the air before it vanished in the wake of the train. If he slipped, he would go the same way; there would be a second of apprehension and then a dragging, agonising plunge along the track.
He had to get on board before his strength failed.
As he stretched, Mendick felt the scab over his burns split, but he fought the pain and slid onto the wooden floor of the van, probing for purchase with his foot. He slipped, yelled, and then a brawny hand grabbed his arm and hauled him inside.
“What in God’s name are you doing, Mr Policeman?” The guard was around forty, with oiled whiskers and large blue eyes that seemed about to burst from his face. His dark uniform was immaculate, the red trimming echoing the buffer beams of the train. “People normally buy a ticket if they want to go by rail.” He grinned hugely at his own joke.
“Thanks.”
Mendick took deep breaths to regain his strength. The train increased speed, whirling out of Nine Elms Station with its royal passengers sitting comfortably inside and a probable assassin loose in one of the carriages. There was a sudden nerve-rending screech and a blast of steam clouded the full length of the train.
“Right, Mr Policeman.” The guard helped him upright. “Are you all right? Suppose you tell me why you’re here?”
“There’s a plot to assassinate the Queen,” Mendick explained quickly and saw instant comprehension in the guard's face.
“So that’s why she’s leaving the city!” The man’s whiskers bounced as he nodded. “But that doesn’t explain why you are on my train?”
“You don’t understand,” Mendick spoke rapidly. “The assassin is here! He’s on this train!”
The guard stared, open mouthed. ‘My God! Where? Can you stop him?’
“If I can get to the front carriage . . .”
“The carriages are all independent saloons,” the guard interrupted. “You can’t get through from one to the other.”
“Is there not a way around the side? How do you retrieve the luggage?”
“This is a royal train.” The guard controlled his obvious anxiety. “The passengers board at one station and leave at the destination. You cannot move from one carriage to another.” He thought for a moment. “Unless you go over the top.”
For a moment Mendick contemplated the swaying carriages rattling through London at over twenty miles an hour.
“So that’s what I will do.”
It was a simple task for an ex-climbing boy to hoist himself onto the roof of the rearmost carriage, but not so easy to walk forward through the sooty smuts. The carriages were only thirty feet long, the roofs had an easy camber and the ornate railings ensured he could not fall, but when Mendick stretched across to the royal carriage, he blanched. The couplings jolted eight feet beneath him, and the streets of London whirled past at what seemed to be breakneck speed.
Taking a deep breath, he intoned Restiaux' favourite mantra:
“Lord, I shall be very busy these next few minutes; I may forget thee, but do not forget me.”
He tensed himself, but just before he jumped, the train eased into a bend and he saw directly inside the royal carriage. It was a picture of luxury more intense than he had ever imagined, with a red and white Axminster carpet on the floor, padded white walls to match the upholstery on the chairs, frilled curtains on the windows and a marble table complete with flowers. Even the ceiling was elaborately decorated. For a second Mendick compared the splendour of this temporary carriage with the squalor of the Holy Land or the endless brick terraces of Manchester.
The stark contrast wrenched at his stomach with its reminder of the essential decency of the Chartists and the simple justice of their demands. Why should some people have a surfeit of indulgence while others struggled to merely eat? Maybe he had been on the wrong side all along? He glanced again, studying the woman who ruled over such inequality and injustice.
Draped in a long dark dress that failed to disguise her somewhat dumpy figure, the Queen was listening as Prince Albert read from a book. Mendick imagined it to be one of the novels of Walter Scott that Her Majesty loved so much. She lay on her couch smiling up at him, and Mendick recognised the expression in her eyes. Emma had looked like that when he had worked on her profile.
The train straightened from the bend and his view into paradise ended, but he knew what he must do. He could not allow Trafford and Hanover to plunge the country into civil war. Any other thoughts were worse than madness; they were treason. It was duty that had kept him sane when Emma had died; he had no other option.
Stepping over the gingerbread work, he balanced for a second and then jumped the gap. He hung suspended over that rattling, moving space for a long, heart-stopping second then landed heavily on all fours. Exhaling noisily, he padded towards the third and foremost carriage. Foster was in there, as was the servant that Jennifer had identified. He watched for a moment, hoping for another fortuitous bend so he could look inside, but the line stretched straight ahead.
Taking a deep breath, Mendick leaped over the final gap, landing as softly as possible so as not to alarm the occupants. There was a door at either end of the carriage, and he poised himself above the nearest, gripped the rail running along the roof and allowed his body to drop until he hung downward with the wind battering his body.
Peering in the window, he glimpsed Foster’s cynical face, released his left hand and grabbed for the door handle just as the train hurtled around a curve. Coughing in a sudden gust of smoke, he tried to twist the handle open, but his palm slithered on the polished brass.
“Foster!” He bellowed, pitching his voice above the thunder of the engine. “It’s me! Open up!”
As the train tilted at an astonishing angle Mendick felt the muscles of his right arm scream in protest. There was a sudden screech and a blast of steam as the handle shifted in his hand and the door swung open, smashing him backward against the body of the carriage.
“Sweet God in heaven!”
He released the handle and clutched the roof bar trying to ease his legs around the madly oscillating door and wishing that he was as supple as he had been as a boy.
“Foster!”
Mendick struggled around, probing for the interior with his feet, but as the train curved into a straight, the door slammed shut on to his thigh. He yelled and writhed as the heavy metal bit into his burned legs, and it took all his will power to release the roof bar and thrust himself inside the carriage where he landed heavily with his legs protesting in pain and the breath rasping in his chest.
“Mendick!” Foster hauled him upright. “Are you all right? What in hell’s name are you up to?”
“I’m doing your job for you.” He did not like Foster, but it was immensely reassuring to have that misanthropic face glowering into his and those hard, wary eyes examining him. “You already know about the plot to assassinate the Queen?”
“Of course; that’s why I am here.”
“I think that one of the servants is the assassin,” Mendick explained hurriedly. “Trafford must have ordered him on board as soon as he learned we intended to send the Queen to safety.”
“It’s all under control.” Foster was almost smiling as he shook his head. “I already
know exactly what is happening in this train, and it is not as you imagine.”
Mendick glanced into the carriage, seeing a mass of anonymous faces, none of which merited a second look.
“We have to save the Queen!”
Foster put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It’s all under control. Just do as I say.” He faced the servants again, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable authority. “Gentlemen, you cannot leave this carriage, so do not try. We suspect that there is an assassin on this train, so if anybody does try to follow us, rest assured that I will blow his head clean off.” He left the threat hanging in the air. “Now, Constable, just follow me.”
It was only then that Mendick realised that the carriage was split in two, with the servants confined to the rearmost two-thirds and a heavy door separating them from the forward section.
“Should we not be guarding the Queen?”
“Relax, Constable. I know what I am doing.” Reaching inside his frockcoat, Foster produced a double-barrelled pistol and checked the percussion lock. He replaced it in his pocket, slid his blackjack down his sleeve and tapped its lead-weighted end on his hand. His smile was not pleasant. “Now we are ready for any trouble.”
In contrast to the remainder of the train, the front section of the carriage was little more than an ordinary van, with a neat pile of bundles and boxes that were probably indispensable to the royals. The second of the carriage’s external doors was firmly closed.
Mendick glanced around, feeling his tension drain away at Foster’s quiet assurance.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re happening.”
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 25
