The servant who had followed them was so nondescript he would be unnoticeable in a crowd of three, but as soon as he spoke, Mendick he realised where he had seen him before.
“You were the barman in the Beehive!”
He reached for the truncheon in the tail of his coat as a pepperpot pistol appeared in the barman’s hand, propelled from his sleeve by some spring device. Mendick weaved sideways, grabbing at the barman’s arm, but Foster smashed his blackjack on his shoulder so he yelled, staggering backward.
“Close the connecting door,” Foster ordered, and the barman leaped to obey, slotting home a steel locking bar for extra security.
“Foster!” Mendick yelled. “What the hell . . .?”
“What do you think?” Foster asked and swung his blackjack again.
The blow was aimed at the point of Mendick’s jaw, and he blocked with difficulty, feeling the flaring pain as the sausage of sand and lead smashed against his right arm. He swore and staggered as the barman hooked a leg behind his knees. One push from Foster and he was lying flat down on the floor, staring upward.
“What in God’s name . . .?”
He tried to roll away, but Foster was waiting, blackjack raised ready to crash down on his head. Trained in a score of barrack room brawls, Mendick reared upward, butting his forehead hard into Foster’s chest and following up with a straight-fingered jab to his throat.
But Foster was also an experienced street fighter and turned sideways so Mendick’s fingers jarred against his shoulder instead. The barman landed a roundhouse punch that bounced pointlessly from Mendick’s side. It was obvious the barman was no warrior, so Mendick ignored him to press home his attack on Foster.
With his right arm virtually useless after the blow from the blackjack, he had to use his weaker left, feinting for Foster’s eyes before trying to ram his doubled knee into his groin. Foster jerked back, but as Mendick was about to press his advantage, the barman smashed something hard and heavy over his head, sending him crashing to the floor once more.
This time Foster made sure. He lifted his boot and stamped hard on Mendick’s chest, driving the air from his lungs before landing a backhand that crashed his head against the side of the carriage. Mendick lay stunned, unable to move as Foster glared down at him.
“Open the door,” Foster ordered, “and we’ll throw the bastard out.”
“Why go to all that bother?” The barman shrugged. “If we leave him here, he’ll die with the others.”
“Very poetic,” Foster said. “The gallant police officer dying to protect the Queen who does not even know his name.” He kicked Mendick again. “You don’t understand what this is all about, do you?” He leaned closer. “You have no idea how stupid you are, do you? Do you remember who recommended that you work in the north?”
Mendick glared his hatred.
“I recommended you, because then I would know exactly who was up there, a Johnny Raw who knew nothing and did not have the sense to work it out.”
Mendick struggled to rise, but Foster put his instep against his throat and pushed him back down.
“Stay still, you bastard.”
“It was you!” When it came, the realisation made him wonder at his own stupidity. “You told the Chartists who I was, you told them my address, and you provided the book with the pictures of every Scotland Yard officer.”
“Well done, Mendick.” Foster was grinning now. “You’re correct, but far too slow.”
“But why? Why betray me? And why work with this man? He is going to assassinate the Queen!” Again Mendick struggled to rise, but Foster thrust down with his boot, grinding the heel against his throat.
“You’re still a fool, Mendick. He’s not going to assassinate the Queen; I am.”
“Why? You’re a Scotland Yard officer!”
“I know exactly what I am. I was one of Bobby Peel’s original bluebottles. I have put my life on the line every day since 1829, and what do I have to show for it? Enough blunt to fill the arse of a very small mouse and a future of poverty and the workhouse. Sir Robert Trafford has offered me a fortune, Mendick, so think of that in your last few minutes alive.”
“You’re a murdering hound, Foster! At least the Chartists have a genuine grievance for their rebellion, but you,” Mendick grabbed at Foster’s ankle and tried to wrestle it away, “you’re the worst sort of traitor.”
Foster laughed. “A traitor is only somebody who supported the loser, Mendick. Once King Ernest is on the throne, the history books will write me as a hero of the real dynasty. You’ll be the traitor, Mendick, the man who tried to prevent history from taking its natural course.”
“I’m a loyal officer . . .”
“You’re an impoverished fool. I’ve seen your home, remember, with its pathetic sticks of furniture. Broken furniture now. Is that just reward for your years of service?”
“It was you.” Mendick wriggled beneath Foster’s foot, feeling the terrible agony of frustration. “You smashed my mirror! You ripped up Emma’s picture!”
“You smashed my mirror!” Foster mocked, bending close. “You ripped up my picture! Listen to yourself, bleating about nothings while we’re altering the destiny of a dynasty.”
Mendick felt his hatred mount, replacing the frustration and sorrow and loss. He looked away, aware that his feelings must be transparent and unwilling that Foster should know exactly how much he hurt. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill somebody, not just because it was his duty, but out of sheer loathing.
“Foster,” he said, “I’ll be coming for you.”
Foster kicked him again, taking time to put real force behind the blow. “How will you do that, Mendick, when you’re dead?”
Taking a silver hunter from his waistcoat, the barman squinted at it. “We’d better hurry, Mr Foster, or we’ll be caught in the crash . . .” He looked away when Foster glowered at him.
Mendick forced a mocking laugh.
“A train crash! Is that the best you can think of? The most powerful monarchy in the world and you’re going to destroy it by crashing a train. How utterly unimaginative!”
He grunted as Foster kicked him again, the hard boot thudding against already painful ribs, but he began to think furiously. The authorities would keep the line clear, so there was no possibility of a train coming toward them; by crash, Foster could only mean a derailment. He ran his mind over the route: Farnborough, Winchfield, Basingstoke, Andover Road, Winchester and finally Gosport.
The line was fairly straightforward, a quiet run over a pastoral landscape, except for one spot near the ancient market town of Godalhurst, where the train would have to climb up the Downs and then negotiate a bend onto a narrow viaduct. That would be his choice for a train crash, but how would he do it? Easy – plant explosives on the viaduct and jump clear when the train slowed for the climb.
“That would be the trap you set at Godalhurst, then?” Mendick enjoyed the momentary surprise on Foster’s face. “We know all about that one, Foster, and there are men waiting for you at the viaduct.”
“How do you know?” The barman stepped back. “How does he know, Mr Foster?”
“He doesn’t,” Foster said. “He’s bluffing. I would know if he knew.”
“You’ll soon find out, won’t you?” Mendick grunted as Foster pressed his foot hard against his chest. “They hang traitors, Foster, and your pal there will enjoy spending the remainder of his life in Van Diemen’s Land.”
The shriek of the whistle startled both assailants, and Mendick used the distraction to grab hold of Foster’s foot and push it from his chest, ramming the detective hard against the barman so both crashed against the side of the carriage. He rolled free of the tangled bodies and stamped on Foster’s hand, relishing the sensation of breaking bones as he twisted his heel.
“You wrecked my house, Foster.” Lifting his foot, he smashed it down against Foster’s chest. “You destroyed my wife’s rocking chair, Foster.” He kicked out, catching the Scotland Yard man under the chin
and throwing him against the side of the carriage. “I’m going to kill you, Foster!”
“You flash your gab too much, bluebottle bastard!” The barman thrust his pepperpot revolver against the base of Mendick’s skull.
Lashing back with his fist, Mendick was surprised when the barman ducked away. The return blow cracked against his temple, momentarily unbalancing him, and then the barman brought down the pistol in a short but effective chop against his head.
The steel floor of the carriage seemed to rise toward him as he fell, and then Foster was taking revenge for his smashed hand by kicking madly into his body.
“Mr Foster!” The barman restrained him. “We haven’t time for that. We’ve things to do before we reach Godalhurst.”
After landing a final kick, Foster pulled a silver watch from his pocket. “Aye, it’s about time. Let’s get to work.”
“What about him?” The barman jerked a thumb toward Mendick.
Foster grunted. “Tie him and leave him; he’s in no condition to do anything.”
Mendick groaned. His ribs were on fire, and the burn blisters on his legs had opened up, weeping yellow moisture through his trousers and onto the floor. He watched, unable to move as Foster opened the door and swung himself outside.
The barman ripped a cord from one of the royal packages and looped it around Mendick’s ankles before attaching his wrists to a strut on the inside of the carriage.
“Lie quiet now,” the barman mocked and followed Foster outside, leaving Mendick alone.
For a long minute Mendick nursed his pain then forced himself to move. Foster had betrayed him to the Chartists, Foster had played him for a fool ever since that day in the Holy Land, Foster had destroyed Emma’s picture.
Pain stabbed at his chest as he shifted sideways, toward the metal strut running the length of the carriage wall. He had hoped he might unravel the knot with his teeth, but the barman had done a good job. He swore, jerking at the cord in frustration. If he did not escape, Foster would crash the train, the Queen would die, and a new Hanoverian dynasty would rule the country. Despite all that, it was the memory of Emma’s ripped picture that made him fight the pain.
He tried again, pulling at the cord until it began to slide, oh-so-slowly, along the metal strut. He tugged, ignoring the warm blood that dribbled down his wrists as he sawed the cord against the metal, biting away the pain as he thought of Foster tearing at Emma’s picture.
One by one the strands of the cord frayed and parted until a final agonised effort wrenched it apart. Gasping, Mendick hugged his wrists to him until the initial torture faded and he could untie his ankles and plan his next move.
He hauled himself upright, wincing, but the memory of Emma encouraged him. She was urging him to move, to save his life and that of the Queen. Holding onto the spars for support, he staggered as the train swayed around a great curve. Foster had gone outside, so he had to follow. He had to endure the pain as Emma had suffered the agony of childbirth. Edging onwards, he wrestled with the iron catch on the external door and thrust it open.
The blast of fresh air and soot-smuts nearly tore him from the tiny metal step, and he looked forward, across the tender and on to the engine. The driver was standing very stiffly, with Foster’s pistol pressed against the back of his neck. The barman leaned back negligently, pointing the pepperpot at the firemen.
The railway line ran on into the distance, twin steel arrows that should mark security for the Queen and stability for the nation. The lovely Surrey countryside spread on either side, a picture of perfection leading to the stiff climb of the Downs where, far in the distance, tall stone arches marked the fateful Godalhurst viaduct.
Mendick swore; the tender was rattling ahead of him, with the nearest two thirds securely covered, but a haze of black dust above the loose coal that slid and slithered next to the engine. Beyond the tender the engine footplate was open to the elements but crowded with the three railwaymen and two potential murderers. The only way to stop Foster was to clamber forwards.
Gasping at the pain from his ribs, he hauled himself to the front of the carriage, braced himself and stretched across the couplings and onto the coal tender. The covered part was easy enough, but the final third was treacherous. One irregular coal lump shifted beneath his feet, and he fell heavily, landing agonizingly on his injured ribs.
Biting away the pain, he rose, very aware that the ground was a moving blur on each side and hoping that Foster was too preoccupied with the driver to turn around. The firemen were still working hard, ignoring him as they shovelled coal into the furnace.
“What the Hell are they doing?” Mendick mumbled to himself as he negotiated the treacherous coal, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the truck. He saw the driver grasp one of the levers that worked the engine, but Foster pushed him back, gesticulating with his pistol.
Mendick had no interest in steam engines, but he knew that the fire heated the boiler, which supplied steam to power the engine. If the driver did not regulate the pressure, the boiler could burst, with calamitous consequences. Only then did Mendick decipher Foster’s plan. By having the firemen constantly add fuel, he was increasing the pressure inside the boiler, so all he had to do was prevent the driver from releasing excess steam until the whole thing exploded. Naturally Foster and the barman would have already left the train when it was travelling slowly up the incline of the Downs.
If the Queen and her family were not killed outright, Foster and the barman would be on hand to finish them off. It would seem as if the exploding boiler had caused the crash. Nobody would suspect King Ernest; he would step on to the throne, and the white horse of Hanover would be back in its British stable. The plot was so simple that for a second Mendick admired its audacity. He then thought of the innocent victims: the maids and nannies and cooks and could only despise its inherent evil.
The train was climbing now, producing more smoke as it struggled with the incline of the Downs, and the driver was shouting at Foster and pointing toward his levers and dials.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, the nearer and smaller of the firemen stopped shovelling for a second, but the barman rammed his pistol against the man’s back and pushed him forward. The fireman staggered and would have fallen into the furnace if his giant companion had not extended a hand to catch him.
The train was slowing by the second, tilting to one side so that Mendick could pick out villages and cottages spread out like a spring green map at the foot of the Downs. He sensed the driver’s confusion as the steam pressure mounted. The driver pointed to one of the dials, where a hand was edging steadily into the red, and lunged toward one of the levers. With his broken left hand awkward within his jacket, Foster slashed him with the pistol.
“Stop!”
Mendick jumped forward, landing on the very edge of the footplate and tottering as the train rattled onto the top of the incline. He swore, clutching at his chest as his ribs screamed protest.
“Shoot the driver!” The barman shouted above the noise of the engine. “He’s done his job. Look!” He pointed to the dial where the hand indicated the farthest edge of the red danger zone.
“It’s going to blow!” the driver yelled, high-pitched. “It’s going to bloody blow!”
They were cresting the Downs: the ridge falling away on both sides and the tall stone arches of the Godalhurst viaduct striding across the gap a hundred yards ahead. As the firemen continued to shovel coal into the furnace the wheels altered their rhythm and the train began to pick up speed again. Mendick marvelled at the timing involved.
If Foster and the barman jumped now, they would be safe, but the train would roll on to the viaduct, pick up speed and explode. The lucky would die at once, the survivors would plunge onto the ground far below. If, by chance, the Queen or any of her children were still alive, Foster or the barman could finish them off.
“You can die with the rest.” Foster aimed at Mendick, his face totally devoid of expr
ession.
Mendick threw himself forward, knocking the barman aside as he grabbed at Foster, but the Scotland Yard detective was equally as agile and more experienced. Turning his injured arm away, he raised his right elbow and caught Mendick a glancing blow to the eye, not enough to damage but sufficient to deflect his rush. Mendick fell sideways, put out his hand for balance and yelled as he touched hot metal. The pain forced him back, and Foster was in control.
The muzzle of the pistol looked huge as it focused on Mendick’s forehead, and the sneering face behind the weapon seemed far away and out of focus. Mendick saw Foster’s finger whiten as he increased pressure on the trigger and the hammer rose to its apex. Within half a second it would begin the rapid descent that would end when it made contact with the percussion cap, sending a half-inch thick lead ball crashing into his skull.
He had failed. Foster would win, Ernest of Hanover would take the throne, and the future of Britain would change forever. But Emma was waiting for him, smiling just beyond a dim veil, and her hand was stretching toward him in welcome.
“Hey!”
The deep voice was shockingly familiar as the large fireman moved up. In the excitement, nobody had paid him any attention, but now he danced forward, one huge arm sweeping Foster aside as if he were a featherweight.
“It’s me, Mr Mendick.”
“Peter!” Mendick looked up in surprise as Peter grabbed Foster’s hand and removed the pistol as easily as he would a rattle from an infant.
“I got myself a job, just like the lady said,” Peter told him as he casually lifted Foster by the back of his neck. “What will I do with him?”
“Throw him overboard, please.”
Peter obliged and tossed Foster out of the moving train. He hit the ground at the side of the railway and rolled rapidly four or five times before he lay still.
The barman was already locked in a desperate struggle with the driver, each man’s hand clamped on the throat of the other; Mendick reached across and dragged the barman away until Peter was able to fetch him a single blow to the chin and push him after Foster.
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 26
