The Darkest Walk of Crime Read online

  Now that the decision had been made, Mendick realised that he still did not feel anything. Inveigling himself into the Chartist network was just another job, something to fill the emptiness of his life.

  Smith was talking again. “We have supplied Sergeant Ogden with various items that could be of use to you. Contact him as soon as you can.”

  “You have already supplied him?” The brandy made Mendick too loquacious. “I might have refused the position.”

  “No, Constable.” Smith was nearly smiling. “You would not refuse. Now memorise and destroy Ogden’s address,” he ordered. “We cannot leave anything to chance.” He nodded at the door. “That will be all, Constable, except for one thing. I would be obliged if you did not tell anybody about this meeting. Best for the nation, don’t you know?”

  “I won’t tell anybody,” Mendick promised.

  *

  As always when he was alone in his home in Bethnal Green, brooding over the dying embers of his fire, Mendick felt utter loneliness seeping over him. His promise to tell nobody had been genuine, for outwith his colleagues in the force, there was nobody else to tell. He lifted the poker and stirred the ashes, watching as the dim redness flared into life again before immediately beginning to fade. Once, not long ago, he would have enjoyed the evening, basking in the intimacy of his wife’s company, creating fanciful images from the flames, planning for a shared future.

  Not now.

  He looked across to the empty rocking chair at the opposite side of the fire.

  “Well, Emma, I’m going away again.”

  He had spent many hours making that chair, carefully carving the curved rockers on which the framework rested, smoothing the seat with a piece of glass, adding the fixed cushions on which she would rest when nursing their child.

  “I would wish that you were coming with me.”

  The memories were never far beneath the surface, ready to overcome him if he relaxed. When he closed his eyes, he could see her, smiling away her fear as she lay back on their marriage bed, pretty as a picture, plump and pregnant. There had been no warning of any problems: her waters had broken on time, her birth pangs had been normal, and then came the tormented agonies, the moans that would remain with him for the rest of his life. The midwife had shaken her head hopelessly.

  “We’ll need a doctor,” she had said as the sweat streaked her flushed face. “This is beyond me.”

  Emma had writhed, fighting her screams until the doctor came, and his examination had been thorough. He had taken Mendick aside, speaking in a quiet, serious voice,

  “I am afraid your wife is in a critical condition. You might be best to prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Mendick had blinked away the tears, searching for strength that he no longer believed he had.

  “Can you save her, doctor?”

  The doctor did not answer for a long minute. “I cannot save them both.” He had waited for the reply.

  “Then save my wife,” Mendick pleaded. “For God’s sake, save Emma.”

  “It will not be easy,” the doctor told him, “and it will not be painless.”

  “Dear God,” he looked to Emma, writhing on the stained bed. “Save my wife.”

  “And the cost?” The doctor looked around the room. He knew that a police constable earned a bare guinea a week and few had any savings.

  “I’ll meet any expenses.”

  The next few hours were the worst he had ever experienced, or, he imagined, ever would. He had watched, holding Emma whenever he could, suffering with her pain, and ignoring the tears that scalded his face as the doctor did his terrible but necessary procedures.

  The baby came forth in a gush of bright blood, and for a second Mendick touched his son before he returned all his attention to his wife. Pain had aged her in the last few hours, but there was still a faint light of recognition in her eyes as she looked at him. Her hand reached for his one last time, then the agony twisted her away and she slipped into a screaming white void that no amount of laudanum could subdue.

  He had watched Emma die, tortured by her agony and his helplessness. At the end, amidst the blood and the writhing, twisting horror, he had felt great sobs breaking over him but knew that he was not a lesser man for revealing his emotion. When her final spasm came, he was aware only of relief that her suffering had ended, and he hated himself for his own callousness as much as he hated himself for having caused Emma so much pain.

  Now he spoke to the empty chair he had fashioned for her.

  “I’m going away again, Emma, up north this time.”

  He could sense her presence, faintly disapproving of his choice of career but supportive of his endeavours. Emma had always been there for him, ready to encourage while still attempting to guide him to a less hazardous path. Now the danger did not matter; if he lived, he would help keep the country stable, and if he died, why, then Emma would be waiting to welcome him home. That would not be a bad day.

  He stared into the dead embers, contemplating his immediate future. He was to infiltrate an organisation of obviously violent men, which would be difficult enough, but then he was to discover who their patron was and what they planned, and relate the intelligence to Inspector Field. At least the latter part would be easy, with the telegraph now covering every city in the country.

  Mendick glanced up for inspiration, but the chair remained unoccupied, a void echoing the emptiness within him. He could not look for help from Emma, so he had to work out his problems himself. It was obvious that the Chartists had somebody working within Scotland Yard, but who and why, he could not imagine. To an extent, that situation had worked to his advantage, for it had led to his selection as an unknown face, an officer who had never walked the corridors of Whitehall. It seemed a poor qualification for a man set to take on a position of such responsibility, but he knew that he was only one strand in a tangled web.

  With Emma gone, only duty gave him a purpose in life. The rocking chair remained empty, an accusation of his failure. He sighed; he knew that Emma was not blaming him. She would never do that. Only his Calvinistic conscience pointed the poisoned finger, but the sensation of guilt remained strong. Ultimately, it had been his lust that had killed Emma, and that was something for which he would spend the remainder of his life in atonement. By concentrating on his work he could forget his loss, at least for a time. He knew his position would be precarious; the murder of the last man who infiltrated the Chartist ranks was a stark warning, but he had lived with danger most of his life; it was the least of the demons that crouched on his shoulder.

  The knock at the door broke his train of thought. Foster entered, nodding dourly beneath his low-crowned hat. He carried a large canvas bag in his hand.

  “Mendick.”

  “Foster.” Mendick ushered him to the chair by the fireplace.

  “I won’t stay long.” Foster examined Mendick’s furniture with a long stare, lingering over the silhouetted picture of Emma that decorated the far wall. “Your wife?”

  “I’m a widower.” He tried to keep all emotion from his voice.

  “I see.” Foster nodded without sympathy. “Nice picture.” He lifted the bag high. “There are clothes and documents in here, and a train ticket for Manchester.”

  Mendick frowned. “Clothes? What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Wear them.” Foster sounded weary, as if he were instructing an infant. “And use the documents.” He sighed, opened the bag and produced a large packet. “These will come in very useful.”

  Breaking the official seal, Mendick unfolded the top piece of stiff paper. It identified him as delegate for the East Indian Branch of the Chartist Federation.

  “The East Indian branch does not exist,” Foster explained, “so there is no chance of the genuine delegate arriving. You will say that you helped found the branch when you were in the army.” He stepped back. “You were out East with the army, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  “Don’t tell me which
regiment,” Foster said, “I don’t care; one’s much the same as another to me, but your military experience might come in useful.”

  He did not explain further, watching as Mendick pulled out a rectangular piece of pasteboard headed The National Charter Association of Great Britain and decorated with beehives and the twin figures of a working man and woman. It again claimed that James Mendick was a member of the East Indies Branch, and Peter McDouall, one of the Physical Force Chartists, had accredited his membership.

  “Are you impressed?” Foster had been watching intently. “You should be; I employed a master forger to create that card – none other than Flash Tom Blake.”

  “Blake?”

  “That’s why I wanted him; he’s the best in the business, and now he’s working for us.” Foster sounded extremely smug. “I’ve been after him for months. This Chartist business has been planned for some time, Constable, so you had better not let anybody down.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Mendick assured him. There was a single sheet of instructions, with an illustrated copy of the Charter and a dozen leaflets of Chartist speeches.

  “Crib up on the Chartists,” Foster advised. “If you’re meant to be a delegate, you’ll have to know what you’re talking about.” He stood up, placing the bag on Emma’s rocking chair. “The change of clothes will help you look the part.” Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a rolled-up newspaper. “Read this too. It’s the Northern Star, the most significant of the Chartists’ own publications. I’d advise you to keep up with the latest copies and memorise everything.”

  He stepped away and opened the door, stopping just outside to add casually, “Whatever you do, don’t let them find out that you’re a bobby. Remember what happened to the last fellow.”

  Mendick nodded grimly. “I remember.”

  “They’re still finding bits of him.”

  Mendick waited until Foster walked away before he inspected the clothing that was supposed to transform him into a Chartist.

  There was a fustian jacket with the nap worn through at one elbow and two buttons missing, a pair of moleskin trousers with a patch on the left knee, a linen shirt with no collar, and a pair of well-worn boots, beautifully oiled as befitted a one-time soldier of the Queen. Once he donned them, he would appear a northern workman to the life. All he lacked, he told himself bitterly, was the itch.

  He had spent years dragging himself out of the mire of poverty, from the utter degradation of unemployment to the routine tedium punctuated with moments of terrible fear that was life in the queen’s army, to his eventual position as a police constable. Now, he reflected as he lifted the fustian jacket, he was reverting to a type he hoped he had condemned to the past. He also wondered whether a delegate of the Charter would appear so threadbare; surely he should have at least a modicum of respectability?

  He looked around the room, wondering what would happen before he returned. Once, this had been a comfortable home, warm with Emma’s smile and filled with the promise of a family future, but when she died all that mattered to him had also died. He kept the house as tidy as ever, but the heart had gone. It was stale, nothing more than a place in which to eat and sleep.

  He had survived the dismal funeral, the lonely mourning period that the shy sympathy of his colleagues had made more acute, and now he could only face the future if he kept both eyes firmly fixed on his duty. He was a police officer, nothing else.

  Lifting his eyes, he examined the silhouette of Emma that hung proudly on the far wall. He was even less of an artist than he was a carpenter, but on their first anniversary he had traced her outline as accurately as his clumsy fingers would allow.

  “When I get the promotion to sergeant,” he had promised as she made a paper frame for the picture, “I will take you to a real artist and have a proper portrait painted.”

  She had laughed, telling him that she was quite satisfied with his attempt, but he could tell that she was secretly pleased with the thought of being an artist’s model. That dream had died along with her, and now he was left only with the silhouette, which, although imperfect, was the best likeness he had. He smiled across the room to her.

  “Say goodbye to your man in uniform,” he told her, for the rules stated that a police officer must wear his uniform at all times, on and off duty, and he could never break a rule.

  He stripped slowly, removing the issue shirt and the heavy trousers and watching himself in the oval mirror that had been Emma’s pride and joy. He remembered her standing there in her favourite cream dress, twirling slowly to admire herself and smiling at him over her shoulder. He remembered the echo of her laughter and the way her eyes had crinkled at the corners whenever she saw him coming.

  He remembered . . . no. He must not; it was time for duty, not self-gratification. Mendick blocked the images and instead saw himself in the glass. He watched as the policeman, the very guardian of respectability, slowly disappeared and somebody else took his place. For an instant he saw a naked man standing there, just tall enough to edge into the police force, too slim to be muscular, with a scar to remind him of the wound that had nearly cost him his life and hair as black as Lucifer, and then he hauled on the moleskin trousers and the image altered.

  “God save us, Emma, for nobody else ever will.”

  The shirt was next, surprisingly soft against his skin, and finally he pulled the fustian jacket over his shoulders. An impoverished working man stared back at him. He eased on the boots, working his feet against the harsh leather, knowing that the heels would rub his skin and the soles would raise blisters, but not caring. And there he was, a budding Chartist, eager to wage political war on the British state and already hating the image he presented.

  Lifting the packet of documents, Mendick removed a single foolscap sheet. It had the name Kersall Moor, Manchester, the date 2nd December 1847 and the words Chartist Rally: infiltrate and join the cause. Just that: simple instructions that could put him in as much danger as his military service ever had. Sighing, he crushed up the paper and threw it on the dead embers of the fire. He swore softly and took a last look into the room and its poignant memories.

  He shrugged; what did it matter if he was wearing a fustian jacket, a police uniform or the scarlet jacket of the queen? Physical Force Chartists? They did not even count beside the loss of his wife.

  “Good bye, Emma,” he said to the silhouette, “I’ll be back to see you as soon as I can.”

  He softly closed the door behind him then strode to the railway train that would take him north.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kersall Moor, Manchester: December 1847

  “Brothers and sisters! Signatories of the People’s Charter!” Standing in the back of the open wagon, the speaker lifted his hands to encompass every member of the multitude that spread across Kersall Moor. “I thank you all for coming here at this time of desperation.”

  The crowd applauded, drumming their feet in rising excitement, and the speaker waited until the noise subsided. He was obviously an experienced orator, able to judge the temper of any crowd and manipulate them to follow his lead.

  “However,” he said, and his altered tone alerted his audience that he was about to impart some serious information. “However, does Her Majesty’s government know about our lives in the north? Does Her Majesty’s government know about the sufferings of the people that they fail to represent? Does Her Majesty know about the mothers and children who exist in conditions worse than those of slaves in America?” The speaker paused, allowing the tension to grow as his audience waited for a reply. He lowered his voice so that they had to strain to listen. “More importantly, does she care?”

  The crowd roared again, some shaking their fists in the air as they yelled, “No! No!” and added their own opinions to those of William Monaghan, the speaker.

  “It’s the first time that I’ve heard him speak.” The woman standing next to Mendick leaned closer, raising her mouth to his ear. “He’s very good.” She was about medium hei
ght, but in the half-light he could not make out her features.

  “He’s all that and more,” Mendick agreed. “He’s just the man to lead the fight.” He raised his voice in strong support, damning Queen Victoria and all that she stood for until the woman hushed him into quiet.

  “There’s no need for such strong language,” she reproved, softening the barb by adding with a small smile, “however much I agree with your sentiments.”

  “But, brothers and sisters.” Monaghan held up his hand for silence as he spoke again. “Brothers and sisters, is it the fault of the Queen? Is Her Majesty to blame for her ignorance?” He waited, smiling at the buzz of confusion that rose from the crowd. Above them, the bright skies offered an illusion of hope, while below, sprawling along the banks of the Irwell River, sat the dark mass of Manchester, cotton capital of the world.

  Mendick thrust a stubby pipe into his mouth and scanned the city. Save for the impressive commercial centre at its heart and the arterial roads that reached to the middle class suburbs, Manchester and its attendant towns seemed to be entirely composed of squalid terraces of red-brick buildings; tall factory chimneys vied with the occasional church spire or steeple to thrust their mingled message of commerce and Christianity to the Lord.

  “Is Her Majesty to blame?” Monaghan repeated. “I tell you that she is not.” Monaghan spoke the words softly, but repeated them louder, “I tell you that Her Majesty is led astray by those who should be her most truthful advisors. By whom? By the nobility, by the gentry, by the clergy, by the factory masters, by all those who have the vote and the power to elect representatives who sit in Parliament and decide our future for us while we languish in poverty and suffer under oppression!” He raised his voice with every word, so by the end of his speech he was shouting, raising the ferocity of the crowd.