The Darkest Walk of Crime Read online

  Armstrong did not appear amused. “I’ve never heard of you, and I’ve never heard of the East Indies branch.” Shifting restlessly on the bench, he produced a short clay pipe, stuffed coarse tobacco into the bowl and glowered venomously at Mendick. “Tell me about it.”

  Hoping to appear nonchalant, Mendick shrugged. He knew his future depended not only on his answers, but also on how he delivered them. If he hoped to infiltrate this band of Radicals, he must make them trust him, as well as offer them something they desired.

  “There were not many of us, because the officers did not approve.” It was not difficult to inject a sneer into his voice, for the gulf between officers and rankers was so immense it was virtually unbridgeable. “But we were as dedicated to the Charter as any Lancashire machine operator, or Liverpool-born Irishman,” he looked directly at Monaghan, who gave a cold nod of acknowledgement.

  Armstrong pulled on his pipe until the tobacco glowed red, then puffed foul smoke toward Mendick.

  “You say the officers did not approve. How did they voice this disapproval?”

  “Extra duties, mainly, and the occasional unpopular posting.” Mendick had to think quickly. “Do you remember Uriah the Hittite, sent to the forefront of the battle?”

  “Of course.” Armstrong’s face darkened at the suggestion that he would not know his Bible.

  “Well, change the name and the campaign, and there you have us.” He heard the uncomfortable shifting of men in chairs as the delegates in the room considered his words.

  “So they made you suffer for the Charter.” Armstrong nodded. “Aye, they do that, don’t they? And in which battle were you at the forefront?”

  “The capture of Amoy.” Mendick had no need to lie. He remembered the heavy, humid air and the strange sights, the Manchu soldiers and the two hundred pieces of artillery, the thousand-yard long granite wall and the sound of the gongs and firecrackers. The memories were so vivid he knew they would stay with him forever.

  Armstrong grunted and sank back down, his eyes as narrow as before.

  “The Chinese war,” he spat, “a war of exploitation!”

  “It was,” Mendick agreed. “It was a war to force opium on the Chinese people, against the will of their mandarin masters.” He sat back and let them think of that type of exploitation. He felt Rachel Scott’s eyes on him and wondered if he had said too much.

  “So you played your part in this opium traders’ war?” Armstrong’s accusation sliced venomously through the smoke.

  “I did,” Mendick admitted. He remembered the comradeship on campaign and the friendships forged by shared suffering which no civilian could ever understand. For a second he recalled singing the old Covenanting psalms while waiting for the order to advance against the Chinese city, the strange lanterns bobbing on the defended walls, the painted banners and the bravery of the Tartar and Mongol soldiers. He remembered also the hundreds of British soldiers lying sick in the stinking mud. That memory was still powerful.

  “Which regiment were you with?” Again there was that sneer as Armstrong indicated that one regiment was much alike another. “Were you a Guardsman? Were you one of those tin soldiers who stand outside the palace to intimidate the people if they dare to approach Her Majesty?”

  “I was in the 26th Foot.” Mendick told the truth. He felt his fists clench as he prepared to defend his regiment. He knew that to do so was to forsake his duty to the police force, but he refused to desert an older and fiercer loyalty.

  “Why did you join?” Monaghan’s milder tones oiled what could have developed into very troubled waters. He remained seated at the head of the table, while Scott watched, her head tilted to one side, eyes musing.

  “Like most soldiers, it was a choice between the army and starvation.”

  “Of course,” Monaghan nodded his understanding. “So you were as much a victim as any of us, forced to defend a system that had betrayed you, and all for a shilling a day.”

  “Less stoppages,” Mendick reminded him, trying to win sympathy through humour.

  “Less stoppages,” Monaghan agreed.

  “However –” Hardening his tone, Mendick put the flat of his hands on the top of the table, “I thought I was asked here to help further the Chartist cause, not to entertain you with my military past.”

  “Perhaps the two are not so far apart,” Monaghan told him, and the others gave nods of approval. “What rank did you hold in the 26th Foot, Mr Mendick?”

  Mendick had never risen higher than corporal and had been broken back to a private soldier within two months. “I was a sergeant,” he said.

  “And you are still as committed to the Charter as you appear to have been when you were a soldier?”

  “I am, sir,” Mendick said. “Mr Monaghan, I am not by nature a patient man. The working men were cheated back in ‘32 and ignored in ‘42; I think it is about time we pushed harder for our rights. If that means using physical force, then so be it.” Warming to his task he rose, addressing the assembled men as if he were lecturing to a bunch of Johnny Raw recruits who had just assembled, all mouth and wonder.

  “I presume that everybody present has signed the Charter, so I can speak plainly. I do not like the idea of revolution, and I do not like the idea of bloodshed; few soldiers do, once we have seen the real thing. However, sometimes a lesser evil is necessary in order to defeat a greater, and I believe that the present situation is . . .” He halted and searched for the right word. “Indefensible. As we know, the Whigs’ so-called Great Reform Act of 1832 only made matters worse by giving the vote to the middling classes and leaving us, the real workers of Britain, out in the cold.”

  Mendick stopped for breath, realising that the men at the table were agreeing with every word, while Scott was still standing with her head to one side, smiling softly.

  “So yes, I am committed to the Charter; tell me how I can further the cause and I will strain every muscle and sinew I possess to that aim.”

  Monaghan had been listening carefully, and now he looked around the room, his eyebrows raised. One by one the men grunted or nodded, answering an unspoken question. Armstrong was the last to give even such grudging approval, and he continued to stare at Mendick, slowly puffing at his pipe.

  “How can you further the cause?” Monaghan mused. “Well, Mr Mendick, at this very moment the master workmen of Birmingham are manufacturing pikes for the nail makers of Staffordshire to smuggle out to us in their aprons. We have people making hand grenades and others creating caltrops to slow down the cavalry.”

  Mendick listened, trying to mask his horror with a look of anticipation. So Mr Smith had been correct and the Chartists were going to attempt a revolution. He remembered similar rumours back in 1842, but this time there seemed to be more substance. The thought of armed men marching through Manchester, or dragoons deploying in Darlington, was terrifying.

  “We have other plans,” Monaghan told him. “If the magistrates try to Peterloo us, then we will Moscow England. We will burn Newcastle to the ground and destroy the house and factory of every Whig between Birmingham and Preston, aye, and more than that . . .”

  “Enough, perhaps, for now.” Rachel Scott seemed to be warning Monaghan. “Perhaps our colleague here would rather know how he could help.” Her gaze did not leave Mendick’s face.

  “We want you to use your military experience to train an army of workers,” Monaghan told him bluntly. “But if you are caught doing so, it will be the rope. Are you willing to help?”

  Mendick nodded, surprised at how easy it had been. He had succeeded in inveigling himself into the Chartist ranks.

  When he looked up, he felt the tension in the room, with every person present watching him. Some were clearly suspicious about him, others challenging and Scott plainly curious, but Armstrong’s right hand was inside his jacket, as if he were holding some sort of weapon.

  “Are you willing, Mendick?” Monaghan demanded a reply.

  His shrug was genuine. As a policeman, he w
as in far more danger from these revolutionaries than from any government hangman, but if he was caught and killed, well then . . .

  “What is the rope? What is one life when the happiness of millions is at stake?”

  “Oh, very melodramatic,” Armstrong said, “but let’s hear you say that when the noose is tightening around your neck.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a hiss and the scar raising the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever seen a man hanged, Mr Mendick? Have you seen the sweat start from his forehead as the rope is positioned and heard his grunting gasp as he realises he will never see another day?”

  Mendick nodded. “I have.”

  “And you are not afraid?” Armstrong’s sneer was pronounced, but Mendick realised that others in the room were becoming uncomfortable at his persistent harassment.

  “I did not say I was unafraid. I said that losing my life may be worthwhile.” Mendick felt the tension in the room ease slightly as most of the delegates approved his statement. They were working men, made hard by adversity, but beneath the inflexible shell they were prepared to be fair to those of whom they approved.

  Armstrong grunted and raised his reptilian eyes.

  “It’s easy to play with words when you are safe in this room. I’ve seen hangings enough to sicken the devil and other things that would make you squirm in horror. I’ve seen much worse than hangings; I’ve known men commit murder just so they could welcome the noose as a release from unendurable torment. If you join us, you might see the same. Are you willing to risk that?”

  This time it was Mendick who grunted.

  “I’ve said my piece. I am a man of my word so there is no need for me to repeat myself, but I do object to speaking to people who seem to doubt everything I say.” Straightening up, he looked directly at Armstrong. “Your commitment to the Charter is well known, sir, but that does not give you the right to bullyrag me in such a manner.”

  Armstrong’s mouth tightened, making the scar gleam white across his lower lip.

  “I believe that my commitment gives me every right, Mr Mendick. You turned up at our meeting with a piece of pasteboard and a paper that you might well have written yourself and with no known history of dedication to the cause. Have you ever been jailed for the charter?”

  Mendick shook his head. “I have not,” he admitted. It was obvious Armstrong thought of himself as a martyr, someone who had suffered for the Charter in the same manner as Christ suffered on the cross.

  “I was,” Armstrong said, “I was, and the bastards carried me through England in an open cart, chained hand and foot, and sent me to Van Diemen’s Land.” The bitterness increased as he recalled vivid memories.

  The arrest and transportation of Armstrong had infuriated many of Mendick’s police colleagues, who had hoped for the death penalty. They had accused Armstrong of being responsible for some of the worst violence of the Chartist outbreak of 1842, when men had died and buildings had been torched in the name of an extended franchise.

  “Well, you’re back now.” As Mendick focussed determinedly on those acidic eyes, he fought the chill which emanated from this man and wondered what else in Armstrong's life had contributed to such bitterness.

  “Aye, I’m back,” Armstrong jabbed the stem of his pipe at Mendick, like some foul-fumed weapon from the Pit, “and I intend to ensure that no more Chartists are sent across the pond. Do you agree now that I have the right to query the commitment of others?”

  “I think there has been enough querying,” Monaghan decided. “Mr Mendick has offered his services, and I believe we should accept them.”

  “As you wish, Mr Monaghan, as you wish,” Armstrong capitulated immediately. He stood up, banging the embers of his pipe onto the floor. “You claim to have come from London to help us, Mr Mendick, and now is your chance. Come with me; we have much to do.” On this last word Armstrong rose and limped towards the door.

  “Where are we going?” Life in the army had taught Mendick to accept such abrupt changes in his life.

  “We are going to show you why we so urgently need the Charter, and then we will put you to work.” Walking with a peculiarly hunched gait, Armstrong led Mendick out of the public house and through the arched door of a stable. Daylight from the open door silhouetted something square and bulky in the gloom.

  The sudden beam from a bull’s-eye lantern blinded Mendick as a deep voice challenged. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s all right, Peter,” Armstrong said. “It’s me, and I have an ally.”

  “Sorry, Mr Armstrong.” There was a faint scrape as the man named Peter opened the shutter of the lantern. “I didn’t know it was you.” The light altered to a less direct and wider glow, illuminating the interior of the stable and revealing the bulky object to be a four-wheeled brougham.

  Peter absently fondled the muzzle of the white horse delicately feeding beside the carriage. Well over six feet tall, his shoulders spread like the gable end of a house, yet he walked so lightly that the straw beneath his feet barely rustled. He stood quietly, eyes fixed on Armstrong and cradling the lantern as though it were his last hope of sanctuary.

  “This is Mr Mendick,” Armstrong spoke slowly. “He used to be a soldier, but now he has joined us, so we will show him exactly why the Charter is so important to the people of Manchester.”

  “Are we going on a trip, Mr Armstrong?” The idea seemed to please Peter.

  “Drive, Peter. I’ll tell you where.” Armstrong jerked a thumb to the carriage. “Get in, Mr Mendick, and I’ll educate you.”

  As Peter climbed on to the elevated driver’s seat, Mendick ran his hand over the yellow stripe along the blue paintwork.

  “Nice carriage.” He remembered that some of the London criminals liked the brougham because of its tight turning circle and wondered if Armstrong had similar reasons for his choice of carriage. He slid inside, where fresh straw on the floor combined with the clean upholstery to create an impression of prosperity that contrasted with the general malaise that seemed to permeate Manchester.

  Armstrong glared at him through these malicious eyes while his mouth retained the twisted sneer.

  “You come from London, and you think you know deprivation.” His voice had the hard edge of Newcastle, without the lifting twang.

  “I have lived in London,” Mendick agreed.

  “Well, London may have pockets of poverty, but here we live with it every day and everywhere.” Armstrong’s tone was as challenging as his eyes, and Mendick wondered if he was adopting the pose of the experienced Chartist educating the man from the South. “We do not just toy with the idea of Chartism; it is not a theory for those blessed with some education; it is the only hope of escape for the majority of our people.”

  Mendick heard the sincerity in Armstrong’s voice; the man was not posturing but attempting to convince him of what he believed was truth. He narrowed his eyes as his policeman’s cynicism momentarily faltered.

  “Perhaps you should show me,” he suggested.

  “That is my intention.” Armstrong shifted restlessly on the padded seat.

  It took Peter several minutes to back the single horse into position, and then they were moving out of the stables and growling through the streets of Manchester, passing groups of broken people standing in the streets, watching listlessly.

  “They wonder who we are and why we are driving a carriage through their streets,” Armstrong spoke quietly. “It’s not something they see every day.”

  Pulling back the curtains from the gleaming window, Mendick looked outside. Brick terraced streets followed one another in row after squalid row, with the crowds becoming ever more tattered, ever more hopeless.

  “Aye, that’s what we’re fighting for,” Armstrong said. “Maybe our lives are worth losing, eh? We may die, but we give hope to the hopeless.” Mendick was surprised to see compassion in the acidic eyes. “You gave a glib enough answer, but for some of us, this is more than just a pastime; it’s a crusade.”

  Mendick lis
tened as Armstrong spoke to him about Manchester.

  “It is an amazing city: the phenomenon of the age, a microcosm of the new industrialism that has transformed the country. What happens in Manchester is copied elsewhere, and what we do here must be an example to others.” Again Armstrong sounded intense. “We must succeed; we must make this government see that the present system is murdering the people of this country.”

  “I agree,” Mendick said, and at that moment, with the images of appalling poverty grinding past, he was not insincere. “But how can we make them listen?”

  “As you know, we are torn as to our methods.” Armstrong was nearly in tears at the frustration of constant failure. “We have the Moral Force Chartists, who hope to use petitions to persuade the government, either Whig or Tory, and we have the Physical Force Chartists, who prefer sterner methods.”

  Mendick nodded; this was what he had hoped to hear.

  “Physical force would appear to be the better method,” he said. “We already tried the petitions in 1839 and 1842.”

  “And the beak handed me twenty-one years’ transportation for my pains,” Armstrong reminded him, easing himself into a more comfortable position. “So this time we have a combination of both methods. We have O’Connor’s petition, which will be handed to Earl Russell after a great meeting in London, but that will be combined with the threat of physical force.” He looked out of the window as the carriage turned off Oldham Road. “This is Angel Meadow; it is as bad as anything you have in London.”

  Mendick glanced outside. The brick streets were uniformly narrow with scarcely enough space for the brougham to pass between the smoke-blackened houses. Clad in rags that barely covered their decency, crowds of gaunt men and women watched them from the doorways. Many seemed to be nursing injuries or deformities.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Armstrong shook his head. “This is the result of Whig policies, of profit followed by higher profit and expecting the poor to fend for themselves. Do you know that a labourer in Manchester has an average lifespan of seventeen years? Seventeen years! Sweet God, Mendick, at that age he’s hardly begun his life.”