The Darkest Walk of Crime (23 page)

The corridor stretched ahead
punctured by a score of doors, decorated by portraits of long-gone Traffords
and as friendly as the teeth of a fighting dog. Mendick knew he could no longer
hide; Monaghan would scour the building. He had to leave the house and run.

But how? The doors would be
guarded, and every ground floor window seemed to be barred. He swore in
frustration then remembered the kitchen where he had broken in so many weeks
ago. Fighting the searing agony of his burns, he hurried along the corridor,
shoving aside a startled servant as he slammed open the kitchen door.

“What?” A maid stared at him,
backing away as he entered. “There’s no Chartists allowed in here, sir.”

Mendick ignored her and strode
to the window. As he had guessed, the broken pane had been replaced but the
bars had not. He wrestled with the catch, swearing. The window held; escape was
a fraction of an inch away, but he was still trapped. The frightened squeals of
the maid had attracted attention, and he heard male voices and the thunder of
booted feet.

Careless of the noise, he lifted
a box of soap and threw it at the window, kicked away the worst of the
fragmented glass and squeezed through the gap in the bars. Cold iron raked
painfully across his torn hips.

“There he is!”

“Shoot the bastard!”

He dropped, rolling on gravel
which scraped his legs abominably, but rose as soon as he heard the penetrating
crack of a pistol. He was running even as he smelled the whiff of powder smoke,
jinking from side to side with legs trembling and the pain from his burns
mounting with every jarring step. There was another shot, the sensation of
disturbed air as the ball passed close by his head, and then he was among the
trees, cursing the morning light threatening to betray him. Had time passed so
quickly?

“Get your servants out, Sir
Robert.” That was Armstrong’s voice. “And loose the dogs. He’s a police spy!”

Dawn eased incandescent and
pink-grey over policies sugared with the call of early birds and perfumed with
new growth. Mendick moved as quickly as caution allowed, aware that the budding
branches offered no protection against pistol shots, but knowing that lingering
would be fatal. The peace of the country depended on the intelligence he had
gleaned.

Gasping as the pain in his legs
increased, he dodged among the shrubbery. Something snagged at his ankle, and
he tripped. His head slammed against the bole of a tree, momentarily stunning
him. He lay still until the pain in his head was under control and his mind was
again clear, and then looked ahead.

“Sweet God in heaven!”

Before him the mantrap gaped
open, its saw-edged teeth waiting for a victim. His ankle had scraped against
the outside. London life may have its dangers, but living in the country was
not idyllic.

Rising swiftly, he headed for
Trafford’s boundary, watching all the time for mantraps and the equally
unpleasant spring-guns. There were men swinging ugly blackthorn cudgels when he
approached the wall, their voices pitched high to conceal their nervousness,
and he ducked behind the rough trunk of an elm. Somebody laughed, the sound
harsh in the still morning, and a dog began a series of staccato barks until
its keeper kicked it quiet.

Burrowing close to the tree, he
watched the servants pass before he moved forward. After surviving the flue,
scaling a twelve-foot wall was nothing, but the broken glass at the top removed
more of his clothing and more of his skin. Dripping blood, he staggered through
the woodland, jumping at every sound. If Armstrong had alerted the Chartists,
they would hunt him like a fox.

He heard voices close by and
fought the temptation to hide; he struggled on, dragging his torn legs through
the undergrowth, sobbing with pain and exhaustion, still coughing away the
smoke in his lungs. At that moment he had no idea what to do except to continue
running and head for London. He shook his head; that horse would not run. He
needed a more practical plan. With no money in his pocket and his legs shaking
beneath him, he would not be able to manage a quarter of the distance. He
needed somewhere to rest, recuperate and regain his strength.

“The police,” he told himself.
“I can go to a police station,” immediately realising he could not. The police
would telegraph Scotland Yard, and the Chartists who infested the telegraph
system would probably withhold the message and would certainly know his
whereabouts. Indeed, Sergeant Ogden had mentioned that the Chartists had even
infiltrated the police ranks. He would have to get his message to London in
person, but in his present condition he could not. The thought of Jennifer
Ogden’s cheerful, capable face came to him. She would help; he could find
sanctuary in White Rose Lane.

Manchester: March
1848

He was nearly staggering with
exhaustion when he reached the familiar lane with its uneven cobbles and squat
cottages, but nothing was quite the same. The Ogdens’ garden door sagged open,
and the shed, once so redolent with industry, gaped to the world. There was no
rustle of pigeons nor of anything else in the house that was as silent as Ogden’s
grave.

“Mrs Ogden.” He hammered on the
door. “Please let me in.” He leaned against the wall with his heart thundering
and agony gnawing at his legs, but there was no reply. He tried again,
desperately pounding the door until it was opened. It remained at a cautious
gap, secured by a stout chain.

Jennifer Ogden gripped a poker
in her right hand; the nightcap perched on her head dispelling any appearance
of aggression. Her eyes were clouded, but her voice was clear and very precise.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr Mendick; if
it’s Nathaniel you seek, I am afraid that he is dead.”

“Mrs Ogden.” He thrust his foot
forward to prevent her from closing the door. “I know about Mr Ogden—it’s you I
want to see.”

Mrs Ogden stared at him, making
no move to lower the poker or to unhook the chain.

“You must be mistaken, Mr
Mendick. I cannot comprehend any reason that we should see each other.”

“Help me,” Mendick begged
simply. He felt himself sag and straightened up.

For a second Mrs Ogden did
nothing, and then she ran her gaze over him.

“Oh, I see,” she said before
motioning him to move his foot and pushing shut the door. He heard the rattle
of the chain and the door reopened. Mrs Ogden ushered him inside and lit a
candle. She surveyed him quietly, shaking her head, and only when she seemed
satisfied that he was no threat did she place the poker on top of the table.

“Look at the state of you,” she
said. ”What on earth have you done to yourself?” She shook her head. “You’ve
heard about Nathaniel, then?”

“I have,” Mendick admitted.

“They said he was killed by a
collapsing building, but I don’t believe it.”

“I know,” Mendick said. “I don’t
believe it either.”

“They killed him.” Mrs Ogden
sounded surprisingly calm. “Those Chartist people he was after. And then they
killed my dog.” She shook her head again and looked closely at him. “But that
can wait,” she said, stepping back. “You’re hurt. You’re all bloody, and your
legs are burned.”

“Yes,” Mendick agreed.

“What happened, Mr Mendick?”

“The same people who killed your
husband tried to kill me,” he told her. “I have to stop them, or they’ll start
a revolution.”

Mrs Ogden did not appear
perturbed at the news. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, her
eyes examining him.

“We’ll have to get you cleaned
and patched up first,” she decided. “You can’t stop anything in that state.
Come along now.”

She ushered him into the kitchen
where a fire was laid but not lit. The table was as neat as ever, with a linen
cloth covering the bare deal boards and a vase of newly cut daffodils in the
centre.

“If your hurts are not treated,
they’ll get poisoned,” Mrs Ogden told him, somewhat severely, “and then you
might lose a leg. Do you want that?”

“No,” Mendick said.

“Then keep quiet and let me do
what I have to do.”

“I am sorry about your husband,”
Mendick began and then realised he did not know what more to say.

“Are you?” Mrs Ogden sounded
suddenly accusing. “You hardly knew him, so why should you be sorry?”

“I lost my wife. I know what you
must be going through.”

She held his gaze for what
seemed a long time. “Do you? I wonder if any man ever knows what a woman has to
go through.”

Mendick looked away. She must
have been hurting very badly to be so abrasive. “Maybe you’re right,” he said,
“no, not maybe. You
are
right.”

“And how would you know if I am
right or not?” Her continued bitterness surprised him. “Nathaniel was good at
his job. They found him under a pile of rubble you know, thrown away like he
was nothing.”

Mendick nodded, unable to bear
the challenge in her eyes.

“I would like to meet the man
that did it to him,” Mrs Ogden said.

“It was more than one man,” he
told her, “and it is my intention to see them hanged.” She did not react to his
words. “He was one of the best men I have ever met,” he assured her, “and he
was known as a good man even in Scotland Yard.”

“One of the best men . . .” Mrs
Ogden began, and then nodded, possibly partially mollified, although Mendick
suspected tears were not far from her eyes. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She
fetched a brown bowl from the dresser in the corner. “We can talk about
Nathaniel later if you wish.”

“Of course.”

He moved to help but she waved
him away impatiently. He stood impotent as she worked a pair of bellows to
bring the fire back to life, piled on some coal and filled a pot with water
from the outside well. He watched her bustling around, thankful that he was
safe for the time being. He did not realise that he was sleeping until she woke
him.

“Come on now, Mr Mendick. Let’s
have your unmentionables off.” She indicated his trousers.

Although Mrs Ogden had washed
and changed into a comfortable dress of patterned green flowers and tidied her
hair, her eyes were shockingly blank as though she refused to acknowledge the
truth of her loss.

“What?” Mendick looked up. “I
can’t do that!”

“Don’t be silly; I have to clean
you up, so your trousers must come off. Do you really think that the sight of
your legs will shock me?” There was no humour in Mrs Ogden’s smile. “I’ve just
lost my husband, and you’re just another man.”

“It’s indecent.” He stared at
her for a moment as she looked scornfully back at him.

“It’s necessary. Shirt too,
please; we’d better do this properly.”

Her logic was inescapable, and
he peeled off his shirt and trousers, gasping at the scrape of cloth against
his scorched and blistered skin. He stood naked before her, covering his
decency with both hands. She surveyed him, pursing her lips.

“Turn around. You’re a mess,
aren’t you?” She touched the wounds on his left hip, and he winced and pulled
away. “Don’t be such a baby. What did you do? Fall in a fire?”

“Something like that.” Mendick
thought it best not to say too much.

“I take it the Chartists lit
it.” Jennifer Ogden was no fool.

“They did,” he agreed. “The same
Chartists who murdered your husband.”

“We’ll talk about them later,
too.”

She had heated up the water and
began to work on him, starting with the minor scrapes on his back and working
her way down to his legs, washing away the blood before applying goose grease
to the burns, tutting in sympathy whenever he winced but still thoroughly
cleaning each wound before moving on to the next.

Embarrassed at first, Mendick
soon found it strangely soothing to have a competent woman attending to him. He
watched her frown in concentration as she dabbed at his wounds, ignoring his
discomfort in her determination to do a good job.

“Thank you, Mrs Ogden,” he said,
humbled and strangely ashamed. “I am deeply indebted to you.”

She looked up, brushed a stray
strand of hair from her face and nodded, unsmiling.

“It was necessary; anyway, doing
this takes my mind off things.” She stood up, cleaning the grease from her
hands on a cloth. “I’ll find you something to cover yourself with. You won’t
mind wearing Nathaniel’s clothes, will you? And when I make us something to
eat, you can tell me what’s happened and how it affected my husband.” She
narrowed her eyes. “And don’t tell me that he was not involved, because I know
he was.”

While Mrs Ogden bustled with
pots and plates, Mendick gingerly pulled on Ogden’s clothing and related his
story to her, glossing over the details of her husband’s death but emphasising
that he died bravely.

“Of course he did.” She seemed
to accept Ogden’s murder calmly. She had placed a tray of soup, bread and
cheese on the table. “He was always a brave man if nothing else. The question
you should be asking is why I am not upset about it.”

“What?” When he looked up Mrs
Ogden was facing him squarely.

“You heard me, Mr Mendick. My
husband is dead, yet I am not weeping a bucketful of tears. In truth I have not
shed a single one nor do I intend to. Indeed, you may have noticed I am not
even wearing mourning togs.”

“People mourn in different ways
. . .”

“I am not in mourning.” Again
Mrs Ogden was challenging, waiting to parry the inevitable questions.

“He was my husband, Mr Mendick.
During his lifetime it was my duty to love and obey him; now he has gone I owe
him nothing, not loyalty, not even a memory. In fact, I fully intend to forget
him as soon as I can.”

“I am sure you don’t mean that;
he was a good man . . .”

“Was he?  Was he indeed?” Mrs
Ogden’s voice was syrup-sweet, but there was no mistaking the steel behind
those eyes.