The Darkest Walk of Crime (32 page)

With his duty to Ogden’s memory
completed, Smith could move on.

“We heard nothing from you
during your absence; pray tell me everything that happened in the north.”

Mendick could hear the ticking
of the grandmother clock as he began, and then he was caught up in his own
story, speaking first of the plot to murder Queen Victoria, and then recounting
the intended Chartist uprising. His audience listened intently, scribbling
notes or raising their eyebrows in astonishment.

“Entire cases of muskets?
Extraordinary!”

“Sir Robert Trafford?
Unbelievable!”

When he mentioned Josiah
Armstrong’s name, Mendick noticed Field’s face tauten, and the inspector wrote
furiously for a few moments before returning his attention to what was being
said.

The clock seemed even more
audible when Mendick ended, and a piece of coal settled with a perceptible
sigh.

“Well now.”

For the duration of Mendick’s
report Smith had not moved from his position in front of the fire, but now he
paced the few steps to the window, twirling one of the tails of his coat in his
right hand.

“Well now, Constable. You seem
to have had yourself quite the adventure, haven’t you? And you have certainly
opened a large can of worms.”

He looked out of the window for
a few minutes while one hand continued to work busily at his coat tail and the
fingers of the other tapped a tattoo on his thigh.

“You have informed us of two
separate threats to the stability of the realm. The first threat, of which we
were already aware, comes from the Chartists. According to you, these radicals have
become highly organised and have an unknown number of trained detachments ready
to rise in rebellion.” Turning swiftly, he raised his eyebrows. “Is that
correct?”

“It is, sir,” Mendick agreed.

“All bad so far,” Smith said,
“except for your single-handed capture of Armstrong, of course. That was a
notable piece of work. Quite extraordinary, I would say. We all hoped that
Armstrong would die quietly in Van Diemen’s Land, but now it seems he will be
hanged instead.”

“I agree the man will be none
the worse for a good hanging,” Field said, “but in doing so, we may create a
martyr for the Chartists.”

When Smith looked up, the steel
in his face matched anything that Mendick had seen from Armstrong.

“By the time I have finished,
Inspector, there will be no Chartists.” He nodded grimly. “And as for William
Monaghan, I intend to have him transported shortly also.”

Mendick nodded, remembering Ogden’s
screams and the horror of that flue.

“Yes, sir. However, not all the
Chartists are of the same stamp. Monaghan is certainly a dangerous man, but the
group of delegates who meet in the Beehive Inn seem to be sincere in their
attempts to help the working people . . .”

Smith stopped his flow with an
upraised hand.

“All of which is well and good,
Constable, but certainly no concern of yours. Pray allow the politicians to
take care of politics while you attend to your own duty.”

“Yes, sir.” Mendick realised
Inspector Field was also frowning at him. “But if I may be permitted . . .”

“You may not, Constable. You
have made your verbal report; now please remain silent unless I ask you a
direct question.” Smith stepped back from the window. “So, to continue; these Physical
Force Chartists are coming to London in the train of O’Connor’s circus, and if
Parliament does not agree to all their demands, they will attempt a revolution
either here or in the north.” He paused, still twisting his coat tail in his
hand. “Is that correct?”

“It is, sir,” Mendick agreed.

“All right.” Smith nodded to
Inspector Field. “Then we shall take measures to counter this intended
insurrection.” He hesitated for a second. “I presume there is no doubt about
any of this intelligence, Constable?”

“None whatsoever, sir,” Mendick
said. “As I mentioned, I was present at some of the meetings with Monaghan and
Armstrong,” he paused, “and Rachel Scott. I saw the gathering of volunteers in
the Midlands, sir, hundreds, possibly thousands of men, some with muskets,
collecting in a very disciplined manner.”

“It is the discipline that
worries me most,” Smith admitted. “The army is quite capable of dealing with
any size of mob, but a disciplined and trained force is a horse of an entirely
different colour.” He looked up. “White, perhaps?” He gave a brief laugh at his
own joke but stopped abruptly when nobody else joined in.

Inspector Field left his seat to
pile more coal on the fire, looking over his shoulder to Mendick as he did so.

“You were involved in the actual
training of these militant Chartists, Constable. How do they shape up?”

“Very well,” Mendick said. “They
are fine material.”

Smith nodded, frowning.

“Aye, well, I think the less
said about the training the better. Some people could construe such actions as
treason. Rachel Scott, however, interests me. I have not come across her name
before, and her description is equally unfamiliar, yet you tell me she is
heavily involved in both the Chartist plot and this alleged assassination
attempt.”

“Rachel Scott is an interesting
person, sir,” Mendick said, “but I am also unclear about her role in either
affair. She is friendly with Monaghan as well as Trafford, but she is a
chameleon; she alters to suit her surroundings.” He shook his head. “And she
has a connection with the man she calls Uncle Ernie.”

The tail-twirling stopped as
Smith again resorted to his notebook, leaning on the desk and writing non-stop
for a full two minutes before he looked up.

“I would be obliged if you kept
that information within these walls, Constable. Much of what you say is
conjecture and speculation, and there is enough trouble in Europe without this
country becoming engaged in an ugly diplomatic quarrel.”

Mendick nodded. “Of course, sir.
I was merely doing my duty in bringing these matters to your attention.”

“Indeed,” Smith said. “You have
certainly done that, Constable. I believe you have acted with commendable zeal
and some bravery, although, your interpretation of events may not be
infallible.”

Mendick said nothing; he knew
that if he was correct, his superiors would accept the credit, but if he were
wrong the blame would fall squarely on him. In that respect the police force
was no different from the army.

“I am not at all sure about your
alleged conspiracy involving Cumberland, or the King of Hanover as he is now,
particularly as Sir Robert Trafford is known to me personally.” Smith raised
his eyebrows as if waiting for Mendick to comment. “On the other hand, it would
be foolish to take any chances, and Her Majesty may well be under threat from
the Chartists, so I shall advise that she leaves London for a time.”

Mendick nodded. It seemed that
Mr Smith was covering his options; nobody could blame him for advising the
Queen to leave London in the face of massed radicals, and in doing so he was
not completely dismissing the intelligence about the assassination attempt.

“And as for these Chartists . .
.” Smith took a deep breath, “We shall swamp the streets with special
constables, and we will use every uniformed officer we can scrape up. If the
Chartists march down with ten thousand, I will have ten times ten thousand.” He
glanced down at his notes.

“I will ask the Duke of
Wellington to take charge of the defence of London. He may be eighty years old,
but he is still the best in the business.”

Mendick nodded. The thirty years
since Waterloo had not dimmed Wellington’s military star.

Smith continued, “The Guards are
on hand, of course, and we have yeomanry and line regiments within a day’s
march. We will cover the bridges with artillery and have cavalry ready to break
up the mobs.”

“My men are prepared,” Inspector
Field said, “and we have already called up thousands of specials.” He looked at
Mendick. “Your intelligence will ensure we are not caught unprepared,
Constable.”

Again Mendick said nothing
although he was impressed at the speed in which decisions were being made. With
Smith and Field in charge of arrangements and Wellington commanding the
military, it seemed that Monaghan would have to whistle for his utopia.

“You said the Chartists had
infiltrated the telegraph system, Constable.” Smith ticked off another of the
notes that he had made. “We will commandeer the system and, if necessary, we
will take control of every railway line in Britain. By God, sir, we’ll show
these Radicals.”

“Yes, sir, but remember not all
the Chartists are set on destruction, sir. Most just want a decent standard of
living . . .”

“Then let them work for it,
Constable, let them work for it.” There was no sympathy in Smith’s face. “You,
sir, have done your duty well. Rest assured that I intend to do no less. I will
sew up London so tight that not even a Chartist mouse can enter, and to keep
you happy, I will ask Her Majesty to retire to a safer place.” He nodded to
Mendick. “Inspector Field will ensure you are present on that occasion, but for
now, Constable,” he held out his hand, “you have the thanks of the country.”

Guessing that Smith was awarding
him a great honour, Mendick took the hand. There would be no more reward for a
man who was merely performing his duty.

“Right, Constable.” Inspector
Field resumed his authoritarian tone. “You had better get yourself cleaned up.
You look more like somebody fit for the cells than one of the guardians of law
and order. Report for duty as normal tomorrow. That will be all.”

Pulling himself to attention,
Mendick saluted. This seemed to be the end of his adventure in the north. There
would be neither fanfare nor effusive praise. Inspector Field had reminded him
that he was nothing more than a very small cog in a disciplined machine.

London: April 1848

Something was wrong. Perhaps it
was an instinct developed through years of police work, but Mendick felt the
tingle of apprehension the second he stepped into Hart’s Lane, the street in
which he lived. Ignoring the burning sensation in his legs, he increased his
speed and stopped just outside the brick building with its narrow windows and
sagging roof.

“Oh, good God in heaven!” His
front door was swinging drunkenly on its single remaining hinge. Belatedly he
remembered the Chartists had already paid his home a visit.  Swearing, he
pushed inside and looked around at the wreckage of what had once been his home.

Somebody had gone through the
house systematically destroying everything that could be destroyed, either for
the sheer love of destruction or in a calculated attack on his life and
memories. Leaning against the wall, he took a deep breath.

The rocking chair on which he
had spent so much time and labour had been broken; its curved runners were
splintered, the back shattered and the seat with its carefully sewn cushions
hacked to pieces. Worse, much worse, was the mirror, in front of which he
always imagined Emma. Now the frame was destroyed and thrown to the four
corners of the room and the glass scattered in a thousand reflective shards.
The legs had been hacked from the table, his chair lay charred in the fireplace
and the bed, his marriage bed, was smashed beyond repair. Feathers from the
mattress were strewn all around the room and the fabric ripped by a sharp
knife.

“Oh, sweet Lord,” Mendick said.
Possessions had never meant much to him, but everything in his house attached
him to Emma.

“Somebody’s been busy.” Jennifer
looked through the open door. She spoke quietly, hiding any emotion.

Mendick felt too sick to be
surprised at her presence. “I thought you had gone on to manage your own life.”

“I changed my mind.” Jennifer
hesitated, one foot inside the room. “May I come in?”

“Of course you can come in.”
Mendick extended a hand. “Mind you wipe your feet first, though; Emma was very
house-proud.”

He crunched over the broken
glass to the far wall. Emma’s silhouette had been torn down and was now
scattered around the floor in a hundred ragged pieces. Ignoring Jennifer, he
began to gather together the scraps of paper. He felt numb, as if he was
looking from above as someone else knelt on the shattered glass, retrieving
fragments of Emma's picture from the ground.

“What is it?” Lifting her skirt
from the knee, Jennifer joined him. “What are we doing?”

“It’s my wife’s picture,” he
explained, and she nodded, scrabbling on the floor. After a few moments he
warned her, “Watch your fingers for the broken glass.”

“Only if you watch yours,” she
retorted. “I’m not completely useless, you know.” Then she glanced at his face
and looked hurriedly away. “I’m sorry; I should not have said that.”

The portrait had been torn in
half, then quartered, and then torn again, but with Jennifer’s help Mendick
managed to gather most of the pieces. He held them helplessly, unsure what to
do next, until Jennifer reached out.

“Let me take care of them,” she
said, quietly.

“No.”

For much of the time in the north
he had clung to Emma’s memories as a safe haven in a world gone mad. Now these
shredded remains were the only tangible reminder he had, and he could not let
go.

“Trust me,” Jennifer pleaded,
and her eyes were as sympathetic as he had ever seen them.

His nod was reluctant, and she
reached over and gently took control.

“It will be all right, James. I
promise.”

He looked at the shambles of
what had once made Emma proud and remembered Rachel Scott producing the
document that Scotland Yard had sent to him. Perhaps it had been she who had
ripped his life apart, but more likely she had sent a minion.

“Hell mend them,” he said,
hearing the break in his voice. “Hell mend whoever did this to my wife.”