The Darkest Walk of Crime (33 page)

Suddenly any sympathy he had for
Armstrong and the Chartists disappeared and with it his last reserves of
strength. He began to shake, and he did not object when Jennifer put her arms
around him.

“What’s it all about, Emma? Tell
me, what’s it all about?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,”
Jennifer told him, her eyes equally shadowed with memories.

For the first time since Emma’s
funeral he gave way to his tears.

*

“Come along there, clear the
way.” Back in uniform for the occasion, Mendick pushed along the platform of
Nine Elms Station using his staff to ease away the crowd. In common with most
railway stations in Britain, Nine Elms was used as a meeting spot for lovers
and a haven for loungers, gazers and pickpockets as well as being a place for
respectable travellers. None were pleased when the Metropolitan police arrived
to clear them out of the way. There were protests, angry words and the
occasional scuffle as young men pushed back and respectable ladies lifted
parasols in self-defence, but eventually the police achieved a platform that
was empty except for themselves and a few trusted railwaymen.

“Good work, gentlemen.”
Inspector Field dabbed at the sweat that coursed down his round face. He
glanced at Mendick. “We can only hope that all this effort is not wasted,
Constable.”

“Let’s hope not, sir.” He tugged
at the all-too-familiar stock which seemed already to be wearing a groove in
his neck

With the travellers and loafers
dispersed, a column of special constables marched through the neo-classical
entrance. Mendick had imagined Smith would send a score of men, but hundreds streamed
in to the station to ensure that no Chartists dared to enter. They took up
position at every doorway and along every platform, standing sentinel with
their staves held across beefy middle class chests and with disapproving frowns
on faces more used to surveying balance sheets and poring over ledgers than
braving the outdoors.

At around ten in the morning a
dark green train chuffed into view, excess steam hissing from its boiler and
proudly displaying the gold-painted name
Elk
on its side. The royal
banner and decorative gingerbread work made it obvious for whom the three
carriages were intended, and the open sided luggage van seemed like a scolded
servant as it sulked in the rear.

“You stay close, Constable.”
Inspector Field had remained to ensure the operation proceeded smoothly. “You
are the only person who knows what these alleged assassins look like, so I want
you at my side.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mendick watched as the driver
clamped his pipe between his teeth and reversed against the platform. Despite the
importance of his charge he looked as excited as a marble statue. In contrast,
the smaller of the two firemen stopped working to stare at the ranked police
while his giant companion kept his back turned and continued to shovel coal.

The specials formed a cordon
around the train, standing with their staves held ready and their faces
impassive. For a moment Mendick wondered what sort of mess Eccles and his
Volunteers would make of their immaculate ranks but pushed the thought aside.

“I can’t imagine anybody would
get through this lot, sir.”

“That’s the general idea,
Constable.”

At ten twenty there was a stir, and the men sprang to attention. The laconic engine driver stiffened in
anticipation as a small convoy of coaches halted just outside the station and the
passengers filed out in an orderly and colourful procession.

“It’s Her Majesty,” somebody
whispered, and every eye swivelled to watch Queen Victoria cross the platform.

It was the first time Mendick
had seen the Queen in person, and he was surprised at her youth and lack of
size. He knew she was a small woman, but although she walked as proudly erect
as any seven-foot guardsman, Queen Victoria was only five feet tall. Her
entourage followed respectfully a few steps behind, headed by the elegant,
moustached figure of Prince Albert and most of the royal children. A nursemaid
carried Louise, the youngest of Victoria’s brood.

A troop of superior ladies’
maids came next, with two ladies-in-waiting in case Her Majesty should grow
bored on the short trip south. Finally there was a gaggle of nurses and a group
of dark-clothed equerries, valets and servants.

There was one other man there,
and Mendick realised that despite his apparent cynicism, Inspector Field was
not taking any chances. Foster, the veteran detective from Scotland Yard, was
also with the royal family. Although he posed as one of the servants, he looked
the very opposite of servile as he stared into the face of every special
constable he passed and examined the engine driver as if he were some sort of
personal enemy.

“Is the royal train expected to
stop en route, sir?” Mendick wondered, but Field shook his head.

“Not even once, Constable. Her
Majesty will travel directly for Gosport, where she will be conveyed to Osborne
House in the Isle of Wight. And in case you think Hanover might attempt some
rash attack in the Solent, Admiral Ogle has a squadron of the Royal Navy
standing by.”

“You seem to have thought of
everything,” Mendick said.

“Aye, but it was your
intelligence that brought Her Majesty’s possible danger to our attention,”
Field graciously admitted. “And we’ve spent a great deal of money and
inconvenienced a great many people in humouring your allegations.”

Appearing as relaxed as if she
were out for a stroll in Windsor Great Park, the Queen passed along the
platform, with the parade of specials stiffening to attention and the uniformed
officers saluting. Only Foster and one of the dark clothed servants looked
elsewhere as they scanned the station and everybody inside.

“Who’s that, sir?” Mendick
nodded toward the inquisitive servant. “I seem to recognise the face, although
I am damned if I remember from where.”

“How the hell should I know who
he is? He looks like one of Her Majesty’s footmen, or maybe an equerry, a
cousin of the blood or similar.” Inspector Field was having difficulty keeping
his spreading stomach under control as he stood to attention. “Keep saluting
and don’t ask damn-fool questions.”

Prince Albert held the door open
for the Queen to board, and then the royal children swarmed aboard. While the
nurses curtsied to the railway official who helped them into the rearmost
carriage, the ladies-in-waiting were too imperious to even acknowledge his
existence.

“How many servants does she need
for one train trip?” Mendick wondered but quickly closed his mouth when Field
glared at him.

There was a flurry of
petticoats, skirts and bonnets as the female servants boarded. The third
stumbled, giggling, so that Foster had to help her up, but most kept their
heads down and their dignity intact. The male servants were next, separated
from their female counterparts by the royal carriage, and finally Foster
slipped aboard, taking a last long stare over the platform before he closed the
door.

“So that’s that then; all safe
and serene,” Field said. “Duty done, Constable, and we can get back to our
proper business of defending the city against these Chartist friends of yours.”

“James!”

The voice was so unexpected that
Mendick started. He turned to see Jennifer waving through the assembled top
hats of the specials.

“Who in God’s name is that?”
Inspector Field pulled at his whiskers.

“Jennifer
Ogden,” Mendick said.
“She wouldn’t come here without a good reason.” He
raised his voice. “Stand aside there. Let her through!”

The ranks opened, and Jennifer
bustled up.

“How did you get past the
specials?” Field sounded more intrigued than annoyed.

“I said I was your daughter,”
Jennifer told him quickly. “But watch that man.” She pointed to the closed door
of the male servants’ carriage, now partially concealed as the engine ejected
surplus steam. “You can’t let him go with the Queen!”

“What man?” Mendick asked.
“They’re all royal servants.”

“Maybe they are, but I’ve seen
him before. When I worked at Trafford Hall, I saw him visit Sir Robert.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,”
Field told her. “Maybe he worked there too.”

“He wasn’t dressed as a servant
then.” Ignoring Field, Jennifer nudged Mendick. “Are you going to take the
chance, James? You’re here to make sure that Sir Robert Trafford does not
murder the Queen; you can’t allow a friend of his to travel with her.”

“That bloody servant!” Mendick
swore. “I knew there was something wrong about him.”

He began to move forward, easing
through the uniformed ranks and barging aside the specials. He had brought the
information about the intended assassination in an attempt to save the Queen,
but instead he had persuaded her to travel on a closed train with her killer.
All his efforts had only managed to put the Queen in even greater danger.

“Constable! What are you going
to do?” Field was only a step behind.

“I’m going to save her Majesty’s
life,” Mendick shouted over his shoulder.

The train was moving, pulling
slowly through clouds of hissing steam and shrouding the assembled specials in
smuts of black smoke.

“I’ll telegraph Gosport to warn
Foster!” Inspector Field tried to shout above the engine. “What’s the man’s
name? I said, what’s the man’s name?”

As he strained to board the van,
Mendick grabbed at the handle of the leading carriage, missed, and stumbled
onto the platform. He fought to recover his balance and tried again as the
central and then the final carriage thundered past. Lunging forward, he
clutched hold of the wooden struts, gasping at the sudden strain on his arm.

“James!” That was Jennifer’s
voice, hoarse with anxiety.

Swearing, he clutched at the
struts as the train rattled through the station, building up speed for the run
down to the south coast.

Aware of the gaping faces of the
specials, he clung on desperately, with his feet scraping along the platform
and the wood rough under his fingers. He felt the top hat flick off his head
and for an instant saw it suspended in the air before it vanished in the wake
of the train. If he slipped, he would go the same way; there would be a second
of apprehension and then a dragging, agonising plunge along the track.

He had to get on board before
his strength failed.

As he stretched, Mendick felt
the scab over his burns split, but he fought the pain and slid onto the wooden
floor of the van, probing for purchase with his foot. He slipped, yelled, and
then a brawny hand grabbed his arm and hauled him inside.

“What in God’s name are you
doing, Mr Policeman?” The guard was around forty, with oiled whiskers and large
blue eyes that seemed about to burst from his face. His dark uniform was
immaculate, the red trimming echoing the buffer beams of the train. “People
normally buy a ticket if they want to go by rail.” He grinned hugely at his own
joke.

“Thanks.”

Mendick took deep breaths to
regain his strength. The train increased speed, whirling out of Nine Elms
Station with its royal passengers sitting comfortably inside and a probable
assassin loose in one of the carriages. There was a sudden nerve-rending
screech and a blast of steam clouded the full length of the train.

“Right, Mr Policeman.” The guard
helped him upright. “Are you all right? Suppose you tell me why you’re here?”

“There’s a plot to assassinate
the Queen,” Mendick explained quickly and saw instant comprehension in the
guard's face.

“So that’s why she’s leaving the
city!” The man’s whiskers bounced as he nodded. “But that doesn’t explain why
you are on my train?”

“You don’t understand,” Mendick
spoke rapidly. “The assassin is here! He’s on this train!”

The guard stared, open mouthed.
‘My God! Where? Can you stop him?’

“If I can get to the front
carriage . . .”

“The carriages are all
independent saloons,” the guard interrupted. “You can’t get through from one to
the other.”

“Is there not a way around the
side? How do you retrieve the luggage?”

“This is a royal train.” The
guard controlled his obvious anxiety. “The passengers board at one station and
leave at the destination. You cannot move from one carriage to another.” He
thought for a moment. “Unless you go over the top.”

For a moment Mendick
contemplated the swaying carriages rattling through London at over twenty miles
an hour.

“So that’s what I will do.”

It was a simple task for an
ex-climbing boy to hoist himself onto the roof of the rearmost carriage, but
not so easy to walk forward through the sooty smuts. The carriages were only
thirty feet long, the roofs had an easy camber and the ornate railings ensured
he could not fall, but when Mendick stretched across to the royal carriage, he
blanched. The couplings jolted eight feet beneath him, and the streets of London
whirled past at what seemed to be breakneck speed.

Taking a deep breath, he intoned
Restiaux' favourite mantra:

“Lord, I shall be very busy
these next few minutes; I may forget thee, but do not forget me.”

He tensed himself, but just
before he jumped, the train eased into a bend and he saw directly inside the
royal carriage. It was a picture of luxury more intense than he had ever
imagined, with a red and white Axminster carpet on the floor, padded white
walls to match the upholstery on the chairs, frilled curtains on the windows
and a marble table complete with flowers. Even the ceiling was elaborately
decorated. For a second Mendick compared the splendour of this temporary
carriage with the squalor of the Holy Land or the endless brick terraces of Manchester.

The stark contrast wrenched at
his stomach with its reminder of the essential decency of the Chartists and the
simple justice of their demands. Why should some people have a surfeit of
indulgence while others struggled to merely eat? Maybe he had been on the wrong
side all along?  He glanced again, studying the woman who ruled over such
inequality and injustice.