The Darkest Walk of Crime (5 page)

“You do not have to take the
job, Mendick. We know that it will be dangerous. If you are discovered, the
Chartists will probably try to kill you too, and we may not be able to help; we
may not even be able to admit that you are one of ours. If you decide to
refuse, you may replace your hat and return to your duties without anybody ever
knowing that this interview took place.”

Mendick hid his smile; the
choice could not be more obvious. Either he accepted this perilous position, in
which case he would retain his new status as Scotland Yard detective, or he
refused and remained a uniformed officer for the remainder of his career
.
He
did not consider for long; he had nothing much to lose anyway. He lifted
the brandy glass and took a last loving swallow.

“When do I start, sir?”

“Very shortly.” Smith did not
offer to recharge his glass, although he was not loath to help himself. “First
you must lose some of your police bearing and tone; you
do
look a
typical police officer, you know.” He nodded to Field. “Give him a few days,
maybe a week or so, at ease in
London
,
Inspector. And you, Constable, allow your hair to grow longer, forget to shave
for a while, strengthen that uncouth northern accent of yours, and then we will
contact you again with further details.” He leaned forward in his chair and
scribbled on a scrap of paper. “Here is the address of Sergeant Ogden. You will
see that he lives in
White
Rose Lane
, just
outside
Manchester
, where the mainspring of this
Chartist nonsense appears to be based.”

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.