The Darkest Walk of Crime (7 page)

Monaghan gave her his hand.
“Madam, of course you may speak. We should all be entitled to the free
expression of our beliefs.”

“Thank you, Mr Monaghan.”
Turning to the audience, the woman introduced herself. “My name is Rachel
Scott, and I have been an operator in a cotton mill for many years.” It seemed
obvious that years of working in a dusty environment had given her voice that appealing
huskiness, but her choice of words revealed a level of education above anything
Mendick would normally expect from a mill hand.

“I have experienced, as have we
all, the long hours and short wages of our present system, and as Mr Monaghan
so rightly says, it is time to do something about it.” Turning to the crowd,
she pointed directly at Mendick. “You, sir! A minute past I saw you cheering
the words of Mr Monaghan. Are you willing to go beyond words? Are you willing
to take a step towards real freedom?”

Mendick felt the eyes of the
gathering upon him. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, feeling inside
his pocket for the membership card that Blake had forged.

“Aye, I am,” he said, “willing
and more than willing.”

“How willing?” Rachel Scott spoke
the words quietly, but those huge eyes were sharply quizzical. “Tell me, sir,
how willing is more than willing?”

Those nearest to him were
silent, waiting for an answer, while those at the back were craning forward,
demanding to know what was happening.

He produced his membership card.
“As willing as that,” he said.

Scott turned away, her smile
fading. “So you are a member of a Chartist branch.” She sounded disdainful. “So
are many thousands of others.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “That means
nothing, Mr . . .” leaning closer, she read the name, “Mr Mendick.”

“This may mean more,” he said,
producing the document that proclaimed him a delegate for the East Indian
Branch of the confederation.

“East Indian branch?” Scott read
the address aloud, her tone mildly mocking. “I had not realised that there was
such a thing. Pray tell, Mr Delegate, which part of this nation is in the East
Indies?”

“The military part.” Mendick had
his answer ready. He felt the sudden surge of interest from Scott but did not expect
her swift intake of breath and short, explosive laugh.

“Military? So you are one of
these men who wore the uniform of the oppressors, one of those who are ready to
kill or maim your fellow workers.”

Mendick was aware of the silence
around him, and the slow murmur of disapproval from those at the back of the
gathering.

“I am one of the many who donned
the scarlet jacket rather than starve in the streets.” He held her eyes, unsure
if he was already failing in his first task as a detective officer.

“And now you want to atone for
that decision.” Scott did not disguise the contempt in her voice, but Monaghan
put his hand on her shoulder.

 “Life is about decisions and
mistakes,” he said quietly. “I am sure that our colleague is as sincere in his
beliefs as you or I in ours.” He nodded to Mendick. “Is that not so, my
friend?” Close to, the Chartist speaker was not so tall and had a distinctly
lined face and an accent more Liverpool than Ireland.

“It is, and I am very willing to
take a step towards real freedom.”

“Real freedom? You would not
understand the concept.” Again Scott gave that distinctive indrawn laugh.
Turning, she whispered something to Monaghan, who glanced at Mendick and
nodded.

“Perhaps,” Monaghan said
cryptically.

The crowd were growing restless
at this private conversation, and some began to ease away. Monaghan lifted his
voice again.

“It is time to close this
meeting, brothers and sisters, fellow Chartists all, so unless we have already
done so, let us now sign the Charter.” Stooping, he produced a long roll of
paper from the body of the wagon and stood ready with a quill pen and a pot of
ink as a number of people came to add their names.

“This petition will go to the
House of Commons,” he reminded them. “It is both a token of our loyalty to the
cause and a demand from the ordinary people of Britain for a fairer and more
just society.”

Mendick was surprised that most
people could actually sign their own name; he remembered the number of
illiterates in his regiment. When the last man and woman had signed, Monaghan
continued:

“I thank you all for your
support and loyalty. And now let us end with something to cheer us; let us sing
a paean of praise.” As he roared out a Chartist song the crowd joined in, the
desperate voices merging in aspiration to a future of which they could only
dream:

“Truth is growing –
hearts are glowing

With the flame of Liberty:

Light is breaking –
Thrones are quaking –

Hark! The trumpet of
the Free

Long in lowly whispers
breathing

Freedom wandered
drearily

Still, in faith, her
laurel wreathing,

For the day when there
should be Freemen shouting

Victory!”

They shouted the last word in a
triumphant peal, and then some subsided in sobs, as if their singing could
soften the heart of the pitiless Whigs who controlled the factories and
dribbled their wages like blood through an impermeable stone.

As they began to drift away,
Monaghan beckoned Mendick closer and spoke in low, urgent tones,

“You say that you are willing to
step towards real freedom. Is that a genuine desire, or are you just hoping to
impress Miss Scott?”

Mendick seized the opening. “I
could not be more sincere,” he said.

“I don’t mean just shouting
acclaim and waving your hat in the air,” Monaghan warned. “The charter needs
men
to advance its cause, not rowdy mice.”

“Your friend was sneering at me
for my army service.” Mendick did not look at Scott, who was listening closely.
“But my time in uniform could be useful, Mr Monaghan. Like you, I have had
enough of singing songs and listening to rousing speeches that avail nothing;
perhaps I can offer more than that.” He took a deep breath, and continued,
“Will the ability to drill and shoot and fight help your cause, Mr Monaghan? Or
the ability to kill?” For a second he thought he had overplayed his part as
Monaghan appeared to flinch, but Scott stepped forward.

“The fellow talks a good deal,
Mr Monaghan,” she said, “but some of his words may be of interest.”

“Maybe, if they are correct.”
Monaghan glowered at him and came to a sudden decision. “There is a beer shop
named the Beehive; meet me there at eight tomorrow morning.”

For a second he scrutinised
Mendick, and then he climbed back into the wagon. Scott looked over her
shoulder just long enough to flick her eyes from his face down the length of
his body and back, before following the last of the straggling crowd. Mendick
watched for only a moment, barely noticing the provocative swing of her hips as
he murmured the words of the Chartist song that reverberated around in his
head,

“Truth is growing –
hearts are glowing

With the flame of Liberty”

Shaking his head removed neither
the words nor the image.

*

The name of the Beehive may have
been chosen for the impression of industry and organisation, but the interior
provided nothing but a confirmation of the misery outside. Even at that hour of
the morning, groups of haggard men and women crouched around battered deal
tables while others slouched against the bar, attempting to make their beer
last as long as possible. Tousle-haired children sat on the floor, but when
Mendick winked at them they looked up listlessly, no animation in their ancient
eyes.

The barman was a nondescript
individual with thinning brown hair under a peaked railway cap. He grunted when
Mendick asked for Monaghan.

“Is he expecting you?”

“He asked me to come.”

“Did he indeed.” The barman
looked him up and down. “What’s your name?”

“James Mendick; I’m a . . .”

“I don’t care what you are.” The
barman consulted a small list before indicating a door in the corner of the
room.

“Through there.” He rapped his
knuckles on the top panel before ushering Mendick inside.

The door led into a smaller room
with an oval table around which sat a dozen men, all seemingly intent on
puffing as much tobacco smoke as possible into the atmosphere. Monaghan
dominated the room, sitting erect in the only heavy carved chair with Rachel
Scott proud at his side. When Mendick entered, Monaghan nodded and Scott
allotted him a long, languid look before rising to greet him.

“Mr Mendick.” She responded to
his bow with a slow smile. “I did not really think that you would come. Find a
place at the table, if you please.”

Even as they shuffled to make
room for him on the bench, the seated men stared at him suspiciously. Mendick
scanned them quickly, noting eyes embittered by poverty, gaunt faces with skin
pulled tight over sharp cheekbones and thin, compressed lips. One cadaverous
man wore the red cap of liberty pulled far down over his forehead and carried
an ugly scar that twisted his lips into a permanently cynical smile. None
offered a greeting until Monaghan spoke again.

“Mr Mendick is a delegate from
the East Indian branch, which means he has army experience.” He waited for the
silent men to complete their examination before continuing, “Peter McDouall
approved his membership.”

There were a few murmurs then,
and the man with the liberty cap raised a face so worn and leathery that
Mendick thought he must have spent time under some foreign sun himself.

“I know McDouall. He hasn’t
mentioned you.”

“And you are?” Mendick faced the
man; his eyes were like pits of pure poison.

“Josiah Armstrong.” The mouth
twisted further into what may have been a smile, or a deeper sneer. The scar
across his lips seemed to extend right round his face and continue to the back
of his neck. “You may have heard of me?”

Josiah Armstrong was a Chartist
lecturer who had been transported to Van Diemen’s Land back in 1842. He had
been one of the most vociferous of the early Chartists, renowned for his
acrimonious attacks on the Whigs. Well aware that every word he said would be weighed
and scrutinised, Mendick spoke slowly,

“I’ve heard of you, Mr
Armstrong, but wee Peter did not mention you. Maybe he’s too intelligent a man
to name names, for all his bad temper.” Mendick knew McDouall was a medical
doctor from the west of Scotland, noted both for his irascibility and his
vehement support of the Charter.

“He’s got you there, Josiah,”
another of the men said with the first touch of humour Mendick had heard since
his arrival in Manchester.

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.