The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  “I am, sir.” Many of the population still resented the uniformed police and were even more suspicious of plain-clothes detectives. To the British public, there was something almost continental about having such spies creeping around the streets.

  “And yet you are willing to court such unpopularity?”

  “Yes, sir. I have some experience as an active officer.” Each division of the London police deployed a small number of men in civilian clothes, known as active officers. Mendick had enjoyed two spells on such a duty.

  “I am aware of that, constable.” The podgy forefinger stabbed again. “As I am aware of your five years experience in police uniform and the ten years you spent in the army before that.”

  Again Mendick lapsed into silence. There was probably very little of which Inspector Field was unaware.

  Having established the superiority of his knowledge, Field was prepared to be magnanimous. He leaned back again. “I remain unsure if you are quite suitable to be a detective, although I know of your many fine qualities. However, a situation has arisen in the North and Detective Sergeant Foster has persuaded me you might be useful after all.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mendick could hardly believe what Field had just said. He was about to be transferred to Scotland Yard; his opinion of Detective Foster rose tremendously. He kept any emotion hidden; ten years in the army had taught him that every silver lining concealed a dark grey cloud.

  “Well now, Constable, I trust that you are pleased with your good fortune?” Inspector Field waited until Mendick assented. “But you will no doubt be wondering to what special circumstances I am referring and who this gentleman is?” He indicated the silent man at the end of the room. “Let me bring enlightenment to the darkness within your mind. Pray join us, Mr Smith, if you would be so kind?”

  At first Mendick thought there was something familiar about the man who eased into the circle of warmth by the fire and placed his leather valise at the side of the desk, but a second glance assured him that he was mistaken. He would never have forgotten a face such as that. The eyes alone were memorable, calm as a summer sea, yet with an indefinable quality of intelligence that bored like a drill, probing, questioning, seeing everything. For some reason Mendick flinched, but nevertheless he felt his jaw thrust out in bloody-minded defiance.

  “No, you do not know me.” Mr Smith seemed to have read his mind. “But you may have seen me. Inspector Field told me about you a while ago, and I have been watching you. The man in the corner of the Black Bull, remember? And do you recall the face at the hansom cab window three days ago? Aye, that was me.”

  “My apologies, Mr Smith, but I am still unaware of your position.” If Inspector Field treated him with respect, the man obviously had influence, but Mendick was not used to deferring to anonymous authority, and he refused to be cowed.

  “My name is John Smith.”

  It was such an obvious lie that even Inspector Field smiled.

  “And I represent Her Majesty’s government.”

  “Of course,” Mendick agreed. He should have realised that there was something supremely official about this man: he carried himself with the utter confidence of an aristocrat or a member of the government.

  “Sit yourself down, and let’s talk.” Smith dragged over two hard-backed chairs from the far wall.

  “Sir?” Mendick glanced toward Inspector Field, who nodded his assent. He sat cautiously, placing his hat on his knee, unused to such informality in the presence of his superiors.

  “Drink?” Smith gestured toward the closed cabinet that stood in the corner of the room. “Are you a drinking man? I am sure that Mr Field has a bottle of medicinal brandy somewhere on hand.” The grin was so sudden and so conspiratorial that Mendick could not help but respond, and Field was on his feet in a second, returning with a decanter and a silver tray on which stood three balloon brandy glasses.

  Mendick eyed the decanter guiltily before he shook his head. “Thank you sir, but no.” He was unsure what was happening, but he knew that he should retain as clear a head as possible.

  “As you wish. You don’t mind if we indulge?” Smith sloshed generous amounts of Field’s brandy into two of the glasses. “Now,” he said as he sipped quietly, “no doubt you are wondering why I am here?”

  Mendick nodded slowly, watching as Smith swirled the brandy.

  “Good, you’d be less than human if you were not. Tell me,” his eyes pierced Mendick’s impassive mask, “in your opinion, what is the function of the police?”

  The question was so unexpected that for a moment Mendick could only stare. He recovered with a start, trying to recall Peel’s nine principles of policing that he had learned when he first started tramping the beat.

  “To prevent crime and disorder, sir, as an alternative to their repression by military force; to maintain a relationship with the public . . .”

  Smith pursed his lips and flapped his hands in the air. “That’s the official line, but not what I wanted to hear. Now, Inspector Field, what would you say to the same question?”

  Field had not touched his brandy. “We patrol a volatile border, protecting the rich from the desperate and preventing anarchy from overwhelming respectability.” He mused for a second. “However, I would say that the primary function of the police is to protect the seclusion of respectable neighbourhoods.”

  “That may be more accurate,” Smith agreed. “A touch cynical, but not far off the mark. So would you both agree, then, that one purpose of the police force is to guard the respectable and propertied classes from the effluvia of society, the residuum, if you will?” He waited only a second for the answer before continuing. “Or would you say that the police have the task of ensuring that society retains its natural shape and should remain unaffected by those who would wish it otherwise?” Although he addressed the question to both, it was to Mendick that Smith looked for an answer.

  “I would say so, sir, but I see my principal duty as a defender of the law, more than as a protector of any particular class of person . . .”

  “Ah!” When Smith held up his hand, calloused ridges showed across the base of his fingers. Whatever position he presently held, at one time Smith had known hard manual labour. “Define that word; define that word, law.”

  Mendick found he was unable to look away from Smith’s quizzical stare. He struggled for clarity. “Law is the rules by which we live, a collection of regulations that maintain the balance and fairness of society . . .”

  “And there you have it precisely, sir.” Smith rose from his chair, jabbing a long forefinger at Mendick. “Well done, Constable; you hit it when you said the balance of society. We must all do our utmost to preserve that balance, or we may see this nation crumble. That is our duty, sir, and that is your duty.”

  “I understand, Mr Smith.” Mendick would have liked to look toward Field, but Smith’s near mesmeric gaze held him securely.

  “Good, then we are in agreement.” Smith sat back down, seemingly content that he had made his point. “Now, Constable, you will be attuned to the present unrest in the country? You will know of the repeated demands for the People’s Charter and other subversive nonsense?” Smith had assumed his previous air of chilling detachment, but Mendick was aware of the passion beneath. He nodded. “Nobody in Britain can be unaware of the underlying unease among some of the lower classes, sir.”

  “So tell me what you know, Constable.”

  “Yes, sir. The People’s Charter was born after the 1832 Reform Act when the middle orders obtained the vote but the aspirations of the workers to achieve the same were discarded. The Charter demands six electoral reforms, including secret ballots, payment for MPs and the franchise for all males over the age of twenty-one. Those who support the Charter are known as Chartists, and in 1839 they presented their demands to parliament in the form of a petition.”

  “All correct so far, Constable.” Smith’s eyes never strayed from Mendick’s face. “Pray continue.”

  “Parliament re
jected the petition out of hand, but Chartists are persistent, and whenever the economy dips and there is unemployment and distress in the country, there is more support for them.”

  “That’s accurate enough, Constable, as far as it goes.” Smith looked toward Field, who gave a brief nod. Mendick realised that Smith was unsure exactly how much information he could safely impart to a lowly police constable.

  Helping himself to Field’s brandy decanter, Smith recharged their glasses and poured a third, which he pushed toward Mendick. “You may need this before I am finished, Constable.” The glass sat on the silver tray, its contents an amber temptation as Smith continued, “There are new developments among the Chartists. You are obviously unaware of the militancy that is increasingly gripping these people. There is something extremely nasty brewing up north, Constable, something that they term Physical Force Chartism.”

  Mendick nodded. He knew of the split in the Chartist ranks. While most of the Radicals believed in Moral Force Chartism and hoped to persuade the government to accept their demands by peaceful protests and great petitioning, others were more militant. Led by Feargus O’Connor, the only Chartist Member of Parliament, the Physical Force Chartists spoke of armed revolution unless the government accepted the six points of the Charter.

  Smith sipped at his brandy and continued, “We are unsure exactly what these people contemplate, perhaps a worker’s strike or a national holiday as they term it. Perhaps they plan a series of such strikes that may well cripple the economy of the country, or perhaps something even worse, but we would like you to find out.”

  Mendick curled a hand around the crystal balloon and swirled the liquid inside. The smell of the brandy was sharp and inviting, but still he desisted. He knew that even a single drink could induce him down the sweet descent to stupidity.

  “Me, sir?”

  “You, sir.”

  Once again Smith was ice-cool. “Mr Field speaks most highly of your resourcefulness and I have witnessed your dedication and courage myself. We need somebody to enter the ranks of the Chartists, pose as one of them and relate their intentions to us.”

  “I see, sir.”

  Mendick had expected a Scotland Yard detective would investigate murders and serious theft, but he was being asked to act as a spy, the very thing that British people hated most about the plain-clothes police service. The brandy exploded reassuringly inside his stomach, and he paused for an instant, relishing the sensation even as he assessed Smith’s proposal.

  “But why me? There must be many other officers with more experience.”

  “There are,” Smith agreed. He glanced at Field again. “Look, Constable, this matter is more delicate than you yet realise. Inspector Field did not select you at random. Firstly, we require an officer who would be at ease in the north, and you are no Londoner.”

  “No, sir, I am from further north.” Mendick could feel the brandy weakening his normal reticence, as he had feared it would. “But there are many established Scotland Yard officers from outwith London.” The brandy pushed him into continuing, “There is more to this case than you are revealing.”

  “Much more,” Smith agreed. Sighing, he reached for the valise, placed it on his knee and snapped it open. He looked up, and Mendick chilled at the force of his eyes. “What you are about to see must remain strictly within these four walls, Constable. Is that clear?”

  “It is sir.” Mendick took another sip of the brandy, closing his eyes as the spirit warmed the inside of his mouth and eased into his system. Strangely, now that he knew what he was being asked to do, he felt neither apprehension nor excitement. He had desired a transfer to the detective branch of the service since his first day of duty, but obtaining it had been an anticlimax. Unconsciously, he placed two fingers beneath his leather stock; he would certainly not miss the constant chafing at the tender skin of his throat.

  “Right then, Constable. What do you think of these?” Reaching into the valise, Smith produced a bound notebook and placed it carefully on Field’s desk.

  Mendick bent closer. Each page held a pen-and-ink sketch of the head and shoulders of a man, with two paragraphs of detailed description. “These are well executed.” He read the first paragraph.

  Mr James Tyler, born 16th January 1810 in Maidstone, Kent. Ten years’ service in G or King’s Cross Division, transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, on its conception in 1844.

  He skipped to the next:

  Mr William Gilbert, born 3rd June 1809 in Peckham, London Eleven years’ service in H or Stepney Division, transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard in 1845.

  The third face stared at him, the features familiar.

  Mr George Foster, born 13th February 1810 in Carlisle. Fifteen years’ service in A or Westminster Division, transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard on its conception in 1844.

  Mendick looked up. “These appear to be details and pictures of Scotland Yard officers, sir.”

  “That’s exactly what they are, Constable. Each page gives a picture and a written description of one plain-clothes man.” Smith leaned closer. “But more important is from where this information originated.”

  Mendick was already used to Smith’s use of a dramatic pause to highlight anything he considered of importance. He waited and wondered about the significance of the notebook while balancing his mounting desire for the brandy against the knowledge of its subsequent effect.

  “A man died to secure this book, Constable. It was recovered from these so-called Physical Force Chartists.” Smith leaned back, watching Mendick’s reaction.

  Mendick drew a quick breath. “I understand, sir. How did they get the information about our detectives?”

  “We do not yet know that, Constable, but we suppose that they have somebody working within Scotland Yard, perhaps a clerk or similar. Pray stop for an instant and consider the ramifications.”

  Mendick nodded. “If we presume that the Chartists have other copies of this book, then they would recognise any established Scotland Yard officer who is sent to them, which means that an unknown man must be used.”

  “Precisely,” Smith agreed. “And that is where you come in.” He leaned back once more. “One of our people found this notebook in Manchester and brought it to a local police sergeant named Ogden. Unfortunately, our man died doing his duty.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “The Chartists butchered him, Constable. He may still have been alive when they tore him to pieces.” Smith waited to allow the information to sink in before he continued.

  “Sergeant Ogden seems to be a good officer, but we do not consider him suitable material for this type of undercover work, and we need more information. We require somebody on the inside, somebody the Chartists will trust.” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes intense.

  “I see, sir. You want me to take the place of the officer the Chartists killed.”

  “There is more.” Inspector Field had been listening, his eyes fixed on Mr Smith. “And it may be the most important point of all.”

  Mendick fortified himself with more brandy, waiting for whatever horror Field unleashed on him. He could feel the spirits working on his mind, muddling his thoughts yet simultaneously pressing him to drink more.

  “You see, Constable, we think that there is a new mind directing the activities of the Physical Force Chartists. Feargus O’Connor, who, as you know, has led them for years, has advocated force but has never backed his rhetoric with action. Indeed, we believe that the great O’Connor is a spent volcano. We suspect that someone more formidable has taken his place, and Constable, this person seems to have money.”

  “But I thought that the Chartists were impoverished workers, sir.”

  “That is precisely my point, Constable. Most can barely afford to live, let alone contribute money to their cause, but the Chartists are buying land. So somebody with more resources must be backing them.”

  “I see, sir.”
Mendick nodded. “And you wish me to find out whom?”

  “I do. And more than that.” Field glanced at Smith before continuing, “The death of our officer is unprecedented and, given the horrendous circumstances, extremely disturbing. We think that he came across something else the Chartists wished to keep hidden, and that is why they killed him. I fear . . . we fear there may be an Irish dimension, Constable, so you may be embarking on a very perilous investigation.”

  Mendick nodded. He had seen death enough before, but to willingly enter an operation where a police officer had been savagely murdered was not pleasant. He sighed, reviewing the facts: the Irish connection with the Chartists was no secret, but years of famine had created a new desperation in that island, and desperate men were capable of terrible acts. This combination of unemployed English workers and starving Irish immigrants may have added a new dimension to the Chartists, but news of a wealthy patron was perhaps even more alarming.

  Field rose from his chair to pace the room, stopping to stare out of the window at the bustle of Whitehall.

  “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.”