The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  Mendick cheered with the rest, raising his hat, clapping one hand against the latest edition of the Northern Star and glancing at the woman who remained by his side. She seemed to share his enthusiasm, holding on to her hat with her right hand while she held up her left.

  “In short,” Monaghan lowered his voice again, and the crowd quietened to listen, “in short, Her Majesty is led astray by the very people who deny us the rights they enjoy, even as they press us ever further into the mire of degradation!” He shook his head in obvious despair. “We ask for the franchise and what do they offer us? They offer us a repeal of the Corn Laws. Why?”

  There was no reply as the crowd waited for the answer they already knew.

  “Why?” Monaghan repeated, “I’ll tell you why! Is it so we can afford to eat bread? No! No, and a hundred times no! The Whigs did not repeal the Corn Laws to make our lives easier; they repealed the Corn Laws so they could keep our wages down! If bread is cheaper, they can pay us less for more work!”

  This time the howls were deafening, ringing around the gathering. Mendick gauged the crowd to be in the hundreds, composed mainly of undersized working people who stared desperately at Monaghan as if his words would generate jobs to transport them from their present dreadful poverty to a place of warmth and security.

  “Quite right!” The woman clapped her hands vigorously, removing her threadbare but carefully washed gloves to be better heard. “Is he not quite right? Isn’t he just speaking the truth that we all know?” She looked earnestly into Mendick’s face.

  “He is,” he agreed.

  “The more we protest,” Monaghan continued, “the more the government will fear us, and the more they will seek to grind us down. What can they do?” He waited for a response, and smiled when one or two of the more foolish gave him the required answer.

  “Nothing!” they yelled, “they can do nothing against the people!”

  “Oh yes, they can,” Monaghan retorted, sobering the crowd he had so successfully stirred. “They can use the army, as they did at St Peter's Field, not so very far from here, as they did with the Scottish Radicals at Bonnybridge, as they did at Newport in Wales only eight years since and in the Potteries but five years back. But I tell you this . . .” he held up a finger to command the silence that descended upon the gathering. “I tell you this. When they do so, and they will, they will; when they do, that moment will live in history. The moment when the first gun is fired among the working men of England will be succeeded by a short but awful pause, and the future history of this country will be written in characters red with human gore!”

  From the height of their anger, the crowd subsided. While many of the men and women were dressed in their ragged best, others were bare-footed or wore wooden clogs with threadbare trousers and collarless shirts. Many of the men sported the fustian jacket that was the mark of the respectable worker, people proud of their contribution to society, willing to work and hoping for work. These men were no raging revolutionaries but unfortunates suffering from unemployment and the hopeless frustration that came from enforced idleness and the inability to even voice their anger through the ballot box.

  There were men who had given their last scrap of bread to their family days before, women whose babies sucked on breasts empty of milk, seventh-year apprentices who stared at a jobless future, desperate wives and broken husbands. Most people in the crowd looked to Monaghan for hope. In return he had offered them defiance and a target for their anger while warning them of the possible consequence of their actions.

  “He’s clever,” Mendick said. “He’s treating us like adults, not leading us like children.”

  “We have the choice,” the woman sounded eager, “to remain mute and suffer, or fight for a better life and chance the swinging sabres of the yeomanry.”

  Mendick looked at her; she was obviously intelligent and calmly accepted that the government would use the army to put down any dissent. “And does that not concern you?”

  “It should concern us all,” the woman told him, “being subject to a power that treats its own people with such contempt.”

  “I cannot argue with that,” he said, trying to hide his surprise at finding such an articulate woman at a Chartist rally.

  “So,” Monaghan was speaking again, “only by making ourselves heard will our concerns be addressed. We demand the six points of the Charter. Suffrage for all men over twenty-one; equal constituencies; payment for MPs . . .”

  The woman stiffened and raised her voice,

  “Pray excuse me, Mr Monaghan, but why should the Charter be only for men over twenty-one? It should be for universal suffrage.” As she stepped forward to be more easily seen, those nearest turned towards her, while those further back tried to hush her into silence. “Have you not listened to the words of Reginald Richardson and Ernest Jones? Male suffrage would still deny large numbers of adults full participation in the country; why should women not have the vote?”

  Momentarily taken aback, Monaghan stared as the woman continued:

  “Why should women not have the vote? I can read and write as well as you, if not better. And I can work with my hands, when there is work available. I can reason as well as any man yet born.” When she smiled, raising her eyes to Monaghan, Mendick realised that she was a truly attractive woman, although he could not pinpoint why. “So is there a reason that I cannot have the vote? Am I so inferior?”

  Raising both hands to still the clamorous curiosity of the crowd, Monaghan leaned forward to address the woman.

  “I do not believe that there is anything inferior about you,” he told her seriously. “And I do not believe there is anything inferior about any woman. You are the equal to any man; if a woman can be queen, if a woman has to pay taxes, if a woman is subject to the same laws and penalties, if a woman adds to the wealth of the nation by her labour, then yes, she is well worthy of the vote.” He waited until the renewed hubbub subsided. “However, we may persuade the government to grant men suffrage, but they will not yet agree to women.”

  “So let us make them agree!”

  The woman raised her voice and accepted Monaghan’s hand to haul herself onto the back of the wagon that acted as a platform for his speech.

  “We have tried reason; we have tried petitions; we have tried patience, surely now we can use stronger methods? Surely it is time for physical force?”

  It had been neatly done, Mendick grudgingly acknowledged. The woman's interruption had strengthened Monaghan's position. Now the appeal of the Charter had been widened to include women as well as men, and it was the woman, the supposedly gentler of the two sexes, who was appealing for force. Women might follow her simply because she was female, and men would be ashamed to hold back where women were not afraid to tread.

  “May I be so bold as to address your audience, Mr Monaghan?” The woman gave a half curtsey.

  Now she was in full view, Mendick saw the patches on her immaculately clean dress and the odd button on her boot which had been replaced with an imperfect match, yet these details did not detract from her undeniable magnetism. It was not the curve of her mouth or the attraction of her disproportionately large eyes, but something indefinable, as if she were greater than the sum of all her parts.

  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.