The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  Ogden nodded. “Can you blame them? The times are hard, cruel hard. Of course the people are restless, with unemployment so high and all this talk of Chartism and Radicals overturning the government.” He shook his shaggy head so that his whiskers vibrated around plump cheeks. “Creation! There are even Chartists within the police up here. I don’t know who it is safe to talk to.” He looked up, his eyes suddenly stern. “Don’t trust the police, James, whatever you do. Man, but it’s good to meet a loyal man in these times of troubles. You have no idea how good.”

  “I feel the same way,” Mendick agreed.

  “Creation,” Ogden repeated, “things were looking better with the good harvest last year, then came this wet summer and . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know what will happen now. Have you seen the country? There’s starvation in the streets and that will lead to a bloody revolution, mark my words.”

  Mendick nodded. Although the trade and markets of London protected him from the realities of rural life, a country childhood had taught him the importance of the weather. While a good harvest created comparative comfort, a bad summer inevitably brought hunger and deprivation.

  “Well, Sergeant Ogden, let’s hope we can do something to save the country from that. We both remember the turmoil back in ‘42.” He forced a grin. “If we can let Scotland Yard know exactly what’s happening up here, we should be able to nip this sedition in the bud.” He thought of the bitter eyes of the men in Manchester, the hostility of Armstrong and the determination of the volunteers, and doubted his own words. “So what do you have for me, then?”

  “Quite a lot.” Ogden began to rummage inside a heavy chest. “A Mr Smith sent them up by the railway, with a note telling us they were for you.” Straightening, he produced a multi-barrelled pistol. “This is one of Harrison’s pepperpot revolvers. You see? It has six short steel barrels and a self-cocking hammer, so that all you have to do is pull the trigger and the cylinder rotates, giving you six shots one after the other.”

  “I see.” Mendick placed his hand around the black chequered grip, testing the weight of the revolver. “Six shots without reloading, eh?” He narrowed his eyes, marvelling at the prospect. “It’s horrific: six men’s lives in my hand; where will it all end?”

  “It will fit inside this,” Ogden handed him a leather holster, “which you can wear under your shirt. Just be careful you’re not caught.”

  Remembering the force of Peter’s punch, Mendick nodded; although percussion caps had reduced the chances of a misfire, he would hate to face the prize-fighter with only a single- shot pistol. This multi-barrelled weapon might just save his life.

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  “And there is this too.” Ogden handed over a long, needle-bladed knife. “It’s called a stiletto, and they use it in Italy, I believe.”

  Mendick weighed the knife. “It’s an assassin’s tool, made for murder.”

  “Aye, but it might be handy in a tight corner,” Ogden told him seriously. “I always carry one in case of emergencies; maybe you should do the same.”

  “I might take your advice.” Mendick slipped the stiletto inside his boot, feeling the steel cold and criminal against his ankle.

  “There’s also a bull’s-eye lantern.” Ogden handed it over. “And lastly, there is this.” Slipping to a dark corner of the shed, he returned with a wickerwork basket about two feet square.

  “My lunch?” Mendick hazarded, until Ogden opened the simple catch at the top revealing three pigeons.

  “Your couriers,” he corrected, grinning. “All you have to do is tie a message to one leg, throw them into the air, and they fly to Whitehall. When there is a return message, the pigeon will fly back here.”

  “What?” Mendick stared at the nearest bird. The same blue-grey colour as a normal pigeon, it was taller and more slender, with a large cere above its beak. “What’s wrong with using the telegraph?”

  Since its invention ten years previously, the telegraph had revolutionised communications across Britain, with every main post office possessing the apparatus that could send a message across the country in minutes. He had intended to use the telegraph to send his intelligence to London.

  “You can’t trust the operators,” Ogden said quietly. “The Chartists have infiltrated the network. They have men in just about every telegraph office between Glasgow and the Solent.”

  Mendick glanced down at the basket of pigeons. “Is it really that bad?”

  “It is.”

  He whistled. “These people are more dangerous than I realised; Scotland Yard knows that there’s something brewing up here, but if the Chartists control the telegraphs . . .” He stared at the pigeons, realising that the musty smell and the rustlings both emanated from this basket. “How will these beasts find their way?”

  “They are specially trained.” Ogden was obviously pleased at being able to educate the Scotland Yard man. “People have been using pigeons to carry messages for thousands of years, and mine are among the best, believe me,” he said. “Indeed, pigeon racing is something of a speciality of mine. Unfortunately, the Chartists also communicate by pigeon; that’s how they organise their rallies so competently.”

  He gave precise instructions in the elementary care and feeding of pigeons. “Do you have somewhere safe you can keep them?”

  Mendick shook his head. “I share a cottage with a rather large Chartist,” he said, “and I’ll have to get back soon or he’ll become very agitated.” The prospect of an angry Peter was not pleasant. The prospect of Armstrong returning to find Peter loose was worse.

  “Then you will have to keep them in the basket and feed them daily,” Ogden said. “And hope that they’re not closed in for long.” He looked doubtful at the thought of allowing his precious birds into the care of an amateur, but finally relented. “I suppose it’ll be all right,” he said. “You are from Scotland Yard.”

  Mrs Ogden’s voice sounded through the night.

  “There’s tea for you both and a nice hunk of bread and cheese for Mr Mendick, if that’s all right with you, Nathaniel?” The papers in her hair made her look ridiculously domestic in a setting of pepperpot revolvers and secret messages.

  The table was carefully set with a china teapot standing proudly on a fresh linen cloth and a candle stretching tall from its brass holder.

  “Thank you, dear.” Ogden drew back a chair for his wife before sitting down himself. He said a few words of grace as Mendick waited awkwardly, hoping he could escape quickly without causing offence. While Mrs Ogden watched and ate nothing, her husband asked questions, wanting to know how he had infiltrated himself and what his cover story had been.

  “I just told part of the truth,” Mendick said, cautiously, “about my time in the army, but I said that I was part of a Chartist group in the Indies.”

  “Oh, do tell me more,” Mrs Ogden asked, and glanced at Ogden, “if you agree, Nathaniel?”

  “I do not.” Ogden held up his hand. “I don’t think we should know too much.”

  Jennifer nodded. “If you say so, Nathaniel; you know best.” She bowed her head in submission.

  After they had eaten, Mrs Ogden excused herself. “I will retire now and leave you men to your duties. Come back to bed whenever you are ready, Nathaniel, and Mr Mendick, it was good to make your acquaintance.”

  “Surely you don’t have to return to the Chartists,” Ogden said, “if you have already gathered so much information?”

  The prospect of catching the next train to London was so tempting that Mendick almost agreed, but he knew that the job was not even half done yet. He had a few names and the address of one meeting place, but when did they intend to act, and where? Would they march on London, or set the north alight? Even more importantly, was there somebody funding them, and if so, who was it?

  He shook his head. “I have to go back.” He was not foolish enough to believe there were only fifty men being trained, but so far he had no proof there were any others. He would hav
e to return, sit out the danger and see what he could learn.

  After the cosiness of the Ogdens’ cottage, the night seemed unfriendly. Mendick crouched against the wind, holding the basket close to his chest as he entered the woodland behind Chartertown. Even using the bull’s-eye lantern it took him an hour to find a suitably sheltered hollow in which to conceal the basket, and another ten minutes of fumbling to tie his message to the leg of the first pigeon.

  He watched the bird flutter into the dark sky, its wings flickering for only a minute before it disappeared into the night.

  “God speed, little messenger.”

  Suddenly he felt very alone; the hour or so of domesticity had reminded him of Emma, and he sighed as he tramped through the dark toward his cottage, with the pepperpot an unaccustomed weight against his body and the stiletto uncomfortable in his boot. What would Emma have thought about him carrying such things?

  He was still wondering when the heavy hand closed on his shoulder.

  “So there you are!” Peter’s voice grated in his ear.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lancashire: December 1847

  Mendick froze, wondering if he should draw the revolver or stoop for the stiletto, but Peter’s next words dispelled both ideas.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” he said. “I thought that I had chased you away.” He thrust forward his hand in his familiar, abrupt gesture of friendship. “I did not mean to hurt you; it was the drink, and I wasn’t cheating, I promise.” He looked around at the trees, nearly invisible against the pre-dawn dark.

  “I don’t think you would cheat, Peter,” Mendick reassured him. “It seems that you are just a better card player than I am.” He took Peter’s hand again. “I had no desire to fight you either.” He rubbed his arm, where a bruise was steadily spreading. “You’re a far better fighter than I am too, and you looked so angry I thought that I had better stay away for the night.”

  Peter shook his head, repeating his apology. “Please don’t tell Mr Armstrong what happened, James.” He was trembling with genuine fear. “He’d put me in the black hole for days, he would.”

  “I won’t tell him anything,” Mendick promised. “We’ll keep it between ourselves.” He looked curiously at Peter’s muscles. “But Peter, why do you let him treat you like that? You could kill him with one finger.”

  Peter fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “But it’s Mr Armstrong, I can’t touch him; it’s not allowed. Besides, if I did, they’d lock me in the dark again forever and ever, Mr Armstrong said, always in the dark, forever.” Just the thought had brought a sheen of sweat to Peter’s forehead, and Mendick nodded.

  “I see. Well, Peter, you have nothing to fear from me. I won’t say a thing, and I promise never to put you in the black hole, or any other dark place.”

  Peter looked at him with total gratitude. “You promise?”

  “I promise,” Mendick said. “Now, I got myself lost running away from you, Peter, so I’ll need some sleep before I start work again.”

  “You can have the bed.” Peter seemed genuinely pleased to make the offer. “But I didn’t cheat, Mr Mendick, because we’re fellow Chartists.”

  *

  Armstrong appeared almost as soon as Mendick's men were assembled on parade. “How are they?”

  “Like nothing I have ever trained before,” Mendick told him. “They’re as keen as mustard.”

  “Are they ready to fight?”

  “They’re willing to fight, rather, but not yet ready. They need arms, and they’re weak as kittens. Unless they’re better fed, they won't last an hour against regulars.”

  “Weapons I can supply, but food is hard to come by this season; agricultural depression, don’t you know.” The sneer was obvious, and Mendick suddenly realised what was happening. Armstrong was deliberately keeping his men on short rations so they would be desperate to fight.

  “As you wish, Mr Armstrong, but even Boney said that an army marches on its stomach.”

  “Aye, and look what happened to him.” Limping away, Armstrong withdrew the bolts on the lockup door. “Out you come, Peter. Your time is up.”

  Mendick was surprised that Peter had the sense to look terrified as he emerged, blinking in the grey light of dawn. He looked at Armstrong like a rabbit at a circling stoat.

  “Well, have you learned how to drive?”

  “Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter augmented his words with a vigorous nod.

  “I hope so.” Armstrong jerked a thumb toward the assembled volunteers. “Now, Mr Mendick is here to train the men in military matters,” he said, “nothing else. I do not want him to leave Chartertown for any reason whatever, and if he does, I’ll lock you in the black hole for a week. You keep him safe and secure, Peter; do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr Armstrong.” The prize-fighter nodded, eager to please. “He’ll be safe with me.” He glanced at Mendick. “We’re both fellow Chartists.”

  “That’s it Peter, fellow Chartists all, and we must stick together, mustn’t we?” Armstrong waited for the nod of agreement before continuing, “Well, you stick to him like two peas in a pod.”

  “I’m sure we can have interesting political conversations together,” Mendick said, searching in vain for a spark of intelligence behind Peter’s dull eyes.

  “Fellow Chartists, all.” Peter repeated the words as if they were a mantra.

  “You remember that, Peter. I’m relying on you.”

  “Yes, Mr Armstrong.” Peter was nearly glowing with embarrassed pride when Armstrong hunched away.

  “He didn’t find out, and he’s relying on me.” He looked curiously at Mendick for a second, with his face screwed up in puzzlement. “You didn’t tell him.”

  “Of course not; we’re friends.” Mendick held Peter’s dull eyes. “You could have killed me last night, Peter, but you did not. I challenged you to fight, remember, and you went very easy on me.”

  Peter shook his head. “You still didn’t tell him.”

  “Well, it’s too late now, and I hope that you don’t object.”

  Shaking his head, Peter backed away, but his forehead was creased, as if his slow brain was struggling with a new problem, and twice Mendick caught the prize-fighter’s puzzled eyes on him. However, Peter was a minor worry; far more important was the passage of his message to London. For a moment he pictured the pigeon fluttering over the damp fields and through the filthy smoke of industrial England, and wondered that so much depended on such a vulnerable little creature.

  *

  “We can’t play cards tonight.” Peter sounded disappointed. “You’ll be all alone.”

  “Oh? Why is that, Peter?” After a week of Peter’s company, Mendick hid his delight at the prospect of an evening to himself.

  “Mr Armstrong needs me. I’m to drive him to meet somebody important.”

  “Oh?” Mendick tried to appear disappointed. “When are you going?”

  “We’re going now,” Peter said. He pointed to the stable lad who had obviously delivered the message. “So you’ll be alone all night.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mendick told him, “but you drive carefully, or he’ll put you back in the black hole.”

  For a moment there was dread in Peter’s face, but he recovered quickly. “I’ll drive carefully,” he promised.

  Following Peter to the stables, Mendick kept in the shadow of the trees as Armstrong lifted himself on board the blue and yellow coach, and then he trotted in their wake. His first idea had been to follow from a distance, but he decided that it would be easier to hitch a lift. Perhaps Peter’s ‘somebody important’ was the man who financed the Chartists. If so, he could find out tonight and catch the first train back to London tomorrow.

  Waiting until the coach jolted over the first ruts, he hauled himself on to the luggage step at the rear, holding on to the rail with both hands and relying on the mudguards to protect him from the worst of the dirt kicked up by the wheels. He knew that if he crouched low he would be safe fro
m observation, for there was no rear window, while Peter was far too fearful to take his eyes off the road.

  The coach jolted over the atrocious tracks for half an hour before turning left between a pair of stone pillars and grinding on to a smooth gravel road. With his arm muscles screaming in protest and his face and body spattered by mud, Mendick tried to see where he was. Lamps pooled yellow light onto a manicured lawn surrounded by flowerbeds, so they were within the grounds of a large property. As the coach slowed further, he guessed that they were nearing their destination, dropped off and quickly rolled away into the darkness.

  He watched as Peter turned the brougham in a tight circle to halt beside the front door of an impressively elaborate lodge house. Lights glowed behind Venetian windows that flanked a columned door while the roof rose behind a castellated parapet. The door opened the moment the carriage halted.

  Expecting to see a manservant, Mendick was surprised at the elegant appearance of the man who stood there. Over six foot tall, he was between forty and fifty years old, with long dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and a frilled white shirt that surely belonged to an earlier era.

  As Armstrong stepped hunched from the coach the tall man moved forward to meet him, one hand extended in greeting. Although they were some distance away, the still night air carried their words quite clearly.

  “Mr Armstrong! I am delighted you could come!”

  “Sir Robert! I am glad that you sent for me!”

  Sliding into a shadowed fold of ground, Mendick repeated the name. Sir Robert? In this part of the world, that could only be Sir Robert Trafford, but he was one of the old school, a noted Tory and utterly unlikely to have any dealings with the Chartists. Why was he meeting Josiah Armstrong in a lodge house? Mendick shook his head; it made no sense at all.

  As Peter huddled in the driver’s seat, Mendick crawled past the carriage, hoping to find an open window or some other means of access to the house. He would dearly love to listen to any conversation between Trafford and Armstrong, to see why two men with vastly opposing views were meeting with such cordiality. He swore as he came closer; for all the Gothic pretensions of this lodge, Sir Robert seemed to have it perfectly secure, with barred windows and a back door that was locked and bolted.