The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  “We’ll use your coach, Josiah,” Monaghan decided, “and your driver.”

  It was a short ride through the frosty streets of Manchester, with Mendick jammed hip to hip with a constantly restless Armstrong while Monaghan and Scott sat opposite. They travelled in silence broken only by the drumming of the horse’s hooves and the low grinding of the wheels on the road.

  “Here we are,” Monaghan said as the coach came to a surprisingly gentle halt, and Peter appeared, opening the doors and helping Scott to the ground. They had driven through an arched gateway into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by high, near-windowless brick walls. A rising wind drove flurries of snow against dark corners and somewhere a loose shutter banged irregularly.

  “The gates, Peter,” Monaghan ordered.

  They closed with an iron clang that echoed for half a minute and Peter ensured they remained that way by rasping two long bolts into their slots.

  “This used to be a working mill,” Armstrong mused. “There were nearly two hundred people employed here, but look at it now, lying idle in this slump, and all those people scraping for survival on the streets. And what about the mill owner? Is he suffering too?”

  Mendick said nothing, waiting for the point.

  “Hardly,” Armstrong spat on the ground. “He’s living off the cream of the land in London, dancing away the winter while his workers starve.”

  “Pray come this way.” Monaghan stepped into a side entrance, where panelled walls still smelled of beeswax polish and a brass handrail decorated a varnished stairway. “This was the mill manager’s entrance,” he said, “Not quite what the workers were used to.”

  Monaghan led them along a long passageway. Dirty windows overlooked a factory floor where canvas covers protected idle looms.

  “This is where the managers ordered the overseers to strap the children,” Monaghan said and strode deep into the bowels of the mill, passing portraits of severe-looking men as they turned into a deeply carpeted corridor.

  “Here we are.” Monaghan stepped into an office with a single oak desk and an array of leather chairs. “This room was used by the owner, when he deigned to attend. He held his meetings with the managers here.” He extended his hand. “Sit down.”

  Mendick did so, noticing that Peter remained standing, with his back to the door. The room was surprisingly large, but bars protected windows overlooking the courtyard.

  “We use this room to conduct some of our . . .” Monaghan glanced at Armstrong, “less savoury business. I like the irony of using the owner’s room to work against his interests.”

  “By ‘less savoury’, Mr Monaghan means things that we have to do, rather than things we really want to do,” Armstrong explained. “You’ll understand what we mean in a minute.”

  Monaghan placed himself in the armed chair behind the desk. He leaned forward with his hands pressed together as if in prayer.

  “I’ve been studying you, Mr Mendick, and I’ve asked Mr Armstrong to keep an eye on you too.”

  “Oh yes?” Mendick felt himself tensing. He wondered if Scott had recognised him when he made that mad, scurrying run away from Trafford Hall, or if he had betrayed himself at some other time. He glanced over to Peter, who was watching him intensely, his massive prize-fighter’s arms folded across his chest.

  “Oh yes, I think it is time we were straight with each other.” Monaghan glanced down at the desk for a second and sighed. When he looked up, there was a new light behind his eyes, as if he had come to a very difficult decision. “Mr Armstrong made a few enquiries about you and discovered some interesting things.”

  Mendick tensed. He could feel the force of Peter’s glower and prepared for a leap that might catch the prize-fighter by surprise. He would have to get in the first blow, or Peter would kill him. He planned a feint to the eyes with forked fingers, followed by a high knee to the floating rib.

  “You were recommended for bravery in the army,” Monaghan said softly, “during the operations outside Canton, and promoted to corporal.”

  “I was.”

  Mendick remembered that terrible day, when thousands of Chinese had attacked the 26th in a rainstorm. With their flintlock muskets useless, the 26th had resorted to the bayonet and there had been some desperate work before a force of marines had arrived to help. He remembered the bravery of the Tartar soldiers and the long scream as Private Higgins slumped forward, ripped open from breastbone to crotch, his intestines spilling obscenely out.

  “You told us you were a sergeant,” Monaghan said, “but we’ll let that pass. And afterward you lost your rank.”

  “I did,” Mendick admitted. He wondered when Monaghan would come to the point.

  “A private soldier under your command was sentenced to be flogged, and you argued for him,” Monaghan said softly. “You stood up to the colonel for the sake of your man.” Monaghan was on his feet. “That was enough for me. You put your own career and skin at risk for one of your men; that is the sign of a true Chartist!”

  “Thank you,” Mendick acknowledged the stupidity that had lost him his rank and the favour of his colonel. He remembered the drunken buffoon who had started a fight with a Chinese barman in Hog Lane. The ensuing riot had lasted for two hours and incapacitated a dozen men, but he had still felt some responsibility for the man and argued his case.

  Scott raised her eyebrows and allowed her eyes to drift from Mendick’s face to his feet and back before she gave an approving nod.

  “Men like you are a rare commodity,” Monaghan told him, “and we think you could be a valuable, no, a very valuable, asset to the cause.”

  Mendick had not expected this conversation. He began to relax a little. “Thank you, Mr Monaghan.”

  “But first, we must show you the true face of the enemy.” Monaghan nodded to Armstrong. “Bring him in.”

  As Armstrong and Peter left, Scott gave a long smile.

  “When I first saw you at the rally, I thought you had something; it was a sort of tension beneath that surface calm that you portray. I was slightly disappointed when you did not immediately display the fire we require, but you have more than justified yourself since. You are doing well, Mr Mendick; if you keep it up, who knows where it might lead.”

  “Who knows indeed,” Mendick agreed, aware of Scott sliding toward him, her hips swinging in slow provocation. He heard shouting outside the room, and then Armstrong crashed in, followed by Peter carrying a man who struggled and swore.

  “Here he is.” Peter let his bundle drop and placed a booted foot on top. “The spy.”

  “The police spy,” Armstrong said and landed a vicious kick that rolled the man over onto his back.

  “Good God in heaven!” Mendick stared down. Despite the bruises covering one half of the man’s face, despite the swollen jaw and the clotted blood, he recognised the friendly face of Sergeant Ogden.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Manchester: December 1847

  “There’s nothing godly about this one.” Pulling back his foot, Armstrong kicked hard into Ogden’s ribs. The policeman groaned and tried to curl into a protective ball, but Peter reached down and pulled him to his feet. “This is Sergeant Ogden of the Manchester police.”

  Ogden tried to straighten, but the pain of broken ribs forced him into a crouch. He gasped as Armstrong slapped him hard across the head.

  “Sergeant Ogden is a spy for the government, aren’t you, Sergeant Ogden?” Punctuating each question with a savage slap, Armstrong continued, “You have been spying on us, haven’t you, Sergeant? And you’ve been watching what we’re doing, haven’t you, Sergeant? And you’ve been sending messages down to your masters in London, haven’t you, Sergeant?”

  “That’s enough.” Mendick grabbed Armstrong’s wrist, feeling the frailty of bone and the lack of muscle. “We’re Chartists, not savages.”

  “Mr Mendick is right.” Scott stepped forward. “Anyway, it’s not what Sergeant Ogden has been doing that matters, it’s how much information he has sen
t down to London.”

  “I’ve sent nothing to London.” Bright blood dribbled from Ogden’s mouth and onto the carpet. “And that’s God’s own truth. I swear.”

  “Ask him again,” Armstrong said quietly, and Peter landed a slashing chop to Ogden’s kidneys that sent the sergeant reeling back to the floor. He writhed, clutching his back and gasping at the fresh agony.

  “For God’s sake!” Mendick stepped forward. “You can’t treat the man like that!”

  “We don’t want to.” Monaghan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “But we have to. I told you we would show you the true face of the enemy, and here it is.”

  “He doesn’t look very dangerous to me. For mercy’s sake, let the man go!”

  Monaghan shook his head. “You are a compassionate man, Mr Mendick. I admire that trait, but sometimes we have to push our natural sympathy, aye, even our Christianity, aside for the sake of the greater good.”

  Peter lifted Ogden and punched him again, twisting his fist to direct the blow inward, and the sergeant screamed his agony.

  “Please! I tell you, I didn’t send any messages.”

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth.” Mendick tried to pull Peter back, looking to Scott for support, but again Monaghan intervened, shaking his head.

  “There is no secret that the various branches of the Chartist movement use pigeons as carriers,” Monaghan explained. “We have done so for years. But the authorities have grown wise to that, so they have borrowed our ideas. You see,” he nodded to Ogden, who was trying to straighten up, “that man is one of the leading experts in pigeon racing in this area. Obviously we have been aware of him and only a few days ago we intercepted one of his messages.”

  “Intercepted? How?” Mendick stared at Monaghan. “How can you intercept a pigeon?”

  “With a hawk,” Monaghan said bluntly, and Scott looked shrewdly at Mendick.

  Dipping into her pocket, Scott produced the slip of paper she had been reading earlier. She handed it to Mendick, who read it quickly: Trafford friendly with Chartists. Has large quantity of arms. Will remain in position.

  “Jesus!” The blasphemy was unintentional, but he felt suddenly sick at seeing his message in the hands of the Chartists. The shock was twofold. Firstly, if his message had not got through, then Smith was unaware of the full situation up here, and secondly, an innocent man was now carrying the blame. He looked up at Ogden, who gave a tiny shake of his head.

  What should he do? If he admitted his guilt, then he would be failing in his duty, he would probably be killed and the insurrection would go ahead anyway. On the other hand, his conscience would be clear and Ogden might be saved. Mendick read the message again, looking for some salvation.

  “Trafford? That’s utter nonsense.” He tried to sound like an angry Chartist. “Trafford is no friend of ours.”

  “Maybe Ogden got it wrong then. Ask him again,” Monaghan ordered, and Peter took hold of Ogden’s arm, bending it behind his back until the policeman moaned in agony. Mendick stepped forward; conscience had to take priority over his duty.

  “No, you can’t do that; he’s an innocent man!”

  Ogden looked up at that, his face screwed with pain. Blinking away the blood that streamed over his eyes, he spat at Mendick.

  “We know you, you treasonous bastard! You’re Mendick! You tried to incite mutiny in the army, you bloody Chartist!”

  The message could not have been clearer; Ogden did not want Mendick to reveal himself. Stepping back, hating what he had to do, Mendick drew himself erect.

  “Maybe he’s not so innocent.” Unable to look away, he stared into the face of the man he was abandoning.

  Ogden screamed as Armstrong pulled back his boot and kicked him full force in the groin.

  “What other messages have you sent? What other damage have you done to the people?” Stamping his foot on Ogden’s instep, Armstrong twisted his heel to increase the agony as the policeman writhed, his mouth wide in soundless anguish.

  “Enough, surely!” Mendick looked desperately at Monaghan. “We can’t create a new country based on torture!”

  “So says the soldier, a man who was paid to kill and to whom violence was a way of life.” Scott put a light hand on his arm, squeezing slightly. “But you are right, Mr Mendick. We are getting nowhere here.” She nodded to Monaghan. “The spy is either very stubborn or very ignorant.”

  “Dispose of him,” Monaghan agreed.

  Armstrong nodded to Peter, who dragged Ogden out of the room.

  This time Mendick could not meet the policeman’s eyes.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Monaghan gave a small smile. “We'll kill the bastard and stuff the body under a collapsed building so it looks like he died in an accident.”

  For a second Mendick thought of that happy household in the Manchester suburbs with the bustling Mrs Ogden’s bare ankles and bread-and-cheese, but he shook away the memory. He could do nothing to help Ogden; he could only hope to avenge him by performing his duty.

  Only a couple of hours ago he had felt welcome amongst the men in the Beehive, he had believed that the Chartists were dedicated to equality, but now he had witnessed the brutal reality. Perhaps these people were sincere in some ways, but no respectable person would have acted in such a manner, and nobody who called himself a Christian.

  “You do not approve.” Scott had her head on one side as she studied him. “You are a good man, Mr Mendick, but you are offended by the practicalities of revolution.”

  Her sneer stiffened him. “I’ve seen a lot worse,” he said truthfully. “But I am surprised that the spy could have been so far from the mark. How could he believe Trafford was a friend of ours?”

  “He was not too far off the mark,” Monaghan said.

  Mendick raised his eyebrows. “But how can that be possible?”

  “Because we have mutual enemies,” Monaghan was smiling as he explained. “Sir Robert Trafford is an old-fashioned Tory, a man still living in the past. This new breed of industrialists and factory owners challenge his idea of the correct order of things and he needs our help to put them in their place.”

  Mendick nodded. “So he’s just using us then.”

  “That is what he believes,” Monaghan agreed. “Sir Robert believes that if we remove the Whigs from power, his Tories will return.” His smile included the whole room. “He has yet to realise that when we achieve suffrage we will never return to the old ways.”

  Mendick tried to appear calm, but his mind began to race. Monaghan had given him the information that he required, and he could leave these muddled, contradictory people and return to Scotland Yard.

  “I see, so that is why we can train our volunteers so close to Trafford Hall.”

  “Exactly so,” Monaghan nodded solemnly. “We needed land to train our men; Trafford has plenty, so we asked him nicely to borrow some.”

  So much for the story of raising money by subscription. “And he agreed?”

  “Very readily.”

  Monaghan glanced at Scott and gave a small, conspiratorial smile. “So you see the spy was not so wide off the mark and far more dangerous than you realised.”

  Mendick nodded. “You are a clever man, Mr Monaghan, but I still do not agree with casual brutality.

  Monaghan shook his head. “I do not agree with casual brutality either, Mr Mendick; ours is targeted and necessary.” He leaned closer. “But at the end of the day, does it matter? Compared to the suffering of countless numbers of people, does it really matter?”

  Mendick realised his commitment to the Chartist cause could be questioned if he gave the incorrect answer.

  “Perhaps not,” he said. He looked up as somebody screamed: a long drawn-out sound which rose horribly before it abruptly ended.

  Although Rachel Scott sounded calm, there was perspiration on her forehead. “That's the end of Sergeant Ogden’s worries, and one less enemy for the cause.”

  When Armstrong and Peter ret
urned, both were splashed with blood. Peter immediately returned to his previous position at the door, but Armstrong was watching Mendick. “You are wondering at our apparent cruelty.”

  “I wonder at the necessity,” Mendick modified.

  “I do not,” Armstrong said, “for one piece of cruelty may prevent something a great deal worse. I have no reason to love the peelers, or their spies; if I may?” He glanced at Monaghan, who gave a brief nod of approval. “Look.”

  Armstrong slipped off his jacket, unfastened his braces and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, which he removed with obvious effort. Apparently oblivious to the presence of a woman, he unbuttoned his trousers, let them fall and stepped free, naked and unashamed.

  Although his face and arms were deeply tanned, his body was as white as that of any city clerk and so thin it was nearly emaciated. Mendick could count every rib down to the sunken stomach, but it was the scores of ugly scars wrapped around Armstrong’s sides that held his attention. He heard Scott’s sudden indrawn breath and looked round at her.

  Scott’s mouth was pursed and she dropped her eyes briefly before jerking them back up.

  “And now look.” Armstrong turned slowly around, and Mendick winced. Scars and weals criss-crossed him from the neck to the back of his knees; some were crusted and weeping, others ridged white, but there was hardly a square inch that was not disfigured, and not an ounce of fat anywhere. With all the spare flesh ripped away, the muscles and sinews writhed obscenely beneath his skin whenever he moved.

  “You can see why I use a coach rather than ride a horse.” He indicated his buttocks and thighs, from which the flesh had been virtually stripped.

  “God in heaven!” Mendick looked away. He had seen enough floggings in the army to recognise the distinctive clawing of the cat-o'-nine-tails, but he had never seen anybody scarred so badly before.

  “There is no God in Van Diemen’s Land,” Armstrong said, “and many of the inmates would welcome the chance to ascend to heaven, or even to hell, for either would be preferable to that place.” He turned round, fingering his twisted mouth as he glared at Mendick.