The Darkest Walk of Crime

by Malcolm Archibald

  Despite Jennifer’s words, Mendick glanced over his shoulder, only to see Peter padding soft-footed behind them, his fists closed and his face creased in concentration.

  “I told you not to look back,” Jennifer reminded him. “Keep going and I’ll untie your hands when it’s safe.”

  A stranger in this part of London, Mendick glanced around, seeing wooden-fronted barns which had obviously once belonged to a rural community, an ancient thatched house with multi-paned windows and, standing in a muddy triangle that might once have been the village green, a gathering of men under a drooping calico banner. Unable to speak, he ran toward the group.

  “What! No! They’re Chartists!” Jennifer pulled at his arm, but he tore free, running to the clustered men. One stepped towards him, face concerned, and the others followed until Mendick and Jennifer were surrounded by a knot of men gesticulating and asking questions.

  “What is it?” Somebody gently removed his gag, and a red-haired man produced a curved knife and carefully cut free the cords that tied his wrists.

  “I’m a Chartist,” Mendick spoke quickly, hoping that Peter did not whisper up before he had made his very hastily prepared speech. “My card is inside my coat.” He hauled out the forged membership card Foster had given him, fumbling so desperately that he nearly dropped it. “That man works for the peelers!” He pointed to Peter, who was slowly advancing towards them.

  The red-haired man glanced at the card. “Signed by McDouall himself,” he said. “And that peeler tied you up, did he?”

  “And my wife.” Mendick indicated Jennifer. “They want to . . .”

  “They can want all they like,” the red haired man said, “but they’ll not get, by Christ.” He raised his voice. “Go it, boys!”

  Peter looked at Mendick in disbelief as some thirty Chartists advanced on him. He pushed aside the first man without any effort, punched at the next then staggered as three men jumped on him simultaneously.

  “I’m a Chartist too,” Peter wailed, “fellow Chartists all. Tell them, James!”

  Mendick hesitated, wondering whether he should become involved in the trouble he had started, but Jennifer nudged him.

  “Run,” she said. “Run, and leave the fighting to others for a change.”

  They ran side by side through the streets, the traffic steadily increasing and the buildings crowding increasingly close together. They ran until the breath burned in their chests and their legs trembled with fatigue. They ran until they reached Bethnal Green, a stone’s throw from the sanctuary of Mendick’s house, and fatigue forced them to stop, gasping with pain and holding on to each other for support.

  “That was quick thinking with the Chartists,” Jennifer said, whooping for breath.

  “You saved my life back there,” he countered, and they looked at each other, too exhausted to smile.

  “I had to do something. After all, it was me who insisted we stop in the first place.” Jennifer seemed to be expecting his condemnation, but he shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen a braver act,” he said and saw slow pleasure gradually replacing the worry in her eyes.

  “It wasn’t brave,” she denied, but Mendick had learned when to say nothing. He looked up and swore as the blue and yellow coach eased to a halt a few yards away. Peter was sitting on the driver’s seat, and the door was already opening.

  “I thought you would run home.” Armstrong emerged with his pistol in his hand and his eyes as venomous as ever.

  “How in God’s name do you know where I live?” But the answer did not matter; they were trapped.

  “Goodbye, Mendick.”

  Armstrong levelled his pistol and pulled the trigger, and Mendick reacted without thinking; he ducked beneath the level of the barrel to jab straight-fingered into Armstrong’s ribs. He saw Armstrong crumple, grabbed Jennifer’s arm and began to run again, feeling his legs trembling beneath him. Jennifer gasped in protest,

  “I can’t go any further.”

  “We must.” He pulled her on, following the street. He knew that Constable Williamson should be on duty here, but there was no friendly blue uniform, no swallowtail coat and top hat to provide succour. “Where are the police when we want them?”

  “Probably watching the Chartists.” Jennifer stumbled with sheer exhaustion. “Oh no, James! They’re coming!”

  Peter hardly had to flick the reins to catch up, and the blue coach grumbled over the cobbled road, the hooves of the horse drumming rhythmically.

  “James!” Jennifer pushed him just as he heard the high-pitched crack of the pistol shot. For an instant he saw the black line of the shot the ball flattened against the wall at his shoulder. He noticed the blue streak the ball left on the red brickwork even as he straightened up.

  “Jennifer! Run!”

  He pushed her in front of him on the long straight street. There was no shelter, only closed doors and ochre walls, but if they could reach the western end there was a tangle of narrow lanes around Samuel Street. If they could not . . .

  Faces began to appear at the windows as people wondered what was causing all the noise.

  “You can’t get away, you bastard!” Armstrong sounded strained. “And the more you run, the slower you’ll get, and the softer shot I’ll have.”

  When the coach drew level, Peter kept the horse at an easy walk, and Armstrong aimed his pistol. Mendick grabbed hold of Jennifer.

  “Change direction! Now!” He pulled her so they were running back down the street, and Peter had to turn the brougham completely around, losing distance.

  “Where are we going?” Jennifer stared around. There were side streets and openings, but none provided cover. Armstrong would have a clear shot. “There’s nowhere to hide!”

  Waiting until Peter had turned the coach, Mendick shouted, “Change direction again! And cross the road.”

  They ran in front of the brougham, but this time Mendick kept Jennifer moving, tacking from side to side until he pushed her into Abbey Street, which ran at right angles to Bethnal Green Road.

  “Peter! Get after them!” The coach turned in their wake, the large rear wheels grinding on the cobbles.

  The pistol cracked again, the ball smashed uselessly against the corner of a house, and then Mendick put down his head and ran, dragging Jennifer by the sleeve of her coat. He heard Armstrong’s coach rumbling somewhere behind him, glanced around and saw a red-faced Peter lashing on the horse. As the coach closed in on them, Mendick chose another opening and gained distance, only to lose it on the straight.

  “Where are we now?” Jennifer was drooping with the effort of running in a long skirt and tight shoes. She glanced behind her. “Oh God, James, he's still there.”

  Mendick nodded. “We’re in the Ratcliffe Highway,” he said, “and the people here don’t fear God, the devil or Josiah Armstrong.”

  Mendick knew the bustling Highway well, with its transient population of seamen, bobtails and trolls, confidence tricksters and petty thieves. Until today, it was probably one of the last places he would have expected to seek sanctuary, but he had little choice. He paused outside Wilton’s Music Hall, where a group of bare-headed sailors’ women were gossiping. One adjusted her provocatively low-cut dress and thrust out her leg so her pink-stockinged calf was shockingly visible.

  “Here! Ain’t I good enough for you?” She clicked her brass heel on the ground as Mendick hurried past. “What are you running for? Are the bluebottles after you?”

  “Keep going!” Jennifer pushed him on. “Here he comes again.”

  “He won’t chase us here,” Mendick said. “There are too many witnesses.” He turned around, expecting to see the coach turn away, but instead Armstrong pulled himself on to the seat beside Peter.

  “Oh God! Keep moving, Jennifer!”

  They ran on, past bright-windowed shops displaying cheap and trashy trinkets, marine goods and drink of every variety. They passed respectable-looking dance-halls with large men at the door, and seedy dram-shops whose
fronts were painted with pictures of sailors dancing with buxom women whose painted sisters waited outside to catch the eye and wallet of the passing clientele.

  All the time, the coach kept easy pace a few yards behind. Reeling from exhaustion, Mendick pulled Jennifer close, leaned against the corner of the White Swan public house and looked back down the Highway. Amidst the scores of women and their maritime companions, the brougham looked an obvious interloper. Peter pulled it up and dismounted, helping Armstrong down to the street.

  “That man,” Armstrong pointed an accusing finger, “is a police spy! Don’t let him escape!”

  While most of the denizens of the Highway completely ignored his words, some began to watch, and a few even supported Armstrong, either by shouting insults or by moving towards Mendick.

  “We’ll have to split up,” Mendick decided quickly. “Armstrong’s not interested in you; it’s me he wants. Get to Scotland Yard.” He backed against the wall of the pub.

  “Which way?” Jennifer glanced around the Highway. “Which way do I go?”

  “That way.” He gave her a gentle push. “Run, Jennifer, and warn them. Somebody’s got to.”

  After a few seconds hesitation, Jennifer nodded. She looked utterly wearied, with sweat having drawn great scores down her dust-smeared face, her hat hanging by its pin and her feet dragging on the ground.

  “You run too.”

  “Go!” Mendick ordered. “I’ll slow them down.”

  Armstrong advanced toward him, Peter a giant shadow at his back. Jennifer began to move, slowly at first, but as she realised there was no pursuit, she hitched up her skirt and ran, hardly glancing over her shoulder.

  “Well, Josiah, it’s just you, me and Peter.”

  Mendick glanced around for a weapon but found nothing. Keeping his back to the wall, he slid his left foot forward and prepared to fight. He knew he could take Armstrong without much difficulty, but Peter was far too powerful for him. Nevertheless, he had to try. If he delayed them for even two minutes, Jennifer had a chance to warn Inspector Field. And himself? He hid his shrug; Emma would be waiting for him.

  “Come on, you bastard!” He beckoned Armstrong closer. “You’re too stupid to realise that Trafford is just using you, Monaghan and the whole Chartist network!” He raised his voice, taunting Armstrong into losing his temper so he might rush forward to easy destruction. “Don’t you realise that he’s teamed up with Rachel Scott in an attempt to murder the Queen?”

  Armstrong frowned and reached inside his pocket for the pistol. “What the hell are you talking about, Peeler? You’re a bloody liar!”

  “No lies, Armstrong, just God’s own truth that killing me won’t cure.” Mendick noticed that an appreciable crowd was gathering, some listening, others already discussing his words.

  “Your friend Scott’s betraying you from Sunday to Christmas, pounding the mattress with Trafford and planning to put some tin-pot Hanoverian on the throne. She’s a traitor, Armstrong, and you’re a bloody fool to listen to her!”

  “You lying bastard!”

  Pulling back the hammer of his pistol, Armstrong aimed directly at his face. Mendick had expected this and rolled forward under the muzzle, kicking out with his right heel. He felt the satisfying thrill of contact and straightened up, weaving to avoid Peter's inevitable counterattack.

  Armstrong’s arm was down, the gun pointing to the ground as he clutched his knee, but the acid returned to his eyes as he adjusted his aim. Mendick saw the flare from the right muzzle and felt the scalding wind from the shot hiss past his ribs. He dropped down, twisted, swivelled on his hip to sweep his right leg in a half circle and kicked at the back of Armstrong’s knees.

  Armstrong fell at once, roaring away his agony as he landed on his damaged back. Rising quickly, Mendick smashed his heel onto the Chartist’s wrist, hearing the bone crack as he twisted his foot hard.

  “That’s for Sergeant Ogden!” He dived for the pistol, just as Peter’s massive foot clamped down on it.

  “Peter!”

  The giant looked up and then gave a sudden yell and grabbed at his leg, lifting his foot high in the air.

  “Thanks, Peter.” That was Jennifer’s voice. She scooped up the pistol and tossed it to Mendick. “Here, James. Back, you!” She jabbed at Peter with her hatpin for a second time.

  Mendick scrabbled for the pistol. “I told you to run!” he shouted.

  “You’ve no right to tell me to do anything!” she responded. Mendick realised that Peter had recovered and was moving toward him. He lifted the pistol grateful it had twin barrels though wishing it was his pepperpot revolver. One ball might not be enough for a man the size of Peter.

  “James . . .” Peter had his arms extended, hands open. “Don’t shoot me! Fellow Chartists all?”

  “Fellow Chartists all,” Mendick confirmed, grateful Peter had not destroyed him when he was busy with Armstrong.

  He noticed the Ratcliff crowd was still watching, but not a single person had moved when the pistol had fired. Murder was part and parcel of the day’s entertainment along the Highway, and the identity of the victim was immaterial.

  “Is he dead?” Peter looked down at Armstrong, who was writhing on the ground, nursing the agony of his injured back and wrist.

  Mendick shook his head. “Would you want him dead?”

  “Yes,” Peter said, “then he could not put me in the black hole again.” He looked up, his eyes narrow and a frown of intense concentration on his face. “I could kill him now.”

  “You don’t have to kill him, Peter,” Jennifer said, “but you don’t have to do his bidding either. Why don’t you just run away and get a different job? This is London. There is plenty of work here.”

  Peter screwed up his face as if he were considering such a novel idea. “I’m going to run away,” he decided, and the frown disappeared in a smile. “I’m going to run away from Mr Armstrong and find a different job.”

  He glanced at Mendick, as if for approval, held out his hand, appeared to change his mind and turned aside. Peter stepped over Armstrong, then moved off, his initial short, hesitant strides quickly altering to a light, loping stride.

  “Good luck, Peter,” Mendick called, amazed how the situation had changed in a few seconds. He knelt down beside Armstrong. “Listen, Josiah. You’re a murdering savage, but I honestly believe there is still some good within you. I think that you do care for the working people. Get on your feet.”

  When Armstrong shook his head, Mendick hauled him upright, ignoring his protests.

  “For Christ’s sake, you can’t send me back to Van Diemen’s Land!”

  “I certainly can’t leave you alone to raise rebellion. You’re under arrest, Armstrong.”

  There was no weight in the man, and not a single person tried to stop Mendick as he dragged Armstrong along. After being chased half the length of England, it felt good to be back in charge.

  “We’ll drop him off at Scotland Yard,” he told Jennifer, “and Scotland Yard is exactly where you should be now, rather than endangering yourself along the Highway.”

  Jennifer gave a sweet smile as she replaced her hatpin in her hair. “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re a spunky little thing, aren’t you,” Mendick said sourly. “That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

  “I knew this hatpin would come in handy,” Jennifer told him, “but I thought I would be sticking it in you, not some great ox of a Chartist.”

  “Speaking of such,” Mendick reminded her, “we’d better disguise our companion. Somebody might recognise him.” He removed his coat and threw it over Armstrong’s head before he continued dragging him along.

  There were more Chartists in the streets, some gathering beneath their green banners, others spilling out from gin palaces or beer shops, singing stirring songs and eyeing the uniformed policemen with obvious dislike. A few carried makeshift pikes, while one smallish man wore an iron breastplate, as if expecting an attack by Cavaliers rather than the met
ropolitan constabulary. The tension from the industrial north had been transported south; London would be the cockpit of the struggle when decades of repression came to a bloody head amidst the ancient streets and graceful squares of the capital.

  “Not far now.” Mendick looked at Jennifer as they turned the corner into Whitehall. She was weary and travel-stained, her dress splashed from the stable. “But I think we should have cleaned up before we meet Inspector Field.”

  It was strange that he included her in his plans. He had always kept his private life and his duty apart before but now . . . he shook his head; Jennifer was part of his duty. He knew her only because of her husband, and once this situation was resolved, he would never see her again. Yet, paradoxically, he felt close to her at that moment, as if their adventures in the brougham had created a bond between them.

  “Cleaned up?” Jennifer asked. “Why?” Her face was red with exertion, her hair a tumbled net across her face.

  When she smiled at, him he realised she had a dimple in her left cheek that had no match on her right; the lopsided effect was strangely appealing, as if she was composed of two halves that had not quite been correctly matched.

  “We don’t exactly look like the most respectable people in the country,” he told her. “I doubt the inspector will be too impressed by our appearance. We should get back to my house and tidy up. There is a mirror there . . .” he stopped himself from offering Jennifer some of Emma’s clothes.

  “Is there?” Something in her tone warned him that he had said the wrong thing. Jennifer stepped away from him, the dimple fading as quickly as her smile. “No, James, I don’t think that I will be going to your house, even if you do possess a mirror. Indeed, I think it would be best that we part now.”

  He frowned at this rapid alteration in her mood. “I don’t understand; are you not coming with me to Scotland Yard?” Stepping toward her, he took hold of her arm. Suddenly he wanted her solid common sense when he spoke with Inspector Field and the penetrating Mr Smith. “You must come, Jennifer, it’s your duty.”

  She shook off his hand. “There is no must about it, and I no longer owe a duty to anybody.” Her eyes narrowed in genuine anger. “I’ve already told you that you cannot order me around, James. Nobody can order me around.”