The Darkest Walk of Crime (18 page)

Monaghan’s Liverpool Irish
accent was very prominent as he replied, “If they do unleash another Peterloo
on us, we will be ready for them, thanks to Mr Mendick and those like him.”

“Aye,” the elderly man agreed,
still whispering. “I was ten at the time, but I still remember the panic.”

Mendick did a quick calculation;
if the elderly man had only been ten at the time of Peterloo in 1819, then he
was under forty years old now. Such was the effect of industrial living
conditions that he looked at least twenty years older, with grey skin pulled
taut over a deeply lined face.

“This time,” Rachel Scott said,
“the dragoons will be met with men trained and carrying muskets equal to
anything that the British Army has.”

The balding delegate began to
clap, and one by one the others joined in, until they were standing around the
table in a show of Chartist solidarity, respectable working men driven past the
point of toleration until they were willing to challenge the might of the
established state.

“Our muskets are superior to
those carried by some army units.” Mendick thought it might do no harm to
reveal a little of his expertise. “We have the 1842 Pattern, with percussion
caps. This means they are more reliable than the old flintlocks, particularly
in wet weather.” He remembered the hectic affair outside Canton, when rain had
rendered the British muskets useless and the Chinese attacked with spears.

Scott gave her unique laugh.
“Perhaps we should only fight in the rain?”

“We?
You
won’t be
fighting at all,” the balding man said sardonically, and for a second Scott
looked surprised, as if she had not expected such a reaction.

“We all fight in our own way,”
Monaghan soothed away the tension, “but I have a question or two to ask.” Again
Mendick experienced a feeling of dread.

“Of course,” he said,
automatically measuring the distance to the door. There were half a dozen
delegates in his way, and Armstrong sat in the chair nearest the door with one
leg stretched in front of him and that sinister bulge inside his jacket.
Mendick wondered if Peter was waiting outside.

“You are an experienced
soldier,” Monaghan said, “and you have spent some weeks training our
volunteers. If it comes to actual fighting, do you think that our men will
stand against regulars?”

It was an obvious question, but
one that could not be easily answered. Should he praise the men and possibly
encourage the Chartists to rise, or say that they were not ready and endanger
his position and possibly his life. If in doubt, tell the truth.

“That depends on many factors,”
he said. “On who leads them, on why they are fighting, and on the behaviour of
us and the enemy on the day.”

It seemed strange to be
referring to the British Army as the enemy, and with a jolt he realised that
the men he had trained might be facing the 26
^th
Foot, his old
regiment.

“That we understand,” Monaghan
said, “but if conditions are favourable, will they stand?”

Mendick thought of swarthy,
clever Eccles, the straightforward Preston and quiet Duffy. They would be good
men in any army.

“Aye,” he said. “Aye, they will
stand.” And they will die, he thought, once the regulars fire their aimed
volleys and the artillery find the range. Mrs Preston would be a widow,
grieving hopelessly as her man lay, a smashed ruin on his own native soil.

“Good, that’s their job.”
Monaghan nodded his satisfaction. “And one more question: will the Army fight
against their countrymen?”

Would he have fought the
Chartists? Mendick pondered for a few moments before replying.

“Some will not,” he said. “Some
would rather desert, and a handful might even switch sides, but most will fight
for the regiment as they did at Newport in ’39. The habit of discipline is hard
to break.”

The silence in the room told him
that the delegates were considering his words.

“Then so be it,” Monaghan said
quietly. “We will welcome the deserters as brothers and face the rest musket to
musket.” The delegates agreed solemnly.

“Thank you, Mr Mendick, you are
doing a sterling job.” Monaghan was first to shake his hand, with a
surprisingly silent Armstrong close behind, and one by one every delegate came
to him with a smile of fraternal acceptance. Rachel Scott was last, her hand
softer than that of everybody else but her congratulations sounding no less
genuine. She held his eye for a fraction longer than necessary and brushed her
hip against him as she turned away.

“It is good to belong to such an
organisation,” Mendick said, and, shockingly, he realised that he was speaking
the truth. He looked around at the company of men, with their haggard faces and
eyes bitter with repression, and he realised the fundamental decency within
them. Even Armstrong may have been sincere behind that bitter exterior.

They were fighting in the only
way left open to them.

Suddenly he understood the true
meaning of fraternity; not the camaraderie of the army, where enforced
suffering thrust men together, but the day-by-day struggle of life, the
knowledge that everybody shared the same hunger and everybody was part of a greater
whole. He swallowed, choking back the salt tears he had suppressed since the
death of Emma. He was accepted here; these men trusted him, and he was duty
bound to betray them to the very authorities whose repression they were
attempting to remove.

“Now, a drink, I think.”
Monaghan made the decision, adding further cheer to the room, and within
minutes he was pouring measures of gin into eagerly held tumblers and the
grim-faced men were exchanging greetings with Mendick and asking him about his
experiences in the army.

Monaghan allowed them a few
minutes before he rapped on the table and called for order. For the next hour
they discussed the finances of the Chartist movement, the growing unrest in Ireland
and the political turmoil in the Italian states before Monaghan closed the
meeting with a few words.

“Thank you for your time,
gentlemen, but some of us must continue to pursue the cause.” As expected, he
received a ripple of laughter. “Mr Mendick, I would appreciate your company for
the remainder of the evening. Mr Armstrong and Miss Scott will also be
required.”

Mendick glanced at Armstrong,
who held his eyes but retained his cynical sneer, while Scott did not look up
from the scrap of paper that she was studying.

“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 26
^th
in a rainstorm.
With their flintlock muskets useless, the 26
^th
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.

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.”