The Darkest Walk of Crime (25 page)

There was a bill-sticker outside
the station, busy with paste pot and brush as he plastered portraits of Mendick
over every vacant wall. Passers-by stopped to watch, and one famine-thin woman
deliberately spat on the poster.

“Whatever we do,” Mendick decided,
“we can’t stay here.” He glanced around, fearful of recognition. “Let’s just
walk.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere, nowhere; I just need
to think.”

Keeping his head down, he chose
a street and strode on, hoping to come to a solution. The most obvious would be
to walk straight into a police station, say who he was and ask for help, but
Ogden’s warning of Chartist sympathisers in the police ranks had been very
stark. If he could not trust the police, then who was left? Was he the only
loyal man in Manchester? Was he the only loyal man in Great Britain?

The thought was appalling and
carried its own negativity, for if there were only a few loyal men then he was
in a minority, and did that not make
him
the rebel and the majority the
true inheritors of the nation? He shook his head; to think that was to discard
everything he had ever believed; he must try to be rational. He swore, limping
as the burns on his legs began to ache.

“Where are we going?” Jennifer
sounded plaintive, and Mendick realised she was lifting her feet in distaste
and picking her way through horse manure. He had led her into a narrow lane of
arched doorways and stables.

The nearest door was open, and
he peered in. There was a single carriage, its dark paint highlighted by a
distinctive yellow stripe he remembered, and the shock of recognition was so
sudden he nearly ran away. He had taken Jennifer straight to the courtyard of
the Beehive, the heart of Monaghan’s Physical Force Chartists. He, who had
acted been so concerned for her safety, had led her to the most dangerous place
imaginable.

Manchester: March 1848

“Sweet God in heaven!” The idea
was so sudden and so extreme that it shocked him. He felt his excitement rising
and squeezed Jennifer’s arm.

“We’re going to London,
Jennifer, and we’re going in style.” He stopped squeezing when she violently
pulled free.

“Let me be, James.”

He apologised at once but
continued, “Listen. Your name is Rachel Scott and you’re an important Chartist.
Can you repeat that?”

“Of course.”

She looked at him, forehead
furrowed. “My name is Rachel Scott, and I am an important Chartist, but why . .
.?”

“Don’t think. Just do it. Now,
follow my lead and look arrogant.”

“What?”

Rather than arrogant, Jennifer
only looked perplexed as Mendick straightened his shoulders and marched into
the stable. For a second he hesitated in case Peter was inside, but remembering
that the prize-fighter was on guard at the railway station, he raised his voice
in his best imitation of an officer of the 26
^th
Foot.

“Is anybody here? I said, is
anybody here?”

A short man emerged from one of
the stalls, wiping his hands on a wisp of straw.

“Who are you?” Recognising the
voice of authority, he gave a small, obviously reluctant, bow.

“McGill.” Mendick gave the name
of the sergeant who had terrorised him as a recruit. “Is Mr Armstrong’s coach
ready yet? He wants it now.”

The man scowled suspiciously.

”Where’s Peter? Mr Armstrong
always sends Peter for his coach.” He leaned back for a better view of Mendick.
“I don’t know you at all.”

“And I don’t know you either;
nor do I want to.” Mendick adopted his most supercilious expression. “You might
not know me, but you will know Miss Scott, here. Everybody knows Rachel Scott.”

Jennifer stepped forward, acting
as one born to expect obsequiousness from underlings.

“And you are?”

The man stepped back, bowing
with genuine respect.

“I’m sorry, Miss Scott, I did
not know . . . I have never seen you before, although naturally I know all
about you . . . I am Robert Peach, the ostler for the Beehive, and of course
I'll help you in any way I can.”

“I know that,” Jennifer said,
but Mendick interrupted:

“Put a good horse in the
traces,” he ordered. The fear of recognition made him more authoritarian than
he intended. “And make sure that it’s a
fresh
horse, well rested and
fed.”

“Of course, sir,” the ostler
agreed.

“And you’ll have food prepared
for us?” Jennifer asked sweetly, opening her mouth in apparent horror when the
ostler shook his head.

“I was not given orders . . .”

“Then I am giving you orders
now! Get some food, and fast!” She looked over to Mendick. “I thought Mr
Armstrong had matters better arranged that this, Mr McGill. I shall have words
with him, severe words.”

“I’ll send the boy right away,”
the ostler promised, “but . . .”

“Do that,” Jennifer ordered.

“We haven’t got time,” Mendick
began and Jennifer shot him a look that could have frozen lava.

“We have to eat,” she hissed.

Mendick gestured outside, where
a man was busy with paste pail and posters. He guessed that his portrait was
about to decorate even this insignificant alleyway. Jennifer nodded.

“Ostler,” she snapped, “tell the
boy to make sure he is back before the carriage is ready or I’ll take a whip to
him.”

“You’ll both be sorry, by God.”
Mendick lowered his voice. “So get to it!”

He watched the billsticker slap
the poster onto a stable door and walk closer, the pail swinging from his left
hand. Jennifer pulled him inside the stables and pushed the door shut.

“You are distracting the
ostler,” she told him, severely, “and the good man is doing his best for us.”

Within ten minutes Mendick was
sitting on the driver’s seat of the brougham, holding unfamiliar reins in his
hand as he manoeuvred out of the lane and into the streets of Manchester. He
had no plan except to head for London and no clear idea of the direction, but
it was good to be doing something positive again, good to have cocked a snook
at Armstrong and his band, and better to be leaving behind the Chartist
heartland.

“Let’s hope that we don’t break
a wheel,” he said, and Jennifer threw him a look that would have curdled milk.

It was many years since he had driven,
and he was out of practice, pulling the horse first this way and then the
other, and the brougham rattled uncertainly over the greasy cobblestones.

“Careful, James,” Jennifer
shouted from inside the coach, “or I’ll take over the reins.”

“Sit still and keep quiet,” he
replied, too tense to act the gentleman. Determined to prove himself, he
whipped up the horse, which jerked forward and nearly clipped a brewery dray
lumbering in the opposite direction. It was only the fact he was driving a
private coach and possessed an extremely baleful glare which prevented anything
more serious than a brief exchange of insults.

With the centre of Manchester
congested, he had to quickly relearn old skills. Wagons and carts, carriages
and stagecoaches all crammed onto the roads, and he was too busy controlling
the horse to pay much attention to the direction of travel.

“Which way is it?” he asked
hopelessly, and Jennifer pointed to a black-and-red coach.

“That’s
Peveril of the Peak
,”
she said, “the London stage. Follow it!”

As the coachman’s horn blared a
warning to keep clear, Mendick tucked in behind the
Peveril,
hoping
there were not too many stops. Dark rain squeezed through the seemingly
permanent pall of smoke oozing from those cotton mill chimneys that were still working,
but he tried to ignore the depression. Easing over the River Irwell, he passed
the Cathedral and looked ahead for a sight of the hurrying stagecoach.

“What delicious weather.”
Jennifer had opened the window and thrust her head outside.

“Oh aye, the day is incapable of
improvement.” Mendick huddled beneath the rain. “You stay inside the carriage
and keep dry.”

“How long will it take us to
reach London?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted.
“Two or three days, perhaps, but we don’t have to drive all the way. We’ll have
to avoid the turnpikes too, in case the keepers are Chartists; we can stop
further south and take the train when it is safer.”

“No.” Jennifer shook her head
emphatically. “We’ll drive all the way. If the Chartists are in one railway
station, they could be in them all. We’ll find a decent, out-of-the-way inn for
the night and rest the horses.”

The industrial revolution had
given Manchester some fine architecture, but its growth had spawned a city
which contrasted a prosperous centre with shocking housing and ugly factories.
However, as they drove south, the brick terraces gradually eased into some of
the most delightful country Mendick had ever seen. His spirits rose as the city
disappeared behind him and the rain eased to a pleasant drizzle.

Spring had enlivened the
countryside, pushing the dreary winter away in a blush of green grass and
flowers. Daffodils nodded from the gardens of cottages, ploughed fields were
already flushed with growth, and birdsong sweetened the crisp air as the
brougham pulled further away from Manchester’s bitter memories.

“This is better.” Jennifer poked
her head out of the window, holding on to her bonnet as the breeze washed her
face. “How far will we go today?”

Mendick glanced backward to
reply, “As far as we can, or rather, as far as the horse is willing to pull.
I’d like to get a fair distance before dark. Armstrong will soon discover that
his carriage is missing, and it won’t take him long to guess who has it. If he
controls the telegraph system, he’ll certainly warn his minions to watch out
for us.”

“I never thought of that,”
Jennifer admitted. “So what’s best?”

“Follow your plan of finding an
out-of-the-way place to spend the night. A country inn with no recourse to the
telegraph would be best.”

Jennifer’s forethought had
ensured they had enough food for that day, and in the evening Mendick eased
them off the main road and into a village where a handsome inn slumbered under
a glorious sunset. With its beams and thunderous log fire, he had never seen
anything so inviting. The landlady booked them in as a married couple, and
Jennifer, practical as ever, did not object.

“Only married people or a
brother and sister can respectably travel together,” she reminded him, “so we
will just have to make the best of it.” Her smile softened the confusion in her
eyes. “Just remember I have my hat pin.”

“I would not take advantage of
you,” he told her.

“You will not have the chance,”
Jennifer promised sweetly.

Their room overlooked the
village green, where ducks huddled in a pool of muddy water and a gaggle of
barefoot children resisted the efforts of their parents to drag them home.

“It’s beautiful,” Jennifer said.
“It’s so pleasant after the industry and bustle of Manchester.”

Mendick agreed. At one time not
too long ago, most people in England would have lived somewhere similar; being
forced to the cities to find work must have broken their hearts. No! He shook
his head. If he continued with that train of thought he would find himself
supporting the Chartists again. He sighed, cursing Armstrong and Monaghan for
latching on to what had been a relatively peaceful movement and turning it into
something sordid.

“It’s a perfectly well-conducted
inn, too,” Jennifer said quietly, “but we might have a slight problem tonight.”

One bed dominated the room, and
the chambermaid bustled about cheerfully, talking about the weather and the
terrible state of affairs in France while checking that there was water in the
triton pitcher, laying out fresh linen and commenting on the fine carriage that
they were driving.

“Well, Mr and Mrs Brown,” she
said, “I’ll bid you a good night, then.” She curtseyed and left them with a
single candle burning and the fire glowing red against the evening chill.

“So here we are.” Mendick
watched as Jennifer sat gingerly on the bed, testing it for comfort and
cleanliness, just as Emma would have done.

“Here we are indeed,” she
agreed. She was obviously waiting for him to speak.

“So how do we proceed?”

“Simple,” Jennifer told him,
pulling the hatpin from her hair. It was about ten inches long and looked
wickedly dangerous. “You sleep on the floor, and I have this by my side.”

“You have no reason to be afraid
of me,” he tried to assure her. “I would not insult you in any way.”

“No.” She ran two fingers along
the length of the pin. “I have no reason to fear you at all.” She raised her
chin defiantly, and then suddenly she was crying; her shoulders shaking as the
repressed emotion of the past few weeks escaped. She tried to control herself,
gulping for air as her face screwed up. “That’s just what Ogden said on our
wedding night; those were his exact words!”

“Oh God!” He extended a hand in
sympathy, trying to pat her shoulder but she rounded on him, jabbing with the
pin so he withdrew hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. . . ”

Her face was twisted as she
snarled at him across the breadth of the bed, “No! You have no idea, no idea at
all!” She was sobbing violently now, taking great whooping breaths, and then
she turned away from him and lay on the bed with her face buried in the covers.
He did not know what to do. He would have known exactly how to soothe away
Emma’s grief, but Jennifer was an unknown entity, somebody with such unexpected
mood swings that he was left feeling confused and powerless.

Standing by the bed, unable to
help but unwilling to leave Jennifer to suffer alone, Mendick could only watch
as she lay there, her shoulders heaving. He cursed Armstrong and the Chartists
anew. Whatever their high ideals, all they seemed to do was leave a trail of
misery and suffering in their wake.