The Darkest Walk of Crime (29 page)

There was a small cheer, and one
of the men waved.

“They’re not sure, so tell them
to sing.”

Mendick pulled the makeshift cap
further down to disguise his features. Armstrong was a much slighter man than
he was, and the disfiguring scar across his mouth must be familiar to Chartists
right across the country. “Tell them to sing my song.”

He began Armstrong’s favourite
song, roaring so loudly that it hurt his throat:

“Spread, spread the
Charter

Spread the Charter
through the land

Let Britons bold and
brave join heart and hand.”

“Come on boys!” Jennifer waved
her arms in the air, trying to attract as much attention as she could without
overbalancing on the rocking coach. “Sing along and make way for us! We must
reach London soon; we have a nation to save!”

More of the crowd began to turn,
with one or two singing, and one tall man pointed his blackthorn staff. “That’s
Josiah Armstrong’s carriage; that’s the red-capped revolutionary, the Demonian
come back to save us!”

The initial cheering spread, men
raising fists or banners, but Jennifer shook her head and, cupping her hands to
her mouth, shouted again: “Please let us through! We need to get through!”

Slowly but definitely, the crowd
edged away to the verges of the road, creating a narrow corridor for the coach
to squeeze through. Hoping that nobody had actually seen Armstrong in person,
Mendick drove as quickly as he could, keeping his head down and praying that
the red cap would provide sufficient camouflage.

The words of the song bellowed
around him. People were cheering, laughing, wishing him luck, but others were
grimmer, and he saw gaunt exhaustion amidst the defiance, the hollow cheeks of
hunger, the dazed, defeated eyes of men to whom the Charter offered a last
forlorn hope.

He felt familiar pangs of guilt.
He was cheating these men whose only crime was poverty, these men who sought
only a better life for their families. As Jennifer had pointed out, they were
just pawns, disregarded by everybody. Their march was pointless; they existed
only to create wealth for others, and he was an agent of their oppressors. He
knew that he was not their enemy, but he also knew that neither was he their
friend.

He sighed; he was only one man,
he could not solve the problems of the country, but he might be able to help
prevent an ugly civil war and save the life of the Queen, and even of many of
these deluded, desperate and dangerous men.

“Let me pass, please, boys,” he
whispered, hating himself as he drove his horse through the ranks. “Let me pass
and I will deal with the creatures who are duping you, the men who promise what
they cannot deliver and who are leading you to certain defeat.”

There were gaps ahead, short
stretches of the road free of Chartists, and whenever there was congestion, the
magical names of Armstrong and Scott cleared a lane for them to push through.
By the late afternoon Mendick was hoarse from singing his Chartist song, and
his arm ached from waving to the hundreds of supporters who wished him God
speed and success.

“It’s working.” Jennifer sounded
triumphant. “So who is useless now, eh?”

“Not you,” he reassured her.
“Certainly not you.”

They exchanged grins, but
Jennifer looked quickly away as they eased into the first outlying houses of
the London sprawl. The gentle April dusk made even this ardent city look benign
as the brougham rolled through the outskirts, the road lined with new villas
interspersed with patches of dense industrial housing and a few remaining
market gardens.

“Rather than go directly to
Scotland Yard, could we not just report to the first policeman we see?”
Jennifer asked.

Tempted for a moment, Mendick
shook his head.

“I’m not sure if we can trust
them,” he said simply. “I’d hate to come this far only to throw everything
away. If the highest in the land is corrupt, how can we trust a bobby on a
guinea a week?” He pulled at the reins as the horse began to falter. “Come on,
boy.”

“The horse cannot keep pulling,”
Jennifer said. “The poor thing’s about dropping.”

“It has to keep going.” He plied
the whip harder than he had ever done before. He felt sympathy for the beast,
but the suffering of one animal was unimportant when compared to the safety of
the country and the life of the Queen.

“We’ll be in Whitehall in a
couple of hours.”

He looked ahead. Even here there
were Chartists. There was a small group of men marching on the road, one man
carrying a furled banner over his shoulder and the remainder walked with their
heads bowed and tired legs dragging in the dirt.

“That horse will not last a
couple of hours,” Jennifer told him simply. “Unless you allow it to rest, it
will die, and you’ll never get to Scotland Yard.”

He knew she was correct. The
horse was drooping in its harness, its head down and its hooves trailing.
Without rest it would simply collapse and he would have to walk through the
streets. While his duty demanded that he drive onward, common humanity dictated
that he should stop.

“You’re right,” he admitted
reluctantly, “we should find some stables and hire another; any old hack will
do for the short distance we have left.” He looked around to check their
location. “We’re not too far from Horatio Chantrell’s.”

“What?” Jennifer looked at him.

“We’re not far from Chantrell’s
Great Northern Inn. It’s not the grandest inn, but it has one of the best
tables in this part of the country.” He grinned suddenly. “Are you hungry?”

Jennifer nodded, suddenly
animated. “Starved,” she admitted cheerfully. “When did we last eat?”

Mendick shrugged. They had
breakfasted before they left the inn that morning and had long since finished
off the last of the bread the ostler’s boy had brought them three days ago.

“Many hours since.” He looked
across to her. “The Great Northern it is. Every lord and duke in creation stops
there if they get the chance. Chantrell’s food is famous from Reading to the
Romney Marsh.” He enjoyed the look of anticipation on Jennifer’s face. “We’ll
be there inside the quarter hour.”

London: April 1848

At one time London had a dozen
great coaching inns, but the advent of rail travel had ended that flamboyant
era. Now there were few, but Horatio Chantrell’s Great Northern continued the
tradition, defiant in the teeth of progress. Chantrell stood in the cobbled
courtyard to personally greet every one of his customers, his plump and jovial
face a byword for hospitality. More important for Mendick, his establishment
was equally celebrated for its stock of horses, hosting anything up to twenty
at any one time and hiring them out to passing travellers.

He eased the brougham to a halt
within the arched gate, dismounted stiffly and fondled the ears of the horse
that had performed so splendidly in pulling them down half the length of England.

Chantrell stepped forward, a
smile widening his already broad face. “A suitable horse, sir? Mr . . .?”

“Armstrong.” By now Mendick was
so used to using the name that he replied automatically, “Josiah Armstrong.”

“Mr Armstrong, of course, sir.”
Chantrell carried his belly before him and his mutton chop side-whiskers wagged
as he spoke, but he bowed as best he could and examined the coach with shrewd
eyes. “You have been travelling far, I see, and your nag is weary.”

“Far enough,” Mendick agreed.
“But not long to go now.”

“I see, sir. It’s always good to
come to the end of a long journey. You’ll have a bite to eat, of course,”
Chantrell said. “I have a fine table inside, and good company.” He continued to
look at the coach, narrowing his eyes as if confused.

“More than a bite,” Jennifer
said, “for we are both famished.”

“Ah!” Chantrell gave a
conspiratorial smile. “I like a lady who enjoys her food.” He bowed in
appreciation. “Then, while your horse rests and feeds, you can enjoy the
pleasures of my table. How does steak and fried oysters sound?”

“It sounds wonderful, and thank
you, we shall enjoy it,” Jennifer answered for them both. “Come, Josiah.”

“We cannot spare too much time.”
Mendick sensed that Jennifer would welcome a prolonged stay at the table of the
Great Northern. “As soon as the horse is rested, or when Mr Chantrell can find
us a suitable replacement, we should be moving on.”

“Food,” she commanded. “I refuse
to go a single yard further until we have dined, and dined properly.”

“The lady knows her own mind.”
Chantrell sounded amused. “How exactly like my own better half.” He gave a
throaty chuckle but glanced again at the brougham, as if hoping to confirm
something.

Already regretting his weakness
in halting there, Mendick bobbed briefly to Chantrell and followed Jennifer
inside the inn.

The Great Northern had a common
board, with travellers of all types sharing a single room where massive,
smoke-darkened beams stretched across the ceiling and a fire crackled comfortingly
within the hearth. After days cooped in the coach, the hubbub of noise seemed
almost overpowering, but the conviviality was so enticing that Mendick felt
himself relaxing, particularly as the clientele were a complete contrast to the
poverty-pinched people of the north. Here were well-fed, affable men and their
padded, red-faced wives, successful merchants and roaring members of the lesser
gentry laughing and joking together in cheerful conversation.

In such a place, thoughts of
Chartist insurrections and attempts on the life of the Queen seemed surreal.
Mendick smiled; he was back in the London he understood, where rich and poor
co-existed in different worlds; each happily prepared to accept the other as a
potential victim, if nothing else.

He pulled back a chair for
Jennifer and then eased down on his own. For a second he leaned back, nearly
drifting into sleep in the friendly atmosphere and warmth, until Jennifer
nudged him in the ribs.

“Is that not Armstrong?”

“What?” Mendick opened his eyes,
peering through the smoky atmosphere. “Where?”

“There you are, sir.” Chantrell
was smiling down at them. “This is the gentleman. He not only shares your name,
he also has a coach with the same colours as yours, which is quite the
strangest of coincidences I ever saw. I wondered if you might be related? It
would be quite a thing if two cousins arrived here at the same time and
entirely by chance.”

Standing to the left of
Chantrell, Armstrong nodded once. The red cap he wore bobbed, but Mendick was
on his feet before the hand came out. Pushing past Chantrell, he thumped his
knee hard into the muscle of Armstrong’s thigh and shouted to Jennifer.

“Run! Jennifer, run!”

She did not need a second
warning. Without hesitation, she fell backward from the table, rolled on the
floor and rose to her feet, glancing from side to side as she sought the best
escape route.

About to follow her, Mendick was
just a second too late; he swore as a great hand closed on his neck and held
him close. He had not heard Peter approach, but now the prize-fighter was
breathing in his ear and dragging him up from the chair. Mendick tried to jerk
his head backward, flailing with heels and elbows.

“Run, Jennifer! Run!”

There was a sickening thump as
his head made solid contact with something. Peter’s grip loosened for an
instant, and Mendick elbowed backward as hard as he could, feeling the thump as
he smashed against Peter’s ribcage. The prize-fighter grunted slightly, but
tightened his grip on Mendick’s neck with his left hand while wrapping an arm like
a wire cable around his body.

“Peter, it’s me, your friend.
Let go, for God’s sake.”

“Keep quiet, James,” Peter spoke
softly, “and please let me carry you away.”

“Take him outside.” Armstrong’s
voice was strained, and Mendick hoped his thigh was painful. “I’ll get the
woman.”

Mendick saw that Jennifer was
hesitating, one hand gripping the table and the other held out as if she could
restrain Peter by herself. He saw Armstrong move toward her and yelled again,
as loud as he could,

“Run, Jennifer, for your life!
Please!”

Moving quickly for a damaged
man, Armstrong lunged forward, dodged between two diners and grabbed at
Jennifer. His hand closed on her sleeve, but she turned quickly and landed a
stinging slap against his scarred back. Gasping, Armstrong released her.

“Help!” Jennifer raised her
voice in a high-pitched screech. “Help me, please!”

“Jennifer! Run!”

As the crowd in the room looked
on in astonishment, Jennifer aimed a wild kick at Armstrong, missed by a yard
and ran to escape, still screaming as she knocked down chairs and upset plates
in her passage. She slipped, staggered and jumped for the door.

“Stop her!” Armstrong ordered,
still with one hand holding his back. “She is a thief!” But instead the crowd
closed ranks behind Jennifer.

“Shame!” somebody shouted.
“Leave the lady alone.”

“You leave her be,” a countryman
in a white smock ordered. Leaning back in his chair and not at all overawed by
Armstrong’s sinister appearance, he thrust out a stubborn chin. “She wasn’t
doing you no harm, and I won’t have you do any to her.”

Others in the crowd nodded,
although when Peter danced across in support of Armstrong, dragging Mendick
with him, most of them backed away. Peter’s size was enough to intimidate even
the bravest of men. Only the countryman rose from his seat, holding a
blackthorn staff in front of him as he defiantly blocked Peter’s path.

“You can’t bully me, mister;
I’ve faced bigger men. Put that fellow down and fight me fair and square!”

Still struggling in Peter’s
grip, Mendick roared encouragement until a large hand clamped over his mouth,
crushing his lips against his teeth.