The Darkest Walk of Crime (30 page)

“You’ve to keep quiet, James,
when you’re told.”

“We’re leaving,” Armstrong
ordered, his voice desperate. “Peter, forget the baggage; she doesn’t matter.
Bring the spy.”

Mendick tried to bite at Peter’s
hand, but his grip was too strong, so instead he lashed out with his hands and
kicked wildly with his feet, occasionally landing on flesh that seemed as
unyielding as granite.

“Now you keep still!” Peter
admonished, holding him securely and barging through a crowd that had lost
interest as soon as they realised Jennifer was safe. A group of ostlers looked
up in astonishment as they stormed into the courtyard.

“What’s all the commotion?”

“Never you mind,” Armstrong
snarled. “Just get out of my way.”

Armstrong’s coach had the
familiar blue and yellow paintwork, but the horse was fresh, and the bodywork
was not disfigured with scrapes and mud. Mendick presumed that Chantrell had
ordered it should be cleaned as a further example of his service.

“Toss him inside, Peter, quickly
now.”

Peter threw Mendick face down
onto the damp straw on the floor and pinned him with a knee in the small of his
back as Armstrong tied him hand and foot.

“You lie still, you Peeler
bastard, until I decide what to do with you.”  Armstrong pulled the cord so
tight it bit into Mendick’s wrists and re-awakened the raw burns on his ankles.

“You don’t know what you’re
doing!” Mendick yelled. “Trafford is using you and all the other Chartists!
Listen to me!”

“I’ve had enough listening to
you.” Armstrong’s voice was a sinister hiss. “Quieten him down, Peter; gag the
bastard!”

“No! Listen!” Mendick said
desperately. “You’re all being duped . . .” He grunted as Peter pulled a
spotted handkerchief from his pocket, stuffed it in his mouth and tied it
securely in place. He gagged, almost choking, and wriggled in impotent
frustration.

“That’s better. Drive on,
Peter,” Armstrong ordered. “Take us somewhere quiet.” He viciously kicked
Mendick’s ribs, grunting with the effort. “Then we’ll take care of this
rubbish.” Slamming the door shut, Armstrong eased himself down beside Peter on
the driving seat.

Wriggling helplessly on the
floor, Mendick felt the coach jerk forward, moving slowly as Peter negotiated
the awkward gate into the Great Northern, and then it suddenly stopped. He
heard Armstrong’s sibilant voice followed by the sharper tones of a Londoner,
and then the coach door jerked open and Jennifer was there, dragging him across
the floor with his shins scraping sharply against the legs of the seat and his
face rubbing through the straw.

“Help me then,” she panted.
“Kick with your feet or something!”

He found purchase against the
seat and propelled himself awkwardly forward until he tumbled painfully on to
the straw-strewn cobbles. Looking up, he saw that Peter had tried to leave just
as another coach was entering, and both coaches were jammed in the entrance.
Armstrong and the other driver were shouting at each other, and Chantrell was
bustling over on fat legs to try and keep the peace.

“Come on! We haven’t much time!”
Jennifer spoke in a harsh whisper although the driver of the incoming coach was
making so much noise it was unlikely anyone would have heard even if she had
yelled at the top of her voice. She wielded a short knife, presumably lifted
from the inn, and sawed desperately at the cords.

“This blade is dull,” Jennifer
complained, hacking away furiously and making little impression on the tight
cord. “It couldn’t cut butter.”

Mendick grunted, trying to hold
his legs as still as possible to make her task easier. He looked up, aware that
Armstrong was only a few yards away, and if he should happen to glance down, he
could not fail to see him lying helpless on the ground. He widened his eyes,
trying to urge Jennifer to greater speed. Twice her hands slipped and the blade
rasped painfully against his ankle, but finally the cord snapped, and he stood
up.

Perhaps it was the sudden
movement that alerted Armstrong, but he looked downward at just that second.

“Peter!” Armstrong jerked a
thumb backward. “The peeler’s free!” He clambered down from the seat and
reached inside his jacket.

“Run!” Grabbing hold of Mendick,
Jennifer pulled him across the courtyard, stumbling over uneven cobbles. “Come
on!”

Mendick followed, still with his
hands tied behind his back and the foul gag in his mouth. A groom looked up in
surprise and held a currycomb in front of him like some makeshift weapon.

“Is there a door? Another way
out?” Jennifer demanded.

The groom pointed the comb at
the furthest and darkest corner of the building, his mouth open in an adenoidal
gape and his eyes questioning the tied and gagged man Jennifer dragged behind
her.

Without pausing for a thank you,
Jennifer lifted her skirt clear of the filthy ground and ran for the corner.
Mendick joined her; he heard Armstrong’s feet clattering across the cobbles. He
heard Armstrong shout, and then Jennifer pushed him through an amazingly small
door.

They emerged into a street
bustling with activity. Two women were peering into the window of a shop, an
omnibus rattled past and a group of workmen were busily building next year’s
slum. Everything seemed so normal that Mendick hesitated.

“James! Don’t look back! Just
run!”

Unable to speak, he nodded and
lengthened his stride, following Jennifer as she disappeared into a side street
that delved crookedly into the heart of London. People watched from low
doorways and broken windows, throwing the occasional raucous insult as they
passed.

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.