The Darkest Walk of Crime (34 page)

Draped in a long dark dress that
failed to disguise her somewhat dumpy figure, the Queen was listening as Prince
Albert read from a book. Mendick imagined it to be one of the novels of
Walter Scott that Her Majesty loved so much. She lay on her couch smiling up at
him, and Mendick recognised the expression in her eyes. Emma had looked like
that when he had worked on her profile.

The train straightened from the
bend and his view into paradise ended, but he knew what he must do. He could
not allow Trafford and Hanover to plunge the country into civil war. Any other
thoughts were worse than madness; they were treason. It was duty that had kept
him sane when Emma had died; he had no other option.

Stepping over the gingerbread
work, he balanced for a second and then jumped the gap. He hung suspended over
that rattling, moving space for a long, heart-stopping second then landed
heavily on all fours. Exhaling noisily, he padded towards the third and
foremost carriage. Foster was in there, as was the servant that Jennifer had
identified. He watched for a moment, hoping for another fortuitous bend so he
could look inside, but the line stretched straight ahead.

Taking a deep breath, Mendick
leaped over the final gap, landing as softly as possible so as not to alarm the
occupants. There was a door at either end of the carriage, and he poised
himself above the nearest, gripped the rail running along the roof and allowed
his body to drop until he hung downward with the wind battering his body.

Peering in the window, he
glimpsed Foster’s cynical face, released his left hand and grabbed for the door
handle just as the train hurtled around a curve. Coughing in a sudden gust of
smoke, he tried to twist the handle open, but his palm slithered on the
polished brass.

“Foster!” He bellowed, pitching
his voice above the thunder of the engine. “It’s me! Open up!”

As the train tilted at an
astonishing angle Mendick felt the muscles of his right arm scream in protest.
There was a sudden screech and a blast of steam as the handle shifted in his
hand and the door swung open, smashing him backward against the body of the
carriage.

“Sweet God in heaven!”

He released the handle and
clutched the roof bar trying to ease his legs around the madly oscillating door
and wishing that he was as supple as he had been as a boy.

“Foster!”

Mendick struggled around,
probing for the interior with his feet, but as the train curved into a
straight, the door slammed shut on to his thigh. He yelled and writhed as the
heavy metal bit into his burned legs, and it took all his will power to release
the roof bar and thrust himself inside the carriage where he landed heavily
with his legs protesting in pain and the breath rasping in his chest.

“Mendick!” Foster hauled him
upright. “Are you all right? What in hell’s name are you up to?”

“I’m doing your job for you.” He
did not like Foster, but it was immensely reassuring to have that misanthropic
face glowering into his and those hard, wary eyes examining him. “You already
know about the plot to assassinate the Queen?”

“Of course; that’s why I am
here.”

“I think that one of the
servants is the assassin,” Mendick explained hurriedly. “Trafford must have
ordered him on board as soon as he learned we intended to send the Queen to
safety.”

“It’s all under control.” Foster
was almost smiling as he shook his head. “I already know exactly what is
happening in this train, and it is not as you imagine.”

Mendick glanced into the
carriage, seeing a mass of anonymous faces, none of which merited a second
look.

“We have to save the Queen!”

Foster put a reassuring hand on
his shoulder.

“It’s all under control. Just do
as I say.” He faced the servants again, his voice quiet but carrying an
unmistakable authority. “Gentlemen, you cannot leave this carriage, so do not
try. We suspect that there is an assassin on this train, so if anybody does try
to follow us, rest assured that I will blow his head clean off.” He left the
threat hanging in the air. “Now, Constable, just follow me.”

It was only then that Mendick
realised that the carriage was split in two, with the servants confined to the
rearmost two-thirds and a heavy door separating them from the forward section.

“Should we not be guarding the
Queen?”

“Relax, Constable. I know what I
am doing.” Reaching inside his frockcoat, Foster produced a double-barrelled
pistol and checked the percussion lock. He replaced it in his pocket, slid his
blackjack down his sleeve and tapped its lead-weighted end on his hand. His
smile was not pleasant. “Now we are ready for any trouble.”

In contrast to the remainder of
the train, the front section of the carriage was little more than an ordinary
van, with a neat pile of bundles and boxes that were probably indispensable to
the royals. The second of the carriage’s external doors was firmly closed.

Mendick glanced around, feeling
his tension drain away at Foster’s quiet assurance.

“What’s happening?”

“We’re happening.”

The servant who had followed
them was so nondescript he would be unnoticeable in a crowd of three, but as
soon as he spoke, Mendick he realised where he had seen him before.

“You were the barman in the
Beehive!”

He reached for the truncheon in
the tail of his coat as a pepperpot pistol appeared in the barman’s hand,
propelled from his sleeve by some spring device. Mendick weaved sideways,
grabbing at the barman’s arm, but Foster smashed his blackjack on his shoulder
so he yelled, staggering backward.

“Close the connecting door,”
Foster ordered, and the barman leaped to obey, slotting home a steel locking
bar for extra security.

“Foster!” Mendick yelled. “What
the hell . . .?”

“What do you think?” Foster
asked and swung his blackjack again.

The blow was aimed at the point
of Mendick’s jaw, and he blocked with difficulty, feeling the flaring pain as
the sausage of sand and lead smashed against his right arm. He swore and
staggered as the barman hooked a leg behind his knees. One push from Foster and
he was lying flat down on the floor, staring upward.

“What in God’s name . . .?”

He tried to roll away, but
Foster was waiting, blackjack raised ready to crash down on his head. Trained
in a score of barrack room brawls, Mendick reared upward, butting his forehead
hard into Foster’s chest and following up with a straight-fingered jab to his
throat.

But Foster was also an
experienced street fighter and turned sideways so Mendick’s fingers jarred
against his shoulder instead. The barman landed a roundhouse punch that bounced
pointlessly from Mendick’s side. It was obvious the barman was no warrior, so
Mendick ignored him to press home his attack on Foster.

With his right arm virtually
useless after the blow from the blackjack, he had to use his weaker left,
feinting for Foster’s eyes before trying to ram his doubled knee into his
groin. Foster jerked back, but as Mendick was about to press his advantage, the
barman smashed something hard and heavy over his head, sending him crashing to
the floor once more.

This time Foster made sure. He
lifted his boot and stamped hard on Mendick’s chest, driving the air from his
lungs before landing a backhand that crashed his head against the side of the
carriage. Mendick lay stunned, unable to move as Foster glared down at him.

“Open the door,” Foster ordered,
“and we’ll throw the bastard out.”

“Why go to all that bother?” The
barman shrugged. “If we leave him here, he’ll die with the others.”

“Very poetic,” Foster said. “The
gallant police officer dying to protect the Queen who does not even know his
name.” He kicked Mendick again. “You don’t understand what this is all about,
do you?” He leaned closer. “You have no idea how stupid you are, do you? Do you
remember who recommended that you work in the north?”

Mendick glared his hatred.

“I recommended you, because then
I would know exactly who was up there, a Johnny Raw who knew nothing and did
not have the sense to work it out.”

Mendick struggled to rise, but
Foster put his instep against his throat and pushed him back down.

“Stay still, you bastard.”

“It was you!” When it came, the
realisation made him wonder at his own stupidity. “You told the Chartists who I
was, you told them my address, and you provided the book with the pictures of
every Scotland Yard officer.”

“Well done, Mendick.” Foster was
grinning now. “You’re correct, but far too slow.”

“But why? Why betray me? And why
work with this man? He is going to assassinate the Queen!” Again Mendick
struggled to rise, but Foster thrust down with his boot, grinding the heel
against his throat.

“You’re still a fool, Mendick. He’s
not going to assassinate the Queen; I am.”

“Why? You’re a Scotland Yard
officer!”

“I know exactly what I am. I was
one of Bobby Peel’s original bluebottles. I have put my life on the line every
day since 1829, and what do I have to show for it? Enough blunt to fill the
arse of a very small mouse and a future of poverty and the workhouse. Sir
Robert Trafford has offered me a fortune, Mendick, so think of that in your
last few minutes alive.”

“You’re a murdering hound,
Foster! At least the Chartists have a genuine grievance for their rebellion,
but you,” Mendick grabbed at Foster’s ankle and tried to wrestle it away,
“you’re the worst sort of traitor.”

Foster laughed. “A traitor is
only somebody who supported the loser, Mendick. Once King Ernest is on the
throne, the history books will write me as a hero of the real dynasty. You’ll
be the traitor, Mendick, the man who tried to prevent history from taking its
natural course.”

“I’m a loyal officer . . .”

“You’re an impoverished fool.
I’ve seen your home, remember, with its pathetic sticks of furniture. Broken
furniture now. Is that just reward for your years of service?”

“It was you.” Mendick wriggled
beneath Foster’s foot, feeling the terrible agony of frustration. “You smashed
my mirror! You ripped up Emma’s picture!”

“You smashed my mirror!” Foster
mocked, bending close. “You ripped up my picture! Listen to yourself, bleating
about nothings while we’re altering the destiny of a dynasty.”

Mendick felt his hatred mount,
replacing the frustration and sorrow and loss. He looked away, aware that his
feelings must be transparent and unwilling that Foster should know exactly how
much he hurt. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill somebody, not
just because it was his duty, but out of sheer loathing.

“Foster,” he said, “I’ll be
coming for you.”

Foster kicked him again, taking
time to put real force behind the blow. “How will you do that, Mendick, when
you’re dead?”

Taking a silver hunter from his
waistcoat, the barman squinted at it. “We’d better hurry, Mr Foster, or we’ll
be caught in the crash . . .” He looked away when Foster glowered at him.

Mendick forced a mocking laugh.

“A train crash! Is that the best
you can think of? The most powerful monarchy in the world and you’re going to
destroy it by crashing a train. How utterly unimaginative!”

He grunted as Foster kicked him
again, the hard boot thudding against already painful ribs, but he began to
think furiously. The authorities would keep the line clear, so there was no
possibility of a train coming toward them; by crash, Foster could only mean a
derailment. He ran his mind over the route: Farnborough, Winchfield, Basingstoke,
Andover Road, Winchester and finally Gosport.

The line was fairly
straightforward, a quiet run over a pastoral landscape, except for one spot
near the ancient market town of Godalhurst, where the train would have to climb
up the Downs and then negotiate a bend onto a narrow viaduct. That would be his
choice for a train crash, but how would he do it? Easy – plant explosives on
the viaduct and jump clear when the train slowed for the climb.

“That would be the trap you set
at Godalhurst, then?” Mendick enjoyed the momentary surprise on Foster’s face.
“We know all about that one, Foster, and there are men waiting for you at the
viaduct.”

“How do you know?” The barman
stepped back. “How does he know, Mr Foster?”

“He doesn’t,” Foster said. “He’s
bluffing. I would know if he knew.”

“You’ll soon find out, won’t
you?” Mendick grunted as Foster pressed his foot hard against his chest. “They
hang traitors, Foster, and your pal there will enjoy spending the remainder of
his life in Van Diemen’s Land.”

The shriek of the whistle
startled both assailants, and Mendick used the distraction to grab hold of
Foster’s foot and push it from his chest, ramming the detective hard against
the barman so both crashed against the side of the carriage. He rolled free of
the tangled bodies and stamped on Foster’s hand, relishing the sensation of
breaking bones as he twisted his heel.

“You wrecked my house, Foster.” Lifting
his foot, he smashed it down against Foster’s chest. “You destroyed my wife’s
rocking chair, Foster.” He kicked out, catching the Scotland Yard man under the
chin and throwing him against the side of the carriage. “I’m going to kill you,
Foster!”

“You flash your gab too much,
bluebottle bastard!” The barman thrust his pepperpot revolver against the base
of Mendick’s skull.

Lashing back with his fist,
Mendick was surprised when the barman ducked away. The return blow cracked
against his temple, momentarily unbalancing him, and then the barman brought
down the pistol in a short but effective chop against his head.

The steel floor of the carriage
seemed to rise toward him as he fell, and then Foster was taking revenge for
his smashed hand by kicking madly into his body.