The Darkest Walk E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Set in 1848, Darkest Walk of Crime sees recently promoted Detective Mendick sent on his first case. Disturbing new evidence suggests the working class Chartist movement is seeking violent action after years of oppression and the defeat in Parliament of its plans for social and political reforms. With the spectre of civil war looming, Mendick goes undercover in the heart of Britain's industrial region - Manchester. He struggles with his loyalties when his sympathies are awoken by the plight of the working classes and the beautiful and enigmatic Chartist, Rachel Scott. But Mendick discovers there is more to the case than he has been led to believe. Soon he becomes wrapped up in a conspiracy that threatens to tear the country apart, and in unravelling this darkest walk of crime will take a perilous journey to the hub of British society.

Leseprobe

THE DARKEST WALK OF CRIME

Malcolm Archibald

For Cathy

© Malcolm Archibald 2011

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press 2011

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

ISBN: 9781905916313

PRELUDE

Lancashire, England: August 1847

Sir Robert Trafford pulled at his cheroot and allowed the tip to glow bright red before slowly exhaling blue smoke above the heads of his companions. They watched him carefully, their expressionless faces hiding the rapacity of hunting hounds. Eventually one spoke.

“Are you going to play?”

“I will play when I am ready.” Sir Robert eyed the pile of money and promissory notes occupying the centre of the table. He smiled, lifted the glass of brandy that stood at his elbow and drained it in a single swallow.

Standing at his shoulder, a slender woman pressed against him as she glanced at his cards. When he ignored her, she pouted and walked to the fireplace, emphasising the swing of her hips so the rustle of her dress competed with the low crackle of the fire in an otherwise hushed room.

“Play then, damn you!” The speaker leaned across the table, his face florid with tension and drink.

“As you wish.” Sir Robert flicked the ash from his cheroot into the fireplace, then placed his cards on the table, one at a time. Every man in the room counted the numbers. Only the woman appeared unconcerned. He held the last card for an agonising moment before displaying it with a sneer.

The woman smiled as the florid man threw down his hand. The cards splayed across the smooth green baize.

“Damn you! Damn you Trafford! You’ve ruined me!”

The woman’s laugh mocked him. “You ruin yourselves, I think, chancing all your possessions on the turn of a card.” She brushed past each of the four players in turn, stopping opposite Sir Robert.

He looked up, smoothing a hand over his unfashionably long hair.

“What is life without adventure? The fun of the game is being prepared to risk everything, or gain nothing.” Scooping up the pile of money and documents from the centre of the table, he lifted his eyebrows. “These are all mine, I believe?” He rose from his seat and paced the length of the room, stopping only to pour himself another glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

“Without adventure, Sir Robert, there is no life.” The woman did not conceal her interest as she allowed her hand to momentarily rest on his arm while her eyes roamed slowly from his face to his feet.

“Will you at least give us the chance to win something back?” the florid man asked. He followed Sir Robert to the sideboard, sloshing brandy into an empty glass.

“No.” He was dismissed with a shrug. “What can you possibly have that I should want? I already own everything you ever had.”

The third man looked up and spoke slowly, “I believe you may be mistaken, Sir Robert. I have something you desire.”

Sir Robert halted under the great chandelier so the light played on the glossy mane of his hair. “And what might that be, Sir Henry?”

“He has me,” the woman said simply.

“I can have any number of women,” Sir Robert told her.

“You can have any number of bobtails, bunters and hell-cats,” the woman corrected his statement, “but not a high flier like me.”

Sir Henry laughed then, the sound harsh in the warm room, until Sir Robert fixed him with a venomous stare.

“She has you there, Sir Robert,” the florid man said. “You’re a ladies’ man of note, but your reputation precedes you. No lady of quality would touch you, by God!”

“Oh, I would do more than touch him,” the woman said, “but only if he proves himself worthy.”

She stroked his arm with a gloved hand. Sir Henry smiled while the fourth man, tall, whiskered, and erect as a guardsman, merely looked bored.

“Sir Robert has already won this evening,” he said. “There is no need for him to gamble further.” He looked over to the woman and smiled coldly. “Besides which, perhaps he is not quite as willing to risk all as he says he is.”

Sir Robert might have ignored the challenge, had the florid man not laughed. The sound was short and ugly.

“Not willing?” Sir Robert banged the decanter down on the polished walnut, his voice a whisper. “By God, I’m always willing. Make your wager, Sir Henry. What must I chance to gain your daughter?”

Sir Henry looked at the woman and smiled. “What should we say, my dear? What are you worth?”

“The question is not what I am worth, Father, but rather what value does Sir Robert put on his word?” She swayed over to Sir Robert and leaned against him. “Would you risk everything, as you said?”

The atmosphere in the room changed as everybody looked at Sir Robert. While the florid man was openly triumphant, Sir Henry appeared merely curious, and the whiskered man swirled brandy around his glass.

“Well, Sir Robert?” The woman stepped back, smiling. “I’m sure that you are man enough to keep your word,” she hesitated coyly, “but some of these gentlemen are less certain.”

“Damn it!” Sir Robert’s laugh was explosive. “Shall we have another hand, gentlemen?”

“Let’s make it simpler,” Sir Henry suggested. “Let us have a straight cut of the cards; if you win, my daughter is yours. If you lose, I have all your winnings and the value of your property in hard currency.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Sir Henry,” Sir Robert said.

“Am I not worth it?” Widening her eyes, the woman allowed her hand to drift across Sir Robert’s shoulder.

Sir Robert drained and refilled his glass. “I will have to find out,” he said, handing the cards over to the tall, whiskered figure of the Duke of Maldon. “The game’s the thing . . .” “The game’s the thing. Shuffle the cards, Your Grace, and let fate decide.”

They sat around the table, with the chandelier casting wavering shadows and the woman watching over her father’s shoulder. The Duke shuffled slowly, building up the tension before he handed the pack over to Sir Henry.

“I would be obliged, sir, if you would care to cut first?”

There was a second’s pause as Sir Henry accepted the cards. “My dear, your future is in my hands.” He winked at his daughter and cut quickly, placing the top card face down in front of him before sliding the pack over to Sir Robert.

”And it soon will be in mine.” Sir Robert divided the cards and selected one.

“Turn over your cards on the count of three, gentlemen,” His Grace said, and slowly counted. “One . . . two . . . three.”

The hiss of a piece of coal shifting in the fireplace was the only sound until Sir Robert flicked over his card. The hooded eyes of a king stared sightlessly upward as he breathed out slowly and looked up in triumph.

“King of spades, by God,” he gloated and extended a hand to the woman. “Come here, my dear. I believe you are now my property.”

“Not so fast with my daughter, sir.” Sir Henry paused, still holding his card. He turned it slowly, grunted, and looked to His Grace. “Well now, there’s a pickle. What the devil do we do now?”

The card was the king of hearts; there was no winner.

The Duke decided for them: “You have both won, so the solution is obvious. Sir Henry gains the value of Trafford’s property and his previous winnings, and Sir Robert gets Sir Henry’s daughter.”

“You’ll give me time to raise the readies, of course?” Sir Robert accepted the decision with equanimity.

“You may have three months,” Sir Henry told him, rising from the table. “I leave you with my daughter, sir. Good day to you.” He left the room without a backward glance, followed by the florid man.

Sir Robert was quiet for a long moment, and then he looked up at the woman.

“Winning you has impoverished me,” he said quietly and poured out more brandy. He emptied the glass in a single swallow and refilled it quickly before making an ironic salute to the closed door. “I hope you are worth the price, my dear.”

“You’ll find that I am worth every penny,” she told him evenly. “I have a rich uncle, you see, and he would hate to see his niece live in penury.”

“Indeed?” Sir Robert passed a glass toward her as the Duke silently watched.

“Of course, he will require a favour in return.” The woman took his arm, smiling. “I fear that we must walk a darker path for a while, Sir Robert.”

CHAPTER ONE

London: November 1847

“Ready?” Sergeant Restiaux blinked the drizzle from his eyes and looked upwards to where drab dawn cracked open the terrible dark of a London night. ‘Pray to God that we don’t get lost today, lads.’

“I thought you knew this place like the back of your hand?” Constable Mendick nodded towards the ugly morass of the Holy Land, whose foul stenches only enhanced the feral reputation of the inhabitants.

“As well as any man on this side of the law,” Restiaux agreed and quickly qualified his statement, “Well enough to have no desire to linger.” He lifted a black-gloved hand. “Listen.”

Mendick heard the chimes of St Giles, an oxymoron of hope beside the seething slum that crowded its walls. Unconsciously, he counted out loud, feeling the familiar hollowness in his stomach, “Four, five . . .”

Restiaux nodded and slowly intoned the old words, “Lord, I shall be very busy this day; I may forget thee, but do not forget me.” He exaggerated his wink. “These are good words to remember at times like these.” He turned to the silent man who stood at the back. “What do you think, Foster?”

Foster nodded. “Anything that helps is worthwhile.”

The only man among them who did not wear the blue uniform of the police; he straightened his arm and brandished the blackjack he carried in lieu of a truncheon. The foot-long sausage of reinforced linen was weighted with sand and tipped with solid lead.

“Now, I’ve chased this man to Manchester and back, so let’s make sure that he doesn’t escape this time.”

“We’ll do our best.” Restiaux lifted his head as St Giles clattered its final message. “Seven o’clock. And in we go!”

Raising his voice to a yell, he rose from the shelter of the scarred brick wall. For a second he was silhouetted against a candlelit window, his prominent nose verifying the French ancestry his name suggested, and then he was moving forward, head up, booted feet splashing through the unthinkable filth on the ground.

The two constables followed, checking that their long staffs were secure in their pockets and directing the beam of their bull’s-eye lanterns to illuminate Restiaux’s path. The lights jinked over walls weeping tears of dirt, passed windows blank with despair and settled on a repellent door.

“God knows what depravity is hiding behind that,” Restiaux muttered. Mendick sighed. Was this what his life was reduced to? Crawling about in the dark chasing insignificant criminals through the back slums? Surely all those hours poring over books as he painfully learned to read and write must have had more purpose.

“Keep the light steady there!” Constable Williamson slammed himself against the wall beside the door, waiting for Restiaux to take the lead and Foster, the Scotland Yard detective, to follow.

Restiaux lifted his foot. “No point in knocking politely,” he explained, “not in the Holy Land.” He smashed his massive boot against the bottom panel, which shook but held so he kicked again, putting his entire weight behind the blow. Candles began to flicker in the adjoining windows.

“The Holy Land is awakening,” Mendick warned.

Dogs began to bark, their racket echoing in the crooked street.

“For Christ’s sake, boot that bloody door in!” Foster looked around in some apprehension; nobody wanted to linger in the Holy Ground.

Taking a step back, Restiaux tried again, this time grunting with satisfaction as the wood splintered. “That’s it! Light!”

Mendick’s lantern illuminated the panel, and in a series of short, savage kicks, Restiaux created a jagged hole. Kneeling, he thrust his arm through and withdrew an iron bolt.

“Stand aside, sergeant!” Williamson pushed past, staff in hand.

“Be careful, you young blockhead!” Restiaux warned, but Williamson clattered ahead, his boots echoing on a flight of stone steps that led downward to a black abyss. The stench of dampness and human waste rose to greet them. Restiaux shook his head.

“Shine that light just ahead of me, Mendick, and don’t stray. God alone knows what’s down here.” He produced a pistol from his pocket. With its four inch barrel and wide muzzle, the weapon would be deadly at close range. “This barker has a three quarter inch bore, so it can stop an elephant dead, but let’s hope we don’t need it.” With the pistol held in his right hand, he began the descent.

“Blake’s the most efficient forger you’ll never want to meet,” Foster said quietly, “but I need him alive, not face up in a coffin.” He glowered at Restiaux. “He’s far too valuable.”

“So are my men,” Restiaux said bluntly. “So if he is a threat to any of us, I won’t hesitate to shoot him.” Turning his back on the detective, he nodded to Mendick. “Ready?”

“Aye.” Mendick looked into the darkness ahead. He did not feel ready, but did it really matter?

The lantern light picked out crumbling stone steps descending through darkness into a stink that seemed so tangible it could be cut up and packaged. There was a loud cry ahead, a hollow shout that echoed for agonisingly long seconds.

“Williamson!” Restiaux yelled, but there was only the sound of scurrying footsteps, followed by solid silence.

“What the hell’s happening?” Foster sounded alarmed as he tapped the blackjack against the wall. He peered narrow-eyed down the steps.

“Williamson!” Restiaux called again, but the empty echo mocked him. He lowered his voice. “It looks like there’s trouble ahead; have you anything more lethal than your staff?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Mendick patted his shoulder holster, where his pistol nestled uncomfortably but reassuringly against his breast. Emma had never been happy with his choice of profession, but she had insisted that he should at least be prepared for trouble.

Restiaux nodded. “After me then, and don’t worry about taking Blake alive.” He ignored Foster’s savage glare.

Testing each step, they negotiated the remaining twenty stairs with the light flickering and bouncing from chipped stone and crumbling mortar.

“What’s that?” Foster pointed to a darker shadow ahead.

“It’s Williamson.”

The constable lay crumpled across the bottom step, blood oozing from a ragged wound in his scalp. Beyond him, faint light flickered and coarse voices grumbled from behind a closed door.

“I told him to wait!” Kneeling at Williamson’s side, Restiaux checked his pulse. “He’s alive, thank God.” He glanced at the door, and grunted. “Spring your rattle.”

Hauling the rattle from his inside pocket, Mendick swung it around his head. The spring pressed a wooden tongue against a ratchet wheel, creating a distinctive sound that would immediately summon all available police constables.

“Christ, man, that noise will warn anybody for half a mile.” Foster looked behind him to the cruelly crowding dark.

“That’s the idea. Now, follow closely and mind your backs!” Restiaux poised himself then kicked open the door and rushed through, his pistol levelled in front of him.

From the darkness of the stairway they rushed into a scene of which Dante would have been proud. Lit by the guttering remains of three candles, a mass of human bodies covered the floor of a low room and piled onto a grease-darkened bench. There were men and women of all ages from twelve to sixty, some whitely naked, others clad in itching rags and one in the remains of a clerical suit. Some were stirring, rising from torpidity to suspicion as they struggled to see who had entered, but others merely glanced up and returned to the anonymity of the mass.

“He’s not here,” Foster said at once and prepared to move on, but Restiaux placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Wait. Somebody will know,” he advised, and raised his voice: “We’re looking for Thomas Blake!”

Mendick flashed the lantern across the chaos, catching a poisonous eye, a scarred back, a tangled mess of lousy hair or the slender curve of breast or buttock.

“Who?” the man in the suit asked, blinking as the light focussed on his face.

“Flash Tom,” Restiaux said. “You know him.”

When the man shook his head, Restiaux sighed. “Remind him, Constable.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Pulling his staff from its pocket, Mendick stepped forward, ignoring the squeal as his nailed boot thumped on the leg of a teenage draggletail.

“No!” The clerk cowered backward, seeking sanctuary from companions who seemed only too eager to allow him all the attention of the police. “I don’t know him at all!”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” Mendick pressed the rounded edge of his staff, with the VR lettering in faded gold, hard against the clerk’s chin. “Where is Thomas Blake?”

“I don’t know,” the clerk said, but for a second his eyes flickered toward a door at the far end of the room.

“Thank you,” Mendick kept his voice dry as he stepped over the cleric. “This way, Sergeant. You too, Sergeant Foster, if you will.” He treated the Scotland Yard detective with cautious respect.

“I hope Flash Tom kills you both.” Covering herself with what looked like a handful of rags, a woman pointed a long-nailed finger at Mendick. “I hope you die squealing, you Peeler bastard.”

“If there is any trouble from you or anybody else in this room,” Restiaux told her quietly, “you’ll be in the Bower before this day’s finished.”

The woman closed her mouth and sat down with a thump, her eyes screaming hatred.

“Right, Constable, lead on.” Foster glanced over his shoulder as a cacophony of curses came from the room behind them. “Christ but I hate this job.”

They plunged through the door into a short passage, scented with sewage and punctured with three dark openings.

“Which one?” Mendick allowed the beam of the lantern to linger over each doorway in turn.

“The nearest,” Restiaux said and barged in the door. They thundered into another room reeking of human misery as huddled children stared up from their rags. One boy, his eyes ancient and evil as Hades, spat at them. The next room held more filth, more destitute people, more sorrow, but no Thomas Blake.

“We’re wasting time.” Foster sounded worried.

Restiaux shoved the last door. “Locked,” he said laconically, and again resorted to his boot. The door shuddered once, twice, and finally gave with a mighty crash. The lantern probed ahead, revealing more steps, spiralling upward.

Foster swore foully. “This place is a maze.”

“Tom! Tom Blake!” Restiaux’s shout echoed endlessly in the dark. Feeling his way with care, he began the ascent, pistol held ready to fire. Mendick followed, aware of the clinging dankness and the sudden alteration in atmosphere. The foetid stench had metamorphosed into something much worse. He could sense danger, as if unformed evil was hovering above.

“He’s up there,” he whispered, touching the butt of his pistol. Years of experience in the back slums of London had heightened him to the importance of instinct. If he felt that something was wrong, then something was wrong.

Restiaux nodded. “I know.”

Restiaux was the expert on the Holy Land. He knew every slithering alley, every crumbling building, every half-human denizen of the ten rat-run acres that huddled between the soaring spire of St Giles and the bulk of St George’s church in Bloomsbury. The name Holy Land was a mockery, taken from the proximity of the churches, but although there were worse rookeries in London, there were few that gave such easy access to the more privileged areas of Leicester Square, Regent Street and the Haymarket. For that reason, the Holy Land was a thieves’ paradise, a devil’s playground of the downtrodden and the vicious, a Satan’s sanctuary for the pickpockets and cockchafers, the coves, cracksmen and queer dealers who scraped a dishonest living by robbing their betters.

“Jesus!” Foster glanced over his shoulder as somebody unleashed a laugh fit for bedlam. “Please God I live to see my retirement and a pension.”

The steps ended at a brick wall pierced by a ragged hole through which a man might just be able to squeeze. A draught edged aside a fraction of the stench.

“Bastard’s escaped again!” Foster kicked the wall with his iron-studded boot.

“Lantern,” Restiaux ordered, and Mendick bent forward, one hand holding his pot hat in place. The light probed the hole and vanished into the unknown beyond.

“After me, I think; this is my parish.” Pushing him gently aside, Restiaux took a deep breath and thrust his head and shoulders through the hole.

The sound of the shot was very loud in the confined space, and he yelled and fell back cursing.

“Sergeant!” Mendick saw blood on Restiaux’s face. “Are you all right?”

Restiaux nodded but suddenly paled and slid downward until he was sitting with his back to the wall.

“Douse the glim,” he said, and Mendick pulled the metal shutter across the lantern. The sudden darkness pressed down on them, thick with menace.

Another shot cracked out, the bullet bouncing from the brick wall behind them and ricocheting dangerously around their ears. Mendick swore, ducking down, as Restiaux flinched and covered his head with his arm.

“Tom!” Foster shouted, keeping back from the hole in the wall. “It’s me, Foster of the Yard. I have other police officers with me. Better come out quiet now.”

“Bugger you, bluebottle bastards! Did I kill Restie?” The voice was surprisingly high-pitched.

“No,” Mendick said. “It’s not the rope yet, Tom. You’ll just get a spell in limbo or maybe a free voyage across the pond.”

“Twenty-one years I’ll get, Peeler, twenty-one years of transportation, slaving under the lash in Van Diemen’s Land. Better the rope than that.” He fired again; the shot splintered the bricks opposite the hole. Dust drifted over Restiaux, who coughed and wiped away the blood that trickled down the line of his jaw.

Keeping his head back from the hole, Mendick eased open the shutter of his lantern to examine the residue left by the bullet. “Half-inch calibre lead ball,” he said, “and judging by the gap between the shots, he probably has a single-barrelled pistol.” He raised his voice, taunting. “You’re trapped, Tom, there’s no escape.”

“Then I’ll die game, Peeler!”

The pistol cracked again; the ball ripped past Mendick's face. Choking white smoke surged through the hole. Mendick cocked his pistol and raised his eyebrows toward Restiaux.

Standing flat against the wall, Foster shook his head. “I want him alive,” he reminded. “I have a particular task for Flash Tom, so a corpse is no use to me.”

“We’ll try to keep Blake alive,” Restiaux assured him. “There are forty seconds between each shot, Mendick, and you’re about the most active officer in the force.” He jerked a thumb toward the hole. “Could you do it?”

Mendick’s shrug was genuine. “I can try,” he said, “but not in this hat. Do I have your permission to discard it, Sergeant?”

Restiaux smiled weakly. “Just make sure you protect your head.” He put a hand to his head. The blood now covered the left side of his face and dripped onto his broad leather stock.

The rabbit skin hat weighed eighteen ounces and was intended as protection against an assailant’s cosh, but in this confined space it was only an encumbrance. As an afterthought Mendick shrugged off his swallowtail coat which would catch on every jagged brick. Taking deep breaths, he crouched at the side of the hole as Foster hugged the wall. The detective swore softly.

“Are you Peeler bastards still there?” Tom fired on the last word. As soon as the pistol sounded, Mendick threw himself into the hole, kicking madly in an attempt to gain momentum. The wall was thicker than he had expected, and rough brick scraped the flesh from his outstretched hands as he frantically hauled himself through. He had forty seconds to reach the screever before Flash Tom finished reloading. Forty seconds between life and possible death: how long had he already been?

Did it really matter? He hesitated, embracing death for a fraction of a second, but duty forced him onwards. Peering into the darkness, he glimpsed a bearded white face and the blurred hands of somebody urgently working the ramrod of a pistol. The man looked up, his eyes vicious above a rainbow waistcoat. Mendick scrabbled with his feet, seeking purchase, as Flash Tom withdrew the ramrod and stepped backward into the dark. There was a solid click as he cocked the hammer.

“Peeler bastard!” The words were followed by a torrent of foul vituperation that echoed repulsively around the dark chamber.

Mendick flinched; with his head and upper body protruding from the hole, he was hideously vulnerable. “It won’t do, Tom. If you shoot me, it will be the gallows. Think, man.”

“Gallows or not, bluebottle, you’re a dead man.” Extending his arm to aim, Tom pressed the trigger just as Restiaux gave Mendick a final push that propelled him through the hole. He gasped as burning powder from the muzzle of the pistol filled the air, but the ball screamed wide and smashed into crumbling brick. Coughing with the reek of shrouding smoke, he instinctively rolled away, but Flash Tom did not attack.

Jerking upright, he glanced around, grateful for the beam of light that Restiaux directed through the hole.

He was in a small chamber with an arched brick roof and walls smeared with flaking white plaster. A small stove emitted residual warmth, while the pot on top still contained the congealed metal that was the raw material of the coining trade. Half a dozen spoons lay scattered on the ground, together with a number of tools, a pile of documents and a variety of pens and bottles of ink. It was obvious that a master forger worked here. There was no sign of Blake, but there was a small opening in the far corner.

“Sergeant,” Mendick called through, “the bird’s flown. I’m going to follow.”

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Restiaux ordered, but there was no strength in his voice. “You can’t wander around the Holy Land on your own.”

“There’s no choice, Sergeant. We can’t let him escape now.”

Before Restiaux adjusted his advice into an order, Mendick crouched at the opening through which Flash Tom had escaped. Taking a deep breath, he plunged in, to find himself at the top of half-rotted wooden steps descending to a square courtyard piled high with human filth. There was a single exit between two buildings, so narrow he had to squeeze through sideways, emerging into a crooked street of misshapen houses. The dirty light of dawn did nothing to alleviate the dismal appearance of soot-smeared walls, stagnant filth-spilling gutters and shuffling, dull-eyed people. Mendick did not hesitate.

“Police!” he roared. “Stand aside!”

One or two edged aside as he splashed through the street, but others made to block his path. He barged them aside, their underfed bodies fragile before his weight. There was movement ahead, a glimpse of a rainbow waistcoat as Flash Tom briefly turned, eyes bright with malice, before sliding into another narrow alley.

“Blake! Tom! It’s no good, man!”

Slithering on human filth, he eased into the alley, slipped sideways and tottered for a second, swearing as he realised he had walked into a trap.

“Badgered, by God!”

He stood at the edge of a deep cesspit, straddled only by a single greasy plank. Beyond the pit, Blake stood with his arm extended and his pistol levelled directly at his face.

“Bye, bye, bluebottle.”

As Blake pulled the trigger, Mendick ducked, put his boot under the edge of the plank and heaved upward. Heavy with moisture, the timber did not travel far, but it made enough contact with Blake’s shin to distract him so his hand jerked aside.

“Jesus!”

The crack of the pistol echoed around the alley, but the bullet flew wide, flattening harmlessly against the wall.

It was a four-foot standing jump over the cesspit, but with no other choice Mendick leapt, pushing himself onwards with sideways pressure on the wall, and landed just as Blake threw his pistol and turned to run.

“It’s a dead end, Tom!”

Without looking back, Blake scrabbled up the broken brickwork of the wall, finding purchase on the ledges of windows and swearing frantically as rotted wood crumbled under his feet.

“Bye, Peeler!”

Ignoring the crowd that had gathered to roar Blake on, Mendick searched for handholds to follow the forger. His fingers slithered across damp bricks, but his childhood as a climbing-boy, a chimney-sweep’s apprentice, stood him in good stead, and he followed quickly as Blake raced upwards and sideways.

“Nobody climbs that fast,” he muttered until he realised there was a series of iron spikes cunningly set in the brickwork. He grunted; anywhere a screever could climb, he could follow.

The spikes were old and partly rusted through, but he had to trust them, pulling himself across the wall only a few yards behind Blake.

Pausing at an upper window, Blake glanced back, his breath clouding around his head like smoke from some infernal demon. Spitting contemptuously downwards, he hauled himself onto the roof.

“Here! Catch this!” The first of the slates missed Mendick by an inch, the second bounced from a window ledge to splinter on the ground below, and the third crashed onto his right shoulder.

He flinched at the shock, and his right hand slipped so he hung one-handed with that appalling drop sucking at him. Below, the crowd was baying for his life.

“Die, you Peeler bastard!” Another slate hurtled down, turning edge over edge before it splashed into the dung heap below.

With his entire weight dragging agonisingly on his left shoulder, Mendick swung himself against the wall, scrabbling for purchase. He gasped with relief when he found the spike and clung motionless for a second. He sensed the disappointment from the crowd as he dragged himself up and over the gutter onto the roof.

Dawn’s early grey had changed to an arterial red that highlighted the skyline of spires and towers marking the greatest city in the world. Mendick surveyed the litter of uneven rooftops that lay before him. Blake skidded on damp slates before ducking behind a crazy chimney-breast twenty yards ahead. He followed, balancing his feet either side of the cracked ridge of the roof. When Blake glanced back, the slanting sun caught him, momentarily glittering on narrow eyes in an anxious face.

“You’re a persistent bugger, peeler, whatever else you are.”

Gathering his strength, Mendick leapt the gap between two buildings, felt his boots scrape down the slates and reached down for balance just as Blake turned to descend another ladder of spikes. Mendick followed Blake through an open window into a small room where semi-naked women howled abuse. The building smelled of damp and human excreta, but Blake was only a few yards ahead, thrusting at a door that led outside.

“Hold the bluebottle, girls!” Blake roared, and the human detritus swarmed to obey.

“Police!”

Mendick tried to defend himself from a score of filthy hands. The room seemed full of women, all talons and bile as they raked at his face and grabbed hungrily for his genitals. One was screaming, her voice rising to a maniacal screech.

Reaching for his pistol, he pointed it upward and fired. The shot reverberated around the room and brought down a shower of plaster from the ceiling.

“He’s got a gun! The bastard will kill us all!”

The women backed off, some howling in vitriolic frustration, others gesticulating and promising obscene revenge. Mendick pushed through the door just as Blake disappeared over a stone wall into a neighbouring timber yard.

The wall was easy to scale, but as Mendick dropped down, Blake was twenty yards ahead and easing through the yard gate; outside waited a dark four-wheeler. Cursing, Mendick stumbled past piles of neatly stacked timber. As he reached the gate, Restiaux nodded calmly to him through the open window of the coach. Blood stained the bandage that swathed his head.

“Glad to see you kept up; you drove Blake to me very adequately.”

“You have him?” Mendick leaned against the wheel of the coach, only now aware that his breath grated in his chest and that his legs and shoulder throbbed with pain.

Restiaux nodded. “I knew he would run and that you would not give up. Over the roof and through the brothel is a recognised escape from the Holy Land, so it did not take much to have the four-wheeler waiting.” His grin faded slightly. “In you come. You’ll have to pay for the damage to your uniform, of course.”

“Of course,” Mendick agreed, replacing the pistol in its holster and clambering inside the cab.

His wrists secured by handcuffs, Blake glowered at him from behind the beard. “If I get the chance, Peeler, I’ll kill you. That I swear.” His eyes were acidic.

Sitting at Blake’s side, Foster thumped a meaty hand on his shoulder. “That will not be for a very long time, Tommy Flash. You and I have work to do.”

CHAPTER TWO

London: November 1847

Although the single window was closed, the grumble of carriage wheels from Whitehall intruded into the room, combating the crackle of the fire. Above the heads of the people present, the brass chandelier swung slowly, sending shadows across the portly man behind the desk.

“So, Constable,” the portly man leaned back in his leather chair, small eyes shrewd as he slid them over Mendick. “I heard that you did well in the Blake case.” He tapped his fingers on the desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Mendick remained at attention, his top hat under his arm and his face immobile. He was well aware that Inspector Field headed the small group of plain-clothes detectives at Scotland Yard but was unsure of the identity of the man who sat silently against the far wall.

“Sergeant Restiaux informed me that you followed Blake even after he fired at you, through one of the worst rookeries in London.” Field shook a shaggy head. “Why, even Detective Foster praised you, and he’s not the most enthusiastic of officers.”

Mendick said nothing. Foster was the first Scotland Yard detective he had met, and he had been vaguely disappointed. Rather than a dashing man capable of instant decisions, Foster had seemed hesitant, cynical and unenthusiastic.

“Sergeant Restiaux was quick to inform me that you are a constantly persistent constable,” Field said, “and I am also aware that you have twice applied for a transfer to the detective division at Scotland Yard.”

“Indeed, sir.” There was no need to remind the inspector that both his applications had been curtly rejected.

“It was considered that you lacked the necessary experience,” Field explained. He looked up suddenly and leaned forward. “Are you still interested in such a position?” There was steel behind the apparent benignity of his eyes.

“I am, sir.” Mendick fought to control his enthusiasm, reminding himself he was a disciplined constable, not some flighty youth.

“I see.” Field leaned back again, pressing his forefinger against the arm of his chair, a gesture familiar to all who knew him. “You are aware that the detective branch is the most unpopular in London?”

“I am, sir.” Many of the population still resented the uniformed police and were even more suspicious of plain-clothes detectives. To the British public, there was something almost continental about having such spies creeping around the streets.

“And yet you are willing to court such unpopularity?”

“Yes, sir. I have some experience as an active officer.” Each division of the London police deployed a small number of men in civilian clothes, known as active officers. Mendick had enjoyed two spells on such a duty.

“I am aware of that, constable.” The podgy forefinger stabbed again. “As I am aware of your five years experience in police uniform and the ten years you spent in the army before that.”

Again Mendick lapsed into silence. There was probably very little of which Inspector Field was unaware.

Having established the superiority of his knowledge, Field was prepared to be magnanimous. He leaned back again. “I remain unsure if you are quite suitable to be a detective, although I know of your many fine qualities. However, a situation has arisen in the North and Detective Sergeant Foster has persuaded me you might be useful after all.”

“Yes, sir.” Mendick could hardly believe what Field had just said. He was about to be transferred to Scotland Yard; his opinion of Detective Foster rose tremendously. He kept any emotion hidden; ten years in the army had taught him that every silver lining concealed a dark grey cloud.

“Well now, Constable, I trust that you are pleased with your good fortune?” Inspector Field waited until Mendick assented. “But you will no doubt be wondering to what special circumstances I am referring and who this gentleman is?” He indicated the silent man at the end of the room. “Let me bring enlightenment to the darkness within your mind. Pray join us, Mr Smith, if you would be so kind?”

At first Mendick thought there was something familiar about the man who eased into the circle of warmth by the fire and placed his leather valise at the side of the desk, but a second glance assured him that he was mistaken. He would never have forgotten a face such as that. The eyes alone were memorable, calm as a summer sea, yet with an indefinable quality of intelligence that bored like a drill, probing, questioning, seeing everything. For some reason Mendick flinched, but nevertheless he felt his jaw thrust out in bloody-minded defiance.

“No, you do not know me.” Mr Smith seemed to have read his mind. “But you may have seen me. Inspector Field told me about you a while ago, and I have been watching you. The man in the corner of the Black Bull, remember? And do you recall the face at the hansom cab window three days ago? Aye, that was me.”

“My apologies, Mr Smith, but I am still unaware of your position.” If Inspector Field treated him with respect, the man obviously had influence, but Mendick was not used to deferring to anonymous authority, and he refused to be cowed.

“My name is John Smith.”

It was such an obvious lie that even Inspector Field smiled.

“And I represent Her Majesty’s government.”

“Of course,” Mendick agreed. He should have realised that there was something supremely official about this man: he carried himself with the utter confidence of an aristocrat or a member of the government.

“Sit yourself down, and let’s talk.” Smith dragged over two hard-backed chairs from the far wall.

“Sir?” Mendick glanced toward Inspector Field, who nodded his assent. He sat cautiously, placing his hat on his knee, unused to such informality in the presence of his superiors.

“Drink?” Smith gestured toward the closed cabinet that stood in the corner of the room. “Are you a drinking man? I am sure that Mr Field has a bottle of medicinal brandy somewhere on hand.” The grin was so sudden and so conspiratorial that Mendick could not help but respond, and Field was on his feet in a second, returning with a decanter and a silver tray on which stood three balloon brandy glasses.

Mendick eyed the decanter guiltily before he shook his head. “Thank you sir, but no.” He was unsure what was happening, but he knew that he should retain as clear a head as possible.

“As you wish. You don’t mind if we indulge?” Smith sloshed generous amounts of Field’s brandy into two of the glasses. “Now,” he said as he sipped quietly, “no doubt you are wondering why I am here?”

Mendick nodded slowly, watching as Smith swirled the brandy.

“Good, you’d be less than human if you were not. Tell me,” his eyes pierced Mendick’s impassive mask, “in your opinion, what is the function of the police?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment Mendick could only stare. He recovered with a start, trying to recall Peel’s nine principles of policing that he had learned when he first started tramping the beat.

“To prevent crime and disorder, sir, as an alternative to their repression by military force; to maintain a relationship with the public . . .”

Smith pursed his lips and flapped his hands in the air. “That’s the official line, but not what I wanted to hear. Now, Inspector Field, what would you say to the same question?”

Field had not touched his brandy. “We patrol a volatile border, protecting the rich from the desperate and preventing anarchy from overwhelming respectability.” He mused for a second. “However, I would say that the primary function of the police is to protect the seclusion of respectable neighbourhoods.”

“That may be more accurate,” Smith agreed. “A touch cynical, but not far off the mark. So would you both agree, then, that one purpose of the police force is to guard the respectable and propertied classes from the effluvia of society, the residuum, if you will?” He waited only a second for the answer before continuing. “Or would you say that the police have the task of ensuring that society retains its natural shape and should remain unaffected by those who would wish it otherwise?” Although he addressed the question to both, it was to Mendick that Smith looked for an answer.

“I would say so, sir, but I see my principal duty as a defender of the law, more than as a protector of any particular class of person . . .”

“Ah!” When Smith held up his hand, calloused ridges showed across the base of his fingers. Whatever position he presently held, at one time Smith had known hard manual labour. “Define that word; define that word, law.”

Mendick found he was unable to look away from Smith’s quizzical stare. He struggled for clarity. “Law is the rules by which we live, a collection of regulations that maintain the balance and fairness of society . . .”

“And there you have it precisely, sir.” Smith rose from his chair, jabbing a long forefinger at Mendick. “Well done, Constable; you hit it when you said the balance of society. We must all do our utmost to preserve that balance, or we may see this nation crumble. That is our duty, sir, and that is your duty.”

“I understand, Mr Smith.” Mendick would have liked to look toward Field, but Smith’s near mesmeric gaze held him securely.

“Good, then we are in agreement.” Smith sat back down, seemingly content that he had made his point. “Now, Constable, you will be attuned to the present unrest in the country? You will know of the repeated demands for the People’s Charter and other subversive nonsense?” Smith had assumed his previous air of chilling detachment, but Mendick was aware of the passion beneath. He nodded. “Nobody in Britain can be unaware of the underlying unease among some of the lower classes, sir.”

“So tell me what you know, Constable.”

“Yes, sir. The People’s Charter was born after the 1832 Reform Act when the middle orders obtained the vote but the aspirations of the workers to achieve the same were discarded. The Charter demands six electoral reforms, including secret ballots, payment for MPs and the franchise for all males over the age of twenty-one. Those who support the Charter are known as Chartists, and in 1839 they presented their demands to parliament in the form of a petition.”

“All correct so far, Constable.” Smith’s eyes never strayed from Mendick’s face. “Pray continue.”

“Parliament rejected the petition out of hand, but Chartists are persistent, and whenever the economy dips and there is unemployment and distress in the country, there is more support for them.”

“That’s accurate enough, Constable, as far as it goes.” Smith looked toward Field, who gave a brief nod. Mendick realised that Smith was unsure exactly how much information he could safely impart to a lowly police constable.

Helping himself to Field’s brandy decanter, Smith recharged their glasses and poured a third, which he pushed toward Mendick. “You may need this before I am finished, Constable.” The glass sat on the silver tray, its contents an amber temptation as Smith continued, “There are new developments among the Chartists. You are obviously unaware of the militancy that is increasingly gripping these people. There is something extremely nasty brewing up north, Constable, something that they term Physical Force Chartism.”

Mendick nodded. He knew of the split in the Chartist ranks. While most of the Radicals believed in Moral Force Chartism and hoped to persuade the government to accept their demands by peaceful protests and great petitioning, others were more militant. Led by Feargus O’Connor, the only Chartist Member of Parliament, the Physical Force Chartists spoke of armed revolution unless the government accepted the six points of the Charter.

Smith sipped at his brandy and continued, “We are unsure exactly what these people contemplate, perhaps a worker’s strike or a national holiday as they term it. Perhaps they plan a series of such strikes that may well cripple the economy of the country, or perhaps something even worse, but we would like you to find out.”