Lancashire: March 1848
The knowledge that he had only one slender chance to escape before Peter’s iron fists closed on him awoke a long dormant madness; Mendick feinted joyously for Armstrong’s eyes, watched him jerk backward and swung a savage uppercut to his groin. For a second he relished Armstrong’s high squeal of agony, and then he swept his hand sideways at the candles. The first went out immediately, but the second rolled along the table top casting dancing shadows until he snatched it up and rammed it against Monaghan’s face. Monaghan screamed and all light was extinguished.
Mendick hoped Peter would be so petrified by the sudden darkness that he would remain static, blocking the door. There was only one other exit from the windowless room, and he gambled that nobody had even considered it. Pushing past the still yelling Monaghan, he ducked under the chimney breast and thrust his head up the flue. The once familiar smell of soot and the cool downdraught from outside spurred him onward and upward, blessing his luck. In choosing the old kitchen for his interrogation, Monaghan had given him the widest chimney in Trafford Hall.
Generations of soot had coated the stonework, but there were still sufficient hand and footholds to pull himself upwards. He was suddenly grateful for his childhood years as a climbing boy, spent clambering up and around choking flues with his master lighting straw in the grate to encourage greater speed. He remembered that most of these old buildings had their chimneys placed in stacks where the flue was common to two or more fireplaces.
As a child he could have scrambled straight up and out the topmost chimney; although he was now far too large for that route, the lower part of the flue was still spacious enough to accommodate him. He pushed upward, feeling the stonework rough under his hands, coughing as soot dribbled down upon him.
“Where is he?” A sliver of light glinted from below, and he heard the distorted echo of Armstrong’s voice. “Where in hell’s name did he go? He must have sneaked past you, Peter, you useless bastard!” There was the sound of a slap and of Peter whimpering.
“He didn’t get past me, Mr Armstrong, I swear. I was here all the time. He must be a ghost.”
“Some ghost.” That was Scott’s voice, taut with fury. “He’s gone up the chimney!”
Mendick stopped moving, clinging on with his fingertips and the toes of his boots. He had hoped to escape through the fireplace of the great hall, one floor up, but the flue was more restricting than he had expected.
“I can’t hear him!” That was Monaghan’s voice. “It’s so bloody dark I can’t see anything up there either. Are you sure that’s where he is?”
“He can’t be anywhere else,” Scott told him.
“I’ll get the bastard!”
Mendick cringed from the deafening crack of the pistol; the ball smashed against the wall of the flue a few inches away from his leg, dislodging a torrent of soot.
“For God’s sake, Josiah!” Scott’s words halted in a bout of coughing, and Mendick hoped that she choked to death. “You’re as stupid as Peter!”
“Fetch a glim!” Armstrong’s voice echoed up the chimney.
Mendick could feel his fingers slipping on the soot-smoothed ledge and knew that if he did not move soon, he would fall. There was cold air and faint light coming from above, but it was impossibly far away, and he knew he could not squeeze through the narrowing passage. He had trapped himself. He saw a yellowish flicker from below as somebody thrust a candle up the chimney.
“Is that him?” Armstrong must have stepped into the fireplace. “Mendick, you bastard, come down!”
With his fingertips trembling from the strain, Mendick kept still. He knew how hard it was to make out bodies against a dark background and hoped that Armstrong would give up and try the door.
“I can’t see a bloody thing up there.” The light withdrew, and Mendick heard scrapings from the room. He eased himself further up, but the movement dislodged more soot, which showered down onto the fireplace below.
“There! I hear him! He is up there! Light a fire on the grate and we’ll smother the bastard!”
For a second Mendick was a child again, balancing on a tiny ledge while his master lit a pile of straw. He remembered the feeling of utter panic amidst the suffocating smoke, and the pain of scorched feet as he had danced to keep away from the rising sparks. He would not allow himself to be roasted alive half-way up one of Trafford’s chimneys.
Throwing himself upwards, he searched for handholds, trusting as much to luck as anything else as he clambered up the flue. Coughing, he swallowed soot, feeling the stonework tearing his clothes and ripping the skin from his body as he frantically tried to escape. He had gambled on this chimney being connected to another in the room above, but he could not see any opening in the unrelenting black stone, and the flue was becoming progressively narrower. Soon he would not be able to climb further; he would either have to stay and be suffocated, or return and face whatever ugly death Armstrong had in mind for him. The finality of death did not matter with Emma waiting, but the knowledge of defeat did.
Voices echoed hollowly. “Break up the chair and throw it on; if we get the old soot on fire, we’ll roast the peeler’s flesh from his bones!”
“Jesus!” He remembered Restiaux’s prayer as he had waited outside the Holy Land, “Lord, I shall be very busy this day; I may forget thee, but do not forget me.” The words did not give him any comfort as he heard the crackle of flames, and felt the heat beat on to the soles of his feet. He coughed desperately; the smoke was burning his lungs and stinging his eyes, but he also noticed that the smoke was not rising straight up; it was veering to the left a few feet below him. If the smoke was moving in that direction, there must be an alternative passageway, hidden in the black of the flue. He edged down, towards the leaping flames and heard Armstrong’s triumphant laugh.
“Come down and burn or stay there and smother, you peeler bastard!”
Something large was thrown onto the fire, sending an array of sparks upward; he flinched but continued to inch downwards, seeking the outlet that was redirecting the smoke. Beneath him the sparks lengthened and slid to one side, and he felt them scorching his legs and smelled his trousers burning as he eased himself lower, towards that elusive gap in the stonework, towards the fire.
He gasped as a tiny flame licked up the calf of his trouser leg, but even that small flaring light revealed the break in the flue, an opening barely wide enough for him to squeeze into. It was still beneath him, closer to the dancing flames, but with no choice he edged down, choking in the smoke, wincing as the torrent of sparks smouldered through his moleskin trousers, burning his calf and spreading onto his thigh. He chewed his lip, unwilling for Armstrong to hear him groan as the biting pain halted his downward progress.
He glanced toward the tiny opening, blocked as it was by a spiral of sparks and the lick of yellow flame. If he descended further, he would be within the fire, but to remain was to roast slowly; he had to go down. Retching, with his lungs a smoke-filled agony and the flesh of both legs now smouldering, Mendick forced himself further down. Knowing that Armstrong and Monaghan would be standing close to the fireplace as they listened for his agonies, he kicked violently, sending red-glowing soot showered down towards them, and then suddenly he was level with the opening.
Close to, the gap looked even smaller, and he was unsure where it would lead, but he knew he had to try. The alternative was a terrible death.
Thrusting his head into the reeking darkness, he wriggled his shoulders, felt his jacket tearing on the stonework, felt something ripping at his skin but pushed desperately onwards. The heat of the walls was intensifying by the second, while the smoke was so dense that every breath was a searing agony.
He heard a new terrifying roaring and knew immediately what it was. Unswept for years, the soot coating the flue had caught fire and was flaring upwards. It would only take seconds for the flames to reach him, and then he would die in slow agony. The flames would scorch away his flesh and race on upwards, leaving him flayed and trapped to die screaming in the dark. The heat increased, roasting his legs, driving the air from his lungs. He gasped, coughing furiously as every whooping breath increased his torment.
“Burn, you bastard!”
The voice came from beneath him as he writhed. He thrust himself into the narrow gap heedless of the pain as skin and flesh was flayed from his shoulders and burned from his legs.
There was cool air on his face as he scraped forwards, and then his hips jammed. In front of him was a small square where the blackness lightened to gray, but the narrowness of the opening stopped him, and he screamed, giving way to the pain of the flames that tormented his feet and legs.
“Jesus, help me!” Mendick felt panic overcome his sanity, remembering the terror of his childhood years, and sobbing with desperation he hauled himself on, shrieking at the combined agony of fear and fire and ripped skin.
“There he goes, squealing like a baby!” Laughter followed Armstrong’s words, and the prospect of their pleasure spurred Mendick to a final effort. Grabbing hold of the stone with already shredded fingers, he screamed away his pain as he plunged forward, feeling his trousers rip and his skin peel away as he forced himself through the last obstacle.
After the horror of being trapped, the cool dark was heaven, but he knew that he could not pause to savour it. He crawled on only to fall headfirst into gaping space. There was hardly time to yell before he landed with a clatter in an empty fireplace.
He lay still for a second, cradling his agony. He coughed, the smoke was rasping at his lungs, and forced himself to look at his legs. He felt massive relief when he saw that although his trousers were scorched and smouldering, his burns were only superficial, although no less painful for that. Swearing, he crushed away the last glowing sparks with the flat of his hands, and only then did he inspect his surroundings.
He was in a bare room with walls and floors of undressed stone, no furniture, no floor covering, but two doors and a shuttered window. He flinched when somebody spoke outside and looked hopelessly for somewhere to hide. He knew he was too exhausted to put up a fight if he was caught here and breathed a sincere prayer of gratitude as the voices died away.
“Thank you, Lord,” Mendick intoned, “for saving me from the fires of hell.” For a moment he was tempted to curl into a ball on the cold stone floor, nurse his pain and relive the terror of those flames curling around his legs.
“No,” he dismissed the thought, “keep moving or the wounds will stiffen. Get out now.” He had seen a lot worse out East, but he was shaking with reaction at the remembered horror.
Forcing himself upright, he staggered to the shutter and eased it open, but the ancient windows were barred against intruders, and he had no tools. For a second he cursed his bad luck, stared outside at the dark grounds leading to freedom, and then he closed the shutters and limped across the room. The first door opened onto a cupboard, the second gave access to one of the panelled corridors that threaded through Trafford Hall, and he moved out cautiously, very aware of the echo of his footsteps.
“Well, now we know exactly what we must do.” The voice was Scott’s; she had reassumed her educated accent, and Mendick felt the sudden batter of his heart. Backing into a recessed doorway, he tried the handle and eased himself inside as Scott and her companion walked along the corridor.
“We will use O’Connor’s march and Monaghan’s insurrection to our advantage.” Scott was speaking quite casually, as if witnessing attempted murder was a daily occurrence.
The room he found himself in was dark, with chairs arrayed around a central table and with a sideboard loaded with decanters. The footsteps stopped right outside, and Mendick looked for somewhere to hide. There were no other exits, and he refused to contemplate the fireplace.
The door opened and as Scott stepped in, Mendick rolled under the table, smothering his pain as his shin scraped along the carved wooden leg. There was the rasp and flare of a Lucifer and the soft glow of a candle.
“Let’s have a drink.”
“Feel free to use my brandy.” The second voice had the well-remembered arrogant drawl and slight lisp of Sir Robert Trafford. “You treat it like your own anyway.”
“It’s as much mine as yours, Robert,” Scott responded coolly.
Mendick kept very still, hoping nobody would look beneath the table. There was the gurgle of liquid, the click of a glass stopper and a brief exchange of a toast.
“To the white horse.”
“The white horse, damn his evil hide.” The arrogant drawl paused. “Can you smell smoke? There’s a most damnable smell of smoke in this room.”
“I can’t smell a thing,” Scott sniffed loudly. “It’s probably a backdraught from another fire. One of your flues was on fire earlier; shocking stench there.” She gave her distinctive laugh. “It was like something had crawled up the chimney and died.”
“Oh. That must be it then.” There was a sharp clink as Trafford replaced his glass on the table. “So with this revolution in France and all the troubles in Italy, the Whigs are really shaking. They will be on the alert.”
“Indeed they will,” Scott agreed. “And the Chartists will give them exactly what they expect. When O’Connor’s rabble rally on Kennington Common and Monaghan’s volunteers create mayhem up and down the country, the government will be hard pressed to keep control.”
“Everybody will be watching the Chartists,” Trafford agreed. “Finality Jack cannot afford troubles in London, so he’ll send in the army and then order them up here to finish the job. I expect there will be hundreds executed or transported to the Colonies. The Chartists will be destroyed.”
“Exactly,” Scott said, “and all that commotion will mean that our target is more vulnerable.”
“Excellent.” Trafford gave a sudden high laugh. “Bang, bang and little Drina is dead, the government collapses, people fear revolution on a European scale, and I am out of the woods.”
“And Ernie’s white horse is back in his own stable,” Scott murmured, “ruling Britannia.” There was the swish of brandy again and a second clink of crystal on crystal.
“And far more importantly, your father will be paid, and my creditors will be yapping at the heels of somebody else,” Trafford added, sniffing again. “I was right though, Rachel, there is a most abominable stink of smoke in here.”
“Perhaps we should go elsewhere, then,” Scott decided. “We can dodge these blackguard Chartists and find somewhere private.”
“By God, Rachel, I will ensure that once I am back above par, no radical will ever enter my policies again or set a single foot on my lands.” The glasses clattered onto the table, and they left leaving the door open wide.
“Merciful heaven.”
Mendick crawled from under the table and slumped onto a chair, rubbing his legs as tenderly as he could while he tried to make sense of what he had heard. It seemed that Scott and Trafford were only using the Chartists as cover for another plot, but he could not fathom why. He did not know who Drina might be or what the white horse signified, but neither really mattered to his duty. He had been sent here to find out what the Chartists were planning, and he had done just that.
Whatever double game Rachel Scott was playing, Monaghan and Armstrong were undoubtedly dedicated to the Chartist cause, and they intended to use O’Connor’s planned gathering in London to cause revolution.
Mendick looked down at himself; even with his clothes frayed and scorched and his legs screaming their agony, he carried an important message. He knew exactly how dangerous these men were, but he had one advantage: they believed that he was dead. Now all he had to do was remain undiscovered until night, slide away from Trafford Hall, catch a train to London and warn Scotland Yard. He looked up instinctively as somebody walked into the room. Monaghan stood there with a lighted candle in his hand.
“You!”
For a second they stared at each other, and then Mendick moved. Although he was exhausted and injured, he was also a trained soldier and an experienced police officer, while Monaghan was only a politician. Feinting to the left, Mendick dodged Monaghan’s clumsy lunge and landed a perfect punch straight to the politician’s throat.
Unable to yell, Monaghan folded to his knees, making strange gargling noises. For one mad moment Mendick wondered if he should kill Monaghan now and end the threat of revolution, but he pushed temptation aside. He was a police officer, not an executioner. Ignoring the pain in his legs, he pounded into the corridor. As he did so, he heard voices, recognised Armstrong’s Northumbrian accent and knew that he had delayed a fraction too long.
The corridor stretched ahead punctured by a score of doors, decorated by portraits of long-gone Traffords and as friendly as the teeth of a fighting dog. Mendick knew he could no longer hide; Monaghan would scour the building. He had to leave the house and run.
But how? The doors would be guarded, and every ground floor window seemed to be barred. He swore in frustration then remembered the kitchen where he had broken in so many weeks ago. Fighting the searing agony of his burns, he hurried along the corridor, shoving aside a startled servant as he slammed open the kitchen door.
“What?” A maid stared at him, backing away as he entered. “There’s no Chartists allowed in here, sir.”
Mendick ignored her and strode to the window. As he had guessed, the broken pane had been replaced but the bars had not. He wrestled with the catch, swearing. The window held; escape was a fraction of an inch away, but he was still trapped. The frightened squeals of the maid had attracted attention, and he heard male voices and the thunder of booted feet.
Careless of the noise, he lifted a box of soap and threw it at the window, kicked away the worst of the fragmented glass and squeezed through the gap in the bars. Cold iron raked painfully across his torn hips.
“There he is!”
“Shoot the bastard!”
He dropped, rolling on gravel which scraped his legs abominably, but rose as soon as he heard the penetrating crack of a pistol. He was running even as he smelled the whiff of powder smoke, jinking from side to side with legs trembling and the pain from his burns mounting with every jarring step. There was another shot, the sensation of disturbed air as the ball passed close by his head, and then he was among the trees, cursing the morning light threatening to betray him. Had time passed so quickly?
“Get your servants out, Sir Robert.” That was Armstrong’s voice. “And loose the dogs. He’s a police spy!”
Dawn eased incandescent and pink-grey over policies sugared with the call of early birds and perfumed with new growth. Mendick moved as quickly as caution allowed, aware that the budding branches offered no protection against pistol shots, but knowing that lingering would be fatal. The peace of the country depended on the intelligence he had gleaned.
Gasping as the pain in his legs increased, he dodged among the shrubbery. Something snagged at his ankle, and he tripped. His head slammed against the bole of a tree, momentarily stunning him. He lay still until the pain in his head was under control and his mind was again clear, and then looked ahead.
“Sweet God in heaven!”
Before him the mantrap gaped open, its saw-edged teeth waiting for a victim. His ankle had scraped against the outside. London life may have its dangers, but living in the country was not idyllic.
Rising swiftly, he headed for Trafford’s boundary, watching all the time for mantraps and the equally unpleasant spring-guns. There were men swinging ugly blackthorn cudgels when he approached the wall, their voices pitched high to conceal their nervousness, and he ducked behind the rough trunk of an elm. Somebody laughed, the sound harsh in the still morning, and a dog began a series of staccato barks until its keeper kicked it quiet.
Burrowing close to the tree, he watched the servants pass before he moved forward. After surviving the flue, scaling a twelve-foot wall was nothing, but the broken glass at the top removed more of his clothing and more of his skin. Dripping blood, he staggered through the woodland, jumping at every sound. If Armstrong had alerted the Chartists, they would hunt him like a fox.
He heard voices close by and fought the temptation to hide; he struggled on, dragging his torn legs through the undergrowth, sobbing with pain and exhaustion, still coughing away the smoke in his lungs. At that moment he had no idea what to do except to continue running and head for London. He shook his head; that horse would not run. He needed a more practical plan. With no money in his pocket and his legs shaking beneath him, he would not be able to manage a quarter of the distance. He needed somewhere to rest, recuperate and regain his strength.
“The police,” he told himself. “I can go to a police station,” immediately realising he could not. The police would telegraph Scotland Yard, and the Chartists who infested the telegraph system would probably withhold the message and would certainly know his whereabouts. Indeed, Sergeant Ogden had mentioned that the Chartists had even infiltrated the police ranks. He would have to get his message to London in person, but in his present condition he could not. The thought of Jennifer Ogden’s cheerful, capable face came to him. She would help; he could find sanctuary in White Rose Lane.