Free The Darkest Walk of Crime by Malcolm Archibald

every person present watching him. Some were clearly
suspicious about him, others challenging and Scott plainly curious, but
Armstrong’s right hand was inside his jacket, as if he were holding some sort
of weapon.
    “Are you willing, Mendick?”
Monaghan demanded a reply.
    His shrug was genuine. As a
policeman, he was in far more danger from these revolutionaries than from any
government hangman, but if he was caught and killed, well then . . .
    “What is the rope? What is one
life when the happiness of millions is at stake?”
    “Oh, very melodramatic,”
Armstrong said, “but let’s hear you say that when the noose is tightening
around your neck.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a hiss and the scar
raising the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever seen a man hanged, Mr Mendick?
Have you seen the sweat start from his forehead as the rope is positioned and
heard his grunting gasp as he realises he will never see another day?”
    Mendick nodded. “I have.”
    “And you are not afraid?”
Armstrong’s sneer was pronounced, but Mendick realised that others in the room
were becoming uncomfortable at his persistent harassment.
    “I did not say I was unafraid. I
said that losing my life may be worthwhile.” Mendick felt the tension in the
room ease slightly as most of the delegates approved his statement. They were
working men, made hard by adversity, but beneath the inflexible shell they were
prepared to be fair to those of whom they approved.
    Armstrong grunted and raised his
reptilian eyes.
    “It’s easy to play with words
when you are safe in this room. I’ve seen hangings enough to sicken the devil
and other things that would make you squirm in horror. I’ve seen much worse
than hangings; I’ve known men commit murder just so they could welcome the
noose as a release from unendurable torment. If you join us, you might see the
same. Are you willing to risk that?”
    This time it was Mendick who
grunted.
    “I’ve said my piece. I am a man
of my word so there is no need for me to repeat myself, but I do object to
speaking to people who seem to doubt everything I say.” Straightening up, he
looked directly at Armstrong. “Your commitment to the Charter is well known,
sir, but that does not give you the right to bullyrag me in such a manner.”
    Armstrong’s mouth tightened,
making the scar gleam white across his lower lip.
    “I believe that my commitment
gives me every right, Mr Mendick. You turned up at our meeting with a piece of
pasteboard and a paper that you might well have written yourself and with no
known history of dedication to the cause. Have you ever been jailed for the
charter?”
    Mendick shook his head. “I have
not,” he admitted. It was obvious Armstrong thought of himself as a martyr,
someone who had suffered for the Charter in the same manner as Christ suffered
on the cross.
    “ I was,” Armstrong said,
“I was, and the bastards carried me through England in an open cart, chained
hand and foot, and sent me to Van Diemen’s Land.” The bitterness increased as
he recalled vivid memories.
    The arrest and transportation of
Armstrong had infuriated many of Mendick’s police colleagues, who had hoped for
the death penalty. They had accused Armstrong of being responsible for some of
the worst violence of the Chartist outbreak of 1842, when men had died and
buildings had been torched in the name of an extended franchise.
    “Well, you’re back now.” As
Mendick focussed determinedly on those acidic eyes, he fought the chill which
emanated from this man and wondered what else in Armstrong's life had
contributed to such bitterness.
    “Aye, I’m back,” Armstrong
jabbed the stem of his pipe at Mendick, like some foul-fumed weapon from the
Pit, “and I intend to ensure that no more Chartists are sent across the pond.
Do you agree now that I have the right to query the commitment of others?”
    “I think there has been enough
querying,” Monaghan decided. “Mr Mendick has