Free The Darkest Walk of Crime by Malcolm Archibald Page A

offered his services, and I
believe we should accept them.”
    “As you wish, Mr Monaghan, as
you wish,” Armstrong capitulated immediately. He stood up, banging the embers
of his pipe onto the floor. “You claim to have come from London to help us, Mr
Mendick, and now is your chance. Come with me; we have much to do.” On this
last word Armstrong rose and limped towards the door.
    “Where are we going?” Life in
the army had taught Mendick to accept such abrupt changes in his life.
    “We are going to show you why we
so urgently need the Charter, and then we will put you to work.” Walking with a
peculiarly hunched gait, Armstrong led Mendick out of the public house and
through the arched door of a stable. Daylight from the open door silhouetted
something square and bulky in the gloom.
    The sudden beam from a
bull’s-eye lantern blinded Mendick as a deep voice challenged. “Who’s that?”
    “It’s all right, Peter,”
Armstrong said. “It’s me, and I have an ally.”                                            
    “Sorry, Mr Armstrong.” There was
a faint scrape as the man named Peter opened the shutter of the lantern. “I
didn’t know it was you.” The light altered to a less direct and wider glow,
illuminating the interior of the stable and revealing the bulky object to be a
four-wheeled brougham.
    Peter absently fondled the
muzzle of the white horse delicately feeding beside the carriage. Well over six
feet tall, his shoulders spread like the gable end of a house, yet he walked so
lightly that the straw beneath his feet barely rustled. He stood quietly, eyes
fixed on Armstrong and cradling the lantern as though it were his last hope of
sanctuary.
    “This is Mr Mendick,” Armstrong
spoke slowly. “He used to be a soldier, but now he has joined us, so we will
show him exactly why the Charter is so important to the people of Manchester.”
    “Are we going on a trip, Mr
Armstrong?” The idea seemed to please Peter.
    “Drive, Peter. I’ll tell you
where.” Armstrong jerked a thumb to the carriage. “Get in, Mr Mendick, and I’ll
educate you.”
    As Peter climbed on to the
elevated driver’s seat, Mendick ran his hand over the yellow stripe along the
blue paintwork.
    “Nice carriage.” He remembered
that some of the London criminals liked the brougham because of its tight
turning circle and wondered if Armstrong had similar reasons for his choice of
carriage. He slid inside, where fresh straw on the floor combined with the
clean upholstery to create an impression of prosperity that contrasted with the
general malaise that seemed to permeate Manchester.
    Armstrong glared at him through
these malicious eyes while his mouth retained the twisted sneer.
    “You come from London, and you
think you know deprivation.” His voice had the hard edge of Newcastle, without
the lifting twang.
    “I have lived in London,”
Mendick agreed.
    “Well, London may have pockets of
poverty, but here we live with it every day and everywhere.” Armstrong’s tone
was as challenging as his eyes, and Mendick wondered if he was adopting the
pose of the experienced Chartist educating the man from the South. “We do not
just toy with the idea of Chartism; it is not a theory for those blessed with
some education; it is the only hope of escape for the majority of our people.”
    Mendick heard the sincerity in
Armstrong’s voice; the man was not posturing but attempting to convince him of
what he believed was truth. He narrowed his eyes as his policeman’s cynicism
momentarily faltered.
    “Perhaps you should show me,” he
suggested.
    “That is my intention.”
Armstrong shifted restlessly on the padded seat.
    It took Peter several minutes to
back the single horse into position, and then they were moving out of the
stables and growling through the streets of Manchester , passing groups of broken people standing in the streets,
watching listlessly.
    “They wonder who we are and