The Darkest Walk of Crime by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald [Archibald, Malcom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fledgling Press
Published: 2011-07-10T15:13:16+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Manchester: December 1847

“There’s nothing godly about this one.” Pulling back his foot, Armstrong kicked hard into Ogden’s ribs. The policeman groaned and tried to curl into a protective ball, but Peter reached down and pulled him to his feet. “This is Sergeant Ogden of the Manchester police.”

Ogden tried to straighten, but the pain of broken ribs forced him into a crouch. He gasped as Armstrong slapped him hard across the head.

“Sergeant Ogden is a spy for the government, aren’t you, Sergeant Ogden?” Punctuating each question with a savage slap, Armstrong continued, “You have been spying on us, haven’t you, Sergeant? And you’ve been watching what we’re doing, haven’t you, Sergeant? And you’ve been sending messages down to your masters in London, haven’t you, Sergeant?”

“That’s enough.” Mendick grabbed Armstrong’s wrist, feeling the frailty of bone and the lack of muscle. “We’re Chartists, not savages.”

“Mr Mendick is right.” Scott stepped forward. “Anyway, it’s not what Sergeant Ogden has been doing that matters, it’s how much information he has sent down to London.”

“I’ve sent nothing to London.” Bright blood dribbled from Ogden’s mouth and onto the carpet. “And that’s God’s own truth. I swear.”

“Ask him again,” Armstrong said quietly, and Peter landed a slashing chop to Ogden’s kidneys that sent the sergeant reeling back to the floor. He writhed, clutching his back and gasping at the fresh agony.

“For God’s sake!” Mendick stepped forward. “You can’t treat the man like that!”

“We don’t want to.” Monaghan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “But we have to. I told you we would show you the true face of the enemy, and here it is.”

“He doesn’t look very dangerous to me. For mercy’s sake, let the man go!”

Monaghan shook his head. “You are a compassionate man, Mr Mendick. I admire that trait, but sometimes we have to push our natural sympathy, aye, even our Christianity, aside for the sake of the greater good.”

Peter lifted Ogden and punched him again, twisting his fist to direct the blow inward, and the sergeant screamed his agony.

“Please! I tell you, I didn’t send any messages.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth.” Mendick tried to pull Peter back, looking to Scott for support, but again Monaghan intervened, shaking his head.

“There is no secret that the various branches of the Chartist movement use pigeons as carriers,” Monaghan explained. “We have done so for years. But the authorities have grown wise to that, so they have borrowed our ideas. You see,” he nodded to Ogden, who was trying to straighten up, “that man is one of the leading experts in pigeon racing in this area. Obviously we have been aware of him and only a few days ago we intercepted one of his messages.”

“Intercepted? How?” Mendick stared at Monaghan. “How can you intercept a pigeon?”

“With a hawk,” Monaghan said bluntly, and Scott looked shrewdly at Mendick.

Dipping into her pocket, Scott produced the slip of paper she had been reading earlier. She handed it to Mendick, who read it quickly: Trafford friendly with Chartists. Has large quantity of arms.

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