Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  “That’s right,” said the butcher. “Oysters on a Monday.”

  “He drank coffee as usual,” said the lottery player. He leered. “Pickering says it’s good for the stamina.”

  “So all of you saw Pickering in here with a woman on Monday morning?”

  There was a chorus of “ayes”. Dan took out his book and made a note of their names.

  *

  Pickering rose to face Dan. A flicker of apprehension passed over his face, and his body tensed. Silently, he waited for whatever fate had to throw at him. In all probability, a charge of murder.

  “Mrs Martin called at the office. She left a few moments ago.”

  Whatever Pickering had been expecting, it wasn’t that. Far from being pleased to hear she had come forward, he greeted the news with a dismayed, “No! She shouldn’t have done that.”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t tell us where you were on Monday,” Dan continued. “To protect her from her husband.”

  “I – I – did she say that?”

  “And took a risk to come and tell it from all appearances. Do you know where she says you were?”

  “Has she told you?” Pickering was hedging, trying to work out how much Dan knew, how much he should disclose.

  “She has. And now I want you to tell me.”

  “The Apple Tree Tavern?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It was the Apple Tree.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  Pickering had recovered his poise, seemed more sure of himself. “About quarter to twelve.”

  “Do you remember who else was there apart from you and Mrs Martin?”

  “George Trinder, the landlord. And Jack Hazard – that’s what we call him anyway, I don’t know his real name – doing his lottery.”

  “No one else?”

  “Two or three men came in after us. I didn’t really notice.”

  That settled it. Pickering had been at the Apple Tree with Mrs Martin at midday on Monday, and there were four witnesses to confirm it. Dan banged on the door and called to the gaoler.

  “This man is free to go.”

  Pickering held out his hands. The gaoler unlocked the handcuffs and left the door open when he went out. Pickering took up his hat and moved towards the landing.

  “Tell me,” Dan said. The coachman halted. “Were you really willing to hang to save her a beating?”

  “I don’t have to worry about it now, do I?”

  Dan listened to Pickering’s footsteps pass along the hall and down the stairs, to be lost in the comforting murmur of voices from the bar. John Townsend had demanded an alibi for the time he believed the murder had been committed and now Pickering had one. Since there was nothing else to connect him to Louise Parmeter’s death, there was no reason to keep him in custody. It was the result Dan had wanted. Surely now he could get Townsend to move the case on, start considering some of the other possibilities.

  Yet there was something odd about this. Mrs Martin had surprised Pickering, no doubt of it. He had not expected her, or even, judging from the look on his face, wanted her, to put herself at risk. A man who was prepared to go to the scaffold for a woman who withheld the words that could save him must be a very devoted lover. Why then had he shown no anxiety on learning that she had put herself in danger from her violent husband to save him?

  It was curious, perhaps nothing more, most likely had no bearing on the case. But it was a puzzle, and Dan preferred puzzles with solutions. He gave Pickering long enough to get outside then followed him.

  Pickering headed towards the Strand. Mrs Martin joined him on Bridges Street. She was not crying now. Perhaps that was not remarkable since she was about to be reunited with her lover. What was remarkable was that there was a man with her, a slight figure with intense blue eyes in a thin face. He shook hands with Pickering, said something which Pickering brushed aside, a trifle peevishly it seemed to Dan. Mrs Martin slipped her arm through the stranger’s and the three of them continued along the Strand towards Fleet Street. Pickering was doing most of the talking, Dan noticed.

  Dan followed them to Wine Office Court, a narrow lane between Fleet Street and Gough Square. They stopped at a small house with a bow window displaying shoes for men, women and children. The name over the door was ‘Martin’. So this was the husband Mrs Martin was so afraid of. Martin unlocked the door. The three wished one another good evening, then the couple went into the shop, closed and locked the door.

  Whatever there was between Mrs Martin and Pickering, it was not a love affair. What, then, had been the purpose of their meeting on Monday morning? And did it have any connection with Louise Parmeter’s murder? Doubtless that would be Townsend’s conclusion, and Dan wouldn’t entirely blame him for it. There was something unsatisfactory about Pickering’s alibi, and if Townsend got wind of it the case would get no further forward after all.

  Pickering was on the move again. He hunched into his coat collar and turned away from the shop. Dan set off after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dan followed Pickering back to the stables. The great gates across the yard had been fastened. Pickering took a key from his pocket and let himself in through the wicket, leaving it ajar behind him. From the lane Dan watched him cross the yard and knock on the harness room door, where the dog inside was already barking.

  “Jacko, it’s me,” Pickering called.

  The door was opened by a short, slender lad holding a lantern. It was hard to tell who was more pleased to see his master: the dog circling around him with its tail wagging, or the stable boy with his grin a mile wide.

  “All well with the horses?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jacko answered.

  “Have they been exercised?”

  “Yes. We took them out today.”

  “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  Jacko went back and pulled on his jacket, came out with a bunch of keys which he handed to Pickering. The coachman opened the stable door. They went inside, the dog trailing happily behind. The light from the lantern scattered shadows around the interior. Dan listened to the murmur of their voices, the rap of the disturbed horses’ hooves, their soft whinnies. The sounds mingled with the slosh of water, clatter of tubs and rumble of mangles from the laundry.

  Pickering, Jacko and the terrier came out of the stables.

  “You’ve done well,” the coachman said. “I’m pleased. Get some sleep now.”

  Pickering locked the stable door and gave Jacko the key. Smiling proudly, the boy returned to his pallet bed in the harness room, the terrier following. Pickering waited until Jacko had bolted the door before running up the wooden stairs to his own rooms. A couple of minutes later a light appeared, moved about inside, became stationary. Nothing happened for several minutes and Dan was beginning to wonder if Pickering had settled down for the night when the light went out. The coachman emerged dressed in a smart hat and coat, a bundle slung over his shoulder. He passed through the wicket gate, locked it behind him and set off along the lane.

  “So they’ve realised their mistake, then?”

  The speaker was a brawny-armed woman somewhere in her fifties who stood, arms akimbo, on the threshold of the laundry.

  “They have, Mrs Watson. I’m as innocent as a newborn babe.”

  She chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far, Mr Pickering. But the idea that a gentleman such as yourself would strike down a lady like that.”

  “It’s because I’m a gentleman such as myself that they got that idea.”

  She tut-tutted. “Never known an officer of the law with the brains he was born with. It’s never what’s right with them, but what’s easy.”

  “You have reason there, Mrs Watson.”

  “Will you come in for a dram to celebrate?”

  “Perhaps another evening? I’ve something arranged for
tonight.”

  Mrs Watson winked. “Another sort of celebration, I daresay? Well, I don’t blame you for having something better to do than share a toddy with an old neighbour.”

  “But yours is always such a fine mixture. I shall partake at the first opportunity, if I may.”

  “I look forward to it, Mr Pickering. And I’m glad to see you back amongst us. There, I had better get on.”

  “You’re working late again.”

  “Yes. I’m short two pair of hands tonight. Julia’s still laid up with her leg, and that daft Welsh Charity School girl took it in her head to run off yesterday. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  “It’s always the way,” Pickering sympathised. “I’ll hold you to the promise of that toddy.”

  The neighbours parted and Pickering set off towards Regent Street. From there he went through Soho and on to Seven Dials, where he turned into a narrow lane off Monmouth Street. Most of the shops were shuttered and lights glowed from the upstairs windows. Pickering went to an open door between a cheap furniture warehouse and a second-hand-clothes shop. Inside, a steep flight of wooden stairs led up to a drinking club from where came pulsing music and the babble of voices. A number of men and women hung about in the lane, taking a break from the heat and the din.

  The doorway was blocked by a man built like a lumper. Pickering wished him good evening and would have hurried by but was detained by the doorman’s grip on his hand. Several bone-shaking pats on the back accompanied his booming commiserations on Pickering’s arrest and congratulations on his release. Pickering freed himself from the bruising goodwill at last and ran upstairs.

  Dan waited nearly half an hour for an opportunity to follow. It came when a group of loud drunks lurched into view. He staggered after them up the ill-lit stairs. The air grew hotter and noisier as they climbed, hit Dan like a gust of steam from the laundry when one of the drunks opened the door at the top. They stumbled into a room that ran the length of the furniture store beneath. Two low chandeliers swayed smokily from the ceiling. There were tables and chairs around the walls, lit by candles in wax-encrusted bottles. The room was crowded with people drinking, playing cards or dice, shouting into one another’s ears. Groups of young men and women stood about gulping beer and eyeing each other; couples embraced in corners; solitary drinkers propped up the bar.

  The music came from three musicians on a low platform opposite the bar. Two played fiddles, the third balanced a pair of drums between his knees which he struck with his bare hands. The centre of the room had been left clear for dancers whose antics bowed the floorboards up and down to such an extent Dan wondered the ceiling below did not collapse. One or two couples, heedless of the tempo, swayed dreamily together. A woman with a pipe in her mouth, skirts hitched to her knees, jigged contentedly on her own.

  Dan made his way over to the counter and ordered a soda water. He sipped, and scrutinised the room. A bit of gambling, a bit of whoring, a bit of furtive selling of stolen watches. Nothing to get too excited about. No sign of Pickering.

  A long rectangle of light appeared at the right of the band’s platform. A door Dan had not previously noticed had suddenly opened, emitting a blare of noise to compete with the music. Dan caught sight of the chamber within through the whirling dancers. It was enough to see what was going on in there.

  He got rid of his glass and circled the dance floor. He reached the door as it began to swing shut and shoved his boot against it. A lined face on a long, wrinkled neck thrust itself into the gap.

  “Invite only,” said the face, its thin lips revealing a mouth as toothless as a turtle’s.

  “I’m with Pickering,” Dan said.

  The man eyed Dan for a few seconds, then stepped back and let him in. Dan squeezed into a shadowy spot near the door, peered through the heat haze and smoke to the boxing ring in the middle of the room where two indistinct figures slogged it out. For one of them the fight was nearly over. He stumbled around the ring, head lolling, hands flapping.

  His opponent brought the bout to an end with a rush at the dazed man. He caught him by the thighs, lifted him into the air and flung him on to the boards, knocking the breath out of him. The cheers set the shuttered windows rattling. The ring filled with trainers, seconds and two of the loser’s friends who rolled him through the ropes and carried him off.

  The tense atmosphere relaxed as the audience milled around delivering its verdict on the bout, collecting its winnings, paying its debts. In the confusion Dan glimpsed the winner’s smooth, straight back. He was sitting on his trainer’s knee, the man almost buckling under the weight though he had the build of an ex-pugilist himself. The boxer wiped his face with a towel, drank some of the water offered him by his second, and spat most of it into a bucket in a bloody stream. He jumped to his feet, pranced from foot to foot, aiming blows at the air to howls of delight from the company. Dan could see why he was their champion: his form and poise were magnificent.

  He skipped around the ring. “Anyone else?” he roared.

  Dan had found Pickering.

  The drunks Dan had followed into the club had pushed their way to the front of the audience. One of them took off his hat and threw it into the ring, revealing a close-cropped skull. He had a labourer’s build: broad, muscular shoulders, thick arms, tough hands, massive legs, a lowering face under thick black brows. He stripped off his neckcloth, coat and shirt while his companions shouted encouragement.

  “Give Blackie what for!”

  “Teach him who’s master.”

  “Show the Negro what a British man can do.”

  Pickering looked down at them, his eyes glinting coldly. Suddenly he laughed, snapped his fingers. “I accept the challenge.”

  The man climbed into the ring. He fixed his eyes on Pickering, only half attended to the referee warning them to stick to Broughton’s Rules. No hitting a man when he was down, or grabbing him by the hair or breeches, and a fallen man who failed to come back up to the line within thirty seconds to be the loser.

  As soon as the bell rang, the challenger powered out of his corner and swung a hammer blow at Pickering. Pickering dodged it, got in a light hit on his face. The other man laughed it off and went after him again. Pickering ducked and deflected, edged back towards the ropes. He was nearly on them when his opponent swung back his arm. It would have been a tremendous blow had it landed home, but Pickering dodged and slipped away. Doggedly, the bulky man turned after him, but was prevented from following by the bell.

  Pickering led his opponent the same dance throughout the second round until the sweat poured down the man’s hairy back. Seconds before the end of the round, Pickering got one in under his left eye. Blood streaming from the cut, he staggered to his corner. His second soaked a sponge in cold water and applied it to the wound. He pushed it away, let out a stream of curses.

  “The bugger won’t stand still, damn him. I’ll have the black hide off his back, so help me.”

  The two set to again. Pickering kept his hand in front of his eyes, hunched up defensively, parried blows. His cringing attitude gave the other man confidence to drive home his attack. His blows grew wilder, became careless. Pickering’s supporters exchanged delighted grins and the crowd began to murmur excitedly. They knew was what coming. The stranger was too reliant on force without speed or strategy to anticipate it.

  Pickering shot a stinging backhander into his opponent’s temple with his right, immediately crunched into his chin with his left. Off guard, the man instinctively raised his hands to his face and Pickering got him in the chest, the blow sounding like a drum beat in the sudden silence. Pickering drove him against the corner post, where they exchanged blows, hard and fast. Pickering put his all into the last swing of the round, and as the bell went, the outclassed pugilist slid to the ground, his arms stretched along the rope.

  The challenger lumbered out for the next round, breathing hard,
and clumsy with fatigue. Three minutes in, Pickering levelled him with a hit under his ear. The man went out cold and did not make it to the line.

  His friends booed and grumbled.

  “Call yourself a referee?”

  “You want to do something about these lights. They give the advantage to a man used to the African sun, but are too bright for a Briton.”

  “There’s a trick in it somewhere. The black must have had weights in his hands.”

  “Give it a rest, mates,” called one of their neighbours. “Your man could never have beaten Pickering. He’s too slow.”

  “No science,” put in another.

  “Pickering had the upper hand from the first round,” someone else added.

  The man who had complained about the lights shoved the last speaker in the chest. He shoved back. The insults became more personal and fists began to fly. The disturbance spread, but it did not take the defeated man’s crew long to realise that they were outnumbered. Throwing out curses and threats, they gathered up their semi-conscious hero and left.

  Pickering, meanwhile, had collected his winnings, donned his shirt and coat, shaken hands with his male admirers, kissed his female fans, and good-naturedly refused offers of drinks and suppers. The fighting was over for the evening and the satisfied audience drifted back to the main room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pickering, his greatcoat fastened tight against the cold, led Dan towards the lights on Monmouth Street. A few moments later, they were on Oxford Street. Pickering crossed the busy road and went into the galleried building near the corner of Tottenham Court Road. Dan knew the place: the Boar and Castle Coffee House, its yard a constant coming and going of mail coaches. It was not the cheapest establishment, claiming to serve the best wines in town, though as Dan did not drink them he did not know how accurate the claim was. The coffee was good though. Pickering must be planning a stylish celebration with his winnings.