The coffee room was full, with one or two large, boisterous parties adding to the clatter of pans and jugs, the clink of cup and glass. Waiters scurried in and out. The scent of roasting coffee was rich and warming. Pickering hesitated on the threshold and scanned the high-backed booths along the side of the room. He recognised someone, made his way over, shrugged off his coat and sat down. Dan moved after him and hung up his hat and coat on a nearby row of coat hooks. While he eavesdropped he made a show of looking through the pockets as if he had lost something.
Pickering’s companion was a small, stout man, plainly though prosperously dressed. He had an open bottle of wine in front of him and a spare glass.
“Nice drop of claret this. Or d’you prefer coffee?” His accent placed him from somewhere in the East End of town.
“Wine for me, Mr Rule.”
Rule poured the drink. With a pained expression, he watched Pickering swallow it in one gulp. The coachman pushed his empty glass towards Rule and he refilled it. While Pickering swigged that, Rule waved to a waiter, held up the empty bottle. The waiter nodded and hurried off to fetch some more.
“Must bring my lady friends here,” Pickering said. “Sort of fancy place that would appeal.”
“Did the Runners give you that?”
Pickering raised his hand to a graze on his face. He laughed. “I’d like to see the whoresons try. Wasting time with me when Miss Parmeter’s killer’s out there.”
Reinforcements arrived and Rule filled their glasses again. “Things will be more difficult without her.”
Pickering reached into a breast pocket, took out the purse of winnings and passed it across the table. “I got this.”
Rule picked it up and weighed it in his palm. “How?”
“Fighting.”
“You can’t always get money that way.”
“Can’t I? There’s no one to match me.”
“We need a steady supply. This will be enough for tonight’s shipload. After that—” Rule shrugged, spread out stubby fingers.
“Then we’ll shift what we’ve got and manage as well as we can when the next lot comes in. You haven’t heard of anything else yet?”
“Nothing doing at the moment. Do you want something to eat?”
Pickering emptied his glass, stood up. “Have to get back. The stable boy’s on his own. Could do with some sleep in any case. See you at the Martins’ on Saturday night?”
Rule agreed. He rose and they shook hands. Pickering snatched up his coat and left. Dan decided there was no point following him just to watch while he slept. Far more useful to find out who Rule was and what Pickering had paid him for. It must be something important for a man to give away every penny of a hard-won prize.
Rule settled the bill and left. In Oxford Street he stopped at a hackney stand. Dan moved close enough to hear him say “Tower Hill” and see him step into the carriage. He ran up to the next in line, held up his tipstaff to the driver hunched dozing in his seat.
“Bow Street Officer. Keep that vehicle in sight.”
The driver jerked awake. “Is it murder?”
“Might be.”
Astonishing how the merest hint of being caught up in a murder case thrilled people. Useful, too. It got the driver on his side. The coachman, the cold tedium of waiting for humdrum fares forgotten, gleefully raised his whip over his pair of horses.
It was an old vehicle, damp and dirty inside, the floor covered with stale straw. Dan opened the window as they rattled away. Gradually they left the lights and lively crowds of the West End of town behind. Before long they were in a district of warehouses, shops, modest houses and shipping offices, interspersed with mansions and grand office buildings. They were close to the water, and above the jumble of rooftops, ships’ masts rose against a troubled sky where clouds loomed. The occasional cart or dray rumbled about the wharves; clusters of lanterns gathered around the steps leading down to the watermen’s boats; hazy light and noise clouded around the taverns. The wet-beast smell of the mudbanks, slimy stone, rot and decay of the rubbish that ended up in the Thames filled the carriage. Tar, coal smoke, the sickly smells and bitter fumes of industrial processes in shipyards, workshops and distilleries drifted in with it.
They drove down Little Tower Hill to the waterside and passed St Catherine’s stairs, beneath which the passenger boats had been moored for the night. The driver pulled up on the north side of the road. Dan leaned out of the window.
“He’s stopped.” The cabman pointed with his whip.
Rule got out of his carriage, waited while the driver consulted his list of prices by the light of the carriage lamp. Rule paid him, then let himself into one of the buildings facing the river. It was dark on the ground floor, but lights showed in the living rooms above.
Dan got out. “Wait for me here.”
The driver nodded, jumped down clutching a couple of blankets and flung them over the horses. The street was damp underfoot, the cobbles slippery. Mist swirled around Dan’s knees. There were still people about: sailors, women, porters, dockers, press gang officers, other more furtive folk slinking about their nefarious business. Dan caught snatches of foreign words, a blare of lines from a song, a woman’s cackling laugh. Somewhere a glass broke. Further off, a dog howled.
The building the man had entered was a large one that ran some way back from the road. Two windows on either side of the front door were closely shuttered, but the nature of the business carried on here was signalled by the wooden figure above the door. Fixed to a small platform, a blue-coated midshipman holding an octant looked out across the water. It was a ship’s chandlery, a substantial and prosperous one from the look of it. Its clientele was less likely to be the individual sailor buying his own instruments and supplies, but masters fitting out an entire ship, stocking up on oils and tar, cordage, tools, salt meat and ship’s biscuit. The name above the door was George Rule.
Was Pickering planning a voyage? Was that what the money was for? And what had the Martins to do with it? It seemed that Rule was their confederate, but in what? Were they involved in some sort of smuggling operation? Or were they more interested in lifting the cargo from vessels moored in the Thames, the ships’ loads to which Rule had referred? And how had Louise Parmeter been involved?
What could a wealthy courtesan, a shoemaker and his wife, a ship’s chandler, and a coachman have in common?
Chapter Fifteen
“You did what?” said John Townsend. He was wearing his highest-collared coat, his yellowest waistcoat, whitest cravat, and carrying his heaviest silver-topped cane.
“I released Pickering yesterday. He does have an alibi. He was only lying to protect a woman. But Mrs Martin has come forward and there are four witnesses who confirm they saw them together in the Apple Tree in St James’s Market.”
“You could have four and forty witnesses and it wouldn’t make any difference. His sort stick together, see.”
Dan and Townsend were in Louise Parmeter’s study on the day of her funeral. She had been a regular attender at St George’s Church in Hanover Square: it was where all the people of fashion went to be seen on a Sunday. The church’s burial ground lay just beyond the stables in the lane, but it was so full that human bones had been known to appear on the surface after heavy rain. She was to be buried at the new ground near Tyburn.
Dan said, “Pickering’s account was consistent with Mrs Martin’s.”
The door was closed, but mindful that the mourners gath-ered in the hall might be able to hear him and that some of those people were the cream of the ton, Townsend lowered his voice. “God’s Blood, Foster, why the hell would you believe a Negress?”
“Mrs Martin is white.”
“The kind of white woman who lies with an African.”
“I had no reason not to believe her. And it explains why Pickering lied.”
“Whether it
explains anything or not, it is not your place to go releasing suspects on your own authority.”
“I have as much authority as do you.”
“In any other case, perhaps. But this concerns the Prince of Wales, and he is my responsibility. I’ve a good mind to have you taken off the case.”
“Then do that.”
“Aye, and see how well it goes down with Sir William Addington. You’ll be finished.”
“Maybe I would, if I’d let the killer go free. As it stands, I don’t think we’ve come close to catching whoever did it. But if you’re so convinced Pickering is involved, why don’t you arrest him again? He’s standing just outside the door.”
“Laughing out the other side of his face, thanks to you. And even if he has an alibi, it does not alter the case. The fact remains that he went out of his way to be away from the house when the murder took place.”
“But we can’t be certain what time it happened,” Dan insisted.
“Very well, Foster, let’s say you’re right – though I don’t think you are, mind. What difference does that make except that instead of sitting in the Apple Tree Tavern with his mistress, Pickering was working in the stable yard? Coolly going about his business while just across the lane his partner was letting himself in at the garden gate and robbing and killing Miss Parmeter.”
“You could say the same of any of the servants.”
“True, but he’s the one we caught out in a lie.”
Dan could not deny it. He also knew that Pickering’s alibi was not as straightforward as it seemed. There was the puzzle of his cordial relations with the jealous husband, as well as the mysterious meeting with the ship’s chandler, Rule. Having heard Pickering and Rule say Louise Parmeter’s death made things difficult for them, Dan did not think it was something they had sought. He doubted he could convince Townsend of it though, and if Townsend knew all the circumstances, Pickering would be back in gaol within the hour. But Pickering behind bars could not lead him to the discovery of what he and his friends were up to, or if it was in any way connected with the murder. But there was no point trying to explain that to Townsend.
“Howsomever, it makes no odds,” Townsend said. “Miss Parmeter was killed just before twelve and Pickering’s the only one who was away from the house at the time. That in itself strikes me as peculiar, and it should strike you the same way. But now you’ve gone to the trouble of releasing him, we’re going to need more on him before we can take him back. I say it will pay to keep an eye on Pickering, and as I’m in charge of the case that’s what we’ll do.”
“Thus far I agree with you,” Dan said. “All I am asking is that we don’t focus solely on Pickering. We know no reason for him to want Miss Parmeter dead.” Before Townsend could argue, he added, “Apart from the diamonds, and he doesn’t have them. But they are not the only possible motive. I think she may have been killed by a former lover. One of them took to sending her pointed gifts such as mourning gloves and a coffin plate engraved ‘Here Lies a Whore’. If that’s not a threat, I don’t know what is. More recently, a young man had offered to kill himself for love of her and she had merely laughed at him. I doubt the attempt was serious, but the humiliation could easily have turned to anger. We already know that she had her own key to the gate and was in the habit of receiving visitors privately in her study.” Townsend did not look too sure about the last point. “I told you on Monday.”
“I’m not in my dotage, Foster. Get to the point.”
“Both of these men could have known when she’d be in her room and how to get into the house without being seen.”
“What men? Do you have any names?”
“Lord Hawkhurst sent the gifts. The other is Randolph Cruft, the banker’s son.”
Townsend stared at Dan for a moment. “Lord Hawkhurst and Randolph Cruft? Don’t you know Cruft is the Prince’s banker, and Lord Hawkhurst the Prince’s friend? Do you really think people of their rank are likely to break into a house and commit robbery and murder?”
“There’s no evidence that anyone did break into the house. You said yourself that whoever did it was admitted by someone inside. Besides, there are the memoirs. A common thief wouldn’t have been interested in them. Both these men are in a position to be embarrassed if they are made public. And the Prince did ask us to find them.”
“So he did. But I don’t think we are going to find them in the possession of Randolph Cruft or Lord Hawkhurst. No, Foster. You’ve had your fun. Time to get back to the real world.” At risk to the buttons on his waistcoat, Townsend gave a belly laugh. “Lord Hawkhurst sent the gifts, did he? That’s just like him. The man has a rapier wit.”
“I don’t think Louise Parmeter found them very funny.”
“Pho, Foster, don’t be such an old Square Toes. You’ve made a mess of things and no mistake, letting the black go. The thing is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to talk to Randolph Cruft when he gets back to London.”
“Gets back from where?”
“His father sent him to their Hertfordshire estate to keep him away from Louise Parmeter. It’s only twenty miles away. The question is, was he there on Monday morning?”
“How do you know all this?”
“I spoke to Cruft senior yesterday.”
“What? You went to see Mr Cruft? You haven’t visited Lord Hawkhurst, have you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Not yet? Lord give me strength. I will not have you calling on His Lordship until—” He broke off.
“Until what?”
“Eh? Until nothing. Until I can come with you.”
“Does that mean you do think we should speak to him?”
“Speak to him? About a murder? Why not? It’s as good as anything. Yes, Foster, we’ll speak to him. But you will not call on him without me, d’ye hear? You are not accustomed to dealing with men in his rank of life. I’ll fix a time to take you and let you know.” The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter hour. “Time to be moving off. You can come and pay your respects. No need to follow the cortège.”
“And Cruft?”
Townsend was already moving towards the door and either did not hear or chose not to answer. Dan decided to take his silence for agreement to continued investigation of the histrionic young man. He followed Townsend into the hall and stood to attention with his hat under his arm while the undertakers carried the coffin downstairs. The servants were drawn up in two lines, the scullions and boot boys scuffling at the back, the cook pinching the kitchen maids until they shut their mouths and stood up straight. Parkes was to follow the procession with Pickering and the two footmen in their smartest liveries.
Of all the mourners, it was Agnes Taylor who took it the hardest. Judging from her swollen face and red eyes, she had been crying for hours, and was not done yet. Sarah Dean, from time to time applying a dainty lace handkerchief to her eyes, glared at the poetic protégée in contempt whenever she vented another noisy sob.
Dan wondered how many of the aristocrats in the hall, who were eyeing one another with varying degrees of hostility, had reason to think they might be in Louise’s memoirs. Townsend knew most of them, but the only people Dan recognised were a few of Louise Parmeter’s Drury Lane friends. Sir William Addington stood beside the theatre manager, Richard Sheridan, whispering eagerly into his ear. Sheridan listened with a restless air: boredom, or the agitation of a man in need of a drink. Dan supposed the chief magistrate was there to ingratiate himself with the Prince. It must have been a disappointment for him that George, perhaps considering his parents’ feelings for once, had not come.
In the street a line of constables held back the crowd, who gasped in admiration at the funeral carriage with its gleaming glass and paintwork and glossy black horses, plumed and rosetted in black. The sleek undertakers, prospering in the service of Death, stood by in their long
coats and high hats trailing silk ribbons. The bearers manoeuvred the black-draped coffin into the carriage and the procession slowly set off. When it was out of sight, the housekeeper ushered the servants back to their work. Dan put on his hat and loped down the steps into the street. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but a few hung around to wait for the next bit of excitement.
*
While Townsend was busy bowing and shaking hands with the great ones, Dan took the opportunity to go to the Feathers to meet Jones the carrier. He took up position on the opposite side of Holborn, from where he had a good view of the entrance. He was not the only one waiting for the Tewkesbury wagon. A small group of people stood in the yard.
Before long a covered wagon drawn by a team of eight plodded into view. The driver was a stocky, ill-kempt man wearing heavy corduroy breeches, a sagging, stained hat, and a thick green coat. He turned his team out of the stream of traffic into the inn yard. Dan crossed the road and entered the shadows under the brick arch.
The wagoner applied the brake, stowed the whip on the side of his seat, and jumped down. He went round to the back of the wagon, where the curtain was already twitching, and said gruffly, “Lunnon.”
Four passengers, stiff and bleary-eyed, climbed out, some to be met by friends, others to shoulder their bundles and make their solitary way into the streets. Jones clambered inside the wagon and began to stack the parcels, cheeses and baskets of game ready for unloading. A young man fussed around reading labels until he found one addressed to himself, shouldered the box and carried it off.
The boy, Thomas, meanwhile, ran out of the stable to help with the horses and gabble news of the events of the last few days. The carrier, without pausing in his work, glanced at the outhouse where the woman’s body had lain.
“The Runner wants to speak to me, does he?”
“He said so,” the boy replied. “He’s a knowing one, Mr Jones. Looks at you as if he can tell exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Knowing, is he?”
The boy nudged Jones’s arm and said reverentially, “He’s here.”
Death Makes No Distinction Page 9