Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  Dan emerged from the archway.

  Jones grunted and turned back to his unloading. “What do you want of me?”

  “Last Friday you set off from here for Tewkesbury as usual,” Dan said. “Shortly after you’d gone a woman’s body was found.”

  “If I’d done for her, I’m hardly likely to have come back here, am I?”

  “Maybe not. But you might have seen or heard something last Thursday night.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything unusual. Someone hanging around the yard. Sounds of a struggle.”

  “Not from Cripplegate, I wouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Always stay with my sister and her husband in Cripplegate on Thursdays. You can go and ask her if you like.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Chiswell Street, opposite the Finsbury Eating House.”

  “I will check your story, Jones. And if I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll make a point of meeting your wagon here every Thursday.”

  “Please yourself. You won’t find anything on me.”

  Dan nudged a butter barrel with his toe, eliciting a sloshing sound. “What, not even the odd drop of French brandy that’s found its way up the Severn?”

  “You are a knowing one, be’nt you?” Jones glanced about him and lowered his voice. “If you’d like to take some home. On the house, of course.”

  “Not for me.”

  Dan turned on his heel and strode back to the din and whirl of Holborn. In the spot he had recently occupied stood a tall man in a greatcoat and broad-brimmed hat. Like Dan, he was watching the entrance to the Feathers. His stealthy manner made Dan connect him with the carrier’s illicit trade. He was there for the brandy, had seen Dan talking to Jones and was waiting for him to leave. Even if Dan was minded to hang around to see if he was right, they were such small operators it would hardly be worth the effort. And he would have to explain to Sir William what he had been doing at the Feathers when he was supposed to be working the Parmeter case.

  A crested carriage flashed past. When Dan looked again, the man had gone. Cautious fellow. Today, though, he and Jones would be left to get on with their business without Dan’s interference. He went straight to Chiswell Street, where he got confirmation that Jones had been in Cripplegate on the night of the murder at the Feathers. He could be crossed off the list of suspects. It might have felt like progress, except that his was the only name on it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Lord Hawkhurst is expecting us, Harry.”

  “Of course, Mr Townsend.”

  Townsend had made quick work of setting up the meeting with Hawkhurst: it was only yesterday that he had agreed to the interview. Harry, the footman who let them into the Cavendish Square house, would have been a fine-looking young man if he had taken more care with his dress, combed his hair and lost his paunch. Handing over his hat and coat, Dan caught the sour whiff of drink on his breath.

  Dan had seen his fair share of opulent halls in the last few days and this one was no exception. It was, however, battered and neglected. There were muddy boot marks on the floor, a jumble of riding whips, cricket balls and boxing gloves on the marble-topped table, and the bust of some worthy ancestor had been used for pistol-shooting practice.

  “This way.”

  Harry, their coats over his arm, slopped towards a door with chipped paintwork. It opened before they reached it. A young woman emerged, propelled by the sound of male laughter. She was wearing a sprigged dress which made her look younger and prettier than when Dan had last seen her, but her face was flushed and she swayed when she came to a stop.

  Inside the room someone kicked the door shut. Dan stepped forward and took her arm. “Miss Taylor? Are you ill?”

  She turned unfocussed eyes on him, hiccupped and said, “Mis’ Foster…sho kind…overtaken by faintness…my excessive sensibil’ties—”

  He led her to one of the hall chairs, swept off the crumpled silk jacket on the seat, and lowered her into it.

  “Call a hackney for the lady,” he said over his shoulder to the grinning footman.

  “Call one yourself,” Harry retorted.

  “Do it now, or I’ll kick you downstairs.”

  The flunkey shrank back in alarm. He glanced uncertainly at Townsend, who nodded. Muttering, Harry dumped their coats on the table and went out into the street. Dan would have liked to ask Agnes Taylor what she was doing here, but she seemed to have fallen asleep. Harry returned to say the carriage was outside.

  “Did she have a cloak?” Dan asked.

  Grudgingly, Harry fetched it from the cloakroom at the side of the hall. He leaned one hand against the wall, the other on his hip, and watched Dan help Agnes Taylor out of the house.

  “Be quick, Foster,” Townsend called after him. “His Lordship mustn’t be kept waiting.”

  Dan handed Agnes her cloak and settled her into the coach. He gave the driver the Berkeley Square address and some money for the fare. When he got back to the hall, Harry was spluttering indignantly at Townsend. He tapped his temple with his finger, hastily dropped his hand when he saw Dan. Townsend looked at Dan and pursed his lips, but before he could pass comment the door opened again. A long, thin face thrust itself into the gap.

  Behind the face, someone called, “Who is it, Bredon?”

  “The deuce,” Bredon cried, “it is the Townsend!”

  The men inside the room cheered. “The Townsend! The Townsend!”

  Harry winked and slouched off. Bredon flung open the door and with a flourish stepped aside. Townsend strutted over the threshold and Dan followed him into a large drawing room. There were half a dozen men inside, though the noise they made suggested four times as many. Bredon held up his hand and the chanting trailed off.

  A line of tall windows let in a drizzly grey light. The only furniture was an assortment of chairs and tables around the walls, the dusty tables given over to collections of glasses and bottles. Two swordsmen in protective doublets stood on a long strip of carpet in the centre of the scuffed floor. One was doubled over with his hands on his knees, panting and sweating. The other was hardly out of breath. He was older than his opponent by at least a decade, but less flabby, tall and lean with dark curly hair, a full mouth, the regular features of a man who could be described as handsome. His looks were marred by the humour in his eyes, for it was an ill-natured, cynical one. This, Dan guessed, was Lord Hawkhurst.

  Lord Hawkhurst threw his foil aside. It spun across the floor and came to rest against the wall. He unbuttoned his doublet, strolled to one of the tables, filled a large glass with wine, then flung himself down across a couple of chairs. Bredon sidled over to join him. The two men were contemporaries, and Bredon’s claim of the place at Hawkhurst’s side suggested long familiarity. Yet while Hawkhurst seemed indifferent to his companion, Bredon was slyly attentive of him.

  The five younger men clustered around Townsend as if he was their favourite uncle, all speaking at once.

  “Why, Townsend, you missed a delicious frolic.” This from a barefooted man with untidy hair and unshaven chin who was dressed in breeches and shirt that looked as if he had slept in them. “A woman came here seeking subscriptions to a book of euley-lol-lologies.”

  A strapping young buck pressed a hand to his chest and said mincingly, “Simple and pathetic stanzas from my feeble pen, but drawn from a wellspring of earnest feeling.”

  The others chimed in, each shouting to be heard above his fellows.

  “And she was appealing for the support of poor dear Miss Parmeter’s friends.”

  “Who she knew would wish to include their names in a little volume of touching and mournful lines penned in memory of the unfortunate lady, so cruelly slain.”

  “With a good deal besides of epitaphs and monumental inscriptions and melancholy reflections.”
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br />   “Let us not forget the melancholy reflections!” yelled the man who had been fencing with Hawkhurst, stabbing at the curtains.

  “And Hawkhurst said, ‘I wouldn’t piss on that damned whore if she was on fire.’”

  “And the lady started to flutter.”

  “And Hawkhurst ordered the footman to bring in some water.”

  “And when she wasn’t looking, he poured brandy into it.”

  “She drank near half a pint before she noticed,” roared a rosy-faced Irishman with the chins and stomach of an habitual over-eater.

  “And Hawkhurst said, ‘Drink up, my dear, ’tis nothing but a little cordial to restore your strength.’”

  “And then he offered her some more and she said, ‘Don’t mind if I do!’”

  “And swigged it down like a good ’un!”

  This was too much for the youths, who collapsed into one another’s arms, braying with laughter. Lord Hawkhurst, the instigator of the frolic, listened to all this with a discontented expression, Bredon watching him all the time.

  “A damned poetry book by a damned woman,” Hawkhurst growled. “Teaching a pig to count has more sense to it. Poets! I’d see the whole tribe in hell.”

  The man who had been fencing with him stopped swishing his blade at an imaginary foe and cried, “Why, Fotheringham, don’t you write verses?”

  Fotheringham, a pale, pimply undergraduate, reddened. “One poem, once. Haven’t touched the stuff since.”

  At this they laughed all the louder. Hawkhurst grimaced and slumped deeper into his chair. Bredon jumped to his feet and snapped his fingers.

  “So, Townsend, what have you brought us?”

  Townsend addressed Lord Hawkhurst. “This is the man I told you about, Lord Hawkhurst. Dan Foster.”

  Hawkhurst came back to life. “The boxing cove?”

  “No, My Lord,” Dan said with an irate glance at Townsend. “A principal officer of Bow Street investigating the murder of Louise Parmeter.”

  Lord Hawkhurst raised one eyebrow. “So this is the fellow who’s so eager to find Louise’s murderer amongst her ex-lovers? Must be any number of suspects.”

  His tagtails guffawed. Bredon handed Townsend a glass of wine. Dan shook his head when a glass came his way.

  “What’s this, what’s this, what’s this?” Bredon squeaked. “You’ve brought us a bloody Quaker?”

  Townsend took an appreciative sip of his drink. “No accounting for taste.”

  Hawkhurst rose and sauntered over to Dan, slowly circled him. He came to a halt in front of him and slapped him on the arm. “Keeps himself in training, I see. Well toned too. Excellent. Well done, Townsend.”

  Dan, who could not understand what Hawkhurst meant by crediting Townsend for his muscles, attempted to take control of the situation. “Perhaps you would prefer it if we conducted our interview in private?”

  “No, no, here will do. Bredon?”

  Bredon gave an eager bow and hurried out of the room. The others were silent, their eyes flickering from Dan to Hawkhurst. Something was going on here: but what? Dan looked at Townsend, who was contemplating the bottom of his glass with a nonchalant air. The sound of Bredon’s footsteps in the hall, the opening of a door, and the rumble of distant voices fell into the expectant silence.

  Dan refused to be distracted. “It’s been suggested,” he said to Lord Hawkhurst, “that you were in the habit of sending Miss Parmeter objects intended to threaten and intimidate.”

  “And I know who did the suggesting,” Hawkhurst said. “That tight-arsed lady’s maid.”

  “Is it true?” Dan persisted.

  Hawkhurst walked to the table, refilled his glass, rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Officer?”

  “I think it would be better if you answered the question.”

  Hawkhurst laughed. “Ain’t he direct?”

  The door swung open and Bredon reappeared, ushering in another man like a stage manager presenting a new act. The newcomer’s appearance made a sharp contrast with Bredon’s weedy body, shrivelled muscles and drink-pickled face. The muscles rippled on his shoulders, torso, arms and legs. He was dressed in breeches and soft pumps, bare to the waist, his face, hands and neck darkened by outdoor labour. He had short hair, cut like a pudding bowl, keen eyes, the naïve look of a young working man who thinks his fortune is about to be made. Confused by the drunk, eager faces, he looked uncertainly around the room.

  “Foster, meet Tom Hart,” said Hawkhurst. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll tell you things that will make your hair turn grey. I’ll confess to deeds my closest friends don’t know about. I won’t keep a secret from you. All that, and all you have to do is beat him.”

  “Beat him?” Dan repeated. “You mean fight him?”

  “But of course I mean fight him. Why else are you here? Townsend, don’t say you didn’t tell him!”

  Dan sought out Townsend, who stood smirking by the table. He knew. The whoreson knew. He had arranged the whole thing in advance. That was why he had changed his mind about questioning Hawkhurst, just so he could play this stupid prank.

  Tom Hart smiled, his confidence returning as his gaze settled on Dan. The comparison was in his own favour: the match was even at most. Dan could see it in his eyes. Hart thought this was his chance to shine.

  “I’ll not fight anyone,” Dan said.

  He moved towards the door. He refused to look at Hart, to give the slightest excuse for Hart to think he was ready to meet his challenge. Hawkhurst jerked his head. The pugilist stepped forward. His bunched fist hurtled towards Dan’s face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was instinct that saved Dan. He parried Hart’s blow with his left arm and backed away, found his way to the door blocked by the young men. He tried to swerve round them, but they joined ranks and shuffled across his path. Hart was behind him but Dan would not face him. He tried to force his way through the bawling drunkards, saw in their gleeful faces that Hart was coming after him, and had to spin round and deflect another attack. Hart was a powerful if unsubtle fighter, and now he was doing what he did best, his nervousness was forgotten.

  Dan held out his hands, struggled to make himself heard above the din. “Hart, I did not come here to fight you.”

  Hart grinned, his crooked teeth making him look boyish. In a broad Yorkshire accent, he said, “I knew you’d say that. You don’t fool me.”

  “I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t want to fight you. They’re just playing games with us.”

  The other man shook his head. “Suit yours’en.”

  He aimed another blow. Dan ducked, heard the satisfying ‘smack’ as Hart’s fist connected with Fotheringham’s erupting face. The poet fell back, howling. His friends yelped with delight.

  Hart swung back to challenge again, but Dan had had enough. There was only one way to end this and he took it. As he defended himself from the next punch, he drove his right fist into Hart’s face. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He staggered back, swayed and toppled.

  The disappointed groans died to an uneasy silence. Dan looked down at Hart. The young fighter would have a dreadful awakening. Whatever promises Hawkhurst had made him would always have been liable to disappointment, dependent as they were on the whim of a wastrel lord. After this, all was over before it had begun. Hart would be left to make his way back to whatever farm or cotton mill he had been plucked from, his dreams of pugilistic glory ended. All to provide entertainment for Hawkhurst and his friends.

  Dan moved towards the door. This time no one tried to stop him.

  “Foster, wait!” Hawkhurst called. “Will you accept my challenge?”

  “My Lord!” Townsend exclaimed. “I must counsel you against such a move.”

  “Keep out of it, Townsend. Foster, will you go a few rounds with me?”

  Townsend’
s face was the colour of clay. The fight with Hart was one thing, but a Runner fighting a lord, and a lord who was a friend of the Prince’s! It should not – could not – happen. It was overstepping a mark. Worse, there’d be questions asked about his part in it. He met Dan’s eye, gave a warning shake of the head.

  “Yes,” Dan said.

  At once the atmosphere was taut, excitement snapping in the air. No mill between low pugs this, but a serious stand-up match between two cool-headed men who knew what they were doing. Dan had seen the mufflers in the hall, knew that Hawkhurst was a sporting man. That he was a confident fighter was obvious from the self-assured way he stripped off his fencing doublet and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a wiry body. Quickly his orders were given: Harry the footman was sent for to act as his second, the Irishman allocated to Dan, a couple of servants summoned to carry off Hart.

  Dan’s second held out his plump hand. “Ormond.”

  Dan hesitated. He would rather manage alone than put up with a loutish drunk for an assistant. But Ormond’s appointment had sobered him: sport like this was too serious a business for a fuddled head. Dan took the proffered hand. Ormond regarded him with the awkward sympathy of one who looks on a doomed fellow creature.

  Dan took off his necktie, jacket and shirt, draped them over a chair, sat down and pulled off his boots. He and Hawkhurst were of a similar size and build; a brand-new pair of pumps was offered to him from the lord’s store. They were a good fit, good quality too.

  Fotheringham, his spotty chin turning from red to blue, had sufficiently recovered from his injury to fix his attention on an escapade that was destined to be the talk of the London clubs. The barefooted man chalked a far from straight line on the carpet. Hendbury, Hawkhurst’s fencing adversary, was chosen as referee, with the spark who had mimicked Agnes acting as umpire in case of dispute.

  While all this was going on, Ormond whispered to Dan, “It might not be too late to stop this. I could speak to Hawkhurst on your behalf.”

  Dan made no reply. Ormond sighed and accepted the towel, bucket and sponge Harry handed him.