Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  The circle was formed, a quieter one now, its bets placed – not so much on who would win, but on how many rounds it would take Hawkhurst. Dan and Hawkhurst stepped up to the line. Hawkhurst’s fencing friend decreed “Broughton’s Rules”. The fighters shook hands and went back to their makeshift corners. Harry’s face leered at Dan over Hawkhurst’s shoulder: he was going to enjoy seeing the Bow Street man beaten to a mush.

  Fotheringham rang a hand bell and the fighters came out to meet one another. They circled in the silence, footsteps alternately muffled by the strip of carpet or tapping on the wooden floor. Their breathing became louder. Grunting softly, they loosed experimental punches, none of which hit home.

  The round ended and the combatants retired to their corners. Dan let Ormond wipe him down while he considered what he’d learned. Hawkhurst moved well; moved quickly, too. He was used to drinking enough to floor the average man without feeling the ill-effects of it. The damage would show as he aged, but that gave Dan no advantage now. What was more promising was the stiffness of Hawkhurst’s style. It was too disciplined, too classical, over-reliant on well-learned and practised moves. It was a style that would work well if he was up against another gentleman boxer.

  Dan was no gentleman.

  In the second round, he complemented Hawkhurst’s precise style by throwing some wild swings and letting himself be wrong-footed once or twice. When he got a punch in, he acted as if he’d just won the champion’s belt. When he took one, he played baffled, as if he hadn’t known where it came from. They went at a good pace, the speed of the contest enough to thrill the audience, show both fighters to advantage.

  In his corner, Hawkhurst lapped up his friends’ encouragement, not all of which failed to reach Dan’s ears. He knows a few moves, but you’ve been tutored by the best. All he’s had is some washed-up fighter in a backstreet gym. He’s no match for your science.

  Dan winced as Ormond wiped blood off his lip. “You keep going like this, you’ll tire him,” the Irishman said.

  It was true, but it was not how Dan was planning to end the fight.

  Ormond narrowed his eyes. “You’re up to something.”

  Dan took the cup of water from the Irishman’s pudgy fingers, swigged, spat into the bucket. The referee called them up to the mark. By now Townsend was looking more relaxed. The world would remain the right way up: Dan wouldn’t be knocking down Hawkhurst any time soon. Hawkhurst had the same thought. He came out with an arrogant swing, a superior smile as his fist glanced over Dan’s cheek. Dan faltered, shook his head, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Hawkhurst’s eyes glinted. He stepped after Dan, feet perfectly placed, arms at the perfect angle. He might as well have announced in the press that he was about to land a killing right.

  Time for a change of mood. Dan drew back his left fist and hammered it into Hawkhurst’s face, followed it up with the right, powered forward, driving the man back with the sheer strength of his blows. A snarl and a hit, a snarl and a hit, on and on, unstoppable, blind to the dismay on Hawkhurst’s face, deaf to the shocked yells and screams of Hawkhurst’s friends. He didn’t stop until science was on its knees, its white fingers scrabbling on the rug.

  Dan sprang away, rolled his shoulders, prowled around the kneeling man while Hendbury counted the seconds. Hawkhurst, the blood running from his mouth, got one foot on the floor and tried to rise on trembling legs. He didn’t make it and sank down, shaking the sweat out of his eyes. He tried again, but it was too late. The half minute was over.

  His friends rushed forward, helped him to his feet and on to a chair, all fussing and talking at once. Harry sponged his wounds, but he pushed the man’s hand away, croaked, “Brandy.” Someone thrust a glass into his hand.

  Ormond threw a towel over Dan’s shoulders. “You’re the real go, all right, Foster, and no one can deny it. Backstreet gym, be damned! Who taught—”

  He was interrupted by Townsend jabbing his cane into Dan’s chest. “You bloody animal, look what you’ve done!”

  “You wanted me to fight,” Dan said. “So I did.”

  “Not like this! You’re in a gentleman’s drawing room, not on some street corner. You could have killed him. Attempted murder, that’s what it is, and I’ll see you strung up for it!”

  He grabbed Dan’s arm. He might as well have grabbed a wild cat. Dan, still wrought to fighting pitch, knocked Townsend’s hand away and put up his fists. Ormond sprang between them, held out his arms, kept the two men apart.

  “It was a fair fight, and there’s no one here to say otherwise,” Ormond cried. “Not one foul called, isn’t that right?” he demanded of the referee.

  The swordsman opened his mouth to speak, quickly shut it and looked to Hawkhurst for guidance. The vanquished lord sat with his head in his hand, clutching his empty glass, paying no attention to the altercation.

  “It was nowhere near fair,” Bredon said. “Foster should be thrashed – and I’m the man to do it!”

  He went for Dan. The referee clutched Bredon’s jacket and dragged him back. Bredon whirled round and the two fell to blows. Fotheringham leapt in and attempted to pull them apart. The barefooted man caught hold of Fotheringham’s hair, but only maintained his grip for a few seconds before he screamed and tumbled to the ground, where he rolled about massaging his bruised toes. Townsend swung his cane at Dan, the swings blocked by Ormond. The others dithered on the edge of the melee and made feeble attempts to disentangle it. Harry took advantage of the confusion to help himself to some generous swigs from a wine bottle.

  A glass flew over the brawling heads and smashed to pieces on the door. “Enough!” Hawkhurst roared. “Be quiet, the lot of you!”

  They froze into a dishevelled, battered tableau.

  “My Lord.” Townsend broke the silence. “Please accept my apologies. I had no idea Foster lacked all sense of propriety. He has disgraced the office I am proud to represent, and I will see to it that Sir William is informed immediately.”

  “Shut up, Townsend,” said Hawkhurst. “Why haven’t I got a bloody drink?”

  His young followers tumbled over themselves to get to the table. Bredon stalked in front of them, poured a brandy and carried it over to Hawkhurst. He took up an attentive stance beside his chair.

  “Propriety be damned,” Hawkhurst said. “What’s the use of that to a man in the ring? He’s everything you said he was, and more. He’ll more than do.” He glared at the young men. “And what’s the matter with you, you damned puppies? If you’re so afraid of laying out a bit of rhino, you don’t belong here.” He put his fingers to his jaw, experimentally opened and closed it. “Since Foster’s such a talent for dissembling, I know exactly who to match him against.”

  “What do you mean, match me against?” demanded Dan.

  “What do you think?” retorted Hawkhurst. “For a fight by royal command in the presence of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

  “I’m not fighting anyone, royal command or not.”

  Hawkhurst laughed. “No one refuses a royal command. Not even me.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to Vauxhall. I need some cunny.”

  He strode towards the door, grabbing a bottle of wine on the way, Bredon following. The rest of the company, their differences forgotten, huzzahed, scrambled about looking for shoes, waistcoats, jackets, hats and coats, and scurried after him. When the front door had slammed shut and the strains of the ragged chorus of “A boxing we will go!” had died away, Harry tucked two unopened bottles under his arms and staggered off to enjoy them in peace.

  Dan was left standing in the midst of a wreckage of empty bottles, spilled wine, broken glass, foils, fencing doublets, discarded towels and sponges. In the silence, he became aware of a puffing sound. He looked round. Townsend had slumped into one of the chairs, where he sat breathing heavily and mopping his brow with a large spotted handkerchief.

  “I th
ought I was sunk then, to be sure!” he said.

  “You were sunk? What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Come on, Foster, don’t be so missish. You’re a boxer, ain’t you? All you had to do was box.”

  Dan took his shirt from the back of the chair and pulled it on. “You’ve ruined a promising fighter just to impress your friends.”

  “That booby Hart? It’s the way things fall and the lad has to learn it. Either he’s got what it takes or he hasn’t. Hawkhurst thinks you’ve got what it takes, and that being so, the Prince will think it too.”

  “I’m not here to fight, but to solve a case.”

  “Pho! Do you think I sent for you for your detective skills? The Prince still likes to follow the science though he doesn’t go to public matches now, on account of his vow not to. He happened to mention recently he’d like to see a good, well-regulated bout if such could be arranged without attracting too much attention. Then along comes the case, and with it a way to bring you up to scratch.”

  “So that’s why you told him I’m a pugilist.”

  “Well, ain’t you? The great Dan Foster who never loses.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “No, you only think it. You should have let Hart win if you feel so strongly about it. No, the truth is, Foster, you are a fighter. Put you in the ring and you can’t help yourself. The Prince asked Hawkhurst to cast an eye over you, and if he thought you were up to it, fix the thing privately.” Townsend chuckled. “There was I racking my brains to find a way of getting you in front of him, and then you said you thought he was a suspect. It’s the one time when one of your ideas has come in handy.”

  “His Lordship can fix what he likes. I will not fight.”

  “There’ll be a handsome reward for all involved. As I see it, everyone wins. You. Me. The Prince.”

  “You and I will do nothing like.”

  Townsend rested his cane on the floor, twirled it between his fingers. “Are you seriously telling me you’d turn down the chance of the prize of a lifetime? Other men would give their right arm for a go. Or aren’t you man enough for the challenge?”

  “I don’t fight for money.”

  “Oh, ho, above all that, are you? I wager you wouldn’t hand the purse back if it came your way. But if you’re looking for something more noble, what about loyalty to your Prince? Or are you above humouring the most generous royal gentleman in the world?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with loyalty.”

  “Go ahead, then. Refuse the Prince. What good do you think that will do your career?”

  Dan pulled on his jacket and moved towards the door. “Townsend, so help me, if I spend another minute in your company, I’ll knock your head off.”

  Townsend laughed. “You could. Like I said, you’re a fighter.”

  “I tell you, I will not fight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You will fight,” said Sir William Addington. He stood by the window, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Not a lawyer’s brief, Dan noticed, but what looked like the script of a play.

  Sir William moved back to his chair and sat down.

  “The honour of the service is at stake. Refuse and you make us a laughing stock. Worse still, you will give the men of Bow Street a reputation for cowardice. Besides, what’s the difficulty?”

  “Townsend had no right to put me forward.”

  “Townsend may have done you a great favour. Even the loser’s purse will be a tidy sum. Not that I think you will lose,” Sir William added. “Come, Foster. This is unmanly and I didn’t expect it from you. Surely you aren’t afraid?”

  “No, I’m not afraid. But I did not choose to be put in this position.”

  “Few of us do choose to be put in our positions. You need to face realities. As I told you, the Home Secretary does not want relations between himself and the Prince to get any worse. All it will take is a whisper of the royal displeasure in his ear and he won’t think twice about casting you off.” Addington gave a solemn shake of his jowls. “I won’t be able to save you.”

  No, Dan thought, you’ll be too busy protecting your own job.

  “Come, man, it’s one fight. If you win it, you could make a fortune. Think of your family.”

  “And the honour of the service?”

  *

  “A fight in front of the Prince of Wales? All the lords and ladies there to see my husband? Oh, Danny, I’m so proud of you!”

  Caroline circled her arms around Dan’s neck, plastered his face with kisses. Dan, who had just arrived home, clasped her around the waist and drew her to him, gazed over her head, let her think he shared her joy.

  “Do you hear that, Mother? Just wait till I tell Nell!”

  Mrs Harper smiled at the embracing couple. “Our Dan! Who’d have thought it?”

  “Why not our Dan?” Caroline laughed. “He’s the handsomest, cleverest, most wonderful man in the world.”

  Alex stood gripping the seat of a chair which he had used to pull himself upright on his wobbly legs. Caroline ran to him and, much to his surprise, scooped him up.

  “That’s your daddy, Alex! He’s going to fight for the Prince of Wales!” She danced around the room, singing nonsensically to Alex, who gurgled gleefully in her arms.

  “The Prince of Wales! The Prince of Wales!” Abruptly she stopped. “Dan, what shall I wear?”

  “It’s going to be a private occasion,” Dan said. “The Prince and a few friends.”

  She pouted. “Men only, do you mean?”

  “I don’t have any say over who will be invited. I just have to turn up and fight.”

  “Is it really so, Mr Foster?” asked Nick. “When is it to be? Who will you fight? Can I come wiv you when you go training?”

  “As long as it doesn’t make you late for lessons. It’s to be in two weeks’ time. As for who I’m to fight, I don’t yet know.”

  “Oh, who cares about that?” Caroline said, the prospect of a bright future overcoming her disappointment at not being there to see it. “It’s your big chance, Dan. I always knew you were meant for great things, and now the Prince of Wales says so too. Dan Foster, champion of England! Do you think we will be able to afford a bigger house? And some new furniture to put in it?”

  “Don’t go dreaming about money we haven’t got.”

  “But we will have, when you’re rich and famous.”

  “I’m not going to be rich and famous from one fight.”

  “A fight in front of the Prince of Wales! Mother, we’ll look at some catalogues at the Exchange tomorrow. Red curtains. I’ve always wanted red curtains. And a kitchen range.”

  “Caroline, it’s just one fight.”

  But she was not listening.

  *

  “Caroline’s thrilled,” Dan said.

  “It’s only to be expected,” Noah answered. “She’s always wanted you to be a boxer.”

  “I can’t get her to understand that this is a one-off. That I didn’t want it. That it doesn’t mean I’m going to make a career of it.”

  Noah rose from his armchair and stirred the fire with the poker. “She was never a great listener.”

  Dan fell silent, unwilling to pursue the point. Noah had never stood in the way of his marriage, but nor had he made a secret of his opinion that Dan had married too young and that Caroline was not the right one for him. Dan frowned into his coffee. He knew that now, when it was too late.

  He had vowed to make an effort with Caroline, to patch things up between them, and she had agreed to bring up his son. At the least, he owed her his loyalty, had an obligation to defend her from criticism, even that of his father. He wondered how she would bear it when she realised he meant what he said.

  “Who will they put you up against?” Paul took a swig of his toddy. He was the only one of the three who drank
spirits. Every evening, the old soldier treated himself to a steaming glass of gin, hot water, sugar and lemon. A well-earned treat at the end of a long working day, when everything in the gymnasium was neat and clean, and all ready for the training sessions in the morning.

  “They haven’t told me. I think that’s part of the entertainment. For them anyway.”

  “Makes no difference,” Noah said. “You’re in good condition and will be in better still when I’ve done with you.”

  “Damn them all to hell!” Dan said. “And John Townsend above all. The man means me no good, of that I’m certain. Hopes to see me fall. Why should I give him the satisfaction? Why should I fight?”

  “Because you can go out there and win and prove that you’re a better man than any of them.” Noah leaned forward, rested his hand on Dan’s knee. “And tell me true, son. Don’t you like winning? And won’t you like the money that comes with it when you do?”

  Dan looked into Noah’s smiling face, the crinkled eyes that willed him to be his best. As they had since that day Noah had picked him up, a wild, ragged street boy full of guile and hate. Noah had seen something in him, had given him dignity and honour. Had taught him they were things worth fighting for.

  He laughed softly. “You’re right, you wily old man.”

  Paul smacked his lips happily over his drink. “That’s right, that’s right. You need to put your heart into it, boy. Half measures don’t win. So you’d better be in here bright and early tomorrow because there’s a lot of training to get in and not much time to do it.”

  There was a loud pounding on the door.

  Paul put down his glass. “Who’s that at this time of night?”

  “Leave it,” Noah said. “We’re closed. They’ll go away in a moment.”

  The knocking went on, louder than ever.

  Paul stood up. “I’ll go.”

  He took up a candle from the table and went out into the gym, shading the flame with his hand. The light drew his shadowy figure through the dark space where ropes and punch bags swung eerily in the gloom. His footsteps echoed on the bare boards. He opened the creaking door at the top of the landing and went down the stairs, dragging the dim light with him.