Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  “Only that I’m informed you owed Miss Parmeter a great deal of money and she was using that to compel you to give in to her demands.”

  Understanding flashed across Sheridan’s face, closely followed by laughter. “You have a thing or two to teach Sir William Addington about drama yourself, Mr Foster. It’s an ingenious plot. However, it won’t hold up.” Sheridan looked for Thompson, who was going through a sheaf of figures with the head carpenter, who glumly shook his head whenever the bookkeeper struck another item off his list. “Mr Thompson, here a moment, if you please!”

  Thompson nodded at the carpenter and hurried back to Sheridan.

  “How much money do I owe Miss Louise Parmeter?”

  “Nothing, Mr Sheridan. That debt was repaid two weeks ago.”

  “There you are, Mr Foster. All paid up, fair and square.”

  “Only because you borrowed £200 from the upholsterer – to whom you still, by the by, owe £350,” said Thompson.

  Sheridan waved his hand. “Thank you and be gone, Master Robert Shallow.”

  Thompson rolled his eyes. “I don’t see why you always have to bring Sir John Falstaff into it whenever I bring up the question of your debts.”

  “Because, my dear Thompson, there is not one trait in human nature which Shakespeare does not penetrate. Now, be gone.” Sheridan drained his glass and stood up. “I hope I have satisfactorily answered your questions?”

  “You have, thank you,” Dan answered. “I hope you understand I had to ask them.”

  “I bear no ill will, Officer. Louise’s killer must be caught. His Highness is quite distraught about the matter. What, still here, Thompson?”

  “There is that business we need to discuss.”

  Sheridan held up a silencing hand and asked Dan, “Is there a Mrs Foster?”

  “There is.”

  “Then I’m sure you’d like tickets for tonight’s performance. Thompson here will make the arrangements.”

  Thompson clicked his tongue. “There won’t be a performance if you don’t come and talk to the actors. I’ve done all I can. They’re threatening to strike unless they get some wages.”

  “Very well, I’m coming. I’ll have the tickets sent round, Mr Foster.”

  Dan’s glimpses of loud, strutting, over-dressed actors when he was on duty had more than satisfied what little interest he had in the stage. Luckily, he was able to say, “It’s very kind of you, but I have work to do tonight.”

  “Come on Monday then. Much better. We’re doing The Stranger for Mrs Siddons. And you will have the delight of hearing my original epilogue to my Semiramis. ‘Dishevelled still, like Asia’s bleeding queen / Shall I with jests deride the tragic scene?’” Sheridan spotted the look on Dan’s face. “Hum. You may prefer The Devil to Pay afterwards. It’s an operatic farce.”

  “It’s very generous of you, but—”

  “Nonsense. Thompson, a box for Mr and Mrs Foster. And make sure it is plentifully supplied with supper.” Sheridan held out his hand. “Good luck, Mr Foster.”

  They shook hands and Dan watched him make his way across the theatre, scattering greetings to musicians, stagehands and cleaning ladies as he went. A box with supper! He would never be able to look Caroline in the eye again if he turned the offer down. A night at the theatre it was then. He sighed, put on his hat and made his way towards the exit.

  *

  It was late afternoon by the time he reached Lord Hawkhurst’s house. The footman, Harry, made some effort to smooth his tousled hair and rub the sleep out of his bloodshot eyes before stomping upstairs to tell Lord Hawkhurst he had a visitor. Dan waited in the hall for a quarter of an hour before Harry came back and announced that His Lordship would see Dan.

  Dan followed him upstairs. Harry knocked and opened the door of Lord Hawkhurst’s bedchamber. “Officer Foster, My Lord.”

  Hawkhurst’s voice, hoarse with too much wine and lack of sleep, issued irritably from inside the room. “Show him in. And bring some coffee.”

  Harry opened the door and smirked Dan inside.

  The curtains had been opened to let in the dust-betraying daylight. The room was untidy, the bed rumpled and occupied by a young woman with her hair loose about her shoulders who wore nothing but a simpering smile. Another woman some two or three years older stood beside the bed, lacing herself into her bodice.

  Hawkhurst sat by the fire, his back to his company. He was unshaven, but his hair had been combed and his shirt and breeches were fresh.

  “There ought to be an assize of whores like an assize of bread,” he said without any greeting and addressing himself to the flames. “Here’s one adulterated by false teeth, padded bosom, and fake hair. There’s another engrossed wholesale and regrated from market to market at vast profit.” He twisted in his chair. “Get out, ye trulls. Now.”

  The woman in the bed seemed inclined to pout and protest, but her companion seized a heap of clothes and dropped them on the coverlet. It should have been hint enough, but still she hesitated. Hawkhurst seized a boot from the floor and flung it at the bed. It missed by a wide margin. With a squeal of alarm, the girl leapt out of bed and, clutching her garments in front of her, pattered barefoot after her colleague. The door closed behind them as the boot’s partner thudded against the boards.

  Hawkhurst leaned back into his chair. “Where’s Townsend?”

  “Officer Townsend isn’t coming. It’s just me, My Lord,” Dan said.

  “Come to cry off the fight, have you?”

  “No. I’ve come about the investigation, My Lord.”

  “What have I to do with your investigation?”

  The door opened and Harry came in. He set down a tray with pot and cup and poured out Hawkhurst’s drink.

  “Where’s the brandy?” demanded Hawkhurst.

  “You didn’t ask for any, milud,” Harry said.

  “Then go and get some. Simpleton.”

  Harry, looking none too pleased, hurried off. Hawkhurst sipped the reviving liquid and gave a long sigh.

  “What did you say you wanted?”

  “I’ve come about the investigation,” Dan repeated. “I won fair and square yesterday and I claim my prize. Your answers to my questions.”

  “You were supposed to fight the other fellow – what’s his name?”

  “Hart. And I did fight him. Knocked him out anyway.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing, My Lord.”

  “Too polite to mention that you beat me as well, eh?”

  “I didn’t think it my place to draw attention, My Lord.”

  “Oh, didn’t you? And you can drop the My Lords. I can see it sticks in your craw.”

  Dan said nothing to this. Hawkhurst refilled his cup and took another draught. “I didn’t deny I sent those things to Louise. I don’t see what else you can have to ask me.”

  “They looked very like threats. Were you threatening her?”

  “God knows what I was doing. I must have been drunk indeed if I thought they would frighten her.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I don’t know. That they’d make her as angry as I was.” Hawkhurst stretched out his bare feet, crossed them at the ankles. “I daresay she simply smiled that maddening smile of hers.”

  “Did you know she was writing her memoirs?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “You weren’t worried that she might have written something about you?”

  “She could write what she damned well liked. And if she only wrote half the truth, she’s had none to better me. But what are you now? A literary critic?”

  “The memoirs were taken by whoever killed her.”

  “You think she was killed to prevent their publication? Interesting idea. Townsend didn’t tell me you had ideas.”

  “It happens sometimes.”
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br />   “More than you let on, I’ll wager. You want to know if I killed her and took the memoirs. I didn’t.”

  “Do you mind telling me where you were on Monday morning?”

  “I haven’t seen a Monday morning, or any other morning for that matter, for a long time. I go to bed about four and don’t usually get up until two or three in the afternoon. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

  “What’s that, milud?” said the footman, entering with the brandy.

  “The officer wants to know where I was on Monday morning.”

  “You brought your charming guests home at about four o’clock, milud.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that?” Harry repeated, as if he had never heard of an ‘after that’. “You were here, of course. Mr Bredon has returned home, milud. He is with his valet and says he will be ready for you when he has finished changing.”

  “Charles?” Hawkhurst squinted into his brandy. “What pleasures does he have lined up for me today?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Hawkhurst drained his glass. “Better prepare to face them. Draw me a bath and find me some clothes… I’m grateful to you for a new experience, Officer Foster. Two new experiences. I’ve never been interrogated by a Bow Street Runner before, and certainly never been bested by one at fisticuffs. But now I’ve had enough of your questions. I hope you’re in training?”

  “I am at the gymnasium at five most mornings, My Lord.”

  Hawkhurst said nothing to this, but his eyes flickered up to Dan’s, and Dan thought there was something like envy in them. Dan glanced around the stale, messy room. Harry turned away from the closet where he had been rattling about and brought over a suit of clothes for Hawkhurst’s approval, which was given with a weary nod.

  Dan bowed and took his leave. He knew that he had as much information as he was going to get. Hawkhurst’s entire household would doubtless corroborate his story. Whether it was true or not was another matter.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dan crossed Berkeley Square with its brightly illumined windows and rows of lamp-lit carriages. Foot and coachmen clustered together chatting and smoking, eyes fixed on the doors from which their masters and mistresses could emerge at any time and snap them to attention. The sound of dance music drifted from one of the houses. Shadowed figures swirled against the blinds.

  When Dan entered the lane behind Louise Parmeter’s house, he could have been in a different city. Here there were no lamps and the only light came from the open doors of the laundry. Inside, stooping women, dragging skirts heavy with water, toiled over the vats. Milky-coloured washing water gurgled along the gutter and spilled between the cobblestones. The air was thick with the smell of starch and soap, mixed with the smell of cow dung from the dairy. Further along, the stable gates were shut and no lights showed.

  Dan was aware of the other man’s presence even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom. The curving lines of his back and head against the garden wall gave him away. There was just enough moonlight for Dan to recognise Grimes, one of the night patrolmen who worked out of Bow Street. Dan had been a member of the patrol himself before his promotion to principal officer four years ago. He had been expecting to see someone there, had guessed that Townsend would set a watch on his favourite suspect.

  “Evening, Grimes.”

  “Mr Foster? I wasn’t expecting you. Mr Townsend never said you was coming.”

  “Is Pickering inside?”

  “Hasn’t been out all evening.”

  “I can take it from here.”

  “I don’t know. Mr Townsend said I should stay all night. He was very particular.”

  “It doesn’t need two of us. You get off home.”

  Still Grimes hesitated.

  “You can put in a claim for the full night’s work. I’ll cover it.”

  Grimes grinned. “You’re a gent, Mr Foster.”

  He moved off noiselessly and Dan took his place. Ten minutes later footsteps crossed the stable yard and a key rattled in the lock of the wicket gate. Pickering came out and relocked the door. He crossed the lane and crept through the shadows opposite the laundry to avoid being seen. Dan did the same and followed him to Fleet Street.

  Pickering hurried past the shops and businesses crammed into Wine Office Court and knocked a distinctive ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ on the front door of the Martins’ shoe shop. The door of a room at the back of the shop opened, framing Martin in a rectangle of light. Martin had muffled the shop bell; wordlessly he let Pickering inside. The men passed through the shop and the inner door closed, leaving the premises once again in darkness.

  Dan found himself a doorway on the other side of the court and watched as another half-dozen men arrived, all using the same ‘rat-a-tat-tat’. The ship’s chandler, George Rule, was the last to turn into the alley from Fleet Street. When Martin had let him in, he poked his head outside to take a look around before he stepped back inside and shot home the bolt.

  It was an hour and a half before the meeting ended. The men came out one at a time, left their host with silent handshakes and walked away with quiet footsteps. Rule was second to last. Five minutes later Pickering appeared. He and Martin exchanged a few words on the threshold, their voices low and tense. Martin went back inside. Pickering turned right on to Fleet Street and set off towards the Strand. He carried a bag which he had not had when he arrived. It was long, looked like the sort of canvas satchel a carpenter might carry tools in.

  From the Strand, Pickering led Dan into Drury Lane. The taverns and coffee houses around the theatre were packed, giving out the sounds of raucous voices, popular songs, stamping jigs. After a while Pickering and Dan left these disreputable streets and passed into quieter, more refined regions where the quality enjoyed their expensive recreations. In the end, though, Dan thought, it came down to the same things: drink and sex.

  After half an hour’s walking, they left London’s livelier streets behind. On the far side of a wall on the right lay the shadowy gardens of the British Museum in Montagu House. The Frenchified roofs and turrets rose above the height of the rustling lime trees. Pickering continued past Bedford Square, where all lay in respectable silence dimly lit by lamps over the doors. He entered Gower Street and stopped outside a house in a terrace which backed on to open ground behind Montagu House.

  Dan remembered Gower Street before the houses had been built. Once these fields had been a favourite spot of duellists; now new properties were steadily encroaching on the land. To the north, the road ran away into dark fields, but already it was flanked by a line of construction sites. During daylight it was a noisy, muddy region of brick carts, labouring men and hasty contractors.

  The upper rooms of the house were in darkness. A glow of light lay like a pool at the foot of the area steps. Pickering slowed down. Was he paying a call on one of the servants? Dan glanced down into the kitchen. The buzz of servants’ gossip mingled with the faint clatter of pots and pans. Some were clearing up from the last meal; others already chopping, measuring and mixing food for the next.

  Pickering moved forward. He walked to the end of the terrace and turned down a muddy track which led round to the rear. In spite of the darkness and the uneven ground, he knew where he was going. He stopped at a stretch of garden wall not much taller than himself. He slung the bag across his back, the contents clinking, and poised to spring up, grab the parapet and haul himself over.

  Before his feet left the ground, Dan caught him in an armlock. He kicked back, tried to jab his elbows into his assailant, but Dan had the advantage of surprise and forced him to his knees, one arm twisted behind him. With a deft movement, Dan slipped a pair of cuffs on to him.

  “Right, Pickering, you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pickering twisted his head round. “Foster! Let me go. It’s not what you think.”

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nbsp; “No?” Dan held on to the cuffs with one hand, kicked open the bag, rummaged inside with his free hand. “A jemmy. Picklocks. Wrench. Pliers. Looks like burglary to me.”

  “I’m no thief.”

  “You can tell that to the magistrate, you and your accomplices.”

  “They’re not my accomplices. Simpson, the man who owns this house, is the thief. Worse than thief, for what he takes is a person’s liberty.”

  Dan fastened the bag and hauled Pickering to his feet.

  “No, wait! You have to listen to me. I’m not here to rob him, but to rescue the boy he’s got locked up in there.”

  “What boy?”

  “A lad called Joseph. Simpson’s going to transport him to Jamaica, where he’ll spend the rest of his days slaving on his plantation. That’s kidnapping, and it’s illegal.”

  “So is burglary.”

  “This isn’t burglary. I’ve come for the boy.”

  “If the boy’s been kidnapped, why don’t you go to the magistrates and get a writ for his release?”

  “Because it’s expensive, and anyway we don’t have much time. Rule says Simpson has a ship already fitted out down at Rotherhithe. The boy will be long gone by the time we’ve got a habeas corpus. I have to get him out tonight.”

  “If you’re lying to me, Pickering, I’ll know soon enough. Come on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the house.”

  “You can’t. If you go in there, Simpson will say the boy’s a thief and produce witnesses to back him. Joseph won’t stand a chance. He might as well be shipped to the plantations if all you can offer him is the noose.”

  Dan could not pretend Pickering’s fear was not justified. Masters and mistresses often took their revenge on out-of-favour servants by accusing them of stealing, and money bought the testimony they needed to prove it.

  “Then what do you suggest we do?”

  Pickering jerked his head at the wall. “I already have a plan.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t think I’m going to help you break in?”