Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  “It was not only her money she gave,” Grace said. “She wrote against slavery wherever she could, in tracts, in her novels and poems. She was a good friend. I hope you find whoever killed her.”

  “I’ll do my best.” To Pickering, Dan said, “You said Joseph’s was a common fate. Was it yours? Is that how you and the Martins come to be working together?”

  “Was it mine?” In a swift, angry gesture, Pickering tugged up his sleeve and thrust his right fist at Dan. “Is this skin a badge of slavery? Do you think that we are all slaves? Does the idea of a free black man strike you as so outlandish?”

  “I meant no offence. But your sympathy for Joseph—”

  “Was what any right-thinking man would have for someone in captivity.”

  “Come, come, Mr Pickering,” John said. “Surely Mr Foster has demonstrated the same sympathy?”

  “That’s true.” Pickering lowered his arm, hesitated, then said, “My father was born on a British slave ship out of West Africa. His father was already dead, and his mother died when he was two or thereabouts. They were on a plantation in Barbados then, but before long Father was sold on to a Jamaican estate. He knew no one there, no one knew him. The woman who brought him up was kind, but neither she nor anyone else could tell him where his parents came from, where he came from. There was no one to teach him even one word of his own language and if he had heard any from his mother, he soon forgot it.

  “He grew to be a handsome, well-built boy. When his master’s daughter married, her father gave him to them as a wedding present, along with a house servant called Betty. She and her husband took the pair back to England, where Father made a fine show sitting at the back of his new master’s carriage. Then his master lost him in a game of cards, to an officer in the British army. The captain was a reckless, extravagant man. When his debts caught up with him, he speedily decamped to avoid a debtor’s prison. Father was left to fend for himself. He seized the chance to break free, got a job in a livery stable and started dealing in animal feed. From small beginnings he built up a business of his own. When he had saved enough money, he went back to his old mistress and bought Betty’s freedom. Betty is my mother and they live in Vauxhall, where he has his warehouse and office.” Pickering took a drink of his beer, smiled ruefully at Dan. “Perhaps Joseph’s plight did appeal to me because of Father’s history, but the fact is there are many more like him, men and women who have no idea who their parents are or what their heritage is. That may seem hard for a man like you to understand, Mr Foster.”

  “Perhaps it might,” Dan said. He knew as little about his own parents as Pickering’s father knew about his, but was not here to share confidences. He put down his cup, pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “You lot were lucky tonight. If the man Officer Townsend had sent to keep a watch on Pickering had been there instead of me, you’d be in prison by now. You’re playing a dangerous game and next time you get caught it won’t turn out so well. I’m warning you to watch your step. If you break the law again, you will have to pay for it.”

  “What law?” demanded Pickering. “The law that makes slaves of my kind?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “Then let me tell you, Mr Bow Street Runner, I don’t care a turd for your laws. We are not the criminals. You saw what they’d done to Joseph, know what they were planning for him.”

  “That doesn’t alter anything. Townsend’s man will be back. You need to be more careful. That’s all.”

  Dan picked up his hat and moved towards the door.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t recognise a bad law when you see one,” the coachman called after him.

  Dan did not answer. Martin jumped up to let him out. He paused at the front door.

  “It is a slow and tortuous path to the emancipation of our Negro brothers, Mr Foster, with so many powerful interests ranged against us. We seldom meet allies along the way. I do sincerely thank you for what you have done tonight.”

  “Just mark what I said. And make sure Joseph is gone from here by Monday.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was nearly three o’clock when Dan turned in to Russell Street. At the end of the street, dishevelled figures flitted against the bright lights of Covent Garden like carvings on a carousel, endlessly going around the same small circle with their fixed, painted grins and gaudy finery. Sunday morning would see many of them in the roundhouse, bilked, beaten, robbed or poxed. Or any combination of those.

  He let himself into the house. It was too late to disturb Caroline; he would grab a couple of hours’ sleep in the kitchen. He pushed open the door, was surprised to see the room lit by fire glow and candlelight. He heard Caroline’s low breathing before he saw her. She was asleep in the chair by the fire, a rug over her knees.

  Had something happened? Was it Alex? The thought made him catch his breath.

  “Caroline?”

  Her eyes shot open. “You’re home then.”

  He smelt the wine on her breath before he saw the glass and empty bottle on the floor by the chair. Her voice oozed a rage that had not deserted her even while she dozed. He knew with a dismal certainty that she had been sitting there for hours, feeding her fury. He also knew that there was nothing he could do to avert it, no matter how carefully he picked his words or gentled his smile.

  Still, there was nothing for it but to try. “I’m sorry I’m late. You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

  “That’s all right. I put your bastard child to bed.”

  The venom in her voice staggered him. “My what?”

  “I put your bastard to bed while you were out making another one.”

  “Making another one? What are you talking about?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then how do you explain that?” She nodded at the table.

  He saw nothing but the cups and plates laid ready for the morning. Mrs Harper always left the kitchen tidy before she went up to bed.

  “That.”

  He looked again, spotted a piece of paper. He went and fetched it, took it back to the candlelight and read the blotted scrawl:

  Ask your husband about his fancy piece in King Street.

  He turned the sheet over. It was written on the back of a bill of fare from Long’s Tavern, near Long’s Court in Orange Street, close to Leicester Fields.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “You tell me. Someone put it through the door this evening. You told me you were working.”

  “I was working. In Gower Street, nowhere near King Street. I don’t know who sent this or why, but whoever it is, they’re just trying to make trouble for me.”

  “Always about you, isn’t it? What about me? The wife sitting at home while her husband’s out fucking every whore in town?”

  “For God’s sake, Caroline.”

  “Don’t you like hearing the truth? Fucking a whore. Fucking a whore. Fucking a whore.”

  This was not, he knew, the moment to say, “You’re drunk.” Instead, he pushed the paper in his pocket, dropped to his knees in front of her, caught her resisting hands in his.

  “Listen to me. I made one mistake and I’m sorry for it. But now there’s you, there’s me, there’s Alex. Do you think I’d do anything to risk that?” She made an impatient sound, tried to snatch her hands away. “You love the boy too. I know you do. You look after him as if he’s your own. He is ours, Caroline. After everything that’s happened, do you think I would do anything which meant we’d lose what we’ve got?”

  She raised her brimming eyes to his face. “Is that what you really think, Danny?”

  He touched his head to hers, felt the sour heat of her breath in the closeness. “It’s what I really think. Come on, love. Don’t let a spiteful trick sway you like this. I promise you I will find whoever wrote it, and for
causing you this upset, I will shove the paper down his throat.”

  She smiled. “Will you?”

  “I will.” He hid his relief when she removed her clammy hands from his. “Better now?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her eyes, sniffed. “You never tell me about your work.”

  “It’s not very exciting most of the time.”

  “Who were you seeing in Gower Street?”

  “I followed a suspect there.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Stood outside a house in the dark. Like I said, not very exciting. I’d rather have been here with you and Alex.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Yes, really.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s late. We should go to bed.”

  “Yes, I’m tired.”

  She swayed to her feet, smiled at him as if none of her outrageous words had been spoken. That was how these episodes always ended. She forgot them as soon as they were over. Either her forgetting was a natural consequence of the drink, or she had found some way of hiding the memories from herself.

  “I’ll light the way,” he said, taking up a candlestick. Best not to trust her with it.

  She put her arm through his, let her head fall on his shoulder with a contented sigh. He did not recoil from her touch, would not let her suspect that he did not share her forgetting. The images of her like this, stumbling and raving, were hard to put from him.

  With much blundering against the walls, he helped her upstairs and, following her giggling instructions about laces and pins, helped her undress. When she was down to her shift, he got her into bed. She curled up on her side, mumbled, “Aren’t you comin’ t’bed?”, fell asleep.

  He gazed down at her. What was the darkness in her? Where did it come from, this dreadful discontent, this angry misery? Her peace of mind was so fragile, liable to give way at the slightest thing. When it did, she turned to drink.

  How much was he to blame? There was no point in trying to measure that. He had loved her once; now he didn’t. But even before he had realised it, she had been like this. When they were courting, her abrupt changes of mood had been part of her allure. Now he knew that something dangerous lay behind them. Perhaps it was a kind of sickness, something she couldn’t help. He pushed back a strand of her tousled hair from her face, pulled the covers over her.

  He moved over to the cot. They planned to move Alex into Eleanor’s room when he was a bit older, but for now he slept with them. Dan touched his son’s cheek. Alex did not stir, his peace undisturbed by the unhappiness in the room. Dan picked up the candle and went downstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the grey light, the streets shared the worn, dishevelled look of the few people who still weaved about them. Orange Street, which had been built in the reign of King William and Queen Mary, reeked of old drains and stale air trapped in constricted courts and mean little buildings. Dan passed a disused carriage works, a derelict tennis court, a church no one worshipped at. There were a few small, shuttered shops. Long’s Tavern was indistinguishable from these, its frontage consisting of a low door between two grimy bow windows.

  Dan hammered on the door and shouted “Bow Street Officer!” for several minutes before footsteps shuffled along the passage. The bolts shot back. A tousled, unshaven man in breeches and hastily tucked-in nightshirt glared blearily at him.

  “What the bloody hell does Bow Street want at this time?”

  “A word,” Dan said. He stooped and pushed his way inside.

  The taproom smelt of old smoke, boiled cabbage and sour beer. The tables had been cleared and the chairs stacked on them, but last night’s sand had not been swept from the floor. Used pipes, plates and dirty glasses littered the bar. A greasy, down-at-heel girl clattered listlessly at the hearth, scraping out the ashes. She shovelled the grey heaps into a bucket, releasing clouds of dust which made her snuffle and sneeze. The fine particles coated the salt cellars, vinegar jars and relishes on a nearby table.

  The landlord went behind the bar and poured himself a glass of brandy. He was anything but a stout, merry host. He was tall and thin with sharp features that wore an expression of perpetual suspicion, as if he expected his customers to pocket a tankard or give him false coin.

  “This your place?” asked Dan.

  “Yes, this is my place. Your name Foster?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Got something here for you.”

  The landlord put down his glass, rummaged about on a cluttered shelf at the back of the bar and handed Dan a letter.

  “He said you’d be calling for it, but not that you’d be so bloody early.”

  Dan snatched the letter. It was sealed and his name, with no title, was written in capital letters on the cover.

  “Who gave you this?”

  “Didn’t tell me his name.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big man. Shaved head. Yellow face, all bone and eyes. Sat over there to have his meal, shivering in his greatcoat though there was a good fire going. Wouldn’t let anyone else sit at his table, though we were busy. No one liked to argue with him. He asked for paper and such, wrote his note and left. And now you’ve got it, with Bow Street’s leave, I’d like to get back to my bed.”

  “Did you notice anything else about him?”

  “Just that he was a miserable cove. Are we finished?”

  Outside Dan broke the rough wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was blank.

  While he struggled to get his anger under control and decide what to do next, he refolded the note and put it in his pocket book with the scrawled message on the bill of fare. He had built up quite a collection of odd bits of paper. Alongside these, he still had the sketch he had made of the wound inflicted on the murdered woman at the Feathers. None of them had been much help in solving the mysteries that surrounded them.

  He made up his mind and set off for Cecil Street.

  *

  “He was deliberately taunting you,” Noah said, handing back the bill of fare.

  “I think so.”

  “And you think there’s a connection with the attack here the other night?” asked Paul.

  Dan was sitting between Paul and Noah on one of the hard-backed chairs from the table. The old soldier sat low down in his sagging armchair, Noah on the best of the fireside chairs, though that looked the worse for several years’ wear.

  “It seems too much of a coincidence otherwise,” Dan answered. “And there’s more. The day I took on the Parmeter case, I had a feeling I was being followed when I left Berkeley Square. Thought I caught a glimpse of someone in Leicester Fields. At the time I dismissed it as my imagination. A day or two later, I saw a man watching the Feathers when I was talking to Jones the carrier. I thought he was part of the smuggling operation, so I ignored that as well. Now I wonder if I should have trusted my instinct.”

  “Always,” Noah said. “As I’ve taught you in the ring, so in life. But if he is connected with the Parmeter murder, what does he expect to gain by following you around?”

  “Maybe he hopes I’ll lead him to the diamonds. Or the missing memoirs.”

  “If he wants you to lead him to the prize, where’s the point of making his presence known?” Paul objected.

  Dan reached behind him to put his cup down on the table. “No, it doesn’t make sense. The last thing he would want is to draw attention to himself.”

  “But if he is connected with the case—”

  “He could be the killer,” Dan completed Noah’s sentence. “I know. Risky putting himself in my way if so.”

  “He might want to put you out of his way,” Noah said. “Thinks you’re getting too close.”

  “What would be the point? Even if he succeeded, there’d be others to carry on the investigation. The Prince of Wales is involved; this isn’t on
e that’s going to go away. And I’m not close, not close at all. Townsend is set on putting it on Pickering, the coachman. The only other suspects I have are a couple of disgruntled ex-lovers, and neither of them has any need to steal a lady’s necklace. That suggests it was the memoirs they wanted. If I could only find out what’s in that book that might be worth killing for. None of Louise Parmeter’s friends can tell me anything about it. Though—” He broke off.

  “What’s that, son?”

  “I just remembered something Mrs Martin said. That Louise was a good friend. I thought she meant a friend to their cause, but I wonder now if she meant something closer. It would be worth having another word with her.”

  Noah, who did not know who Mrs Martin was, knew better than to ask questions when Dan was thinking aloud like this. He got up, went over to a shelf and took down a pair of mufflers.

  “You know,” he said, “you have got two murder cases on the go.”

  Dan looked up. “You think it might be connected to the murder of the girl in the blue dress?”

  “You started that about the same time as the Parmeter case, didn’t you?”

  “It would fit with seeing him at the Feathers,” Dan said. “He’d be spying on the investigation. In any case, that’s where I need to start. I’ll talk to the carrier again, see if he knows anything about him. Problem is, he won’t be back from Tewkesbury until Thursday and I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I’m going to Holborn. Maybe someone else has seen the man hanging around.”

  Noah threw the boxing gloves into Dan’s lap. “Not yet, you aren’t. You’ve got some training to put in.”

  “But—”

  “It’s early yet. And you’ve got a fight coming up. Whoever Lord Hawkhurst sends in against you, he’ll not be a fighter to take lightly.”

  “That’s right,” said Paul, hauling himself eagerly out of his chair. “Time to do some work, my lad.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Joseph has gone. You can come in and look if you like.” John Martin stepped aside from the shop doorway to allow Dan inside.