Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  He was vexed by the discovery that the memoirs had not been the motive for the murder after all. He did not look forward to telling Townsend he had been right about that. Still, at least he could counter Townsend’s crowing by proving the man’s own mistake. In the light of Agnes Taylor’s revised story, Townsend would have to admit that his theory about the timing of the murder was wrong. When Agnes Taylor knocked on the study door, Louise Parmeter’s killer had already been and gone, taking the diamonds with him.

  It was still not absolutely certain that the diamonds were the only motive for the murder. Setting aside Townsend’s jewel thief who had so far left no trace that Dan had been able to discover, Cruft and Hawkhurst were the most likely suspects. But Louise had had other lovers, other men who knew their way into the house, who knew her routine. Where better to look for information than in her memoirs? In their pages Dan could hope to discover who she counted as friends and who as enemies. He knew he ought to hand the manuscript in to Sir William Addington, but if he did it would be whisked off to the Prince of Wales and he would never get a chance to look at it.

  The waiter glided up to the table. “The usual, Mr Foster?”

  Dan agreed, and minutes later the steaming pot was on his table.

  Hidden away in his favourite spot in his favourite King Street coffee house was not a bad way to spend an afternoon, he reflected, as he sipped and read. He was chuckling over Louise’s remarks about a young Mr Specie, a banker’s son whom life had blessed with great wealth by way of making up for his want of brains and character, when a thin boy slipped into the room. His pinched, anxious face turned towards Dan, who did not notice him weaving noiselessly between the tables under the stares of the company that had suddenly discovered a concern for the contents of its pockets.

  Dan heard a sniff and looked up. “Nick? What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, Mr Foster. I tried the office and the Brown Bear and I was on my way to Berkeley Square when I thought of coming in here. You have to come home.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “It’s Alex. He’s been took.”

  *

  Not my boy, not my boy. Running across the Piazza, Dan pounded the words into the stones, drew them into his lungs, hammered them into his heartbeats. In Russell Street a group of constables, patrol and watchmen had gathered around his door. Many of them were off duty. When they saw him, they fell silent and lowered their eyes. No one knew what to say to him.

  They parted to let him through. He ran into the kitchen, Nick at his heels. Half a dozen Bow Street officers stood around the table: Carpmeal, who combined running a tavern close by with his work as a law officer, Fugion, Taylor, Rivett, Miller, and Sayer. Sam Ellis knelt on the floor talking to Mrs Harper, who was rocking herself back and forth. Caroline sat opposite her mother, staring at the floor, dry-eyed, white-faced, her arms tightly folded across her hunched body. Eleanor sat beside her, her arm around her sister’s rigid shoulders.

  Dan had not seen Sam and Eleanor since their wedding. He had managed to be out whenever they called. Whatever he had dreaded about that first meeting was irrelevant now.

  “Foster,” said Carpmeal, “I’ve got more men on the way.” As he was the most senior officer, the rest ceded control to him.

  Dan nodded acknowledgement. “What happened?”

  Sam patted Mrs Harper’s hands, stood up and joined the others. They huddled around him, conferred in low voices.

  “It’s hard to get much sense out of her,” Sam reported. “Seems she was alone in the house with Alex when a man knocked on the door. Said the landlord of the house next door had sent him to ask if he could look at your cesspit as it was leaking into his cellar. He shoved her into the yard and bolted the door on her. She’s not sure how long she was locked out. She shouted and knocked, but it wasn’t till Mrs Foster came home that she was let in.”

  Dan looked over at his mother-in-law. She caught his eye, screamed, flung her apron over her head and rocked faster.

  “Any description?” he asked.

  “Not much. Tall, gaunt, shaven head, wore a leather apron.”

  “Mr Foster!” Nick tugged at Dan’s sleeve.

  Dan’s attention was taken up by Caroline, who had pushed her sister away, saying, “Go to Mother, Nell.” She came to Dan’s side, clutched his arm. “I was only gone half an hour. Sally said she’d do my hair for tonight. It was only half an hour. Oh, Dan, why would anyone do this to our little boy?”

  Dan had not noticed that Caroline’s hair had been put up. He had a moment’s confusion while he tried to make sense of ‘tonight’ before he remembered Sheridan’s gift of a box at the theatre. He pictured his wife and her friend gossiping over a glass of gin and hot water, comparing notes about shoes and hats, discussing Sally’s latest romance amidst shrieks of laughter.

  He put his arms around Caroline, let her sob into his coat, but his mind was not on her.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “We reckon an hour or so at most,” Carpmeal answered. “Allowing half an hour for Mrs Foster to make her visit, get back, release her mother, the servant to get to Bow Street, and us to get here.” He cast an unfriendly glance at Nick, who stood at Dan’s elbow, his fingers still grasping Dan’s sleeve. “Seems the boy had gone to fetch some bread.”

  Nick returned the look with a sullen glare. There was no need to doubt him. The loaf was on the table, untouched. He had obviously taken his time over his errand, though. The market was only at the top of the street.

  Mrs Harper stopped wailing and uttered low moans into her apron. With a look, Dan appealed to Eleanor for help with Caroline. His wife would have clung to him, but he gave her into her sister’s care, had put her out of his thoughts before Eleanor got her back to her chair. Caroline dropped her head into her hands and sobbed, while Eleanor tried to comfort her.

  “Has anyone sent for Dad and Paul?” Dan asked.

  “I did,” Sam answered. “Have you any idea who’s done this? Is there anyone with a grudge? Any threats lately?”

  “There’s plenty with grudges, but no names I can think of. There is one man, though. I don’t know who he is or why he might have it in for me, but from what Mother remembers of him, it could be the same. I tracked him to a tavern in Orange Street. The landlord told me he was a tall, shaven-headed, sickly-sounding man.”

  “What’s he done?” Sam asked.

  “Only played nasty pranks up till now. If it is the same man, kidnapping is something of a step up. Though there was an incident at the gym last Friday. Someone attacked Paul, maybe mistook him for Dad, though Dad thinks it’s me he was after.”

  Nick shook his sleeve again. “Mr Foster! It’s him as came for the pie. The dead spit.”

  Dan looked down at him. “Are you sure?”

  “’Cepting the leather apron. Tall, shaved head, looked at death’s door.”

  “Can you remember anything he said?”

  “He said the pie was good, and you was lucky to have a wife who cooks such food, and I said Mother Harper made it, and he said was I your son, and I said no, he was indoors with his mammy and granmer, and he asked if he went to school and I said he was a hinfant, but I was learning my letters and he said, thanks for the pie, and went.”

  “Meaning,” said Carpmeal, “that you told him everything he needed to know about Mr Foster’s household.”

  The other officers murmured agreement, turned hostile eyes on the boy.

  “Mr Foster, I didn’t! He asked all pleasant and friendly, like you was old friends.”

  “It’s all right, Nick.” Dan looked at Carpmeal. “We should get the men organised into search parties. A man carrying a child is likely to draw attention. Someone might have seen something. I’ll work round the Piazza; I know most of the people there. I’ll take Dad with me when he comes. Sam, would you go with Paul, head
down to the Strand?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll sort out the rest of the men,” Carpmeal said. “And I’ll get a description, such as it is, circulated out of the office.”

  There was a rap on the door.

  “That’ll be Dad and Paul.” Dan hurried to let them in.

  It was not Noah Foster and Paul who stood on the doorstep but an impressively cloaked and booted John Townsend, gripping a hefty cudgel in place of his elegant cane.

  “Foster,” Townsend said gruffly, “I’ve come straight from the Prince.”

  He stalked in, glanced at the weeping women, greeted his fellow officers, and announced, “His Royal Highness has offered to call out the militia if you need them.”

  Dan considered this. “It’s a generous offer, but no thanks. At least, not yet. It might scare the kidnapper into doing something stupid.”

  There was another knock. This time it was Noah and Paul, and with them half a dozen clients from the gym.

  “I shut up shop,” Noah said, “and they insisted on coming with us.”

  Dan, who recognised them all, had had friendly spars with most of them, nodded. “Thanks.”

  The pugilists waited outside with the other men while Noah and Paul went inside.

  “Do you know who took him?” asked Noah.

  “No. Could be the man who attacked Paul. Have you remembered anything else about him, Paul?”

  The old soldier shook his head. “All I know is that if he harms a hair on that child’s head, I’ll pay him back a hundredfold.”

  They had not noticed that Caroline had stopped sobbing and was listening to their conversation.

  “You never said he’d attacked someone,” she cried. “And now he’s got my baby!”

  “Hush, Caroline,” Eleanor said. “This isn’t helping Dan. He needs you to stay strong.”

  Caroline drew in her breath, was on the verge of making a sharp retort: How do you know what help my husband needs? Instead she sank into silence. Her fear for Alex was exhausting enough and she hadn’t the energy to rake up ancient resentments alongside it.

  “What’s this, Foster?” said Townsend. “You were attacked? Why didn’t you report it?”

  “It wasn’t me who was attacked. And I didn’t need to report it. I was handling it.”

  “While you are working for the Prince of Wales, you must keep me apprised—”

  “Mr Townsend,” Carpmeal murmured, “this is not the time.”

  Townsend bridled, but recollecting the circumstances, blustered, “Oh – ah – we should get started, Carpmeal. We need to get the villain’s description circulated and set up search parties.”

  “Good idea,” said Carpmeal. He picked up his hat from the table, bowed to the women and followed Townsend out of the house. The other officers muttered their goodbyes, turned and trailed out after them.

  “What about me?” asked Nick.

  Dan thought of telling the boy to stay at home and look after the women. On second thoughts, he knew Caroline would not welcome it, and it would be hard on Nick to be forced into inactivity when he was so eager to help.

  “You can come with me and Dad.”

  He took Louise Parmeter’s manuscript out of his pocket, dropped it on top of a sporting magazine on the sideboard. Carpmeal’s voice drifted in from outside.

  “You leave nothing unturned. Every outhouse, every alleyway, every market stall, every courtyard and area. Anywhere and everywhere.”

  “Remember, men, this is no ordinary case,” Townsend added. “The Prince of Wales is taking an interest.”

  Dan turned his back on the women, said quietly, “Did you bring pistols?”

  Noah, Paul and Sam said they had.

  “If it comes to needing them, I want you to leave it to me, if it can be done without putting my boy in danger.”

  Sam looked away, avoided looking into the darkness in Dan’s eyes. Paul straightened his back, accepting his orders, whatever they might require him to do. Noah nodded once. They all understood. If Alex was already dead, it would be his father who put a bullet in his killer’s heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dan and Nick worked their way along the shops and stalls on the south side of the Piazza, Noah the north. Gossip about the unusual police activity in the area had already spread and everyone was eager to talk and be a part of the excitement. In Feterson’s glove shop, the assistants and two ladies they were serving at the counter volubly shared with Dan the nothing that they knew.

  “A dreadful thing, Mr Foster,” said Feterson, a slight, dapper man who just came up to Dan’s shoulder. “An attack on a child is the act of the most miserable coward.” He broke off and waved his fist at the door. “Of all the impudence!”

  Through the glass, Dan saw a young woman in a gaudy dress beckoning to him. He recognised her as one of the women he often saw looking for business in the Bedford Arms in Tavistock Row. He threw Feterson a thank you and hurried outside.

  “I heard you’re looking for a missing child,” she said. “Thought you might like to know I saw a man hand a baby over to an old woman by the church steps. Ugly old biddy, she was, wall-eyed, looking every way at once. No wonder the babe squalled at sight of her.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  “She went towards St Martin’s Lane. I didn’t see which way he went.”

  Dan sent Nick to fetch Noah. The boy sprinted off. A few moments later, the woman repeated her story to the two men. When she had finished, Dan brought out some coins.

  She shook her head. “Hope you find him.” She flashed him a gappy smile that almost cracked the paint on her cheeks, and tip-tapped on her high heels back to her pitch on the colonnade.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Dan said. “Where’s Nick got to?”

  “He was here a minute ago,” Noah said.

  “I’m not waiting. We’ll go on without him.”

  *

  “Where now?” asked Noah.

  They stood at the end of Spur Street looking into Leicester Fields. The area was packed with people drawn to the many wonders and entertainments on offer in and around the square: miniature theatres showing moving images of Niagara Falls, shipwrecks, and water spouts; displays of living sea monsters; spinning models of the universe. For those seeking something more intimate, there were brothels and bagnios. Lights shone from tavern and coffee house windows. Street hawkers accosted the hurrying crowds, yelling: “Buy matches, baked apples, roast chestnuts”. Women stood about waiting for clients. A fire-eater performed his tricks by the railings, the flames shooting up from his mouth, illuminating the upturned faces of his audience.

  Dan watched a trio of boys creep through the crowd, helping themselves to the contents of pockets. It was a neat operation: one did the diving, passed his haul on to the next, who passed it on to the next. If the pickpocket was caught and searched, there would be nothing on him. But it was not likely he would be caught. He was quick and nimble, had been well trained. As Dan had been.

  The last in the chain was a stunted and ugly youth, anonymous in his filth and rags. Put him next to a child from a good home and you would hardly recognise them as the same species. All most people would see if the scarred, wizened street urchin intruded on their line of sight would be the threat of crime, the danger of disease. If he was taken off the streets now, could he be turned into a clean, bright boy with a future? Or had his mind and imagination been too deeply infected by sin and want?

  What if it went the other way and a child was taken from his home and made to fend for himself? Could Alex ever look like that? Of course he could.

  Dan wrenched his gaze away from the children. The trail had gone cold; had never warmed once they left the Piazza. They had circled endlessly down streets and alleys, knocked on every door, spoken to everyone they met. No one rememb
ered seeing an old woman carrying a child.

  “We’ll go home, see if there’s any news,” Dan said.

  It was gone eleven when they got back to Russell Street. Eleanor and Caroline rose to greet them, their question unvoiced and as wordlessly answered. They had persuaded Mrs Harper to go to bed, and made a pot of soup. Eleanor ladled out a bowlful, handed it to Noah with a slice of bread. He ate it where he stood.

  Dan refused the food. “Is there any coffee?”

  Eleanor moved between the fireplace and the cupboards, busy with kettle and pot. Caroline, her elbow resting on the side of her chair, her head in her hand, watched listlessly. Dan did not sit down. They would be going out again in a few minutes.

  Eleanor handed him his cup. A look passed between them; the first that had not been weighted with hurt, anger and disappointment for many a day. It was gone in an instant. His features resettled into haggard lines, and in his eyes was a hard, vengeful glint that only the death of his enemy would extinguish.

  He sipped. “Isn’t Nick here?”

  “I thought he was with you,” Caroline answered. “Fat lot of use he’s turned out to be.”

  There was a light tap on the door. Dan put down his cup, went and found Nick on the step. Seeing Dan, relief flooded the boy’s excited face. He followed Dan into the kitchen.

  “I’ve found him, Mr Foster.”

  Dan looked at the boy in astonishment. Eleanor, on her way to the hearth with the coffee pot, stopped. Noah, bowl in hand, lowered his spoon. Caroline stood up.

  Nick, ignoring the other three, turned his face up to Dan’s.

  “I went to see Sparrer. Him and his boys seed the law is out in force tonight so they’re keeping out of the way, but I knew where to find them. I see him for a smoke sometimes…” His voice trailed off.

  Dan understood. Nick still sometimes sought the company of his old acquaintances, slipped back into the world of the streets like an animal returning to its pack. It did not augur well for his future. If he did not break the habit soon, he never would. But the boy had calculated correctly that Dan would let it pass for now.