Death Makes No Distinction

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Death Makes No Distinction Page 21

by Lucienne Boyce


  “A burglar! Where are the rest of the brutes? Let me at ’em!”

  “Sit down,” growled Hawkhurst, who was sprawling in a chair by the fire, a wine glass in his hand. He booted the poet in the backside and Fotheringham’s tenuous balance gave way. He landed on Ormond’s lap, jogging the Irishman’s arm and sending the contents of his glass cascading down his front. Ormond swore, pushed him away, and dabbed at the spilled wine with his sleeve.

  Fotheringham hauled himself to his knees and sparred with the air. “Where are they? I’ll give ’em this! And this!”

  “Oh, shut up, Fotheringham,” said Hawkhurst. “What do you mean by breaking into my house, Foster?”

  “I’m here to arrest a murderer.”

  Fotheringham blinked at Dan, his wine-dimmed brain working at top speed yet coming up with nothing to account for Dan’s presence. He rubbed his aching brow, crawled back on to his seat and seized a glass of wine.

  Dan drew the diamonds from his pocket and held them out to Bredon. “I found these in your room.”

  Bredon did not move, but Hawkhurst sat up and reached for the jewels. Dan passed them to him.

  “They are Louise’s,” Hawkhurst said. “How did you come by them, Bredon?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? That myrmidon of the law placed them there.”

  “You think it was me who hid them in the back of your wardrobe?” Dan asked.

  “They weren’t—” Bredon broke off before he fell into Dan’s trap. Not a very good trap, but enough for the others to see that Bredon was rattled, if only for a few seconds.

  “You were going to say they weren’t in the wardrobe,” Dan said. “For you well know I found them in the desk.”

  “No wonder in a man finding what he put there.”

  “But why would he put them in your room?” asked Hawkhurst.

  “Perhaps he mistook it for yours. Certain it is that the fellow has come here in an attempt to force a conclusion to his inept investigation.”

  “If I was going to do that, I wouldn’t be so obvious about it,” Dan answered. “It was you, wasn’t it, Bredon? You were furious when Miss Parmeter rejected your advances, so you killed her.”

  “You think I had any interest in a faded demirep?” Bredon turned to Hawkhurst. “The fellow should be kicked downstairs.”

  “You had such an interest in her that you couldn’t bear it when she and Lord Hawkhurst became lovers,” Dan said. “You poisoned your friend’s mind against her, told him she was only after his money.”

  “Which was no more than the truth,” Bredon retorted. “As for her turning me down, the woman could hardly refuse to grant what she’d already given… I’m sorry, Hawkhurst. Louise and I were lovers when she met you. She didn’t tell you that, did she? When I saw how besotted you were, I said nothing either. I didn’t want to cause you any pain. Besides, I thought the thing would soon burn itself out and no harm done. When it became apparent that she had her hooks in you, I had to warn you what kind of woman she really was. She dropped me as soon as a better prospect came along. She’d have done the same to you sooner or later.”

  “But you wanted her back,” Dan said. “And when she refused, you killed her.”

  “I take her back? Hell would have to freeze over first.”

  Fotheringham gave a loud sigh, shut his eyes and slid slowly on to his side. His glass fell from his fingers, the wine spreading its crimson stain across the cushions. No one took any notice of him.

  Dan pressed on. “You were seen leaving Louise Parmeter’s house in a rage two days before the murder. I think you went there to demand that she resumed your former relations. Maybe that wasn’t the first time you’d had that conversation, wasn’t the first time she’d refused you, but refuse you she did. Only you wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you went back on Monday morning to make another attempt. When she still spurned you, you killed her and took the jewels to make it look like a robbery.”

  “Bredon?” said Hawkhurst.

  Bredon gave a rueful shrug. “So I was there on Saturday. You said it yourself: the woman was a whore. I had at least as much right as any man to make a purchase; more than most. Do you know the arrogant strumpet actually believed me when I wrote hinting that you wanted me to sound her out, in a private conversation, with a view to a reunion? She was so desperate to get her claws back into you she couldn’t agree to a meeting quickly enough.”

  Hawkhurst raised his eyebrows. “I ask her for a reunion?”

  “I know. Was there ever such a presumptuous drab? And then she had the nerve to threaten to call the servants if I didn’t leave. Is it not enough to drive any man into a rage? But Foster has no proof I was there on Monday morning.”

  “Only this.” Hawkhurst trailed the necklace over his fingers, said wonderingly, “It was you.” He smiled at Bredon over the glittering stones. “But why, for God’s sake? There are plenty of other women.”

  Bredon returned the smile, relaxed into his seat. “I lost my temper. Bloody females giving themselves airs and graces. Going on about their right to independence, parading their ingratitude, refusing to recognise that man is their master. The world is well rid of such monsters.”

  “So it was Miss Parmeter who let you in on Monday,” said Dan.

  Bredon, still looking at Hawkhurst, said, “No, only Saturday. But she’d forgotten I still had a key to the gate. I’d come in that way often enough in the past. To hear her outrage, you’d think I’d violated a virgin’s bower.”

  “That’s all I need to hear,” Dan said. “You’re guilty of murder and you’re coming to Bow Street with me.”

  “Of course I’m not coming to Bow Street,” Bredon said. “Put the jewels back, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll say no more about it.”

  Dan did not move.

  “Come now. If it’s money you want, state your price.”

  Still Dan stood his ground.

  Bredon clicked his tongue. “I see you are determined to make a nuisance of yourself. All the worse for you.” To Hawkhurst, “The man has broken into your house and tried to plant evidence. That must be good for a criminal charge or two. Send for Townsend, let him sort this out.”

  Hawkhurst rubbed his chin. “Burglary. Perjury. Blackmail. Extortion. There’s enough to hang a man several times over.”

  Bredon laughed. “You’re so right, Hawkhurst. What do you think of arresting me now, Thief Taker?”

  “Hold on now,” Ormond cried. “You have just confessed to killing Louise, and you’re plotting to send this man to the gallows to save your own neck? I will not stand by and let you do it.”

  “But you will,” Bredon said. “Unless you wish your father to hear of your marriage.”

  “Damn you, Bredon!” Ormond started to his feet, fists clenched. “It was you who tricked me into the marriage in the first place, you who made sure I didn’t find out till too late that my wife is nothing but a common strumpet. And for what? Because it amused you.”

  “A fool is always amusing,” Bredon said. “None more so than this Bow Street clown.”

  “I thank you, Mr Ormond, but there’s no need to worry,” Dan said. “Send for Mr Townsend. You’d be saving me the trouble.”

  Bredon smiled up at Dan. “John Townsend won’t be able to save you, even if he wanted to. It’s the word of four gentlemen against one thief taker. You retrieved the diamonds from one of your flash-house fences and you decided to turn them to profit for yourself. A sad story of greed and corruption. You’ve finished yourself with this little jaunt, Foster. And when they’re tying the rope around your neck, you can comfort yourself that it was all for the sake of a worthless drab. Ormond, ring the bell.”

  Ormond turned his face away from Dan and shuffled towards the bell pull.

  “I’ll give you one last chance, Foster,” Bredon said. “Leave now and we’ll pretend this regrettab
le little incident never happened.”

  “For God’s sake, man,” Ormond said. “Go.”

  “No. Bredon, I am arresting you for the murder of Louise Parmeter.”

  Bredon and Hawkhurst exchanged glances and burst into laughter.

  “You have to give him the belt for tenacity!” Bredon said.

  “You do indeed,” Hawkhurst agreed. “He’s going to make an impressive show in the ring next week, I think.”

  Bredon guffawed. “If only he wasn’t going to be in Newgate this time next week.”

  “No, Bredon. It’s you who will be in Newgate. Arrest him with my blessing, Foster.”

  “Ha, ha! Very droll, My Lord! An excellent joke.”

  “No joke,” Hawkhurst said. “At long last I can be rid of you.”

  “Be rid of me?” Bredon’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll never be rid of me, Hawkhurst. You forget all you owe me.”

  “I forget nothing. You’re a vampire. You’ve done nothing but suck the life out of me ever since we met.”

  “I’ve always got you what you wanted.”

  “And helped yourself to plenty into the bargain. No, Bredon, I’m done with you. If Foster can get you to Bow Street, he’s welcome to you.” Hawkhurst leaned back in his chair, the diamonds wrapped around the knuckles of one hand. He swirled the wine in the glass in his other hand, stared into its winking lights.

  “Foster will get him to Bow Street,” Ormond said, “with my help.”

  The Irishman was as good as his word. When Bredon uncoiled his lanky figure from his seat and made a bolt for it, it was Ormond who brought him down with a heartfelt left hook to his jaw.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Her companion had this?” Sir William tapped his forefinger on the memoirs which Dan had placed on his desk.

  “That’s right, sir. Agnes Taylor,” Dan answered.

  “And Foster discovered them on Monday,” said John Townsend. “He should have informed me straight away.”

  “I know,” Dan said. He made a shameless play for sympathy. “But what with Alex…”

  “Quite, quite,” said Sir William. “Perfectly understandable. Other things on your mind. All well at home now? The little fellow unharmed? Good, good. Foster has done well, eh, Townsend?”

  Townsend grunted. “It’s a pity he followed the leads I gave him in such a roundabout way. I said all along the lady’s book had nothing to do with it. And, as I pointed out in my report, it was obvious that Miss Parmeter must have known her killer. However, I have now interrogated Mr Bredon and obtained his full confession.”

  Last night Dan had sent word to Townsend as soon as he got Bredon to Bow Street, and tactfully refrained from interviewing him until his colleague arrived. It was no surprise that Townsend had immediately taken charge of the proceedings. Even less of a surprise that Dan’s gesture had done nothing to lessen his resentment.

  Townsend shifted in his seat to avoid looking at Dan. “I’ve always said, sir, that a man distracted by family doesn’t make an effective officer. Of course, I don’t blame Officer Foster for what happened, and I’ll be as happy as the next man when the villain who took the child is hanging from the gallows. An attack on one officer is an attack on us all. But if he’d had his mind on the case, this arrest could have been made days ago.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t so busy policing dinner parties at Carlton House, you might have paid more attention to the investigation yourself,” Dan retorted. “Instead we wasted time arresting Pickering and trying to pin it on him.”

  “With good cause,” Townsend responded. “Pickering’s a shifty cove, definitely hiding something. I think it’s only a matter of time before we find out what.”

  “The man’s taking part in illegal fights, with plenty of lively betting. Why don’t you arrest him for that? And while you’re at it, you might as well arrest the Prince of Wales too.”

  “There’s a difference between a private sparring match before His Royal Highness and a mill in a drinking den.”

  “Only difference is the quality of the audience.”

  “That will do, Foster,” Sir William said. “I don’t think we need to bring the fight into it. You should have kept Officer Townsend informed, but in the circumstances, I am sure he can overlook the lapse. What’s important is that we have arrested the killer.” He eyed the manuscript eagerly. “You can leave this with me. I will pass it on to the Home Secretary.”

  After Sir William had had a chance to read it first, thought Dan. Though he could have told him that Louise Parmeter’s memoirs weren’t as racy as he might think.

  “His Royal Highness has first claim on it,” Townsend said. “I don’t think he’d like to hear it went to the Duke of Portland instead of himself.”

  “Dear God!” Sir William muttered. Give the book to the Home Secretary, and annoy the Prince. Give the book to the Prince, and have the Home Secretary asking the reason why.

  “It can be delivered to His Highness with all due discretion,” Townsend added. “The Prince is always mindful of those who oblige him.” He coughed. “And administrations don’t last for ever.”

  Sir William did not need reminding that obliging a prince made more sense than obliging a politician who might one day be out of office at that prince’s pleasure. He had said the same thing to Dan about relations between the Duke of Portland and the Prince. He pushed the bundle across to Townsend.

  “Do what you like with it. But I never saw it.”

  “I’ll take it to Carlton House right away, sir. No need for you to come, Foster.”

  Leaving the way clear for Townsend to claim all the credit for himself. Let him, Dan thought. As far as he was concerned, he was well out of it. Mixing with those in high places brought nothing but trouble. And he had something else on his mind: talking to Jones the carrier.

  Having to report to Sir William first thing this morning meant he had missed the arrival of the wagon at the Feathers. But after he had tracked down Jones at his sister’s house in Cripplegate, he was no closer to finding the man who had kidnapped Alex. The carrier knew nothing about him.

  When Dan got home, there was a message from Sir William telling him he had been summoned to Carlton House on the following afternoon. It seemed there was no avoiding the great ones after all.

  *

  “Your men have done a splendid job, splendid,” said the Prince of Wales.

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Sir William Addington replied. “It has been an honour to serve in the matter.”

  From the bow window, Dan watched Sir William and John Townsend engage in a chest-puffing contest. Unable to decide the winner, he turned his attention back to the view of the gardens. His head was still spinning after their long walk from the Pall Mall entrance of Carlton House to this room where, after waiting for an hour in an anteroom, they had been shown into the Prince’s presence.

  The green, browns and greys of damp trees, shrubs and sky were restful to eyes dazzled by acres of pink, red and black marble; green walls, yellow walls, red and blue walls; spears of light hurled from gilded surfaces; aching expanses of brightness in huge windows hung with shining swathes of silk and velvet. On every side crouched strange creatures transformed into table legs, handles, stands for urns: dragons, gryphons, unicorns, lions, men with the legs of goats, dog-like creatures with women’s heads. Dan wondered why a grown man would surround himself with such fairy tales.

  Everywhere he looked there were servants in livery, gliding here and there with trays, standing in groups, moving about the rooms. One of the chambers they passed was draped in dust sheets and a group of workmen were removing a marble chimney piece in order to replace it with another marble chimney piece. Another was circular and furnished with a large dining table. Inside an army of women wearing white gloves and over-sleeves dusted and polished under the anxious direction of a male supe
rvisor whose heavy responsibility was the survival of a warehouse-worth of knick-knacks.

  Snatches of hammering, cheery voices and whistling drifted up from the grounds. Gangs of workmen swarmed over the lawn. They were building a wooden awning. It faced a staked-out square and was flanked by two small pavilions. A setting for one of the Prince’s famous entertainments, no doubt.

  Dan, remembering his manners, turned back to the company. The eyes of the Prince’s companion, who sat beside his royal master, were fixed on him with an appraising stare. Richard Sheridan acknowledged him with a friendly nod.

  The Prince, a tub in blue on a pink sofa, crossed his fat legs and drank from his goblet.

  “I want to know everything, Towney. How you found the memoirs, and how you discovered it was Bredon who murdered Louise.”

  Townsend beamed and bowed. “Intuition and intelligence, sir, intuition and intelligence.”

  “And Foster here was a great help in the matter, was he not?”

  “A promising officer in many ways, sir,” Townsend answered.

  Dan caught Sheridan’s mischievous eye, quickly looked away.

  “I heard it was Mr Foster who apprehended Mr Bredon,” Sheridan said.

  “What, you actually made the arrest, did you, Foster?” asked George.

  “I did, sir,” Dan answered.

  “Then tell all.”

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “Perhaps,” Sir William said hastily, “the less said about Foster’s methods, the better.”

  George laughed. “A little rough and ready, is he? Well, well, I won’t pry into your police secrets. Answer me this at least. Is it true that Hawkhurst turned on his old friend and refused to protect him?”

  “It is,” Dan said. “And it was Mr Ormond who helped me convey him to Bow Street.”

  “Ormond… Ormond. Irish, I take it. D’you know him, Sherry?”

  “No, Your Royal Highness, I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Strange fellow, Hawkhurst. You’d have thought nothing could separate him from Bredon. Do you know why I think it was, Sherry?”

 

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