Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  After a while they were running between buildings so ruinous and decayed that only the rats found a home in them. The ground was littered with spars of rotting wood, glass, rags, metal, ash, clinker, oily pools of poisonous by-products from who-knew-what manufacturing processes. Rivulets of sewage trickled down to join the ditch which crossed the bottom of the sloping track. Two planks had been laid across it to form a slimy bridge.

  Dan thought the man would make for the bridge, but he swerved off to the right and ducked through a gaping doorway into the ruins. Dan skidded after him into what had once been a room, but which now lacked walls and roof. Unpromising as it was as a shelter, people had been here. A charred circle in the middle was evidence that a large fire had been lit not many days ago. Empty bottles flung around the foundations suggested the gathering of a canting crew.

  The rain had stopped and the clouds had divided to let down faint beams of moonlight. The fugitive was on the other side of the room, clambering over the low brickwork.

  Dan pulled out his gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  The man froze and slowly straightened, his hands in the air.

  “Lie down. On your front. Hands flat on the ground above your head.”

  The man twisted his face over his shoulder. “Come on, mate. All this trouble for a few watches? I can share. Let me go and I’ll pay you.”

  Dan gestured at the ground with the gun. The man scowled and dropped down. Dan knelt on the beaten earth beside him, held him captive with one knee pressed into his back while he patted his pockets with his free hand, keeping the pistol in the other. He found no weapon.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fuck off.”

  That earned him a smack across the head. “Your name.”

  “Blake. Tom Blake.”

  “And the girl’s name?”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl you raped and beat to death at the Feathers in Holborn.”

  “I never touched no girl.”

  “Girl in a blue dress.”

  “I never touched her.”

  Dan increased the weight on his knee, grabbed Blake’s jacket collar and twisted it tight. He pressed his lips to his ear.

  “What was her name?”

  Blake coughed and spluttered into the mud, his fingers scrabbling. “I don’t know any girl! Get off me!”

  Dan pressed the muzzle of his pistol against Blake’s head. “I’m going to ask one more time. And this time if you don’t answer me, I’m going to blow your brains out and leave your body in that river of shit down there. What was her name?”

  Blake whimpered. “I don’t know. I swear to God. I don’t know. She was just some whore.”

  Dan ground his face into the dirt. “She was a whore, was she? Was she?”

  “I offered her money. Bitch had only to take it.”

  Dan pushed himself up from his knee, dragged Blake up after him and slammed him back to the ground. Having half stunned his prisoner, he pocketed his gun and felt for his cuffs.

  “You’re under arrest for murder.”

  He dragged Blake’s right arm behind his back and manoeuvred the shackle towards it. Blake, recovering his breath, began to put up a struggle. Then Dan felt him relax in his grasp, saw his eye swivel round, realised too late that there was someone behind them. He heard a pistol cock.

  “Move away,” said a voice. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Dan started to get up, but the man snapped, “On your hands and knees. You, get his gun.”

  Blake was happy to oblige. He rolled on to his side, came to a sitting position, leaned over to Dan, who knelt on all fours, and took the gun from his pocket. He got to his feet and gave Dan a kick in the ribs which sent him sprawling. The cuffs flew from Dan’s grip. Blake pointed the gun at him.

  “Ain’t so cocky now, are you, lawman?”

  “Let him up,” the other man ordered. “Slowly. Keep your hands high. Turn round.”

  Dan did as he was told. Blake stepped back, kept his distance in spite of his gun. Dan ignored him. He looked the stranger in the face.

  “It’s you who’s been following me,” he said.

  “It is. You know who I am?”

  “Yes. I know who you are.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Bob Singleton of Barcombe. Last time I saw you was in the assizes court at Taunton. Seven years’ transportation,” Dan said. “Why didn’t you go?”

  “I did. I was on the Lady Jane which left Portsmouth just after the mutiny in the fleet started. It must have got into our blood; come August, we had our own mutiny a few days out from Rio de Janeiro. The soldiers took over the ship. Most of them were only in the army to avoid being hanged. Such is the wisdom of the law they’d put the worse criminals in charge of the convicts. They’d kept us in chains and stole our rations, but it was go along with them or die. They hacked the first mate to death, put the captain and his crew in a boat and turned them off. I got away from them in Montevideo and worked my passage back by weary, roundabout ways. I said I’d be back to kill you no matter how long it took. Just happens to have come about quicker than I’d hoped.”

  Blake guffawed.

  “You’re a fool, Singleton,” Dan said. “You could have given evidence against the mutineers, might have had a chance of avoiding the rope that way. There’s no hope of it now. It’s a hanging offence to come back before the end of your term.”

  “There’s no chances in the law for men like me.”

  “No chance now, no. And after what you did to my son, I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt the boy. I was going to bring him back in a day or two, but when I went to get him, Mother Poison had gone and the child with her. I’m not like you, Foster. I don’t take innocent lives.”

  “You weren’t innocent. You were convicted of poaching.”

  “We took what was rightfully ours. The land is ours, the right to hunt on it is ours. You lived amongst us long enough, spied on us long enough, to know that. You could have turned a blind eye, but no, it’s a rich man’s law and you’re the rich man’s lackey. You like the power it brings, don’t you? You give yourself the right to choose who goes to prison, who doesn’t; who hangs, who doesn’t. So tell me, Foster, who deserves to hang? That thing for the rape and murder of a defenceless woman? Or the man who seeks justice?”

  “Oi!” Blake said. “Who are you calling a thing?”

  “I’ll tell you what justice means here, Singleton,” Dan said. “You put my family in danger and I’ll see you hang before you do it again.”

  “You held my life or death in your hands once, and you chose death. And now it’s me who can choose whether you live or die.” Singleton raised his gun, cocked the pistol, pointed it at Dan’s head.

  Blake sniggered. “Go on, do him! Kill the pig! Eek – eek – eek! Squeal, piggy, squeal.”

  Singleton stood, arm outstretched, the pistol steady in his hand.

  “Go on!” Blake said. “Lost your nerve? If you won’t do it, I will.” He raised Dan’s gun.

  Dan might stand a chance of avoiding Singleton’s bullet if he went for him, dived beneath the shot, crashed into the other man’s midriff. Now there were two guns trained on him and his chances of survival plummeted. But it was that or nothing. His only hope was that he could move quicker than Blake’s sluggish mind worked. He tensed himself to spring at Singleton. The flare from Singleton’s gun fizzed into the shadows.

  Blake screamed and fell to the floor. The gun flew from his hand and landed against a tumble of bricks. He clutched at his leg, brought his hand away covered in blood.

  “What the fuck d’you do that for?”

  Singleton lowered his weapon, useless now the shot had been fired, stood with it hanging loose in his fingers. In the darkness between them, Blake rolled on the grou
nd, sobbing.

  “You stupid whoreson, you shot me. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

  The clouds scudded over Singleton’s head. His haggard face was spectral in the moonlight, his eyes dull and sunken, his silence deep as the dead. Dan had a fleeting image of him as he had been, the powerful blacksmith working at his forge, his hammer ringing on red-hot metal, the jug of village ale ready at his elbow, the soft autumn breezes of the Somerset countryside playing around him. He had not carried an ounce of spare flesh then, had been all muscle. He carried hardly any flesh now, was nothing but jutting bone. From village smithy to the hell of a convict ship on a glaring ocean, to bloodshed, suffering and sickness.

  You chose death, he had said.

  Then Dan knew. Only his will to seek revenge had kept Singleton alive. He would not long survive whatever disease he had picked up on his journey.

  Dan’s gun had not been fired, lay where Blake had dropped it. He had only to pick it up and turn it on Singleton. He left it lying. For a moment the two men looked at one another. Then Singleton turned and walked slowly out of the ruin.

  “Aren’t you going after him?” Blake yelped. “He shot me.”

  Dan retrieved his gun and the cuffs. He pulled his scarf from his neck, tied it around Blake’s thigh to stop the bleeding, shackled his hands behind his back and dragged him to his feet.

  “But he shot me,” Blake whined. “You’re letting him get away and he shot me.”

  “Shut your trap, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Dan half carried, half dragged his prisoner across the threshold. Rather than head back into the rookery, where there would be plenty willing to come to a brother villain’s aid against a lone Bow Street officer, he got him over the plank bridge and started across the open wasteland.

  Singleton had already vanished.

  Chapter Forty

  Dan stood in the middle of the ring, breathing heavily, his head still buzzing from the punches he had taken. The grounds of Carlton House were a blur of snapping banners and streaming pennants. Rows of faces gazed at him from the spectators’ stand, all bearing the same stamp of their unshakeable belief that it was the duty of the world to lay its good things before them. Even those who had made losses on their bets – who would draw first blood, who would win a round, who would win the fight – were satisfied. The pugs had served them with a good measure of skill and pluck.

  The Prince’s poker-faced flunkies, immobilised by servility, winked at Dan over their trays. The patrolmen who lurked under the trees on the edge of the lawn forgot to look out for crazed radicals or French assassins, and clapped and cheered. A smiling Sir William Addington, his jowls shaking with approval, stood next to the Prince of Wales. Today Dan was the hero of the service.

  George had risen to lead the applause, his podgy hands meeting beneath his doughy, paint-smeared cheeks. Sheridan raised his wine glass to the victor. John Townsend stood at the Prince’s elbow, almost exploding with rage, his little eyes dark and bitter, his lips white. The failure of his plan to see Dan humiliated was hardly likely to improve relations between the two men. Not that Dan cared much about that.

  Other faces pressed close enough for Dan to feel the gusts of their breath, catch snatches of their talk. Lord Hawkhurst, who had sponsored the fight, was in the ring consulting with the referees and umpires. His complexion was clear, his eyes bright, his stance upright. Losing Bredon had done wonders for his health and temper. He had also shaken off his young hangers-on. Only Ormond was still admitted to his company. The Irishman, a fastidious judge of the science, nodded appreciatively at Dan.

  It was for all these gawping faces that Dan stood half-naked, his torso sheened with sweat, blood running down his face from the cut over his half-closed right eye. It was for them that his opponent sat on his second’s knee, his head lolling as his trainer wafted smelling salts beneath his bleeding nose. A blue stain with a gash of red in the centre spread across his left cheek, the flesh having finally given way thirteen rounds in with the final knock-down blow. His eyes were still glazed, his mind disorientated, his swollen lips trembling.

  The betting on the man’s identity had been going on up until the moment he had stepped into the arena. The names Paddington Jones and Bill Ward of Bristol had been bandied about. Others, influenced by Ormond’s inclusion in Hawkhurst’s entourage, opted for the Irish fighter Andrew Gamble. Some hoped for the return of Daniel Mendoza, who had retired to a public house in Whitechapel. Many were certain that only Gentleman John Jackson, who had wrested the championship from Mendoza, could make the bout worthwhile. The subject had long since been exhausted, the conversation grown desultory, before Dan’s opponent had finally emerged from his pavilion.

  He had been dressed in black breeches, a contrast to Dan’s own, which were white. He had approached the ring surrounded by his entourage, his dark, cropped head bent, droning over his clasped hands. As he drew close, Dan had made out the words of his prayer.

  “Oh, Lord, smite thou my enemies! Crush my foe before me! Beat down my enemy! Break the teeth of the ungodly!”

  Paul had looked up at Dan and Noah from outside the ring, where he had been arranging bucket, sponge and bandages.

  “Bill Willis, the Fighting Quaker. He’s heavier than Dan, and a real hard hitter.”

  Noah, who had been massaging the tension out of Dan’s shoulders, had summoned spittle to his mouth, lobbed it over the ropes. “A humbug. If his last fight wasn’t a cross, I’d like to know what was.”

  No one really believed the man who called himself the Fighting Quaker ever prayed, or that he had any connection with the Religious Society of Friends. It was just part of the show. In spite of his reputation, there had been no humbugging in his battle with Dan. He had fought fairly and bravely. Paul stepped in front of the defeated man, cutting him off from Dan’s view. The old soldier’s craggy face loomed close to Dan’s, his grin exposing his battle-shattered teeth.

  “It’s deliverance he’s praying for now.”

  Dan closed his eyes. Paul moved behind him and he felt the rasp of a towel rubbing down his back. Shadows flicked in front of his eyes, once, twice, three times. His eyelids fluttered open.

  “Son! Son! Can you hear me?”

  Dan focussed on Noah’s clicking fingers, the bright face behind them.

  “I’m proud of you, boy. As I knew I would be. Come now, the Prince is waiting to present you with your prize.”

  Noah led Dan towards the ropes, but Dan stopped, turned back and crossed over to Willis. The Fighting Quaker was on his feet, benefitting from the temporary revival a good slug of brandy afforded. Dan held out his hand and the two men shook.

  “Till next time,” Willis said.

  “There’ll be no next time,” Dan answered.

  “’T’ain’t doin’ unto others not to give a man a chance to even the score.”

  “Then you’ll just have to turn the other cheek.”

  Willis gazed at him for a moment, then laughed. He winked with his good eye. “You better go and collect the wages of sin.”

  “Loser’s purse shouldn’t be too shabby.”

  “No. The Lord’s provided all right on this one. Lord Hawkhurst, that is.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Good luck, Dan Foster.”

  Willis gave a duck of the head and stepped back. Dan turned to see Lord Hawkhurst behind him.

  “You don’t mean that, Foster,” Hawkhurst said. “You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

  “Not in the ring, My Lord,” Dan said.

  “Nonsense. I thought you had it in you and today you’ve proved me right. You rid me of Bredon, and in return, I’m going to make you a champion.”

  “I arrested a murderer.”

  Hawkhurst smiled, though there was a flicker of displeasure in his eyes. “If it’s a question of keeping your father and his old friend
on your team, I can accommodate them. I intend, however, to send you to Captain Barclay to get you in training for your next match.”

  “No, thank you, My Lord. I do not have my mind set on a career as a pugilist.”

  “Come, man, don’t be so shy. A few more fights like this and you’ll be a rich man. You’ll never make so much at Bow Street. You have a family, don’t you? You must think of them and their future.”

  Dan thought of how hard his money was usually earned, of the dark nights spent in filthy, shadowed streets where the hatred, want and despair were palpable. The days away from home, away from Alex, on the trail of some vicious criminal. The murderous hostility of the criminal fraternity, and the scarce-hidden contempt of respectable society. The ring had its perils, but they were nothing compared to the risks faced night and day by a Bow Street officer.

  He thought of his family’s future, had been thinking of it for years. Added to what he had already saved, the £200 reward from the Prince for catching Louise Parmeter’s murderer had substantially increased his worth. But Lord Hawkhurst was right. He could earn more in the ring. For this hour’s work he was five hundred guineas richer. Perhaps he should have felt more grateful than he did, but he knew from the notes he had found in Bredon’s desk that such a sum meant little to people who could throw as much away in a single bet.

  He thought of Noah and Paul, who were listening to the conversation while pretending to be busy packing away the fight paraphernalia. Though they would never say so, Dan knew they hoped his victory had changed his mind. They had always believed he had the skill to aim for the championship.

  He thought of the nameless girl in the blue dress, her suffering marked on her body, whose poverty had led to her death. There had been no reward for arresting her murderer.

  He squared his shoulders, looked the lord in the eye.

  “I never wanted this fight,” he said. “And I never want another.”