Nick scuffed a bruised apple into the gutter. “All right… Mr Foster?”
“Yes?”
“You call Mr Noah ‘Dad’. But he’s not your dad. Mrs Harper told me.”
“No, he’s not.”
“And you’re not my dad.”
Dan glanced down at the boy. He had his hands in his pockets, his head bent in thought. Dan frowned. This was going somewhere he had never intended. He already had a son, had never led Nick to believe that was a place he could occupy.
“No,” he said, carefully. “But that was different. Noah didn’t have children of his own.”
There was a pause before Nick answered, “But you do.”
“Yes. I’m Alex’s dad.” Was that spelling it out too bluntly?
They turned into Russell Street, walked on in silence. When Dan next looked at Nick, he had turned his face away, was staring into the road.
“Here we are,” Dan said, rapping on the front door.
It was opened by Mrs Harper.
“Nick, there you are! Come along in, lovey, out of the cold. Why you didn’t take your coat I don’t know. No scarf either.” She put her arm around his shoulders and guided him into the kitchen.
Nick sniffed. It’s just the cold air, Dan told himself. He’ll be fine once he’s had a bit of supper and warmed himself by the fire.
When they had finished eating, Nick helped Mrs Harper tidy up. Alex was already in bed. Caroline flounced into a chair by the fire and opened a novel. It was one of Louise Parmeter’s. She had been lucky to get it. Since the murder, the booksellers were running out of copies of her books.
Caroline was still smarting from being proved wrong about Nick’s thieving, although Dan had broken the truth to her as gently as possible. Tact had not won her over and Dan foresaw an uncomfortable evening ahead. A good time to go to the Feathers in Holborn, see if he could gather anything useful about the murder of the girl in the blue dress.
“I have to go out,” he said. “I’ll be late back.”
Caroline did not look up from her book. “When are you ever anything else?”
Chapter Eleven
Dan was at Noah’s gymnasium early the next morning, working off his frustration with the lack of progress in both his cases. He had learned nothing useful at the Feathers last evening, and faced the prospect of wasting another day in the Louise Parmeter investigation while Townsend tried to bully a confession out of Pickering. Though he had to admit, as he sat sweating in the steam bath next door to the gym after his exercises, that Pickering’s refusal to account for his whereabouts was damning.
Things started to look up when he was greeted at Bow Street by the news that John Townsend had been summoned to Windsor. One of the officers on permanent duty there had been called away and Townsend was to take his place at the King’s side until tomorrow. That gave Dan an opportunity to follow his own leads.
He still had no idea why Townsend had asked for him only to charge ahead and arrest the first person that suited him without looking at the evidence Dan had gathered. The recently jilted young Cruft and the spiteful Lord Hawkhurst both merited further investigation. Sarah Dean had mentioned that Lord Hawkhurst’s persecution of Louise Parmeter ended some months earlier. Randolph Cruft’s resentment, on the other hand, was still raw. It made sense to start with Cruft.
First, Dan checked on Pickering. The door to the Brown Bear stood open and there were already porters, hackney coachmen and market traders inside enjoying their first ale of the day. There were one or two fellow officers too, waiting for work to come in from the magistrate, or a member of the public to rush in with a beating, robbery or, with any luck, murder to report.
Dan ordered some coffee and rolls and went upstairs. He asked the man on watch to unlock the door. A serving boy arrived with the tray of food and Dan carried it inside. Pickering lay on the bed. He sat up and swung his feet on to the floor.
Dan set down the tray and poured out the drinks. “Not the best in town, but it’ll do. Here.”
Pickering hesitated, took the mug. “Smells good,” he conceded. He bit into one of the sugary rolls. “So are you taking me before the beak this morning?”
“I’ll leave that to Mr Townsend, and as he’s been called away, you’ll have to wait.” Dan took a bite of the roll, set it aside. Too sweet. “Why won’t you tell us where you were on Monday morning?”
“I did tell you. I went to Lord Stanhope’s stables.”
“It didn’t take you more than an hour to get from Berkeley Square to Conduit Street. You must have stopped somewhere on the way.”
“I didn’t.”
Dan emptied his cup and stood up.
“That’s it?” Pickering said.
“No point to keep asking you if you won’t change your answer.” Dan rapped on the door, waited for the gaoler to open it. “Maybe you’ll answer me this. Do you know Randolph Cruft?”
“I know of him. Mr Parkes did a very good imitation of him. Sarah – Miss Dean – said he’d proposed to Miss Parmeter, but I know nothing about that.”
“Did you ever see him going in at the garden gate, or passing through the mews?”
“No. Why, you don’t think he had anything to do with her murder?”
“Maybe I do, but you’re the favourite suspect at the moment. So if you do remember where you were on Monday morning, it might be worth letting me know.”
*
As usual the Piccadilly road was jammed with coaches and the pavement crowded with shoppers. Hairdressers and chemists, hatters and greengrocers, jewellers and booksellers plied their trades out of the tall, inconvenient buildings of the previous century. Here a woman made and sold artificial flowers; there a man with less delicacy made and sold water closets. Yet it was not all commerce. The Green Park end was given over to mansions, the grandest of which was Devonshire House, set back behind high walls and ornate gates. The Crufts’ residence was in Bolton Street close by.
It was some minutes before the door opened to Dan’s ring at the bell. A lofty footman stared down at him. “The tradesman’s entrance is via the area steps,” he said, beginning a stately retreat.
Dan put his shoulder against the door. “Nice for the tradesmen, but I’m from Bow Street Magistrates’ Office. Principal Officer Foster.”
The man seemed inclined to insist that a Bow Street Runner belonged with the tradesmen, but after a second’s hesitation said, “Walk in. I will tell Mr Cruft you are here.”
He took Dan’s hat and coat and left Dan in the hall to count his own reflections in the silver, glass and marble. The footman returned and with frigid politeness showed Dan up the stairs to a library. Its windows overlooked a formal garden with a large glasshouse at the end, its panes opaque with the steam exhaled by exotic plants. The library was magnificent, which was all Dan could have said about it afterwards. One magnificent library looked much like another: gleaming wood, ticking clock, periodicals scattered on small round tables, rows of leather-bound books with gilt titles.
Mr Cruft rose from behind his large desk. As he was a short man, he was obliged to walk around it to shake hands.
“Good day, Mr Foster, good day. I think it is not taking too great a risk to say I know why you are here. Have a seat, have a seat. Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee? Wine? Madeira?”
“No, thank you,” Dan said, taking the offered seat.
Cruft dismissed the footman with a nod and went back to his chair. He sat down and fiddled with a heavy gold watch chain that hung across his silk waistcoat.
“I was hoping to speak to Mr Randolph Cruft,” Dan said.
“My son is not in London at present. His absence is, however, connected with your visit.”
Dan took out his notebook. “Where is your son?”
“I sent him to Childwick Hall, my Hertfordshire estate. The boy is not yet of age. He
is far too young to invest his future happiness in any female, and certainly not one of Miss Parmeter’s type.”
“You sent him away to remove him from her influence?”
“Correct. You must understand, Mr Foster, that Randolph has something of a deficit in the brain vault. This may seem like a harsh assessment of one’s own flesh and blood, but it pays in this, as in all other matters, to take realistic stock of things. Of course, I don’t deny that the woman was possessed of considerable assets, and not only in the fiscal department. What man would not be tempted to spend his leisure hours with such a creature? But she could not be regarded as a serious venture. However, it was clear to me as soon as I met her that she had something more long-term in view.”
“It was my understanding that she turned down your son’s offer of marriage.”
“A transparent negotiating tool, designed to persuade my son to make a larger nuptial settlement. Youth does not like to hear the voice of experience, but I have been in business many years. I recognise a bubble when I see one.”
“You say you met her. Where and when was that?”
Cruft flicked back through the pages of his engagement book. “I called on her at her home three weeks ago.”
“And you asked her to stay away from your son?”
“I did more than that. I made two very generous offers, both of which she refused.”
“Which were?”
“My opening bid was a proposal that I take over my son’s role in the transaction, which would have ensured that she suffered no loss. At the same time, it would have undeceived my son as to the nature of her attachment to him. This was my preferred option. She, however, denied any intention to involve herself with any man on a business footing. I had no choice but to have recourse to my next strategy, which was to provide a cash settlement. This she also refused. She put on an impressive performance of affronted dignity, but we men of commerce know a thing or two about double dealing. The only real question at issue was what the final balance would be. That is where our negotiations stood at the time of her death.”
“How much did she ask for?”
“She had not stipulated an amount.”
“But you were expecting a demand, and that it would be high?”
“Most certainly.”
“Must have been quite a worry.”
“Not at all. One does not rely solely on the offers on the table. If absolutely necessary, I would have cast off my son without a shilling, which would rather reduce his market value, don’t you think?”
“So her death is convenient for you.”
“It has certainly saved me money and trouble. But I did not kill her, Mr Foster. That would have been a quite unnecessary risk.”
“When did your son go to Hertfordshire?”
“He left the day after I spoke to Miss Parmeter.”
“And how do you know he hasn’t defied you and come back to London?”
“The steward has instructions to write to me every day giving details of my son’s movements, and Randolph is required to countersign each letter. My steward has worked with me for many years; he is not susceptible to bribery. In any case, now the danger is removed there is no reason why Randolph cannot return. I have written to him to that effect.”
Dan thought there were other motives besides money that might prompt someone to show sympathy to a young, lovesick man with such a father. And if young Cruft had any spirit at all, he would not abandon his love simply on a parent’s say-so. With that in mind, his father might have taken more direct steps to remove the threat. If the elder Cruft’s was not the hand that dealt the killing blow, it might be the hand that paid someone else to do it for him.
“When do you expect him back?”
“By the end of the week.”
“I’ll need to have a word with him.” Dan put away his book. “Thank you for your time, Mr Cruft.”
“Not at all.” Cruft rang a bell on his desk. “Give my regards to Sir William, won’t you?”
Meaning Cruft and Chief Magistrate Sir William Addington were friends and Dan had better watch his step.
Chapter Twelve
At Bow Street, a passenger who had just arrived on the Bath coach at the Angel in the Strand to find that his luggage had not arrived with him was complaining to the clerk. Behind him, a growing queue grumbled to one another about the wait. A pale woman sat on the crowded wooden bench behind the hubbub, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a dark cloak over a smart, plain dress and well-made leather shoes decorated with buckles. The clerk caught her eye over the enraged traveller’s shoulder and nodded at Dan. She stood up and timidly approached him.
“If it’s to report a crime, you’ll have to speak to the desk clerk,” Dan said.
“Are you the officer who arrested Mr Pickering?”
He stopped. “I am. Do you have information for me?”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
She was softly spoken; he had to stoop to catch what she said.
“There’s somewhere quieter.” He led her into the office, found an empty desk under the curious stare of Inky Tom, the junior clerk. “So, what is it you want to tell me?”
“Mr Pickering could not have had anything to do with Miss Parmeter’s murder.” She looked down, tears trembling on her lashes. “He was with me at the Apple Tree Tavern at St James’s Market on Monday morning. He won’t tell you because he is trying to protect me. My husband has a violent temper.”
“Do you and Mr Pickering often meet at the tavern?”
She wiped her eyes. “Sometimes. I told him I was visiting my mother. He was at work. We have a shoe shop near Fleet Street. I won’t have to go to court, will I? If he finds out—”
“Not unless Pickering goes to trial, and if you’re telling the truth, I can’t see any reason he should. I’ll have to check, Mrs…?”
“Mrs Martin.” She raised her head, directed an appealing look at him. “Will you check straight away?”
“I could go now, but you’ll have to wait here while I’m gone.”
“I can wait.”
He beckoned to Inky Tom. “Keep an eye on her. She’s not to leave before I get back.”
*
St James’s Market with its mouldering market house had not kept up with the district’s more recently established grocers, butchers, fishmongers, confectioners and other provisioners of royalty. Meat and fish were still to be bought there, but haughty servants looking for delicacies for their masters’ tables were rarely seen in its precincts. The Tun and St Alban’s taverns, the Charles Street card rooms, and the chocolate rooms in St Alban’s Street continued to attract the rich and fashionable. Beyond them was a web of close, crumbling streets best avoided by gentlemen who valued their watches and bank notes. It was here Dan found the Apple Tree Tavern, a small house separated from its tumble-down neighbour by wooden supporting beams slung between the two properties.
Inside, the smell of coffee, ale and woodsmoke mingled to create a homely atmosphere. The wooden floor had been sanded, the tables polished, and the glasses on the shelves behind the bar gleamed. A large map of Africa hung on one of the walls. Half a dozen newspapers were folded over wooden ladder rails beneath it. Next to the map was a print of an author holding an open copy of the Bible. The wording identified the picture as the frontispiece to a book: The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African. The artist had captured the look of a man with much to tell; his very image seemed about to break into speech.
A man with straggling white hair, his clothes faded and frayed, sat at one of the tables. He had a gin and hot water in front of him and was filling out a lottery ticket. On a settle by the fire two workers from the market, one wearing a bloodstained butcher’s apron, chatted over their porter.
The man behind the counter hung up a clean
tankard and wiped his hands on his blue apron. “Good day. What can I get you?”
“Nothing.” Dan took his tipstaff from his pocket. “Foster of Bow Street Magistrates’ Office. Mr…?”
The lottery player looked up from his writing. The butcher lowered his glass. His companion paused in the act of tamping the tobacco in his pipe. The welcome drained from the publican’s face.
“Trinder. How can I help?”
“Do you know a coachman named Pickering?”
“I know him.”
“Was he in here on Monday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Was he alone?”
“Came in with his lady friend.”
“What time?”
Trinder tapped his finger on his chin. “About – let me see now – quarter to twelve so far as I recall.”
“That sounds right,” said a voice from the fireside. “They were already here when I came in at midday.”
Dan turned round to face the butcher.
“I wasn’t long after you, if you remember,” said his friend. “They were sitting over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner with the stem of his pipe. The four men all turned and gazed solemnly at the table.
“Do they often meet in here?”
“Mr Pickering is a regular,” answered Trinder. “I’d seen the woman with him once or twice before. Don’t know who she is.”
“What did she look like?”
The man with the pipe leaned towards the blaze and lit a spill, put it to the clay bowl, puffed at the stem, and said, “She was white. A trim little thing.”
The butcher nodded. “That’s her all right.”
“When did they leave?” asked Dan.
Three pairs of eyes swivelled round to look at Trinder. He said, “I was busy serving. As far as I remember, about an hour later.”
“That’s it exactly, Mr Trinder,” said the lottery player. “It was quarter to one.”
The smoker said, “So it was. I remember because I was just thinking it was time to go and get some oysters. Always have oysters on a Monday.”
Death Makes No Distinction Page 7
