Noah stood up and raked out the last of the fire ready for the night. Dan watched him, both of them still aware of the sounds from downstairs. The bolts drawn back, Paul’s querying voice, a mumbled reply. A scuffle, Paul’s cry.
Noah and Dan were already on their feet. They pelted across the gym and down the stairs. The front door was open. Paul lay across the threshold. The extinguished candle had rolled away, smoking and dripping wax on the tiles. Paul’s eyes were closed and there was a bloody gash on his forehead where he had hit the doorstep.
Noah dropped to his knees, turned the unconscious man over. “Go. I’ll see to Paul.”
Without a word, Dan leapt over the prostrate form and into the street. On his right, it sloped up to the busy, well-lit Strand. To his left, steam issued from the door of the Turkish baths and swirled in the light over the door. Lights burned in neighbouring dwelling houses, but the offices and warehouses at the wharf end were unlit. The street ran down to a darkness webbed by the masts of river barges and the scaffolds of cranes.
He glimpsed a figure in a long coat pass from the light into the gloom and raced after him. Their footsteps echoed between the houses, burst out more clearly when they reached the open quayside. Dan paused to listen, started in the direction of the receding footsteps. The river was a sheet of slithering blackness with broken lines of light reflected along its banks. The ropes and blocks on the flat-bottomed vessels rattled in the cold night breeze. There were sinister splashes and gurgles from water lapping against the dank stone.
He stumbled over a rope, righted himself. His feet crunched over nuggets of coal that had tumbled from a heap in a stall at the water’s edge. Beyond the stall, the path lay between a warehouse wall on his left, the drop to the river on his right.
A figure appeared, its face turned towards him, flickering pale in the intermittent moonlight under the scudding clouds. He flung out his arms and Dan’s path was blocked by an avalanche of crates. They crashed down, some breaking into shards and splinters Dan had to jump back to avoid.
Dan sprang on to the pile, but it was not stable enough to climb, sent him skidding back to the ground. Some fragments of wood slid into the river, spraying him with droplets of water. He did not want to go the same way. He scrambled away from the water’s edge, got to his feet. He could no longer hear the sound of running.
Cursing, he turned and sprinted back to the gymnasium. He hammered on the door.
“Dad, it’s me!”
After a moment, Noah drew back the bolts. He had placed his lantern on the stairs and armed himself with a pistol.
“Didn’t get him,” Dan said.
Noah locked the door and the two men went back upstairs. Paul sat by the fire, a second glass of spirits in his hand. Under normal circumstances he never drank more than one.
“What happened?” Dan asked.
The old soldier shook his head. “I hardly know. I opened the door, asked him what he wanted, and next thing I knew, he hit me.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“We heard his voice.”
Paul knitted his brows. “I have it! He said, ‘Foster?’ I said, ‘Who’s asking?’ And then he hit me.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“He was tall. That was all I saw. Couldn’t see his face.”
“Dad, have you had any trouble with anyone lately?”
“None I recall.”
“Do you owe anyone money?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
Dan would have been surprised if the answer had been yes. Noah was strict in matters of business.
“Has anything out of the ordinary happened in the gym? An argument? A complaint?”
Noah rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing like that. Perhaps he meant to rob me.”
“There are easier places to target,” Dan said. “It’s not as if you’d come to the door carrying your cash box. And he said your name. It looks personal to me.”
“Yes, but which Foster do you think he wanted?” Noah asked.
“You think he was after me?”
“He just said Foster, isn’t that right, Paul?”
“Yes,” the old soldier answered. “I’m sure of it.”
“Then most likely it’s some criminal you’ve crossed,” said Noah.
Dan shook his head. “He might mistake Paul for you, but he couldn’t mistake him for me.”
“The lamp Paul was carrying would have dazzled a man looking in from the dark street. All he’d have seen was a figure behind a blaze of light half-hidden behind a door.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But are you sure you can’t think of anyone who has a grudge against you? Someone you’ve had a falling-out with?”
“No one comes to mind,” Noah said.
“If you think of anything, let me know.” Dan stood up, drew on his coat and hat. He reached down and took his old friend’s hand. “How are you faring, Paul?”
“I’ll be all right. You just make sure you’re here in good time for training tomorrow.”
“I will. You get some rest. And you be careful, Dad.”
Noah held up his pistol. “Let him try again. I’ll be ready for him. And I’d say the same to you. Watch your back on the way home.”
Noah followed Dan downstairs. Dan stood in the street until he had heard Noah draw the bolts, then he turned right and walked up to the Strand. He felt for the gun in his pocket. Like his father, he would be ready.
It would help if he knew what he was supposed to be ready for.
Chapter Nineteen
Dan stood in the drawing room at Berkeley Square in front of a painting of a young Louise Parmeter dressed in something pale and gauzy. She sat on a stone bench and gazed dreamily into a distance of trees and fields. She certainly had been a beautiful woman, but he thought there was something ruthless in the set of her mouth. Perhaps it was a look possessed by everyone who had clawed themselves up to independence from poverty. Perhaps he had it himself. Next to her portrait, lest anyone should forget that she had once been loved by royalty, hung a print of a younger, thinner Prince of Wales.
The door opened and Sarah Dean came into the room. “Miss Taylor will be down in a moment.”
He had called to ask how Agnes Taylor was. He was also curious to hear her version of the encounter at Cavendish Square yesterday, and in particular why she had thought it worth asking Lord Hawkhurst for a subscription towards a book of poetry commemorating a woman he had loathed.
Sarah moved to his side and looked at the painting. “It’s by Gainsborough. They all queued up to paint her: Reynolds, Romney, the Cosways, Lawrence. Even now you can buy prints of her when she was at the height of her fame. She was still getting requests, but she wouldn’t sit for any of them.”
“Was she always in the news?”
“Wherever she went, whoever she was with, whatever she wore. There were hundreds of satirical prints, countless obscene ones too. But she was a leader of fashion. I shall never forget the effect it had on me when I read about the new shades of blue and grey she brought back from Paris ten years ago. They shook the world. I knew then I had to work for her.”
Blue and grey did not sound such great discoveries to Dan.
“How did you manage it?” he asked.
“I was working for the Duchess of Deavor, and I asked her to introduce me.”
“A very obliging employer.”
Sarah smiled. “Duchesses have their secrets. And I am the best. Miss Parmeter knew it.” She turned back to the portrait. “I was going to dress her in the blue and grey on the first night of her return to the stage.”
“She was planning to go back to the theatre?”
“Yes. She’d been talking to Mr Sheridan about it for weeks. The silly man wanted her to take on older roles: Mrs Hardcastle, Mrs Ri
ch, Lady Oldham. As if I should dress old wives and matrons! Still, he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He owed her such vast sums of money.”
“Mr Sheridan owed Miss Parmeter money?”
“Mr Sheridan owes everyone money.” She sighed. “It would have been her greatest triumph.” She shook herself out of her melancholy, said briskly, “I shall leave you to your tête-à-tête with Miss Taylor.”
“It’s hardly that.”
She looked at him with a shrewd eye. “I will tell you one thing, Mr Foster. You would do well not to waste too much sympathy on Miss Taylor.”
“What do you know against her?”
“Is it true that she was at Lord Hawkhurst’s yesterday afternoon?”
“She went to ask him to subscribe to a book of poems about Miss Parmeter. He and his friends tricked her into drinking strong spirits.”
“I doubt much trickery was needed. And only a fool would put herself in such a situation with such a man.”
“I own I was surprised to see her there. She must have known what he was like, especially after Miss Parmeter’s affair ended.”
“Miss Taylor has an inflated opinion of her power to influence men.”
“You think she hoped to influence Lord Hawkhurst?”
“I really couldn’t say what she hoped. But she will have few opportunities to find a rich husband when she leaves this house.”
“Miss Taylor wants to marry Lord Hawkhurst?”
“I think she wants to make a good marriage. How else is she to continue living in the manner to which she’s become accustomed? But Agnes Taylor is no Louise Parmeter. She will never be able to manage a man like Lord Hawkhurst.”
The door opened and Agnes came in. She stalked past Sarah without acknowledging her. Sarah smirked at Dan, curtsied pertly and left.
Agnes sat down. She was pale, but seemed otherwise unharmed by yesterday’s adventure. Dan took a seat opposite her.
“I called to see how you are feeling,” he said.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr Foster. I am sorry you were put to so much trouble.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, it wasn’t very wise of you calling on Lord Hawkhurst like that.”
“I had only ever seen him in company with Miss Parmeter and her friends. I had no idea a man of breeding could so far lower himself as to keep company with drunkards, Irishmen and pugilists. Thank heavens that you were there to rescue me from my tormentors.”
Dan wondered what she would think if he told her how he had come by the bruises on his face. “You saw the pugilist, did you?”
“The brute was in the room when I arrived. To a woman of my sensibilities, Mr Foster, the mere sight of the savage was quite overpowering. I have been languishing on my feverish couch ever since.”
It was one way to describe the effects of drink, Dan supposed.
“Yet strength returns to my quivering limbs,” she continued, “and vitality to my o’er-tried heart. The Muses have poured their blessings on me. I am no longer at the mercy of patrons and subscribers.”
“Something has happened?”
“I have today received a missive from Messrs Cadell and Davies offering to publish my next book of poems. The verses in question have been seen by no other mortal, not even dear, lamented Miss Parmeter. They have been judged on the merit of their natural genius.”
“I congratulate you. I hope this means that your future is assured?”
She glanced at the door through which Miss Dean had lately passed and raised her voice. “I shall be that rare thing, Mr Foster. A woman who lives by her pen.”
Dan left Agnes to the enjoyment of her new prospects and walked to the Cruft mansion. Randolph Cruft had not yet returned, had sent a letter to say he intended to stay in the country a few days longer. Now why, Dan wondered, could that be? The young man had not wanted to leave London, yet offered the chance to return, he did not take it. Perhaps he was consumed by grief for his dead mistress. Perhaps he had found someone else to comfort him. Or perhaps he was keeping out of the way until interest in the case had died down.
Dan considered his options. Whatever he decided, he intended to avoid John Townsend as much as possible. A trip to Hertfordshire to find out what Cruft was up to would achieve that aim nicely. However, it would mean missing the meeting at the Martins’ house, and with it a chance to find out what Pickering, Rule and the Martins were involved in.
He was also interested in what Sarah had said about the dispute between Sheridan and Louise Parmeter. Faced with a debt he could not repay and the prospect of giving an actress roles he did not want her to have – surely an unusual situation for a theatre manager – it was possible their argument had become acrimonious. And there was still Hawkhurst, who had not yet answered any of Dan’s questions.
Dan decided that Hertfordshire could wait.
Chapter Twenty
Drury Lane Theatre rang with the sound of hammering, creaking ropes and crashing scenery. Stagehands, costumiers, prompters and writers scurried back and forth, shouting at one another. Women shuffled about the house, clanking pails and beating dust from curtains and cushions. The jangling, whining and squeaking of the musicians tuning their instruments rose up from the orchestra pit. It was a mystery to Dan how any play could appear out of such chaos.
The central figure in all this, drawing the eye by some unaccountable air or charisma, was Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a robust man with a raddled face. He stood in the pit with one of his business managers. He held a newspaper in one hand which he slapped loudly with the other while he railed against its contents to the soothing nods and murmurs of his companion. Soothed, however, he was not.
Drawing nearer, Dan discovered the cause of his grievance.
“Borrowed it? Borrowed it? If I did, it was from none other than myself. Think not, my Love is my song. I wrote it when I was courting the first Mrs Sheridan. Who does this self-styled ‘Lover of Truth’ think he is? And Schick’s translation of The Stranger ‘published by Mr Dilly in the Poultry is by far a more correct translation of Mr Kotzebue’s comedy’ than mine? Was there ever such a blockhead? Such a poor contemptible booby? Such a swaggering puppy?”
Usually Sheridan, who made a point of being polite to the Bow Street men, greeted Dan with an affable nod. Now he rolled up the newspaper and brandished it at him.
“What now? Another of his dreadful scripts? Haven’t I got enough to do without having to wade through a host of Matchless Orindas, Sir Foppesly-Fops and Lady Tumbles? Well, why not? What else am I here for?”
“Mr Sheridan, sir,” Dan said. “I—”
Sheridan gestured at one of the benches. “Leave it there! I’ll neglect my business – stay away from the House of Commons – take no food or drink until I’ve conned it. The honour is all mine.”
Sheridan’s companion cleared his throat. “I do not think, Mr Sheridan, that Officer Foster is here to deliver a script.”
“Is he not one of Sir William Addington’s men?”
“I am, sir,” Dan said. “I’m here about a case I’m investigating.”
“You haven’t brought me another of Sir William’s plays?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re sure? You aren’t hiding it in that greatcoat of yours?”
“Indeed, no, sir. I didn’t know that Sir William was in the habit of sending you plays.”
“Then you must be one of Bow Street’s least observant officers.”
“An officer doesn’t like to pry, sir.”
Sheridan laughed. “Oh, don’t you, Officer Nosey? Well, well, Mr Foster, forgive my temper. These play-writing magistrates are the very devil. Though I’ll say one thing for Sir William: he doesn’t give up. It must be twenty years since Garrick rejected his scribbling. Now it’s my turn. If there’s one thing worse than thwarted ambition, it’s renewed thwarted ambition.
What should have put the dramatical maggot in Sir William’s head again is beyond me. Still, since you do not come bearing a comedy in five acts, I think a celebratory drink is in order. Fetch a bottle, Thompson.”
At least one puzzle has been cleared up, Dan thought. He now knew why he had heard Sir William declaiming to himself in his office lately. The chief magistrate had been trying out his speeches.
Thompson was gone and back with bottle and glasses within two minutes. Sheridan sat down, and motioned to Dan to join him on the bench. Dan shook his head when Thompson offered wine to him. Thompson moved away, taking the spare glass with him.
“What’s your business, Officer?”
“I’m working on the Louise Parmeter murder.”
“Poor Louise! A dreadful loss. I still remember her Jacintha in The Suspicious Husband. Damned fine legs. A brilliant wit, too. Sir William could learn a thing or two from her plays and novels.”
“I gather that Miss Parmeter was considering a return to the stage.”
“Yes, she was. And we’d have been lucky to have her.”
“In the right parts.”
“How do you mean?”
“I understand you had a disagreement over what parts Miss Parmeter should take.”
“That’s true, we did. Nothing unusual in that, Mr Foster. Actors and actresses are apt to misjudge their talents. I’ve known tragedians who itched to be comedians and hadn’t the faintest notion of comedy, comedians who longed to play tragic roles who hadn’t the least idea how to die well.”
It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, which Sheridan seemed not to notice. He took a long draught of his wine.
“But how do you think this connects with Louise’s murder? It was merely a difference of artistic opinion. You surely don’t think we’d substitute real daggers for our theatrical sparring, eh?”
“I think it’s possible where money is concerned.”
“Come, come, Officer. Get to the point. What are you trying to say?”
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