Death Makes No Distinction

by Lucienne Boyce

  “What else can we do?”

  Dan felt the weight of the bag in his hand. There was every tool he could need in there; more than he was used to. And time was running out.

  He put down the bag, reached the key to the cuffs from his pocket, felt for his gun at the same time. “I warn you, I’m armed. Try to escape and I will shoot you down.”

  “I’m not going to escape.”

  Dan released the cuffs, thrust the bag into Pickering’s arms. “You can carry this. Go on.”

  Pickering took the bag and swung himself up and over the wall. Dan followed. They crouched on the other side.

  “What’s your plan?” Dan whispered.

  “To jemmy open one of the windows.”

  Dan pointed at a glass door into the garden. “What’s wrong with the door?”

  “I thought a window would be easier.”

  “Jemmying a window is noisier. We’ll try the door first. You lead.”

  “But—”

  “This is no time to have a debate. Go on.”

  They stooped down, zigzagged across the dark lawn and halted by the door.

  “Hurry up then,” Dan said.

  Pickering opened the bag, hesitated, then took out the bunch of picklocks. Dan, his back against the wall, scanned the garden. He had noticed a path around the side of the house; if anyone heard them and came out, they would have to come that way. But all was dark and still.

  The picklocks scratched and scraped. Pickering cursed. Dan turned an exasperated eye on his fumbling efforts.

  “For God’s sake, give them to me.”

  Crestfallen, Pickering handed them over. Seconds later the lock clicked.

  “What kind of police officer are you?”

  Dan ignored Pickering’s question. As he had hoped, the door was not bolted, but it took some effort to push it open because of the heavy curtains that hung in front of it. Dan approved; they were good for muffling sound. The two men stepped inside.

  They were in a room with a long, gleaming table with half a dozen chairs around it. There was a sideboard laden with dishes, silverware and a pair of candelabra. In the middle of the table, a vase of hothouse flowers gave off a sickly scent. Two places had been laid with gleaming cutlery and fine china, but the fire was unlit. Over the hearth hung a map of the Jamaican plantations.

  “The breakfast room,” Pickering said. “This way.”

  “You know where we are?”

  “I’ve some idea. If my information is correct, Joseph is in his master’s dressing room.”

  He opened the door a few inches. They looked out on to a hall and a flight of stairs. From somewhere beneath them came voices and gusts of laughter. They crept up the stairs to the first floor with its carpeted landing and row of closed doors. Pickering confidently made his way to one of the doors and swung it open to reveal, in the soft glow from the fire, a lady’s bedchamber.

  “Blast. I thought it was this one,” he muttered.

  “Take your time about it.”

  “I’m not used to this, you know,” Pickering retorted.

  “I can see that. What about in here?”

  Dan opened another door. The room looked more promising. Here again, a fire had been lit ready for its occupant’s return. The brushes on the dressing table were a man’s, and a man’s robe hung on the door. A door near the head of the four-poster bed led to the dressing room. Pickering hurried across and opened it.

  The only light came through the window from the street lamps. It was enough for the two men to make out a large wardrobe, a boot stand, wash stand, and towel rail. There was a small fireplace with a narrow mantelpiece over it, but no fire. Against the opposite wall stood a small iron bed with no sheets, blankets or pillows. A huddled shape lay on top of the mattress. It started up and let out a whimper of alarm. There was another sound: the chink of metal.

  Pickering knelt beside the bed and clasped the boy’s hand. “Joseph, we’ve come to take you away from here.”

  The boy’s teeth chattered, with cold, with fright. “But he’ll be back soon – Mr Simpson.”

  Dan turned back into the bedroom, grabbed a candle from the bedside table, lit it at the fire and took it back to the dressing room. Joseph’s face turned towards Dan, his eyes wide, blinking in the light. His face crumpled.

  “You’ve come to take me to the ship!”

  “Quiet!” Pickering hissed. “Look at me. We’re not here to take you to the ship. We’re taking you out of this.” He tried to sound reassuring, but he had caught sight of something on the boy’s neck. He looked back at Dan with despair in his eyes.

  Puzzled, Dan brought the candle closer. Joseph was wearing a metal collar. A chain led from it to the bed railings.

  “Hell,” he said.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Pickering.

  “Move aside. Give me the picklocks. Hold the candle.”

  Pickering did as he was told. Dan examined the fetters. The last link of the chain was attached by a padlock to a loop soldered on to the collar.

  “I can’t get the collar off, but I should be able to open the padlock.”

  “I’ve got tools to deal with the collar,” Pickering said.

  Dan told Joseph to hold still, but the boy could not stop shaking. The minutes passed and still the padlock had not opened. Joseph looked at Pickering over Dan’s head. The coachman’s face was grim. Tears began to spill out of Joseph’s eyes. Dan felt the lock about to yield, then Joseph sobbed. The movement knocked Dan’s hand, dislodged the picklock. Dan bit back a curse and started again.

  This time he had it. He unhooked the padlock and let the chain fall on to the mattress. Pickering helped Joseph to his feet. He was a tall, handsome youth, aged about sixteen. He wore crumpled breeches, shirt and jacket, and his legs and feet were bare.

  “Where are your shoes?” asked Pickering.

  “He took them away.”

  “Never mind. I can get you some. Come on.”

  “This isn’t right,” said Dan. “Simpson shouldn’t get away with it. I should stay and arrest him.”

  “You can’t. I told you. If you move against him, he’ll have Joseph taken for a thief.”

  “But here’s the evidence. I’m a witness. So are you and Joseph.”

  “A witness of what? That he had to restrain a thieving servant. He’ll be able to prove it ten times over. Who will believe a boy who says he was kidnapped and threatened with slavery in a country that boasts it is free of slavery? I tell you, you force Joseph to testify and he’s done for.”

  “I won’t do it!” Joseph cried. “I won’t!”

  Pickering signalled to him to be quiet. “Foster, if you can guarantee that arresting Simpson will result in prosecution for him and freedom for Joseph, then go ahead. Look me in the eye and tell me that’s how it’s going to be. If you can’t tell me that, then at least tell me that’s how you believe it’s going to turn out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Bring him in. Grace has some food ready. I—”

  Martin, who stood at the open door with a lamp in his hand, broke off. “A police officer?”

  “He’s on our side,” Pickering said, pushing the shop door open and pulling Joseph inside. Dan stepped in after them. Martin gazed at him in dismayed silence.

  “Shut the door,” Pickering said. “Get the boy into the back and douse the light, for heaven’s sake.”

  Martin, still transfixed by the sight of Dan, said, “But what’s he doing here?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. Let’s get into the back or we’ll have the whole neighbourhood awake.” Pickering guided Joseph through the shop.

  “You’d better do as he says,” Dan said to the bewildered shoemaker.

  Mechanically, Martin bolted the door and hurried after them. The parlour behind the sho
p was simply but comfortably furnished. A fire burned in the hearth, a vase of flowers stood on the table, there was an open workbasket near the fire. On the chair next to it lay the shirt Grace Martin had been mending when Pickering rapped his ‘rat-a-tat-tat’. On the seat opposite was the Bible her husband had been reading. The warm, savoury smell of bread and soup drifted from the kitchen.

  Pickering guided the boy to the fireside and helped him into a seat. The door behind him opened and Grace Martin emerged from the passageway. Her gaze went straight to the boy huddled in the chair, his eyes heavy, his head nodding over his chest.

  “Why, he looks perished! Pass my shawl, John. And he has no shoes! We must find—” She caught sight of Dan and all sign of welcome left her face. “You!”

  “And John is the wife beater, I suppose,” Dan returned.

  Her eyes flickered to her husband. She turned pale and said, “You will at least let me give the boy something to eat before you drag him back to the monster who calls himself his master.”

  “No one’s dragging him back anywhere,” Pickering said, taking off his hat and coat and draping them over one of the dining chairs by the table. “We owe a debt of thanks to Mr Foster. If it wasn’t for him, Joseph would still be chained to his bed.”

  “Chained?” she repeated. She looked at Joseph. He had lifted his head and the firelight glinted on the collar around his neck. “Oh, you poor boy!” she cried.

  “Can’t get it off until I fetch some tools from the stables,” Pickering said. “Mr Foster here picked the padlock. It was Mr Foster who broke into the house too. He’s a mighty handy fellow, for a Bow Street Runner.”

  “That’s enough, Pickering,” Dan said. “Unless you want me to arrest you all here and now, I want some explanations.”

  “And so do I,” said John Martin. He turned to Grace. “But first, let’s get some food into the lad.”

  “I’m famished too,” Pickering said. “Hungry work, breaking and entering, eh, Mr Foster?”

  Dan glared at him. The coachman laughed.

  John, reminded of his duties as a host, gestured towards the table. “Of course, please sit down.” Nervously, he added, “Mr Foster?”

  Dan hesitated. The food did smell good and he realised he was hungry. And after all, it was hardly eating with desperadoes – though he’d done that often enough. He took off his outdoor things and took the place indicated. It was a tight fit between the table and a small bookcase against the wall. He spotted several of Louise Parmeter’s works: poetry, anti-slavery tracts, and a book entitled An Address to the Men of Great Britain on Behalf of Women. There was no copy of the book Caroline had been reading, or of any of the other novels. Presumably the Martins were too earnest to read romance.

  Grace draped her shawl over Joseph’s shoulders and went to the kitchen to fetch the meal. She brought in bread, knives, spoons, bowls, glasses, a jug of beer. She pursed her lips when Dan asked for water and stalked off to the kitchen to fetch it. Pickering laughed, picked up the bread knife and cut a slice of bread. “We’d better tell her what happened before she pours the water on your head,” he said.

  When she was back in the room and they had all settled at the table, Pickering recounted the events of the evening in between taking mouthfuls of food and beer. Dan mostly let him tell it his way, only uttering a warning growl when Pickering spoke too enthusiastically of his housebreaking skills. When he had finished speaking, John grasped Dan’s hand and, almost moved to tears, shook it heartily.

  “Will you forgive me for the untruths I told you, Mr Foster?” Grace asked. “It seemed the most obvious way to account for our being together in the Apple Tree.”

  “You thought it better to let me think you were having an affair than tell me you were planning a burglary,” Dan said.

  She felt the rebuke and blushed.

  “My wife did tell the truth in its essential parts,” John defended her. “She and Mr Pickering were in Trinder’s tavern when they said they were.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me from the start that the two of you were together?” Dan asked Pickering.

  “Because I wanted to keep Mr and Mrs Martin out of it. I didn’t want the Runners coming around here asking awkward questions. Not that it’s worked out as I hoped, for here you are.”

  Dan scratched his chin. “Then why did you come to Bow Street, Mrs Martin?”

  She glanced at Pickering. “John and I thought it the best course of action.”

  “If I’d had time to send a message direct to Trinder, it wouldn’t have happened,” Pickering said. “But there wasn’t a chance to give Jacko a long explanation before your myrmidons grabbed me, so I just told him to bring word of my arrest here. I knew Mr and Mrs Martin would get me out of prison. I only had to keep quiet and sit it out. I thought they’d send Trinder, that he and the others could say I’d been at the Apple Tree without any need to mention Mrs Martin.”

  “That’s why you were surprised when she showed up at the Brown Bear,” Dan said.

  “It was a simple misunderstanding,” John said placatingly.

  “It was an unjustifiable risk,” Pickering retorted.

  “I would have thought clambering over a wall with a bag full of burglar’s tools was a risk for a man who wanted to avoid prison,” Dan said. “But to get back to the point. How did you know Joseph was at Simpson’s?”

  “The milk woman was friendly with him,” Pickering answered. “She hadn’t seen him for a few days and asked after him at the kitchen door. One of the servants told her. Thought it was funny. The boy’s been something of a pet of Simpson’s. He’d let it go to his head and wasn’t very popular with the rest of the household.”

  “And Simpson had grown tired of his pet?”

  Pickering nodded. “It’s not an unusual story. The boy’s got older and suddenly the tricks of a child aren’t so charming in a youth. As a servant he’s grown tiresome; as a slave he’s worth money.”

  “And this milk woman came to you?”

  “She came to the Apple Tree. I got the message.”

  “What happens to him now?”

  “We get him out of London,” John said. “Somewhere he can start a new life.”

  “It still doesn’t sit right,” Dan said. “If the boy would only testify.”

  “You know he won’t,” said Pickering. “If he does, he will be done for. And so will we. You’re a police officer and you think your word will be enough. But what about when the lawyers start saying we’re all thieves together, you, me and the boy? That we went there to rob the place? That you’re a thief taker turned thief? And let’s face it, you know your way around a picklock.”

  Dan knew Pickering was right. It would be hard to free the boy from the snares his master had laid for him. Harder still to justify burglary. Did he regret his behaviour? He decided he did not. The thought of leaving the boy cold, half-starved and in chains for a moment longer than he had to was intolerable. Joseph had a split lip too, had been beaten at some point. And there was that collar, which had yet to be removed.

  “And this is what you and your co-conspirators get up to,” Dan said. “Rescuing slaves like Joseph.”

  “The law is vague on the question of whether or not Joseph and others like him, who were born on the plantations, are slaves when they are in this country,” John answered.

  “A slave traders’ law,” muttered Pickering.

  “Indeed,” John said, before continuing, “Being on English soil does not confer emancipation, and neither does the master lose his rights in what they are pleased to consider their property. On the other hand, the law is clear that kidnapping and sending a servant overseas against his will is illegal. As a result of this, cases like Joseph’s are less frequent than they used to be. Most masters think it’s more trouble than it’s worth for the sake of one or two individuals.”

  “You mean they
can’t cope with servants who have legal rights, no matter how limited they are,” said Pickering.

  John accepted this second interruption with a patient nod. “Nowadays we spend more of our time working with captives in transit, kept chained in a hold or warehouse while the ship prepares for the onward leg of its voyage. Or it might be a sailor who’s worked a passage over here expecting to be paid off at the end of the voyage, but finds himself in irons and bound for the plantations instead.”

  “And Rule is well placed to keep you informed about such men.”

  John nodded. “The masters are very secretive. Anyone who speaks out is likely to find himself out of work or set upon by bludgeon men. Rule has to pay to get the information.”

  “Which is what you gave him the fight money for, Pickering?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I saw you fight and followed you to the Boar and Castle afterwards.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You wouldn’t. Must cost a bit to get them away too. I assume you don’t get all your money from fighting.”

  “No,” said Grace. “We rely on the generosity of supporters.”

  “Was Miss Parmeter a supporter? Is that why Rule said things would be difficult without her?”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking,” Pickering said. “You seem to know everything already.”

  “So her death is a blow for you.”

  Pickering clenched his fist. “Not just for her money. There was no one like her. She would treat a man for what he was, be he the lowest beggar in the land or the highest prince. She was a thousand times better than the people who passed judgement on her, the ladies who wouldn’t be in the same room with her, the gentlemen who sneered while they lusted after her.”

  “There’s no need to take it like that. Fact is, it’s in your favour. Means it’s less likely one of you wanted to kill her.”

  “To kill her? If I had the man in front of me, I’d—”

  Dan interrupted Pickering before the threat was uttered. “Did she know what you were doing?”

  Pickering hesitated. “She never asked any questions.”