The Circle of Sappho (28 page)

I have scoured the streets for the Scarred Man tonight but he was nowhere to be found. Is he really in Bath? Did he return? I sense he is here, but am I fooling myself? Perhaps I have fooled myself my whole life through.

And why did Lockhart tell me about Kirby's jacket? Is it a double bluff or does he really want Kirby dead? With Kirby dead, Lockhart will not need to explain to him about the missing letters, yet if it is to be me who is killed, I will no longer be there to protect Mary from Lockhart's clutches. There are so many questions that remain unanswered, and may never be answered now.

How could you have done this to me, Father! I vividly remember the night you died. I could not sleep and woke from a nightmare. Something was not right. I called out for Mrs Hunter but you came instead. You stroked my hair and said how much you loved me. I could not go back to sleep and so you said to come downstairs with you. You were in a back room, polishing boots. You seemed nervous, on edge, but you looked at me and then took out the three cups. You found a dried pea and showed me the game you had done so often. ‘You must watch for the pea,' you said. ‘Always watch for the pea.'

Whether you meant it or not, I have taken it to mean to always look for the trick behind the illusion. There was no pea, or at least not under any of the cups. That is the answer – you are looking for something that does not exist. Is that what I am doing, chasing the Scarred Man after all these years; looking for justice that does not exist? I could not figure your trick out until later. And then the noise from elsewhere in the house came and the next moment you were gone.

It was still dark as Swann left the house in Great Pulteney Street and stepped into the carriage organised by Fitzpatrick. He closed the carriage door and, as the horse trotted off, glanced up at the window where his sister lay asleep.

‘Does Mary know?' asked Fitzpatrick.

‘No. I wanted to tell her but it would have been too painful for her. I have placed a letter addressed to her on my bedroom table, in case I do not return. If I am killed this morning, perhaps you could enlighten her as to why I could not let her know.'

‘You can rely on me, Swann,' replied Fitzpatrick. ‘You look tired.'

‘I must confess I have not slept. I was putting my affairs in order until the early hours and writing these correspondences.'

Swann handed his companion several letters, each one addressed separately.

‘I would be grateful if you can forward these to their intended recipients in the event of my death. There is one addressed to you, Henry. I would consider it a great favour if you were able to fulfil the instructions enclosed within.'

‘I will do my best,' replied the magistrate.

The carriage reached the end of the street and turned left, towards Bathampton Down. The journey was a relatively short one and as the carriage neared its destination it left the main road and travelled up a narrow, uneven track, the chassis bumping and shaking all the way. They reached the intended spot for the duel and the driver pulled on the reins to bring the horse to a halt. They were the first to arrive.

‘Kirby is not here yet,' said Fitzpatrick, looking out of the window. ‘I suggest we wait in the carriage.'

Swann agreed, although after a short while he decided to get some fresh air. He stepped down from the carriage onto the dewy grass and walked around. The sun had risen and its golden rays shone through the tree branches, casting dappled sunlight on the ground.

Fitzpatrick left the carriage and unpacked the pistol box, along with the required paraphernalia, in silence. He set up a small table on which he placed two pistols. He loaded each of them in turn and set them back down. He then busied himself by pacing out the space between where the two combatants would stand and marking the positions where each would turn and discharge their firearms.

A few more minutes passed and there was still no sign of Kirby.

‘This is strange,' said Fitzpatrick. ‘I thought he would have been here by now. Perhaps you have a reprieve?'

‘I do not wish a reprieve,' said Swann. ‘I wish honour to be restored and justice to be served.'

‘And rightly so,' said a familiar voice. From behind the nearby trees a figure stepped out.

‘Wicks!' exclaimed Swann. He instinctively reached for a loaded pistol.

‘I would suggest you leave those exactly where they are. Several of my men are surrounding you at this moment and all have their weapons aimed at you.'

‘What are you doing here? I cannot believe you have become Kirby's second.'

‘Kirby will not be coming, as there is someone who wants to take his place.'

‘My disagreement is with Kirby,' said Swann, ‘and nobody else. I suggest this duel is annulled.'

‘Do not be too hasty, Mr Swann,' said another man, stepping into view. His face was shrouded by a hood.

‘Who are you?' asked Swann.

‘I have many names, Mr Swann, but I believe you call me the Scarred Man.'

The stranger lifted his hood and let it fall back. The deep scar on his cheek verified his identity.

‘Why are you here?' asked an increasingly bewildered Swann.

‘I know you have been searching for me. Well, here I am. I have often wondered what happened to the boy from
that
night.'

Swann stared at the man in disbelief. ‘I still do not understand,' he said.

‘I am here to bring your quest to an end; that is what you want, is it not? Although I do not know why you think I am to blame. I did not kill your father; it was not me who ran the cutlass through his body.'

‘You were there.'

‘So were you. But then, of course, you also blame yourself.'

‘What do you mean?' said Swann.

‘You stood there and did nothing. You allowed your father to die just as much as I did.'

‘I was twelve years old!' shouted Swann. ‘What could I have done?'

‘And what about this!' growled the Scarred Man pointing to his face. ‘Look at what your father did to me.'

‘It is only a scar. You still have your life, my father lost his!'

‘I also lost the sight in my right eye. I do not bear a grudge, though. It has been more than twenty years; why don't you give up chasing me and stop tormenting yourself?'

‘Never! You are my chance of finding Malone.'

‘It will not bring you the satisfaction you seek.'

‘I do not wish to kill him, merely to see that justice is served.'

‘You cannot fool me. Admit it. You want to execute Malone; you want to watch the look on his face as you administer that fatal blow. You want him to suffer the way your father did. You know your father was to blame though, don't you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your father was the one who told us about the house, whilst gambling. In return for his debts being cleared he told our boss about the property, about that particular evening in the week being the staff's night off and how the family would be out. How there would only be a near-deaf woman and a young boy left in the property.'

‘I do not believe you!' shouted Swann as he grabbed one of the pistols.

The Scarred Man smiled. ‘That's it,' he said, ‘let us bring this matter to a close.' He stretched his arms out as if crucified.

‘Remember though, if you do kill me, you will never find Malone. I am the only one who can lead you to him. If I die, you will lose your chance forever. I could lead you to him right now. We could go on foot, by horse, in a carriage. Malone changes his whereabouts as often as you change your mind about your father's character; was he a good, honest, respectable man or just some sad, compulsive, selfish gambler.'

Swann began to squeeze the trigger.

‘If anything happens to me, Malone will be gone and your quest will be over, anyway. If you really want justice to be served, you have to play my game; you have to adhere to my rules. Do you agree?'

‘No, it ends here,' replied Swann.

Swann discharged his pistol and watched it find its target; the Scarred Man's heart. The impact knocked his adversary off his feet and he fell backwards to the ground. Swann stood motionless. The Scarred Man was dead, but he felt no satisfaction; no fulfilment; no resolution. He had let his emotions have free reign again and now he had lost Malone forever.

Then incredibly, as Swann watched, he saw the body of the Scarred Man move; his arms; his legs; his torso. He brought himself up onto his knees and then onto his feet. The Scarred Man laughed and picked up his pistol from the floor and aimed it at Swann's heart. He squeezed the trigger and the pistol discharged. As Swann fell to the ground, Fitzpatrick ran over and knelt down beside his friend.

‘Swann! Swann!' he said quietly. ‘Wake up, Kirby has arrived.'

It took a few moments for Swann to realise he had been dreaming, that there had been no Wicks or Scarred Man, only Kirby and Lockhart, who at this moment were waiting outside. He stepped out of the carriage and approached the two men. Fitzpatrick followed.

The surgeon, who was there to attend to the participants, whether wounded or dead, was also to act as the adjudicator. Everything was ready.

‘Gentlemen,' said the surgeon, ‘on my signal you will walk the agreed twelve paces and then turn to face each other. Mr Swann, you will fire first and, Mr Kirby, you will fire second. It has been agreed this duel is to the death, so if neither of you are fatally wounded, you will fire again, this time together.'

Swann and Kirby nodded briefly to one other, then turned and stood back-to-back. They slowly began to stride out the paces … one … two … three … Swann felt his heart quickening … four … five … six … he could not shake his dream of the Scarred Man from his mind … seven … eight … what if he was in the city right now? … nine … whatever his father might have been, he had loved him and owed it to him to seek justice for his death. He had tried to protect the property, after all, and through his death Swann had been given this privileged life … ten … he saw the Scarred Man manically laughing at him as he stood up from being shot … eleven … twelve … Swann stopped and turned to face Kirby. He knew what he had to do. He raised his pistol and aimed it at his opponent. He focussed all his attention on making the shot count. His heart pounded, his throat was dry and the hand in which he gripped his pistol trembled slightly. Swann brought all to mind in that final moment before he fired; that fatal night; his father; the Scarred Man; Malone; Wicks; Lady Harriet; Lockhart; Kirby.

Swann thought he saw a hint of smug satisfaction on Kirby's face, but this vanished as he discharged his pistol, replaced by one of shock and disbelief as the bullet reached its mark.

The surgeon walked across to where Kirby had fallen and knelt down beside him. He looked up at Swann.

‘He is dead,' he said.

Swann walked over and gazed down at the magistrate's face. Blood where the bullet had entered Kirby's right temple trickled down his face, collecting in a pool on the grass beside his head.

Swann turned and strode purposefully towards the carriage. As he did so, he exchanged a knowing look with Lockhart. He then entered the carriage and, once Fitzpatrick had joined him, drove off back towards the city.

Bath, Sunday 1st April, 1804

So I have killed a man. I had no choice, what else could I do? The truth is that I had no choice but to go through with it, as I was caught up in an irreversible sequence of events arising from the moment Kirby insulted my father's memory. If I had not fatally shot Kirby, I know he would have mortally wounded me.

A thought has embedded itself in my mind; what if Lockhart was lying about Kirby, that he was not wearing a padded jacket, that it was all a plan to get me to kill Kirby? Certainly Lockhart had several motives to want him dead. I will ask Fitzpatrick to enquire of the surgeon as to the garments Kirby was wearing. Fitzpatrick has assured me that I will not stand trial over the death; he will make certain it does not happen. He will not say anything, nor will Lockhart; although their motives are different, with the latter choosing to remain silent for selfish reasons rather than through friendship. The story which will appear in the local newspaper, as reported by Kirby's fellow magistrate, Henry Fitzpatrick, will relay that Richard J. Kirby had financial problems and in a fit of despair drove himself to the woods at Bathampton and committed suicide by shooting himself in the head.

Although I would rather not have taken up my pistols in the first place, let us not forget that Kirby was corrupt and his death has also weakened Wicks' empire.

As for Lockhart, if, as he has said, he truly puts his past behind him now that Kirby is dead so he can lead an honest life with Mary, then I shall welcome him; after all, if what he said was true about Kirby's jacket, then I owe him my life. If he reneges on his intention then I shall once more endeavour to find out the truth about his past and put a stop to the wedding.

And what of the Scarred Man? As soon as I made my farewells to Fitzpatrick, I returned to my warehouse, changed into a disguise and walked the streets until exhausted, trying to find him. Whatever else my father might have been, or whatever else he may have done, he did not deserve to die in the manner he did. Supine on the floor, my father was at the mercy of Malone – he begged for mercy – and yet Malone ran him through brutally and mercilessly. And for that, Malone will pay. And to find Malone, I must continue in my quest for the Scarred Man. I shall speak to Huntley and attempt to find out what he knows. At the same time, I will aim to discover what involvement Lady Harriet has in all this. Somehow, however outrageous it might sound, I believe that Lady Harriet, Huntley, the Scarred Man, Wicks, Lockhart and Malone, as well as Kirby before he died, are linked in some way and by unravelling this mystery I will finally be able to bring my quest to an end and serve justice on those who deserve it.