The Regency Detective (25 page)

‘What leads you to believe that conclusion?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

‘The main reason is that I noticed a footprint within a dried pool of ink, near a small printing press. I did not get a chance to examine it properly but I believe it was made by the murderer.’

‘So it
is
Johnson,’ declared Fitzpatrick.

‘Quite possibly, although at the same time I cannot overlook the fact Gregor-Smith delivered the manuscript there last week. It is quite a conundrum.’

‘How do you mean, Swann?’ enquired the magistrate.

‘If you were a publisher, Fitzpatrick,’ replied Swann, ‘who would you rather lose from your business, a writer or a typesetter?’

‘An interesting question for thought,’ said Fitzpatrick, putting his hand to his chin as he pondered it.

‘Fitzpatrick!’ exclaimed Swann. ‘You should not have to even think about it, the writer
is
your business.’

Swann reclined in his seat and smiled. He was beginning to get a sense of the case but needed to know a few additional details before he could spring his trap and capture the murderer.

The old beggar made his way up the dimly lit Avon Street, unnoticed and undisturbed. It was obvious he had no money so there was no attempt to either induce him into a backstreet liaison by the various women plying their trade or by any other of the reprehensible characters loitering around with the intention of robbery. On reaching the entrance to the Fountain Inn, at the top of the street, the beggar entered, exactly on time for his rendezvous with George and Bridges.

The public house was crowded with various salubrious characters and the atmosphere was already awash with revelry and merriment. As Swann entered, a trio of musicians had just that moment finished one song and begun another. Several customers, including George, called out for Seth, the landlord, to take the lead in singing the first verse. For a moment he was reluctant, but then after a little more encouragement started to sing:

Ye tipplers all as you pass by,

Come in and drink when you are dry,

Come spend my lads your money brisk,

And pop your nose in a jug of this.

Everyone inside the pub, except Swann, now joined in:

Ye tipplers all, if you’ve half a crown,

You’re welcome all for to sit down,

Come in, sit down, think not amiss,

To pop your nose in a jug of this.

Bridges recognised Swann through the beggar disguise and signed ‘hello’ to him. Swann nodded his greeting back. Once he had secured a drink, he made his way through the crowd to the table where Bridges and George sat. A drunken customer staggered to his feet, nearly bumping into Swann, and demanded to sing the next verse of the song. Allowed to do so, he began:

Oh now I’m old and can scarcely crawl,

I’ve a long grey beard and a head that’s bald,

Crown my desire fulfill my bliss.

As the drunken man sang the next line of
‘A pretty girl and a jug of this’
, one of the Fountain’s barmaids walked past. The drunkard grabbed at her breasts but she moved out of the way and then clouted him hard, much to the amusement of everyone else in the public bar.

As Swann reached Bridges’ and George’s table, the latter, still caught up in the atmosphere and so oblivious to Swann’s presence, stood and began to raucously sing the next verse:

Oh, when I’m in my grave and dead,

And all my sorrows are past and fled,

Transform me then into a fish,

And let me swim in a jug of this.

George then flopped back down into his seat and as he did so, recognised Swann.

‘Mr Swann, sir,’ he slurred.

‘George, remember where we are and call me Jack.’

‘Right you are, Jack sir.’

Swann realised George was a little bit the worse for drink.

‘Is there somewhere else more quiet where we can talk?’ Swann asked as loud he felt appropriate without drawing attention.

Bridges read Swann’s lips and gestured next door, to the snug. As they stood, George whispered in the ear of a woman sitting next to him, who nodded and blew him a kiss. Swann then followed George and Bridges through to the snug, as the rest of the pub clientele carried on singing. Although still noisy in the snug, it was quiet enough for them to converse and although he slurred the odd word, George now relayed to Swann the events of their outing to Bristol, to the point where they had been waiting outside the jewellers.

‘And you say he was using the name Mottram?’ Swann asked.

‘That is what Bridges lip-read one of the women calling him,’ replied George.

‘And after he left the jewellers, you followed him back to the Windsor Hotel?’

‘Yes,’ said George, ‘and then we waited outside that place until he left to get the coach back to Bath.’

‘But he did not have his beard when he left this hotel again?’ queried Swann.

‘That’s right,’ George replied.

‘And you waited
outside
the Windsor Hotel after trailing him back there?’

George nodded and then exchanged a guilty glance, unseen by Swann, with Bridges.

‘That is a shame, George,’ said Swann. ‘As it was a rather cold afternoon, you could have both spent the last part of the afternoon inside the hotel.’

George looked at Bridges again. Swann smiled.

‘And you are certain this Mottram you followed was the same man I showed you the sketch of this morning?’ pressed Swann.

The hesitation in their response was enough.

‘George?’ said Swann. ‘Tell me the truth.’

George looked at his companion, who nodded.

‘The truth is we are not sure, Mr Swann. We only just caught the coach in time and had no chance to look inside. The only time we were given the chance of a good look at him it was when he had the beard, but we are both sure it was the same man.’

Having read George’s lips, Bridges nodded in agreement.

‘Okay,’ said Swann, realising there was nothing more he could do. ‘You have done well.’

A look of relief spread across George and Bridges’ faces.

‘Thank you, Mr er … Jack,’ said George.

Swann’s attention, however, was now taken by a portrait hanging on the snug wall. It bore a resemblance to the landlord of the Fountain, Seth, but much older.

‘That portrait, who is it?’ asked Swann.

‘That’s Seth, the landlord,’ laughed George, ‘when he gets to be old.’

‘Do you know the artist who painted it?’

‘Yes, it was us that found him. He can paint people as they’ll be in the future.’

Bridges signed to George and the two men laughed.

‘Bridges reminded me that Seth was not best pleased at receiving it. A few of us regulars gave it to him as a bit of fun for his birthday. He didn’t like it at first but he’s got used to it now.’

‘I cannot imagine Seth sitting to be painted,’ replied Swann.

‘No, we brought the painter in a couple of times, secret like, so he could sketch Seth without him knowing. It’s funny to think in twenty years time he will look like that.’

They all looked at the portrait and Swann became lost in his thoughts.

‘Are you okay Mr Swann?’ whispered George.

‘Yes, I’m fine George. How long ago was this painted?’

George glanced at Bridges who held up two fingers.

‘It was two birthdays ago.’

‘And do you know where this artist lives, George?’

‘If he is still there, then it is down near …’

Before George could finish, however, Bridges abruptly stopped him.

‘Hey, what is it?’ said George.

Bridges signed something only his companion could see. George then covered his mouth as he relayed it to Swann.

‘Bridges says there is a man near the door reading our lips.’

Swann turned and looked. At that moment, the man moved and bumped into another patron. There was a brief exchange of words and the lip-reader punched the other man hard. He then quickly left the inn.

George stood to go after him but Swann stopped him.

‘Don’t worry George. Do you know who that was?’

‘That was Irish John,’ replied George. ‘He works for Wicks.’

Bridges nodded his agreement, but Swann’s attention was now fully on the portrait of Seth’s older self, one that was twenty years in the future.

Bath, Tuesday 29th November, 1803

A most absorbing day in many ways but a tragic one nonetheless and once again I find myself with many more questions than answers. Why was the girl murdered in such a grotesque manner? Is it simply part of an attempt to frame an innocent man or is there something more sinister at work? I am certain clarity will be attained once Johnson the typesetter is located, although the behaviour of Tozer, the publisher, I find somewhat strange. On one hand he appears to be trying to protect his worker and yet on the other, he seems content to allow the blame and subsequent repercussions to fall upon his most profitable and successful author. There is definitely more to this matter which needs to be explored.

If one positive aspect has emerged from this sad situation, it has been the opportunity to converse with Gregor-Smith. I have been an admirer of his work for some time and to finally meet with him in person did not disappoint, especially as the sarcophagus in which he reclined was, of course, the preferred method of creative inspiration by John Donne, a favourite metaphysical poet of mine.

It was also at Gregor-Smith’s residence where I chanced upon the portrait artist’s work for the first time and what had been no more than a vague notion on my return has since taken a firmer hold on visiting the Fountain Inn and observing Seth’s aged portrait there. I therefore intend to seek out the artist tomorrow and commission him to produce a portrait of Malone’s accomplice, the Scarred Man, as he would appear today, twenty years on. I have reached this decision, as it has struck me that if the artist can take a person as they appear today and paint them as they will be in the future, then surely would he not be able to create a portrait of someone as they are today, using as guidance a description from the past. If this is possible, and I can see no reason why not, then I remember the features of his face in my memory clearly enough that I know I can describe them to the artist as accurately as if the man was sitting in the studio himself. And then, once I have the image, I can show it to George and Bridges, as I did with Mary’s sketch of Lockhart, so they will have a more accurate likeness than a twenty-year-old remembrance.

With this mention of Lockhart, he now takes over my thoughts completely. What is one to make of him? He has appeared from nowhere, as if pulled from a magician’s hat. My enquiries in London have so far yielded very little, other than a tenuous association with Kirby, the name of the hotel where he stays overnight, and a business address which does not exist. And then there is also the question as to what Lockhart undertakes when he travels on to Bristol after each visit to the capital. At least today I have found out certain details about these activities, even if I do not understand how they fit into the larger picture: the use of an alias, in this case Mottram; a disguise; the visit to the jeweller; and the escorting of the two women to, and then the leaving them at, an up-market hotel.

I am also still convinced as to Lockhart’s involvement in the attempt on my life last month. Although he has claimed to be horrified at the thought of what might have happened, because of our meeting, I cannot see it as coincidence that Tyler was at that particular spot at that specific time if not pre-arranged. For the time being though, I hope I have lulled Lockhart into a false sense of security which, if successful, will allow me the time to investigate him further. And finally, there is the association with Fitzpatrick’s blackmailing case which, although not directly implicated, I believe conceals something bigger behind it. What this is though, I can only hope time will disclose and reveal the truth behind Edmund Lockhart.

Although the hour was early, the lower part of the town was already full of life. An assortment of heavily loaded wagons and carts trundled their way up Horse Street, having entered the city from the south, over the Old Bridge, while the cries of numerous stallholders and market traders hawking their wares could be heard from all around the area. Women of the town, even at this time of the morning, openly plied their trade, while the rest of the ragged population of scavengers, pickpockets, tradesmen and labourers all rubbed together as they went about their business amidst the squalid and filthy surroundings.

After Swann had consumed his usual morning coffee and briefly scanned
The Times
, he left the White Hart and headed down Stall Street to where it merged with Horse Street. Once here, he followed the route straight to the river. As he walked along the thoroughfare, minus disguise, he was eyed up suspiciously by a few of the inhabitants and singled out as a possible mark by others. However, he reached the far end untouched and turned right into Broad Quay, which ran adjacent to the river and had been designed to become the very heart of Bath’s docklands. Yet despite the grand nature of its conception, the grey quayside had become a lackluster area of little maritime bustle, resulting in the deterioration of the vicinity to its present-day ramshackle state, with the few houses that lined the waterside in various stages of dilapidation and ruin.

The stench was palpable and Swann had to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. There were numerous slaughterhouses, breweries and industrial factories nearby and each pumped their waste directly into the river, where it mixed with domestic effluent and other refuse to produce the nausea-inducing pollution. He could see rats roaming freely along the alleys and passageways, while grimy, sodden washing hung in rows with the vain hope of attracting whatever fragments of sun prevailed within this dismal corner. And everywhere, from the rancid brown puddles of stagnant water to the tide marks on the walls, there was evidence of the regular flooding which took place, due to its close proximity to the river. At one point, Swann noticed, as he continued his way alongside the houses, the highest flood mark reached just below the level of the first floors.