The Regency Detective (20 page)

‘I thought you would wish to view the body before we brought it down.’

‘Yes, thank you Fitzpatrick,’ replied Swann. ‘What time was the girl found?’

‘About six o’clock this morning. A gamekeeper on his rounds discovered her.’

Swann stepped forward and lifted up the girl’s matted brown hair to reveal a bruised neck.

‘From those markings around the neck,’ remarked Fitzpatrick, as he watched Swann examine the girl, ‘I would say she was strangled. Would you not agree?’

Swann did not reply.

‘But what is your opinion as to these?’ added Fitzpatrick, as he pointed to a couple of marks in close proximity on the right side of the girl’s neck. ‘You don’t think these may suggest the murderer was a vampi …’

‘Fitzpatrick, you surprise me,’ said Swann. ‘Do you really believe this girl will fly off like a bat when night falls?’

‘Sorry Swann. But what do
you
think made them?’

Swann leant forward and inspected the twin marks more closely. ‘These were inflicted by a type of sharp instrument, not human teeth.’

‘But why, if she was strangled?’ asked Fitzpatrick

‘I do not know yet,’ Swann now took a step back and stood beside Fitzpatrick, ‘but I have seen enough for my requirements. I appreciate the fact you waited for me, but we need to give this unfortunate child some dignity now.’

Fitzpatrick nodded and gestured for his men to begin untying the body.

‘Do we know her identity?’ asked Swann.

‘No,’ replied Fitzpatrick. ‘Her clothes were discovered nearby though and on them was what might be ink from a printer’s press. On my return to my office, I will dispatch an officer to visit all the printing establishments in the city.’

Swann nodded his approval.

‘I have to return to the magistrates’ court now, as a sordid case of blackmail requires my presence,’ said Fitzpatrick.

Swann was already elsewhere in his mind, however, scanning the scene and trying to reconstruct the sequence of events in his head.

‘Swann?’

‘What? Oh, yes. I will call on you later at your office, Fitzpatrick. I wish to stay here for the present time.’

‘Very good. I will instruct my carriage to return for you?’

‘That will not be necessary.’

‘But how will you return to town without transport?’

‘A constitutional walk,’ replied Swann. ‘It will allow time for contemplation, especially as the weather now seems to be set fair.’

‘Then I shall await your visit later,’ said Fitzpatrick. He gestured to his men to pick up the makeshift stretcher with the girl’s covered corpse upon it and then strode off back through the woods towards his carriage.

The two men picked up the stretcher and began to follow the magistrate.

‘Wait!’ ordered Swann.

The men did as they were told.

‘Show me the bottom of your boots.’

The stretcher-bearers exchanged a puzzled expression but nevertheless both lifted their boots as ordered.

‘Thank you,’ said Swann. ‘You may go.’

By the time the men were out of sight, Swann had brought his pocketbook out and opened it at the page containing the footprint sketches. Beside two of them he wrote the word
F-men
, short for Fitzpatrick’s men. Against another sketch he marked
F
; this was Fitzpatrick’s boots, the pattern of which he observed as the magistrate knelt by the tree, having just been sick. This left two pairs, of which at least one, he assumed, to be that of the murderer.

Swann turned back towards the large tree from which the girl had been hanging and brought his mind to a place where he could begin to piece together what had occurred here and, in this way, begin the process of finding the perpetrator of this most heinous crime.

After leaving Swann at the White Hart, George and Bridges had twenty-five minutes to wait before the Royal Mail coach was due at The Three Tuns. After a brief exchange of gestures between the two men, it became apparent that their opinion as to how to spend this time was divided. George was all for going to the Gallon Pot in Kingsmead Square for a few glasses of ale and to reacquaint himself with a couple of women he knew would be there at this time. Bridges, on the other hand, wanted to stay close to their departure point and suggested The Three Tuns, or at least the steps nearby, so as to be there when the coach arrived and make sure the man they had to follow was on it. Following another, slightly longer exchange of gesturing, which at one point became heated, they reached a compromise.

The building which housed The Bear was, in its early years, one of the biggest in Bath and this had gone a long way to securing the establishment’s status as the foremost inn in the city. Its heyday had long since passed though, and for as far back as anyone could now remember, the site had been under constant threat of demolition. This being due not only to the questionable character of the present-day hostelry, but also because it had of late become a serious impediment to those visitors wishing to travel from the developments in the north of the city to the amenities in the centre.

For George, visiting The Bear meant a chance to meet the renowned, if slightly disreputable, barmaid who worked there, while at the same time Bridges would be afforded the opportunity to see the Royal Mail coach as it came along Cheap Street, so allowing them enough time to be able to board it. They entered the gloomy, subdued atmosphere which prevailed throughout The Bear and ordered a jug of ale between the two of them. George quickly engaged the barmaid in lewd conversation and, in his own mind at least, had immediately established a most promising rapport. Bridges took his glass of beer to one of the front windows to keep watch, but no sooner had he sat down than his thoughts swiftly turned to their journey ahead and the anticipation of leaving the city of his birth for the very first time.

As is often the way in such establishments, the marking of time can become disassociated with that of the outside world and whereas one might swear that only five minutes had passed, the reality is sometimes four-fold, and so the sudden appearance outside the window of a coach with its distinctive black and maroon panelling, red wheels and the Royal insignia emblazoned upon its door caught the daydreaming Bridges totally by surprise. Downing the remainders of their drinks the two men then dashed outside. Ordinarily George would have been more reluctant to leave, especially as he had struck up such a promising conversation with the barmaid, but even he knew that if they did not board the coach they might not get any more work from Mr Swann.

By the time George and Bridges reached The Three Tuns, the post had been exchanged and the guard was announcing the last call for boarding: ‘Gentlemen, take your places.’ As the two companions climbed up on to the roof of the coach, Bridges handed over the tickets. There was a moment of suspicion on the guard’s part, as the incongruity between the tickets and their owners’ attire registered in his vigilant mind, but with the driver about to set the horses off and everything seemingly in order with the paperwork, he could do nothing other than console himself with the fact that the pair were not travelling inside the coach, with the more affluent passengers.

As the coach jolted and jarred its way through the streets of the city George and Bridges secured themselves the best they could and then exchanged a glance that expressed their pleasure at finding themselves riding on
the
Royal Mail coach and suggesting that ‘this was the only way to live’. This unforgettable experience was made even more gratifying through seeing the disbelieving expressions on the faces of people they knew, as the two men hurtled passed them, waving from on top of the most prestigious carriage of its day.

The coach crossed over the River Avon by means of the Old Bridge and then continued along its south bank for some way, passing through the village of Twerton, and then out on to the open road to begin its journey proper.

Although for Bridges it was his first time out of the city boundaries, with the cool wind whipping through their hair and the autumn sun warming the skins of their faces, feet and hands, both men realised this to be one of the highlights of their lives and they were determined to enjoy every last moment of it. For the next hour or so it would take to cover the dozen miles to Bristol, they were kings of the road. Other travellers had to pull over to the side of the road at the sound of the coach’s horn and with its constant ten miles an hour the coach maintained, other vehicles quickly disappeared into the distance. With the expansive fields and surrounding snow-capped hillsides stretching far out in front of them, along with the ale coursing through their veins, they felt invincible and the misery of their existence back in the Avon Street district was temporarily forgotten.

Halfway into the journey they passed Keynsham, ‘a little dirty town’ according to one traveller, somewhat derogatorily, beyond which lay a great mansion and stables, the latter housed in the most fantastic building the pair had ever seen.

The coach descended into the valley of the Avon, before climbing another hill as it continued on its journey. The river became visible only intermittently as they reached the outlying village of Brislington, which lay two miles south-east of their destination, but everywhere could be seen the veins of the coal mines which scarred the landscape. The valley now opened out once more, as the coach came down into an area known as Arno’s Vale and carried on beside the river again, to begin the final stretch of road before reaching Bristol.

From their superior position on the roof of the coach, the exhilarated George and Bridges could now see the city of Bristol ahead. An ominous cloud of thick black smoke hung over many parts of the city, expelled from numerous furnaces and factories that belched out its waste day and night. Its acrid smell reached the companions’ lungs while the vista became one of foreboding and ‘impenetrable obscurity’; the crisp white landscapes of earlier now turned a dark, doom-laden grey. But they were men not easily perturbed and even if they were not certain of what lay ahead, they were determined to enjoy the experience once in the city.

The only consideration to dampen their elated mood though, was the question which had followed them all the way from Bath but only now, on seeing the city, became conscious in their minds. The question as to whether the man they had been asked to follow was a passenger beneath them. In their haste to board the coach, they had not been able to check who was inside and so would only find out once they reached Bristol.

Swann stood alone in the silence of the clearing and began to apply the System – his method of inquiry using ‘givens’ and ‘assumptions’ – to the events of the previous evening. Although Fitzpatrick had left the body as it had been found for Swann to examine, any other potential evidence from the scene had been mostly obliterated, unintentionally of course, by the magistrate and his men. From the observations Swann had made both here in the clearing and along the track, however, added to the information he had overheard at the White Hart Inn earlier, before the clerk had arrived, what he believed to be a fairly accurate reconstruction had begun to emerge in his mind.

Given that there had been a heavy snowfall the evening before, it could be assumed that any footprints along the track must have been made after the snow had ceased. The snowstorm had begun about half past eight and stopped around two hours later. Therefore, if one of the unaccounted sets of footprints belonged to the murderer, the crime he perpetrated had taken place after half past ten last night and before six o’clock this morning, the time when the girl’s body had been discovered. Given the news he had heard at the White Hart Inn earlier, however, Swann felt confident in assuming it was nearer the former time of half past ten.

The Bridewell sisters’ accident that had left them trapped but, as it transpired, merely shaken and unhurt in their overturned carriage the previous evening, had been the talk of the early morning conversations at Pickwick’s establishment. To what degree the details had been exaggerated Swann did not know, but what seemed certain was that their carriage had been in a near collision with a manically-driven wagon which, after failing to stop, had headed off towards the Lansdown area. Common sense suggested this was more than pure coincidence, especially as Swann had observed a third set of wheel markings – different to both Fitzpatrick’s carriage and the morgue wagon – at the entrance to the woods, where he now made his way back to from the clearing. And so given that fact, it could be safely assumed that the driver of the wagon was the murderer.

The snow at the lane’s end, where there was just enough space for a vehicle to turn, had been reduced to slush by Fitzpatrick’s carriage and the morgue wagon, as they manoeuvred around for their return journeys. Nevertheless, Swann had been able to discern a third distinct set of wheels and from this he could imagine the wagon stopping and the killer jumping down onto the virgin, snow-covered ground. Given also that it was a solitary figure which had been spotted driving erratically the night before, it could be assumed that he committed the crime alone. The girl was perhaps in the back, tied up under some kind of covering. As Swann stood at the end of the lane, he stilled his mind and imagined himself in the mind of the driver.

The wagon had no doubt arrived in the lane not long after eleven o’clock, given the time of its near-collision at Lansdown Crescent. After jumping down from his seat, the driver had dragged the petrified girl from the wagon and hoisted her up onto his shoulder, as if a carcass of meat. He then made his way along the snow-covered track which led into the woods. The assumption that the killer was male was due to the size of the footprints left in the snow. A little way into the track he was briefly pulled back, as part of his victim’s dress became caught on a branch of the tree and torn off, the small piece of fabric still hanging there the following morning when Swann had spotted it. It could be assumed the murderer was a little under six feet tall, perhaps five feet ten inches, given the height of the over-reaching branch where the material had snagged and the depth of the footprints in the snow, which Swann measured using a torn-off branch.