The Regency Detective (24 page)

‘And what have you learnt so far about my true nature, Mr Swann. Although without wishing to slight your method of investigation, the questions you have asked are yet to be probing.’

‘There is plenty to be ascertained without the need of words,’ replied Swann. ‘Answers can often be revealed without the necessity of asking questions.’

‘And what have I revealed without words?’

‘You advocate life and compassion but are drawn to death and horror,’ said Swann. ‘Yet, I do not believe you act the latter out in the real world, but only here, where you immerse yourself in their twin imagery; be it the stone casket which you write within, or the stories you create there.’

‘You are right, Mr Swann. I have been fascinated by death for the whole of my life. I was a sickly child from the very day I was born, but became much worse at the age of four, after my father’s death. I spent a year confined to my bed, with no doctor able to diagnose what was wrong with me. My mother, God bless her soul, read to me every day, although the only books in our house belonged to my late father’s collection of macabre stories, which he himself had written, so I grew up listening to all manner of horrors. When I was well enough again, I used to visit the graveyard where he was buried and read his own stories back to him.’ Gregor-Smith paused and took another sip of Absinthe. ‘They have a separate section you know, for suicides. So I would spend my days reading grisly stories to my dead father, surrounded by the graves of people who, for one reason or another, found the will to live gone and had taken their own lives. It was only later though, that I would come to wonder what drives these people to take their own lives and subsequently devoted much of my writing to the subject of death.’

‘And was there anything specific which made you interested in vampire lore?’ enquired Swann, momentarily distracted by a painting hanging on one of the turret room walls.

‘I presume it is the possession of someone else,’ replied Gregor-Smith, ‘the survival of one through the death of another. When I was younger I often wished my father had been a vampire, so he could have survived, but then I thought, why wish a person to continue an existence they wanted to end in the first place. But do we not all live in the shadow of the shroud of death in our own ways, if only we knew it. Do you believe in vampires, Mr Swann, and are you asking about my interest as you think one was responsible for the girl’s death?’

‘The answer to your questions is no on both counts, sir. This was definitely the work of a mortal man, although perhaps one attempting to make it look supernatural in order to create something that it is not. For that fact alone though, I believe there is a good possibility you are in some way being set up for the murder.’

‘But who would do such a thing, Mr Swann? I am no doubt disliked by certain people but I am certain not to the extent that they would do something like this.’

Swann did not respond, his attention now completely taken by the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of an aged and decrepit-looking man. The subject had more than a passing resemblance to the writer but an older version, as it gazed corpse-like down into the room.

‘I am cursed to write this material through my life circumstances,’ continued Gregor-Smith, ‘but what does it say about those people who are fascinated by it merely for pleasure? I am not disagreeable to the financial situation, of course, as the money affords me the lifestyle I wish and the ability to lead a private life, away from the prying eyes of the public and press. What I find comical, or at least I would if it was not so damningly intrusive, is the press reaction to my work. They ridicule and even abuse me for my work within the pages of their newspapers and yet I am one of the best-selling authors of the genre. And they write such scandalous lies. Take a recent example. The gamekeeper that discovered the girl’s body was stopped recently and questioned about me. Although he did not reveal anything, he was carrying rabbits with him and the next week there was an “exclusive” article regarding my use of rabbits for sacrificial purposes, when the only thing they were used for was Martha’s stew. They also intercept my post, which is a complete breech of privacy, you would agree Mr Swann? Mr Swann?’

Swann’s attention was still completely taken by the painting on the wall.

‘Mr Swann!’

‘I am sorry,’ replied Swann. ‘I was just looking at this portrait of your father, or is it an earlier ancestor?’

‘That is not my father, nor indeed any ancestor Mr Swann. It is
my
portrait.’

Swann stared at the painting in genuine confusion. ‘But this man looks older than you by at least thirty or forty years.’

‘The artist who painted it had the ability to alter a person’s features to portray them at any stage in their past or future. I chose mine to be a constant reminder of life’s ephemeral nature and inevitability of my own death and deterioration.’

‘This artist,’ enquired Swann, ‘does he live in the city?’

‘I do not know. It was some while ago now, when I still held my gatherings. He came as the guest of someone else, if I remember correctly.’

Swann did not answer, as he was once more mesmerised by the portrait.

‘Mr Swann?’ said the writer, a little louder.

‘What, oh yes, of course,’ replied Swann, realising his distraction. ‘I do not wish to keep you any longer from your work, sir. You have been most helpful.’

The two men bid farewell to each other and Swann left. Once outside the main entrance, Swann entered Fitzpatrick’s waiting carriage and the driver flicked the rein. As the carriage turned and drove away, Swann gazed back at the building and at one of the windows saw the disfigured servant staring down at him.

‘So, no word of Johnson?’ asked Swann, as he stood inside Fitzpatrick’s office.

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the magistrate. ‘One of my men called at the address of the lodgings Mr Tozer supplied but the landlady said she heard him go out early this morning, as if in a great haste, and he has not been back since.’

‘If I was convinced of Gregor-Smith’s innocence before this news, I am certain of it now,’ said Swann. ‘I believe it is time we paid a visit to Tozer’s firm. Will you accompany me, Fitzpatrick?’

The magistrate nodded and within a few minutes they were on their way along the Bristol Road towards the premises of Tozer Publishing. Fitzpatrick brought out a journal he had with him and handed it to Swann.

‘I think you might want to read this. It is my book in which I write up the cases I preside over. I believe you might find the notes from the blackmail case this morning revealing. A rather odd affair but there is a matter of interest to you.’

‘All aspects of blackmail interest me,’ replied Swann, as he began to read.

‘As you can see,’ said Fitzpatrick, unable to wait until Swann had finished reading it, ‘during the proceedings the name of Mary’s suitor was mentioned.’

At that moment Swann also read the name and spoke it out loud: ‘Lockhart! What was his connection?’

‘He was one of a group of men the defendant provided as an alibi.’

‘Was he present in court?’ asked Swann, surprised.

‘No, he sent a sworn oath that the defendant was with him and several others at the time he was accused of being somewhere else regarding the blackmailing.’

‘So unless Lockhart was committing perjury, there was no mention of wrongdoing on his part, then?’

‘No, but I thought you would wish to be informed, because of your previous enquiries regarding him and, of course, Mary, and possible reports in the press.’

‘Thank you,’ said Swann. ‘I appreciate your consideration.’

The magistrate acknowledged his companion’s gratitude and then asked, ‘So how was your meeting with the writer and why do you not believe him to be the murderer?’

‘It went well, he is a very intriguing man,’ replied Swann. ‘As for him being the murderer though, I think it seems highly implausible. Why would someone commit a crime that they had already written about? It does not make sense and seems far too easy a solution to me.’

The carriage now reached its destination and the two occupants alighted and entered the large nondescript building. Inside, they found Tozer in his office and knocked on his door.

‘Ah, gentlemen,’ said Tozer. ‘I must say, that was quick. I assume that you have come to tell me you have arrested Gregor-Smith?’

‘No, sir, we have not,’ replied Swann. ‘We are here to talk to your workers.’

Tozer was not pleased at this statement. ‘I do not understand why you need to question them,’ he said. ‘It will only upset them and we are very busy.’

‘Mr Tozer,’ said Fitzpatrick, ‘it is not a task we undertake with any relish.’

Swann could not contain his growing frustration. ‘Sir,’ he said, stepping forward, ‘your reluctance, if continued in this manner, might give rise to the misconstrued assumption you are in some way attempting to protect a man suspected of murdering not only a member of your workforce but a relation.’

Tozer stood up from behind his desk, as if he had just been challenged to a duel. ‘That is gross slander, sir. How dare you!’

Fitzpatrick stepped forward to ease the situation. ‘Mr Tozer, please,’ he said, in the calmest but most authoritative voice that he could muster. ‘My associate is merely trying to bring to your attention a possible consequence of your refusal.’

Tozer realised he had no choice but to comply and his body language showed this. ‘You can use the typesetting area,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Mr Tozer,’ answered Fitzpatrick. ‘We will endeavour to intrude as little as possible on both your time and that of your staff.’

After the relevant room had been promptly organised, Swann and Fitzpatrick began their questioning. The first few workers all seemed to reiterate the same thing: that the victim was a quiet girl who kept her own company, while Johnson did much the same. No one could account for the typesetter’s absence, all were shocked at what had happened the previous evening, but not one of them could think of any reason why their co-worker would have committed such an act.

A young lad of around seventeen now came in and after being instructed to do so, sat down on the makeshift seating.

‘And what is your name?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

‘Richards, sir,’ replied the lad. ‘William Richards.’

‘And what is your job here?’ asked Swann.

‘I prepare the ink for printing, sir.’

Swann sensed that the boy was tenser than the others had been.

‘If you tell the truth in this room you will have nothing to fear, William,’ said Swann. ‘Now, in your own words, when did you last see Mr Johnson?’

‘It was yesterday afternoon, sir.’

‘Was that here, on these premises?’

William nodded.

‘And how was Mr Johnson behaving?’

‘Sir?’ asked the young lad, looking puzzled.

‘What was his manner?’ expanded Swann. ‘Did he seem anxious, excited?’

At this, the lad looked out to where Tozer stood watching the proceedings.

‘Do not worry about your employer, William,’ said Swann, looking behind him for a moment. ‘If there is a problem after we leave, come to Mr Fitzpatrick’s office to inform us.’

The magistrate nodded. Swann’s instinct now took over as he asked the next question.

‘What is your relationship to Mr Johnson, William?’

The lad did not answer. Swann gestured for him to do so.

‘Remember what we said, the truth will not harm you William.’

‘He is my uncle, sir, my mother’s brother.’

Swann nodded at this revelation. ‘You must realise William,’ he continued, ‘that if a crime has been committed and your uncle is the perpetrator, he must be brought to justice. Alternatively, if he is innocent then his name must be cleared so the real murderer can be brought to justice. Do you understand?’

William showed he did and then said, ‘Well sir, he did seem nervous.’

‘Why do you think he would have been nervous, William?’

‘I don’t know sir, but it was like he was thinking about something else, as if there was something distracting him.’

‘Do you know what that could have been?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And how was your uncle’s relationship with Mr Tozer’s niece, Lizzy?’

‘Sir?’

‘Did they get on together?’

‘For most of the time they did, sir.’

‘And what about the times they did not?’ interjected Fitzpatrick, a little too hastily for Swann’s liking, although he did not show it.

‘Well sir, Miss Lizzy was er … she could be …’ William glanced briefly outside at Tozer again.

‘Go on,’ urged Swann.

‘Well, sir, she could be quite simple-minded and used to get things wrong. At times, that is.’

‘And your uncle became frustrated by this?’ asked Swann.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did your uncle ever show this frustration to her?’

‘Yes, sometimes he had cross words with her.’

Swann paused momentarily before asking the next question.

‘Did your uncle ever physically threaten Lizzy?’

‘Oh no, sir, least not that I was aware.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Fitzpatrick, thinking the lad had answered too quickly.

‘Er, well, er … I suppose he might have, sir, under his breath like, but as I said, if he did, I never heard it.’

‘And how long has your uncle worked here?’ Swann now asked.

‘Since Mr Tozer started the company,’ replied the young lad.

‘How long have
you
worked here, William?’ Fitzpatrick asked.

‘I came here last January, sir. It was my uncle who got me this position.’

Swann was about to ask his final question but Tozer now rushed in.

‘Gentlemen, please,’ Tozer exclaimed. ‘I have a business to run.’

‘We have just finished Mr Tozer,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘Thank you, William.’

As William returned back to his bench, Tozer ‘escorted’ Swann and Fitzpatrick out of the building to their waiting carriage. Once inside, they began their short return journey to the centre.

Fitzpatrick was the first to speak. ‘What do you make of this business?’

‘I think William is an honest lad but was not able to tell us everything he knew and I still believe Tozer is protecting Johnson,’ said Swann emphatically. ‘The murderer definitely works within that building.’