The Regency Detective (34 page)

‘I said stay where you are! I was only protecting Lizzy, she was going to be his next conquest.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Swann.

‘When Gregor-Smith delivered his manuscript here last week, I saw the way he looked at Lizzy and she at him. He would have seduced her in the way he did my wife and got her addicted as well. She would have suffered the same fate as my dear Lydia and I could not allow that to happen.’

‘What about murdering the reverend?’ Swann replied, as he took another step closer.

Tozer threw the pipe at Swann’s head, but missed.

‘I’m not going to prison; who will take care of my wife and my business?’

Tozer began to run towards where the metal ladder was attached, but Swann wrestled him to the ground. The publisher wriggled free, however, and was able to carry on back across the roof towards the ladder. Swann picked up another metal pole and threw it at the legs of the fleeing man. It made contact just below the back of the knees and caused the publisher to stumble. Tozer tried to regain his balance and for a moment looked as if he had done so, but then tripped and fell through a skylight on the roof, shattering the glass as he went through it.

Swann swiftly made his way to the skylight and looked down. Below he saw Tozer dead, his twisted body impacted on one of his printing machines. In that moment, Swann felt sorrow for him. He had not seemed like a man with evil intent, merely one whose circumstances had overtaken him.

‘You heard everything, Fitzpatrick?’ asked Swann, as he saw the magistrate bending over the dead man’s body.

‘Yes,’ replied the magistrate.

‘Good,’ replied Swann. ‘So I suggest we now return to the city and release an innocent man.’

Fitzpatrick looked up and nodded solemnly.

‘Thank you once again Mr Swann, I do not know how I can ever repay you,’ said Gregor-Smith, stepping into the carriage that would take him back to his residence in Lansdown.

‘You might reconsider your decision not to have your manuscript published,’ said Swann, handing the thick sheaf of papers to the writer. ‘Despite the tragic events surrounding it, I believe it would be a great loss to the reading public to do otherwise.’

‘That is most kind of you, but my mind is set. Like Dante, I have had cause to consider this midway point of life and realise through incarceration within my own inferno, however brief, and with the prospect of imminent execution, that I too have strayed from the True Way and from hereon in have pledged myself to celebrate life and no longer sensationalise death. In doing this, I may even leave England and move to the Continent. I have always been particularly fond of the lake at Geneva. I am therefore indebted to you Mr Swann in ways you will never know. If you would care for the manuscript yourself then you are most welcome to retain it.’

‘Thank you, I am deeply honoured,’ said Swann, as he took the papers back.

The two men shook hands and the carriage drove away. After Swann and Fitzpatrick had made their own farewells, Swann headed off towards the city centre and began to walk down Horse Street, towards the artist’s studio in Broad Quay. Now the murder case had been solved, and Gregor-Smith freed, Swann could once again concentrate fully on his search for the Scarred Man.

As Swann neared the end of the street, he noticed George and Bridges ahead, in conversation with a stallholder. Good, thought Swann, if they were to come with him now, he could show them the portrait and they could carry on their investigation immediately. As he approached them, Bridges saw him and signed to George to finish talking.

‘George, Bridges, the very men,’ said Swann, genuinely happy to see the pair.

George turned and Swann saw he had acquired a second black eye.

‘Not another encounter with Wicks’ men, George?’ asked Swann, concerned.

‘No, sir,’ he replied, sheepishly.

Bridges, who now stood behind George, gestured a woman’s outline to Swann, then followed it with the signs for husband and punch. Swann smiled but chose not to tease George this time.

‘If you care to join me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am on my way to collect an item that will be of interest to you.’

The two men nodded and followed Swann down to the river and along to the building that housed the artist’s studio. Once inside they climbed the stairs to the top floor, but as they reached the final few stairs, Swann could see the door was ajar. The three men stood outside and prepared themselves for possible trouble. Bridges then cautiously pushed open the door and they quietly entered the room. The studio looked the same as it had when Swann left it yesterday; there were no signs of disturbance, although for once the large wooden easel stood canvas-less in the middle of the room.

‘Perhaps he went out into town?’ whispered George.

‘He never goes out,’ replied Swann.

The men crossed the floor to the curtained partition. Swann gestured with one hand for them to ready themselves as he raised the other hand to pull back the covering. He brought it back in one swift action and as he did so, the sight which greeted them caused Swann to look on appalled as the body of the artist was revealed. It hung from the low ceiling within the small alcove.

‘What do you want us to do, Mr Swann?’ asked George.

Swann did not respond as he stared in disbelief at the scene that confronted them. A rope was tied tight around the artist’s neck and beyond his limp corpse, still perched on the small easel as it had been the day before, was the obliterated portrait.

‘Mr Swann?’

‘Oh … yes … we had better bring him down.’

George and Bridges moved forward and, under Swann’s instruction, cut down the body and took it into the main part of the studio, where they laid it on the battered chaise longue, which been the backdrop to so much of his work. Swann stayed at the alcove entrance, still looking on distraught at the ruined painting; the canvas had been ripped to shreds and the Scarred Man’s features completely obliterated. There was nothing Swann could do. It seemed as if the visions had finally proved too much for the artist and had caused him to take his own life, but before that act he had destroyed the final creation which they had informed.

‘What do you want us to do now, Mr Swann?’ asked George.

‘All we can do is to inform Fitzpatrick,’ said Swann dejectedly, ‘so he can organise the disposal of the body.’

Swann left the portrait where it was and then covered the artist’s body with the green material from the back of the chaise longue. He then gestured to his two companions that it was time to leave and in doing so, they closed the door. They then retreated down the stairs and came out of building, into the sun-deprived day. They turned left and headed back towards Horse Street. As they reached the thoroughfare though, Swann spotted Wicks on the opposite side of the street, intently watching them with a malicious, self-satisfied expression on his face.

‘The artistic temperament, eh Swann?’ Wicks shouted. ‘One minute he is painting a portrait, the next minute, he is taking his own life.’

At the sudden realisation of what had really happened, an angry Swann began to cross the street towards Wicks. He had only gone a few steps before he found himself held back by George and Bridges.

‘Mr Swann, don’t,’ implored George. ‘Now’s not the time or place.’

‘You are right, George,’ said Swann, as he relented. ‘But do not think you will get away with this, Wicks. Your time will come.’

A despairing Swann turned towards the upper town and headed back there, accompanied by his two companions.

Once the three men were out of sight, another figure stepped out from behind a wall and stood next to Wicks.

‘You’ve done well Wicks, I will not forget this,’ said the ‘friend’ from London, who looked exactly as he had been portrayed by the deceased artist in the now destroyed portrait.

Bath, Friday 2nd December, 1803

I write this entry in the knowledge that all is not lost in the way I believed it to be and having had the time to reflect on the matter, I do not feel as despondent as earlier with regard to my quest to find the men responsible for my father’s death. This renewed sanguinity has come about, in part, through the remembrance of an occurrence during the walk I undertook in Lyncombe Vale yesterday afternoon. There was a moment when I had cause to stop and while doing so, concentrated upon the immediate surroundings. My view focussed on a tree and as I gazed at its bare branches I found myself envisaging its appearance throughout all of the seasons; the onset of spring bringing with it blossoms bursting forth in an accord of colour – the whites, the yellows, the pinks – along with tiny leaves and green shoots, accompanied in their awakening by the chaffinch’s melodious refrain and the other wonderous songs of spring. And then, as the leaves unfurled from their protective bud casings, I saw their continuous enrichment by deep-entrenched roots, providing them sustenance through to the full maturity of summer. The time when heavily laden branches, fruit ripened to the core, bask in the endless warmth of long halcyon days, before the first signs of autumn appear, to herald the returning of the leaves back to the soil and donning of the tree’s bare exterior to carry it safely through the cold of winter, though replete in the knowledge this is but one part of nature’s ongoing cycle and that spring will arrive once more and the cycle begun again.

And so I must always remember, as I continue my search, whenever I may feel as if a winter lies within myself, through external events happening outside my control, this feeling does not exist in isolation and is merely part of a whole, as inside me there is also a spring, with its anticipation of new life, the acceptance of autumnal decay and an endless warmth emanating from an invincible summer.

It still remains that the portrait of the Scarred Man is destroyed and its creator dead, but I now realise I require neither image nor artist to continue in my search for him and, ultimately, Malone. I have the memory of the Scarred Man’s present-day appearance firmly etched in my mind from when I saw the portrait, and although it was unfinished, I am confident in my ability to provide Mary once more with enough detail for her to sketch another true likeness, with which I can then furnish George and Bridges. I will broach the subject with her tomorrow, as I believe she sleeps now.

There are several questions which remain to be answered, however. What led Wicks to be interested in the portrait and subsequently become directly involved, for I know he was involved, as my intuition tells me the artist did not commit suicide or destroy his own painting? In that respect, as the bad dream I had last night, in which the artist was murdered by Wicks, has come true, does this mean he is also connected in some way with the Scarred Man? If so, is that why George and Bridges were involved in their hostile encounter with Wicks’ men a few days ago, as they made enquires, and why Wicks paid his visit to the Fountain Inn? But how did Wicks find the artist? As the landlord did not know where he resided, I can only assume my instincts were correct and I have been careless enough to allow myself to be followed; this must not happen again.

The main question that waits to be answered, however, concerns myself and whether or not to continue my quest of finding the Scarred Man. This doubt has arisen through the artist’s words which have returned to me again. ‘However much this man has wronged you in the past, for your own sake you must let this matter rest,’ I hear him say. But I cannot let this matter rest, I cannot. Although it saddens me to know my actions in pursuing the Scarred Man have caused the death of the very man whose words these were, I do not feel guilty, I must not feel guilty, because I know to do so would cause me to question every action I have undertaken and encumber any future ones. Every decision we take, every act we perform, contains within it a consequence, though these, of course, are not usually seen until later. If Gregor-Smith had not had a liaison with Lydia Tozer, or introduced her to opium, her husband would not have sought revenge and carried out the murders. Yet should Gregor-Smith be held accountable for those subsequent actions through his own? As we cannot ever fully comprehend what consequences our actions will elicit, tragic or otherwise, I believe we can only proceed with good intentions and aim to stay pure in the actions we carry out.

And so this is what I must do in regard to another revelation of the day: that of Lockhart’s proposal. Mary informed me of her ‘most wonderous’ news on my return home this afternoon. I gave my immediate approval, in response to her request, as I did not wish to bring disharmony into the household at this present time. In the months to come though, between this present time and the date they will soon set for their betrothal, I will do everything within my power to discover the truth surrounding the mysterious Lockhart and then act accordingly. And so I am to remain in Bath for the foreseeable future. Nothing has changed since my initial decision those few weeks ago, other than that I have the additional reason of finding the connection between Wicks and the Scarred Man.

As I sit by the bedroom window, in the early hours of the morning, looking out upon the darkened streets of the city, I feel as if one chapter of my life is closing and another is soon to begin. What will the future hold? Am I really as close to finding the men responsible for my father’s death as I feel myself to be? Certainly all the clues I have investigated during these past years, the potential leads, the possible sightings, the alleyways of hope, the passageways of despair, have finally proved worthwhile through the chance conversation I overheard in London, which brought me to Bath in the first place. And even though the murdered Malone was not the one I sought and I have yet to encounter the Scarred Man again in person, since two days after my arrival in Bath, the fact that Wicks is possibly involved with the Scarred Man leads me to be optimistic.

Whatever may be yet to come though, I have now arrived at the realisation that if I was ever to cease my quest, without the proper satisfaction of an appropriate resolution, I would be denying an integral part of myself which has been shaped by the events of my past and to which I must remain true in the future. In that way, the two are so inextricably linked that I believe one cannot exist without the other and where the past informs the future through experience, the future can enlighten the past through acquired insight. Therefore I must not only remain authentic in myself to the experience of this past future, but also to the possible insights arising out of the future past.