The Regency Detective (31 page)

Do not think for one moment dear aunt, that I intend to abandon my reading on account of this momentous development; if anything I feel it will be enhanced. More and more I am coming to understand what you said at the funeral; that women are educated to the tastes of men, not for their own benefit, but mainly to conform to men’s own ideas, tastes and fashions.

I therefore implore you to give your approval in this matter of marriage, as I do not wish to proceed without your blessing, although my hand shakes slightly as I write this, as I do not know what I will do if your answer shows you against it.

I then only hope Jack is as conducive as I will you to be. I have not yet had the chance to inform him of this joyous news, as on my return home from the supper I discovered him asleep in the library. I put a blanket across him, as he lay in the chair, and retired to my room to compose this letter.

If the truth is known, I am worried about him. I have not mentioned this in any of my previous correspondence, as I felt I did not want to betray his trust. Not that he has asked specifically for the matter not to be discussed outside the two of us, but as it is of a very personal nature I felt obliged to him. However, as I am now more and more concerned for his wellbeing, and you may be able to offer comforting words, I feel justified in disclosing these details.

Not long after my brother’s arrival in Bath, he believed he saw one of the men responsible for his father’s murder, twenty years ago. This is the reason he has remained in Bath since mother’s funeral, although he had not discussed the man again until today. He announced that he had learnt of an artist who could age people through portraits of themselves. The examples he had observed were of those who had been painted as they would appear in the future, but my brother has commissioned the man to paint this man from his past as he would now look in the present. To undertake this, however, the artist required a sketch of how the man looked all those years ago and through my brother’s description, I was able to complete a portrait of him. I do not know whether it bore a true likeness to the person, but Jack was more than satisfied with it. Whatever this portrait brings for him though, I hope it also brings peace, as the nightmares he has suffered since childhood has become regular of late and I have attended him several times since he has lived here.

I will end my correspondence here, but although I have asked for comforting words from you in the above matter, the ability to be able to disclose my feelings through the words on these pages seems to have brought with it some consolation.

Your most faithful niece

Mary

A fresh fall of snow had greeted the inhabitants of Bath on their waking but whereas it had quickly melted two days earlier, this time it stayed for longer. By the time Swann was being driven out to Tozer’s publishing company in the mid-morning, however, the majority of snow on the route out had been turned to slush by the multitude of vehicles which had passed over it earlier. Swann looked up from Fitzpatrick’s carriage to Lansdown, and as he saw Gregor-Smith’s residence in the distance, reiterated the promise made to himself, that he would ensure the writer’s return there in the very near future.

Swann stepped out of the carriage on its arrival outside Tozer’s premises and this time gestured for the driver not to wait. He went inside the building and was immediately confronted by the unmistakable sound of books being printed. On reaching Tozer’s office, he found it was empty. He looked around and saw one of the workers he had interviewed two days before, next to a printing press. It was Johnson’s nephew, William.

‘Is Mr Tozer in the building?’ shouted Swann, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the press.

‘What did you say, sir?’ William loudly replied.

‘Is Mr Tozer here?’ repeated Swann, but realised once more that he had not been heard. He tried again. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk away from this noise?’

‘No sir, I cannot leave this machine at the moment.’

‘Where is Mr Tozer?’ asked Swann, pronouncing his words precisely, so that William might hopefully lip-read.

‘I do not know,’ William shouted back, but pointed over to a co-worker unloading boxes near the rear door. ‘That’s Mr Skinner, he might know.’ Before Swann could go over, however, William asked about his uncle.

‘You do not need to concern yourself,’ said Swann, ‘your uncle is a free man.’

Swann now went over to the other man. The noise from the press was still loud but not invasive enough to forbid a conversation.

‘He is not in all day,’ replied the middle-aged Mr Skinner, on being asked the same question.

‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Swann.

‘I would not like to say, begging your pardon, sir.’

‘Ah, then I would assume he is visiting his wife.’

Skinner looked surprised.

‘A co-worker has informed me of Mrs Tozer’s condition and her residency at a particular institution,’ explained Swann. ‘It is certainly a tragedy what opium can do to a person’s mind.’

The worker once again looked surprised but this time answered: ‘Yes, it is.’

The information regarding the opium and Mrs Tozer’s residency was actually news to Swann, but a hunch arising from what Johnson had mentioned the previous evening, and Kirby’s showing him the amulet belonging to Gregor-Smith, had caused him to fabricate his knowledge of the situation. It was an old trick Swann had used on several occasions before; one ventured a piece of information as though you knew it to be fact and if the other person did not deny it, or in this case agreed, it was taken as to be proven true.

Alternatively, if it was not fact, Swann imbibed so much assurance in what he said that the person would usually then reveal the actual truth, as they believed him to be already ‘in the know’ and an ‘equal’ in knowledge. And once this connection had been established, more searching questions could be asked and more personal details gained.

‘And Mr Tozer? I understand he does not partake of this drug?’

‘That’s right sir, at least not that I am aware, sir.’

‘So where did Mrs Tozer acquire the opium, was it from Avon Street?’

‘Oh no, sir, it was at those gatherings she attended.’

‘Gatherings?’ queried Swann.

‘At that big house belonging to one of the writers we publish.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot. Mr Gregor-Smith?’

Skinner did not respond.

‘Can I ask how you came by this information?’ continued Swann. ‘Is Mrs Tozer’s condition and the parties she attended common knowledge here?’

‘I do not believe so,’ Skinner answered. ‘It was through a conversation I overheard between Mr Tozer and his wife a while back sir, before her present state of mind came on. I was working late and happened to be behind a stack of books near his office, when I heard shouting. Mrs Tozer was in his office and he was yelling at her, saying she was putting their marriage in trouble and that he knew about her secret liaisons.’

‘Did she deny it?’

‘Not so I remember it, sir. She did say something about enjoying herself and referred to their marital relations, but prudence dictates I do not repeat it here.’

Swann nodded his understanding.

‘I then made a noise, sir. Mr Tozer came out of his office but I am sure did not see me. Afterwards, however, he closed the office door and I could not hear them any more. I did look over once though, through his window, and saw him strike … oh, perhaps I have said enough. Is Mr Tozer in trouble?’

‘I honestly do not know, Mr Skinner, but thank you for all your information, you have been most helpful.’

Swann began to leave but then turned back toward the worker.

‘One last question, if I may Mr Skinner. Remind me of Mrs Tozer’s first name; Martha is it not?’

‘No sir, it is Lydia.’

A short while after Swann had arrived at Tozer’s premises, a distinctive salmon pink-coloured carriage pulled up outside the house in Great Pulteney Street. In what had now become a regular occurrence on a Thursday morning, the driver knocked on the front door, waited until it opened and Mary handed him a letter, whereupon he then remounted the carriage and continued on his way.

Once the driver had finished his collection of the series of letters from various addresses in Bath, he made a circumvented route back to where he had originally left from earlier that morning; gathering on his return journey more letters from outlying villages such as Hinton Charterhouse, Norton St Philip, Woolverton, Rode and Beckington.

The carriage’s destination was the Manor House, just outside the market town of Frome. The grand residence had originally been built from the proceeds of the thriving and lucrative cloth trade in the town, by a family who were one of its biggest employers. This particular family firm, however, had lost the majority of their fortune when war had broken out against the French a decade earlier and the seemingly insatiable demand by France for kerseymeres – a particular type of fine twilled woollen cloth – had ceased overnight. The house had fallen to disrepair until purchased by Harriet, Mary’s aunt, who set about restoring it to its former glory, although she was finding it increasingly frustrating to deal with her unreliable and incompetent builders.

Once the driver arrived at the main doorway, he decided to bypass the various building works going on just inside and entered the house by a side entrance, which took him on an interminable route to Harriet’s temporary office, located in the depths of the west wing. He then knocked on the open door and waited. His mistress looked up from a huge desk, behind which she had been putting the final touches to a thin pamphlet outlining possible uses of women in regard to foreign diplomacy. On seeing the driver she beckoned him in.

‘Ah, my weekly correspondence,’ she said, excitedly.

‘Yes, Lady Harriet. All except one has responded this week.’

‘Excellent,’ she answered.

The driver placed the canvas satchel, in which he had secured all the letters, on her desk.

‘Any replies will be ready by midday,’ said Harriet.

The driver nodded and then took his leave.

Harriet put aside the document she was working on and opened the satchel. She tipped its contents onto the mahogany surface of her desk and began to sift her way through them. She picked up each envelope individually and attempted to identify its sender through the handwriting, which she had become accustomed to seeing most weeks. This was her ‘circle’ as she referred to them, her informant network through which she learnt all manner of information, from domestic disputes to illicit affairs, from personal revelations to business secrets. She had single-handedly created this network a few years beforehand, and although most of the contents of these weekly correspondences proved to be largely innocuous, on several occasions it had proved very useful, including one spectacular piece of good fortune earlier in the year, when a certain piece of information received this way had assisted in a matter of national security. She instructed her driver to collect them, as he had done this morning, for speed and secrecy. Although the contents of the letters would, in most cases, be harmless if they fell into the wrong hands, as they would be taken out of context, in her line of work one could not be too careful and so the more secure the lines of communication were, the happier she felt. She identified each handwriting specimen as a practical exercise to sharpen her observation skills, rather than a desire to know its sender before the letter was opened.

Harriet picked up the next envelope in the pile and studied the handwriting. It was one she had newly memorised, as the correspondent was a recent addition to the circle. She opened her niece’s letter and slowly read the contents Mary had written the previous night. Immediately her expression changed to one of anger; the news of Lockhart’s proposal being the catalyst. Beginning a relationship with Mary had already been in defiance of the stipulations under which he had been brought into the organisation, but for the sake of retaining the status quo it had been decided not to interfere. His marriage proposal, however, was going far too far and was completely unacceptable. She would give her approval for it though, after fabricating an initial meeting to meet Lockhart, and this would give her time to find a way to stop it, without of course jeopardising the operation.

Once her initial reaction had subsided a little, she re-read the accompanying sections that followed the news and included Mary’s thoughts on marriage. Her argument showed, in places at least, there was a maturity of understanding in regard to certain statements Ms Astell and several others had made over the centuries towards this subject, but nevertheless, Harriet could detect there was still a naivety about her general outlook.

Harriet now read the news about Jack and the portrait he had commissioned. If this was the same man she thought it was, whose image was being reproduced, it moved the entire situation to a new level. She had been saddened to learn the previous month that Thomas Malone had been murdered in Bath, but that was one of the hazards in this line of work; although not the most pleasant man she had ever met, he had nonetheless played his part admirably last summer and everyone connected with the operation, included herself, had been appreciative. That though, as far as
they
were concerned, had been the end of it. But now, with her adoptive nephew possibly close to stirring up the equivalent of a hornet’s nest, certain preventative action might have to be taken. She did not want to take it that far – somewhere she had a begrudging admiration towards him – but that was the type of war they were involved in and better the sacrifice of the one for the many, especially when it concerned the country’s security. Because, if her nephew was to find this man, the consequences would mean several months of planning being completely wasted and the contacts within that world, which had been so carefully established and cultivated over the last few years, eliminated. And it was, after all, her job to make sure this did not happen.