The Regency Detective (32 page)

Once Harriet had finished reading Mary’s letter, she took out a piece of paper and began to write her reply.

Thursday 1st December 1803

Dear Mary (my most appreciative niece)

Thank you for your most recent communication and regarding your initial news may I offer you my sincerest heartfelt congratulations. I am most honoured that you would ask my approval of this betrothal and would not hesitate for one moment in giving it to you. My only reservation, however, is that as I have yet to meet your Mr Lockhart, I feel it would be remiss of me in my capacity as your closest blood relative, and doing you a disservice, not to reserve this approval until after such time as I have had the pleasure of the company of this gentleman. In the meanwhile, please peruse your diary engagements for the forthcoming period of time, so that the two of us might arrange a convenient date so as to discuss this matter in person.

In regard to your news concerning Jack and his commissioning of this portrait, I think you may be right to be concerned for him. I may be able to help in certain ways but first, I would be interested in seeing an image of this man your brother believes he is searching for. Would you be able to furnish me with a duplicate of the drawing you undertook for your brother and forward it on to me (without Jack’s knowledge, of course) and, once the portrait is completed, surreptitiously make a drawing of this as well? These requests may seem to ask much of you, but I do believe that they are in the best interest of your brother.

I look forward to hearing from you again soon.

Yours

Harriet

Harriet sealed the letter and placed it in the tray for collection by the driver. She would work through the rest of the correspondence and answer those which required replies, later. Before that, however, was the requirement to now compile an urgent report to send to London, detailing what she had just learnt in Mary’s letter. This was one of the reasons she admired her nephew. Why no one had thought of using portrait artists in this way before, she did not know. They were so ubiquitous in the circles she moved in, and nearly everyone she knew within those circles had been the subject, at least once, but to use them to reproduce likenesses of criminals or other disreputable characters was a stroke of genius on his part. And with her niece’s ability to draw a portrait from merely a description, she could become a very useful tool for Harriet and the Office.

Swann left Tozer’s publishing firm and having dismissed Fitzpatrick’s driver on his arrival, instigated his plan of returning to the city centre along the river. The watercourse was not far from the rear of the building and before long he was at the river’s edge. Although the water at this part was heavily polluted and the path was muddy underfoot from melting snow, there was a tranquil ambiance to the area and this was why he had chosen to walk back. He tapped the place on his jacket, underneath which his pistol resided, and then set off at a stride; he wanted to benefit from the meditative element of the walk as much as he could but at the same time was prepared for any possible trouble that might be waiting along this isolated stretch of riverbank.

The River Avon was the heart of Bath and one of the main connections between the city and Bristol. It began its seventy-five mile journey in south Gloucestershire, before it curved and snaked its way through several counties and numerous towns and villages, before passing through Bath on its way to the mouth at the Severn Estuary in Bristol. At a number of places, further back on its route, the waters were pure enough to drink but on passing through the several urban conurbations, including Bath, subsequently became polluted from the volumes of waste pumped into it. It was a pleasant enough walk, however, and Swann enjoyed the restorative feeling that free-flowing water always gave him. Although aware there might be notorious black spots for robbery, the trees were rapidly shedding their leaves, becoming brown mulch on the ground and there was little foliage therefore behind which robbers could hide. And so Swann strode on with all the confidence one possessed when able to see clearly and with the added security of having a concealed weapon about one’s person.

Across the river could now be observed the settlement of Twerton, originally known as Twiverton, which had grown up around the weaving trade during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. For Swann though, and other literary pilgrims, its importance lay in the fact it was, for a while, home to the novelist Henry Fielding, who, later in life, also became the founder of the Bow Street Runners, the organisation Swann had undertaken consultancy work for back in London. It was while in Twerton though, that Fielding had written his acknowledged masterpiece
Tom Jones
, a novel which contained, according to a later critic, one of the ‘three most perfect plots ever planned’ (the other two being those of
Oedipus Tyrannus
and the
Alchemist
). The novel’s connection to the city of Bath, other than its author’s one-time residency, was further enhanced by Fielding having based the character of Squire Allworthy on his friend Ralph Allen, while the fictional squire’s estate was loosely reminiscent of Allen’s own Prior Park, which in the words of the book was ‘a most charming prospect’.

As the building which housed Tozer’s publishing firm began to diminish into the background, Swann briefly reviewed the information he had been given by Skinner and secured it in his own mind in relation to the conclusion he was rapidly forming as regards to the murderer. But that could wait, because as he now walked on, the rooftops of the houses in the Avon Street district became visible ahead in the distance. And as he walked closer, Swann’s mind became engrossed elsewhere, namely London, in the year 1783. In his mind, he now saw the unblemished face of the Scarred Man and then the agonising scream as the red-hot metal of the poker seared his flesh.

A noise behind him brought Swann immediately back into the present. He instinctively turned his head, but could see nothing except the bare-limbed trees, which stood impassive and silent.

Swann now found he was at the river-bank by Avon Street itself. He climbed his way up a steep grassy incline and on to the slush-filled streets. A fine snow was falling once more but the area would not see white settle on it again today. He made his way through the traders and the hustle-bustle towards Broad Quay and the artist’s studio. Was he being followed? He had a sense of it but having looked around again, could still see nobody that was not otherwise engaged in their everyday business.

He entered the artist’s building. The woman Swann had grappled with the day before was coming out of her doorway. She stopped momentarily when she saw him but then continued quickly on, as she left the dwelling. Swann, meanwhile, climbed the stairs of the building once more until he reached the top floor. He made his way across the floor to the artist’s studio. He knocked on the door and then called out, ‘Hello? I’ve come for the portrait.’

As last time, there came no answer. He knocked again and then tried the door handle. It was open once more and he went inside. The room was empty except for the easel on which stood the barely begun canvas which now depicted the two naked girls from the previous day, but entwined in a different position.

‘Hello?’ Swann called again.

Again, there was no response. The room was damp and cold and felt as if no one had been here for a while. Swann walked cautiously across the room toward a small partitioned alcove. The recess was covered by a curtain. He reached for it and then pulled it aside. The artist lay slumped against the wall, the chair he was sitting on having tipped and wedged him in, so he did not fall far onto the floor. In front of him was a small easel. Mary’s drawing was attached at the top and below it he now saw the portrait. Swann involuntary took a step back as his eyes confronted those of the present-day Scarred Man. The portrait was unfinished but was complete enough to allow the features to be distinguished clearly. The man’s nose was broken and down his right cheek ran the three and a half inch scar. In that moment, Swann knew this was the man he had passed on the street.

Swann leant forward and touched the artist to see if he was dead, but instead he sat bolt upright.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ he shouted out. ‘I didn’t touch the girls.’

‘No one is going to hurt you,’ said Swann, holding the other man’s shoulders to keep him seated. ‘I have returned for this portrait. Remember?’

‘Er, yeah, yeah, I remember,’ said the artist, still drowsy. ‘Let me get up.’

Swann stepped aside to allow the artist to stand. As the artist did so, however, he kicked the chair back at Swann. Momentarily taken by surprise, Swann now found himself knocked to the floor with the artist on top of him.

‘You’ve come to kill me, I know it, I know it,’ screamed the artist, as the two men grappled on the floor of the studio.

It took all of Swann’s strength to push the other man away but in one swift movement the artist now lay with his back on the floor and Swann had the upper hand again.

‘Listen to me,’ said Swann. ‘I have not come here to kill you. I have come for the portrait in the alcove, remember?’

Swann kept the artist pinned down until he saw in the other man’s eyes a look of recognition.

‘My balm, get me my balm,’ said the artist at last.

Swann did not budge.

‘Please, it is medication. It is over there on that table.’

Swann cautiously loosened his grip, stood up and retrieved the small bottle, all the while his attention focused completely on the artist still on the floor. He handed the bottle to the man, who uncapped it and inhaled its contents heavily. After a few seconds he repeated these imbibitions and then held his hand out so as to be helped up. Swann extended his left hand but was ready with the right to administer a punch if needed.

‘The balm stops the visions, but I didn’t take it yesterday so I could do that,’ the artist said, gesturing towards the alcove. He then looked back at Swann.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ he continued, ‘but stay away from that man. There is nothing but evil there. I have been with it all night.’

‘Well, I thank you most gratefully for your work,’ said Swann, stepping toward the alcove to collect the portrait.

‘No! It is not finished yet,’ said the artist. ‘It will be ready for you tomorrow.’

‘Will you be able to complete it now that you have taken your medication?’

‘Yes, it is the vision I require and I have the awful memory of that now.’

‘It is a great gift you possess,’ said Swann, staring at the portrait again.

‘I believe it to be a curse,’ the artist replied. ‘This ability to see people not as they are but how they will become.’

‘And do you see that in only those you paint?’

‘Towards the end I saw it with everyone,’ he answered, as he raised the bottle, ‘which is why I use this concoction to make it stop.’

‘And have you seen what I become?’

The artist hesitated slightly. ‘I did not meet you until yesterday, and have never met this other man, but all I will say is that he brings with him nothing except torment for your soul, that is until you have relinquished the need for the revenge you seek. Whatever it is this man has done to you, it is far worse what you do to yourself by pursuing him.’

‘But you do not understand …’ Swann started.

‘However much this man has wronged you in the past,’ interrupted the artist, ‘for your own sake you must let this matter rest.’ The man saw Swann was not to be persuaded and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As I’ve said, the portrait will be ready tomorrow.’

As Swann left the building he again had the sense of being watched. As before, he looked around but could see no one suspicious. He walked the short distance to Horse Street and then turned up it to head back towards the city centre. As he neared the bottom of Stall Street, he started to hear the indistinct voice of the newspaper boys shouting out the latest headlines. It was only as he neared them, however, that he could make out the words properly.

‘Extra, read all about it. Gothic writer found guilty of horrible murders. To be hanged tomorrow at three o’clock.’

Bath, Thursday 1st December, 1803

I find myself increasingly agitated as I write this entry, due in part, I believe, to my mind being brought to a heightened level of disquiet as the numerous strands of my fragmented thoughts become seemingly intertwined with one another.

Today I have looked once more on the face of the accomplice from that night, this time through the artist’s portrait, only now I have seen him as he is, not as he was. In the twenty years that have elapsed he appears to have become evil in his own right. I almost dare not admit it to myself, even after all this time, but I believe there was a kind of innocence I observed in his eyes on that first occasion, which may have reflected the fact he had found himself involved in an unfolding situation beyond his control. Having recently discovered that Sean Malone came to England, after killing a man in cold blood, the same year he murdered my father, I wonder if the Scarred Man journeyed with him from Ireland or if they met in London? Wherever their association began though and whether it remains to this day, it has been forever imprinted in my own mind through the actions of that night, and the mark the Scarred Man received from my father has become the reminder of how they came to be so inextricably linked.

What of the artist’s words to me though, concerning my continued pursuit of them? Is he right in what he said, does he really have a gift to view the future? If not, how was he aware of my search and why was he able to so disturbingly capture the evil that resides in the face of the Scarred Man? Does he know of him? How accurate is the portrait? All I know is that an innocent man, Gregor-Smith, goes to the gallows tomorrow and I feel I have failed him as there is no more I can do. With this portrait though, I feel it will enable me to continue my search for the Scarred Man, and ultimately Malone, and in this way, I will not fail my father as well.