The Regency Detective (22 page)

In many ways it would have suited Lockhart for the attempt to kill Swann to have been successful, but as he had subsequently found out from Kirby, it had been fortunate it had not. After the attempt, word had come down from London that Swann was to be left alone. He did not know why but he knew that you did not argue with orders from London.

He now smiled to himself as he thought of the sum of money he was going to receive later that day. Normally it would have gone to settle debts, but he no longer had any; they had been ‘underwritten’ as soon as he had begun working for
them
. Given the events of the last few days, however, he had no choice, he felt, than to move things along more quickly and so would spend it on a special gift, one that would bring him closer to all that he had ever wanted to achieve.

Thirty minutes after arriving at the house in Great Pulteney Street, Swann was again on the street and heading towards the city centre. It had been a fruitful search, as he had found what he was looking for in the volumes he consulted. He let the information percolate in his mind as he crossed over Pulteney Bridge and made his way up Bridge Street.

Swann was on his way to Fitzpatrick’s office in Queen Square, but he wanted to avoid what he knew would be the late morning hustle and bustle of Milsom Street, so he chose a more circuitous route through the city. After reaching the top of Bridge Street, Swann crossed into Upper Borough Walls and at the end of it, made his way into Beauford Square, before turning right up into Princes Street. As he walked up to Queen Square, he remembered the attempt on his life the previous month, which had subsequently involved him chasing the would-be assassin, Tyler, down this particular street and on through the Avon Street district to the river; where in a final confrontation the pickpocket had been killed. Swann had been on his guard for further attempts on his life since, but so far no other incidents had occurred.

Swann came out into Queen Square by its south-west corner, next to number thirteen, with a ‘lodgings available’ notice in one of its windows. From there, he headed along the south side of the Square, towards Wood Street, and then up the east side to where Fitzpatrick’s office was situated, around two-thirds of the way up. On reaching the building Swann went inside. He ascended the two flights of stairs and proceeded along the short corridor towards the magistrate’s office, located at the front of the first floor. As the door was closed, he knocked on it and waited.

‘Enter,’ said Fitzpatrick.

Swann did so and found another gentleman with the magistrate.

‘I apologise Fitzpatrick,’ said Swann. ‘I did not realise you had company.’

‘No, come in Swann, you are most welcome,’ replied Fitzpatrick, seemingly grateful for the interruption. ‘This is Mr Tozer. Mr Tozer, this is Mr Swann.’

The two men nodded to each other cordially.

‘Mr Swann is an associate of mine who is kindly offering his assistance in this dreadful business. And Swann, Mr Tozer is a publisher and both the victim’s employer and guardian.’

‘Then please accept my sympathies on both counts,’ said Swann.

‘Thank you,’ replied Tozer. ‘Lizzy is the daughter of my wife’s sister, who passed away this year. She came to live with us about three months ago and also worked at my publishing company.’

‘That is why she had ink on her clothing,’ interjected Fitzpatrick.

‘I cannot believe anyone would do this to her,’ said Tozer.

‘Please rest assured, Mr Tozer, that we shall do everything in our powers to apprehend the perpetrator of this terrible crime,’ said Swann.

‘This may be the easiest case you have ever been involved in Swann,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘Mr Tozer believes he may have already identified the killer.’

Swann raised an eyebrow at this disclosure but said nothing.

‘Please show my associate the manuscript, Mr Tozer.’

The publisher took out a loosely bound sheaf of papers from a brown sachet.

‘This is the latest book from a writer that Mr Tozer’s company publishes,’ said Fitzpatrick, almost unable to keep in his excitement. ‘Mr Tozer, please hand it to my associate.’

Tozer did as he was told. Swann looked at the handwritten title page. It read:
Blood for the Vampyre’s Thirst
by Henry Gregor-Smith.

‘Before you arrived here Swann, Mr Tozer informed me that there is a murder within the manuscript identical to that of his neice.’

Swann looked at Fitzpatrick and then at Tozer.

‘I do not wish to pour scorn on your theory, and certainly not at this cheerless time, Mr Tozer,’ said Swann, ‘but surely this fact means only that the murderer is among those persons educated enough to be able to read.’

‘But that is exactly the point, Swann,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘Tell him Mr Tozer.’

‘The manuscript has yet to be published.’

‘That is right, Swann,’ added Fitzpatrick, ‘and Mr Tozer, please inform my associate where this Gregor-Smith resides.’ Despite the tragic nature of the case, the magistrate’s tone of voice could not conceal the exhilaration he felt at being able to reveal these facts.

‘His residence is a grotesque building adjacent to Lansdown Woods,’ said Tozer.

‘This is more than coincidence, Swann,’ Fitzpatrick exclaimed.

‘Geographical proximity of a person’s dwellings to a crime scene has never been any implication of guilt, Fitzpatrick.’ Swann then addressed the publisher. ‘Apart from yourself, who has access to this manuscript Mr Tozer?’

‘Only the senior typesetter, Johnson,’ replied Tozer.

‘What about the editor of the book?’

‘Being a relatively small publishing firm I undertake all the editorial work myself.’

‘Would your niece have had access to the manuscript?’

‘No. She may have seen one or two of the proofs but would not know what they said, as she could not read.’

‘And when and where was the last time you saw your niece?’

‘I left the office early yesterday afternoon but I had requested her to work late in order to get ready for a print-run today.’

‘Did Mr Johnson work late yesterday evening, also?’ asked Swann.

‘I do not know; as I said, I left early.’

‘But surely you would know which of your employees were working late, Mr Tozer?’

‘Not all the time, as it depends on what work they are undertaking. What importance is it who was working late though, Mr Swann? I hope you are not suggesting that …’

‘I am not suggesting anything, Mr Tozer. I am simply trying to establish who the last person to see your niece was, as they may possess valuable information regarding her murder. Do you know of any reason why your niece might have been killed?’

‘No. She was a quiet girl, a good girl.’

‘And where are your premises?’

‘The company is located on the Bristol Road.’

Swann nodded at this piece of information. ‘That makes sense.’

‘What is it, Swann?’ asked Fitzpatrick. ‘Do you have some information?’

‘There was an incident last night involving a carriage and a flat-bed wagon,’ replied Swann. ‘The direction from which the wagon traveled suggests it might well have originated from the Bristol Road. Mr Tozer, I suggest we hasten to your premises and discuss the matter of murder with this Mr Johnson.’

‘He did not arrive for work this morning,’ said Fitzpatrick, almost unable to contain himself at the amount of circumstantial facts that were openly displaying themselves, despite what Swann thought.

‘Is this correct?’ Swann asked Tozer.

Tozer nodded. ‘He did speak of feeling unwell yesterday, but I cannot believe him to be the murderer. He was fond of Lizzy.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Swann said, ‘I would still wish to visit this Mr Johnson, if only to eliminate him as a suspect in my own mind. If you would be so good as to write his address down, Mr Tozer.’

Although visibly reluctant, the publisher did as he was asked and handed the paper to Swann.

‘Thank you,’ said Swann. ‘It is imperative to consider all possibilities if we wish to bring your niece’s killer to justice.’

Swann held up the manuscript.

‘And may I take possession of this for a while, Mr Tozer?’

‘Well, I, er …’

‘Rest assured the utmost care will be taken with it,’ assured Swann.

Tozer nodded and then picked up his overcoat from the back of the chair on which he had been sitting.

‘Gentlemen, if you will now excuse me,’ Tozer said. ‘I have to return to my business.’

‘Thank you for coming in Mr Tozer,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘You will be informed of any developments and once again, we are sorry to hear of your loss.’

As Tozer reached the door, however, Swann called him back.

‘For my information, Mr Tozer, is Mr Johnson shorter or taller than yourself?’

‘He is about the same height,’ replied Tozer, somewhat puzzled.

‘Thank you,’ said Swann, ‘that is all.’

Once Tozer had left the office Swann turned to Fitzpatrick.

‘You will send a man to this address?’ he asked, handing his companion the piece of paper Tozer had written on.

‘Of course,’ replied the magistrate, ‘but why did you ask about the height?’

‘I have calculated the murderer to be around five feet ten inches tall, which is around the same height as Mr Tozer, I believe. Therefore, as Johnson is the …’

‘… same height, he is our man,’ interjected Fitzpatrick.

‘Again Fitzpatrick, as with geographical location, similarly physical attributes alone does not attest to one’s guiltiness. But there is certainly something not right here,’ continued Swann. ‘I sense Mr Tozer to be protecting his typesetter, but for what purpose I do not know.’

‘Well, I will bring this Johnson fellow to this office for your questioning later Swann, as I presume you wish to visit Mr Gregor-Smith first.’

Swann nodded and looked at the manuscript again.

Blood for the Vampyre’s Thirst
, a most anticipated read,’ he said.

‘I did not realise gothic novels were an area of interest to you, Swann?’

‘The workings of a mind that devises such plots fascinate me, although I must confess I do derive certain pleasure from reading Gregor-Smith’s books. I had no idea, however, that he resided in Bath.’

‘If he is the writer I believe he is, he is a most reclusive and strange man. They say he sleeps in a coffin, employs disfigured servants and, according to a recent newspaper report, once served rabbit’s blood to his guests instead of wine.’

‘Fitzpatrick, really!’ replied Swann. ‘I feel that may be in the same fantastical realms as your earlier belief as to the killer being a vampire. Besides, whatever circumstances one chooses to live their life, why would the writer kill the girl?’

‘To allow him to write his book more realistically,’ replied the magistrate.

‘The manuscript was already at the publishers when the girl was murdered.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot that. So Johnson, the typesetter,
is
our man. Yes, it all makes sense,’ continued Fitzpatrick. ‘He knew the girl, he had read the manuscript and then, to crown it all, he does not turn up for work the day after the murder.’

Swann smiled at his companion’s impetuousness. ‘I grant you the odds do not seem to be in Mr Johnson’s favour but I have to contemplate the facts properly before I can make any judgment. And I will know more once I have talked to Mr Gregor-Smith.’

If Bath was the fashionable face of the South West, then Bristol was its heart; a busy sea port built up over the centuries from its location on the Severn estuary and which at certain times in its illustrious history, had been second only to London in terms of maritime importance. This is not to say it did not have areas of splendid architecture or pleasurable streets to rival its more illustrious and glamorous neighbour – Clifton being perhaps the most principal example – but above all it was a working city and most of the leisure activities available were pursued and conducted by those wealthy individuals passing through; either coming from or going to London. And although some of the acquired tastes of these affluent travellers were sometimes hard to satisfy away from the capital itself, there were always enterprising individuals who could cater for them.

Throughout the ages numerous kinds of cargo, including human, had passed through Bristol’s docks and made its way either into the interior of the country, or else been exported to the foreign shores of the wider world. As the most traversable route between Bristol and London passed through Bath, a connection between the three cities was inevitable. There were many similarities that the triumvirate shared and one such aspect was a thriving market in prostitution. While each metropolis had its own districts and areas where ordinary inhabitants could indulge themselves, there was also a handful of more up-market establishments which provided for the well-heeled clientele that wished to be discreet in their liaisons and not run the risk of blackmail, while still within stylish surroundings. The Windsor Hotel, situated a little way out of Bristol’s city centre, however, was not one of these establishments. A sign near its main entrance announced it had been built less than five years previously and yet within even that short space of time, it had fallen into disrepair and had acquired a reputation of being a sordid place where various kinds of business could be conducted without attracting attention to oneself but in less salubrious environs than the up-market ones.

Across the street from the Windsor Hotel, George and Bridges now kept watch on the building from their vantage point. Bridges was attempting to sign to George, but he pretended that he did not see his companion. He tried again but it was obvious George was deliberately avoiding eye contact, as if he knew what was going to be signed but did not want to acknowledge it. Bridges was equally determined, however, and tugged at George’s sleeve.

‘I know he’s been in there a long time,’ said George, somewhat annoyed, ‘but we can’t go in, he may see us, and you know what Mr Swann said.’

Bridges continued to sign between the pauses in George’s replies, with their ‘conversation’ ending up somewhat heated.

‘Why would he go out the back way if he don’t know he’s being followed … yes, I know we don’t even know if it’s him, but he was the only passenger on their own, so what else could we do … alright you don’t have to keep on, I know we should’ve been outside the Three Tuns in Bath, like you said, rather than having a drink … hey, don’t take that tone, the trouble with you is …’