The Regency Detective (33 page)

I am shaken to the centre of my being as I continue to write, remembering the pure face I looked upon twenty years ago, and have held in my memory ever since, to now become so distorted into evil. For I did see something pure within the Scarred Man that night; it was for a moment only, but it was there. As my father inched his way forward to the fireplace, the Scarred Man wrapped around his legs in order to stop him, he turned his head towards me and in the brief moment our eyes met, I saw everything. The Scarred Man believed he was there to rob the house and had been informed by Malone it would be empty, so there would be no trouble, and being young and naïve, he believed him. Malone, however, already had evil in his eyes, I saw that too, and was prepared to commit the ultimate act as merely part of his nature. But the possibility to do something other than pursue the criminal life existed in the Scarred Man’s eyes and it was the deprived circumstances of his surroundings which no doubt led him to be at the house on that night and be party to the consequences of Malone’s action once there. All that has now changed though, and the years which have since passed have altered the Scarred Man in a most Faustian way, with Malone his Mephistopheles, as they go about their devil’s work, together or separate.

It is not the same for everyone though, in the sense we are all shaped by circumstances out of our control and events that happen as much to us, as because of us, then live out our lives influenced by the consequences of them. In my situation, what would I have become if my father was not murdered? I certainly would not have been adopted by the Gardiners and therefore would not have enjoyed the privilege and wealth it has brought to me. And yet, somehow ironically, I have spent these resources in pursuit of the very men who were the cause of it in the first place.

As for Gregor-Smith, would he have become something other than a writer if his life had been different, if his father had not committed suicide? And if that was the case, then he would not have written the book containing the murders which have now condemned him to death. And what of the artist? Was there an event or incident which caused his visions to manifest in the first place and, if that had not happened, would he have become something other than an artist, in the way the Scarred Man might have transcended the criminal life and redeemed his soul if robbery had not become murder? Yet all these random events which have happened to others, these separate existences which are all outside my own, have all conspired together to shape my life and bring me here, to this moment, to this situation, to this fate.

That night Swann’s recurring nightmare began again and once more he found himself in the Gardiners’ London residence on the night of his father’s murder. It proceeded as usual, with Swann seated at the table staring at the empty cup. At the sound of the vase smashing, he stood and made his way to the doorway in the same manner he had done so hundreds of times before. There was his father grappling in the hallway with the other man, followed by their tumble into the front room and then the few steps it took him to reach the entrance to witness the scene unfold within.

The Scarred Man lay on the floor writhing in agony after being struck by the poker. Only this time, however, the face he clutched took on the appearance of his present-day portrait. His accomplice appeared at the doorway, but instead of Malone, his features were now those of Wicks. No, this cannot be right. The thought resonated deep within Swann’s psyche; there was something wrong, something terribly wrong. In his nightmare he saw that the features of his father had become those of Gregor-Smith. And it was the writer who went sprawling on to the floor and waited to receive the fatal stab wound to the heart.

The nightmare then became a series of images, flashed in rapid succession, as recent events merged with Swann’s distant past, through recollected events from the days and weeks since he arrived in Bath, before his all-too-remembered past then distorted into an horrifying, imagined future … He was chasing Tyler, the first criminal Swann encountered in Bath and the man who had tried to kill him, down a long passageway, one whose end continued to stretch infinitely out in front of Swann until he suddenly found himself alone in a deserted street … A man with a covered face now rushing towards him and as much as Swann tried to reach out to grab the man, as he passed within touching distance, could not … The artist sitting behind a canvas and as he painted, imploring Swann to stop seeking revenge. And then the portrait itself which, once the artist had turned it around, Swann could see was an aged portrait of himself, the features harrowed and grotesque … then the scene shifting to the Gardiners’ drawing room where he was informed of his adoption, only now Fitzpatrick stood in the place of Mr Gardiner and Harriet in that of her recently deceased sister. As the young Mary reached out her hand to hold Swann’s, she became her present-day version and before they could grasp one another, Lockhart snatched Mary’s hand away … the scene shifted again and now Swann was leaving the artist’s building with two masked men behind him. And then, back on the top floor, standing in the doorway just in time to witness them beside a battered and beaten artist. The two men turned towards Swann and he saw it was Wicks and the Scarred Man, the latter holding his own portrait aloft, so his companion, after unsheathing his cutlass, could slash it to pieces. Once destroyed, Wicks raising his cutlass once more, this time to administer the fatal blow to the artist, but as he thrust the blade downward, Swann saw the victim’s features become those of his own father; and so the final scene of his recurrent nightmare, which had always been mercifully omitted previously, now unfolded in all its terrifying revulsion … finally, looking on in disbelief and shock as his father’s killer straightened up and Swann saw his own harrowed and grotesquely aged features reflected back at him. At that moment, however, Swann bolted upright in bed as he awoke to his usual cry of ‘
Noooooooooooo!
’

‘It is all right Jack,’ said Mary, as she reassuringly stroked her brother’s arm, summoned to the room by his screaming. ‘It was a bad dream, just a bad dream.’

After Mary had returned downstairs to her own room, Swann spent the rest of the night sleeping fitfully or meditatively pacing up and down his bedroom floor; his mind intently focused on his present investigation. By first light he believed he had pieced together a version of the truth which only required one missing piece; yet that piece’s absence could cost Gregor-Smith his life, as the writer was due to be executed later that day.

Around the time of Swann’s normal departure to the White Hart, he had gone to the front door of the house to check for the letter he was expecting. There was nothing. He had checked with Emily, but she merely confirmed there had been no correspondence received. He was still optimistic and had therefore decided to postpone his morning visit to the coaching inn until later. Swann now sat in the drawing room, staring out on to the street in anticipation, when Mary entered.

‘Ah Jack, there you are. I have wonderful news to share with you. I did not feel it appropriate to do so last night and there have been no other suitable occasions since its occurrence.’

‘What is it, Mary?’ asked Swann, a little distractedly, his attention still focused outside.

As Mary was about to speak, Swann raised his hand to stop her and then leapt up from his chair.

‘One moment, sister, someone has arrived at the front door and I believe they carry with them a most important correspondence.’

As Swann reached the main door, he saw Emily had already taken charge of a letter. She handed it to him.

‘It is addressed to you, sir,’ she said.

Swann thanked her and took the letter. He turned it over to look at the back. It bore the seal of Richard Huntley, literary agent.

‘This is the letter I have been waiting for, Mary,’ said Swann, on his return to the drawing room. He picked up a jewel-encrusted letter opener from a small table and slit the top of the envelope.

‘Can it not wait, Jack?’

‘Ah, as I expected,’ he said, having taken out the letter and quickly read it. ‘This is a letter from the acquaintance I conversed with at the gallery. It contains very important news. I must leave immediately.’

‘You are not going now, Jack, there is something I require to ask you?’

‘I am afraid it will have to wait,’ he replied, as he put the letter in his pocket. ‘An innocent man’s life is at stake. You can ask me later, after I have saved a man from the gallows.’

Swann hailed down the nearest carriage, once outside the house, and the driver headed off in the direction of the address he had been given. Ten minutes later, the carriage stood outside Fitzpatrick’s Camden Crescent residence, while inside, the magistrate was getting himself ready in order to leave with Swann.

‘So what is this news that calls me from breakfast?’ asked Fitzpatrick, as they emerged from the front door and entered the carriage.

‘I have heard from my literary contact and he sends the answer to a question I asked him at the gallery.’

‘But where are we going now?’

‘We are heading to Tozer’s publishing. I believe the murderer of both the girl and the priest to be Mr Tozer himself!’ Swann announced.

‘Tozer!’ exclaimed Fitzpatrick. ‘And how did you arrive at that notion?’

‘This letter I have received this very morning from Huntley is very revealing. He is the literary agent I was conversing with at the gallery. What he does not know in the literary world has little worth and so I asked him to make certain enquires on my behalf. Our Mr Tozer is, indeed, in great financial debt, which we knew, but what we did not know is that Gregor-Smith has recently signed a publishing deal with another company. The same company the other writer, who was possibly going to sign with Tozer, has joined as well.’

‘But surely these are not reasons enough to commit murder?’ said Fitzpatrick.

‘Perhaps not, but I believe Mrs Tozer to have had an illicit liaison with Gregor-Smith at some time in the past, and during this period attended several parties where they partook of opium. Gregor-Smith’s constitution is strong, while Mrs Tozer’s was not, and it affected her mind so much so that she now resides in an institution. With his publishing business in ruins, his bestselling writer leaving the company and his wife apparently driven mad by the very same, that is perhaps more than enough reason to commit murder and frame the man he holds responsible.’

‘That is certainly a potent reason for murder Swann, but that means he killed his own niece!’

‘I realise this, but sometimes the desire for revenge will make men go to any lengths, Fitzpatrick.’

‘What do you intend to do once we get there.’

‘I shall confront him with what knowledge I have and I want you to bear witness to his replies and reaction.’

Fitzpatrick nodded once more.

The carriage now reached the premises of Tozer Publishing and as it turned the corner into the yard, Swann could see the owner unlocking a small side door in the main building. As the carriage pulled up alongside the publisher, Swann and Fitzpatrick jumped out. Tozer turned to face them.

‘Gentlemen, really, are you never to allow me to conduct my business without constant interruptions? Well, I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to talk to any of my workers today.’

‘We have not come to talk to your workers, Mr Tozer,’ said Swann. ‘We have come to talk to
you
and I would suggest that we do so in your office.’

‘I have nothing to say wherever we may be,’ answered Tozer defiantly, as he carried on about his business.

‘We are aware of your troubles,’ continued Swann, ‘both your financial and more personal ones.’

‘You have me at a disadvantage then, sirs. What are you talking about?’

‘I do sympathise with you,’ said Swann. ‘Your wife’s mind has become unstable, your bestselling writer has signed with another publisher and you are not far from losing your business. And I would suggest that these were also the reasons behind murdering your niece and the clergyman, in order to implicate Gregor-Smith.’

‘You are talking utter nonsense, sir,’ said Tozer, looking Swann directly in the eyes. ‘I am merely a publisher of books, not a murderer, this is most …’

‘Mr Tozer,’ Fitzpatrick interjected, ‘there are only two people who had access to Mr Gregor-Smith’s manuscript, and Mr Johnson’s alibi has been confirmed.’

‘But you have forgotten the writer,’ exclaimed Tozer. ‘It is him! Did they not find his amulet at the murder scene?’

‘How do you know it was an amulet?’ Swann asked the publisher.

‘It was in the newspaper report,’ replied Tozer.

‘The report only gave mention to a personal item, not an exact description.’

At this, Tozer turned and ran off along the side of the building.

‘Make sure everyone stays inside, Fitzpatrick,’ shouted Swann, as he ran off after the publisher.

Swann reached the corner of the building just in time to see Tozer climbing a metal ladder attached to the side of it. As Swann began to follow the publisher up the ladder, Tozer reached the top and clambered onto the roof of the building. A few seconds later, his head appeared again and threw down a wooden pole towards Swann. It narrowly missed him, however, and he carried on to the top regardless and then hoisted himself over. He now saw the publisher at the far end of the debris-strewn roof, trying frantically to open a door. It was locked.

‘There is nowhere to run, Mr Tozer.’

Tozer bent down and picked up one of the metal pipes that lay around. ‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted, waving it in the air. ‘I do not deserve this. It is Gregor-Smith who should suffer.’

‘It was through him that your wife became addicted to opium?’ asked Swann, sympathetically.

‘Yes, the opium sent her mad, and it was him who did it.’

‘But to seek revenge through murdering your niece?’ said Swann, as he edged a little closer.

Tozer saw this, however, and waved the metal bar furiously.