The Regency Detective (5 page)

‘You have not mentioned this suitor in your letters,’ replied Swann, instantly realising the nature of the relationship from the tone of Mary’s voice.

‘It has all happened very recently,’ she said. ‘His name is Edmund Lockhart.’

Mary began to play the aria again, only this time slightly faster. ‘But if you are that concerned about my welfare and having a male protector in the house,’ she said, with more than a hint of mischievous delight at this opportunity to broach the subject so soon, ‘then why do you not move to Bath? You would find the cultural life here most agreeable and I am certain Edmund would be your guide to the more male-orientated premises.’

‘My work is my life and that work is in London, Mary. You know that,’ said Swann, having suddenly found himself on the defensive.

‘As you observed earlier,’ continued Mary, rising to the challenge, ‘we have criminals in Bath too.’

‘Yes, but here they are mere pickpockets, opportunists and petty thieves. In London there are organised gangs run by ruthless killers.’

‘You paint a most inviting picture of our capital.’

‘Look Mary,’ said Swann, realising he had to seize the initiative, ‘the truth is that I have already started to make arrangements.’

Mary stopped playing at this revelation, her surprise being quickly replaced by defiance. ‘I am more than happy in Bath and do not wish to leave now or at anytime, especially for such a dangerous place as you have just described.’

‘It will be for the best, sister.’

‘Now you listen to me Jack Swann,’ defiance turning to annoyance, ‘how dare you interfere in my life here, you have never visited in all the time we have been in Bath and after everything is said and done, you are not even my real bro …’ she stopped, an expression of horror on her face. ‘Oh Jack, I did not mean what I said. I am so sorry.’

‘Do not be upset,’ replied Swann. ‘It is already forgotten.’

Swann opened his arms wide as Mary stood up to be embraced. ‘We are both upset about mother’s death,’ he said, as their bodies met, ‘and it was perhaps inappropriate of me to raise this matter at this time.’

‘I do think of you as a brother, Jack, and it does not matter if you visited us or not, what is important is that you have come here now especially for mother’s funeral. That means so much to me.’

They held each other tightly for a few moments and then moved apart. Swann smiled at her as he said, ‘So, when am I to meet this beau of yours?’

‘Tomorrow,’ replied Mary, harmonious relations now restored. ‘He will be at the service. I know you will find him most agreeable Jack. I know it.’

Swann had kept a journal since the age of thirteen, when the Gardiners had given him an elaborately bound volume for his birthday. He had written in it religiously every day and quickly filled it up, the present one being the forty-eighth; his copious entries necessitating a new journal each five or six months.

Bath, Tuesday 18th October, 1803

It was most pleasing to be with Mary today but it pains me to think that there was disharmony between us this morning, however brief it lasted. I cannot but regret introducing the subject of her moving to London then. It was too soon. What is worse though is that she was so appreciative of my presence here. What hurt would it cause her then, to learn that it is my father’s murder which is the motivating reason behind why I have come to Bath at this time and not because of her mother’s death.

It has been twenty years since my father’s murder and nearly fifteen years since I became old enough to avenge it. And yet, after all this time, I still imagine myself in a bad dream and that one day I shall wake to find myself as a young boy once more, sitting opposite my father at the Gardiners’ kitchen table. The reality, though, is that I am alone and I, alone, have assumed responsibility to seek the justice for his death. The task has been all-consuming, but if it was not I, then who would discharge this obligation? My adoptive father undertook what he was able to but once the trail had grown cold and with other things to concern him … well, I do not blame him for bringing the matter to a close in his own mind, even if I could not within mine.

At the age of eighteen I began the quest to track down my father’s killer and like Odysseus’ wanderings through the Grecian isles in search of his homeland, these long years have seen my course set by the winds of fate that have sent me, through the promising leads they provide, in whatever direction they deem fit. It is an odyssey which has demanded immense sacrifice during these years but I have accepted this, exiling myself from family life and friendships.

And now, even my relationship with Mary is tainted with the knowledge that she is deceived by my actions in coming to Bath. But I cannot allow emotion to overcome duty. Did not Odysseus’s own son, Telemachus, conceal the truth surrounding his father from those he loved for the sake of the greater plan? And so I must continue to do likewise now I have reached my own Ithaca, for that is what I believe Bath to be. And having landed upon ‘these shores’, I must remain focussed and determined as I make my way to the ‘palace of iniquity’ in order to enact the final confrontation.

There is, however, something which troubles me. The feeling I became aware of this morning, when entering the city, has stayed with me throughout the day and remains as a bedside companion while I write this journal entry. It possesses a strange quality, carrying within it an anticipatory sense of final release and yet simultaneously auguring that which lies beyond. I have experienced this feeling before, although only ever fleetingly, and at those times it has led me to a moral questioning of my actions and to whether I act as judge or executioner? In the moment of retribution, I ponder, will divine justice be served or will it be simply the act of a man taking the old law – an eye for an eye – as his own decree? For I know that when I find Malone I will strike him down as surely as he did my father. And my justification to this questioning is that I truly believe his sentence was passed at the fatal moment he stabbed my father on that murderous night. And so, having already been judged, it is only for me to carry out his rightful punishment.

With the feeling remaining for so long this time, however, I have been able to reflect on it more objectively and I can now see it for what it is; not a moral question on my actions but an empirical one, in so much as when this deed is accomplished, what is left? What awaits me: a place devoid of meaning? Is that why I have never before let Bath as a possible haven for him enter my mind all this time, as the thought of finally ending what has consumed me all these years would leave me not knowing what to do next. I could not envisage staying in Bath, yet do I remain in London now that I have tracked him down. Thinking back over these last fifteen years I realise that every case I have undertaken, except perhaps one, can all be linked to this quest in one way or another. So what will my life become now that the end has possibly come?

Am I being too hasty in my belief though, that after all these years of searching, he is in the city? I cannot feel his presence, as I know I will when the time comes, for I have felt it once before. It was when I was sixteen years of age and attending a large fair on the outskirts of London. As I stood in a crowd watching a magician, I suddenly felt a presence nearby. On turning, I saw him for a brief moment, at least the back of him. By the time I had raised the alarm he was gone. Perhaps though, the reason I cannot feel his presence is because he is already dead? Have the details of that conversation overheard in London already played themselves out here? And if this is the case, I wonder how I will feel knowing another hand has extinguished his life and fulfilled what I believed to have been my destiny.

Whether I can feel Malone’s presence or not I know that this feeling augurs an ending of my quest one way or another, but whatever lies beyond is for another time and perhaps a future journal entry. So I will attend the funeral tomorrow (or rather today, as I observe the clock has reached midnight) and while there, create the opportunity to converse with Fitzpatrick to discover what he knows about Malone.

The boy sat on the bed he had shared with his father. He had not shed any tears at the funeral earlier that morning; these would come later, if at all. He had never seen his father cry and however hard it might be not to now, he wanted to follow his example. ‘Leave that to the other sex,’ his father had once joked. The loss hurt so much though that he felt numb from it and all he could do was sit and stare at the wooden chair across the room, on which a few of his father’s clothes lay. He wanted to go over there and hold the clothes, to feel their familiar texture and his father’s warmth once more. But he did not.

The boy did not know how long it had been there but he now became aware of something in his hands. As he continued to gaze at the chair across from him, he felt the heaviness and shape of the object and realised it was a book. It was the one he had taken off the bedside table when he first entered the room at the top of the house. The book was the latest that his father had been allowed to borrow from Mr Gardiner’s library and which the boy and his father had taken turns to read aloud each evening. The boy ran his fingers down the book’s spine and over the raised lettering that spelt out the title and author. The book was
Robinson Crusoe
by Daniel Defoe. It was a story about a man shipwrecked on an island far away, but who survived on it through his resourcefulness. They had reached a section, however, where Crusoe had become sick with bad dreams and in his sickness remembered his father. He had wondered whether his present situation was a ‘just punishment for his sin’; his sin being that of going against his father’s wishes and setting sail on the adventure which led to him being marooned on ‘this island of despair’, as Crusoe had called it.

The boy’s thoughts turned to his own act of disobedience. He had gone against his father’s wishes, lifting the cups after being told not to, and now wondered whether his father being taken from him was his ‘just punishment’. If only he had not lifted those cups perhaps things would have been different, or else if he had actually tried to do something other than merely watching. Could he have done anything to change things that night? The images which had haunted his dreams ever since now invaded his waking state. This time, however, he saw his father receive the fatal blow and Malone, with evil intent still in his eyes, turning after toward the boy himself. But in that moment, the boy was already getting to his feet and by the time Malone was at the front door of the Gardiners’ property, looking up and down the street for him, he had already hidden himself well enough in the neighbouring hedgerow to escape being found. The boy had then stayed there until he saw Malone and his scarred accomplice make their way down the street; the wounded man sobbing and racked with pain.

There was a knock on the bedroom door but the boy was too preoccupied in his thoughts to respond. The door opened and Mrs Hunter, the Gardiners’ nanny, stood at the entrance. She saw the solitary figure on the bed and her heart went out to him, but she knew there was nothing she could do to comfort the boy over the loss of his father.

Mr Swann had been highly regarded both by the Gardiner family and the other members of staff that worked for them. He had been in the Gardiners’ service for fifteen years and during the first three of those years had his wife beside him. When she died, the Gardiners were initially against Mr Swann’s plan of raising the newborn child himself, but when they saw how determined he was, they relented and helped all they could. A wet nurse had been hired and after the child was weaned, they had allowed the female staff in the household to take turns looking after the boy when Mr Swann was on duty. He had never forgotten their kindness and so Mrs Hunter was not surprised at the courageous act which had cost him his life.

There had been some debate as to whether the boy should attend the funeral but in the end it was decided he should and so had gone with Mr Gardiner and the male servants of the household. It obviously had been too much for him though, as he had slipped away from the men as soon as they had returned to the house. It was then that Mrs Hunter had been dispatched to find the boy and bring him back downstairs.

Mrs Hunter saw the boy holding a book. Mr Swann had taught himself to read and write and had been doing the same with the boy. He had adored his son and would always have such a look of contentment when talking about him. At least the boy’s future was now set.

‘Jack, they are waiting for you downstairs.’

Mrs Hunter went over to the boy and gently took his hand. He did not resist and accompanied her downstairs to the first floor of the house. They stopped at the two large drawing room doors and Mrs Hunter knocked reverentially.

‘I have the boy here, sir, madam, as you requested,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hunter, please bring him in,’ replied Mrs Gardiner.

Mrs Hunter brought the boy into the room, to where Mr and Mrs Gardiner stood waiting, along with their four-year-old daughter, Mary.

‘Jack, do you know why you are here?’ asked Mr Gardiner, as he beckoned the boy closer toward him.

The boy shook his head.

‘Well, in appreciation of your father’s loyalty to this family, may God rest his soul, and as you have no living relatives that we know of, we are to adopt you.’

‘You will now be part of our family, Jack,’ said Mrs Gardiner. ‘It means that Mr Gardiner and I are to be your guardians and Mary will be your sister.’

As Mrs Gardiner spoke, the girl moved closer to the boy and put her hand into his, holding it tight.

Mrs Gardiner had been true to her word and until her dying day had treated the boy as her own son. It was perhaps right then that Swann was at her funeral, whatever the original intention for his coming to Bath had been.

As he stood by the graveside, Swann now reciprocated his sister’s childhood gesture and moved his right hand into a position where she could take it. She did so and squeezed his hand hard, as she fought to hold back her tears.