To Michael.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
VOLUME I SWANN’S WAY
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
VOLUME II SWANN AND THE FUTURE PAST
PROLOGUE-II
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
About the Authors
Copyright
VOLUME I
SWANN’S WAY
PROLOGUE
‘Again?’ asked the man.
The boy nodded.
‘All right, but watch carefully this time.’
The man’s fingers hovered over the three inverted wooden cups and then, with a dexterity borne out of practise, began shuffling them – two at a time – around one another on the table. The deliberate staccato rhythm of each separate action merged into a blur of movement, much to the awe and delight of the watching boy; his wide-eyed amazement belying an intense concentration.
The shuffling stopped.
‘So,’ said the man, ‘which cup is the pea under?’
Without hesitation the boy pointed to the middle one. The man’s right hand remained poised above the chosen cup momentarily, as if building suspense for an imagined audience, before lifting it to reveal – nothing! Affectionate laughter accompanied the revelation but the boy was too preoccupied to notice, staring incredulously at the empty space left by the cup.
A noise came from elsewhere in the house and the laughter ceased.
‘The master must have returned early. Stay here son.’ The man then smiled. ‘And don’t touch the other cups while I’m gone.’
The man stood up, ruffled his son’s hair and after checking his own appearance in the reflection of a large copper pan hanging on the wall, left the kitchen.
The boy remained seated at the table, his gaze transfixed at the upturned cup which had been his choice. It lay with its opening facing toward him. An opening he had come to view as a gateway to another world; one he did not yet fully understand and so could therefore not enter. The only way to enter this world was through the ‘solution’, which his father had promised to reveal when he thought the boy ready.
Against his father’s wishes the boy now tentatively lifted the second cup, the one to his left … but again, nothing! There was no solution to it he told himself, no answer to the game, other than watching the cups more closely, more intently, as they were being shuffled. It was the speed of the hands against the quickness of the eyes. And if the physical skill of one could be learned, so could the other. He would therefore practise observing over and over and not just with cups but anything capable of movement, until finally he would be able to choose the correct cup on the first attempt rather than the last. He reached his hand over, this time lifting the remaining cup with a more determined grip and stared in disbelief at what was underneath.
Crash! A vase smashed in the hallway.
‘Father?’
The boy stood and went to the kitchen entrance. For a couple of seconds, as he watched from the doorway, he saw his father entangled in a ferocious struggle with another man, a man he did not recognise, before they fell, still grappling with each other, into a front room and out of sight. By the time the boy reached this entrance, his father lay on the floor, one arm outstretched, his hand inching closer to the fireplace, with the intruder’s arms entwined around his legs trying to stop him. But then, in one swift action, his father gripped a cast-iron poker and thrust the pointed end into the intruder’s right cheek. As the red-hot metal made contact there was a piercing scream, the smell of scorching flesh, and a pitiful but loud cry of a man’s name: ‘MALONE!’
From elsewhere in the house Malone now appeared in the hallway, pushing the boy roughly aside and onto the floor as he rushed past in to the front room. And it was from this position, lying on the hallway floor, that the boy witnessed the images which seared themselves into his memory, scarring him as permanently as the poker on the stranger’s flesh: the glinted blade … the raised arm … his father’s gesture of capitulation … the brutal kick to the head … and then, the callous, calculated thrust of the knife which … but before the final image could play itself out the boy always let out a primeval Noooooooooooo! and the nightmare would mercifully end.
CHAPTER ONE
As the Royal Mail coach sped along the Great Bath Road the small market town of Calne was left rapidly diminishing in the background. The overnight journey from London had been mostly uneventful and so its scheduled arrival in Bath, in a little over two hours’ time, now seemed certain. Nevertheless, the driver, ever mindful of potential delays on this stretch of road – a herd of cows on their way to milking and a fallen tree the most recent examples – snapped his whip twice and the newly tethered, four-horse team obligingly increased their pace.
Inside the distinctive black and maroon carriage Jack Swann awoke with a start from his nightmare and glanced around the interior. The other passengers – two women and a man – were still dozing, oblivious to his startled awakening. He turned his gaze to the countryside becoming visible in the reddening dawn sky and stared at it pensively as the wretched melancholy that always accompanied the aftermath of his nightmare enveloped him fully. At these times he found a little solace in a poem remembered from childhood – though its title and author long forgotten – which in some way he equated with his own situation. It concerned a ship bound for an undiscovered land, but blown off course onto jagged rocks by a storm, leaving the vessel holed but not wrecked. Forever cursed, as the poet had concluded, to flounder in troubled seas like a maritime Prometheus, never to sail calm waters again. And so it was that Swann felt cursed within this life of bad dreams and the melancholic gloom on waking from them, never to find a peaceful mind. He felt this disposition even more acutely this morning, travelling as he was for the funeral the next
day of the woman he had called mother for the past twenty years; ever since she and her husband had adopted him at the age of twelve.
Mrs Gardiner had been a kind, caring woman who bestowed unconditional love on all members of her family and Swann reciprocated with feelings which would have been reserved for his real mother, had she not died in childbirth. Likewise, his sibling affections were easily and naturally imparted to his new ‘sister’, Mary, herself an only child. Regrettably, however, Mr Gardiner had been a different matter. Although as considerate and nurturing in his own way as his wife and daughter, he could never replace Swann’s father – the man who raised Swann single-handedly to the threshold of manhood – and so a distance existed between them, neither able to completely benefit from the paternal bond the elder man was willing to offer ‘the son he always wanted’. It was twenty years since Swann’s real father was murdered, while attempting to protect the Gardiners’ property, but not a day went by without his thinking of him.
Through this remembrance of his father, Swann’s mind turned inevitably to his work and a case he had just concluded in his consultancy role for the Bow Street Runners – the law-enforcement organisation created some fifty years earlier by the novelist Henry Fielding and whose name derived from the London street where it was based. The case concerned a victim of blackmail that had resulted from his patronage of brothels and his specific requirements there. The practice of entrapping gentlemen in high office or powerful positions by criminal gangs, in collusion with disreputable brothel keepers, was rife in the capital, as no doubt elsewhere, yet the unsuspecting politician had blissfully walked straight into this well-honed trap. Unsuspecting? Swann considered the word and found it erroneous. When one held duties and responsibilities, professional and personal, as this married minister had, perpetual vigilance and constant awareness became foremost, especially with licentious temptations and extortionist activities being such easy bedfellows in the criminal underworld. Too much injustice already existed and far too many perpetrators roamed the streets unpunished to allow oneself, an upholder of the law, to become the hapless quarry of the criminality prevalent throughout the city. Unsuspecting or not, the minister had become entrapped. Realising, however, that recent ill-advised speculation on the stock market meant he would not be able to pay the blackmailers, and so making a public scandal certain, the minister had risen early on the previous Saturday, hired a hansom cab to Putney Heath and, after dismissing the driver, discharged a bullet through his own temple. After being informed of this news, Swann had spent the remaining weekend calling in favours from several newspaper owners to ensure, for the sake of the dead man’s family, that reports regarding the politician’s demise in that morning’s papers lay the blame squarely on the fluctuating stock market and not on the more insalubrious aspects of the case.
From the beginning to the end of the case Swann had been able to do very little, other than put on a disguise and pursue a couple of tenuous leads to the heart of London’s underworld. Indeed, ordinarily Swann would have politely declined the case, if it had not been for a name linked to one of the brothel keepers. It was a name he knew only too well, as it was the name cried out on that murderous night and which summoned the man who so callously ended the life of Swann’s father: Malone. So, whenever a possible clue to the killer’s whereabouts arose, however slender, a sense of responsibility to his father’s memory dictated Swann follow it. As it transpired, the name turned out to be a false one and the petty criminal using it far too young. But then, it was always like that: a promising lead, an investigation and a disappointment. The obligation he felt to investigate each one, however, would continue until his quest was at an end; through his father’s murderer finally being brought to justice, or else details surrounding his death authenticated.
The sun had now fully risen and the reddened sky turned blue when the coach entered a slight dip surrounded by trees. The semi-darkness caused the window to act as a mirror, revealing Swann’s reflection. He looked tired, but not just the kind of tiredness expected from overnight travel; in fact, the journey had proved less arduous than anticipated. No, there was a deeper tiredness, one borne out of prolonged exposure to London’s criminal fraternity. The circumstances were not as he would have wished but Swann was grateful for the few days they would afford him out of the capital.
And it would be good to see Mary once more. Dear Mary, her mere presence in a room was enough to lighten Swann’s darkest mood. From the moment she had put her hand into his on the day of his adoption, knowing she now had a brother, a special bond, strong as any blood tie, had developed between them. Swann had given himself the role of his sister’s ‘protector’ as they grew up. In reality though, he became more an observer, watching in admiration on returning home from boarding school and later university as Mary blossomed into a strong-spirited, independent-minded woman. Her sharp wit had developed in tandem with her artistic talent, most markedly shown on the pianoforte. And what she lacked in original composition, she made up for in her interpretation of others: most notably Bach. If she did have a slight imperfection, or rather a feminine Achilles heel, perhaps it was that at times she could show a naivety where matters of the heart were concerned. In the past, it had twice led her to the threshold of imprudence, although thankfully on both occasions fortuitous circumstances had conspired to bring her reputation through safely intact.
Mary was now twenty-four years old and still unmarried, which in certain households might have given cause for concern. Her financial independence, however, meant that she did not have to rely on finding a husband to secure a future. Nevertheless, Swann would be comforted to see her at least betrothed in the not too distant future and although not wishing to cast himself in the role of match-maker, there was a lawyer acquaintance who had expressed a wish to be introduced to Mary when Swann brought her back from Bath to live with him in London … but that was moving too far ahead. There was the funeral to attend first and putting his adoptive mother’s affairs in order.
There was, of course, the other reason Swann was coming to Bath and which would occupy part of his stay. If there had been one positive aspect to the case he had just completed back in London, it was that when he had been visiting one of the several disreputable public houses seeking information, he had overheard a conversation; the details of which he had hastily written down afterwards. As the coach came out of the tree-lined dip and into open countryside once more, he tapped the notebook secured in the breast pocket of his jacket, aware the hastily scribbled notes, written three nights ago, contained the next possible lead to finding Malone. Swann looked outward to the western horizon, beyond which the city of Bath was beginning a new day.
CHAPTER TWO
In 1702, and again the following year, Queen Anne visited Bath and it is true to say that the city never looked back. Her royal patronage prompted the rich and powerful elite of British society – Goldsmith’s ‘people of distinction’ – to do likewise and this one-time medieval textile centre, located ninety-seven miles west of London, now found itself the most fashionable resort in the land. In turn, the middling classes followed the elite and throughout the eighteenth century the economic prosperity this brought with it resulted in a sustained programme of building and rapid population expansion rarely witnessed anywhere in Europe beforehand. By the start of the nineteenth century, however, the elite, as is always the way with fashionable and ephemeral pursuits, had now bestowed their patronage elsewhere, on spa towns and health resorts such as Cheltenham and Brighton.
Yet the middling classes, with their domestic entourages in tow, still kept coming in ever increasing numbers and alongside them came a multitude of shopkeepers, tradesmen and skilled labourers who flocked to the city to provide for their every need. But with this influx of the middle, lower and skilled classes, the city also attracted the underclass – the impoverished section of society drawn to places of wealth and abundance, ready to take their share in whatever way they were able. These were the beggars, pic
kpockets, con-artists, prostitutes and other nefarious characters that saw in Bath a place ripe for plunder. And where crime becomes rife, organised gangs and iniquitous leaders quickly emerge to control it. In Bath the undisputed criminal boss was an Irishman called Thomas Malone, a one-time bare-knuckle fighter who it was said had killed at least two men during his ‘career’. He had arrived in the city several years earlier and in a relatively short space of time ruthlessly intimidated and brutally murdered his way to take control of the city’s underworld. He had held that top position ever since and during that time had seen off at least three major rivals for his territory and survived as many attempts on his life. At present there were several, less powerful, gang leaders in and around the city with their sights set on seizing power but in reality there was only one serious contender: Frank Wicks.
Not long after midnight, as Swann and the Royal Mail coach were somewhere between Maidenhead and Reading, events connected to the scribbled notes in his notebook were unfolding in Bath; the consequences of which would trigger more far-reaching effects than anyone involved could ever have imagined.
The warehouse door slid open and Thomas Malone stepped through into the building, swiftly followed in single file by several of his men. His eyes scanned the semi-darkness until they stopped at the solitary figure of Richard J. Kirby, standing on the loading platform at the far end. Malone gestured for his men to wait as he walked across the uneven earthen floor towards the waiting man.
‘So, what’s that important it couldn’t wait ’til morning?’ Malone sneered, as he ascended the few wooden steps to come level with the other man.
‘I am terminating our understanding Malone – and I am aware you desire to receive disagreeable news immediately.’
‘We don’t have an “understanding” Kirby,’ Malone replied, contemptuously. ‘I pay you and you do as I say.’
‘However you wish to describe our situation, it is over. And from now on you call me Mister Kirby.’
The Regency Detective Page 1