As the coach jolted and jarred its way through the streets of the city George and Bridges secured themselves the best they could and then exchanged a glance that expressed their pleasure at finding themselves riding on the Royal Mail coach and suggesting that ‘this was the only way to live’. This unforgettable experience was made even more gratifying through seeing the disbelieving expressions on the faces of people they knew, as the two men hurtled passed them, waving from on top of the most prestigious carriage of its day.
The coach crossed over the River Avon by means of the Old Bridge and then continued along its south bank for some way, passing through the village of Twerton, and then out on to the open road to begin its journey proper.
Although for Bridges it was his first time out of the city boundaries, with the cool wind whipping through their hair and the autumn sun warming the skins of their faces, feet and hands, both men realised this to be one of the highlights of their lives and they were determined to enjoy every last moment of it. For the next hour or so it would take to cover the dozen miles to Bristol, they were kings of the road. Other travellers had to pull over to the side of the road at the sound of the coach’s horn and with its constant ten miles an hour the coach maintained, other vehicles quickly disappeared into the distance. With the expansive fields and surrounding snow-capped hillsides stretching far out in front of them, along with the ale coursing through their veins, they felt invincible and the misery of their existence back in the Avon Street district was temporarily forgotten.
Halfway into the journey they passed Keynsham, ‘a little dirty town’ according to one traveller, somewhat derogatorily, beyond which lay a great mansion and stables, the latter housed in the most fantastic building the pair had ever seen.
The coach descended into the valley of the Avon, before climbing another hill as it continued on its journey. The river became visible only intermittently as they reached the outlying village of Brislington, which lay two miles south-east of their destination, but everywhere could be seen the veins of the coal mines which scarred the landscape. The valley now opened out once more, as the coach came down into an area known as Arno’s Vale and carried on beside the river again, to begin the final stretch of road before reaching Bristol.
From their superior position on the roof of the coach, the exhilarated George and Bridges could now see the city of Bristol ahead. An ominous cloud of thick black smoke hung over many parts of the city, expelled from numerous furnaces and factories that belched out its waste day and night. Its acrid smell reached the companions’ lungs while the vista became one of foreboding and ‘impenetrable obscurity’; the crisp white landscapes of earlier now turned a dark, doom-laden grey. But they were men not easily perturbed and even if they were not certain of what lay ahead, they were determined to enjoy the experience once in the city.
The only consideration to dampen their elated mood though, was the question which had followed them all the way from Bath but only now, on seeing the city, became conscious in their minds. The question as to whether the man they had been asked to follow was a passenger beneath them. In their haste to board the coach, they had not been able to check who was inside and so would only find out once they reached Bristol.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Swann stood alone in the silence of the clearing and began to apply the System – his method of inquiry using ‘givens’ and ‘assumptions’ – to the events of the previous evening. Although Fitzpatrick had left the body as it had been found for Swann to examine, any other potential evidence from the scene had been mostly obliterated, unintentionally of course, by the magistrate and his men. From the observations Swann had made both here in the clearing and along the track, however, added to the information he had overheard at the White Hart Inn earlier, before the clerk had arrived, what he believed to be a fairly accurate reconstruction had begun to emerge in his mind.
Given that there had been a heavy snowfall the evening before, it could be assumed that any footprints along the track must have been made after the snow had ceased. The snowstorm had begun about half past eight and stopped around two hours later. Therefore, if one of the unaccounted sets of footprints belonged to the murderer, the crime he perpetrated had taken place after half past ten last night and before six o’clock this morning, the time when the girl’s body had been discovered. Given the news he had heard at the White Hart Inn earlier, however, Swann felt confident in assuming it was nearer the former time of half past ten.
The Bridewell sisters’ accident that had left them trapped but, as it transpired, merely shaken and unhurt in their overturned carriage the previous evening, had been the talk of the early morning conversations at Pickwick’s establishment. To what degree the details had been exaggerated Swann did not know, but what seemed certain was that their carriage had been in a near collision with a manically-driven wagon which, after failing to stop, had headed off towards the Lansdown area. Common sense suggested this was more than pure coincidence, especially as Swann had observed a third set of wheel markings – different to both Fitzpatrick’s carriage and the morgue wagon – at the entrance to the woods, where he now made his way back to from the clearing. And so given that fact, it could be safely assumed that the driver of the wagon was the murderer.
The snow at the lane’s end, where there was just enough space for a vehicle to turn, had been reduced to slush by Fitzpatrick’s carriage and the morgue wagon, as they manoeuvred around for their return journeys. Nevertheless, Swann had been able to discern a third distinct set of wheels and from this he could imagine the wagon stopping and the killer jumping down onto the virgin, snow-covered ground. Given also that it was a solitary figure which had been spotted driving erratically the night before, it could be assumed that he committed the crime alone. The girl was perhaps in the back, tied up under some kind of covering. As Swann stood at the end of the lane, he stilled his mind and imagined himself in the mind of the driver.
The wagon had no doubt arrived in the lane not long after eleven o’clock, given the time of its near-collision at Lansdown Crescent. After jumping down from his seat, the driver had dragged the petrified girl from the wagon and hoisted her up onto his shoulder, as if a carcass of meat. He then made his way along the snow-covered track which led into the woods. The assumption that the killer was male was due to the size of the footprints left in the snow. A little way into the track he was briefly pulled back, as part of his victim’s dress became caught on a branch of the tree and torn off, the small piece of fabric still hanging there the following morning when Swann had spotted it. It could be assumed the murderer was a little under six feet tall, perhaps five feet ten inches, given the height of the over-reaching branch where the material had snagged and the depth of the footprints in the snow, which Swann measured using a torn-off branch.
When making his observations on the track earlier, Swann had squatted down on his haunches and surveyed the various prints on the ground. When he had satisfied himself of certain facts he stood and carefully followed the half dozen trails belonging to Fitzpatrick and his two men, along with the two remaining sets and his own as well, back to the clearing. He could account for four of the half-dozen but the two other sets of footprints he could not. Swann assumed that at least one of them belonged to the murderer and this was the one with its prints deepest in the snow. The stretcher-bearers had obviously carried the girl back along the track, but these led in the other direction, while the final remaining set seemed also to have been carrying something, given the depth of its own prints, but they did not seem deep enough to suggest it was a human load.
After the branch had momentarily pulled him back, and with Swann back in the murderer’s mind, he had continued on his way, through the woods and into the clearing. Here he set the girl back down onto her feet; a single, naked footprint in the clearing the only remaining evidence that this had happened. The murderer then untied the dirty rag which had muffled the girl’s screams throughout her terrifying journey and discarded it o
nto the snow, within a clump of trees, from where Swann had retrieved it. A knife glinted momentarily in the moonlight and with several clean strokes the remainder of the girl’s dress was cut and fell off her to the ground, leaving her body naked and shivering as she faced her abductor. The girl was turned around and shown the ropes that awaited her. Her eyes no doubt filled with absolute terror and her bladder control lost, as her abductor attempted to push her forward. The girl had perhaps attempted to resist at this point, but had simply not been strong enough. At exactly what time during this evil episode the girl had been murdered, Swann did not know, but he only hoped for her sake it had been swift and her suffering short.
Given the macabre nature and location of the murder scene, it seemed more than probable that it had been chosen and arranged earlier; leading Swann to assume the perpetrator visited the clearing at least once before carrying out the crime. This showed the killing had been premeditated, with the woods and this isolated spot in particular, selected specifically. Given that the scene had been so deliberately ‘staged’, and perhaps not only in order to terrorise the girl, Swann felt, it could be assumed that the location held significance or importance. Again though, Swann did not know what that might be at present. What he did know, however, was that the killer had been unskilled in his work and Swann believed this to be his first victim. No sailor would claim the knots that had bound the girl to the trees and no surgeon the knife wounds that peppered her body. Had the girl been part of a sacrificial rite? The scene seemed to have been put together quickly; too quickly in fact, to indicate the girl had actually been a victim of a genuine ritual. It therefore seemed to Swann to be the work of a person who wanted to show the scene rather than use it for a specific purpose. If this was the case, then what did the murderer want to show? And why was this particular girl chosen? Could any girl have carried out the same role, only this one was known to the murderer?
Swann picked up the branch again, the one he had used back at the track, and more out of a meditative practice rather than for further investigation, began to place it vertically within each of the footprints that still remained intact within the clearing. He left the naked footprint untouched but measured the footprints surrounding it; this was the spot where the murderer had brought the girl down, as one pair of footprints was etched less deep in the snow than the previous set immediately before. Swann squatted down beside them in contemplation.
Whatever Fitzpatrick may have thought, this killer was definitely of the human species. Swann then shook his head momentarily at the remembrance. He could understand that kind of superstitious nonsense in perhaps the uneducated circles that George and Bridges circulated, and possibly even from educated women who read too many gothic novels, the genre of writing that had become popular during the last few years, but Swann had been surprised to learn that Fitzpatrick might also believe it. This was perhaps it though; the scene was reminiscent of those found in the pages of that type of book. He wondered if there was actually significance to it, but before he could think further, a noise came from behind.
‘She’s gone then, poor lass,’ said a voice.
Swann turned to see a man standing there.
‘It was you that chanced upon her?’ Swann asked, observing the recognisable clothes of a gamekeeper.
‘A terrible sight to come across first thing in the morning,’ the man replied.
‘Indeed, at any time I would suggest,’ said Swann. ‘Did you remove or touch anything?’
‘I am an honest man and a Christian one, Mr, er …’
‘Swann. I am sure that is the case, sir, and I did not wish to imply otherwise. But I needed to ask. What can you tell me about the scene as you discovered it?’
‘There is not much to tell, sir. I was shooting over in the woods to the east – it is the best time to catch rabbits you know, early in the morning – and I was making my way back to begin delivering them, when I came across this unholy sight.’
‘May I enquire as to where you deliver?’ asked Swann.
‘I would rather not say, sir.’
‘You were hunting illegally, then?’
‘No sir, this is my trade and I am allowed to pursue it honestly, it is just …’
‘Just what?’ said Swann.
The gamekeeper remained silent.
‘May I remind you an innocent girl has been murdered here. Now what are you not telling me?’ demanded Swann.
‘Well sir,’ the gamekeeper now spoke, ‘one of my customers is a very private man and he does not like his business known by anyone, even the fact he gets rabbits from me.’
‘Would I be correct in believing that you were on your way there when you found her?’
‘That is right, sir.’
‘Very well, I will not pry into your business further. It is the facts at this scene which are important and not who you were delivering rabbits to.’
‘Thank you, sir. Will that be all?’ asked the gamekeeper.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Swann. ‘Although is that your cottage over on the hill, in case I require any further information?’
‘Yes sir, it is.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swann, once more.
As soon as the gamekeeper had gone, Swann crouched down and looked at the freshly-made footprints. They were analogous to one of the unidentified sets but only less deep. A few moments later Swann stood and marked the fifth sketch in his pocketbook with a GK, eliminating the gamekeeper as a suspect: the earlier, deeper footprints, he now realised, created through the carrying of his rabbits.
And then, beside the one remaining set of footprints Swann had yet to identify, he wrote the letter M for murderer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘No, no Miss Gardiner. Your stroke is still too heavy. A delicate touch is required, a delicate touch.’
‘But Mr Luchini, perhaps I have no feeling for it?’
‘And yet it is on your insistence that we are painting landscapes. It is on your insistence.’
For a few moments the elderly Italian art teacher and his pupil remained in silence, as they contemplated the half-completed landscape on the easel in front of them, before Mr Luchini felt compelled to expand the point.
‘The more delicate the touch,’ he explained, ‘the more an observer will be taken in to the scene you have created. Your aim should always be to transport the person viewing your painting into the very landscape itself. With this view of Bath, for example, the intention is that you want someone in London looking at it to feel transported to the city, as if they are here.’ He stroked the graying hairs of his untidy goatee beard and continued. ‘That is why painting exists, to carry people elsewhere. But you do not feel it within you, do you Miss Gardiner? You try to do two things at one time and therefore become, how you say, confused.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Luchini?’ asked Mary.
‘You attempt to paint what you believe the observer wants to see, while at the same time being drawn to wanting to paint what you see. Do you see?’
‘I am afraid I do not, Mr Luchini,’ replied Mary truthfully.
‘You are afraid of your gift, Miss Gardiner. You are scared to express yourself fully as a painter, or at least as a landscape artist. And because of this, you move the brush too heavily on the canvas. The brush should caress the canvas, like this.’
Mr Luchini took the brush from the easel and softly brought it across the canvas, then made another stroke next to it, only heavier.
‘Do you see the difference?’ asked Mr Luchini.
‘I think so,’ replied Mary.
They stared at the two splurges of paint on the canvas with Mr Luchini glad to have been able to illustrate his point, while Mary, despite what she had said, still unable to see the difference between the two strokes. As they continued to stand transfixed in their silence, they heard someone enter through the main door of the house and a few seconds later Swann appeared at the entrance to the room.
‘Jack, you were not expected at this hou
r,’ said Mary.
‘I have returned only briefly to consult a particular volume,’ he replied.
Mary made the introductions and the two men acknowledged each other.
‘I look forward to seeing your work at the gallery tomorrow, Mr Luchini,’ said Swann. ‘Mary was most insistent that I should attend but I do not require any coercion to view an exhibition by the finest Italian painter of landscapes at present in England.’
‘That is too kind of you, sir, too kind,’ replied Mr Luchini.
‘So, what do you think of my landscape, Jack?’
‘You wish me to be honest, Mary?’
‘I would wish nothing else.’
‘Then I would have to say that your strokes are too heavy.’
Mary sighed in frustration.
‘Ah, it is like there is an echo, Mr Swann, an echo. Your sister’s ability resides in the painting of faces, not trees and grasses.’
‘I believe you are right, Mr Luchini,’ said Swann.
‘The portrait work in her sketchbook is excellent, most excellent,’ continued Luchini, ‘most life-like and many of them drawn from memory, I believe. Have you seen these portraits, Mr Swann?’ the Italian art teacher enquired.
‘My sister has yet to grant me that pleasure, Mr Luchini.’
‘And I am no longer able,’ interjected Mary, ‘as the sketchbook is now lost.’
‘Lost?’ said Mr Luchini, ‘Oh, the tragedy, the tragedy.’
‘Indeed it is Mr Luchini. I was not able to locate it before your arrival this morning and I fear I shall not be able to do so after you have left.’
The Regency Detective Page 16