‘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.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
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.
‘I said stay where you are! I was only protecting Lizzy, she was going to be his next conquest.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Swann.
‘When Gregor-Smith delivered his manuscript here last week, I saw the way he looked at Lizzy and she at him. He would have seduced her in the way he did my wife and got her addicted as well. She would have suffered the same fate as my dear Lydia and I could not allow that to happen.’
‘What about murdering the reverend?’ Swann replied, as he took another step closer.
Tozer threw the pipe at Swann’s head, but missed.
‘I’m not going to prison; who will take care of my wife and my business?’
Tozer began to run towards where the metal ladder was attached, but Swann wrestled him to the ground. The publisher wriggled free, however, and was able to carry on back across the roof towards the ladder. Swann picked up another metal pole and threw it at the legs of the fleeing man. It made contact just below the back of the knees and caused the publisher to stumble. Tozer tried to regain his balance and for a moment looked as if he had done so, but then tripped and fell through a skylight on the roof, shattering the glass as he went through it.
Swann swiftly made his way to the skylight and looked down. Below he saw Tozer dead, his twisted body impacted on one of his printing machines. In that moment, Swann felt sorrow for him. He had not seemed like a man with evil intent, merely one whose circumstances had overtaken him.
‘You heard everything, Fitzpatrick?’ asked Swann, as he saw the magistrate bending over the dead man’s body.
‘Yes,’ replied the magistrate.
‘Good,’ replied Swann. ‘So I suggest we now return to the city and release an innocent man.’
Fitzpatrick looked up and nodded solemnly.
CHAPTER SIXTY
‘Thank you once again Mr Swann, I do not know how I can ever repay you,’ said Gregor-Smith, stepping into the carriage that would take him back to his residence in Lansdown.
‘You might reconsider your decision not to have your manuscript published,’ said Swann, handing the thick sheaf of papers to the writer. ‘Despite the tragic events surrounding it, I believe it would be a great loss to the reading public to do otherwise.’
‘That is most kind of you, but my mind is set. Like Dante, I have had cause to consider this midway point of life and realise through incarceration within my own inferno, however brief, and with the prospect of imminent execution, that I too have strayed from the True Way and from hereon in have pledged myself to celebrate life and no longer sensationalise death. In doing this, I may even leave England and move to the Continent. I have always been particularly fond of the lake at Geneva. I am therefore indebted to you Mr Swann in ways you will never know. If you would care for the manuscript yourself then you are most welcome to retain it.’
‘Thank you, I am deeply honoured,’ said Swann, as he took the papers back.
The two men shook hands and the carriage drove away. After Swann and Fitzpatrick had made their own farewells, Swann headed off towards the city centre and began to walk down Horse Street, towards the artist’s studio in Broad Quay. Now the murder case had been solved, and Gregor-Smith freed, Swann could once again concentrate fully on his search for the Scarred Man.
As Swann neared the end of the street, he noticed George and Bridges ahead, in conversation with a stallholder. Good, thought Swann, if they were to come with him now, he could show them the portrait and they could carry on their investigation immediately. As he approached them, Bridges saw him and signed to George to finish talking.
‘George, Bridges, the very men,’ said Swann, genuinely happy to see the pair.
George turned and Swann saw he had acquired a second black eye.
‘Not another encounter with Wicks’ men, George?’ asked Swann, concerned.
‘No, sir,’ he replied, sheepishly.
Bridges, who now stood behind George, gestured a woman’s outline to Swann, then followed it with the signs for husband and punch. Swann smiled but chose not to tease George this time.
‘If you care to join me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am on my way to collect an item that will be of interest to you.’
The two men nodded and followed Swann down to the river and along to the building that housed the artist’s studio. Once inside they climbed the stairs to the top floor, but as they reached the final few stairs, Swann could see the door was ajar. The three men stood outside and prepared themselves for possible trouble. Bridges then cautiously pushed open the door and they quietly entered the room. The studio looked the same as it had when Swann left it yesterday; there were no signs of disturbance, although for once the large wooden easel stood canvas-less in the middle of the room.
‘Perhaps he went out into town?’ whispered George.
‘He never goes out,’ replied Swann.
The men crossed the floor to the curtained partition. Swann gestured with one hand for them to ready themselves as he raised the other hand to pull back the covering. He brought it back in one swift action and as he did so, the sight which greeted them caused Swann to look on appalled as the body of the artist was revealed. It hung from the low ceiling within the small alcove.
‘What do you want us to do, Mr Swann?’ asked George.
Swann did not respond as he stared in disbelief at the scene that confronted them. A rope was tied tight around the artist’s neck and beyond his limp corpse, still perched on the small easel as it had been the day before, was the obliterated portrait.
‘Mr Swann?’
‘Oh … yes … we had better bring him down.’
George and Bridges moved forward and, under Swann’s instruction, cut down the body and took it into the main part of the studio, where they laid it on the battered chaise longue, which been the backdrop to so much of his work. Swann stayed at the alcove entrance, still looking on distraught at the ruined painting; the canvas had been ripped to shreds and the Scarred Man’s features completely obliterated. There was nothing Swann could do. It seemed as if the visions had finally proved too much for the artist and had caused him to take his own life, but before that act he had destroyed the final creation which they had informed.
‘What do you want us to do now, Mr Swann?’ asked George.
‘All we can do is to inform Fitzpatrick,’ said Swann dejectedly, ‘so he can organise the disposal of the body.’
Swann left the portrait where it was and then covered the artist’s body with the green material from the back of the chaise longue. He then gestured to his two companions that it was time to leave and in doing so, they closed the door. They then retreated down the stairs and came out of building, into the sun-deprived day. They turned left and headed back towards Horse Street. As they reached the thoroughfare though, Swann spotted Wicks on the opposite side of the street, intently watching them with a malicious, self-satisfied expression on his face.
‘The artistic temperament, eh Swann?’ Wicks shouted. ‘One minute he is painting a portrait, the next minute, he is taking his own life.’
At the sudden realisation of what had really happened, an angry Swann began to cross the street towards Wicks. He had only gone a few steps before he found himself held back by George and Bridges.
‘Mr Swann, don’t,’ implored George. ‘Now’s not the time or place.’
‘You are right, George,’ said Swann, as he relented. ‘But do not think you will get away with this, Wicks. Your time will come.’
A despairing Swann turned towards the upper town and headed back there, accompanied by his two companions.
Once the three men were out of sight, another figure stepped out from behind a wall and stood next to Wicks.
‘You’ve done well Wicks, I will not forget this,’ said the ‘friend’ from London, who looked exactly as he had
been portrayed by the deceased artist in the now destroyed portrait.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Bath, Friday 2nd December, 1803
I write this entry in the knowledge that all is not lost in the way I believed it to be and having had the time to reflect on the matter, I do not feel as despondent as earlier with regard to my quest to find the men responsible for my father’s death. This renewed sanguinity has come about, in part, through the remembrance of an occurrence during the walk I undertook in Lyncombe Vale yesterday afternoon. There was a moment when I had cause to stop and while doing so, concentrated upon the immediate surroundings. My view focussed on a tree and as I gazed at its bare branches I found myself envisaging its appearance throughout all of the seasons; the onset of spring bringing with it blossoms bursting forth in an accord of colour – the whites, the yellows, the pinks – along with tiny leaves and green shoots, accompanied in their awakening by the chaffinch’s melodious refrain and the other wonderous songs of spring. And then, as the leaves unfurled from their protective bud casings, I saw their continuous enrichment by deep-entrenched roots, providing them sustenance through to the full maturity of summer. The time when heavily laden branches, fruit ripened to the core, bask in the endless warmth of long halcyon days, before the first signs of autumn appear, to herald the returning of the leaves back to the soil and donning of the tree’s bare exterior to carry it safely through the cold of winter, though replete in the knowledge this is but one part of nature’s ongoing cycle and that spring will arrive once more and the cycle begun again.
The Regency Detective Page 26