‘It is nothing like that, George,’ Swann reassured him. ‘What it means is that I have persuaded Rosie, in return for living rent-free, to help me in my work, like you and Bridges. There will be no danger involved for her though, I will make certain of that, but as a woman she may be able to gain access to places that you and Bridges might not.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Ladies’ dressing rooms for a start, George.’
‘I’ve been in a few of them myself, Mr Swann.’
‘I am sure you have, George, but Rosie told me that along with playing the violin, she has acted in a few plays, back in Ireland, when she was younger. I may be able to use her talents.’
‘If you ask me, Mr Swann, I don’t think she’d be much good.’
‘Why is that, George?’
‘She’s too well-known ’round here. Everyone would know her face straight off.’
Swann thought for a moment.
‘You might be right, George. Perhaps I will have to rethink my decision.’
George nodded, pleased to have been able to help Mr Swann.
‘So here is the plan for the evening,’ said Swann, returning to the business at hand. ‘I suggest, gentlemen, that we all take different parts of the district. George, you go across to Horse Street and then visit the public houses in Corn Street and Back Street; Bridges, you go as far as Peter Street and then make your way back, visiting any places you think might be worth going into. I’ll take Avon Street itself, I’ll start at the Duke of York and work my way back up to here. We will return here at the striking of the next hour with any information.’
There were nods of agreement from George and Bridges, then George said: ‘If you’re thinking of visiting all the pubs in Avon Street, Mr Swann, it will take more than an hour. There are a lot of pubs down here.’
‘Thank you, George, although I have thought of that; I have asked someone to visit several of them as well. Ah here she is now. Hello Georgette.’
A grotesque-looking woman with a wart on her nose and an awful stench emanating from her clothes sat herself down next to George. George edged away from the woman.
‘Georgette, this is George.’
‘Oh did you ’ere that? Georgette and George; we’d make a right couple now wouldn’t we love,’ said the woman, nudging George as she spoke in her broad Somerset accent. ‘Georgette and George, why that’s a match made in ’eaven that is, if I do say so me-self.’ She lifted her left buttock off the seat a little and let wind.
‘Thinking about it,’ said Swann, ‘it might be more agreeable if we stay in pairs. I will go with Bridges and George, you can go with Georgette.’
Bridges nodded at this arrangement but George looked less certain.
Georgette nudged an increasingly annoyed George.
‘That’ll be nice, won’ it? We can spend the dimmet together, jis you and me. We’ll get comferbull somewhere and perhaps even get up to somefin’ naughty.’
‘I don’t think that being in twos is a good idea, Mr Swann,’ muttered George.
‘Why not, George?’
‘Because I, er … I …’
The woman leant in close to George and, reverting to her Irish accent, said: ‘Ah, come on sweetie, you didn’t think it was such a bad idea when you suggested it to me last year.’
George, having realised the true identity of ‘Georgette’, angrily stood up and stormed out. As he went he shouted, ‘I’ll see you all in an hour.’ Swann, Bridges and Rosie burst out laughing. Rosie had signed to Bridges as soon as she had entered the inn, so he had been aware of the deceit from the beginning.
As good as his word, George was back in the Fountain at eight o’clock; his earlier anger now tempered by the various drinks he had drunk while visiting all of his allocated pubs. It was not long before Swann and Rosie entered, followed shortly after by Bridges. Once again, they had returned without any information about the Scarred Man.
‘I am sorry for earlier, George,’ said Swann, ‘but I wished to prove to you how good an actress Rosie is.’
George reluctantly accepted Swann’s apology, but would not look Rosie in the eye.
‘I have an appointment at eight-thirty,’ Swann announced. ‘I suggest you have a drink or two in my absence and I will be back here at nine,’ he placed several coins in front of George. ‘No hard feelings I hope.’ George looked at the coins and begrudgingly smiled at Swann.
Swann left the Fountain and made his way up to the East Gate, as he had done two nights previously. He reached his destination, only this time approaching it from the direction of the river. He hid in the shadows and waited. Ten minutes had elapsed since the time of their agreed meeting and it looked to Swann as if he had been double-crossed by Lockhart. He was not coming. Swann began to walk away, disappointed, when a voice whispered from the shadows.
‘Swann, it is me, Edmund.’
‘Lockhart?’
‘I could not afford to be seen in your presence, even if you are in disguise, so I have taken precautions myself. That is why I am late.’
‘Do you have the letters?’
‘Yes, here they are.’ Lockhart reached into his clothing and retrieved a packet of letters, tied with a piece of ribbon. ‘They were not easy to obtain,’ he said. ‘I had to wait until Kirby left his office. When he finds out they’re gone, I do not know what he will do.’
Swann took the letters and secured them within his pocket.
‘I thank you for these Edmund and appreciate what you have risked for them. If anything happens to me tomorrow, promise me you will take good care of Mary. I may not have been in agreement with the wedding, but if I am to die, then at least I can do so knowing of your promise.’
‘Of course, I promise,’ said Lockhart.
There was an awkward silence for a moment before Swann turned and began to walk away. Lockhart went after him and caught his arm.
‘Swann, tomorrow morning, when you fire first, do not aim for Kirby’s heart.’
‘What?’
‘He is to wear a type of jacket that will stop your bullet, if fired there,’ Lockhart said. ‘If you wish to kill him, you must aim for his head. He intends to kill you, and will not miss.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Perhaps with Kirby dead, I can be free of all this,’ replied Lockhart, more to himself.
‘Free of what?’
‘It is of no matter. Now I go back to Kirby’s office to await his return.’
‘Where is he now?’ Swann enquired.
‘He received a message from Wicks, about an hour ago. His London connection is here and he wanted Kirby to meet him.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Swann. ‘Where are they to meet?’
‘I do not know; possibly the Duke of York. Is it important?’
Swann did not answer as he had already turned and was running back toward the Avon Street district.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Bath, Saturday 31st March, 1804
I feel my faith is lost, my belief shattered. I now possess the truth I sought and it makes me sick. Mrs Hunter told me that despite his weakness for gambling and collusion with the burglars to pay off his debts, my father was a good man and, before losing his money, always made certain I was provided for first. But then she was not there the times my stomach was painfully tight from hunger because he had gambled our money away on one game of chance or another and had nothing left to buy food; my father finding a new excuse each time as to why he had lost.
Is this to be my last entry? Tomorrow is the duel with Kirby and I feel I have been trapped into taking part. I cannot let Fitzpatrick fight for me, yet I do not want to die. I have written a letter to Mary. At least she is to be married, even if it is to a man I do not trust. I surely cannot leave it like this.
I have scoured the streets for the Scarred Man tonight but he was nowhere to be found. Is he really in Bath? Did he return? I sense he is here, but am I fooling myself? Perhaps I have fooled myself my
whole life through.
And why did Lockhart tell me about Kirby’s jacket? Is it a double bluff or does he really want Kirby dead? With Kirby dead, Lockhart will not need to explain to him about the missing letters, yet if it is to be me who is killed, I will no longer be there to protect Mary from Lockhart’s clutches. There are so many questions that remain unanswered, and may never be answered now.
How could you have done this to me, Father! I vividly remember the night you died. I could not sleep and woke from a nightmare. Something was not right. I called out for Mrs Hunter but you came instead. You stroked my hair and said how much you loved me. I could not go back to sleep and so you said to come downstairs with you. You were in a back room, polishing boots. You seemed nervous, on edge, but you looked at me and then took out the three cups. You found a dried pea and showed me the game you had done so often. ‘You must watch for the pea,’ you said. ‘Always watch for the pea.’
Whether you meant it or not, I have taken it to mean to always look for the trick behind the illusion. There was no pea, or at least not under any of the cups. That is the answer – you are looking for something that does not exist. Is that what I am doing, chasing the Scarred Man after all these years; looking for justice that does not exist? I could not figure your trick out until later. And then the noise from elsewhere in the house came and the next moment you were gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was still dark as Swann left the house in Great Pulteney Street and stepped into the carriage organised by Fitzpatrick. He closed the carriage door and, as the horse trotted off, glanced up at the window where his sister lay asleep.
‘Does Mary know?’ asked Fitzpatrick.
‘No. I wanted to tell her but it would have been too painful for her. I have placed a letter addressed to her on my bedroom table, in case I do not return. If I am killed this morning, perhaps you could enlighten her as to why I could not let her know.’
‘You can rely on me, Swann,’ replied Fitzpatrick. ‘You look tired.’
‘I must confess I have not slept. I was putting my affairs in order until the early hours and writing these correspondences.’
Swann handed his companion several letters, each one addressed separately.
‘I would be grateful if you can forward these to their intended recipients in the event of my death. There is one addressed to you, Henry. I would consider it a great favour if you were able to fulfil the instructions enclosed within.’
‘I will do my best,’ replied the magistrate.
The carriage reached the end of the street and turned left, towards Bathampton Down. The journey was a relatively short one and as the carriage neared its destination it left the main road and travelled up a narrow, uneven track, the chassis bumping and shaking all the way. They reached the intended spot for the duel and the driver pulled on the reins to bring the horse to a halt. They were the first to arrive.
‘Kirby is not here yet,’ said Fitzpatrick, looking out of the window. ‘I suggest we wait in the carriage.’
Swann agreed, although after a short while he decided to get some fresh air. He stepped down from the carriage onto the dewy grass and walked around. The sun had risen and its golden rays shone through the tree branches, casting dappled sunlight on the ground.
Fitzpatrick left the carriage and unpacked the pistol box, along with the required paraphernalia, in silence. He set up a small table on which he placed two pistols. He loaded each of them in turn and set them back down. He then busied himself by pacing out the space between where the two combatants would stand and marking the positions where each would turn and discharge their firearms.
A few more minutes passed and there was still no sign of Kirby.
‘This is strange,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘I thought he would have been here by now. Perhaps you have a reprieve?’
‘I do not wish a reprieve,’ said Swann. ‘I wish honour to be restored and justice to be served.’
‘And rightly so,’ said a familiar voice. From behind the nearby trees a figure stepped out.
‘Wicks!’ exclaimed Swann. He instinctively reached for a loaded pistol.
‘I would suggest you leave those exactly where they are. Several of my men are surrounding you at this moment and all have their weapons aimed at you.’
‘What are you doing here? I cannot believe you have become Kirby’s second.’
‘Kirby will not be coming, as there is someone who wants to take his place.’
‘My disagreement is with Kirby,’ said Swann, ‘and nobody else. I suggest this duel is annulled.’
‘Do not be too hasty, Mr Swann,’ said another man, stepping into view. His face was shrouded by a hood.
‘Who are you?’ asked Swann.
‘I have many names, Mr Swann, but I believe you call me the Scarred Man.’
The stranger lifted his hood and let it fall back. The deep scar on his cheek verified his identity.
‘Why are you here?’ asked an increasingly bewildered Swann.
‘I know you have been searching for me. Well, here I am. I have often wondered what happened to the boy from that night.’
Swann stared at the man in disbelief. ‘I still do not understand,’ he said.
‘I am here to bring your quest to an end; that is what you want, is it not? Although I do not know why you think I am to blame. I did not kill your father; it was not me who ran the cutlass through his body.’
‘You were there.’
‘So were you. But then, of course, you also blame yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Swann.
‘You stood there and did nothing. You allowed your father to die just as much as I did.’
‘I was twelve years old!’ shouted Swann. ‘What could I have done?’
‘And what about this!’ growled the Scarred Man pointing to his face. ‘Look at what your father did to me.’
‘It is only a scar. You still have your life, my father lost his!’
‘I also lost the sight in my right eye. I do not bear a grudge, though. It has been more than twenty years; why don’t you give up chasing me and stop tormenting yourself?’
‘Never! You are my chance of finding Malone.’
‘It will not bring you the satisfaction you seek.’
‘I do not wish to kill him, merely to see that justice is served.’
‘You cannot fool me. Admit it. You want to execute Malone; you want to watch the look on his face as you administer that fatal blow. You want him to suffer the way your father did. You know your father was to blame though, don’t you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your father was the one who told us about the house, whilst gambling. In return for his debts being cleared he told our boss about the property, about that particular evening in the week being the staff’s night off and how the family would be out. How there would only be a near-deaf woman and a young boy left in the property.’
‘I do not believe you!’ shouted Swann as he grabbed one of the pistols.
The Scarred Man smiled. ‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘let us bring this matter to a close.’ He stretched his arms out as if crucified.
‘Remember though, if you do kill me, you will never find Malone. I am the only one who can lead you to him. If I die, you will lose your chance forever. I could lead you to him right now. We could go on foot, by horse, in a carriage. Malone changes his whereabouts as often as you change your mind about your father’s character; was he a good, honest, respectable man or just some sad, compulsive, selfish gambler.’
Swann began to squeeze the trigger.
‘If anything happens to me, Malone will be gone and your quest will be over, anyway. If you really want justice to be served, you have to play my game; you have to adhere to my rules. Do you agree?’
‘No, it ends here,’ replied Swann.
Swann discharged his pistol and watched it find its target; the Scarred Man’s heart. The impact knocked his adversary off his feet and he fell backwar
ds to the ground. Swann stood motionless. The Scarred Man was dead, but he felt no satisfaction; no fulfilment; no resolution. He had let his emotions have free reign again and now he had lost Malone forever.
Then incredibly, as Swann watched, he saw the body of the Scarred Man move; his arms; his legs; his torso. He brought himself up onto his knees and then onto his feet. The Scarred Man laughed and picked up his pistol from the floor and aimed it at Swann’s heart. He squeezed the trigger and the pistol discharged. As Swann fell to the ground, Fitzpatrick ran over and knelt down beside his friend.
‘Swann! Swann!’ he said quietly. ‘Wake up, Kirby has arrived.’
It took a few moments for Swann to realise he had been dreaming, that there had been no Wicks or Scarred Man, only Kirby and Lockhart, who at this moment were waiting outside. He stepped out of the carriage and approached the two men. Fitzpatrick followed.
The surgeon, who was there to attend to the participants, whether wounded or dead, was also to act as the adjudicator. Everything was ready.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the surgeon, ‘on my signal you will walk the agreed twelve paces and then turn to face each other. Mr Swann, you will fire first and, Mr Kirby, you will fire second. It has been agreed this duel is to the death, so if neither of you are fatally wounded, you will fire again, this time together.’
Swann and Kirby nodded briefly to one other, then turned and stood back-to-back. They slowly began to stride out the paces … one … two … three … Swann felt his heart quickening … four … five … six … he could not shake his dream of the Scarred Man from his mind … seven … eight … what if he was in the city right now? … nine … whatever his father might have been, he had loved him and owed it to him to seek justice for his death. He had tried to protect the property, after all, and through his death Swann had been given this privileged life … ten … he saw the Scarred Man manically laughing at him as he stood up from being shot … eleven … twelve … Swann stopped and turned to face Kirby. He knew what he had to do. He raised his pistol and aimed it at his opponent. He focussed all his attention on making the shot count. His heart pounded, his throat was dry and the hand in which he gripped his pistol trembled slightly. Swann brought all to mind in that final moment before he fired; that fatal night; his father; the Scarred Man; Malone; Wicks; Lady Harriet; Lockhart; Kirby.
The Circle of Sappho Page 21