The Regency Detective (17 page)

On entering the establishment, Swann saw that Lockhart was already there. He took the seat offered to him by the other man and sat down. A member of staff came over and took Swann’s order.

‘Thank you for meeting me here,’ said Lockhart. ‘I would have ordinarily suggested Molland’s, around the corner from here, but I think a more discreet place is required for our somewhat delicate conversation. I believe there has been a misunderstanding between us and my intention now is to clear this matter up. I assume you have been wondering why I was on the same coach as yourself from London the other day and why I did not mention it at the funeral.’

Swann did not respond but showed he was listening to what Lockhart said.

‘I did not mention the fact that we travelled together at the funeral, as it was connected to my business and I did not feel it fit for your sister’s ears. I believe that men should not discuss business matters with any female he has occasion to be around.’

Swann nodded, as if agreeing this was an acceptable philosophy.

‘But to show myself as the reputable person I am,’ continued Lockhart, ‘I now wish to disclose the circumstances and details surrounding that journey, or at least as many of them as I am able. I had every intention of travelling down from London directly the following day but the journey to Bristol was unexpectedly put upon me at the last moment. I barely had time to catch the coach, as you witnessed, given that I entered the carriage almost at the last possible moment.’

Swann’s coffee arrived and after taking the first mouthful, he now spoke.

‘And what of the two ladies accompanying you on the journey? What was their purpose in travelling?’

‘That, I am afraid, I am not at liberty to disclose. What I can say, however, is that I am very fond of your sister and there was nothing inappropriate in what was being undertaken to undermine that fondness. I wish to protect her as much as you do, which is why I understand you mentioning my presence in the coach with you to her.’

‘I fully understand you not wishing to discuss business with Mary and would normally not enquire further into the matter. However, given the nature of your relationship with my sister, I feel I have not been given a satisfactory answer in regard to your business affairs.’

‘Please Jack, if I may call you that, I understand your persistence but I cannot disclose any further. Let us say the people I work for demand the utmost secrecy at all times and it would not be prudent for me to go against that demand.’

Swann saw Lockhart’s attention focussed on the coffee-house clock.

‘Is there a certain time you wish to be aware of, sir?’

‘I apologise, but it is nearly eleven o’clock and there is another appointment I am obliged to attend within the next few minutes. I hope this meeting has gone some way in persuading you that my intentions towards Mary are honourable and I am a gentleman of the utmost honesty. I know that you are due to return to London in the next few days, but my hope is that I will have the pleasure of your company once more before you leave Bath.’

‘I have decided to stay on longer in Bath and so I am certain of it.’

‘Ah, that is news indeed,’ said a surprised Lockhart, as he stood. ‘Please do excuse me though, I have to leave now.’

Lockhart hurriedly left the establishment as a bemused Swann watched him go. From inside the coffee-house, he saw him turn left towards Milsom Street and then disappear out of sight. Swann finished his drink and vacated the premises himself, completely unaware of the events about to unfold outside.

Swann came out of Goulds’ coffee-house and walked back towards Wood Street, the conversation with Lockhart still going around in his mind. The other man had not divulged anything which could be even in the least way construed as ‘details’ and Swann was still in the dark as to the reason why he had been travelling on the same coach. He mentioned the people he worked for demanded the utmost secrecy. Was he hinting to the fact he was on government business? Swann did not know but he would begin discreet enquiries through his contacts in London. His lawyer acquaintance had some connection with certain government offices, so he would ask him to clandestinely enquire. For now he would not mention anything to Mary about his conversation with Lockhart, or indeed that he had met him.

Swann was on his way to the Avon Street district to continue his investigation in regard to the Scarred Man and Malone. He also wanted to locate George and Bridges to employ their services. This had to be the place to start. No sooner had he turned into Wood Street, however, when he saw them appear further down the street. The pair seemed in great haste as they headed towards him. He now saw them frantically pointing to behind him. In that moment he turned and saw a carriage speeding along Wood Street, heading directly towards where he now stood.

On realising what was going to happen, Swann dived into the doorway of the nearest shop. As he did so, two pistols were simultaneously fired from inside the carriage as it passed by. The bullets embedded themselves harmlessly into the doorway above where Swann landed. The carriage went off into Queen Square, pursued by George, Bridges and, once he was back on his feet, Swann.

With the trio of men in pursuit, the driver whipped the horse hard as it sped along the south side of Queen Square, scattering several pedestrians as it did so. As it neared the south-west corner, the driver showed no intention of slowing down and so the inevitable happened; as he attempted to take the sharp corner, the carriage tipped over, throwing the driver and carriage occupant out onto the street.

As if by predetermined arrangement, both men ran off in different directions; the driver running up towards Charlotte Street, while the assassin sprinted out of the Square and went down Princes Street. Swann shouted to George for him and Bridges to go after the driver, while he gave chase after the other man. The man’s build looked vaguely familiar but material wrapped around his face precluded positive identification. On reaching the end of Princes Street, Swann turned left and headed along Monmouth Street, where only the day before he had walked with Fitzpatrick. He could still see the man he was chasing, up ahead. The figure turned right and Swann instinctively knew the man was heading for the Avon Street district.

As much as the man tried to evade Swann, he now doggedly kept on his trail – the study of the map paying off in the way he had intended it to. There were no stallholders in the way this time and he saw the man heading for the riverside. By the time he reached the water’s edge, however, it seemed Swann had lost his quarry. There seemed to be no one around. Then a noise perhaps, a sense maybe, made Swann crouch down, just as a shot rang out and hit a wooden post beside him. He now dived for cover behind a stack of boxes waiting to be loaded onto a boat.

Swann was pinned down behind the boxes but in his mind he pictured the map and traced a route which would allow him to come up behind where he believed the would-be assassin was hiding. He readied himself and then ran across the open space and back up Avon Street. He had made it. Either the man had not seen him, or else he had gone. Swann ran along Corn Street and then through a maze of alleyways and passages until he found himself at the bottom end of Horse Street, by the Old Bridge. From here, he could now see the man crouched behind a large bush, obviously still believing Swann to be hiding behind the boxes and waiting for him to appear.

Swann took out his own pistol and aimed it at the man. He fired one shot and hit the man in the arm, causing him to scream loudly as he dropped his weapon. It was an intentional wounding shot on Swann’s part, as he wanted to question the man. Swann ran forward and grappled the wounded man to the ground. Although bleeding from the arm, the man managed to stand up and a furious struggle ensued. As they wrestled with each other, their eyes met and Swann’s assumption as to the man’s identity was now proved correct.

Before he could do anything further, however, another shot rang out. Swann took a step back and saw the blood on his jacket. It took him a moment or two, however, to realise that it belonged to the other man, who had inadvertently shot himself in their struggle. The man, fatally shot through the heart, fell backwards into the river. As Swann looked over the edge into the water, he could see the material covering the man’s face had snagged on the branch of a submerged tree trunk. The body stayed there for a few seconds, resisting the strong current, until the material began to unravel, causing the body to turn several times and the man’s features to be finally revealed. It was Tyler. His body then turned face down and was swept away towards Bristol.

Swann made his way back out of the Avon Street district with several thoughts running through his head simultaneously. Had he been set up by Lockhart? It seemed too much of a coincidence. For now, however, he decided to say nothing but would watch the man closely and begin his investigation of him. Swann could only assume Wicks was behind this, so he would have to be doubly on his guard from now on. He wanted to protect Mary but he would not be frightened out of the city. He still had a murderer to catch by the name of Malone.

Swann then retraced his steps back up Princes Street to Queen Square, the city already feeling just that little bit safer with Tyler now dead. He emerged once more into Queen Square, where he found George and Bridges waiting there with the captured driver held tightly between them.

‘May I formally welcome you to Bath, Swann,’ said Fitzpatrick, as he raised his wine glass for the toast.

‘Thank you, Fitzpatrick,’ said Swann, as he and Mary did likewise.

After the assassination attempt, Swann had returned home and informed Mary about Fitzpatrick’s invitation, but not his meeting with Lockhart or the drama that had unfolded afterwards. They had taken a carriage at the appointed time to Fitzpatrick’s house, which was located near the middle of Camden Crescent and the magistrate had personally greeted them at the front door. Fitzpatrick lived with a small number of domestic staff, his wife having died a few years earlier. His decorative style was subdued, though tasteful and Swann made a number of complimentary remarks as they were ushered through the house to the dining room. It was now dark outside but during the day, so Fitzpatrick told his guests, the view from the window included a castle. It was a ‘sham’ castle, he explained, as only the front façade of it had been built, but nevertheless gave the appearance of a complete castle and what had been Ralph Allen’s folly, was now enjoyed by all the residents on this side of the city.

Fitzpatrick had moved into his house in Camden Crescent not long after it had been completed, in the early 1790s, and whereas his office in Queen Square had seen its prestige diminish, that of his residential address had lately risen. None of which mattered in the slightest, however, to Fitzpatrick, as Swann had quickly realised.

‘You must be pleased your brother is staying longer in Bath,’ said Fitzpatrick, addressing Mary.

‘It is most pleasing, although I hope he does not bring his work back to Great Pulteney Street,’ she replied. ‘I do not think Emily or my nerves could stand it.’

‘That is why I have asked Fitzpatrick to secure rooms for my business.’

‘Yes, and I have secured some in Gay Street,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘No. 40, on the first floor, near the rear of the house. I believe they will prove satisfactory.’

‘Thank you,’ said Swann. ‘I am certain they will.’

‘If you believe Tyler to be Evans’ murderer,’ said Fitzpatrick, after Swan had outlined the morning’s events, deliberately not mentioning how the pickpocket and would-be assassin came to be killed, ‘then that could be your first case solved in the city, Swann.’

Fitzpatrick again raised his glass.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Swann. ‘I could not prove it in court, other than by providing circumstantial evidence, but my instinct tells me it is so.’

‘So is there anything else I can do for you during your stay? I can put one of my carriages at your disposal.’

‘That would be most appreciated,’ said Swann.

‘And I can spare a couple of men, whenever you require them.’

‘Thank you Fitzpatrick, but I believe I have already dealt with that particular requirement. There are a couple of men I have engaged, who I believe will be more than adequate.’

Fitzpatrick noticed that another bottle of red wine was required.

‘If I am not being too forward,’ said Swann, ‘may I suggest you have served the bottle of wine I brought? I believe you will find it most agreeable.’

‘Very well, Swann, I will go by your judgement,’ replied Fitzpatrick.

The bottle was brought and each of their glasses filled. Fitzpatrick tasted the wine and his expression became one of elation.

‘What is it, Fitzpatrick?’ said Swann, knowing only too well the reason for his companion’s expression.

‘This is the most incredible wine. From my initial impression I would say it is French claret, so almost definitely it derives from the Bordeaux area.’ Fitzpatrick tasted it again. ‘There is a masculine quality about it, so much so I could only assume it derives from the Médoc region, more specifically from Paulliac perhaps.’

Swann nodded. ‘Your taste in good wine is exemplary, Fitzpatrick.’

‘If that is the case then,’ continued Fitzpatrick, now excited, ‘I can only believe what we have here is either from the Lafite or Latour wineries.’

‘Your powers of deduction do you credit, Fitzpatrick. What you hold in your glass is indeed from Chateau Lafite, of the ’87 vintage.’

‘An ’87 Lafite, incredible. But where did you come by this?’

‘It was given to me by the proprietor of the White Hart Inn, in Stall Street.’

‘Pickwick! But his taste in wine is infamously inept, he is renowned for it.’

‘Evidently, as this is how I came by this bottle. I was in his establishment this afternoon when I chanced to overhear him in conversation with a wine seller. Pickwick was about to purchase two dozen cases of, well being diplomatic, wine that was being completely misrepresented by the other man. I merely informed Pickwick of this situation while the merchant was otherwise disposed. And in his gratitude he offered me any bottle from his cellar. I can only assume the Lafite had been laid down there by one of his predecessors who knew about wine. I did attempt to compensate him for it, as I felt my paltry advice was not worth such a prized wine, but he insisted.’