The Regency Detective (18 page)

‘Well, his loss is our gain,’ declared Fitzpatrick, taking another sip. ‘Your brother certainly has a way about him, Mary, would you not agree?’

‘I would most adamantly agree with you, Henry.’

‘Then let us all drink a toast with this wonderful wine to Swann’s way.’

They raised their glasses and after clinking them together, toasted in unison: ‘Swann’s way.’

The snow was falling in flurries as the flat-bed wagon careered up Cavendish Road, in the upper part of the city, and headed for the junction of Sion Hill. On reaching the intersection, it turned right and continued to climb again towards Lansdown Crescent. Once there, the driver instigated the whip and urged the solitary horse on even faster. As they raced across the level but white-shrouded cobblestones the ends of the scarf that masked the driver’s features billowed out behind him into the cold night.

At the far end of the crescent another carriage came into view; its occupants, two elderly sisters, being driven home from their regular weekly excursion to the dress ball at the New Rooms. Their numerous ailments precluded participation in dancing there, so to compensate they fully immersed themselves in the latest gossip, both the receiving and distribution of, and tonight had been no different. Inside the carriage they were in the process of briefly revisiting the evening’s highlights, which would be more substantially explored over a late-night sherry or two on their return to Somerset Place, the small enclave off the main crescent.

Within moments the two vehicles found themselves in direct collision on the crescent’s curving concourse. It rapidly became apparent that the driver of the wagon had no intention of slowing down or changing direction and so it was left to the sisters’ driver to veer off at the last moment. As he did so, the wheels of the carriage skidded across the slippery surface and onto a steep slope, causing it to tip over and trap the elderly ladies inside.

With the overturned carriage left in its wake, the wagon negotiated the sharp corner into Upper Lansdown Mews and its single track alleyway. It sped off once more up the steep incline, this time narrowly missing a couple engaged in carnal relations within the shadows. The girl of the town stood up from her kneeling position, from where she had been servicing her well-heeled gentleman client, and they both angrily gestured at the wagon as it hurtled off away from them.

The abrupt manoeuvre around the tight bend, however, had dislodged a loose covering in the back of the wagon and as its driver continued his reckless journey upwards, the top half of a gagged and tied girl now lay exposed behind him, her eyes wide in terror as she continued to be tossed around the flat wooden boards.

The girl had not recognised her assailant when he grabbed her, as it had been dark when she had left her place of employment and the man had come at her from behind. Even when she was being tied up and bundled into the wagon, a scarf covered his features. There was something familiar about him though. She had no idea what it is was, what he wanted, or where she was being taken to; only that she was cold, frightened and wanted to be any other place but here.

As the full moon became enveloped in a blanket of cloud and the lights of the city diminished far away into the background, the wagon finally ascended the summit of Lansdown Hill. Here, it turned into a small lane and traversed the virgin snow-covered ground to the end of it.

Ahead lay the woods.

The White Hart was its usual hive of early morning activity, reflecting its place as one of the main coaching inns in Bath. Jack Swann sat drinking a black coffee at what had now become his regular table. A copy of
The Times
lay spread out in front of him. At present his attention was being divided three ways: reading the obituary section; watching passengers as they boarded various coaches outside; and finally, and perhaps of most personal interest, eavesdropping on the nearby conversation between the proprietor of the establishment and a wine merchant.

‘So Mr Pickwick, to clarify your order, you will take two cases of the Spanish
Vino de La Tierra
, at thirty shillings each, and three cases of
Vino de mesa
at twenty-five shillings each.’

Pickwick nodded.

‘You are certain you will not take any hock? The price is only fifteen shillings per case.’

‘My clientele here at the inn do not care for German wine.’

‘Not even at this price?’ asked the wine merchant. ‘I secured them at auction recently. They are unlabelled but the paperwork is all in order.’

‘I am certain,’ replied Pickwick, but as he spoke he looked over the other man’s left shoulder to where Swann was now shaking his head.

‘Will you excuse me one moment,’ said Pickwick to the merchant.

The man nodded. ‘I shall use your back room,’ he said.

As soon as the merchant had left, Pickwick came over to Swann.

‘How am I doing, Mr Swann? I believe I was making a good deal but you do not seem to agree.’

‘It is not a bad deal, Mr Pickwick, but you are also passing up the opportunity of a most agreeable transaction.’

Pickwick looked puzzled.

‘The hock, Mr Pickwick.’

‘The hock?’ repeated Pickwick, disbelievingly.

Swann nodded.

‘But my clientele do not …’

‘Whatever the paperwork may say,’ said Swann, ‘I would suggest you buy as many cases as the merchant holds.’

Pickwick looked hesitant. Swann smiled.

‘To put your mind at ease, I will stake half of what you purchase and if your clientele do not take to it, I shall acquire the remainder from you at no loss.’

It seemed too good a deal to be true and the proprietor’s expression showed his scepticism.

‘You have my word,’ said Swann. ‘Besides, how did your clientele receive the case of Portuguese Madeira you purchased last week?’

It was now the turn of Pickwick to smile. As he did so, Swann gestured to him the return of the wine merchant.

‘And the Spanish wines?’ Pickwick asked.

‘That is your choice,’ replied Swann discreetly, ‘but he is overcharging you by at least three shillings on each case.’

Pickwick nodded his thanks and went back to where the merchant waited.

‘I have had a change of heart,’ said Pickwick, loud enough for Swann to hear. ‘How many cases of hock do you have for sale?’

‘I have six cases,’ replied the merchant.

This number caused Pickwick to hesitate and he instinctively turned to Swann, who nodded his approval. For a moment the merchant eyed up the proprietor suspiciously but any doubt was dispelled by Pickwick’s next sentence.

‘I wish to purchase all the half dozen at fifteen shillings per case…’

The merchant could not believe his luck, as he had only paid five shillings a case for them.

‘… but I will rescind my Spanish order,’ added Pickwick.

The wine merchant looked confused.

‘I do not understand,’ he said.

‘Well, perhaps if they were a little cheaper …’ replied Pickwick, now with a new-found confidence, ‘… say by five shillings a case.’

The wine merchant realised he had been caught inflating the prices but had no intention of admitting it.

‘I am an honest man,’ he said, ‘and even at the price I am offering them to you I will almost be losing money.’

‘Then, I am perhaps having second thoughts about the hock as well.’

In the time since Pickwick mentioned the reduced price of the Spanish wines, the merchant had used it wisely, re-calculating his outlay and income. Even at a five-shilling reduction, he concluded, the transaction would still give him a very agreeable profit overall. And he would finally be rid of the cheap hock.

‘Three shillings off each case is the best I can do,’ said the merchant, offering up the opening salvo of what he anticipated to be a short bout of bartering.

‘A deal!’ declared Pickwick, and before the merchant could say any more, the proprietor had taken his hand and shaken it to seal the transaction.

‘I will start to unload the cases around the back,’ said the bemused merchant, knowing something had just happened to which he was not privy.

The merchant left to begin unloading and Pickwick came over to Swann.

‘How did I do in conducting my business?’ asked Pickwick.

‘Like a professional wine-buyer,’ replied Swann. ‘That was inspired to ask for a five-shilling reduction.’

Pickwick smiled at this compliment of his financial acumen.

‘I am once more indebted to you, Mr Swann,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Swann, taking out his bill-purse to pay for his half of the recent purchase. ‘You can organise delivery of the three cases I have just bought. Two cases are to be taken to my address in Great Pulteney Street and the remaining one is to go to the magistrate, Mr Fitzpatrick, at this address.’

‘Certainly, Mr Swann,’ said Pickwick, taking the card from Swann.

‘And what is the wine, really?’

‘It is best you do not know,’ said Swann, ‘but I would advise that you charge your top price for a glass and if there is any protest, let them taste it first. I guarantee you will receive no complaints then.’

‘I am obliged to you, Mr Swann, and I bid you a good day.’

Swann nodded.

Pickwick turned and walked off, rubbing his hands at this most recent and agreeable transaction.

Swann returned to reading
The Times
buoyed by the knowledge of the wine he had just purchased. It was always a good way to begin the day, although today’s purchase was especially satisfying. He had settled into a routine of sorts since coming to Bath, having now been here more than a month. He would leave the house he shared with his sister in Great Pulteney Street around eight o’clock in the morning, undertaking a contemplative-paced stroll to the White Hart, where he observed the comings and goings of various people, read the papers and, like this morning, occasionally participate in Pickwick’s wine dealings. He would stay there until the Royal Mail coach passed by outside, around half past nine, on its way to The Three Tuns Inn down the street. He would then leave the White Hart to see who had arrived on the coach and collect any post from London. There were a couple of outstanding investigations which had been put on hold since his departure to Bath, but a lawyer acquaintance kept him updated on any developments through regular correspondence.

Although Fitzpatrick had procured rooms for Swann on the first floor at No.40 Gay Street, where he could receive potential clients or interview witnesses, he found it more conducive, at least during the earlier part of the day, to be out in the city. And it was here, at The White Hart, where the most vital information could be gleaned, either through overheard conversations or chance remarks, the reading of local newspapers, or else the observation of people going about their daily business. And as for the comings and goings of the criminal fraternity, he had secured the services of George and Bridges, who had become his eyes and ears inside the Avon Street district, the most notorious area within the city.

As he took a mouthful of coffee, Swann’s thoughts returned to the overheard conversation he had chanced on in a London public house several weeks before; the one which had prompted him to Bath in the first place. Although the Malone it concerned was not the one Swann had sought all these years, but his twin brother, the connection between the family and the city had been established. And, along with the possible sighting by Swann, after his arrival, of
the
Malone’s accomplice on that murderous night, he had decided any further quest for his father’s killer, at least for the time being, should be conducted within this particular metropolis.

He had just finished reading the final obituary in
The Times
when George and Bridges entered. Their shabby clothes and bare feet were, as always, in marked contrast to the majority of the well-dressed clientele that frequented the coaching inn, either as guests staying in the rooms above or else as passing travellers using it as a welcome break before continuing on their journey. The two men headed over towards Swann and as they did so, he folded the newspaper. He smiled as he noticed George’s black eye.

‘The husband of a lady friend arrive home early again, George?’ asked Swann.

‘No, Mr Swann, I got this from one of Wicks’ men.’

Swann’s amused expression vanished and he said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, George. How did it happen?’

‘It was on account a couple of them didn’t take kindly to us asking about your Scarred Man, Mr Swann.’

‘Then forgive my teasing of you George and I apologise if I have caused you both to become embroiled in an affray.’

‘It was nuthin’ we couldn’t handle, sir.’

George’s companion began to sign.

‘Bridges says you should see Wicks’ men, though,’ said George.

‘I would not have expected otherwise,’ replied Swann, with a wry smile.

On reading Swann’s lips, Bridges grinned and covertly revealed the knuckleduster hidden in his coat pocket.

‘I wonder why they were so aggrieved!’ said Swann. ‘But were you able to ascertain anything nevertheless?’

‘Nuthin’ sir. But if I may beg your pardon, Mr Swann, if we had more to go on … men with scars in that part of town is two a penny.’

Bridges nodded in agreement as he watched George speak.

‘I know gentlemen, but unfortunately any further description I could supply may be too long ago to be of any use in the present.’

‘All right, Mr Swann, we shall keep askin’ with what we have: a Scarred Man with a possible connection to London.’

‘Thank you,’ said Swann.

Bridges tugged at his companion’s sleeve and signed again.

‘He asks if you have any other jobs for us today, Mr Swann,’ said George.

‘Yes, I do,’ replied Swann. ‘How does an outing to Bristol sound?’

Both men’s faces instantly lit up.

‘Bridges has never been to Bristol before, Mr Swann.’

‘But
you
know the city, George?’

George nodded. ‘I’ve been there once, sir.’