The Circle of Sappho E-Book

David Lassman

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

When a teacher and pupil are found dead at an exclusive girls' school in Bath, Jack Swann, the Regency Detective, becomes involved in one of the most intriguing cases of his career. Is it a tragic accident, a suicide pact, or murder? As Swann attempts to solve the mystery, his every move is observed by unseen forces with differing motives for him to succeed or fail. Meanwhile, Swann continues to investigate his sister's unscrupulous fiancé, combat the local crime boss, and persist in his search for the Scarred Man, who may hold the key to the unsolved murder of Swann's father. But time is running out . . .

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR THE REGENCY DETECTIVE

The prequel to The Circle of Sappho

The Regency Detective is a perfectly composed period page-turner …not to be missed’

James Strong, Director of Broadchurch

‘Swann will do for Bath what Morse did for Oxford’

Bath Chronicle

‘Swann is the Darcy of Detectives’

Western Daily Press

‘Looking forward to more books … very enjoyable’

D. Sanford (Amazon, 5-Star Review)

‘Great Bath-based mystery’

Jubey (Amazon, 5-Star Review)

‘I was totally absorbed in the characters and storyline’

Christine Pegg, BAFTA award-winning costume designer

ForSophie and Rory

PROLOGUE

‘Tell me about Sappho and Atthis again.’

‘You really love that story, don’t you?’

The young girl nodded. ‘I love hearing you tell it, as well. The sound of your voice makes me feel happy inside.’

The older woman smiled and momentarily held the girl’s gaze with her own. She positioned herself crossed-legged on a weaved mat she had brought to place on the stone floor and let her adolescent companion lay her head upon her lap; the girl’s long auburn hair, free of its restrictive school cap, flowing out over the woman’s thighs. A slight chill penetrated the enclosed space, bringing a biting air to the late morning, but its inhabitants were too engaged in the moment to feel it.

‘In ancient times there was a beautiful poetess called Sappho. She lived in a place called Mytilene, on the Greek island of Lesbos. She was tutor to many girls whose parents had sent them to her from not only other parts of the island but, as her reputation grew, from throughout Greece. Her school became known as “the home of the servants of the muses”. One day, a girl arrived from an island far away. Her name was Atthis. Like the rest of the pupils she was instructed in dancing, poetry and the other disciplines the muses are said to have inspired. Sappho loved all her girls equally, but Atthis became special.’

‘Like me to you?’ said the girl, grinning.

‘Yes, like you to me,’ said the older woman, leaning forward and kissing the girl’s forehead.

‘And then what happened?’

‘Eventually Atthis finished her studies and had to leave the island.’

‘I do not want to leave, I …’

The girl raised herself up onto one elbow.

‘What is it?’ asked the woman.

‘I thought I heard someone outside.’

‘Do not worry, there is no one. I am the only teacher on duty; the others are with the girls at church, in the village. As for Tom, he’s probably asleep in his flowerbeds by now.’

‘I do not want anyone to find us and make me leave. I want to be alone with you in this place, forever.’

‘That is why I brought you here. Now, drink this, it is a special drink I have made to mark the occasion. It will keep you warm.’

The girl accepted the small wooden cup and drank the liquid. The woman then refilled the cup and drank it herself. The girl relaxed back into the older woman’s lap, gazing up contentedly as her hair began to be stroked.

‘Tell me about the poem Sappho wrote for Atthis.’

‘Well, the poem she wrote was a unique one. When the girls at her school left her tutelage it was usually to marry and so Sappho would compose for them a marriage song. For Atthis, however, she wrote one especially for her alone.’

‘I love it when you recite it.’

The older woman did not smile this time.

‘Beyond all hope,’ she began, ‘I prayed those timeless days we spent might be made twice as long. I prayed one word: I want. Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.’

In the four years the older woman had been at the school, and the numerous pupils that had passed through it under her guardianship, she had never before come across a student so befitting her vision of Atthis and what she believed Sappho must have felt for her. On a number of occasions she thought she had found it, but she had been wrong. Those had been infatuations, imitations, illusions. This time it was different. This time it was real. This time it hurt at the thought of losing her. She wanted to kiss the rest of the girl’s head, her face, her neck, her body. She knew only too well though that however far her passion was allowed to go unbridled, even this would not be enough to quell the all-consuming feeling of sheer terror she felt, knowing of her imminent loss. But she knew she would never let her go from her heart. An eternal place had been carved there. She had spent every waking moment since learning the girl’s news hoping for some kind of reprieve. Hoping beyond all hope that her parents would change their mind and decide they did not want their daughter to accompany them, after all, on her father’s foreign posting.

That hope now looked in vain and so she knew what had to be done. She had planned it to the last detail. Now was the time. As Sappho could not live without Atthis, so she could not live without her own ‘special’ love by her side.

‘Do you think Sappho killed herself for Atthis?’ the girl asked, her voice a little slurred from the drink.

The woman nodded.

‘Yes. Even though it is said that Sappho killed herself over Phaon, a boatman she is supposed to have fallen in love with, I believe this version to have been invented by men who could not endure the thought of one woman loving another so completely and passionately. If she did take her own life by throwing herself off the cliffs at Lefaka, I like to think it was because of Atthis. In my mind, Sappho heard Atthis had died and, unable to bear the grief of her passing, or the thought of being alone forever, ended her own life. In that way, they were reunited in another place to enjoy their love eternally.’

‘Will you still love me after I go away?’

‘You’ll never leave my side or my heart, I promise you.’

The girl started abruptly and looked again in the direction of the entrance.

‘I am sure I heard something, did you not hear it that time?’

The older woman took the younger one by the arms and held them gently but firmly. ‘I told you my love, we’re quite alone here. I have prepared it that way.’

Contents

Praise

Title

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Postscript

About the Authors

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Jack Swann sat at his usual table in the White Hart Inn and contemplated the morning ahead. He had three appointments scheduled, which in itself was not unusual. Swann liked to arrange what he called ‘obligations, duties and favours’ for the first part of the day, as this allowed him, when not working on a case, to pursue other interests. These comprised mainly of walking in the countryside that lay outside the city boundaries or else climbing the hills surrounding them. From these latter vantage points he could look down and gain a perspective on the place he had begun, after almost six months, to think of as home. He had yet to return to London since arriving in Bath the previous October, but at present there were no outstanding matters to be dealt with and anything that did need attention was being taken care of by his lawyer, who kept in contact through regular correspondence.

Swann had to confess he was enjoying his first season in Bath; the period of time in the city between October and May that encompassed all manner of social events and activities, created solely to occupy the masses arriving here seeking either restitution for their health or entertainment alone. Not that he had taken part in any of the more extravagant displays of socialising, such as promenading or balls, but instead had attended several concerts and a number of performances at the Theatre Royal in Old Orchard Street – accompanying his sister, Mary, on the majority of these occasions. The physical experience of the theatre, despite having their own box, had left a lot to be desired – the extraordinary heat generated by so many bodies confined in one place made the atmosphere oppressive and stifling – but the plays they had seen were worth each sweltering moment of discomfort. He had also enjoyed an exhibition of Gainsborough’s work that had been held to celebrate his time in the city and which had made the now famous painter’s reputation. Another highlight he particularly remembered was a recital by Rauzzini, the famous Italian castrato, who had enthralled the assembled patrons with a repertoire consisting of Mozart, Handel and Haydn.

It had to be admitted, therefore, and much to Mary’s amusement during one such conversation on the subject, that his perception of Bath as merely a frivolous and superficial place had changed, or at the very least been tempered. There was a cultural element to the city he could now observe, which he himself enjoyed immensely. Nevertheless, as he went about his daily business the shallower aspects of the place and its inhabitants were still visible; exemplified none more so than by the never-ending stream of parents who travelled to Bath in order to engage in match-making for their unmarried daughters. Their sole purpose here, therefore, being to find their offspring a suitable husband – the term ‘suitable’ being merely a euphemism for ‘rich’.

There was, of course, also a darker side to the city, absent from the guidebooks, and it was this element that kept Swann in Bath; pervading his waking hours and haunting his dreams and to which theatrical, musical or artistic excursions were only temporary distractions. It was now more than twenty years since his father had been murdered while trying to protect his employers’ London house from two burglars. In gratitude for this act these employers, the Gardiner family, had adopted Swann and brought him up alongside their daughter, Mary, as their own. The two criminals, however, had never been caught and Swann had sworn to bring them to justice. The man he had watched deliver the fatal blow was called Malone – at least this was the name cried out by his accomplice as the red-hot poker, held by Swann’s father, had seared his right cheek. That accomplice, due to what would now be a permanent mark acquired from that murderous night, was referred to by Swann as the Scarred Man. His quest had brought him to Bath for a short visit the previous autumn, but after catching sight of what he believed to be this very person, he had decided to stay on. Swann had yet to see the man again but instinctively felt the key to his quest lay in the city; and that somehow, although he wasn’t yet sure in what way, there was a connection between the Scarred Man and the local crime boss, Wicks.

Swann now had a drawing of how the Scarred Man would currently look. He had found an artist in Bath who had the unique ability to ‘age’ a subject, which made it possible to see what they would look like in ten, twenty, even fifty years time. It took only a small leap of the imagination for Swann to realise he could commission a portrait of the Scarred Man as he now looked, from the description scorched in Swann’s memory from all those years ago. Although the portrait had been destroyed and the artist murdered before Swann could take possession of it – he suspected Wicks of the crime – he had seen enough of the picture while it was being painted to employ his adoptive sister’s artistic skills to produce an acceptable likeness, from which she then made a copy. The first drawing Swann had kept, while the other had been given to George and Bridges, the two thief-takers he employed in the city on a semi-permanent basis to help him in his quest to find the Scarred Man.

Unbeknownst to Swann, however, Mary had produced another copy for her aunt, Lady Harriet Montague-Smithson, who requested it after hearing of his ingenuity. Mary did not exactly know why she wanted it, but felt her aunt was not someone she could refuse.

And of course there was Lockhart. Swann believed the man now engaged to Mary was also, in some way, involved with Wicks, although he had as yet not been able to prove this belief. As frustrating was the fact that Lockhart’s past, prior to arriving in Bath only a few weeks before Swann, seemed non-existent, or at least nothing which could be verified. The only fact he could be certain about was Mary’s continuing blindness in matters of the heart; for all her intelligence, discernment and self-regard, she had accepted Lockhart’s proposal of marriage less than three months after being first formally introduced. He was determined to unearth the truth about this man, and as no date for the wedding ceremony had yet been arranged, he still had time on his side. Lady Harriet seemed to be of the same opinion and so he felt he had an ally in his intention to stop this marriage from taking place.

Only the first appointment that morning was related to any of these matters. He was waiting at the White Hart for George and Bridges. They had become his eyes and ears in the notorious Avon Street district, the centre of Wicks’ crime activities, and where Swann believed he had sighted the Scarred Man. Hopefully the pair would have news that would help in his search for him. In terms of trust, he believed he could depend on them with his life; indeed, they had already as good as saved his life during an assassination attempt made on him not long after he had arrived in the city. In terms of punctuality, however, this was a different matter. There was always a good reason for their lateness, most relating to ‘trouble’ which had seemingly found them, like bees to honey. And yet even within this irregularity there was a pattern. As Swann had come to realise, whatever hour an arrangement had been made, the time between that appointment and their appearance at the White Hart’s entrance always allowed just enough time for a second cup of coffee to be drunk. If this was to be true today, he mused, they would arrive after his next mouthful.

His thoughts briefly turned to the other appointments. The later one, with Henry Fitzpatrick, was to discuss a matter he had been told required the ‘utmost discretion’. He had grown fond of Fitzpatrick whilst in Bath and the local magistrate had proved himself a trustworthy companion, above corruption and with a moral centre that could be relied upon in any manner of situations. If George and Bridges were two men you would want beside you in a street fight, then Fitzpatrick was a man you would wish in a legal one. And even though his calm demeanour and emotional self-restraint was not at the level of a top card player, his ability as a moral compass was beyond question.

Then there was the remaining appointment, slotted in between the other two, which had led Swann to cancel returning home for breakfast with Mary. The urgent request for the meeting had been in the form of a hand-written letter that had been posted through the door of the house in Great Pulteney Street earlier that morning. There was no signature, but the paper on which the communication had been written was embossed and expensive. There was a familiarity to the handwriting, but he had not been able to yet recall what it was. It mentioned a matter of national security but other than the time and place, no other details were forthcoming. No doubt all would be revealed at the appointed hour, he thought. He then lifted his cup and drank the remaining contents of his second cup of coffee.

‘Mr Swann, sir, I know we are late but we were detained,’ shouted George as he entered the White Hart. ‘We just heard news about what you’ve been asking us about.’

George hurried over to where Swann was sitting, as Bridges came through the door. Although he had given them money for clothes and footwear, on top of their usual pay, they still wore their usual shabby attire, which stood in marked contrast to the well-dressed clientele of the coaching inn. At least they were no longer barefoot, as they had been the first few times he had met them. No doubt George, although having a penchant for spending money on more pleasurable pursuits, knew the benefits of thick boots during the winter months in the city.

‘Do you mean the Scarred Man?’ asked Swann quietly, as George stood next to his table like a pupil being addressed by a teacher.

‘Yes, sir, ’im.’

George produced the copy of the drawing he had been given. Unlike Swann’s still pristine original, this was creased in several places, dirt-stained and had one corner torn.

‘What is the news, George?’

Bridges had joined his companion. He was deaf and dumb but could lip-read and sign. For some reason, Swann observed, he was doing neither at present.

‘He is in the city again.’

‘Someone has seen him?’

‘Yes, sir, or so they say. That is why we’re late. There was a message at the Fountain, saying a man we know wanted to see us. We went to his stall in Horse Street but he wasn’t there. Then we came here. We’ll go later.’

‘This is the same stallholder as before?’

George nodded. When they had begun showing the drawing around the market traders and stallholders in ‘the hate’, as the Avon Street district was known locally, one of them had recognised its subject. He had seen him a few times in the area, so he said, during the past couple of years. He always remembered him from an incident near his stall. The man had a long scar on his right cheek and had been walking with the previous crime boss, before Wicks, when three men had attacked them. One of the attackers had been killed outright by this Scarred Man, who had produced a short bayonet and stabbed him. The crime boss had despatched the second man and wounded the third. As this third man lay on the floor the crime boss put his boot on the man’s bleeding leg and began to press down. The man screamed in agony but wouldn’t say the name of the person behind the attack. After more of the same, along with a promise his life would be spared if he told them, he did so. The Scarred Man then stepped forward and thrust the already bloodied bayonet through his throat. He had only said a few words during the incident but it was enough to know he came from London.

The last time the stallholder had seen him, however, was sometime last year, possibly October or November, he said. He had been alone with his head down, but it was definitely him. This last sighting, around the time Swann believed he had seen him, confirmed in his mind that the man he had been searching for all these years had been in the city. And with the stallholder wanting to see George and Bridges it might be that he was back; that he was somewhere in the city at this very moment. Swann had the urge to leave the White Hart and take to the streets looking for the stallholder or even the Scarred Man himself, but he had two more appointments to keep and George and Bridges had promised they would look for the stallholder as soon as they left.

‘Devote all your time to this George until you find him,’ said Swann. ‘I will make sure it is worth your trouble, both of you.’

‘Yes sir!’ said George.

‘I have a couple of appointments to keep this morning but leave a message at my office if you find out anything more. Otherwise I suggest we meet at the Fountain Inn this evening at the usual time.’

George nodded, although Bridges’ gaze showed he was still elsewhere. As well as noticing he had not been lip-reading or signing, Swann had also observed he had a black eye. This was not an unusual sight for the pair but it was normally George, through an altercation with an angry husband or suchlike, who bore it.

‘Is something wrong with Bridges?’ enquired Swann. ‘His attention seems elsewhere.’

‘He is thinking about a woman, sir. That’s how he got his black eye.’

‘Ah, I see,’ replied Swann, somewhat surprised.

‘No, Mr Swann, it’s nothing like that. I’ll tell you about it tonight.’

Swann nodded.

George tapped Bridges on the arm and brought him back to the present. As soon as the men left, Swann paid his bill and departed. It was not yet ten o’clock but already the morning had provided enough mystery for the whole day.

CHAPTER TWO

Swann came out of the White Hart and turned right down Stall Street. A light drizzle was falling. If there was such a thing as a typical early spring morning, this was not it. The sky was a dark winter grey and threatened heavier rain.

Opposite the White Hart and across a large courtyard stood Bath Abbey; its west front magnificent even in inclement weather. There had been a Christian church on or near the site for more than a thousand years, while elements of Christianity in the area could be traced back to the Roman occupation. At this time worship had been undertaken in secret, for fear of persecution, and, after the Romans left, became submerged into Celticism through the Irish invaders who arrived in the city. Somehow the religion survived and throughout the Anglo-Saxon, Norman and medieval periods, various structures had been erected, destroyed, restored or rebuilt. The present-day abbey had undergone major restoration prompted by Elizabeth I, who instigated a national fund to pay for the work and then, in 1583, decreed it should become the parish church of Bath.

Swann had been researching Bath Abbey and its west front for a chapter to be included in a guide to the city, to be published later in the year. It was really a favour for Richard Huntley, his literary agent acquaintance, whose client and original author of the book had died three chapters short of completion. When asked if he would write the chapter, Swann had immediately said yes. Not that he was overtly religious, but the chance to discover more about the carved figures scaling the ladders on its west front, which he often stopped to admire, was too good an opportunity to pass up.

The truth was, he had actually been given the option of writing all three outstanding chapters, but ‘A Discerning Ladies’ Guide to Shops and Shopping’ and ‘Balls, Banquets and Bathing’, which would serve as introductory chapters giving an overview of the highlights awaiting visitors arriving for the season, had been quickly declined. He had briefly mentioned it to Mary, but as she was already involved in her own piece of writing – although she did not disclose what it was – she turned them down as well.

As he walked down Stall Street Swann briefly entered the Three Tuns, which acted as collection point for the Royal Mail coaches. He came out empty handed though, as no post had arrived for him from London that morning. There were rumours about the inn being in financial difficulty and that it might possibly close, but in Bath rumours were as much a currency in social circles as money. If it was true, it would no doubt soon become public notice.

Swann now took a circumvent route into the southern part of the city, to ensure he was not being followed. He had made that error once and the artist who had painted the Scarred Man’s portrait had lost his life through it. He was heading into the centre of the Avon Street district, but now felt the urge to turn right and go to Horse Street, to see if the stallholder had arrived. As he realised he did not know what the man looked like, a nearby city clock started striking the hour. He carried on deeper into the maze of alleyways of the notorious area with another thought now rising within him: what if it was a trap? Despite the officialdom the letter had seemingly carried with it, as soon as he had seen the address where the meeting was to take place, the possibility of it being a trap and the possibility of it being permeated by Wicks had entered his mind. It had been temporarily supplanted by his meeting with George and Bridges, but now re-entered his thoughts as the reality of the incongruity of his surroundings and the letter became visibly apparent.

With regular flooding, along with the vermin and stench, it was easy to see why its inhabitants knew this place as ‘the hate’, especially with the ever-present threat of violence and death palpable in the air. Street names here were almost non-existent but Swann’s knowledge of the area, gleaned from numerous trips he had undertaken, most of them in disguise, plus information he had picked up from George and Bridges, meant there were very few streets, alleys or passageways that were not known to him. He turned the corner and bumped into a figure coming the other way. He was momentarily taken aback, but then realised who it was.

‘Lockhart!’

‘Swann?’

In the next moment they had composed themselves and without another word continued on their separate ways. For his part, Swann could not afford to stop and converse, however curious he might have been to discover the reason behind Lockhart’s presence in this nefarious district.

Swann reached the street in which the address on the letter was located. The winter flooding had receded, but one could see the water mark, above the ground-floor windowsills, where it had risen this particular year. He reached the building and looked around. The door looked secure and could not be pushed open. Although the exterior seemed rundown, the locks on display showed the length which someone had gone to secure the interior. He turned the door handle habitually and to his surprise found it unlocked. He opened it cautiously and stepped inside.

‘If you would be so good as to close and lock the door behind you, Mr Swann,’ a male voice spoke from one of the landings above, ‘and then make your way up the staircase to the third floor.’

Swann did as he was instructed. The voice sounded too educated to be one of Wicks’ men, but nevertheless the possibility remained in Swann’s mind and so he checked his pistol was easily retrievable from inside his jacket. The stairs were not pristine but in good enough order. As he climbed the first two flights he observed that the doors which ran the length of the hallways, leading off from the landings, were all closed. He carried on up to the third floor, where the man who had spoken awaited him. This time he did not speak but merely gestured for Swann to follow him along the hallway. He was well dressed and clean-shaven. If this was part of Wicks’ empire, then Swann had dramatically underestimated him.

As they continued along the hallway, Swann noticed a door slightly ajar and looked in as they passed it. Much to his surprise, he saw a desk and a gentleman lent over it, writing, as though this was an office in London or in the city’s upper town. Two doors along, the man in front now stopped. He knocked on the door, opened it and gestured for Swann to go through. As he did so the door closed behind him, the man staying outside.

The room was sparsely furnished but looked as if it functioned as another office. Across the room, looking out of the window up at Beechen Cliff, was a figure he immediately recognised, even from behind. It was the second time in a matter of minutes he found himself in the company of a person he would not expect to see in this part of the city.

‘Thank you for coming, Swann,’ said Lady Harriet as she turned to face him. ‘As I mentioned in the note to you, this is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

‘I was intrigued by the summons, even more so now I know who is behind it.’

‘Hardly a summons, more a request I hope.’

‘I did not realise you had a presence in the city.’

‘This building is used by an organisation I occasionally undertake work for.’

‘I would not have believed this existed here.’

‘Which is exactly why it does,’ replied Lady Harriet. ‘It is prone to flooding during the winter, but the rooms on the ground floor and basement are hardly ever used. Still, I do not want to bore you with distracting details. I have requested your attendance here to undertake a case for me. I prefer to tell you the particulars in my carriage, if you care to join me for a journey out of the city.’

‘I have an appointment in an hour’s time, which I wish to keep.’

‘This may well take longer,’ replied Lady Harriet, ‘but if the urgency and importance of this matter was not adequately conveyed within my communication, then I am stating it now.’

‘Then you have my agreement, Lady Harriet, although I wish a note to be sent to the magistrate, Henry Fitzpatrick, stating I have been unfortunately detained and will meet him at his Guildhall chambers as soon as I am able.’

Harriet nodded and took a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. She handed it to Swann. As he wrote his message to Fitzpatrick, Lady Harriet returned to the window, picked up a plant pot with a black flag in it and placed it on the floor.

‘Come, my carriage will be waiting outside by the time we are downstairs.’

Swann followed Lady Harriet out into the corridor, where she handed the note he had written to the well-dressed man still standing there. He took it obediently and gave an almost imperceptible bow. Lady Harriet and Swann descended the three flights of stairs he had recently climbed, but instead of leaving by the front entrance they descended another flight that led to the basement. From here they walked along a corridor toward the farthest room. Lady Harriet lifted a flaming torch from outside the room and went inside, where a curtain hung on the opposite wall. She lifted it and Swann saw a door behind. Lady Harriet unlocked it with a key she had on her person and gestured for Swann to go through first. Stepping inside herself, she followed him through, then closed and locked the door. The passageway in front was now cast into light from the torch. Lady Harriet went ahead again as they moved along another corridor, this one made of earth. It smelt damp but the floor beneath Swann’s feet was thankfully dry. If this part of the building had flooded, someone had done a good job of clearing it up. Swann measured about two streets’ worth of passageway until they reached another door. Again Lady Harriet unlocked and relocked it. There was now a flight of stairs heading up. Given the fact Swann had entered the building from the south, with the river behind him, and that the subterranean route they had taken was north, this meant, if his calculations were correct, that they were now under Peter Street. They climbed the staircase and passed through an unlocked door into the stock room of a shop. Swann followed Lady Harriet through the shop itself, where none of the workers or customers gave either of them a second glance, and outside on to the road he had correctly predicted: Peter Street. No sooner had they emerged than a four-horse carriage pulled up and its driver jumped down to open a door; Lady Harriet and Swann stepped in. The carriage then sped off.

‘I assume moving the black flag in your plant pot is what summoned your driver,’ said Swann.

‘That is most observant of you, Swann, but from your reputation nothing less is to be expected. Yes, the driver waits with the carriage at Beechen Cliff and when I remove the black flag and plant pot from the window, he knows I wish to be collected. We have it down to a fine art, as you have experienced. But as for the urgent matter with which I require your assistance, it is in connection with a girls’ school a little way out of the city at Grove Park. It is a private establishment run by a close acquaintance of mine. An incident has taken place there which I wish you to investigate.’

‘What kind of “incident” and why do you think I can help?’

‘The bodies of a teacher and one of the pupils were discovered yesterday in the grounds and I want you to ascertain exactly how they died.’

‘They were found together?’

Lady Harriett nodded.

‘I want to engage you professionally, Swann. As I said, it is my understanding that you have acquired a reputation for solving several crimes since being in Bath.’

‘Your message mentioned national security,’ queried Swann.

‘I will give you more details after we have been to the school; which is where we are heading now.’

‘If I do take this case, there will be two provisions.’

Lady Harriet said nothing but waited for Swann to continue.

‘I carry out the investigation in my own way. No interference from the school, yourself or anyone connected with the Alien Office, back in Avon Street.’

Lady Harriet smiled.

‘My compliments, Swann. How did you know?’

‘I did not for sure, Lady Harriet. It was an educated assumption. I have been aware of their existence for a number of years, as my work with the Bow Street Runners in London occasionally brought me into contact with their agents; one of whom I believe I recognised at a desk on the same floor as your office just now. Given that their raison d’être is being the authority through which all foreigners entering England have to register, I still cannot quite understand what they, and therefore you, are doing in Bath; unless, of course, the River Avon has now been assigned as a point of entry.’

‘I am obviously not at liberty to discuss anything you witnessed this morning, but I do agree to your first condition. There will be no interference.’

Swann nodded.

‘You mentioned a second one?’

‘Yes,’ replied Swann. ‘I would like to know exactly what it was that you and Lockhart were discussing at the meeting you both had, not long before I arrived.’

‘Lockhart? I have not seen him since I gave my blessing on his engagement with Mary. I really do not know what you are talking about, Swann.’

‘Then forgive me Lady Harriet, I must have been mistaken.’

Although outwardly accepting her answer, the momentary flicker of her eyes only confirmed his suspicion that it was her office from which Lockhart had been leaving when they had bumped into each other. It had only been a hunch and almost on a whim he had made the suggestion to gauge Lady Harriet’s reaction. Her response had been enlightening enough for now.