The Regency Detective E-Book

David Lassman

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

To all appearances Jack Swann is a typical gentleman of the Regency period; educated, cultured and affluent. In his early thirties, he is an attractive and eligible bachelor, with all the resources needed to live a privileged life. Haunted by the murder of his father twenty years earlier – the perpetrators of which have never been caught – Swann has, however, turned his back on this world and chosen instead to fight crime as 'The Regency Detective', an unofficial consulting detective to the Bow Street Runners in London. Arriving in Bath for a family funeral, Swann finds several reasons for staying in the city: to protect Mary, his sister, from the mysterious Lockhart; to find the 'Scarred Man', who might lead him to his father's killer; and to end the reign of terror by Wicks, the local underworld boss who, in turn, sets out to have Swann assassinated.

Leseprobe

To Michael.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

VOLUME I SWANN’S WAY

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

VOLUME II SWANN AND THE FUTURE PAST

PROLOGUE-II

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

About the Authors

Copyright

VOLUME I

SWANN’S WAY

PROLOGUE

‘Again?’ asked the man.

The boy nodded.

‘All right, but watch carefully this time.’

The man’s fingers hovered over the three inverted wooden cups and then, with a dexterity borne out of practise, began shuffling them – two at a time – around one another on the table. The deliberate staccato rhythm of each separate action merged into a blur of movement, much to the awe and delight of the watching boy; his wide-eyed amazement belying an intense concentration.

The shuffling stopped.

‘So,’ said the man, ‘which cup is the pea under?’

Without hesitation the boy pointed to the middle one. The man’s right hand remained poised above the chosen cup momentarily, as if building suspense for an imagined audience, before lifting it to reveal – nothing! Affectionate laughter accompanied the revelation but the boy was too preoccupied to notice, staring incredulously at the empty space left by the cup.

A noise came from elsewhere in the house and the laughter ceased.

‘The master must have returned early. Stay here son.’ The man then smiled. ‘And don’t touch the other cups while I’m gone.’

The man stood up, ruffled his son’s hair and after checking his own appearance in the reflection of a large copper pan hanging on the wall, left the kitchen.

The boy remained seated at the table, his gaze transfixed at the upturned cup which had been his choice. It lay with its opening facing toward him. An opening he had come to view as a gateway to another world; one he did not yet fully understand and so could therefore not enter. The only way to enter this world was through the ‘solution’, which his father had promised to reveal when he thought the boy ready.

Against his father’s wishes the boy now tentatively lifted the second cup, the one to his left … but again, nothing! There was no solution to it he told himself, no answer to the game, other than watching the cups more closely, more intently, as they were being shuffled. It was the speed of the hands against the quickness of the eyes. And if the physical skill of one could be learned, so could the other. He would therefore practise observing over and over and not just with cups but anything capable of movement, until finally he would be able to choose the correct cup on the first attempt rather than the last. He reached his hand over, this time lifting the remaining cup with a more determined grip and stared in disbelief at what was underneath.

Crash! A vase smashed in the hallway.

‘Father?’

The boy stood and went to the kitchen entrance. For a couple of seconds, as he watched from the doorway, he saw his father entangled in a ferocious struggle with another man, a man he did not recognise, before they fell, still grappling with each other, into a front room and out of sight. By the time the boy reached this entrance, his father lay on the floor, one arm outstretched, his hand inching closer to the fireplace, with the intruder’s arms entwined around his legs trying to stop him. But then, in one swift action, his father gripped a cast-iron poker and thrust the pointed end into the intruder’s right cheek. As the red-hot metal made contact there was a piercing scream, the smell of scorching flesh, and a pitiful but loud cry of a man’s name: ‘MALONE!’

From elsewhere in the house Malone now appeared in the hallway, pushing the boy roughly aside and onto the floor as he rushed past in to the front room. And it was from this position, lying on the hallway floor, that the boy witnessed the images which seared themselves into his memory, scarring him as permanently as the poker on the stranger’s flesh: the glinted blade … the raised arm … his father’s gesture of capitulation … the brutal kick to the head … and then, the callous, calculated thrust of the knife which … but before the final image could play itself out the boy always let out a primeval Noooooooooooo! and the nightmare would mercifully end.

CHAPTER ONE

As the Royal Mail coach sped along the Great Bath Road the small market town of Calne was left rapidly diminishing in the background. The overnight journey from London had been mostly uneventful and so its scheduled arrival in Bath, in a little over two hours’ time, now seemed certain. Nevertheless, the driver, ever mindful of potential delays on this stretch of road – a herd of cows on their way to milking and a fallen tree the most recent examples – snapped his whip twice and the newly tethered, four-horse team obligingly increased their pace.

Inside the distinctive black and maroon carriage Jack Swann awoke with a start from his nightmare and glanced around the interior. The other passengers – two women and a man – were still dozing, oblivious to his startled awakening. He turned his gaze to the countryside becoming visible in the reddening dawn sky and stared at it pensively as the wretched melancholy that always accompanied the aftermath of his nightmare enveloped him fully. At these times he found a little solace in a poem remembered from childhood – though its title and author long forgotten – which in some way he equated with his own situation. It concerned a ship bound for an undiscovered land, but blown off course onto jagged rocks by a storm, leaving the vessel holed but not wrecked. Forever cursed, as the poet had concluded, to flounder in troubled seas like a maritime Prometheus, never to sail calm waters again. And so it was that Swann felt cursed within this life of bad dreams and the melancholic gloom on waking from them, never to find a peaceful mind. He felt this disposition even more acutely this morning, travelling as he was for the funeral the next day of the woman he had called mother for the past twenty years; ever since she and her husband had adopted him at the age of twelve.

Mrs Gardiner had been a kind, caring woman who bestowed unconditional love on all members of her family and Swann reciprocated with feelings which would have been reserved for his real mother, had she not died in childbirth. Likewise, his sibling affections were easily and naturally imparted to his new ‘sister’, Mary, herself an only child. Regrettably, however, Mr Gardiner had been a different matter. Although as considerate and nurturing in his own way as his wife and daughter, he could never replace Swann’s father – the man who raised Swann single-handedly to the threshold of manhood – and so a distance existed between them, neither able to completely benefit from the paternal bond the elder man was willing to offer ‘the son he always wanted’. It was twenty years since Swann’s real father was murdered, while attempting to protect the Gardiners’ property, but not a day went by without his thinking of him.

Through this remembrance of his father, Swann’s mind turned inevitably to his work and a case he had just concluded in his consultancy role for the Bow Street Runners – the law-enforcement organisation created some fifty years earlier by the novelist Henry Fielding and whose name derived from the London street where it was based. The case concerned a victim of blackmail that had resulted from his patronage of brothels and his specific requirements there. The practice of entrapping gentlemen in high office or powerful positions by criminal gangs, in collusion with disreputable brothel keepers, was rife in the capital, as no doubt elsewhere, yet the unsuspecting politician had blissfully walked straight into this well-honed trap. Unsuspecting? Swann considered the word and found it erroneous. When one held duties and responsibilities, professional and personal, as this married minister had, perpetual vigilance and constant awareness became foremost, especially with licentious temptations and extortionist activities being such easy bedfellows in the criminal underworld. Too much injustice already existed and far too many perpetrators roamed the streets unpunished to allow oneself, an upholder of the law, to become the hapless quarry of the criminality prevalent throughout the city. Unsuspecting or not, the minister had become entrapped. Realising, however, that recent ill-advised speculation on the stock market meant he would not be able to pay the blackmailers, and so making a public scandal certain, the minister had risen early on the previous Saturday, hired a hansom cab to Putney Heath and, after dismissing the driver, discharged a bullet through his own temple. After being informed of this news, Swann had spent the remaining weekend calling in favours from several newspaper owners to ensure, for the sake of the dead man’s family, that reports regarding the politician’s demise in that morning’s papers lay the blame squarely on the fluctuating stock market and not on the more insalubrious aspects of the case.

From the beginning to the end of the case Swann had been able to do very little, other than put on a disguise and pursue a couple of tenuous leads to the heart of London’s underworld. Indeed, ordinarily Swann would have politely declined the case, if it had not been for a name linked to one of the brothel keepers. It was a name he knew only too well, as it was the name cried out on that murderous night and which summoned the man who so callously ended the life of Swann’s father: Malone. So, whenever a possible clue to the killer’s whereabouts arose, however slender, a sense of responsibility to his father’s memory dictated Swann follow it. As it transpired, the name turned out to be a false one and the petty criminal using it far too young. But then, it was always like that: a promising lead, an investigation and a disappointment. The obligation he felt to investigate each one, however, would continue until his quest was at an end; through his father’s murderer finally being brought to justice, or else details surrounding his death authenticated.

The sun had now fully risen and the reddened sky turned blue when the coach entered a slight dip surrounded by trees. The semi-darkness caused the window to act as a mirror, revealing Swann’s reflection. He looked tired, but not just the kind of tiredness expected from overnight travel; in fact, the journey had proved less arduous than anticipated. No, there was a deeper tiredness, one borne out of prolonged exposure to London’s criminal fraternity. The circumstances were not as he would have wished but Swann was grateful for the few days they would afford him out of the capital.

And it would be good to see Mary once more. Dear Mary, her mere presence in a room was enough to lighten Swann’s darkest mood. From the moment she had put her hand into his on the day of his adoption, knowing she now had a brother, a special bond, strong as any blood tie, had developed between them. Swann had given himself the role of his sister’s ‘protector’ as they grew up. In reality though, he became more an observer, watching in admiration on returning home from boarding school and later university as Mary blossomed into a strong-spirited, independent-minded woman. Her sharp wit had developed in tandem with her artistic talent, most markedly shown on the pianoforte. And what she lacked in original composition, she made up for in her interpretation of others: most notably Bach. If she did have a slight imperfection, or rather a feminine Achilles heel, perhaps it was that at times she could show a naivety where matters of the heart were concerned. In the past, it had twice led her to the threshold of imprudence, although thankfully on both occasions fortuitous circumstances had conspired to bring her reputation through safely intact.

Mary was now twenty-four years old and still unmarried, which in certain households might have given cause for concern. Her financial independence, however, meant that she did not have to rely on finding a husband to secure a future. Nevertheless, Swann would be comforted to see her at least betrothed in the not too distant future and although not wishing to cast himself in the role of match-maker, there was a lawyer acquaintance who had expressed a wish to be introduced to Mary when Swann brought her back from Bath to live with him in London … but that was moving too far ahead. There was the funeral to attend first and putting his adoptive mother’s affairs in order.

There was, of course, the other reason Swann was coming to Bath and which would occupy part of his stay. If there had been one positive aspect to the case he had just completed back in London, it was that when he had been visiting one of the several disreputable public houses seeking information, he had overheard a conversation; the details of which he had hastily written down afterwards. As the coach came out of the tree-lined dip and into open countryside once more, he tapped the notebook secured in the breast pocket of his jacket, aware the hastily scribbled notes, written three nights ago, contained the next possible lead to finding Malone. Swann looked outward to the western horizon, beyond which the city of Bath was beginning a new day.

CHAPTER TWO

In 1702, and again the following year, Queen Anne visited Bath and it is true to say that the city never looked back. Her royal patronage prompted the rich and powerful elite of British society – Goldsmith’s ‘people of distinction’ – to do likewise and this one-time medieval textile centre, located ninety-seven miles west of London, now found itself the most fashionable resort in the land. In turn, the middling classes followed the elite and throughout the eighteenth century the economic prosperity this brought with it resulted in a sustained programme of building and rapid population expansion rarely witnessed anywhere in Europe beforehand. By the start of the nineteenth century, however, the elite, as is always the way with fashionable and ephemeral pursuits, had now bestowed their patronage elsewhere, on spa towns and health resorts such as Cheltenham and Brighton.

Yet the middling classes, with their domestic entourages in tow, still kept coming in ever increasing numbers and alongside them came a multitude of shopkeepers, tradesmen and skilled labourers who flocked to the city to provide for their every need. But with this influx of the middle, lower and skilled classes, the city also attracted the underclass – the impoverished section of society drawn to places of wealth and abundance, ready to take their share in whatever way they were able. These were the beggars, pickpockets, con-artists, prostitutes and other nefarious characters that saw in Bath a place ripe for plunder. And where crime becomes rife, organised gangs and iniquitous leaders quickly emerge to control it. In Bath the undisputed criminal boss was an Irishman called Thomas Malone, a one-time bare-knuckle fighter who it was said had killed at least two men during his ‘career’. He had arrived in the city several years earlier and in a relatively short space of time ruthlessly intimidated and brutally murdered his way to take control of the city’s underworld. He had held that top position ever since and during that time had seen off at least three major rivals for his territory and survived as many attempts on his life. At present there were several, less powerful, gang leaders in and around the city with their sights set on seizing power but in reality there was only one serious contender: Frank Wicks.

Not long after midnight, as Swann and the Royal Mail coach were somewhere between Maidenhead and Reading, events connected to the scribbled notes in his notebook were unfolding in Bath; the consequences of which would trigger more far-reaching effects than anyone involved could ever have imagined.

The warehouse door slid open and Thomas Malone stepped through into the building, swiftly followed in single file by several of his men. His eyes scanned the semi-darkness until they stopped at the solitary figure of Richard J. Kirby, standing on the loading platform at the far end. Malone gestured for his men to wait as he walked across the uneven earthen floor towards the waiting man.

‘So, what’s that important it couldn’t wait ’til morning?’ Malone sneered, as he ascended the few wooden steps to come level with the other man.

‘I am terminating our understanding Malone – and I am aware you desire to receive disagreeable news immediately.’

‘We don’t have an “understanding” Kirby,’ Malone replied, contemptuously. ‘I pay you and you do as I say.’

‘However you wish to describe our situation, it is over. And from now on you call me Mister Kirby.’

Malone stepped forward, bringing their faces only inches apart.

‘Now you listen to me, Mister Kirby. I own this city and not you or anyone else tells me what to do.’

‘I’m sorry you feel like that Malone, but then you leave me no choice.’

In one sudden movement Kirby raised a small wooden truncheon from behind his back and struck the side of Malone’s head, knocking him unconscious. On seeing their leader fall to the floor his men rushed towards the platform but from the shadows a larger group appeared and surrounded them. The fight between the two gangs of men was brief but brutal and in the aftermath all of Malone’s men lay dead or dying. Two of the victorious group now came up onto the raised platform and after a gesture from Kirby hauled the unconscious Malone to his feet. Kirby slapped the other man’s face several times and slowly Malone’s eyes opened. Looking around he saw his gang decimated on the warehouse floor.

‘I will kill you for this, Kirby, and send your body down the Avon.’

‘That’s no way to speak to an associate of mine, Malone,’ said Wicks, as he stepped out from the shadows to face his rival.

‘Wicks! You’ll join him too.’

‘And what makes you sure it isn’t you ending up in the river?’

‘I know people in London,’ said Malone, still defiant.

‘That’s interesting, because your “people” have already sent word they’ll not interfere. It seems they’re having doubts about you and I have to agree.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, there was a time you’d never have walked into such an obvious trap as this, at least not with so few men. No, your time in this city is over, Malone.’ Wicks took another step forward and as he did so drew a large cutlass from its scabbard attached to his belt. For the first time, fear appeared in Malone’s eyes.

‘Wicks, now wait a min …’ but he didn’t get a chance to finish his words, as the cutlass was driven deep into his midriff by Wicks, who watched with malicious pleasure as the blood spurted from his adversary’s mouth. Wicks then gave the blade a victorious twist as it reached its hilt, before drawing it out unhurriedly, savouring every moment of his triumph. As Malone slumped to the ground dead Wicks turned to his own men.

‘Right, finish off any of Malone’s men still alive and get rid of all the bodies. Dump them in the river. That’ll show people who’s in charge now.’

Wicks turned to his ‘associate’, still standing next to him.

‘You’ve done well, Kirby. I won’t forget this.’

‘I am glad to be of service,’ Kirby replied.

They glanced at Malone’s body as it was being dragged away.

‘This city is mine now,’ said Wicks, ‘and there’s no one to stop me.’

CHAPTER THREE

In May 1760 it was decided by ‘The Corporation’ – the self-regulating, self-appointed body of men who controlled everything in the city from municipal policy to granting sedan licences – ‘that the Town Hall be newly built in a more commodious place, and a committee formed.’ This conclusion being drawn from the realisation that the current building had not only outgrown its original purpose but through its location in the middle of the High Street, which happened to be the main thoroughfare, had become a fairly substantial obstruction to the ever increasing volume of traffic entering the city. And so began one of the most controversial and convoluted episodes in Bath’s architectural history. The saga dragged on for seventeen years until the old building was finally vacated (and unceremoniously pulled down soon after) and the Mayor and council officials made their way across the street to take up residence in the new Guildhall. And in the quarter century which had elapsed since then, the building had become the symbol of corporate authority in Bath and its seat of justice.

Inside the main courtroom the early session was reaching the culmination of its first case of the morning: a private prosecution brought by Theodore Evans against one Mr Tyler with local magistrate Richard J. Kirby presiding. Kirby banged his gavel, bringing his court to order. He did not look any the worse for his nocturnal activities as he turned to address the all-male jury.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Kirby began, ‘you are now in possession of the facts in this case, including what I believe to be a key character testimony by Mr Wicks, the defendant’s employer.’

Wicks nodded approval from his seat in the front row of the public benches.

‘It is therefore your task to decide whether the defendant, Mr Tyler, is indeed such an immoral man as suggested by his prosecutor and if so to sentence him accordingly, or whether, in fact, he is the victim of a malicious vendetta intent on destroying his name.’

Evans rose angrily to his feet. ‘This is an outrage, sir! You are engaging in blatant coercion of the jury. This man is a habitual pickpocket, a thief and no doubt worse and everyone in this courtroom knows it.’

Kirby furiously banged his gavel.

‘Mr Evans, may I remind you that whilst your standing in this city is beyond reproach, this is my courtroom and if proper respect is not forthcoming you will give me no choice but to nullify your prosecution and hold you in contempt of this court.’

Realising he had no other choice, Evans bowed his head and sat back down. ‘I am sorry, your honour.’

Kirby nodded his acceptance of Evans’ apology and returned to the jury. ‘Now gentlemen, please begin your deliberation.’

Meanwhile, not far from the Guildhall in traffic-congested Cheap Street, Mary Gardiner stood in the morning sunlight staring absentmindedly into a shop window; her black attire in stark contrast to the vibrant clothing on display in front of her. She had been there for a couple of minutes when her name was called from behind. She turned and across the busy street, at the end of Union Passage, saw a woman in her mid-twenties waving to her. It was an acquaintance, Isabella Thorpe, an unstoppable force of social climbing whose sole ambition in life was the marrying of a wealthy man; if he also happened to be attractive so much the better. The traffic was ceaseless but with the impatience of a spoilt child Isabella stomped across the street, causing a small gig to swerve to avoid her; its driver cursing her as he drove off towards Westgate Street.

‘I do declare this street becomes more odious every year,’ said Isabella, before greeting Mary with a kiss on either cheek. She now took a step backwards and with as much empathetic sentiment as she could muster, said, ‘Oh my dearest Mary, you poor creature, how are you? I returned to Bath last evening to be told the sad news about your mother. The season will not be the same without her.’

‘Thank you Isabella, your sentiments are most kind.’

‘Is your brother here?’ asked Isabella, glancing around with a predatory instinct.

‘No. I am waiting for him now.’

‘I still cannot quite believe it,’ exclaimed Isabella, ‘a financially independent bachelor and his first time in Bath. I wish I could stay with you and meet him but there are people in the Pump Room awaiting my company. You must promise to introduce me to him at the earliest opportunity though.’

The nearby Abbey clock struck the half hour.

‘I must leave or I will be unsociably late,’ Isabella said, and in another moment had disappeared around the corner and through the archway leading to the Pump Room. Mary remained standing by the shop front, feeling somewhat exhausted by Isabella in the way one did after a brisk walk in a strong breeze.

Mary’s thoughts now turned to her brother and the imposition of having to be introduced to Isabella. She undoubtedly knew that he would give her no more than a polite response and a diplomatic brush-off but unfortunately by meeting her it would, she feared, strengthen her brother’s disdain for what he believed to be the more frivolous nature of the city. Hopefully during his stay though, and with Edmund’s assistance, her brother might experience more of the cultural side and then persuading him to stay permanently might prove that much easier. But that would have to wait until after the funeral.

Mary had deliberately omitted any mention of Edmund in her last letter to Jack as she wanted her brother’s first impression of her new suitor to be in the flesh and not through the limitation of mere words, however flattering to his person she would have made them. Edmund’s light manner had been a comfort to her in the days immediately after her mother’s death and although he was presently in London on business, he would be at the funeral the following day.

Back at the courtroom the foreman of the jury, a man of around forty-five with thinning grey hair and a dutiful expression on his face, stood facing Kirby.

‘Sir, have you good gentlemen reached your verdict?’

‘Yes, your honour, we have,’ said the foreman.

‘And how do you find the defendant?’

‘We find the defendant not guilty, your honour.’

Evans was immediately to his feet again. ‘The law is being made a mockery.’

‘Mr Evans, I will not warn you again,’ said Kirby, banging his gavel once more to enforce the point.

‘May I say I concur with you gentlemen in that I believe you have reached the right decision,’ Kirby told the jury, before turning to the triumphant defendant. ‘And let me on behalf of the court, Mr Tyler, apologise for your incarceration while waiting to appear here in court. You are now free to go.’

Kirby exchanged a brief, furtive glance with Wicks and then left the court, little realising the chain of events he had now set in motion.

CHAPTER FOUR

On reaching the outskirts of their next scheduled stop the uniformed guard brought the elongated coach horn to his lips and sounded the three long blasts signifying their imminent arrival to the city’s inhabitants ahead. This included the postmaster who was to be ready and waiting with any parcels for loading; there was no delaying the Royal Mail. As the noise of the final blast died away in the crisp morning air the driver stridently announced the destination for the benefit of the quartet of passengers inside: ‘Bath approaching!’

The combination of horn and voice was enough to stir the three slumbering passengers and their reaction on waking told Swann much about them. The two females reacted with girlish exuberance as they craned their necks out of the coach window to get a glimpse of the city; this unladylike conduct seeming to suggest this was their first visit. The gentleman, meanwhile, looked slightly amused at his companion’s contorted positions, though not embarrassed, while his indifference to the buildings on view outside showed either a distinct lack of interest in grand architecture, of which some of the finest examples in Europe were on display, or else a familiarity with them which had resulted in apathy.

Swann turned his attention outward and immersed himself in the Palladian splendour of the buildings which lay in front of him. From what he had recently read, the fact Bath had achieved its place as one of the finest architecturally designed European cities in only a few decades was remarkable enough, but even more so as it was through the vision of one man. John Wood’s proposal for this ‘new’ city, to be built upon and extended out from the old medieval one, was to create a harmonious and symmetrical urban metropolis uplifting to the casual eye. On a deeper level, however, he envisaged the views to transcend the secular world in order to bring its observer closer to the glory of God. The terraces and crescents Swann could see from the carriage gave ample enough evidence of the successful fulfilment of this vision but with the holy trinity of the King’s Circus, Royal Crescent and Great Pulteney Street as yet unseen, the pinnacle of this achievement was still to be savoured.

The sense of awe-inspiring delight at the vista before them was now mirrored in the expressions on the two female faces but whereas Swann’s focus was on the outer structures and the finely carved details upon them, their feminine eyes were firmly fixed on what was inside. As domestic dwellings gave way to commercial properties so their gazes darted from shop window to shop window and the superfluity of clothes and other items on display there. The city may have earned its reputation as a spa and enhanced its cultural significance with its architecture, but for many visitors it was the self-proclaimed title of the shopping centre of the South-West which they had come to experience.

In the years since the British had successfully supplanted the Dutch as the busiest merchants in the world, all manner of luxurious and exotic goods had found their way to English shores from numerous foreign ports. The result being that the act of shopping, which at first had been a fashionable activity for society’s elite, had become a national obsession. And from what he was now seeing of the city, Bath not only welcomed this obsession but with its tempting window displays, advertising boards and the array of merchandise lining the pavements, aggressively encouraged it. For Swann, however, he could only perceive opportunities for crime: the free-standing, unattended tables laden with valuable goods; the rows of unguarded gold jewellery in shop frontages; and the chance to orchestrate, no doubt, various protection schemes to ‘guarantee’ that traders’ contents and buildings remained intact during non-trading hours.

And then it struck him – if Malone had gone anywhere, Bath was an obvious choice. There had been a rumour that he had fled London after Mr Gardiner put up the large reward for his apprehension and whether or not he came directly to the city at that time, if details of the overheard conversation proved correct, he was certainly here now. Why Swann had not considered Bath before perplexed him momentarily, but as the coach entered the city centre a more overwhelming emotion gripped him: a feeling of anticipation at perhaps finally tracking down his father’s killer and administering the justice he had sought for so long.

The coach neared the Guildhall and as it did so a man emerged from inside and stood on the steps surveying the scene, intently watching visitors and residents alike as they went about their business of generally ‘seeing and being seen’. He immediately caught Swann’s attention and as the carriage passed the building their eyes met. It was only for an instant but with both men well versed in the art of observation for their own means, each felt within that brief moment to have gauged the measure of the other. For Swann, he could recognise a man outside a judicial building with no other reason for being there than as a malefactor. His clothing may have suggested an ordinary resident, a witness perhaps, but the penetrative stare of the eyes revealed his predatory nature and the coldness therein, the detachment from morality when carrying out criminal activities.

To Tyler, standing on the Guildhall steps, he saw in the man looking out from the Royal Mail coach, his first ‘mark’ of the day, another rich visitor with a bill-purse full of money which he, Tyler, would acquire in the near future. The fact he was travelling on the Mail no doubt confirmed his wealth and instinctively, as he descended the steps, Tyler moved the fingers on either hand, limbering them up in anticipation.

Inside the coach Swann was now heading along Cheap Street, passing the shop window into which Mary had so recently been looking. The driver turned into Stall Street and their destination: the Three Tuns Inn. No sooner had the carriage stopped outside the building, than the postmaster appeared with several parcels.

Swann gestured for the women to alight first but they did not move.

‘We are all bound for Bristol sir,’ said their male companion. In reply Swann nodded politely, tipped his hat slightly to the women and stepped out. As he did this, he was watched by the gentleman who continued to observe as Swann was greeted by an attractive woman in her early twenties. On seeing the woman’s face as she turned, however, the gentleman quickly sat back in his seat out of view.

After greeting one another fleetingly, Swann manoeuvred his sister away from the ensuing maelstrom which always accompanied the Royal Mail’s arrival, to a more conducive spot further up the street where they could converse easier.

‘Dearest Mary,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry I was not able to be here sooner.’

‘Do not concern yourself Jack. I understand you have your work but it is good to have you in Bath now.’ It was not a complete lie Mary told, more a half-truth. Her brother’s belated arrival had been a major source of disappointment to her, but over the years she had become accustomed to his ways and now accepted them without either recompense or rebuke.

‘Have all the arrangements been made?’ Swann asked.

‘Yes, the service is to take place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘I hope this has not been too much for you, having to organise everything by yourself,’ said Swann, with a genuine regretful tone at his absence.

‘A family friend has seen to the majority of the arrangements,’ Mary replied.

Swann felt somewhat relieved at this information.

‘He did mention the possibility of being here to greet you Jack, but I know he is a busy man.’

At that moment though, with the Royal Mail seen off on its way to Bristol and the area outside of the Three Tuns clear once more, Mary spotted a gentleman making his way up Stall Street.

‘There is Henry now,’ she said.

Strolling up the street at a leisurely pace was Henry Fitzpatrick, a fairly rotund man in his early forties. If early ambition had been irretrievably thwarted, then later life had given him a pastoral demeanour he was constantly putting to good use within this urban setting.

Fitzpatrick saw Mary and waved. As she reciprocated, Swann was bumped into from behind. The man immediately apologised and strode on. Although Swann only caught a glimpse, he instantly recognised the man from the steps outside the Guildhall. His gaze followed the man as he carried on down the street and towards Fitzpatrick, who was now by the entrance of the Three Tuns. Instinctively Swann already knew exactly what was going to happen and as he watched he saw the man ‘bump’ into Fitzpatrick, gesture another apology and then hasten off down a side street opposite the inn.

‘Stay here Mary,’ said Swann, ‘I believe your friend has just been robbed.’

Before she could respond her brother was already striding down the street on the pickpocket’s trail. On reaching Fitzpatrick, who stood blissfully unaware that anything untoward had just occurred, Swann asked, ‘Do you still have your bill-purse, sir?’ Fitzpatrick felt his inside top left pocket. ‘No, it is gone!’ Swann nodded and began running into the street the thief had made his escape along.

At the far end of Beau Street, Tyler intuitively turned and saw the man from the Royal Mail coach coming after him. He calculated he had a ten second headstart, as he too began running, but that was all the time he needed.

On reaching the spot where the thief had become aware of being chased, Swann carried on and followed the man’s trail around to the left, emerging out at one end of Westgate Buildings. This was now in the lower town, as it was known locally, and stood on the boundary of a more run down and decrepit area called the Avon Street district; a squalid part of the city deliberately omitted from guidebooks. This was where the thief was heading towards. In turn, Swann also crossed over the road and entered Peter Street, a shop-lined thoroughfare beyond which was the River Avon.

As Swann made his way down the street, the stark contrast between the parts of Bath he had witnessed from the coach and the area he was now entering became ever more apparent and, with the latter, came a palpable sense of foreboding at each corner and an undertone of menace oozing from every building and alleyway. But this did not deter Swann, as he had witnessed this contrast between poor and prosperous many times in London. One minute the vista in the capital could be that of fine squares, dignified thoroughfares and magnificent houses and the next, if taking an ill-advised turn, a stranger might find themselves in a warren of badly lit, stench-filled alleyways, overcrowded with squalid dwellings, and with the risk of losing everything from one’s valuables to one’s life. Over the years Swann had come to know both these contrasts well though and that was why what lay ahead of him now held no fear.

Amidst the bustle of street traders loudly hawking their wares, Swann caught sight of the pickpocket once again. Believing he had found sanctuary within the Avon Street district, which was his domain, the thief had stopped running and was now conversing with one of the numerous stall holders whose produce-filled carts lined either side of the lower half of the street. Swann continued his pursuit but his quarry, now realising he was still being followed, began running towards the end of the street before ducking out of sight into an alleyway. As Swann ran between the stalls, the man the thief had been talking to stepped out into Swann’s path and ‘accidentally’ got in his way. Unable to avoid him, Swann went crashing into the next cart along, causing its contents to be spilled onto the filthy sewer encrusted and vermin-infested ground. He was only momentarily put off balance, however, and swiftly resumed his quest, accompanied for a short while by the cursing of the cart’s owner. Swann reached the alleyway but now found the entrance to a complex warren of passageways. The thief was nowhere in sight. The bill-purse, however, had been dropped and was lying on the muddy ground in front of him. As he moved closer, the grubby hand of a street urchin reached out from a doorway to pick it up but Swann stepped forward and put his boot on the bill-purse.

‘I will take that,’ he said, bending down to retrieve it. As he did this though, several lowlife types appeared threateningly from other doorways and corners. In response, Swann opened his jacket and revealed a pistol. As he gestured to remove it, the mob reluctantly dissolved back into the shadows.

Ten minutes later the wallet was back in the hands of its rightful owner, who had loyally remained alongside Mary at the Three Tuns and had shared the same expression of visible relief as her on seeing an unharmed Swann returning back down Beau Street.

‘I followed the miscreant into an unwholesome area across the road from Westgate Buildings,’ Swann said, on handing over the bill-purse, ‘but I am afraid he had the advantage over me there, in both geographical knowledge and assistance from acquaintances.’

‘Oh Jack, I had hoped you would leave your work in London. I cannot bear to think what might have happened to you in that place of notoriety.’

‘Your sister is right,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘If I had known that was where you were bound, I would have persuaded you otherwise. The whole of the area is a notorious haven for the criminal element and the retrieval of my bill-purse was not worth the risk to venture in there.’ Fitzpatrick held up the retrieved item. ‘Nevertheless sir, I had given it up for lost. I am in your debt.’

Before Swann could respond, Mary made the formal introductions. ‘Henry, may I introduce my brother Jack Swann. Jack, this is Henry Fitzpatrick.’

The two men bowed to each other.

‘Considering the support you have recently provided my sister,’ Swann said, ‘I believe it is I who am indebted to you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’

‘I am just pleased to have been of some humble service at this unfortunate and sad time. Are you planning to be long in Bath after the funeral, Mr Swann?’

‘A few days only, I think. London criminals do not respect the grief of others.’

Fitzpatrick nodded in resigned agreement.

‘As you witnessed,’ he said, ‘it is the same in our city, but let me not detain you further. You and your sister must have much to discuss. I will see you both tomorrow at eleven o’clock.’

With that, Fitzpatrick bowed and strode off up the street and turned the corner at the top of Stall Street.

‘Fitzpatrick seems to be under the impression that we are both attending the funeral service.’

‘He is right to be so inclined,’ replied Mary.

‘I am not certain your presence tomorrow will be wise – it is not the usual convention.’

‘Whether it is wise or not, it is my wish to attend.’

‘And what does Fitzpatrick think of your intention?’

‘Henry was of the same opinion as you, Jack. That is, until I reminded him that when father passed away both mother and myself were advised not to attend the funeral, due to the same convention, and until her dying day mother regretted her absence.’

‘Very well,’ said Swann, seemingly now accepting his sister’s decision as well. ‘By the way, this Fitzpatrick, what is his profession?’

‘He is a local magistrate.’

Swann was keen to know more but Mary deliberately ignored his inquisitive expression and said instead, ‘Come Jack and let me show you the house.’