The Regency Detective

by David Lassman

  A little further on and Tyler turned down a side alleyway. As Swann crossed to follow, another man, his head down, hurried by in the opposite direction. As their paths crossed, Swann instantly stopped in his tracks, as if physically struck. His bewildered expression showed he was attempting to assimilate something; something, in fact, as he would later realise, he was experiencing now but that belonged to the past, a feeling from another time, another place, another life. After only the briefest of moments, however, Swann turned in the direction the man had been going, but there was no one there. Swann stared transfixed at the empty space where he imagined the man had walked only moments before. He retraced his steps back up to the corner of that particular street and looked in both directions, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Swann turned back and continued on the way he had been going, although Tyler was now out of sight and had also vanished.

  Swann carried on his way down the street, taking each step as if in a daze, with his mind reeling, trying to locate in his memory where he had met the person before. It was no good, he had to recover himself and a little further down he sat on the small wall to give some time to think what exactly this was all about. Somewhere deep inside, however, he already knew, but with the shock of the actuality of it being in his presence, it took a little longer for the recognition to ascend the subconscious and make itself known in consciousness. The man who had just crossed Swann’s path had been the accomplice of Malone on the night Swann’s father had been murdered. Although only seeing him for the briefest of moments, Swann had ‘seen’ the scar with his peripheral vision, the mark of the wound his father had inflicted with the poker.

  Swann took a few more moments to recollect the experience fully in his mind. He was now the twelve year old boy, as he replayed the scene where he had left the sanctuary of the kitchen and peered around the door into the hallway. There was his father, struggling with an intruder. Before they fell into the front room, however, Swann was rudely brought back to the present by a tug on his sleeve.

  ‘Looking for a nice time, my love,’ a woman whispered, through broken teeth and sore-encrusted lips.

  Swann stood up without answering and brushed the woman off.

  ‘No need to be like that, you rich bastard,’ she said, then followed him for a short distance, showering a torrent of abuse, until she lost interest and wandered off seeking a more receptive prospect.

  Swann rounded the next corner and saw the Duke of York in the distance. Just at that moment, as luck would have it, Tyler crossed the road opposite and entered the public house. As Swann reached the entrance, the door opened. He stepped aside, ready for trouble if Tyler appeared, but it was a drunk who staggered out, vomited against the wall and then collapsed next to it. Ignoring the man, Swann opened the door and went inside.

  The interior was dingy and what light there was came through grimy windows at the front and sides. In the half-light Swann surveyed the room and registered the figures of around a half dozen patrons, scattered liberally throughout the place. A couple of rough-looking men were sat in one corner, but he could not see Tyler anywhere. The sight of a well-dressed gentleman in this part of town naturally brought all eyes onto Swann. The landlord stared at him from behind the counter.

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘Are you the landlord of this establishment?’ asked Swann.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do. I’m looking for a man named Wicks.’

  ‘Don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘I suppose you haven’t heard of a man named Tyler, either.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Well, he has just entered your establishment and has obviously gone elsewhere within it,’ said Swann.

  The landlord bent down behind the bar and grabbed the metal bar he kept there for using on troublemakers.

  ‘We don’t take kindly to folk like you, asking questions,’ he said, brandishing the metal bar as he stood up straight. Swann, however, immediately dragged the landlord across the counter and smashed his face against the wood. He did this several times before letting go. When he did so, the landlord fell back behind the bar with a broken and bleeding nose.

  ‘Tell Wicks I do not respond kindly to threats and inform Tyler I am watching him,’ said Swann. He then turned and left.

  Once Swann had gone outside, however, the two men who had been sitting together in the corner stood up and followed him out.

  After leaving the alehouse Swann decided to head for the river and try to locate the warehouse which belonged to Wicks. As he stepped over the prone drunk and negotiated the vomit which had spread out across the street, he became aware of the two men who had followed him out. He did not react though and carried on down the street, to the next corner. Once there, however, he stopped and waited for them to catch up.

  A few moments later the two men rounded the corner and were completely taken by surprise. Swann grabbed the more rotund one of the pair and twisted his arm behind his back, as he pushed him against the wall.

  ‘Please sir, we mean no harm,’ said the man whose arm was being twisted.

  Swann released his arm, but remained alert.

  ‘What do you want following me, then?’

  ‘We know where you can find Wicks.’

  The other man, who was watching his companion talk, nodded.

  ‘And why would you want to help me?’ enquired Swann.

  ‘It is our business, sir, and if you let us lead you to him we would only ask for a small payment.’

  ‘I see,’ said Swann, smiling. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘We’re thief-takers sir. I am George Cartwright and this is Bridges.’

  The other man grunted.

  ‘Does he have a surname?’ asked Swann.

  ‘No sir, he’s just known as Bridges. He is deaf and dumb, but he understands everything you say from these,’ said George, as he pointed to his own lips.

  Bridges nodded.

  ‘Okay, George, Bridges. I am Jack Swann. So where might I find this Wicks and yes, there will a small reimbursement for your trouble.’

  George smiled. ‘Come with us, sir. It is down by the river.’

  Swann retained suspicion regarding the pair, and would do so until such time as proved otherwise, but nevertheless he allowed them to accompany him as he headed down towards the riverside. The Old Bridge, which had originally been built in the fourteenth century and was then known as St Lawrence Bridge, due to the minute chapel which resided in the middle of it, was the only route in and out of the city across the river. In 1754, it had been rebuilt by the Corporation on the site of its predecessor, retaining a similar number of arches, namely five, but now extensively decorated by archivolt mouldings and with the addition of a gate enclosed in a stone archway at the far end. The roadway which ran across the structure rose from its respective ends to meet in a sharp break somewhere over the middle arch. On the city side, the bridge led straight into Horse Street, while on the other, the main road led up through an area called Holloway, before it became the Wells Road.

  Once across the Old Bridge, however, Swann and his two companions turned right and headed along the riverbank on the farthest side, towards a series of tall, imposing warehouses. The trio reached one particular nondescript building, which looked no different from any of the others, but here George and Bridges stopped. The warehouse was bereft of activity and no one else was around.

  ‘This is Wicks’ warehouse,’ said George, pointing to the building now in front of them. ‘He runs his business dealings from here and the Duke. That’s why we were at the pub, we were collecting information.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your help gentlemen. I will proceed alone from here,’ said Swann. ‘If you care to wait nearby though, once I have verified the information you have given me as being the truth, then I shall recompense you, as agreed.’

  ‘We wish to come with you sir, you never know what might happen.’

  Bridges nodded in agreement.

&nb
sp; ‘I appreciate the offer, gentlemen,’ replied Swann, ‘but I would not wish to involve you in my personal affairs. I suggest though, if you want to help in some way further, then wait right here and if I require assistance I will summon you.’

  ‘We will be here waiting then, Mr Swann, if you need us.’

  ‘Good,’ said Swann.

  He stepped forward and tried a door handle, which he found unlocked,

  ‘Wicks’ office is at the back, Mr Swann,’ said George.

  Swann nodded and then went through the entrance and into the warehouse. There was no one around and Swann deftly crossed the large warehouse floor and climbed up a wooden staircase, towards where he assumed Wick’s office would be located, if the pair outside were telling the truth. He reached the top of the stairs and saw a solitary door. He withdrew the pistol from inside his jacket and entered. The only occupant was sitting behind a battered, old wooden desk. On seeing Swann, he went to grab the cutlass propped against the wall.

  ‘Touch that weapon and it will be the last thing you do, Wicks.’

  ‘Who the hell are you,’ said Wicks, ‘and how do you know my name?’

  ‘My name is Swann and I was the recipient of the message unceremoniously delivered to Pulteney Street last evening. Whether you were the perpetrator of it or not, Wicks, I am sure you know who was behind it and whoever that may be, I have a message for them; I do not take kindly to being threatened and I alone will decide how long I am to stay in Bath. Is that understood?’

  Swann edged back towards the open door, the pistol still aimed at Wicks’ heart.

  ‘Try to follow me out of your office at your peril,’ said Swann.

  And then Swann was gone, back down the wooden staircase and across the uneven floor towards the exit. Fuming, Wicks stood up and grabbed the cutlass.

  ‘Tanner! Tyler! Morgan! Get here!’ Wicks shouted, as he rushed out to the staircase. At the top of it, however, he stopped and cautiously peered around the corner. The warehouse was empty.

  ‘Tanner! Tyler! Morgan! Where the fuck are you all?’

  At the far end of the warehouse a man now came running in, still in the act of tightening up the belt on his trousers.

  ‘What is it, Mr Wicks?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Tanner,’ demanded Wicks, as he came down the stairs.

  ‘I was out back, boss. Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘While you were outside having a shit, I was inside having a pistol aimed at my head. That’s what happened!’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Wicks.’

  ‘And where’s Morgan and Tyler? I want them here, now!’

  ‘I haven’t seen ‘em all day, boss.’

  ‘Well, bleedin’ go and find them. That Swann is going to pay for this. Nobody walks into my territory and threatens me. Our “friend” from London was here not thirty minutes ago and how do you think that would have looked if this had happened in front of him. No, he won’t get away with this. I’m going to send this Swann another message and this time it will be a more permanent one.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At the same time Wicks was berating Tanner back in the warehouse, Swann and the two thief-takers had crossed over the Old Bridge and were now heading back into the Avon Street district. George and Bridges had been as good as their word, waiting for Swann outside the warehouse on his return. He subsequently had given the pair the agreed payment and thanked them once again for their assistance. He could do with men like them back in London. Although he had many informers and people in the criminal world working for him, none of them seemed to be trustworthy enough that Swann would want them to be on his side in a fight. These two seemed to be different. As they reached the bottom of Horse Street, they were about to go their separate ways when George spoke.

  ‘Bridges asks if you are here on account of the killings.’

  ‘What killings are those, George?’ asked Swann.

  ‘Malone’s gang, sir.’

  ‘Malone!’ said Swann. In all the tumult of the afternoon he had not thought to ask the pair about that name.

  ‘Yes, sir, what we heard is that they were butchered two nights ago, in one of the warehouses over there.’ George pointed across the river, to where they had not long been. ‘Their bodies were cut up and thrown in the river.’

  ‘And Malone?’ asked Swann, with trepidation.

  ‘He was murdered too. They say it was Wicks that did it, ran him through with his cutlass.’

  Swann did not respond but stood there, lost within the revelation. For all his thoughts on the matter beforehand, he had not expected it. So Malone was dead. He did not feel satisfied, however, even though his quest was now at an end. But this was now replaced by conflict. The man he had only just gone to see and who had ordered the attack on the house the night before, had been the man who put an end to Malone. And he used the same cutlass Swann had stopped him grabbing in the office. With that weapon Swann’s quest had been ended. But Malone was dead, whatever way he had met his end. Justice had been served, even if somewhat ironically by another criminal.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Swann?’ asked George.

  ‘Yes, I am fine, thank you, George. It is just I knew a Malone in London several years ago and I didn’t realise he had been here all this time. And now he’s dead.’

  ‘What we heard,’ said George, ‘was he had connections with London but they weren’t happy with him. So they ordered Wicks to kill him and take over the city.’

  ‘Yes, that is similar to what I overheard in London,’ said Swann. ‘Although I did not realise it was to take place so soon. You said the body was thrown in the river.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Malone and all his men.’

  ‘That is unfortunate, as I would have liked to at least have verified it was him.’

  ‘Very what, sir?’ asked George.

  ‘Verify, George, it means to make sure of something. Did you and Bridges ever see Malone?’

  ‘No, sir, nobody I know ever did.’

  ‘I suppose I cannot return and ask Wicks for a description,’ said Swann, wryly.

  Bridges then signed to his companion.

  ‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said George. ‘Bridges does know someone who could do it, sir.’

  ‘Could do what, George?’ replied Swann.

  ‘Describe to you what Malone looked like, sir. The woman Bridges knows grew up in the same village in Ireland as Malone. Least she says she did.’

  ‘And where is this woman now?’

  ‘She lives close by, in Peter Street, but she won’t be there now. She works in one of those factories out on the Bristol Road. We could bring her tonight, if you want, sir?’

  ‘That would be excellent, George.’

  Swann could see George now had something on his mind.

  ‘What is it George?’

  ‘Well sir, she might want money to meet you.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem, George, and if she provides me with what I require, there will a little extra for the both of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said George, smiling.

  Having read Swann’s lips, Bridges smiled too.

  ‘Where do you suggest we rendezvous, George?’ asked Swann.

  ‘What sir?’

  ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘We are usually found in the Fountain Inn, near the top of Avon Street, sir. It’s the largest one in the street.’

  ‘Then I suggest we meet there around seven o’clock this evening, if you think she will have finished her work by then.’

  ‘We shall be there, Mr Swann, but er …’

  Swann saw George hesitate again.

  ‘What is it this time, George?’

  ‘Well sir, are you sure about meeting there, sir, at the Fountain?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, it’s only that it can be dangerous for people dressed like yourself, if you don’t mind me saying, especially at night.’

  ‘Thank you for your thoughtfulness, George, but neit
her of you need concern yourself over my well-being this evening.’

  The men parted company and Swann headed up Horse Street, now with the sole intention of going to the nearest bookshop where he could purchase a current and more detailed map of the city than the one which presently hung in the library at the house in Great Pulteney Street. He walked on up the street with a mixture of thoughts and feelings running through his mind. From what he had experienced so far and from what his instinct told him, he believed George and Bridges could be trusted and that they were not attempting to dupe him out of more money by producing a false witness to lie about knowing Malone. And hopefully Swann would be able to ascertain the fact that the man he had been searching for all these years was now dead. Little did he realise, however, exactly what it was he would find out later that evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Theodore Evans turned the key in the door to lock his haberdashery shop, located in Westgate Buildings, and headed towards the city centre. As he walked down the street, the Abbey clock could be heard in the distance striking the hour. It was now seven o’clock in the evening and the shopkeepers’ meeting was due to begin at half-past. It was a direct route up Westgate Street and then Cheap Street, before a diagonal left turn would take him across the main High Street to the Guildhall.

  The meeting was the one he had invited Fitzpatrick to, earlier in the day. He hoped the magistrate would be there so he could publicly challenge him over the corruption of certain of his colleagues: most particularly that of Kirby. But as much as he would have liked to think the magistrate would appear, he felt it was a lost cause.

  Not to worry though, he thought, as he went around the corner into Westgate Street, as he had a speech which was sure to rouse the assembled body of men and perhaps it would incite them enough to march en masse to Fitzpatrick’s office the next day in a show of solidarity. He had been practising his speech all week and although he wasn’t the greatest orator, he felt confident he could deliver it well. He had injected a number of pauses at strategic places, in order to heighten the dramatic effect of several points he wanted to make and had even quoted Shakespeare towards the end. It was the speech from the second scene in the third act of the Merchant of Venice, where Shylock laments that if he is pricked, he will bleed and if wronged, he will be justified to seek revenge. By using this particular quote, Evans felt he would make a striking finale and he could almost visualise the cheers and clapping which would hopefully accompany the speech’s conclusion. He would then modestly acknowledge the applause and try to get them to agree to march the following day. If he could not have the law on his side, in the shape of Fitzpatrick, then the authority of England’s greatest playwright would have to suffice.