The Regency Detective

by David Lassman

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’ asked George.

  Bridges signed.

  ‘Yeah, I do too,’ agreed George. ‘He’s got a similar build as the man we saw go in, but I know he certainly didn’t have any women with him though!’

  On arriving in Bristol the Royal Mail coach had made its way to the heart of the city centre and the final destination on its outward journey: the Bush Tavern. The famous coaching inn stood across from the main Post Office and the Corn Exchange, the latter having been the sole contribution towards the city’s urban landscape by its close neighbour’s most famous architect: namely John Wood of Bath.

  When the coach stopped at the Bush Tavern, four passengers had alighted from inside; three gentlemen and a lady. The lady accompanied two of the gentlemen, while the remaining male had made off towards Baldwin Street. For a moment George and Bridges considered whether one of them should follow the group, while the other pursue the solitary gentleman, but they quickly decided it would not be practical, especially given Bridges did not know the city, so they stuck together and quickly hastened after the lone man. They had trailed him for about fifteen minutes through the streets of Bristol, until they had reached The Windsor Hotel and the man had gone inside.

  Bridges now intently watched the lips of one of the women as she spoke to the bearded man. He then signed to his companion.

  ‘So his name is Mottram, eh?’ replied George, as the small group opposite now began to move off. ‘That has to be the man Mr Swann wants us to follow. I say we go after them.’

  Bridges nodded and the two thief-takers followed at a distance as the trio in front of them made their way down the street and around the corner. As soon as George and Bridges turned the corner, they were confronted with the sight of the gentleman in the act of hailing a carriage and in a few moments one had arrived and they were being driven away.

  ‘What do we do now?’ cried George, panicking.

  Bridges, however, had already hailed another carriage and even before it had stopped the two men had bundled themselves in. The driver was suspicious of them, however, especially when George said they wanted to follow the carriage in front, but as soon as George had showed some of the money Swann had given them, the driver took off after the other carriage.

  Although George recognised a few landmarks from his previous visit, as they continued on their way out of the city centre his recollections became vaguer, so much so that when their carriage came to a halt, George had to ask the driver what area of Bristol they were in. George paid the fare and both he and Bridges then got out. A little way ahead, the carriage carrying Mottram and the women had stopped outside an up-market looking establishment called The Beaufort Hotel. The passengers alighted from the carriage and entered the main door.

  George and Bridges rushed over to the building. On reaching it, they peered through one of the hotel’s large windows at the scene inside. The man they knew as Mottram and the two women sat in the foyer, on an elongated leather couch. From elsewhere in the hotel, a well dressed, rotund man approached the party. Mottram stood and they shook hands. From outside the window, George and his companion thought they saw a small packet pass between the two men, but they could not be sure. The women then stood and the quartet looked as if they were about to go in to the depths of the hotel. At the last moment, however, Mottram veered off from them and headed toward the main door. Outside, George and Bridges realised this fact too late and as Mottram came out onto the street, they were caught beside the window. Their unsuspecting quarry, however, walked right past them and headed in the direction of a sign which pointed towards the city centre.

  ‘That was close,’ breathed George.

  Bridges signed in agreement, thought about it, and then signed once more.

  ‘You’re right,’ said George, laughing. ‘If he don’t know we’re following him, why were we worried. But yeah, we’ll wait a little ‘fore we start after him again.’

  They waited until Mottram turned the corner at the end of the street and then hurried after him. As they rounded the corner, ahead they saw the man enter a jewellery shop. Ten minutes later he came out and then made his way back to the first hotel, the Windsor, with George and Bridges behind him all the way. Once there, Mottram went inside again.

  George and Bridges were not quite sure what they had witnessed through their following of this man, but hopefully Mr Swann would be happy with the information. It was George’s turn now to tug on Bridges’ sleeve and for the other man to ignore it. Eventually though Bridges looked at George.

  ‘We can watch what’s going on from inside the hotel, we’ve done our job.’

  Bridges signed.

  ‘I know about being seen at the other place, but he didn’t even look at us when he walked by. And we can find somewhere in the hotel out of the way. Better to be inside with a glass of ale than out in the cold,’ said George, the morning warmth of the sun having now been replaced by a decidedly colder afternoon.

  Bridges agreed and they crossed the street towards the hotel entrance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Under the watchful eyes of a solitary stone gargoyle above the main entrance, the carriage with Swann inside arrived at Gregor-Smith’s residence. He stepped out and addressed Fitzpatrick’s driver.

  ‘Wait for me,’ said Swann.

  The driver nodded as Swann turned and strode to the large wooden door. The imposing castle-like gothic building rose up far above him. He pulled a cord that hung by the entrance and a loud bell clanged inside. Swann then heard footsteps approach and a moment later the door opened and an oriental servant appeared.

  ‘I am here to see Mr Gregor-Smith.’

  ‘My master cannot be disturbed at this time.’

  ‘This matter is of too great an urgency to wait,’ replied Swann. ‘I must insist.’

  ‘My master has very strict instructions about visitors. I am sorry.’

  From elsewhere within the building a disembodied voice called out. ‘What is happening down there Sung-Lee?’

  ‘A gentleman asks to see you but I have told him you are not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Very good, Sung-Lee.’

  ‘Please give this card to your master,’ said Swann, ‘and inform him it is of the utmost importance.’

  The servant was reluctant but nevertheless took Swann’s card and asked him to stay where he was. He then closed the door. A few minutes later the door re-opened and a somewhat puzzled looking Sung-Lee invited Swann inside. He followed the heavily limping servant into a huge living room where the extensive walls were decorated with numerous erotic frescos and large oriental rugs covered the floor. The servant then pointed to a stone staircase, which spiraled upwards.

  ‘My master is at the top of the tower,’ he said.

  Swann went over to the staircase and began to climb the narrow stairs, which ascended in a clockwise direction. At intervals were small slit windows through which Swann could see further and further as he rose, until finally he was able to observe in the far distance the city of Bristol. At the top of the staircase was an archway, which led through to a turret room.

  Gregor-Smith’s writing room was small, made more so by the elaborate gothic decorations adorning the walls and floor and the large stone sarcophagus which occupied its centre. Inside reclined a gentleman dressed in a burgundy dressing gown. An opium pipe lay on a small table beside him and a writing tray rested on the man’s midriff. As Swann entered, the writer raised his gaze towards him.

  ‘Mr Swann, please do come in. I have been looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘You know me, sir?’

  ‘The newspaper reports on your various exploits, since your arrival in the city, have whetted my appetite, although I do realise this is not a social visit.’

  ‘Then you are aware of the reason for my being here?’

  ‘Yes. When the gamekeeper delivered the meat for this evening’s supper, news of the poor child in the woods accompanied it. Indeed, it was my own carriage
which allowed the man to so promptly share the news with the authorities. And along with that newspaper coverage of your presence, I presumed I could expect a visit from you in the not so distant future.’

  ‘I am intrigued. Exactly how did you arrive at this presumption?’

  The writer took a toke from his pipe and then answered.

  ‘To start with there is the close proximity of my residence to the actual murder scene. Apart from the association with the gamekeeper, either my good self or one of my servants may have seen or heard something. More than that, however, is the description of the scene itself, for did not the perpetrator replicate one of the murders from my most recent outpouring – the very manuscript of which you hold in your right hand. As this particular volume has yet to reach the unsuspecting public, the number of possible suspects is reduced dramatically. I would suggest that it only leaves myself, the publisher and perhaps an employee or two at his publishing firm as the guilty party. Forgive me if I have been remiss of anything.’

  ‘No, that is an incredibly precise piece of deduction,’ said Swann.

  The writer held up his left hand in a gesture of modesty.

  ‘Please, Mr Swann, it does not warrant your praise. I am a writer of fictional stories and so I am used to constructing plots, although from those recent reports of your exploits, this is much less than your own achievements. And given that I delivered the manuscript to my publisher last week, I would suggest that only a handful of people would have had access to it, or the time to read it, and added to this the fact I do not discuss my work with anyone else, it is therefore limited to those who I have mentioned.’

  Gregor-Smith took another toke and inhaled deeply. This time he offered it to Swann, who politely refused.

  ‘Besides,’ Gregor-Smith continued, ‘my being a suspect is similar to the plot of my first novel. A writer is accused of a murder copied from a story he has created. But tell me, Mr Swann, do you believe it is the writer in this case?’

  ‘I consider all possibilities before making any judgements,’ replied Swann.

  ‘Surely you must have an intuitive feeling though,’ the writer urged.

  ‘I allow the facts as they reveal themselves to guide me,’ said Swann. ‘All else is conjecture and so the very antithesis of my mode of investigation.’

  As Swann finished speaking he scanned a shelf located within an alcove of the turret room. The shelf contained numerous editions and volumes of the writers’ own books. By the side, on a small table, however, was a manuscript. The title ‘Susan’ was handwritten on the front cover.

  ‘I am familiar with your work,’ said Swann, ‘yet I do not believe I have read the volume you mentioned. It is this manuscript?’

  ‘No, that was written by someone else, an aspiring local authoress. A mutual acquaintance asked if I would read it and pass comment on it. I dislike engaging in critical analysis of another writer’s work, especially an unpublished one. All they really wish is to hear how it is the best writing you have ever read. If you start to point out any faults with it, however, they jump to its defence and quote a line or two from the work that supposedly addresses your criticism. Having said that though, this particular lady’s writing is acceptable; the subject, a gothic parody, is timely; the locations are fitting and, if she continues to write, I would suggest she has a promising literary future ahead of her. I have yet to tell her this, however, and for all I know the manuscript may have already secured a publisher. As for my first novel, you have not heard of it for the simple reason that it was never published. After being rejected by several publishers, I burnt the manuscript in a fit of frustration.’

  ‘Before the flames consumed it, what fate befell the story’s writer?’

  ‘He was found guilty and executed.’

  ‘And was justice served?’ asked Swann.

  The faint trace of a smile appeared on Gregor-Smith’s face. ‘Only in so much as the manuscript deserved to be destroyed. The character of the writer required much more depth, the story was in need of proper structure and still being a tyro back then, the prose was far too putrid and purple.’

  As Gregor-Smith finished talking, a small figure entered the room. It had the form of a child but was, in fact, as Swann now realised, a female dwarf. She carried with her a tray on which stood a glass of green liquid. Swann watched her as she went silently to the sarcophagus and put the tray down beside the opium pipe. She turned to leave, but kept her eyes averted from Swann and her face lowered.

  ‘Martha, wait,’ said Gregor-Smith. ‘Has the amulet been located yet?’

  The girl shook her head. As she did so, Swann noticed her face was disfigured.

  ‘Ask Sung-Lee to search the grounds again.’

  She nodded and then left the room.

  ‘I do not know which I desire more,’ said the writer, after the servant had left. ‘The return of the amulet, which was a gift from a dear friend, or the potion it contains.’ He took a sip from the glass and raised it toward Swann. ‘I have this absinthe imported from France, covertly of course, it is the finest …’

  ‘I do not wish to appear rude, sir,’ said Swann, ‘but my time is limited.’

  ‘Yes, I apologise, I have digressed,’ said Gregor-Smith. ‘Mr Swann, I am thorough in my research but I only commit murder in my imagination. Contrary to the image portrayed in certain periodicals and newspapers, I promote life and compassion – as you have just witnessed with Martha.’

  ‘May I enquire the origin of her disfigurement?’ asked Swann.

  ‘It was caused through the nightly torture endured from an Albanian brothel keeper, as entertainment for his clients. I “liberated” her somewhat surreptitiously when I passed through the country during my last Grand Tour. Mankind has a sickness, Mr Swann. We consider ourselves human, yet too many show by their nature to be otherwise.’

  ‘You are right, sir. A man cannot hide from his true nature,’ said Swann, ‘as it will always expose him for what he is, eventually.’

  ‘And what have you learnt so far about my true nature, Mr Swann. Although without wishing to slight your method of investigation, the questions you have asked are yet to be probing.’

  ‘There is plenty to be ascertained without the need of words,’ replied Swann. ‘Answers can often be revealed without the necessity of asking questions.’

  ‘And what have I revealed without words?’

  ‘You advocate life and compassion but are drawn to death and horror,’ said Swann. ‘Yet, I do not believe you act the latter out in the real world, but only here, where you immerse yourself in their twin imagery; be it the stone casket which you write within, or the stories you create there.’

  ‘You are right, Mr Swann. I have been fascinated by death for the whole of my life. I was a sickly child from the very day I was born, but became much worse at the age of four, after my father’s death. I spent a year confined to my bed, with no doctor able to diagnose what was wrong with me. My mother, God bless her soul, read to me every day, although the only books in our house belonged to my late father’s collection of macabre stories, which he himself had written, so I grew up listening to all manner of horrors. When I was well enough again, I used to visit the graveyard where he was buried and read his own stories back to him.’ Gregor-Smith paused and took another sip of Absinthe. ‘They have a separate section you know, for suicides. So I would spend my days reading grisly stories to my dead father, surrounded by the graves of people who, for one reason or another, found the will to live gone and had taken their own lives. It was only later though, that I would come to wonder what drives these people to take their own lives and subsequently devoted much of my writing to the subject of death.’

  ‘And was there anything specific which made you interested in vampire lore?’ enquired Swann, momentarily distracted by a painting hanging on one of the turret room walls.

  ‘I presume it is the possession of someone else,’ replied Gregor-Smith, ‘the survival of one through the death of another. W
hen I was younger I often wished my father had been a vampire, so he could have survived, but then I thought, why wish a person to continue an existence they wanted to end in the first place. But do we not all live in the shadow of the shroud of death in our own ways, if only we knew it. Do you believe in vampires, Mr Swann, and are you asking about my interest as you think one was responsible for the girl’s death?’

  ‘The answer to your questions is no on both counts, sir. This was definitely the work of a mortal man, although perhaps one attempting to make it look supernatural in order to create something that it is not. For that fact alone though, I believe there is a good possibility you are in some way being set up for the murder.’

  ‘But who would do such a thing, Mr Swann? I am no doubt disliked by certain people but I am certain not to the extent that they would do something like this.’

  Swann did not respond, his attention now completely taken by the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of an aged and decrepit-looking man. The subject had more than a passing resemblance to the writer but an older version, as it gazed corpse-like down into the room.

  ‘I am cursed to write this material through my life circumstances,’ continued Gregor-Smith, ‘but what does it say about those people who are fascinated by it merely for pleasure? I am not disagreeable to the financial situation, of course, as the money affords me the lifestyle I wish and the ability to lead a private life, away from the prying eyes of the public and press. What I find comical, or at least I would if it was not so damningly intrusive, is the press reaction to my work. They ridicule and even abuse me for my work within the pages of their newspapers and yet I am one of the best-selling authors of the genre. And they write such scandalous lies. Take a recent example. The gamekeeper that discovered the girl’s body was stopped recently and questioned about me. Although he did not reveal anything, he was carrying rabbits with him and the next week there was an “exclusive” article regarding my use of rabbits for sacrificial purposes, when the only thing they were used for was Martha’s stew. They also intercept my post, which is a complete breech of privacy, you would agree Mr Swann? Mr Swann?’