Swann’s attention was still completely taken by the painting on the wall.
‘Mr Swann!’
‘I am sorry,’ replied Swann. ‘I was just looking at this portrait of your father, or is it an earlier ancestor?’
‘That is not my father, nor indeed any ancestor Mr Swann. It is my portrait.’
Swann stared at the painting in genuine confusion. ‘But this man looks older than you by at least thirty or forty years.’
‘The artist who painted it had the ability to alter a person’s features to portray them at any stage in their past or future. I chose mine to be a constant reminder of life’s ephemeral nature and inevitability of my own death and deterioration.’
‘This artist,’ enquired Swann, ‘does he live in the city?’
‘I do not know. It was some while ago now, when I still held my gatherings. He came as the guest of someone else, if I remember correctly.’
Swann did not answer, as he was once more mesmerised by the portrait.
‘Mr Swann?’ said the writer, a little louder.
‘What, oh yes, of course,’ replied Swann, realising his distraction. ‘I do not wish to keep you any longer from your work, sir. You have been most helpful.’
The two men bid farewell to each other and Swann left. Once outside the main entrance, Swann entered Fitzpatrick’s waiting carriage and the driver flicked the rein. As the carriage turned and drove away, Swann gazed back at the building and at one of the windows saw the disfigured servant staring down at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘So, no word of Johnson?’ asked Swann, as he stood inside Fitzpatrick’s office.
‘I am afraid not,’ replied the magistrate. ‘One of my men called at the address of the lodgings Mr Tozer supplied but the landlady said she heard him go out early this morning, as if in a great haste, and he has not been back since.’
‘If I was convinced of Gregor-Smith’s innocence before this news, I am certain of it now,’ said Swann. ‘I believe it is time we paid a visit to Tozer’s firm. Will you accompany me, Fitzpatrick?’
The magistrate nodded and within a few minutes they were on their way along the Bristol Road towards the premises of Tozer Publishing. Fitzpatrick brought out a journal he had with him and handed it to Swann.
‘I think you might want to read this. It is my book in which I write up the cases I preside over. I believe you might find the notes from the blackmail case this morning revealing. A rather odd affair but there is a matter of interest to you.’
‘All aspects of blackmail interest me,’ replied Swann, as he began to read.
‘As you can see,’ said Fitzpatrick, unable to wait until Swann had finished reading it, ‘during the proceedings the name of Mary’s suitor was mentioned.’
At that moment Swann also read the name and spoke it out loud: ‘Lockhart! What was his connection?’
‘He was one of a group of men the defendant provided as an alibi.’
‘Was he present in court?’ asked Swann, surprised.
‘No, he sent a sworn oath that the defendant was with him and several others at the time he was accused of being somewhere else regarding the blackmailing.’
‘So unless Lockhart was committing perjury, there was no mention of wrongdoing on his part, then?’
‘No, but I thought you would wish to be informed, because of your previous enquiries regarding him and, of course, Mary, and possible reports in the press.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swann. ‘I appreciate your consideration.’
The magistrate acknowledged his companion’s gratitude and then asked, ‘So how was your meeting with the writer and why do you not believe him to be the murderer?’
‘It went well, he is a very intriguing man,’ replied Swann. ‘As for him being the murderer though, I think it seems highly implausible. Why would someone commit a crime that they had already written about? It does not make sense and seems far too easy a solution to me.’
The carriage now reached its destination and the two occupants alighted and entered the large nondescript building. Inside, they found Tozer in his office and knocked on his door.
‘Ah, gentlemen,’ said Tozer. ‘I must say, that was quick. I assume that you have come to tell me you have arrested Gregor-Smith?’
‘No, sir, we have not,’ replied Swann. ‘We are here to talk to your workers.’
Tozer was not pleased at this statement. ‘I do not understand why you need to question them,’ he said. ‘It will only upset them and we are very busy.’
‘Mr Tozer,’ said Fitzpatrick, ‘it is not a task we undertake with any relish.’
Swann could not contain his growing frustration. ‘Sir,’ he said, stepping forward, ‘your reluctance, if continued in this manner, might give rise to the misconstrued assumption you are in some way attempting to protect a man suspected of murdering not only a member of your workforce but a relation.’
Tozer stood up from behind his desk, as if he had just been challenged to a duel. ‘That is gross slander, sir. How dare you!’
Fitzpatrick stepped forward to ease the situation. ‘Mr Tozer, please,’ he said, in the calmest but most authoritative voice that he could muster. ‘My associate is merely trying to bring to your attention a possible consequence of your refusal.’
Tozer realised he had no choice but to comply and his body language showed this. ‘You can use the typesetting area,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Tozer,’ answered Fitzpatrick. ‘We will endeavour to intrude as little as possible on both your time and that of your staff.’
After the relevant room had been promptly organised, Swann and Fitzpatrick began their questioning. The first few workers all seemed to reiterate the same thing: that the victim was a quiet girl who kept her own company, while Johnson did much the same. No one could account for the typesetter’s absence, all were shocked at what had happened the previous evening, but not one of them could think of any reason why their co-worker would have committed such an act.
A young lad of around seventeen now came in and after being instructed to do so, sat down on the makeshift seating.
‘And what is your name?’ asked Fitzpatrick.
‘Richards, sir,’ replied the lad. ‘William Richards.’
‘And what is your job here?’ asked Swann.
‘I prepare the ink for printing, sir.’
Swann sensed that the boy was tenser than the others had been.
‘If you tell the truth in this room you will have nothing to fear, William,’ said Swann. ‘Now, in your own words, when did you last see Mr Johnson?’
‘It was yesterday afternoon, sir.’
‘Was that here, on these premises?’
William nodded.
‘And how was Mr Johnson behaving?’
‘Sir?’ asked the young lad, looking puzzled.
‘What was his manner?’ expanded Swann. ‘Did he seem anxious, excited?’
At this, the lad looked out to where Tozer stood watching the proceedings.
‘Do not worry about your employer, William,’ said Swann, looking behind him for a moment. ‘If there is a problem after we leave, come to Mr Fitzpatrick’s office to inform us.’
The magistrate nodded. Swann’s instinct now took over as he asked the next question.
‘What is your relationship to Mr Johnson, William?’
The lad did not answer. Swann gestured for him to do so.
‘Remember what we said, the truth will not harm you William.’
‘He is my uncle, sir, my mother’s brother.’
Swann nodded at this revelation. ‘You must realise William,’ he continued, ‘that if a crime has been committed and your uncle is the perpetrator, he must be brought to justice. Alternatively, if he is innocent then his name must be cleared so the real murderer can be brought to justice. Do you understand?’
William showed he did and then said, ‘Well sir, he did seem nervous.’
‘Why do you think he would have been ner
vous, William?’
‘I don’t know sir, but it was like he was thinking about something else, as if there was something distracting him.’
‘Do you know what that could have been?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And how was your uncle’s relationship with Mr Tozer’s niece, Lizzy?’
‘Sir?’
‘Did they get on together?’
‘For most of the time they did, sir.’
‘And what about the times they did not?’ interjected Fitzpatrick, a little too hastily for Swann’s liking, although he did not show it.
‘Well sir, Miss Lizzy was er … she could be …’ William glanced briefly outside at Tozer again.
‘Go on,’ urged Swann.
‘Well, sir, she could be quite simple-minded and used to get things wrong. At times, that is.’
‘And your uncle became frustrated by this?’ asked Swann.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did your uncle ever show this frustration to her?’
‘Yes, sometimes he had cross words with her.’
Swann paused momentarily before asking the next question.
‘Did your uncle ever physically threaten Lizzy?’
‘Oh no, sir, least not that I was aware.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Fitzpatrick, thinking the lad had answered too quickly.
‘Er, well, er … I suppose he might have, sir, under his breath like, but as I said, if he did, I never heard it.’
‘And how long has your uncle worked here?’ Swann now asked.
‘Since Mr Tozer started the company,’ replied the young lad.
‘How long have you worked here, William?’ Fitzpatrick asked.
‘I came here last January, sir. It was my uncle who got me this position.’
Swann was about to ask his final question but Tozer now rushed in.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ Tozer exclaimed. ‘I have a business to run.’
‘We have just finished Mr Tozer,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘Thank you, William.’
As William returned back to his bench, Tozer ‘escorted’ Swann and Fitzpatrick out of the building to their waiting carriage. Once inside, they began their short return journey to the centre.
Fitzpatrick was the first to speak. ‘What do you make of this business?’
‘I think William is an honest lad but was not able to tell us everything he knew and I still believe Tozer is protecting Johnson,’ said Swann emphatically. ‘The murderer definitely works within that building.’
‘What leads you to believe that conclusion?’ asked Fitzpatrick.
‘The main reason is that I noticed a footprint within a dried pool of ink, near a small printing press. I did not get a chance to examine it properly but I believe it was made by the murderer.’
‘So it is Johnson,’ declared Fitzpatrick.
‘Quite possibly, although at the same time I cannot overlook the fact Gregor-Smith delivered the manuscript there last week. It is quite a conundrum.’
‘How do you mean, Swann?’ enquired the magistrate.
‘If you were a publisher, Fitzpatrick,’ replied Swann, ‘who would you rather lose from your business, a writer or a typesetter?’
‘An interesting question for thought,’ said Fitzpatrick, putting his hand to his chin as he pondered it.
‘Fitzpatrick!’ exclaimed Swann. ‘You should not have to even think about it, the writer is your business.’
Swann reclined in his seat and smiled. He was beginning to get a sense of the case but needed to know a few additional details before he could spring his trap and capture the murderer.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The old beggar made his way up the dimly lit Avon Street, unnoticed and undisturbed. It was obvious he had no money so there was no attempt to either induce him into a backstreet liaison by the various women plying their trade or by any other of the reprehensible characters loitering around with the intention of robbery. On reaching the entrance to the Fountain Inn, at the top of the street, the beggar entered, exactly on time for his rendezvous with George and Bridges.
The public house was crowded with various salubrious characters and the atmosphere was already awash with revelry and merriment. As Swann entered, a trio of musicians had just that moment finished one song and begun another. Several customers, including George, called out for Seth, the landlord, to take the lead in singing the first verse. For a moment he was reluctant, but then after a little more encouragement started to sing:
Ye tipplers all as you pass by,
Come in and drink when you are dry,
Come spend my lads your money brisk,
And pop your nose in a jug of this.
Everyone inside the pub, except Swann, now joined in:
Ye tipplers all, if you’ve half a crown,
You’re welcome all for to sit down,
Come in, sit down, think not amiss,
To pop your nose in a jug of this.
Bridges recognised Swann through the beggar disguise and signed ‘hello’ to him. Swann nodded his greeting back. Once he had secured a drink, he made his way through the crowd to the table where Bridges and George sat. A drunken customer staggered to his feet, nearly bumping into Swann, and demanded to sing the next verse of the song. Allowed to do so, he began:
Oh now I’m old and can scarcely crawl,
I’ve a long grey beard and a head that’s bald,
Crown my desire fulfill my bliss.
As the drunken man sang the next line of ‘A pretty girl and a jug of this’, one of the Fountain’s barmaids walked past. The drunkard grabbed at her breasts but she moved out of the way and then clouted him hard, much to the amusement of everyone else in the public bar.
As Swann reached Bridges’ and George’s table, the latter, still caught up in the atmosphere and so oblivious to Swann’s presence, stood and began to raucously sing the next verse:
Oh, when I’m in my grave and dead,
And all my sorrows are past and fled,
Transform me then into a fish,
And let me swim in a jug of this.
George then flopped back down into his seat and as he did so, recognised Swann.
‘Mr Swann, sir,’ he slurred.
‘George, remember where we are and call me Jack.’
‘Right you are, Jack sir.’
Swann realised George was a little bit the worse for drink.
‘Is there somewhere else more quiet where we can talk?’ Swann asked as loud he felt appropriate without drawing attention.
Bridges read Swann’s lips and gestured next door, to the snug. As they stood, George whispered in the ear of a woman sitting next to him, who nodded and blew him a kiss. Swann then followed George and Bridges through to the snug, as the rest of the pub clientele carried on singing. Although still noisy in the snug, it was quiet enough for them to converse and although he slurred the odd word, George now relayed to Swann the events of their outing to Bristol, to the point where they had been waiting outside the jewellers.
‘And you say he was using the name Mottram?’ Swann asked.
‘That is what Bridges lip-read one of the women calling him,’ replied George.
‘And after he left the jewellers, you followed him back to the Windsor Hotel?’
‘Yes,’ said George, ‘and then we waited outside that place until he left to get the coach back to Bath.’
‘But he did not have his beard when he left this hotel again?’ queried Swann.
‘That’s right,’ George replied.
‘And you waited outside the Windsor Hotel after trailing him back there?’
George nodded and then exchanged a guilty glance, unseen by Swann, with Bridges.
‘That is a shame, George,’ said Swann. ‘As it was a rather cold afternoon, you could have both spent the last part of the afternoon inside the hotel.’
George looked at Bridges again. Swann smiled.
‘And you are certain this Mottram you followed was the same
man I showed you the sketch of this morning?’ pressed Swann.
The hesitation in their response was enough.
‘George?’ said Swann. ‘Tell me the truth.’
George looked at his companion, who nodded.
‘The truth is we are not sure, Mr Swann. We only just caught the coach in time and had no chance to look inside. The only time we were given the chance of a good look at him it was when he had the beard, but we are both sure it was the same man.’
Having read George’s lips, Bridges nodded in agreement.
‘Okay,’ said Swann, realising there was nothing more he could do. ‘You have done well.’
A look of relief spread across George and Bridges’ faces.
‘Thank you, Mr er … Jack,’ said George.
Swann’s attention, however, was now taken by a portrait hanging on the snug wall. It bore a resemblance to the landlord of the Fountain, Seth, but much older.
‘That portrait, who is it?’ asked Swann.
‘That’s Seth, the landlord,’ laughed George, ‘when he gets to be old.’
‘Do you know the artist who painted it?’
‘Yes, it was us that found him. He can paint people as they’ll be in the future.’
Bridges signed to George and the two men laughed.
‘Bridges reminded me that Seth was not best pleased at receiving it. A few of us regulars gave it to him as a bit of fun for his birthday. He didn’t like it at first but he’s got used to it now.’
‘I cannot imagine Seth sitting to be painted,’ replied Swann.
‘No, we brought the painter in a couple of times, secret like, so he could sketch Seth without him knowing. It’s funny to think in twenty years time he will look like that.’
They all looked at the portrait and Swann became lost in his thoughts.
‘Are you okay Mr Swann?’ whispered George.
‘Yes, I’m fine George. How long ago was this painted?’
George glanced at Bridges who held up two fingers.
The Regency Detective Page 19
