‘It was two birthdays ago.’
‘And do you know where this artist lives, George?’
‘If he is still there, then it is down near …’
Before George could finish, however, Bridges abruptly stopped him.
‘Hey, what is it?’ said George.
Bridges signed something only his companion could see. George then covered his mouth as he relayed it to Swann.
‘Bridges says there is a man near the door reading our lips.’
Swann turned and looked. At that moment, the man moved and bumped into another patron. There was a brief exchange of words and the lip-reader punched the other man hard. He then quickly left the inn.
George stood to go after him but Swann stopped him.
‘Don’t worry George. Do you know who that was?’
‘That was Irish John,’ replied George. ‘He works for Wicks.’
Bridges nodded his agreement, but Swann’s attention was now fully on the portrait of Seth’s older self, one that was twenty years in the future.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Bath, Tuesday 29th November, 1803
A most absorbing day in many ways but a tragic one nonetheless and once again I find myself with many more questions than answers. Why was the girl murdered in such a grotesque manner? Is it simply part of an attempt to frame an innocent man or is there something more sinister at work? I am certain clarity will be attained once Johnson the typesetter is located, although the behaviour of Tozer, the publisher, I find somewhat strange. On one hand he appears to be trying to protect his worker and yet on the other, he seems content to allow the blame and subsequent repercussions to fall upon his most profitable and successful author. There is definitely more to this matter which needs to be explored.
If one positive aspect has emerged from this sad situation, it has been the opportunity to converse with Gregor-Smith. I have been an admirer of his work for some time and to finally meet with him in person did not disappoint, especially as the sarcophagus in which he reclined was, of course, the preferred method of creative inspiration by John Donne, a favourite metaphysical poet of mine.
It was also at Gregor-Smith’s residence where I chanced upon the portrait artist’s work for the first time and what had been no more than a vague notion on my return has since taken a firmer hold on visiting the Fountain Inn and observing Seth’s aged portrait there. I therefore intend to seek out the artist tomorrow and commission him to produce a portrait of Malone’s accomplice, the Scarred Man, as he would appear today, twenty years on. I have reached this decision, as it has struck me that if the artist can take a person as they appear today and paint them as they will be in the future, then surely would he not be able to create a portrait of someone as they are today, using as guidance a description from the past. If this is possible, and I can see no reason why not, then I remember the features of his face in my memory clearly enough that I know I can describe them to the artist as accurately as if the man was sitting in the studio himself. And then, once I have the image, I can show it to George and Bridges, as I did with Mary’s sketch of Lockhart, so they will have a more accurate likeness than a twenty-year-old remembrance.
With this mention of Lockhart, he now takes over my thoughts completely. What is one to make of him? He has appeared from nowhere, as if pulled from a magician’s hat. My enquiries in London have so far yielded very little, other than a tenuous association with Kirby, the name of the hotel where he stays overnight, and a business address which does not exist. And then there is also the question as to what Lockhart undertakes when he travels on to Bristol after each visit to the capital. At least today I have found out certain details about these activities, even if I do not understand how they fit into the larger picture: the use of an alias, in this case Mottram; a disguise; the visit to the jeweller; and the escorting of the two women to, and then the leaving them at, an up-market hotel.
I am also still convinced as to Lockhart’s involvement in the attempt on my life last month. Although he has claimed to be horrified at the thought of what might have happened, because of our meeting, I cannot see it as coincidence that Tyler was at that particular spot at that specific time if not pre-arranged. For the time being though, I hope I have lulled Lockhart into a false sense of security which, if successful, will allow me the time to investigate him further. And finally, there is the association with Fitzpatrick’s blackmailing case which, although not directly implicated, I believe conceals something bigger behind it. What this is though, I can only hope time will disclose and reveal the truth behind Edmund Lockhart.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Although the hour was early, the lower part of the town was already full of life. An assortment of heavily loaded wagons and carts trundled their way up Horse Street, having entered the city from the south, over the Old Bridge, while the cries of numerous stallholders and market traders hawking their wares could be heard from all around the area. Women of the town, even at this time of the morning, openly plied their trade, while the rest of the ragged population of scavengers, pickpockets, tradesmen and labourers all rubbed together as they went about their business amidst the squalid and filthy surroundings.
After Swann had consumed his usual morning coffee and briefly scanned The Times, he left the White Hart and headed down Stall Street to where it merged with Horse Street. Once here, he followed the route straight to the river. As he walked along the thoroughfare, minus disguise, he was eyed up suspiciously by a few of the inhabitants and singled out as a possible mark by others. However, he reached the far end untouched and turned right into Broad Quay, which ran adjacent to the river and had been designed to become the very heart of Bath’s docklands. Yet despite the grand nature of its conception, the grey quayside had become a lackluster area of little maritime bustle, resulting in the deterioration of the vicinity to its present-day ramshackle state, with the few houses that lined the waterside in various stages of dilapidation and ruin.
The stench was palpable and Swann had to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. There were numerous slaughterhouses, breweries and industrial factories nearby and each pumped their waste directly into the river, where it mixed with domestic effluent and other refuse to produce the nausea-inducing pollution. He could see rats roaming freely along the alleys and passageways, while grimy, sodden washing hung in rows with the vain hope of attracting whatever fragments of sun prevailed within this dismal corner. And everywhere, from the rancid brown puddles of stagnant water to the tide marks on the walls, there was evidence of the regular flooding which took place, due to its close proximity to the river. At one point, Swann noticed, as he continued his way alongside the houses, the highest flood mark reached just below the level of the first floors.
From the address given to him by George and Bridges the previous day, along with details of the map he had memorised since staying on in Bath, it did not take Swann much time to locate the specific building he was looking for. Now all he could hope was that the artist still resided there. The city was known for having a transient populace, which moved on to wherever the work – or at least better prospects – took them. Fitzpatrick had mentioned the city’s building trade, where men would be laid off during the winter when construction ceased. But then Bath had been a seasonal place for a long time, where the city’s workforce and criminals adapted accordingly. The artist, if he maintained a studio here, might be less transient though. Swann knew of several painters whose studios were their sanctuaries and once they had found a place they felt they could work in, there was little that would cause them to give it up. This was what Swann was hoping for, that even in such a transient location as Bath and in such a dilapidated and slum area as Broad Quay, the artist had found stability.
Swann stepped inside the building and walked across the sodden floor, strewn with discarded rubbish, to the stairwell. Visibility was limited and the smell of decayed wood and rotten food permeated throughout the entire hallway.
As he reach
ed the bottom of the stairs, a voice shouted from behind.
‘I told you what would happen if you came back here!’
Swann turned just in time to prevent a thick wooden stick striking him on the head. He grappled with the middle-aged woman in whose tight grip the weapon was held, but managed to wrestle it from her. As they pulled apart, the squat, mean-looking woman fell on her backside.
‘I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, madam,’ said Swann.
‘Are you the bailiff?’
‘No, madam, and I certainly have no interest in any of your possessions. I am looking for a man who I believe resides at this address.’
‘There are several men living here, the building has six floors.’
‘This man is an artist by trade.’
‘Yeah, we have one of those. He’s at the top. I hope you’re buying something, he owes me three months’ rent.’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Swann, as he helped the woman up and returned the wooden stick to her.
She grabbed it, went back into her room and slammed the door shut.
Swann climbed the several flights to the top of the dwelling. A freezing blast of air came through a smashed window as he walked over to the solitary door on that floor. He knocked on what was left of the disintegrating brown wood.
‘Hello?’ Swann called out.
There was no answer. He tapped again and tried the handle. It was unlocked. The sparsely furnished main room had been turned into a makeshift studio. In the middle, standing behind a large canvas, was the artist. From his appearance Swann estimated his age to be slightly older than his own. The majority of his ginger hair had been lost, however, and what remained called to mind that of a monk. The dirty-white smock he wore was bespattered by paint seemingly from his entire palette and this was repeated around the floor where he stood. In front of him was his subject matter, two naked pubescent girls posed in an overtly sexual position and stretched out upon a filthy, decrepit chaise longue. From their glazed expressions, Swann concluded they were under the influence of drugs.
‘Excuse me,’ said Swann, to attract the artist’s attention. For whatever reason, the man did not respond.
Swann tried again.
‘Whoever you are, I’m busy,’ said the artist sharply.
‘I only require a small amount of your time,’ replied Swann.
The artist carried on painting. Swann moved forward and touched the man on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me, sir, but …’
The artist turned abruptly.
‘Didn’t you hear me, I’m working! Now sod off!’
Before the artist knew what was happening though, Swann took his right arm and brought it up behind his back. The man dropped his brush and cried out.
‘Aaaargh! You’re hurting me.’
‘Obviously you did not hear me properly. I said I only require your attention for a short while.’
‘Don’t break my arm, it’s the one I use to paint,’ pleaded the artist.
‘Then you will listen to what I have to say?’
The artist nodded and Swann let go. The artist staggered forward, indignant at his treatment but brought to order.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’ asked Swann.
‘This is it,’ replied the artist, rubbing his arm where it had been twisted.
Swann looked across at the two naked girls. The artist understood.
‘Lose yourselves for a while, will you,’ ordered the man.
‘Where are we meant to go?’ said one of the girls.
‘Figure it out between you,’ he replied indifferently.
The girls grabbed the dark green throw which covered the chaise longue and huddled together as they wrapped themselves in the material before going out, unhappy at their treatment.
‘So what do you want that is so important to nearly break my arm?’ the artist said, after the girls had gone.
‘I have recently seen two examples of your work,’ said Swann.
‘Ah, you’re one of those. Like ‘em young, do you?’
‘No, you misunderstand me. I meant, your other work, the portraits where you age the sitter.’
‘Oh yeah, they’re mine.’
‘Well, I wish to commission you to complete one for me.’
‘I don’t do that kind of painting any more.’
‘You will be well paid for it.’
‘The work I do now pays well enough,’ said the artist and gestured to where the girls had been posing.
‘You will also be performing a great service in bringing a criminal to justice,’ Swann added.
‘Look mister, for a start I’m not a performing monkey and unless you didn’t hear me properly, I don’t paint those kind of portraits any more.’
Swann abruptly grabbed the artist by the throat.
‘Unless you didn’t hear me properly, let me explain more fully. This isn’t one of your morbid curiosities or practical jokes,’ said Swann angrily. ‘I want this portrait completed for a specific and personal reason and you will do this for me. Otherwise I’ll make sure you’re not able to paint anything for a living again.’
The two men’s gazes met as the artist looked straight into Swann’s eyes.
‘Alright, I’ll do it,’ gasped the flush-cheeked artist, his windpipe squeezed by Swann’s right hand. At this Swann released his grip and the artist staggered back a step or two, dropped to his knees and then coughed violently several times.
‘Don’t blame me if you aren’t happy at what you become though,’ spluttered the artist from his subservient position, after he had recovered slightly.
It took a moment for Swann to realise what the artist had meant but then he said, ‘It is not a portrait of myself I seek, but of a man I knew twenty years ago. I wish to know what his appearance would be like today.’
‘And you have an image of him from that time?’
‘No, but I can give you a description of him.’
‘Then I’m sorry, I can’t do it.’
Swann went to grab the artist again but the man raised his hands submissively.
‘No really, I can only paint from what I see,’ he clarified, ‘not what I hear. It is the truth.’
Swann stepped back and listened as the artist continued to speak.
‘I need something visual to work from. Do you not have anything with his image on it as he was then, a portrait, a drawing?’
Swann shook his head but thought for a moment.
‘If I could supply you with a sketch of this man as he looked twenty years ago, but drawn from memory, would that be enough for you?’
The other man nodded.
‘I don’t care how it is done,’ the artist said, ‘I just need something tangible to focus my attention. The more accurate your sketch is though the more accurate my portrait will be.’
‘Then you agree to it?’ clarified Swann.
‘Yes, but I’ll name my price, as the process takes a lot out of me.’
‘Then we have a contract, sir,’ said Swann. ‘I will aim to bring you the sketch later today. Will you be here?’
‘I am always here. I never go anywhere,’ replied the artist.
Swann left and went back downstairs. The girls were huddled on the staircase, their bodies still covered by the threadbare dark green material, but what Swann had momentarily witnessed in the studio caused him to stop beside them. Their pubertal breasts were not yet fully developed but other than that, nothing else betrayed their tender years. Their scrawny bodies were pock-riddled and undernourished, while their eyes held the wretchedness of having to live out their godforsaken existences here. He placed a handful of coins beside them.
‘Use these to buy something to eat,’ he said, softly. Whether they would, he could only hope, but he had made the gesture. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the artist shouting to the girls to go back up to his studio.
Swann left the building with a melancholic air and headed back towards Great Pul
teney Street. There was not a moment to lose.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
By the time Swann had returned to the house following his visit to the artist, he was in a slightly better frame of mind than when he had left the studio, as during the walk back he had convinced himself that Mary would be willing to undertake the task he was to ask of her. He certainly possessed the utmost confidence in being able to recall every detail of the Scarred Man from all those years before, he thought, as he entered the house, but whether his sister could transpose those would be another matter. He did not know whether she had drawn Lockhart’s portrait from memory, but it was definitely accurate, that much was true. So hopefully she would also be able to sketch the portrait he required.
On being asked, Mary had initially been reluctant to carry out her brother’s request, but after seeing how much it meant to him, she had relented and agreed to at least try and sketch a portrait of the man, whose features had been locked in his memory for all this time. Swann had closed his eyes as he began to recall the man’s face, but in doing so, his mind had been transported back once more to the events of that fatal night.
The boy stared at the third upturned cup and the empty space beneath it. He could not believe it, he would not believe it. The pea had not been under the first cup, his pick of the three, even though he had observed the small, shrivelled-up object being put under the inverted wooden cup and, with all the concentration he could muster, had then watched as his father shuffled it around the other two cups on the table. It had not been under the second cup either, which he had lifted once his father had left the kitchen to greet the master. This had left the final cup, the remaining one under which the pea must be located. And yet, as he could now see, even if he did not believe it, there was also nothing beneath that one.
In that moment, however, he suddenly realised what had happened. The pea had never been under any of the cups! His father had somehow managed to retain it before commencing the game. It was an illusion. There was no way one could guess correctly. As for the boy’s part in his own deception, he had been too busy focusing on the cup his father had made a show of putting the pea under that he obviously did not see him slip it into his pocket.
The Regency Detective Page 20
