The Circle of Sappho Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE REGENCY DETECTIVE

  The prequel to The Circle of Sappho

  The Regency Detective is a perfectly composed period page-turner …

  not to be missed’

  James Strong, Director of Broadchurch

  ‘Swann will do for Bath what Morse did for Oxford’

  Bath Chronicle

  ‘Swann is the Darcy of Detectives’

  Western Daily Press

  ‘Looking forward to more books … very enjoyable’

  D. Sanford (Amazon, 5-Star Review)

  ‘Great Bath-based mystery’

  Jubey (Amazon, 5-Star Review)

  ‘I was totally absorbed in the characters and storyline’

  Christine Pegg, BAFTA award-winning costume designer

  For

  Sophie and Rory

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Tell me about Sappho and Atthis again.’

  ‘You really love that story, don’t you?’

  The young girl nodded. ‘I love hearing you tell it, as well. The sound of your voice makes me feel happy inside.’

  The older woman smiled and momentarily held the girl’s gaze with her own. She positioned herself crossed-legged on a weaved mat she had brought to place on the stone floor and let her adolescent companion lay her head upon her lap; the girl’s long auburn hair, free of its restrictive school cap, flowing out over the woman’s thighs. A slight chill penetrated the enclosed space, bringing a biting air to the late morning, but its inhabitants were too engaged in the moment to feel it.

  ‘In ancient times there was a beautiful poetess called Sappho. She lived in a place called Mytilene, on the Greek island of Lesbos. She was tutor to many girls whose parents had sent them to her from not only other parts of the island but, as her reputation grew, from throughout Greece. Her school became known as “the home of the servants of the muses”. One day, a girl arrived from an island far away. Her name was Atthis. Like the rest of the pupils she was instructed in dancing, poetry and the other disciplines the muses are said to have inspired. Sappho loved all her girls equally, but Atthis became special.’

  ‘Like me to you?’ said the girl, grinning.

  ‘Yes, like you to me,’ said the older woman, leaning forward and kissing the girl’s forehead.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Eventually Atthis finished her studies and had to leave the island.’

  ‘I do not want to leave, I …’

  The girl raised herself up onto one elbow.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I thought I heard someone outside.’

  ‘Do not worry, there is no one. I am the only teacher on duty; the others are with the girls at church, in the village. As for Tom, he’s probably asleep in his flowerbeds by now.’

  ‘I do not want anyone to find us and make me leave. I want to be alone with you in this place, forever.’

  ‘That is why I brought you here. Now, drink this, it is a special drink I have made to mark the occasion. It will keep you warm.’

  The girl accepted the small wooden cup and drank the liquid. The woman then refilled the cup and drank it herself. The girl relaxed back into the older woman’s lap, gazing up contentedly as her hair began to be stroked.

  ‘Tell me about the poem Sappho wrote for Atthis.’

  ‘Well, the poem she wrote was a unique one. When the girls at her school left her tutelage it was usually to marry and so Sappho would compose for them a marriage song. For Atthis, however, she wrote one especially for her alone.’

  ‘I love it when you recite it.’

  The older woman did not smile this time.

  ‘Beyond all hope,’ she began, ‘I prayed those timeless days we spent might be made twice as long. I prayed one word: I want. Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.’

  In the four years the older woman had been at the school, and the numerous pupils that had passed through it under her guardianship, she had never before come across a student so befitting her vision of Atthis and what she believed Sappho must have felt for her. On a number of occasions she thought she had found it, but she had been wrong. Those had been infatuations, imitations, illusions. This time it was different. This time it was real. This time it hurt at the thought of losing her. She wanted to kiss the rest of the girl’s head, her face, her neck, her body. She knew only too well though that however far her passion was allowed to go unbridled, even this would not be enough to quell the all-consuming feeling of sheer terror she felt, knowing of her imminent loss. But she knew she would never let her go from her heart. An eternal place had been carved there. She had spent every waking moment since learning the girl’s news hoping for some kind of reprieve. Hoping beyond all hope that her parents would change their mind and decide they did not want their daughter to accompany them, after all, on her father’s foreign posting.

  That hope now looked in vain and so she knew what had to be done. She had planned it to the last detail. Now was the time. As Sappho could not live without Atthis, so she could not live without her own ‘special’ love by her side.

  ‘Do you think Sappho killed herself for Atthis?’ the girl asked, her voice a little slurred from the drink.

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Yes. Even though it is said that Sappho killed herself over Phaon, a boatman she is supposed to have fallen in love with, I believe this version to have been invented by men who could not endure the thought of one woman loving another so completely and passionately. If she did take her own life by throwing herself off the cliffs at Lefaka, I like to think it was because of Atthis. In my mind, Sappho heard Atthis had died and, unable to bear the grief of her passing, or the thought of being alone forever, ended her own life. In that way, they were reunited in another place to enjoy their love eternally.’

  ‘Will you still love me after I go away?’

  ‘You’ll never leave my side or my heart, I promise you.’

  The girl started abruptly and looked again in the direction of the entrance.

  ‘I am sure I heard something, did you not hear it that time?’

  The older woman took the younger one by the arms and held them gently but firmly. ‘I told you my love, we’re quite alone here. I have prepared it that way.’

  Contents

  Praise

  Title

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Postscript

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jack Swann sat at his usual table in the White Hart Inn and contemplated the morning ahead. He had three appointments
scheduled, which in itself was not unusual. Swann liked to arrange what he called ‘obligations, duties and favours’ for the first part of the day, as this allowed him, when not working on a case, to pursue other interests. These comprised mainly of walking in the countryside that lay outside the city boundaries or else climbing the hills surrounding them. From these latter vantage points he could look down and gain a perspective on the place he had begun, after almost six months, to think of as home. He had yet to return to London since arriving in Bath the previous October, but at present there were no outstanding matters to be dealt with and anything that did need attention was being taken care of by his lawyer, who kept in contact through regular correspondence.

  Swann had to confess he was enjoying his first season in Bath; the period of time in the city between October and May that encompassed all manner of social events and activities, created solely to occupy the masses arriving here seeking either restitution for their health or entertainment alone. Not that he had taken part in any of the more extravagant displays of socialising, such as promenading or balls, but instead had attended several concerts and a number of performances at the Theatre Royal in Old Orchard Street – accompanying his sister, Mary, on the majority of these occasions. The physical experience of the theatre, despite having their own box, had left a lot to be desired – the extraordinary heat generated by so many bodies confined in one place made the atmosphere oppressive and stifling – but the plays they had seen were worth each sweltering moment of discomfort. He had also enjoyed an exhibition of Gainsborough’s work that had been held to celebrate his time in the city and which had made the now famous painter’s reputation. Another highlight he particularly remembered was a recital by Rauzzini, the famous Italian castrato, who had enthralled the assembled patrons with a repertoire consisting of Mozart, Handel and Haydn.

  It had to be admitted, therefore, and much to Mary’s amusement during one such conversation on the subject, that his perception of Bath as merely a frivolous and superficial place had changed, or at the very least been tempered. There was a cultural element to the city he could now observe, which he himself enjoyed immensely. Nevertheless, as he went about his daily business the shallower aspects of the place and its inhabitants were still visible; exemplified none more so than by the never-ending stream of parents who travelled to Bath in order to engage in match-making for their unmarried daughters. Their sole purpose here, therefore, being to find their offspring a suitable husband – the term ‘suitable’ being merely a euphemism for ‘rich’.

  There was, of course, also a darker side to the city, absent from the guidebooks, and it was this element that kept Swann in Bath; pervading his waking hours and haunting his dreams and to which theatrical, musical or artistic excursions were only temporary distractions. It was now more than twenty years since his father had been murdered while trying to protect his employers’ London house from two burglars. In gratitude for this act these employers, the Gardiner family, had adopted Swann and brought him up alongside their daughter, Mary, as their own. The two criminals, however, had never been caught and Swann had sworn to bring them to justice. The man he had watched deliver the fatal blow was called Malone – at least this was the name cried out by his accomplice as the red-hot poker, held by Swann’s father, had seared his right cheek. That accomplice, due to what would now be a permanent mark acquired from that murderous night, was referred to by Swann as the Scarred Man. His quest had brought him to Bath for a short visit the previous autumn, but after catching sight of what he believed to be this very person, he had decided to stay on. Swann had yet to see the man again but instinctively felt the key to his quest lay in the city; and that somehow, although he wasn’t yet sure in what way, there was a connection between the Scarred Man and the local crime boss, Wicks.

  Swann now had a drawing of how the Scarred Man would currently look. He had found an artist in Bath who had the unique ability to ‘age’ a subject, which made it possible to see what they would look like in ten, twenty, even fifty years time. It took only a small leap of the imagination for Swann to realise he could commission a portrait of the Scarred Man as he now looked, from the description scorched in Swann’s memory from all those years ago. Although the portrait had been destroyed and the artist murdered before Swann could take possession of it – he suspected Wicks of the crime – he had seen enough of the picture while it was being painted to employ his adoptive sister’s artistic skills to produce an acceptable likeness, from which she then made a copy. The first drawing Swann had kept, while the other had been given to George and Bridges, the two thief-takers he employed in the city on a semi-permanent basis to help him in his quest to find the Scarred Man.

  Unbeknownst to Swann, however, Mary had produced another copy for her aunt, Lady Harriet Montague-Smithson, who requested it after hearing of his ingenuity. Mary did not exactly know why she wanted it, but felt her aunt was not someone she could refuse.

  And of course there was Lockhart. Swann believed the man now engaged to Mary was also, in some way, involved with Wicks, although he had as yet not been able to prove this belief. As frustrating was the fact that Lockhart’s past, prior to arriving in Bath only a few weeks before Swann, seemed non-existent, or at least nothing which could be verified. The only fact he could be certain about was Mary’s continuing blindness in matters of the heart; for all her intelligence, discernment and self-regard, she had accepted Lockhart’s proposal of marriage less than three months after being first formally introduced. He was determined to unearth the truth about this man, and as no date for the wedding ceremony had yet been arranged, he still had time on his side. Lady Harriet seemed to be of the same opinion and so he felt he had an ally in his intention to stop this marriage from taking place.

  Only the first appointment that morning was related to any of these matters. He was waiting at the White Hart for George and Bridges. They had become his eyes and ears in the notorious Avon Street district, the centre of Wicks’ crime activities, and where Swann believed he had sighted the Scarred Man. Hopefully the pair would have news that would help in his search for him. In terms of trust, he believed he could depend on them with his life; indeed, they had already as good as saved his life during an assassination attempt made on him not long after he had arrived in the city. In terms of punctuality, however, this was a different matter. There was always a good reason for their lateness, most relating to ‘trouble’ which had seemingly found them, like bees to honey. And yet even within this irregularity there was a pattern. As Swann had come to realise, whatever hour an arrangement had been made, the time between that appointment and their appearance at the White Hart’s entrance always allowed just enough time for a second cup of coffee to be drunk. If this was to be true today, he mused, they would arrive after his next mouthful.

  His thoughts briefly turned to the other appointments. The later one, with Henry Fitzpatrick, was to discuss a matter he had been told required the ‘utmost discretion’. He had grown fond of Fitzpatrick whilst in Bath and the local magistrate had proved himself a trustworthy companion, above corruption and with a moral centre that could be relied upon in any manner of situations. If George and Bridges were two men you would want beside you in a street fight, then Fitzpatrick was a man you would wish in a legal one. And even though his calm demeanour and emotional self-restraint was not at the level of a top card player, his ability as a moral compass was beyond question.

  Then there was the remaining appointment, slotted in between the other two, which had led Swann to cancel returning home for breakfast with Mary. The urgent request for the meeting had been in the form of a hand-written letter that had been posted through the door of the house in Great Pulteney Street earlier that morning. There was no signature, but the paper on which the communication had been written was embossed and expensive. There was a familiarity to the handwriting, but he had not been able to yet recall what it was. It mentioned a matter of national security but other than the time and place, no other details
were forthcoming. No doubt all would be revealed at the appointed hour, he thought. He then lifted his cup and drank the remaining contents of his second cup of coffee.

  ‘Mr Swann, sir, I know we are late but we were detained,’ shouted George as he entered the White Hart. ‘We just heard news about what you’ve been asking us about.’

  George hurried over to where Swann was sitting, as Bridges came through the door. Although he had given them money for clothes and footwear, on top of their usual pay, they still wore their usual shabby attire, which stood in marked contrast to the well-dressed clientele of the coaching inn. At least they were no longer barefoot, as they had been the first few times he had met them. No doubt George, although having a penchant for spending money on more pleasurable pursuits, knew the benefits of thick boots during the winter months in the city.

  ‘Do you mean the Scarred Man?’ asked Swann quietly, as George stood next to his table like a pupil being addressed by a teacher.

  ‘Yes, sir, ’im.’

  George produced the copy of the drawing he had been given. Unlike Swann’s still pristine original, this was creased in several places, dirt-stained and had one corner torn.

  ‘What is the news, George?’

  Bridges had joined his companion. He was deaf and dumb but could lip-read and sign. For some reason, Swann observed, he was doing neither at present.

  ‘He is in the city again.’

  ‘Someone has seen him?’

  ‘Yes, sir, or so they say. That is why we’re late. There was a message at the Fountain, saying a man we know wanted to see us. We went to his stall in Horse Street but he wasn’t there. Then we came here. We’ll go later.’

  ‘This is the same stallholder as before?’

  George nodded. When they had begun showing the drawing around the market traders and stallholders in ‘the hate’, as the Avon Street district was known locally, one of them had recognised its subject. He had seen him a few times in the area, so he said, during the past couple of years. He always remembered him from an incident near his stall. The man had a long scar on his right cheek and had been walking with the previous crime boss, before Wicks, when three men had attacked them. One of the attackers had been killed outright by this Scarred Man, who had produced a short bayonet and stabbed him. The crime boss had despatched the second man and wounded the third. As this third man lay on the floor the crime boss put his boot on the man’s bleeding leg and began to press down. The man screamed in agony but wouldn’t say the name of the person behind the attack. After more of the same, along with a promise his life would be spared if he told them, he did so. The Scarred Man then stepped forward and thrust the already bloodied bayonet through his throat. He had only said a few words during the incident but it was enough to know he came from London.