The Regency Detective Read online

  Malone stepped forward, bringing their faces only inches apart.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Mister Kirby. I own this city and not you or anyone else tells me what to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that Malone, but then you leave me no choice.’

  In one sudden movement Kirby raised a small wooden truncheon from behind his back and struck the side of Malone’s head, knocking him unconscious. On seeing their leader fall to the floor his men rushed towards the platform but from the shadows a larger group appeared and surrounded them. The fight between the two gangs of men was brief but brutal and in the aftermath all of Malone’s men lay dead or dying. Two of the victorious group now came up onto the raised platform and after a gesture from Kirby hauled the unconscious Malone to his feet. Kirby slapped the other man’s face several times and slowly Malone’s eyes opened. Looking around he saw his gang decimated on the warehouse floor.

  ‘I will kill you for this, Kirby, and send your body down the Avon.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak to an associate of mine, Malone,’ said Wicks, as he stepped out from the shadows to face his rival.

  ‘Wicks! You’ll join him too.’

  ‘And what makes you sure it isn’t you ending up in the river?’

  ‘I know people in London,’ said Malone, still defiant.

  ‘That’s interesting, because your “people” have already sent word they’ll not interfere. It seems they’re having doubts about you and I have to agree.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, there was a time you’d never have walked into such an obvious trap as this, at least not with so few men. No, your time in this city is over, Malone.’ Wicks took another step forward and as he did so drew a large cutlass from its scabbard attached to his belt. For the first time, fear appeared in Malone’s eyes.

  ‘Wicks, now wait a min …’ but he didn’t get a chance to finish his words, as the cutlass was driven deep into his midriff by Wicks, who watched with malicious pleasure as the blood spurted from his adversary’s mouth. Wicks then gave the blade a victorious twist as it reached its hilt, before drawing it out unhurriedly, savouring every moment of his triumph. As Malone slumped to the ground dead Wicks turned to his own men.

  ‘Right, finish off any of Malone’s men still alive and get rid of all the bodies. Dump them in the river. That’ll show people who’s in charge now.’

  Wicks turned to his ‘associate’, still standing next to him.

  ‘You’ve done well, Kirby. I won’t forget this.’

  ‘I am glad to be of service,’ Kirby replied.

  They glanced at Malone’s body as it was being dragged away.

  ‘This city is mine now,’ said Wicks, ‘and there’s no one to stop me.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  In May 1760 it was decided by ‘The Corporation’ – the self-regulating, self-appointed body of men who controlled everything in the city from municipal policy to granting sedan licences – ‘that the Town Hall be newly built in a more commodious place, and a committee formed.’ This conclusion being drawn from the realisation that the current building had not only outgrown its original purpose but through its location in the middle of the High Street, which happened to be the main thoroughfare, had become a fairly substantial obstruction to the ever increasing volume of traffic entering the city. And so began one of the most controversial and convoluted episodes in Bath’s architectural history. The saga dragged on for seventeen years until the old building was finally vacated (and unceremoniously pulled down soon after) and the Mayor and council officials made their way across the street to take up residence in the new Guildhall. And in the quarter century which had elapsed since then, the building had become the symbol of corporate authority in Bath and its seat of justice.

  Inside the main courtroom the early session was reaching the culmination of its first case of the morning: a private prosecution brought by Theodore Evans against one Mr Tyler with local magistrate Richard J. Kirby presiding. Kirby banged his gavel, bringing his court to order. He did not look any the worse for his nocturnal activities as he turned to address the all-male jury.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Kirby began, ‘you are now in possession of the facts in this case, including what I believe to be a key character testimony by Mr Wicks, the defendant’s employer.’

  Wicks nodded approval from his seat in the front row of the public benches.

  ‘It is therefore your task to decide whether the defendant, Mr Tyler, is indeed such an immoral man as suggested by his prosecutor and if so to sentence him accordingly, or whether, in fact, he is the victim of a malicious vendetta intent on destroying his name.’

  Evans rose angrily to his feet. ‘This is an outrage, sir! You are engaging in blatant coercion of the jury. This man is a habitual pickpocket, a thief and no doubt worse and everyone in this courtroom knows it.’

  Kirby furiously banged his gavel.

  ‘Mr Evans, may I remind you that whilst your standing in this city is beyond reproach, this is my courtroom and if proper respect is not forthcoming you will give me no choice but to nullify your prosecution and hold you in contempt of this court.’

  Realising he had no other choice, Evans bowed his head and sat back down. ‘I am sorry, your honour.’

  Kirby nodded his acceptance of Evans’ apology and returned to the jury. ‘Now gentlemen, please begin your deliberation.’

  Meanwhile, not far from the Guildhall in traffic-congested Cheap Street, Mary Gardiner stood in the morning sunlight staring absentmindedly into a shop window; her black attire in stark contrast to the vibrant clothing on display in front of her. She had been there for a couple of minutes when her name was called from behind. She turned and across the busy street, at the end of Union Passage, saw a woman in her mid-twenties waving to her. It was an acquaintance, Isabella Thorpe, an unstoppable force of social climbing whose sole ambition in life was the marrying of a wealthy man; if he also happened to be attractive so much the better. The traffic was ceaseless but with the impatience of a spoilt child Isabella stomped across the street, causing a small gig to swerve to avoid her; its driver cursing her as he drove off towards Westgate Street.

  ‘I do declare this street becomes more odious every year,’ said Isabella, before greeting Mary with a kiss on either cheek. She now took a step backwards and with as much empathetic sentiment as she could muster, said, ‘Oh my dearest Mary, you poor creature, how are you? I returned to Bath last evening to be told the sad news about your mother. The season will not be the same without her.’

  ‘Thank you Isabella, your sentiments are most kind.’

  ‘Is your brother here?’ asked Isabella, glancing around with a predatory instinct.

  ‘No. I am waiting for him now.’

  ‘I still cannot quite believe it,’ exclaimed Isabella, ‘a financially independent bachelor and his first time in Bath. I wish I could stay with you and meet him but there are people in the Pump Room awaiting my company. You must promise to introduce me to him at the earliest opportunity though.’

  The nearby Abbey clock struck the half hour.

  ‘I must leave or I will be unsociably late,’ Isabella said, and in another moment had disappeared around the corner and through the archway leading to the Pump Room. Mary remained standing by the shop front, feeling somewhat exhausted by Isabella in the way one did after a brisk walk in a strong breeze.

  Mary’s thoughts now turned to her brother and the imposition of having to be introduced to Isabella. She undoubtedly knew that he would give her no more than a polite response and a diplomatic brush-off but unfortunately by meeting her it would, she feared, strengthen her brother’s disdain for what he believed to be the more frivolous nature of the city. Hopefully during his stay though, and with Edmund’s assistance, her brother might experience more of the cultural side and then persuading him to stay permanently might prove that much easier. But that would have to wait until after the funeral.

  Mary had deliber
ately omitted any mention of Edmund in her last letter to Jack as she wanted her brother’s first impression of her new suitor to be in the flesh and not through the limitation of mere words, however flattering to his person she would have made them. Edmund’s light manner had been a comfort to her in the days immediately after her mother’s death and although he was presently in London on business, he would be at the funeral the following day.

  Back at the courtroom the foreman of the jury, a man of around forty-five with thinning grey hair and a dutiful expression on his face, stood facing Kirby.

  ‘Sir, have you good gentlemen reached your verdict?’

  ‘Yes, your honour, we have,’ said the foreman.

  ‘And how do you find the defendant?’

  ‘We find the defendant not guilty, your honour.’

  Evans was immediately to his feet again. ‘The law is being made a mockery.’

  ‘Mr Evans, I will not warn you again,’ said Kirby, banging his gavel once more to enforce the point.

  ‘May I say I concur with you gentlemen in that I believe you have reached the right decision,’ Kirby told the jury, before turning to the triumphant defendant. ‘And let me on behalf of the court, Mr Tyler, apologise for your incarceration while waiting to appear here in court. You are now free to go.’

  Kirby exchanged a brief, furtive glance with Wicks and then left the court, little realising the chain of events he had now set in motion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On reaching the outskirts of their next scheduled stop the uniformed guard brought the elongated coach horn to his lips and sounded the three long blasts signifying their imminent arrival to the city’s inhabitants ahead. This included the postmaster who was to be ready and waiting with any parcels for loading; there was no delaying the Royal Mail. As the noise of the final blast died away in the crisp morning air the driver stridently announced the destination for the benefit of the quartet of passengers inside: ‘Bath approaching!’

  The combination of horn and voice was enough to stir the three slumbering passengers and their reaction on waking told Swann much about them. The two females reacted with girlish exuberance as they craned their necks out of the coach window to get a glimpse of the city; this unladylike conduct seeming to suggest this was their first visit. The gentleman, meanwhile, looked slightly amused at his companion’s contorted positions, though not embarrassed, while his indifference to the buildings on view outside showed either a distinct lack of interest in grand architecture, of which some of the finest examples in Europe were on display, or else a familiarity with them which had resulted in apathy.

  Swann turned his attention outward and immersed himself in the Palladian splendour of the buildings which lay in front of him. From what he had recently read, the fact Bath had achieved its place as one of the finest architecturally designed European cities in only a few decades was remarkable enough, but even more so as it was through the vision of one man. John Wood’s proposal for this ‘new’ city, to be built upon and extended out from the old medieval one, was to create a harmonious and symmetrical urban metropolis uplifting to the casual eye. On a deeper level, however, he envisaged the views to transcend the secular world in order to bring its observer closer to the glory of God. The terraces and crescents Swann could see from the carriage gave ample enough evidence of the successful fulfilment of this vision but with the holy trinity of the King’s Circus, Royal Crescent and Great Pulteney Street as yet unseen, the pinnacle of this achievement was still to be savoured.

  The sense of awe-inspiring delight at the vista before them was now mirrored in the expressions on the two female faces but whereas Swann’s focus was on the outer structures and the finely carved details upon them, their feminine eyes were firmly fixed on what was inside. As domestic dwellings gave way to commercial properties so their gazes darted from shop window to shop window and the superfluity of clothes and other items on display there. The city may have earned its reputation as a spa and enhanced its cultural significance with its architecture, but for many visitors it was the self-proclaimed title of the shopping centre of the South-West which they had come to experience.

  In the years since the British had successfully supplanted the Dutch as the busiest merchants in the world, all manner of luxurious and exotic goods had found their way to English shores from numerous foreign ports. The result being that the act of shopping, which at first had been a fashionable activity for society’s elite, had become a national obsession. And from what he was now seeing of the city, Bath not only welcomed this obsession but with its tempting window displays, advertising boards and the array of merchandise lining the pavements, aggressively encouraged it. For Swann, however, he could only perceive opportunities for crime: the free-standing, unattended tables laden with valuable goods; the rows of unguarded gold jewellery in shop frontages; and the chance to orchestrate, no doubt, various protection schemes to ‘guarantee’ that traders’ contents and buildings remained intact during non-trading hours.

  And then it struck him – if Malone had gone anywhere, Bath was an obvious choice. There had been a rumour that he had fled London after Mr Gardiner put up the large reward for his apprehension and whether or not he came directly to the city at that time, if details of the overheard conversation proved correct, he was certainly here now. Why Swann had not considered Bath before perplexed him momentarily, but as the coach entered the city centre a more overwhelming emotion gripped him: a feeling of anticipation at perhaps finally tracking down his father’s killer and administering the justice he had sought for so long.

  The coach neared the Guildhall and as it did so a man emerged from inside and stood on the steps surveying the scene, intently watching visitors and residents alike as they went about their business of generally ‘seeing and being seen’. He immediately caught Swann’s attention and as the carriage passed the building their eyes met. It was only for an instant but with both men well versed in the art of observation for their own means, each felt within that brief moment to have gauged the measure of the other. For Swann, he could recognise a man outside a judicial building with no other reason for being there than as a malefactor. His clothing may have suggested an ordinary resident, a witness perhaps, but the penetrative stare of the eyes revealed his predatory nature and the coldness therein, the detachment from morality when carrying out criminal activities.

  To Tyler, standing on the Guildhall steps, he saw in the man looking out from the Royal Mail coach, his first ‘mark’ of the day, another rich visitor with a bill-purse full of money which he, Tyler, would acquire in the near future. The fact he was travelling on the Mail no doubt confirmed his wealth and instinctively, as he descended the steps, Tyler moved the fingers on either hand, limbering them up in anticipation.

  Inside the coach Swann was now heading along Cheap Street, passing the shop window into which Mary had so recently been looking. The driver turned into Stall Street and their destination: the Three Tuns Inn. No sooner had the carriage stopped outside the building, than the postmaster appeared with several parcels.

  Swann gestured for the women to alight first but they did not move.

  ‘We are all bound for Bristol sir,’ said their male companion. In reply Swann nodded politely, tipped his hat slightly to the women and stepped out. As he did this, he was watched by the gentleman who continued to observe as Swann was greeted by an attractive woman in her early twenties. On seeing the woman’s face as she turned, however, the gentleman quickly sat back in his seat out of view.

  After greeting one another fleetingly, Swann manoeuvred his sister away from the ensuing maelstrom which always accompanied the Royal Mail’s arrival, to a more conducive spot further up the street where they could converse easier.

  ‘Dearest Mary,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry I was not able to be here sooner.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself Jack. I understand you have your work but it is good to have you in Bath now.’ It was not a complete lie Mary told, more a half-truth. Her brother�
��s belated arrival had been a major source of disappointment to her, but over the years she had become accustomed to his ways and now accepted them without either recompense or rebuke.

  ‘Have all the arrangements been made?’ Swann asked.

  ‘Yes, the service is to take place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I hope this has not been too much for you, having to organise everything by yourself,’ said Swann, with a genuine regretful tone at his absence.

  ‘A family friend has seen to the majority of the arrangements,’ Mary replied.

  Swann felt somewhat relieved at this information.

  ‘He did mention the possibility of being here to greet you Jack, but I know he is a busy man.’

  At that moment though, with the Royal Mail seen off on its way to Bristol and the area outside of the Three Tuns clear once more, Mary spotted a gentleman making his way up Stall Street.

  ‘There is Henry now,’ she said.

  Strolling up the street at a leisurely pace was Henry Fitzpatrick, a fairly rotund man in his early forties. If early ambition had been irretrievably thwarted, then later life had given him a pastoral demeanour he was constantly putting to good use within this urban setting.

  Fitzpatrick saw Mary and waved. As she reciprocated, Swann was bumped into from behind. The man immediately apologised and strode on. Although Swann only caught a glimpse, he instantly recognised the man from the steps outside the Guildhall. His gaze followed the man as he carried on down the street and towards Fitzpatrick, who was now by the entrance of the Three Tuns. Instinctively Swann already knew exactly what was going to happen and as he watched he saw the man ‘bump’ into Fitzpatrick, gesture another apology and then hasten off down a side street opposite the inn.

  ‘Stay here Mary,’ said Swann, ‘I believe your friend has just been robbed.’

  Before she could respond her brother was already striding down the street on the pickpocket’s trail. On reaching Fitzpatrick, who stood blissfully unaware that anything untoward had just occurred, Swann asked, ‘Do you still have your bill-purse, sir?’ Fitzpatrick felt his inside top left pocket. ‘No, it is gone!’ Swann nodded and began running into the street the thief had made his escape along.