The Circle of Sappho Read online

  The last time the stallholder had seen him, however, was sometime last year, possibly October or November, he said. He had been alone with his head down, but it was definitely him. This last sighting, around the time Swann believed he had seen him, confirmed in his mind that the man he had been searching for all these years had been in the city. And with the stallholder wanting to see George and Bridges it might be that he was back; that he was somewhere in the city at this very moment. Swann had the urge to leave the White Hart and take to the streets looking for the stallholder or even the Scarred Man himself, but he had two more appointments to keep and George and Bridges had promised they would look for the stallholder as soon as they left.

  ‘Devote all your time to this George until you find him,’ said Swann. ‘I will make sure it is worth your trouble, both of you.’

  ‘Yes sir!’ said George.

  ‘I have a couple of appointments to keep this morning but leave a message at my office if you find out anything more. Otherwise I suggest we meet at the Fountain Inn this evening at the usual time.’

  George nodded, although Bridges’ gaze showed he was still elsewhere. As well as noticing he had not been lip-reading or signing, Swann had also observed he had a black eye. This was not an unusual sight for the pair but it was normally George, through an altercation with an angry husband or suchlike, who bore it.

  ‘Is something wrong with Bridges?’ enquired Swann. ‘His attention seems elsewhere.’

  ‘He is thinking about a woman, sir. That’s how he got his black eye.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ replied Swann, somewhat surprised.

  ‘No, Mr Swann, it’s nothing like that. I’ll tell you about it tonight.’

  Swann nodded.

  George tapped Bridges on the arm and brought him back to the present. As soon as the men left, Swann paid his bill and departed. It was not yet ten o’clock but already the morning had provided enough mystery for the whole day.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Swann came out of the White Hart and turned right down Stall Street. A light drizzle was falling. If there was such a thing as a typical early spring morning, this was not it. The sky was a dark winter grey and threatened heavier rain.

  Opposite the White Hart and across a large courtyard stood Bath Abbey; its west front magnificent even in inclement weather. There had been a Christian church on or near the site for more than a thousand years, while elements of Christianity in the area could be traced back to the Roman occupation. At this time worship had been undertaken in secret, for fear of persecution, and, after the Romans left, became submerged into Celticism through the Irish invaders who arrived in the city. Somehow the religion survived and throughout the Anglo-Saxon, Norman and medieval periods, various structures had been erected, destroyed, restored or rebuilt. The present-day abbey had undergone major restoration prompted by Elizabeth I, who instigated a national fund to pay for the work and then, in 1583, decreed it should become the parish church of Bath.

  Swann had been researching Bath Abbey and its west front for a chapter to be included in a guide to the city, to be published later in the year. It was really a favour for Richard Huntley, his literary agent acquaintance, whose client and original author of the book had died three chapters short of completion. When asked if he would write the chapter, Swann had immediately said yes. Not that he was overtly religious, but the chance to discover more about the carved figures scaling the ladders on its west front, which he often stopped to admire, was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  The truth was, he had actually been given the option of writing all three outstanding chapters, but ‘A Discerning Ladies’ Guide to Shops and Shopping’ and ‘Balls, Banquets and Bathing’, which would serve as introductory chapters giving an overview of the highlights awaiting visitors arriving for the season, had been quickly declined. He had briefly mentioned it to Mary, but as she was already involved in her own piece of writing – although she did not disclose what it was – she turned them down as well.

  As he walked down Stall Street Swann briefly entered the Three Tuns, which acted as collection point for the Royal Mail coaches. He came out empty handed though, as no post had arrived for him from London that morning. There were rumours about the inn being in financial difficulty and that it might possibly close, but in Bath rumours were as much a currency in social circles as money. If it was true, it would no doubt soon become public notice.

  Swann now took a circumvent route into the southern part of the city, to ensure he was not being followed. He had made that error once and the artist who had painted the Scarred Man’s portrait had lost his life through it. He was heading into the centre of the Avon Street district, but now felt the urge to turn right and go to Horse Street, to see if the stallholder had arrived. As he realised he did not know what the man looked like, a nearby city clock started striking the hour. He carried on deeper into the maze of alleyways of the notorious area with another thought now rising within him: what if it was a trap? Despite the officialdom the letter had seemingly carried with it, as soon as he had seen the address where the meeting was to take place, the possibility of it being a trap and the possibility of it being permeated by Wicks had entered his mind. It had been temporarily supplanted by his meeting with George and Bridges, but now re-entered his thoughts as the reality of the incongruity of his surroundings and the letter became visibly apparent.

  With regular flooding, along with the vermin and stench, it was easy to see why its inhabitants knew this place as ‘the hate’, especially with the ever-present threat of violence and death palpable in the air. Street names here were almost non-existent but Swann’s knowledge of the area, gleaned from numerous trips he had undertaken, most of them in disguise, plus information he had picked up from George and Bridges, meant there were very few streets, alleys or passageways that were not known to him. He turned the corner and bumped into a figure coming the other way. He was momentarily taken aback, but then realised who it was.

  ‘Lockhart!’

  ‘Swann?’

  In the next moment they had composed themselves and without another word continued on their separate ways. For his part, Swann could not afford to stop and converse, however curious he might have been to discover the reason behind Lockhart’s presence in this nefarious district.

  Swann reached the street in which the address on the letter was located. The winter flooding had receded, but one could see the water mark, above the ground-floor windowsills, where it had risen this particular year. He reached the building and looked around. The door looked secure and could not be pushed open. Although the exterior seemed rundown, the locks on display showed the length which someone had gone to secure the interior. He turned the door handle habitually and to his surprise found it unlocked. He opened it cautiously and stepped inside.

  ‘If you would be so good as to close and lock the door behind you, Mr Swann,’ a male voice spoke from one of the landings above, ‘and then make your way up the staircase to the third floor.’

  Swann did as he was instructed. The voice sounded too educated to be one of Wicks’ men, but nevertheless the possibility remained in Swann’s mind and so he checked his pistol was easily retrievable from inside his jacket. The stairs were not pristine but in good enough order. As he climbed the first two flights he observed that the doors which ran the length of the hallways, leading off from the landings, were all closed. He carried on up to the third floor, where the man who had spoken awaited him. This time he did not speak but merely gestured for Swann to follow him along the hallway. He was well dressed and clean-shaven. If this was part of Wicks’ empire, then Swann had dramatically underestimated him.

  As they continued along the hallway, Swann noticed a door slightly ajar and looked in as they passed it. Much to his surprise, he saw a desk and a gentleman lent over it, writing, as though this was an office in London or in the city’s upper town. Two doors along, the man in front now stopped. He knocked on the door, opened it and gestured for Swann to go t
hrough. As he did so the door closed behind him, the man staying outside.

  The room was sparsely furnished but looked as if it functioned as another office. Across the room, looking out of the window up at Beechen Cliff, was a figure he immediately recognised, even from behind. It was the second time in a matter of minutes he found himself in the company of a person he would not expect to see in this part of the city.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Swann,’ said Lady Harriet as she turned to face him. ‘As I mentioned in the note to you, this is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘I was intrigued by the summons, even more so now I know who is behind it.’

  ‘Hardly a summons, more a request I hope.’

  ‘I did not realise you had a presence in the city.’

  ‘This building is used by an organisation I occasionally undertake work for.’

  ‘I would not have believed this existed here.’

  ‘Which is exactly why it does,’ replied Lady Harriet. ‘It is prone to flooding during the winter, but the rooms on the ground floor and basement are hardly ever used. Still, I do not want to bore you with distracting details. I have requested your attendance here to undertake a case for me. I prefer to tell you the particulars in my carriage, if you care to join me for a journey out of the city.’

  ‘I have an appointment in an hour’s time, which I wish to keep.’

  ‘This may well take longer,’ replied Lady Harriet, ‘but if the urgency and importance of this matter was not adequately conveyed within my communication, then I am stating it now.’

  ‘Then you have my agreement, Lady Harriet, although I wish a note to be sent to the magistrate, Henry Fitzpatrick, stating I have been unfortunately detained and will meet him at his Guildhall chambers as soon as I am able.’

  Harriet nodded and took a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. She handed it to Swann. As he wrote his message to Fitzpatrick, Lady Harriet returned to the window, picked up a plant pot with a black flag in it and placed it on the floor.

  ‘Come, my carriage will be waiting outside by the time we are downstairs.’

  Swann followed Lady Harriet out into the corridor, where she handed the note he had written to the well-dressed man still standing there. He took it obediently and gave an almost imperceptible bow. Lady Harriet and Swann descended the three flights of stairs he had recently climbed, but instead of leaving by the front entrance they descended another flight that led to the basement. From here they walked along a corridor toward the farthest room. Lady Harriet lifted a flaming torch from outside the room and went inside, where a curtain hung on the opposite wall. She lifted it and Swann saw a door behind. Lady Harriet unlocked it with a key she had on her person and gestured for Swann to go through first. Stepping inside herself, she followed him through, then closed and locked the door. The passageway in front was now cast into light from the torch. Lady Harriet went ahead again as they moved along another corridor, this one made of earth. It smelt damp but the floor beneath Swann’s feet was thankfully dry. If this part of the building had flooded, someone had done a good job of clearing it up. Swann measured about two streets’ worth of passageway until they reached another door. Again Lady Harriet unlocked and relocked it. There was now a flight of stairs heading up. Given the fact Swann had entered the building from the south, with the river behind him, and that the subterranean route they had taken was north, this meant, if his calculations were correct, that they were now under Peter Street. They climbed the staircase and passed through an unlocked door into the stock room of a shop. Swann followed Lady Harriet through the shop itself, where none of the workers or customers gave either of them a second glance, and outside on to the road he had correctly predicted: Peter Street. No sooner had they emerged than a four-horse carriage pulled up and its driver jumped down to open a door; Lady Harriet and Swann stepped in. The carriage then sped off.

  ‘I assume moving the black flag in your plant pot is what summoned your driver,’ said Swann.

  ‘That is most observant of you, Swann, but from your reputation nothing less is to be expected. Yes, the driver waits with the carriage at Beechen Cliff and when I remove the black flag and plant pot from the window, he knows I wish to be collected. We have it down to a fine art, as you have experienced. But as for the urgent matter with which I require your assistance, it is in connection with a girls’ school a little way out of the city at Grove Park. It is a private establishment run by a close acquaintance of mine. An incident has taken place there which I wish you to investigate.’

  ‘What kind of “incident” and why do you think I can help?’

  ‘The bodies of a teacher and one of the pupils were discovered yesterday in the grounds and I want you to ascertain exactly how they died.’

  ‘They were found together?’

  Lady Harriett nodded.

  ‘I want to engage you professionally, Swann. As I said, it is my understanding that you have acquired a reputation for solving several crimes since being in Bath.’

  ‘Your message mentioned national security,’ queried Swann.

  ‘I will give you more details after we have been to the school; which is where we are heading now.’

  ‘If I do take this case, there will be two provisions.’

  Lady Harriet said nothing but waited for Swann to continue.

  ‘I carry out the investigation in my own way. No interference from the school, yourself or anyone connected with the Alien Office, back in Avon Street.’

  Lady Harriet smiled.

  ‘My compliments, Swann. How did you know?’

  ‘I did not for sure, Lady Harriet. It was an educated assumption. I have been aware of their existence for a number of years, as my work with the Bow Street Runners in London occasionally brought me into contact with their agents; one of whom I believe I recognised at a desk on the same floor as your office just now. Given that their raison d’être is being the authority through which all foreigners entering England have to register, I still cannot quite understand what they, and therefore you, are doing in Bath; unless, of course, the River Avon has now been assigned as a point of entry.’

  ‘I am obviously not at liberty to discuss anything you witnessed this morning, but I do agree to your first condition. There will be no interference.’

  Swann nodded.

  ‘You mentioned a second one?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Swann. ‘I would like to know exactly what it was that you and Lockhart were discussing at the meeting you both had, not long before I arrived.’

  ‘Lockhart? I have not seen him since I gave my blessing on his engagement with Mary. I really do not know what you are talking about, Swann.’

  ‘Then forgive me Lady Harriet, I must have been mistaken.’

  Although outwardly accepting her answer, the momentary flicker of her eyes only confirmed his suspicion that it was her office from which Lockhart had been leaving when they had bumped into each other. It had only been a hunch and almost on a whim he had made the suggestion to gauge Lady Harriet’s reaction. Her response had been enlightening enough for now.

  The remainder of the journey was undertaken in silence. The carriage made its way out of the city, up its steep northern slope and onto the expanse that was Lansdown. They drove past the former residence of Henry Gregor-Smith, the man whom Swann had saved from the gallows only a few months before. As good as his word, the author had subsequently moved to the continent and put his gothic novel-writing days behind him. He continued to look out of the carriage window as they travelled along the top of Lansdown and down the other side, into the valley beyond. As the carriage came round one corner, an estate with extensive grounds and a huge lake came into view. The main residence was impressive, but Swann’s attention was immediately drawn to the small island situated in the centre of the lake. Instinctively, he knew this estate was where they were headed and that whatever the ‘incident’ involved, it had occurred here.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I opened the school eleven
years ago, Mr Swann. Each year we welcome girls from respectable and distinguished families from all across England and each year the authorities attempt ever more elaborate and ludicrous ways to try and close us down because they do not like what my school represents. As you can see they have not succeeded and I consider their attempts an indication that I must be doing something right in my educational outlook.’

  Catherine Jennings looked exactly how she spoke: forthright, determined and readily prepared for an argument.

  ‘So why have they failed, if you do not mind my asking?’ asked Swann. ‘My understanding of such men is that they are not the type easily defeated.’

  ‘I work hard to ensure we remain open, Mr Swann. Although I can always rely on help from acquaintances in high places,’ she said, acknowledging Lady Harriet.

  ‘And is the crowd at the entrance when we arrived part of their attempts?’

  On arriving at the front gates, Lady Harriet’s carriage had been met by a small group, the majority of them male, who made a show of protest as they drove through. Although their words were lost between the wind and the carriage’s wheels on the gravel, their gestures and expressions showed they were not advocating an endorsement of the school.