Oliver Twist Investigates

by G. M. Best

  ‘One evening I came across Nancy after a particularly vicious attack. I pleaded with her to end Bill’s jealousy by making clear she had no further interest in you. It was then, Master Oliver, that at last she finally told me her secret. She informed me that you were her long-lost son. It came as a shock to me, although I had long known that Nancy had once given birth. The stretch marks on her body bore witness to that. Indeed, she used to joke sometimes about how stupid many of her customers were because, despite these indicators, she could still persuade them she was a virgin. Virginity was an obscene joke as far as Nancy was concerned. The money charged for supposed ‘virgins’ and ‘fresh country girls’ was always far higher for the heavy-spending debauchees who frequented many of the whorehouses. She laughed at the so-called ‘dolly-mops’, who gave of their real virginity to a spruce young medical student or junior clerk without realizing its market value. Occasionally she would enjoy seducing some youth into his first experience of sex, and then, having taken his money, would tell him how inept he was or whisper into his ear that he ought to know she had syphilis. A cruel joke but I cannot blame her. Nancy and I both knew it was likely that disease would eventually catch us both.

  ‘Nancy told me that when she was still little more than a child herself she had failed to take the necessary precautions. By the time Fagin became aware of her condition it was too late for an abortion. She gave birth to a son only to have him promptly removed from her arms. Fagin told her he was handed over as an orphan to a workhouse but he refused to tell her which one. All she could remember of the child she held so briefly in her arms was a small birthmark on its back. When she saw you semi-naked and saw that very same mark on your skin, Master Oliver, she was convinced that you were her lost child. From that moment on she determined to prevent you facing the life she had had. I cannot tell you whether you are indeed her child, for she may have been mistaken, but this I can tell you. It brought out in her all the qualities that her way of life had for so long largely suppressed. Nancy loved you as only a mother can love. It drove her to seek your safety above her own. As you are all too painfully aware, it cost Nancy her life.’

  ‘Enough, enough, Betsy, enough,’ I cried. ‘Please do not make me feel even guiltier than I do. I never wished for Bill to murder her.’

  Betsy drew breath as if judging whether to say more and then, deciding to do so, she dropped her astounding news to my disconcerted mind:

  ‘I’m not convinced that Bill did murder her, Master Oliver. Nancy told me something else, something I have never before revealed to anyone. But, if you are her son, you need to know. Nancy informed me that someone else was threatening her life. She told me there had been two attempts to poison those closest to her and she believed she might be the next victim. I am sure you remember how for a time illness reduced Sikes almost to a corpse. Despite his strong constitution he became as weak as water and was reduced to such a parlous state that it was only Nancy’s constant care that enabled him to survive. She nursed him day and night to the point of exhaustion. Afterwards she told me she was certain that it was not a disease which had caused his suffering but poison. Rose Maylie was taken seriously ill at about the same time. You will be aware of how precious close she came to dying, although in her case it was a doctor’s skill that nursed her back to health. Nancy was sure her illness was the work of the same person and she was terrified that the poisoner might strike her down next, thus preventing her from continuing to look after your welfare. However, she had no idea who was seeking to destroy her and those to whom she was close.

  ‘For that reason I have sometimes thought it is possible, Master Oliver that her death was not at the hands of Bill. When I found her poor body, her head beaten beyond recognition, I could not believe Bill could have done that much damage to her, brute though he was. Could a man who loved her so much really destroy her beauty so savagely and totally? Or did the unknown poisoner she feared turn to a more violent method of disposing of her and then make Bill appear to be the murderer? Unfortunately, I remember little of what happened after the discovery of her body because I became hysterical. I screamed and raved and even beat my head on the walls. In the end they put me into a straitjacket and took me to hospital. By the time I was released the entire circle in which we lived for so long had been destroyed in the wake of her murder. I have mourned her loss as only a true friend can, but I suspect the truth of what happened to Nancy will never now be known.’

  Needless to say, Betsy’s account moved me greatly, especially her references to the poisoning of Bill Sikes and Rose Maylie. Although I felt it inappropriate to tell her anything of Dickens’s story, it seemed to me blindingly obvious that Mary Hogarth had been a third victim of the unknown poisoner and, if so, Dickens was sadly mistaken in his view of Nancy’s guilt. However, the identity of such a poisoner was a total mystery. I told Betsy it was essential that I should talk to others of Fagin’s gang because one of them might have some clues to his or her identity. Betsy hesitated, and then replied that there was only one whom she still saw occasionally. This was Tommy Chitling. She smiled and I knew why. In the old days the Dodger and Charley Bates had teased Chitling horribly about his affection for Betsy. I suspected that he was still attracted to her and that she enjoyed his attentions, even though she had sworn never to marry any man. Betsy’s blush confirmed my suspicions. I thanked her for all of her honesty and, despite her protestations, insisted on donating some money for her charity work. I told her it was my way of thanking Nancy for rescuing me. And it was.

  8

  RATCATCHING

  As I approached The Three Cripples, or rather The Cripples as it was more commonly known, it looked very little different from the outside from how it had appeared when I was a child, although it was much smaller than I remembered. When all those years ago I had been dragged inside by Bill Sikes, I had found it a very intimidating place because it was filled with a numerous company drawn from the worst gutters of London. The men seemed invariably coarse and vulgar. Most had consumed far too much alcohol to control their passions. The women, who were its main attraction, ranged from mere girls who had not yet learnt to hide their fear and aversion to the tasks they were expected to fulfil, to older women who had painted their harsh faces in a futile attempt to disguise the ravages of their soulless lifestyle. I had hoped never to enter its filthy walls again, but my quest now gave me no option.

  When I entered it the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke that at first I could scarce see anything. By degrees, however, my eyes became accustomed to the murk and I saw that its clientele had changed but little. I recognized the man behind the bar as Tommy Chitling, though if he had passed me in the street I would not have done so. He had grown much more corpulent than when I had known him and a life spent largely indoors had rendered his features grey and pallid. Whatever Betsy saw in him, it was evidently not his looks or his dress. His hair was greasy and unwashed, his skin was pockmarked and scarred, his mouth was marred by some of the most blackened and decayed teeth I had ever seen, and his nose was misshapen, probably as a result of some drunken brawl. His appearance was not helped by the dirt-encrusted clothes he wore or by the cut of his small beard, which seemed to give his features a rather ratlike look. And the smell of vermin seemed to permeate the atmosphere around him. The reason for this soon became clear. When he had become the landlord of The Three Cripples, he had altered the entertainment it offered by converting it into an establishment that entertained its customers by holding organized rat-fights.

  The front of the long bar was crowded with men smoking and drinking. Most were talking about dogs and some had brought their fierce animals with them. These were struggling in their masters’ arms, whining and barking. Nearly all of them were marked with nasty scars from vicious bites inflicted by the rats they were trained to fight. The walls were adorned with sporting pictures and brass decorated dog-collars made of leather. On special display was a black one with a silver clasp, which, I subsequently learnt, w
as to be the prize in a rat-match the following week. Over the fireplace was a square glazed box in which was displayed a stuffed former prize-winning bulldog with its glass eyes protruding as if the poor creature had been deeply shocked by its extinction. Its unblinking gaze stared out at the rat pit itself.

  If you have never seen one, a rat pit resembles a small circus, some six feet in diameter. It is surrounded by a wall with a high wooden rim that reaches to elbow level. The branches of a gas lamp are arranged to hang over the pit to illuminate its white-painted floor. A few moments after my entrance most of the audience began clambering upon tables and benches to view the entertainment, and a few of the more daring even began hanging over the side of the pit itself in their determination to get the best possible sight of the forthcoming action. For the wealthier a private box provided a particularly good vantage point and it was into this that I was directed by Tommy Chitling, once he had espied me and welcomed me. I thus found myself an unwilling participant in the savage show that was about to commence.

  A rusty wire cage, filled with a dark, moving mass of large and evil-looking rats, was brought in and the excited barking from the dogs became almost unbearable. Tommy made the round of the room, handling each dog in turn, feeling and squeezing its legs and paws and scrutinizing its eyes. The first dog was chosen. Despite its small size, it was a fearsome-looking brute. One of Tommy Chitling’s men then began pulling the rats out of the cage by their tails and jerking them into the arena. He counted out a dozen. Bets were exchanged all around the room before the selected terrier was thrown into the pit. Immediately it advanced on the trapped rats. Some sprang up at his face, making him momentarily draw back and bark his defiance. Then the dog resumed his attack, snatching a rat in his mouth. It curled around and fastened its yellow teeth on his neck before the life was crushed out of it. The dog seized another, shaking it furiously and bashing its head on the floor repeatedly. This made the crowd roar with laughter. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing more but my imagination filled the gap till silence indicated that all the rats were dead.

  However, this was only a taster. The blood-flecked terrier was removed, its mouth rinsed with peppermint and water, and once again rats were dropped one by one into the pit. This time I reckon forty were released. They gathered together into a heaving black mass that reached one-third up the arena’s side. They were all rats caught in the sewers and the stink that rose up from them was like that of an open drain. The man who had thrown them into the pit amused himself by flicking at them with a large handkerchief and offering them the lighted end of his cigar. Some of the creatures sniffed at the latter and then rapidly retreated as their noses were singed. A bull terrier, nearly mad with excitement and struggling to get loose, was allowed to jump into the pit once bets had been taken as to how many rats the dog could kill in eight minutes.

  A stopwatch was started. The moment the dog was free, he became quiet in a most businesslike manner and then rushed at the rats. In a short time a dozen rats were lying bleeding on the pit’s white floor so it was streaked with rodent blood. One rat managed to attach itself to the bull terrier’s snout but the dog dashed its head against the wall of the arena, leaving a patch of blood as if a large and overripe fruit had been crushed there.

  When the eight minutes were up the owner of the dog caught hold of its collar and held it whilst its many victims were counted. The dog panted and stretched out its head in a vain attempt to see the remaining rats. The poor little creatures seemed to forget their danger and commenced crawling about or cleaning themselves with a strange nibbling action. A few advanced, sniffing, to within a few paces of their former enemy. To the anger and frustration of its owner, the count showed the dog had not killed enough to warrant a second go. It was removed and a plentiful supply of halfpence was thrown by the onlookers into the pit to signal they wanted more. Tommy Chitling invited the crowd to fill up their glasses before the next dog was given its turn. But I had had more than enough of the event and begged him to take me to his private quarters. He seemed amused by my squeamishness but did as I asked.

  His sitting room was illuminated by a couple of gas lights and their glare revealed a number of cages filled with yet more vermin. But these were Tommy’s tame pets. To my dismay, he insisted on showing me some of his more curious specimens, but I felt I had no option but to humour him if I was to get any information. Some were piebald and others white, with pink unwholesome eyes. He took a few out to show me and handled them without the least fear. The poor creatures made no attempt to bite him, appearing to have lost any notion of regaining their liberty. In one of the cages he had a couple of entirely white rats confined together, and, pointing at them, he remarked, ‘Old English rats are normally jet-black so I’m hoping they’ll breed and then, when I have enough, I can introduce them into the show as a speciality.’

  Tommy was clearly upset when I failed to hide my intense dislike for his pets. Clutching my arm, he muttered in my ear, ‘Don’t think badly of me, Mr Twist, for these rat shows. Better animals suffer than women. And believe me, sir, I am a real benefactor to this city because not only do I reduce the number of vermin but I pay for the privilege.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, sir, I have a number of very poor families depending on me. They supply me with rats. I have to say that they are the most ignorant people I ever come near. They can scarce speak properly so that I have difficulty sometimes understanding what they say. When the harvest is got in and they can earn a living in no other way, they go hunting for rats and I give a halfpenny each for them. Often the rats brought to me are caught in warehouses because that way the ketchers get paid twice if they’re lucky. Once by me and once by them that owns the warehouses. I should think I buy from three hundred to seven hundred rats a week, but I’ve had as many as a thousand in this house at one time. They’ll consume a large sack of barley-meal a week and, if you don’t give them good grub, they will eat one another.

  ‘Don’t look down on me. My occupation demands its own skills. I can tell a barn rat from a ship rat or a sewer rat in a minute, and I have to separate my stock when I buy them or they’d fight to the death. There’s six or seven types of rat, and if we don’t sort ’em they tear one another to pieces. It’s dangerous work for the handlers, Mr Twist. The bite of sewer or water-ditch rats is very bad, as they live off filth. I’ve been near dead three times from bites. When a rat’s bite touches the bone, it makes you feel faint and it bleeds dreadful, just as if you had been stuck with a knife. I once had the teeth of a rat break in my finger and putrify till I had the broken bits pulled out. Get a bad bite and you know all about it. It festers and forms a hard throbbing sore that never properly heals. You can see my hands is all covered with scars from rat bites and I’m also marked elsewhere. In fact over the years I’ve been bitten nearly everywhere, even where I can’t name to you, sir.’

  I looked at his damaged hands and winced. He brushed aside my tentative expressions of sympathy and began to speak of the matter I had really come to see him about. Betsy had told him of my purpose and he had agreed to tell me all he knew. This did not stop him telling me he spoke only with reluctance.

  ‘I only agreed to see you to please her and not for any delight in us meeting again. The past is the past as far as I am concerned and I’d rather forget those days. However, if speak I must I’ll tell you more than I’ve ivver told anyone else, even Betsy, provided you promise not to tell her. She’s so fond of Nancy there’d be no holding her back if she knew.’

  ‘I promise you that I will not tell Betsy what you say,’ I replied, loathe to lose any chance of hearing something of importance from him.

  ‘They say rats will leave a sinking ship, Mr Twist. Well, that’s what happened when the news of Nancy’s murder broke and that blackguard Fagin was seized. Charley and I made our lucky escape up the wash’us chimney but a new lad we called Bolter failed to live up to his assumed name. He was caught trying to hide in an empty water butt
, stupid fool that he was.’

  ‘Ay,’ I interrupted, ‘That does not surprise me.’ Bolter’s real name was Noah Claypole and I had very strong reason to dislike him for the way he had maltreated me when I worked for the undertaker, Mr Sowerberry.

  ‘We all knew feeling was running very high’, continued Chitling. ‘As you know, Nancy had been a popular gal in the neighbourhood and it was known the Jew had had a hand in her death. No one liked Fagin and it was no surprise that the police had to rescue him from being torn apart by the mob. Bruised and bleeding, he clung to them peelers as if they were his dearest friends. If I close my eyes I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him like the dogs you saw tonight after a rat. I can also still see the blood glistening in his hair and beard.

  ‘The whores who had known Nancy best had worked their way into the centre of the crowd at the street corner and they spat at him and screamed out their encouragement to the screaming mob to tear out his god-forsaken heart. Those of us who escaped capture fled through a maze of close, narrow and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, to the upper room of a ruined house on Jacob’s Island, beyond Dockhead in the borough of Southwark. As you know, at that time it was a rowdy hellhole of a place.’