Oliver needed to learn more, but he could see from her fierce demeanour that he would not be able to squeeze much more information from the Sponge creature. ‘Do you have details of Amos Braggle’s premises? What address was given?’ he asked tentatively.
Madame Sponge snorted and for a moment Oliver thought that she would demand a further sovereign for this further titbit of information, but after a moment she appeared to relent and consulted the ledger once more.
‘Braggle has – or rather had – a workshop in Cheapside: Furnace Alley. Whether it is still there, I cannot say.’ She slammed the ledger shut and rose from her chair. ‘That, I think, concludes our business and so, gentlemen, I will bid you a good day.’ She flicked her hand in a dismissive fashion as though to waft the men out of her office. Oliver and Jack needed no further prompting. They left that instant.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sir Ebenezer Throate reached out for the light he glimpsed at the far end of the dark tunnel. He knew he must reach it if he was to survive but all his efforts were painful, and his progress was infinitely slow. He was also conscious of the fierce pain in his chest. However, there was a dogged determination within the old aristocrat, matured through centuries of breeding, which forced him to carry on. As the light grew somewhat brighter, he began to hear voices, gentle murmuring voices. He was nearly there. Nearly back. He redoubled his efforts and with one final surge, his eyes flickered open. The world was a kaleidoscopic blur beyond the tunnel. It was as though he was seeing things through a frosted pane of glass. He flickered his eyelids like butterfly wings and then slowly, gradually, things grew clearer.
‘Great heavens! I think he’s awake, sir. Look he’s opened his eyes.’ It was a female voice. One that he recognised vaguely.
There was a rustling movement and then a dark shadow fell over him and he stared up into a man’s face. ‘Sir Ebenezer, can you hear me?’ it said.
Floating out of the ether he heard the word, ‘Yes’. It took him a few moments to realise that it was actually he who had given birth to that baby utterance.
The face came closer. Sir Ebenezer recognised it now but couldn’t give a name to its owner.
‘Who are you?’ Again, the words seem to materialise in the air rather than emanate from his lips, although he was now fully aware that he was uttering them.
‘It’s Cornelius, Sir Ebenezer. Doctor Benbow.’
‘Benbow. Doctor. Am I ill?’
‘You are – but recovering, God be praised.’
The baronet thought for a moment, or at least tried to but the old clockwork mechanism in his brain was proving somewhat recalcitrant. However, the state of his health soon bored him, and a more important appetite took precedent.
‘I could do with a brandy. A large one.’
Doctor Cornelius Benbow grinned. The old devil really was on the mend. Lady Throate would be pleased.
‘Draw me a hot bath, Waring.’ As usual Lady Whitestone’s voice was imperious and brusque without any element of politeness or warmth. It was the tone of an irritable commander ordering the troops to battle. ‘After such a tiring journey,’ she continued, ‘I need a reviving soak before I take to my bed for an early night.’
Felicity did as she was bidden. She and her mistress were now ensconced once more in her ladyship’s Chelsea town house after the train journey from Brighton. Since leaving the seaside resort, Felicity’s mind had been awhirl with thoughts about her new romance and how sudden and cruel the imposed breech that had been forced upon her by the unexpected early departure. Now dark clouds completely obliterated the happy sunshine on her blissful landscape. She had no idea when she would see her beloved again. They were adrift from each other, separated, imprisoned by their duties, serving those who had power and money which gave them power to control them for solely selfish reasons. As a result, she and Roger were robbed of the freedom to be happy. As she watched the water pour from the taps filling up the bath in readiness for her mistress’ ‘reviving soak’, she was overcome with a desire to fling the old harridan into it face down and hold her there until the life ebbed out of her. Felicity’s heart raced as a clear vision of this event flashed in her mind and for a brief moment, she felt unsteady on her feet as though she might easily tumble forward into the bath herself. Luckily some innate sense of preservation came to her rescue and she managed to dismiss all dramatic images of her mistress floundering and splashing in the lavender scented waters. New thoughts came to her now. She knew that once she had been relieved of her duties for the evening, Felicity wanted to write a long and passionate letter to Roger. The main thrust of this missive, apart from declaring her undying love for him, was to enquire in desperate terms what on earth were they to do in order for them to be united on a permanent basis. It was a desperate dilemma for which she had no solution, but she hoped her darling and clever paramour would have some positive thoughts on the matter.
Later, after leaving Lady Whitestone gently snoring in her bed, she made her way back to her own cramped quarters. As she did so, a figure emerged from the shadows on the landing. The dark silhouette gave Felicity a shock and she gave a brief cry of alarm.
‘It’s only me,’ announced the dark silhouette.
Arthur Wren, the footman. She had not given him a thought since she had been enveloped in the pink cloud of romantic happiness engendered by her liaison with Roger Lightwood.
‘I am so pleased to see you back so early, my dear,’ he announced in his dark clipped tones, those tones that she once had considered mellifluous and attractive but now on hearing them again thought them somewhat common and comic.
He stepped out of the shadows, a wide smile on his face which caused his military moustache to twitch erratically. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come down into the kitchen for glass of hot milk and we could… have a little tête-à-tête,’ he said, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
She knew what he meant by ‘a little tête-à-tête’. It was one of his favourite expressions. It meant her sitting on his lap in a chair by the kitchen grate while he cuddled her, whispered practised sweet nothings in her ear and gave her the occasional peck on the cheek which finally led to a proper goodnight kiss. In the past, this routine had held some attraction for her, particularly after a long frustrating and barren day with her demanding mistress, but now, following her Damascus Road revelations in Brighton with Roger, she viewed the prospect of close contact with Arthur Wren with alarm and distaste. Any notion of an attachment to this stiff, ungainly Romeo had been blown away by the winds of real romance.
‘I am so tired after my journey,’ she replied, her voice formal and cold. ‘I just want to retire for the night.’
‘But…’ he began to protest gently, the smile fading and his moustache drooping.
‘Goodnight, Arthur,’ she said, brushing past him and hurrying away, desperate to end this interview.
He was left alone in the gloom of the corridor, puzzled and disappointed. This was not like his Felicity – he had come to think of her in those terms. Something was wrong. He had to discover what.
In another part of London, much less salubrious than Chelsea, Jeremiah Throate huddled in a dark corner of a dark alley, harbouring dark thoughts. He waited and watched as various late-night pedestrians wandered by. He not only had to be cunning, perceptive and bold – qualities that came naturally to him in a card game – but he had to be brutal, vicious and recklessly brave. These latter qualities were strangers to him. He kept running a series of clichés through his mind in preparation for his deed: ‘needs must when the Devil drives’, ‘I must gird up my loins’ and ‘he who hesitates is lost.’ He knew that he had to choose a solitary fellow. Two or more would be too much of a dangerous challenge. Also, it was not worth the effort to tackle anyone who would not, like a fat oyster, reveal a significant pearl as a reward at the end of his endeavours. He had been forced by circumstances down into these grimy realms and so any action he took wearing his newly assumed lowly mantle had to be wo
rth the degradation.
And here he came. Just after some forlorn church bell chimed the hour of eleven, an unsteady fellow waddled down the street. He was of ample girth and, from what dim lighting was available provided by a sickly moon and a feeble gas lamp, he appeared to be wearing clothes of quality.
As he neared the patch of darkness, he had secured for himself, Throate stepped forward, blocking the fellow’s way.
‘Give me your money and all your valuables,’ he croaked, his voice dry and harsh with nerves and tension.
The man, heavy in drink, lifted his gaze to stare at the dark stranger who had blocked his path.
‘I am sorry, sir, I am a trifle deaf and I did not hear what you said. If you are requiring directions, I am afraid I cannot help you. I am a stranger in this part of town.’ He chuckled lightly. ‘If the truth be known, I am rather lost myself.’
Jeremiah thrust the knife he had been grasping hard behind his back in front of the bewildered man’s face. A look of horror quickly replaced the one of gentle bewilderment that had resided there.
‘Oh, gracious,’ cried the man, staggering back. ‘Help! Help! Murder!’
‘Shut up, you old fool, and hand me over your purse.’
The man was too frightened and too much in drink to follow this simple instruction. In befuddled panic, he turned awkwardly to make his escape. He managed to take only a few steps before Jeremiah thrust the knife into the back of his neck. The man froze in mid-stride like a grotesque statue, an obscene gurgling sound emanating from his open mouth and then in an instant he collapsed the ground in a silent heap.
Jeremiah Throate was stunned by what he had just done. His intention had been to frighten the poor devil – frighten him into passing over his valuables. Not to wound him – not to… Oh, Heaven forbid, not to kill him. His stomach churned and he felt the bile rise up in his mouth. Turning away, he crouched down and was violently sick.
He remained in this undignified foetal position for some moments before the sense of self-preservation asserted itself once more. The deed was done. There was no going back. He examined the body. It was already cooling. The man was indeed dead. At this confirmation, the stomach churned once more but he controlled it. With shaking fingers, he rifled the corpse’s clothing. He extracted a purse, a pocket watch and relieved the fat fingers of three rings.
Stuffing this loot into his pockets, he stood and gazed down at the body, which now had a fine red pool of blood circling the head like a crimson halo. ‘I’m sorry,’ Jeremiah said, faintly, addressing the corpse.
In the distance there came the sound of raucous voices, two, three or maybe even more: a merry crew wending their way home. Coming his way. Turning on his heel, Jeremiah Throate ran off into the darkness.
Some hours later, he lay in some damp bed, in cheap lodgings that he had managed to secure with part of the dead man’s cash. His body was stiff with fear and self-loathing. He had never considered himself a man with high moral principles. That fact had never bothered him. His own well-being had always been his sole concern. But he had never thought of himself as a bad man. But he was. He was now. A very bad man. He was a murderer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lady Amelia Throate’s maid tapped gently on her mistress’s bedroom door and awaited the usual stentorian order of ‘Enter.’
The instruction came as usual, but not with quite the same harshness and arrogant authoritative force. The maid entered to find Lady Throate sitting up in bed gazing with some distraction at the thin reed of sunlight which was visible through the narrow gap in the curtains.
‘Good morning, M’lady. Shall I draw the curtains?’
It was some moments before a reply was given. ‘Yes. Then a strong cup of tea.’
The maid swept the drapes asunder flooding the room with bright lemon early morning sunlight before disappearing, hurrying to the kitchen to make the requested ‘strong cup of tea.’
Lady Throate sighed. ‘The best laid plans…,’ she murmured to herself. Oh, how careless she had been. A more deep seated and ponderous sigh followed this observation. The big question, the very big question which had loomed over her in the dark watches of the night forbidding sleep to visit her, was, ‘What was she to do now?’ She may well ask this confounded and confounding riddle again, but no sensible answer was forthcoming. The old devil had been so resilient! One thing was certain: she had to be very, very careful indeed. Oh, and there was another thing that was certain: she could not face returning to the status quo. That understood, action had to be taken. And the understanding of this brought her round to the infuriating question again: ‘What was she to do now?’
While Lady Amelia was pondering and cogitating as she waited for her ‘strong cup of tea’, Roger Lightwood was alighting from the coach which had brought him back to the portals of Throate Manor after his holiday sojourn to Brighton. With a strange absent-minded air, he collected the few items of luggage, paid the driver and made his way to the main entrance of the Manor. At this moment in time he had no notion of the dramatic events that had taken place during his absence and, indeed, contemplation of his duties and responsibilities was the farthest from his mind. His thoughts were focused solely on Felicity Waring, the young lady who had captured both his heart and mind to the exclusion of virtually everything else. Since seeing her depart from Brighton Station, he had not eaten or drunk anything, barely slept and only through a kind of mechanical procedure had he remembered to shave and comb his hair before setting off back to Throate Manor. The irritating cold symptoms had returned but now he was sure that these would be eradicated forever if he could arrange it for he and Felicity to be united in a lifelong union.
He gave one ponderous sniff, before ringing the bell. Bulstrode was overjoyed to see him. His training as a manservant that had straitjacketed any outward show of emotion for decades prevented him from hugging the young man and expressing his delight at seeing someone who was reasonable, decent and lacking aristocratic eccentricities returning to the Manor but he did allow himself the pleasure of extending an extra firm handshake to Lightwood. Even pre-occupied as he was, Roger noticed the more than usual warm and fulsome nature of this gesture.
Once inside the hall, Bulstrode leaned forward, tugging the sleeve of Roger’s overcoat and in a conspiratorially manner and whispered softly. ‘Things have been amiss since you went away, Mr Lightwood.’
Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘Amiss?’
In a hurried and succinct but fairly theatrical fashion, Bulstrode recounted all the events that had occurred at the hall while Roger had been in Brighton: the assault on Sir Ebenezer, the dramatic entrances and exits of Jeremiah Throate and the appearance of the two ‘rather soiled and disreputable gentlemen’ who came and then left with amazing speed.
‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Roger, suddenly dragged into the present by this vibrant recital. ‘And how is Sir Ebenezer?’
‘On the mend, I believe. As I understand it, he is out of immediate danger, but it will be many days before he is his old self again.’
‘And you say Lady Amelia forbade the police being brought into the matter?’
Bulstrode nodded. ‘No doubt she was fearful of the scandal that would ensue. She maintained that as Sir Ebenezer survived the attack, no real harm was done…’
Roger shook his head. ‘Nevertheless, if a murder has been attempted…’
Bulstrode shrugged his ancient shoulders. ‘That’s how the matter was left. She swore Doctor Benbow to secrecy. You know how her ladyship always gets her own way when she sets her mind to it.’
Roger did. ‘Well, if it is convenient, I would like to see his Lordship right away. I am sorry that I was absent when no doubt he had need of me. Is he able to receive visitors?’
Bulstrode allowed himself a little smile. ‘I am sure he will be pleased to see you.’
Moments later Roger tapped on Sir Ebenezer’s bedroom door and entered. Maisie one of the kitchen maids was sitting by the bed on nurse sentry duty. Sh
e was roused from her gentle doze by Roger’s arrival in the room and jumped up from her chair.
‘How is he?’ Roger enquired.
‘He’s… sleeping,’ came the awkward reply.
‘Give me five minutes alone with him, would you?’
Maisie gave a little curtsey and scurried from the room.
Roger pulled a chair up close to the bed and leaned forward and gazed at the haggard features of his employer which were peeping above the white sheet.
‘How are you feeling, sir,’ he asked gently.
Sir Ebenezer’s eyes flickered at the sound of this new voice and gradually the lids creaked open.
‘Good morning, Sir Ebenezer,’ Roger said cheerily, relieved to see that there was some kind of life in the old dog yet.
Sir Ebenezer’s eyes widened as he gazed upon his visitor and recognition dawned.
‘Roger. Is it Roger?’ he said, his voice resembling the creak of rusty hinges.
‘Yes, it is Roger.’
The old man smiled, a trickle of spittle escaping down his chin. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes, my boy. I have not been well, you know.’
‘Indeed. I am sorry I was absent when you needed me.’
Sir Ebenezer made a valiant effort to shake his head. ‘Nonsense. But it is good to have you back again.’ For a moment the light faded in his eyes and Roger thought that the baronet was about to slip back into sleep but then suddenly he rallied again, shifting slightly to pull himself up into a semi-sitting position.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 11
