Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘Someone tried to murder me,’ he croaked. ‘Someone stabbed me.’

  Roger nodded. ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Who was it, Roger? Who tried to do me in?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir?’

  ‘Was it Jeremiah – after my money?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  Sir Ebenezer’s skeletal hand snaked out from under the bed clothes and clasped his bony fingers around Roger’s wrist. ‘You must find out, my boy. Find out who tried to murder me. They could… they could well try again.’

  Before Roger could respond to this dramatic request, the door of the chamber opened, and Lady Amelia Throate sailed in.

  ‘Ah, so you have returned, Mr Lightwood.’

  Roger rose from his chair, gently releasing Sir Ebenezer’s hand from his wrist, and gave a gentle bow.

  ‘Yes, your ladyship, and to this very sad situation.’ He turned and gazed down at Sir Ebenezer who it appeared had resumed his slumbers.

  ‘A most unfortunate incident but one that the family will overcome. Sir Ebenezer is over the worst and he will rally. Fighting spirit is in his blood. We must draw a veil over the affair and move on.’

  ‘But surely…’

  ‘There are no ‘but surelys’ Mr Lightwood. Both Sir Ebenezer and I are of the same mind that this unpleasant incident must remain private and secret – and I charge you not to discuss the matter with anyone. This is family business and must remain so. Do I make myself clear?’

  There were many things Roger Lightwood would like to have said in response to Lady Throate’s declaration but decorum, self-preservation and a keen awareness that it would be pointless to argue with the stony faced mistress of Throate Manor prevented him from doing no more than nod his head gently and mutter the word, ‘Yes’.

  ‘Good. Now I suggest that you leave my husband to rest and for you to resume your duties.’

  Like a schoolboy admonished for some silly jape, Roger Lightwood departed the chamber, his metaphorical tail clamped between his legs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Furnace Alley was narrow and long, the properties at either side leaned outwards, the upper stories were so protuberant it seemed as though they wished to embrace each other. As a result, there was little daylight permitted to filter down through the narrow gap. It was a fine sunny day, but on Furnace Alley it appeared to be twilight.

  Oliver and Jack had wandered the length of it twice looking for Amos Braggle’s establishment without success.

  ‘We’ve been sold a dud,’ announced Jack with some ire. ‘That bleedin’ woman tricked us for three guineas.’

  Oliver was not convinced. ‘Well, it was twenty-five years ago. It is possible that this Braggle fellow has moved on. Perhaps his business expanded and he needed bigger premises.’

  Jack chewed his lip a little. ‘You could be right, I suppose. In fact, he could have moved elsewhere.’ He pointed skywards, his grubby forefinger aiming at a miniscule patch of blue glimpsed between the drunken chimney pots.

  Oliver sighed. ‘Indeed. It is possible.’

  Jack seeing this as an assurance of fact, crossed himself.

  ‘Let’s go back down the alley again, with a slower tread and keener eyes.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  At what Jack considered was an arthritic snail’s pace, they traversed the narrow alleyway again. Halfway down Oliver came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jack puzzled.

  ‘That sign there. It’s quite new.’

  Jack gazed at the sign, which was attached to the railings outside the shop below a bow window filled with bolts of cloth and a mannequin dressed in the most grotesque costume in a vibrant pink fabric. The sign read ‘Samuel Cruncher – Draper and Haberdasher’.

  ‘You’re not needing a new set of buttons or another satin waistcoat are you, Oliver?’

  ‘No, no. You are missing my point. Come closer.’ He tugged his companion nearer to the shop front and the sign. ‘Look more closely.’

  Jack almost rubbed his nose along the sign until the point he had been missing became all too clear to him. There was, faintly behind the bright new lettering, the ghostly remnants of the previous sign, the one that had been painted over. Not all the letters or indeed the sense was visible but with one eye closed and an inquisitive mind one could decipher some of the letters that may very well make out the name ‘Braggle’.

  ‘This must have been his shop,’ cried Oliver.

  Jack pursed his lips and, peering closer, nodded. ‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. And so he has moved on.’

  ‘Indeed, but perhaps the present incumbent has knowledge of his whereabouts.’

  Jack gave a theatrical shrug to indicate that he thought that probability was unlikely.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ replied Oliver, unabashed by his companion’s lack of enthusiasm.

  On entering Samuel Cruncher’s emporium, a trio of tiny bells atop the door trilled noisily announcing their arrival. The tiny shop was crammed with rolls of cloth is all colours, but most in a vibrant hue. There were baskets of buttons, shelves of filigree lace and a mannequin attired in a wedding gown of the most outré design. From behind this bizarre and risible display, there emerged the figure of an extremely tall, thin man wearing a turquoise silk jacket, a canary yellow waistcoat and cream breeches. Balanced somewhat precariously on his head was a high fronted blonde wig. As he approached them, Oliver could see that the man’s face was powdered and his cheeks rouged. He bowed theatrically.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen. I am Samuel Cruncher. Welcome to my establishment. How may I be of service?’ The voice was high and sibilant.

  ‘I wonder if you can help us with some information?’ said Oliver.

  Cruncher threw up his arms in the air and his eyes and mouth opened wide. It was as though he had just been stabbed in the back.

  ‘Information! Information! I sell cloth and material of the finest quality to the gentry. High born ladies clamour from my wedding gowns; gentlemen of note devour me waistcoats. I do not peddle information, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should seek a library.’

  ‘I just wondered if you had any news of Mr Braggle.’

  Cruncher’s visage darkened. ‘Oh, him,’ came the sneering response.

  ‘Yes, Amos Braggle, the previous owner of this shop.’

  ‘Oh, I know very well who Amos Braggle is – or rather was. If you are seeking him, I suggest you trot to St Christopher’s church ‘round the corner. You’ll find him next to that hideous mausoleum housing the remains of some poet or other. He’s in the graveyard there.’ Cruncher extracted a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his nose as though protecting it from a very unpleasant smell.

  ‘He’s dead then,’ observed Jack.

  Cruncher rolled his eyes. ‘As he’s lying six feet under - one would hope so.’ He was about to turn his back on the two men for it was obvious to him they had not come in to buy any of his stock, when Oliver said, ‘Do I take it that you and he did not get along?’

  ‘You take it correctly, sir. When he was closing his business down in order to retire, I made an offer for the premises. That was when the trouble started.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Oliver said sympathetically.

  Cruncher gave him a half smile. ‘Oh dear is a mild version of my view on the matter.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Samuel Cruncher hesitated. Oliver could see that the fellow was undecided whether to tell the two strangers exactly what to do with their curiosity and send them off with giant fleas in their ears or take the opportunity of exercise his ire in full by recounting the Braggle saga in rich detail. In the end he settled for the latter.

  ‘Braggle couldn’t make up his mind. He wanted to sell the shop; he didn’t want to sell the shop. He was prepared to accept a reasonable price for the premises; he wanted an exorbitant price for the premises. He drove me wild with his vacillations. I ordered stock; I had to cancel stock. I made preparations to move in
. Then he changed his mind and I had to run around altering these. This happened several times. The man drove me wild.’

  ‘How very frustrating,’ sympathised Oliver.

  ‘I bet you wanted to punch the bloke in the phizzog,’ added Jack.

  ‘Indeed, I did. And it was all because of his son.’

  ‘Really,’ said Oliver, with some relish. ‘What about his son?’

  ‘A very good question.’ Cruncher was warming to his tale now. He leaned forward and lowered his voice in conspiratorial fashion. ‘From what I could gather, the young lad wasn’t really his son. Braggle wasn’t married. Well, there was no wife in view anyway. I reckoned he’d taken on the boy at some point with a view to using him as an apprentice in the shop and a kind of relationship had developed. He’d grown fond of the boy. That was part of my problem.’

  Oliver raised his eyebrows in query as a prompt for Cruncher to continue.

  ‘I say that he was fond of the boy. He was besotted by him. With no family of his own, he seemed to have placed the brat high on a pedestal. He attended to the lad’s every whim. It seemed to me that he wanted to give the boy all the advantages he had lacked as a youth: money, education, privilege.’

  ‘How old was the lad?’

  Cruncher shrugged. ‘Not yet twenty. I have to admit that he was a bright young fellow. Inoffensive in his own way. He’d been privately educated. Braggle had seen to that and it was mooted that he’d be going to university. The old man wanted that for him, but the boy was uncertain. That was the nub of the old man’s dithering. He intended to sell the business, retire and pass on the bulk of his fortune such as it was to the boy. However, the youngster seemed to be content to carry on the business, working in the shop. I suppose that was all that he had known. And so on Monday the shop was being sold. On Tuesday it was withdrawn from sale. And then on Wednesday…’ Cruncher was now growing more agitated as he recollected what to him was the very disturbing episode from his past. His hands fluttered erratically like distressed butterflies, the wig trembled dangerously as though it would lose its moorings at any minute and take flight, while his voice moved into an even higher register.

  ‘No consideration was given to the disastrous effect this was having on my nerves. ‘I had a property and a future. I didn’t have a property… It was like an emotional see saw. I became a gibbering wreck. My friends feared for my sanity. I can tell you that, gentlemen: they feared for my sanity, they did.’

  Oliver and Jack nodded in sympathetic unison.

  ‘In the end, I wanted to strangle them both. Father and son. One afternoon we had a showdown in the shop. I had reached the end of my tether. I just exploded with anger and frustration.’

  Cruncher paused and with a flourish of the silk handkerchief he dabbed his eyes which had grown moist with the emotion that his recollections had prompted. ‘The whole episode still haunts me, gentlemen.’ He paused a moment, his face rippling with emotion. ‘And do you know, when I broke down in front of them – here in this very shop – sobbing and begging them to stop their cruel vacillations… do you know they had the temerity, the effrontery, the nerve to appear surprised at my distress. Surprised! I ask you. They claimed they had no idea of the devil’s hell they were dragging me through. What kind of insensitive insects were they?’

  ‘Insensitive insects, indeed,’ agreed Jack decisively.

  ‘Well, my outburst brought them to their senses. The youth agreed to fly off to university and the old codger agreed to sell me the shop.’

  ‘All’s well that ends well, then?’ Jack flashed Cruncher a smile.

  ‘Eventually, I suppose. It is an episode of my life I have no wish to repeat, I can tell you that for sure.’

  ‘Well, Mr Cruncher, you certainly have a splendid emporium here.’ Oliver gazed around the premises with a smile. ‘I shall certainly recommend it to my friends and colleagues,’ said Oliver.

  Jack secretly thought he was over egging the pudding, but the effete Mr Cruncher beamed graciously and gave one of his little bows. ‘You are too kind, sir.’

  ‘I have a maiden aunt who would look divine in that hue of pink.’ Oliver pointed to a swathe of luminous pink cloth that was draped across the counter. ‘What shade do you call that?’

  Cruncher waltzed over to the material. ‘How discerning you are sir. This is the latest fashion, just in from Paris. It is African Dawn. Guaranteed to lift the features and enhance the figure.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Oliver, his voice gaining a softer mellifluous tone. ‘Well, my friend and I must be on our way, but I thank you for your time, Mr Cruncher. It has been a delight to make your acquaintance.’

  By now Oliver’s gentle charm had won the day or at least won Samuel Cruncher over. The handkerchief fluttered once more. ‘On the contrary, dear sir, the pleasure was all mine. Do give your regards to your aunt. I look forward to making her acquaintance.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver seemed to be about to turn on his heel and make his way to the door when he hesitated. ‘Do you know what happened to the boy?’

  ‘The boy? Oh, you mean Braggle’s lad. In the end I believe that he attended the University College of London to study law. While he was there old Braggle died and the boy came into a modest fortune. What happened to him after that I could not say.’

  ‘That was… how many years ago?’

  Cruncher placed a well-manicured finger to his pursed lips. ‘I’ve been here six years… I believe Braggle died four years ago.’

  ‘What was the boy’s name?’

  ‘Tom Braggle.’

  ‘Thank you so much, sir.’ Giving Jack a tug at the elbow, the two of them were out in the street in a trice.

  ‘Well,’ said Oliver rubbing his hands, ‘that was most instructive.’

  ‘It certainly was. I never knew you had a maiden aunt who went in for garish clothes.’

  The two men laughed.

  ‘I guess I know where we’re headed now,’ said Jack as they moved down the narrow thoroughfare.

  ‘Indeed. I believe you do,’ agreed Oliver with a dry smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lizzie Barnes, the cook/housekeeper at Throate Manor, was surprised to discover her mistress, Lady Throate walking through the kitchen door. This never happened. On no previous occasion had the grand lady ever deigned to descend those well-worn stone steps into the nether reaches of the manor to visit the vaulted kitchen. This unique event caused Lizzie Barnes’ heart to race. She could not conceive of any reason for this. She felt sure that it must presage ill tidings of some kind. It was part of Lizzie Barne’s nature to always think the worse would happen, that every dark cloud had an even darker lining. This negative view stemmed from her unhappy youth and nothing that had happened in her life since had managed to dislodge this dour and nihilistic view of existence – her existence at least. She had her secrets and God forbid Lady Throate should learn of them.

  The presence of this imperious wraith in her domain could only mean one thing: something was wrong. Had she somehow displeased her ladyship? Was she about to be sacked? Sent on her way. Thrown out into the world once more without money or a roof over her head. History repeating itself? Suddenly she realised that she was crying. Her eyes had watered, and tears began to fall gently down her rosy cheeks in an anticipation of the tragedy that was about happen to her – whatever it was. Lady Throate observed this but thought no doubt the woman had been peeling onions or leaning too closely over a steaming pan. These menials did this sort of thing. She certainly did not acquaint Lizzie’s strained features or moist cheeks with emotion.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said her ladyship, as though the cook had been hiding behind a mound of vegetables.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Lizzie, wobbling slightly giving the impression that she was about to curtsy but had thought better of it.

  The surreal conversation continued when Lady Throate suddenly uttered the word ‘Soup!’ in exclamatory tones.

  ‘Soup?’ queried Lizzie.

>   ‘Yes. I gather Doctor Benbow has recommended soup, healthy life-giving soup as a restorative for my ailing husband. Soup that will bring him back to us whole and healthy… well reasonably so.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And you are preparing it now?’

  Instinctively, Lizzie Barnes glanced over at the large pan on the oven with its gently undulating contents. ‘Yes, yes, I am. Vegetable soup with a sprinkling of ham fragments. That should build the master’s strength up.’

  Lady Throate observed the pan and wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘I am sure it will,’ she commented without much conviction. ‘Let me sample the broth.’

  Lizzie raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘You want to taste the soup?’

  ‘Yes. Go fetch me a small dish.’

  Somewhat flustered at this request, Lizzie hurried off to the crockery cupboard to carry out this request. All this was very strange to her. Not only had Lady Throate never set foot in the kitchen before but she had previously refused to partake of anything as lowly as vegetable soup. On returning with a china bowl, she found her mistress standing over the simmering pan and stirring it.

  Lizzie ladled out a small portion of soup into a bowl and presented it with a spoon to Lady Throate. She took one small sip, her face replicating a medieval gargoyle. ‘Needs a little more salt,’ she said brusquely, thrusting the dish and spoon into the cook’s hand. Without another word, she turned on her heel and swept out of the kitchen, leaving Lizzie Barnes open-mouthed in surprise. ‘Now what was that all about,’ she muttered to herself as she reached for the jar of salt.

  Eugene Trench tapped the fingers of both hands in a rapid tattoo. ‘He’s here in London. Somewhere. We must find him.’ He gazed up darkly at his two henchmen, Kepple and Joint, who were standing shifting their feet and examining their palms like naughty schoolboys.

  ‘You were most careless to let Master Throate escape. Most careless.’

  The two men shivered. There was real dark menace in the repeated phrase. Kepple mumbled something but Trench ignored it. ‘It’s your job to find him. Is that understood?’