The feeling of the pistol held snugly by his belt gave Jeremiah Throate a boost in confidence and hope. Now he was equipped for the task in hand – the task he had decided to set himself as he tossed and turned on the cramped bed in his shabby lodgings during the watches of the night. In essence, he realised that there really was only one course of action to extricate himself from the life-threatening dilemma in which he was enmeshed. In simple terms, he had to turn the tables and provide a life-threatening scenario for his nemesis. More than life threatening, actually: life taking, in fact. He had to kill Eugene Trench. As his hand surreptitiously found its way past the fold of his jacket and clasp the handle of the pistol, he smiled. Now he had the means to carry out the task. And he would enjoy it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sir Ebenezer Throate woke with a start. His eyes flickered open and in automatic response to his full consciousness, he sat bolt upright in bed. ‘I’m hungry. I want some food. And a brandy!’ he cried in a voice that was firm and clear.
The young girl sitting by his bedside gave a cry of alarm. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she shrieked as though she had witnessed a return from the dead and gathering up her skirts she ran from the room.
In the hall downstairs, Roger Lightwood was in conversation with a large, full bellied individual dressed in a thick tweed suit and the possessor of two shaggy eyebrows which were in danger of curtaining his eyes from the world. This was Inspector Bottle of the Hatfield Constabulary who had come to Throate Manor to investigate the death – the possible homicide – of Dr Cornelius Benbow.
‘We have only the dead man’s word that he was poisoned,’ he was saying in his expansive and pompous manner that made him the target for mimicry amongst the lowly constables under his command. ‘We have to ask ourselves this question: who would want to kill this medical gentleman? What was the motive? In my investigation of crime, which is quite considerable, I can assure you, I have found it imperative that there should always be a motive. There cannot be a crime without motive.’
Roger knew that he could not provide a motive – not at the moment anyway. However, it had seemed to him maybe that Dr Benbow was not the intended victim. That was Sir Ebenezer. After all, one failed attempt had been made on his life. It is quite possible the determined murderer would have another go. Unfortunately, he had been sworn to secrecy about the stabbing of his master – ‘a family affair only,’ he had been told – and so he could not pass on his thoughts on this matter to Inspector Bottle. He had noticed the bowl with a small quantity of soup on Sir Ebenezer’s bedside table. It was unlikely that the comatose occupant of the bed had imbibed any of the soup for he had not been conscious for hours. Therefore, it seemed to Roger that for some reason – hunger or greed – the doctor had helped himself to the soup. But now, mysteriously, the bowl had disappeared, and the remaining contents could not be tested for poison.
‘Crime and motive go hand in hand,’ Bottle was repeating the notion ad nauseum. ‘I cannot believe anyone in this house would have just cause to end the life of our own humble and dedicated Doctor Benbow. A man of his age and … comfortable bulk is more likely to be prey to a weak heart and suffer a heart attack. No crime, no motive, just cruel Fate. I know that Lady Throate is of the same mind.’
Before Roger could respond to Bottle’s bluster, the little maid who had been sitting in attendance by Sir Ebenezer’s bedside came scuttling down the stairs whimpering as if all the devils in hell were after her.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Maisie,’ said Roger, grabbling the girl gently and stopping her in her tacks.
Maisie gulped for air, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. ‘It’s Sir Ebeb.. Sir Eben… Sir Ebe…’
‘Yes, Sir Ebenezer, what about him?’
Maisie’s eyes widened. ‘He’s come back to life.’
‘Silly girl. He’s never been dead.’
‘But he’s sitting up in bed asking for food… and a brandy.’
Roger grinned. ‘Is he now? The old rascal. He really has come back to us.’ He turned swiftly to Inspector Bottle. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must attend upon my employer.’
Bottle nodded his head and gave a curt bow. ‘Of course,’ he said, relieved to be allowed to escape and not be involved in any more nonsense about murder. Huh, he thought, homicide in an ancestral pile like Throate Manor, how ridiculous. ‘I have pressing business elsewhere,’ Bottle added pompously. ‘Farmer Featherstone had had some chickens go missing and he’s certain that it wasn’t a fox this time.’ The policeman turned smartly on his heel and almost hurried his way to the main door.
Roger made his way to Sir Ebenezer’s bedroom just in time to see the old man attempt to get out of bed.
‘No, sir,’ he cried, rushing forward to catch his employer before he sank to the floor. ‘You’re not strong enough yet, sir. It will be a few days before you are able to stroll about.’
Sir Ebenezer pursed his lips. ‘You could be right, my boy. I was always one for wanting to run before I could walk.’
Roger helped him back into bed. ‘It’s so good to see that you are really on the mend. We have been most worried about you.’
‘Hah! We Throates are made of stern stuff. Tell you what, my boy, I am dashed hungry. Could do with a piece of well-cooked meat and a flagon of claret to wash it down. That’ll help set me up.’
‘I’ll see to it straight away.’
‘Good man. And, oh Roger…’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s good to have you back.’ His aged arm snaked gently out from the bedclothes and offered itself to Roger.
Roger beamed as he grabbed the aged palm. ‘And it’s good to have you back, sir,’ he said.
Lady Throate was distraught. Is there really a God in heaven or a Devil in Hell? Which of these two deities was prepared to help her? She didn’t care as long as one of them stepped forward and plucked her from the dreary mire into which she was sinking. Up to now all her brilliant (ah ah!) schemes had failed, stabbings, poison. What the…! She had little time left on this earth. Was she really destined to spend those fading years here in this mausoleum? Surely she would be allowed an opportunity to grasp a little happiness before the curtain descended. She gazed at herself in the dressing table mirror. Oh, that aged face, those drooping brows, the ragged neck. It was the ruin of a visage. Where was the Amelia who sparkled, beguiled, entranced…? How had she turned into this cobwebbed harridan trussed up like a turkey in February with fading flesh and a rotting carcass bound to a dolt like Ebenezer? Perhaps she should end it all now. Slit her wrists, cast herself from the highest balcony on the estate or just splash down into one of the fishponds in the grounds. At least then it would be over. But no! She didn’t want it to be over. She deserved more. She would have more. Somehow.
Somehow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Eugene Trench was back at his old haunt – The Saracen’s Head, leaning on the bar chatting to his old cohort, Hubert Faddle, the landlord.
‘I’m looking forward to the game tonight,’ he said, sipping his gin and water. ‘Not just because we’ll fleece another nonce but as a diversion to the worries I’ve been having.
‘Worries,’ said Faddle, his mouth turned down in sympathy. ‘I am sorry to hear that. I thought you were swimming along nicely like a trout upstream. What worries are these then?’
Trench twisted his features. ‘They’re not really serious. It’s just that someone that has irritated me greatly, like a raspberry seed in your teeth that you can’t get rid of. You lick your tongue round the tooth, but the little devil stays put and irritates the hell out of you. That’s how it’s been with Throate. He owes me money and you know how I feel about debtors. Worse than baby killers they are. They should be disposed of in the harshest fashion.’
Trench grasped his glass so tightly as he expressed these thoughts that Faddle thought he may well crush it. The landlord nodded calmly. ‘Throate, that was the fellow we fleeced at the last big game.’
‘Yes, we would have fleeced him if he hadn’t been shorn already.’ Trench slammed his drink down, a certain amount of gin splashing over the side of the glass and on to the counter. ‘That’s one thing I can’t stand, a dishonest punter who hasn’t got the decency to allow us to squeak him dry. In their arrogant stupidity, they come here thinking they’ll do that to us.’
‘You’ll be dealing with him then?’
‘Oh, you can bet your life on that. When I can find the devil! He’s gone to ground, but I’ll snout him out.’
Faddle gave another shake of the head. It was a non-committal gesture. He well knew that if a man wanted to disappear in this great labyrinthine city, it was an easy task to accomplish. There were boltholes galore. Even the smartest and keenest of bloodhounds could fail in seeking someone out. He knew this and of course Trench knew this, and his awareness of this fact was at the root of his incipient anger.
‘Why don’t you take a rest in your old room before the game tonight? Relax in readiness. We have a really big goat tethered to the post: a member of the judiciary. His purse should go some way to easing your mind.’
Trench smiled and tapped the landlord’s arm with affection. ‘Thank you, Hubert, as always. I’ll finish my drink and then take another up to the room. A rest will do me good.’
Some two hours later as the sun was setting, a stout fellow in dark clothing entered the inn premises. His three-cornered hat was pulled well down over his forehead in order to place his features in shadow. He moved with a stiff awkward gait through the crowd of drinkers by the bar and with an authoritative wave of the hand attracted the attention of the landlord. Hubert Faddle was well aware who this stranger was, although he had never seen him before in his life. They all came in like this: dark anonymous clothing, hat pulled down to disguise their features. Some even wore false whiskers and eyeglasses in a belief that they were fooling the world. It was greed, Faddle mused casually, that brought them here – the gentlefolk who were either desirous of increasing their wealth or desperate to gain sufficient funds to extricate them from debt which they had so carelessly incurred. He felt nothing for contempt for them and had no scruples at being involved in the process of tricking them out of all the money they were prepared to risk in a gambling school. The fools.
‘Mr Faddle,’ whispered the stranger in a hoarse strangled fashion.
The landlord nodded. ‘And you must be Mr Crow.’ They were all Mr Crow. That was the nom de plume they were instructed to give when arrangements were made for them to attend the game.
Mr Crow glanced nervously around the bar before replying. ‘Yes, I am he.’
‘Let me get you a drink and then take a seat. The game will not begin for another hour.’
‘Another hour! I was told to be here by sunset.’
‘Just a precaution, you understand. Just relax, sir. All will be well. Now what is your pleasure?’
Mr Crow hesitated. He wasn’t happy with this change of arrangement. As a high court judge, he was used to being in charge and controlling events. Being a pawn was new to him and unsettling.
‘Do you have a decent brandy,’ he asked stoically.
‘Take a seat, I’ll bring one over.’
Mr Crow searched for an inconspicuous corner where he could fade into the background until he was beckoned to the game. He was beginning to wish he had never contemplated this venture in the first place.
Hubert Faddle brought over a large glass of brandy and assured him the wait would not be too long. In reality, Faddle knew that it would. Keeping the eager gambler waiting was part of the plan; it unnerved them and introduced a pleasing uncertainty into the proceedings, which, along with the free-flowing alcohol, made it easier for Trench to carry out his magical sleights of hand and empty the victim’s purse.
Mr Crow pulled his hat further down over his eyes and leant forward, staring at his drink. All the anticipated pleasure of a covert card game had disappeared in a matter of moments. After taking a large gulp of the brandy, he placed his brain into neutral, a facility he had developed when involved in a long, boring drawn-out trial. The eyes were sharp and appeared alert, but the mind was in absentia.
It was because of this self-induced trance that Mr Crow did not notice the two men who entered the bar some five minutes later. They made their way to the bar. A few of the customers cast suspicious glances at the duo. They were not regulars and their dress and manner, especially that of the fair-haired one, clearly indicated that they were away from their usual territory and slumming it to enter this particular establishment.
Hubert Faddle didn’t like the look of them either. Strangers appearing in his public house on the night of a big card game made him nervous. They could easily be representatives of the law or agents of a rival gang wanting to disrupt proceedings. His barmaid, Annie made a beeline to serve the strangers, but he intercepted her. ‘I’ll deal with them,’ he whispered in her ear before stepping ahead of her to the bar counter. ‘What’s it to be, gentlemen?’ he said with a half-smile on his podgy face and a reasonably pleasant manner – not too pleasant as to make this couple feel particularly welcome.
Oliver was about to launch the enquiry which had brought them to the premises, but Jack nudged his friend out of the way. ‘Two tankards of your finest ale, landlord,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ve heard it’s best beer in these parts.’
‘Have you now,’ returned Faddle, a little non-plussed at this response. As he set about obtaining the beer, Jack leaned over and observed, sotto voce, ‘It’s best not to jump straight with questions in a place like this, Oliver. We stick out like two Christians in a lion’s den. I know these people. Be too eager and they’ll either clam up or worse still, eject us with certain hurts about our body.’
Oliver nodded. ‘I bow to your greater wisdom in this matter,’ he said, with the ghost of a twinkle in the eye.
‘We’ll take our drinks, sit a while and then I’ll order a couple more and drop the name into the conversation. Can I suggest you leave it to me?’
‘Very well, but do not give the real reason why we seek the fellow.’
‘I don’t have a pudding for a head, Master Twist,’ snapped Jack as he collected the tankards Faddle had placed on the counter. ‘Now, be a good chap and pay the man.’
Oliver did as he was told, and they retired to an empty table near the fire.
‘Mmm, it is good ale,’ said Jack after downing a third of his tankard in one gulp which left him with a frothy moustache adorning the top of his lip. ‘This is just the sort of establishment that Fagin used to frequent when the old skinflint felt like a little intoxication.’
‘Indeed, it is,’ agreed Oliver.
‘Do you ever think about the old devil?’
‘He pops into my head from time to time. Unbidden and unwelcome, I have to say, but there he is.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Unlike like you, Oliver, I don’t see those days as all bad. We did have some laughs didn’t we?’
‘I suppose we did,’ agreed Oliver reluctantly, but he felt uncomfortable admitting it. Indeed, there were laughs but a greater supply of tears and bruises.
‘I still get a giggle when I think about that dodging move that Fagin taught us when he we had to distract a gent who’d caught one us dipping. We called it Fagin’s Diversion. FD for short. D’you remember?’
‘Heaven’s,’ said Oliver, ‘I haven’t thought about that for years. FD, yes.’
Jack grinned. ‘It was quite like a military manoeuvre. We both approached the fellow head on and then you swung sharply to the right and I dodged to the left. Our target was so confused by all this that we managed to slip by him in a trice.’ The thought of this prompted a prolonged chuckle from Jack.
Oliver smiled gently. He had other thoughts on his mind. He was staring at the dark coated fellow he observed in the shadows at the far side of the room. He was sitting for the most part with his head forward over the table and his hat pulled well down over his forehead, b
ut on the occasion that he took a drink, he was forced to raise his head slightly and most of his features were revealed.
‘Good Gracious. Judge Carabine.’
‘What?’ Jack Dawkin’s forehead creased like a concertina’s bellows.
‘That fellow over there. The one with the tri-corn hat.’
‘What about him.’
‘I’m sure it’s Judge Carabine.’
‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘He’s the sternest judge in the Old Bailey, the criminal court adjacent to Newgate.’
Jack shivered at the mention of Newgate. ‘There’s very few who escape the rope who come up before Judge Jeffrey Carabine.’
‘What the hell is he doing in this dump?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘Well, you may ask. Certainly, the way he’s behaving he certainly doesn’t want anyone to know who he is.’
Jack giggled heartily. ‘Let’s pop over and say hello. ‘How you doing, your Lordship? Sent anyone to the gallows recently’
‘Not a good idea. If he sees me, he could make my life very difficult. He wields great power.’
‘He just looks like a sad lonely old bloke’.
‘With a heart of ice and a vindictive nature. Heaven knows what he is doing here but he must not see me, or my career will be over.’
Jack shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why? We’re doing him no harm’.
‘A respectable member of the judiciary does not frequent a lowly tavern like this in a shrouded disguise unless his purpose – how shall I phrase this – is not quite… kosher, as Fagin might say. It is a secret visitation.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps to meet a woman, although I would have thought his wenching days were over. It must have disreputable connotations. And I am sure that if he becomes aware that I know of his presence here, I’m convinced he will do his utmost to silence me, to destroy me, to propel me into the darkness.’
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 14
