Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor

by David Stuart Davies

  Eventually, the door opened, and a tall young woman entered.

  ‘Oh, your ladyship, you are awake. Thank heavens,’ she said.

  ‘And who are you?’

  The young woman hesitated, a look of confusion on her face. ‘I am Felicity, your companion. Felicity Waring.’

  ‘Oh,’ came the muted reply, which held no meaning that Felicity could determine.

  ‘Can I get you something? Some tea or a glass of water. Would you like a little food?’

  Lady Whitestone did not know, and the rapidity of the questions defeated her.

  ‘Come sit down by me on the bed and hold my hand,’ she said, beckoning the young woman.

  With some trepidation. Felicity did as she was bidden and felt the cold clammy claw-like fingers of her mistress take hold of hers.

  ‘You are a good girl, aren’t you?’

  Felicity was surprised by the question and an image of Arthur Wren flying from her down the staircase flashed into her mind. ‘I try to be,’ she said, banishing the image.

  ‘I thought so. I do believe I am a good judge of character.’ Lady Whitestone smiled and patted Felicity’s hand. ‘I’ve had an accident, haven’t I?’

  The young woman nodded. ‘You have hurt your head. You have been concussed, but the doctor said that all will be well, but it may take a while before you feel yourself again.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Feeling myself again. That would be good.’ There was a pause and then she added, ‘Who am I?’

  Sir Ebenezer Throate had been awake for some time but had felt no impetus to get out of bed. He felt that his body was not quite ready for such an exertion and was happy to remain beneath the covers for a little while longer. He was reassured that his mind was restored to its normal functioning mode after that passage down into the dark cobwebbed and frightening realm of painful semi-consciousness where nothing seemed real or tangible. Now his task was to piece together the events of the last few days – those that he was able to recall with any reliability – and work out what on earth was going on. The gentle throb in his shoulder was evidence that he had been wounded – wounded by some incompetent malefactor whose intention had been to kill him. Who could that be? Was it the phantom creature who had been haunting his midnight hours these last few weeks? Or was it his despicable son, eager to get his lazy hands on the Throate fortune? If not either of these – who else wanted him dead? It seemed likely there had been a second attempt on his life which had resulted in the demise of Dr Benbow. This thought brought a furrow to his brow. Would there be a third attempt, and would this be a successful one? His body stiffened as he contemplated this dark possibility – or was it a probability – or a certainty?

  He sat up in bed, fully roused now by these chilling thoughts. It was then that he became conscious of another presence in the room. He glimpsed a dark shape hovering in the shadows.

  ‘Who… who is it?’ he called, full of dreaded apprehension, his voice creaky and faint with lack of use.

  ‘It is I,’ came the reply as the figure moved slowly to the end of the bed and into the light.

  The baronet hooded his eyes and peered at the creature. ‘Why, it’s Cook,’ he said in surprise. ‘Lizzie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lizze Barnes, yes sir,’ she said.’

  ‘What are you doing here? You should be down in the kitchen. These are my private quarters.’

  Lizzie gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, I know that.’

  Sir Ebenezer didn’t like the confidence and the strange note of sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘So… be off with you,’ he snapped.

  Lizzie gave him a wan smile. ‘You are very good at dismissing folk, aren’t you, Ebenezer? When they are no longer any use to you, you send them off – to the kitchen or out into the wide cruel world.’

  Sir Ebenezer did not like the way this conversation was going, nor the confident stance of this woman who should be servile in his presence, not answering back with a menacing undertone.

  ‘You never really notice the servants, do you Ebenezer? They are not really humans, individuals to you. They’re just automatons employed to bring you food and wine and see to all your needs. Like I do and I did. Twenty-five years ago, I certainly saw to your needs.’

  ‘What are you talking about, woman. You’re speaking in riddles.’

  ‘Look at me now. Look at me!’

  Sir Ebenezer did as he was bidden as Lizzie Barnes slowly removed her mop cap and shook her long hair free until it fell about her face and almost down to her shoulders.

  ‘Recognise me now?’ she said.

  The baronet’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Could it really be?

  The name crept to his lips, a memory of long ago. ‘Louisa,’ he said softly like a gentle prayer. And then repeated it. ‘Louise.’

  She nodded. ‘So, you do remember.’

  Tears welled at the old man’s eyes. ‘Of course, I do. Of course… I have carried the burden of guilt all these years.’

  ‘Hah! Carried it in the lap of luxury. What about the burden I’ve had to carry, eh?’

  The words wounded him to the heart. Sir Ebenezer hung his head in shame. ‘I am… so very sorry.’

  ‘Yes. I believe you. That’s why I thought you would do something to find our child – to give him some of the warmth, comfort and security that is due to him. It has eaten away at me over the years. I felt helpless and then I lit upon this idea That’s why I came here to work as your skivvy in the kitchen to try and persuade you – force you – to find our boy.’

  ‘My God!’ Sir Ebenezer’s mouth dropped open as the lightning bolt struck. So, she was his midnight visitor. The woman who had been working in his kitchen, a woman who he had barely noticed was in fact the dark creature that crept into his bedroom at the dead of night and reawakened his guilt and his sentiments for the child he had fathered all those years ago. Her child. He gazed more closely at her. Now that the hair was framing the face he could see the resemblance to the lovely servant girl he had taken advantage of a quarter of a century before. Her face was plumper and lined not only with the passage of time, but the trials and tribulations wrought upon a woman’s features when they are out in the world alone, struggling to keep body and soul together. It struck him for the first time that his treatment of Louisa, as he knew her then, had damaged two lives: that of his son and the boy’s mother. He moaned gently with the ache of grief.

  ‘Well, have you done anything to find our boy?’ she asked, her voice firm and challenging.

  Sir Ebenezer nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. I set two men from legal representatives to work on the case. I pray they will be successful – but… I am not sanguine. It is a long time ago and the trail will be very cold.’

  The woman knew he was right. ‘If there is a God in Heaven, He will see that things will turn out right. Granted - you and I are sinners, but that boy had nothing to do with our transgressions.’

  ‘The fault lies with me. You were young and innocent, and I had power over you.’

  ‘We were both at fault, but recriminations now are futile. All I ask is that you keep my secret, as I have kept yours, and keep me informed regarding any progress that is made in the search for our son. Once he has been found…’ She paused and crossed herself. ‘Once he has been found, I will happily disappear once more, content in the knowledge that you will do the right thing by him and accept him as your own.’

  ‘I will, madam. Believe me, I will,’ Sir Ebenezer assured her, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘I wish… I wish.’ His voice faltered and he got no further. He knew that the sentiment he was about to express was a foolish one. Deeds cannot be undone. Mistakes cannot be eradicated, only remedied to a certain extent. After all the crying, the spilt milk still remains. ‘I believe that I shall hear some news – good news I hope – from the young legal gentlemen in the next few days. Whatever information they convey, have no fear, I will pass on to you’.

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman replaced her mob cap, push
ing her hair under it, and then moved towards the door. As she placed her hand on the handle, she turned once more to face the baronet. ‘One more thing, Ebenezer, look to her ladyship. I believe she means to do you ill.’ With these chilling words, she left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As dawn breaks over London, it can look like a fairy tale capital, filled with glistening beauty and shadows, or can it appear like a dark and miserable annexe of hell. It all depends on the lighting and weather. Huge dark grey clouds shifting across a leaden sunless sky, while rain drenches the earth below, turn the city into a bleak funereal engraving, oozing misery and despair. By contrast, with a young bright yellow sun cheerfully beaming down from a pale blue cloudless sky, the lightest of breezes just managing to rustle the trees, causing the leaves to shimmer in a sprightly dance and the mellow stone of the newer buildings glowing in the early sunshine, good old London Town sparkles like a wedding cake.

  On this morning, it was this latter treatment that greeted the inhabitants as they threw off their bedclothes with varying degrees of enthusiasm and prepared to face another day of toil, pleasure or indolence. In room 301 of the Hotel Splendide, just off the Strand, thin fingers of sunlight filtered into the room, playing gently on the face of the dozing incumbent. Curled up in bed in a tight foetal ball was Jeremiah Throate, luxuriating in soft cotton sheets and plump feather pillows. He was still not fully awake, having enjoyed a night of deep satisfying slumber and was reluctant to emerge into full consciousness. It had not taken him long to extract one of the precious stones from Lady Twemlow’s necklace and obtain sufficient funds to allow him to book into this prestigious hotel and indulge in a sumptuous supper in the dining room.

  It seemed to him now that he had perhaps begun a new phase of his life. The mixed blessing of being the son of a baronet with a fortune kept forever out of his reach was fading and in his view he had moved pragmatically on to a new path in his life’s journey. He had become a thief, a felon, a snatcher of other folks’ rich trifles. If he couldn’t take what was rightfully his at present, while he waited for the old boy, his father, to die he would fund a pleasant lifestyle by taking what was not rightfully his. This dark conceit brought a thin smile to his sleepy features.

  At Throate Manor, the sun also presented a pleasant scene, although the thick walls and dense timbers failed to allow any warmth to penetrate the building. Roger Lightwood was up early, partly because he had slept badly, his mind awhirl with matters concerning his duties and his misery at being apart from the woman he loved and the related problem of how he was going to resolve this separation. This morning, however, he was determined to see Sir Ebenezer. Since his return from holiday, after the brief initial interview, he had been prevented from visiting his employer by Lady Throate who had claimed that he was too weak and not sufficiently compos mentis to receive visitors yet. He did not believe her.

  He knew that Lady Throate was a late riser which gave him an opportunity of visiting the old man’s room before she had a chance to stop him. Slipping out of his room, he made his way stealthily through the gloomy labyrinthine corridors to Sir Ebenezer’s bedroom.

  He knocked gently on the door and entered. The baronet was sitting up in bed with a blank expression on his face, but on seeing Roger approach him he gave a gurgle of pleasure, a broad smile animating his features.

  ‘Roger, my boy, by all that’s wonderful. Do come in, my dear boy.’

  ‘How are you feeling, sir?’

  ‘Well, as you know I have been in the wars, but it was a little skirmish, that’s all. I am on the mend.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it. I have only been told the lightest of details, what happened?’

  Sir Ebenezer shook his head. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, my boy. Not today at least. I am trying to wipe it from my memory. To recall the details, when they are so fresh, would disturb me too much. Maybe after some time has elapsed.’

  Roger was disappointed at this news but nodded his head to indicate that he understood.

  ‘My main aim now,’ said Sir Ebenezer, ‘is to get back to normal. To recover the status quo, as it were. With this in mind, I would like to leave this bed and get dressed and take some air. Your visit is very fortuitous because you can help me in this endeavour. My spirit is very willing, but I fear that the flesh may be a little hesitant. I’m very creaky and a helping hand would be most useful.’

  ‘Why certainly. I am happy to be of assistance – if you are sure you are up to it.’

  ‘Of course, I’m not up to it – but if I wait until I’m up to it, I might be dead. Besides I’ve got to get out this bed and into my clothes before that harridan swans in here and forbids it. At the moment I don’t think I have enough strength to defy her.’

  Roger was well aware ‘that harridan’ referred to Sir Ebenezer’s wife. It was a description with which the young man concurred.

  ‘Pull out my smartest suit and matching apparel from the wardrobe over there and lay them out on the bed. In the meantime, I’ll attempt to scrape a cold blade across my face to get rid of this awful stubble. Can’t risk sending for hot water, that might arouse the dragon from her den.’

  While the baronet tottered over to a table near the window which contained a jug of water and a large porcelain bowl Roger investigated the capacious oak wardrobe crammed with clothes.

  ‘Have there been any message from those to legal chaps from Gripwind and Biddle – Mr Twist and his crony?’ asked Sir Ebenezer as he poured water into the bowl and began dabbing his face with the water.

  ‘No, not as yet,’ Roger replied as he examined a dark grey suit, one he knew was a favourite if his employer. ‘What is their brief? I don’t believe you informed me regarding this business.’

  ‘God, this razor is blunt, or my chin is like a porcupine’s rump,’ said Sir Ebenezer, ignoring Lightwood’s enquiry. ‘Still it wakens one up. And that is what I really need now, Roger, my boy: I need waking up’.

  Oliver and Jack were later in reaching the coaching inn than Oliver had planned. This was due to the inordinate time his companion had taken to complete his morning ablutions. It had been Oliver’s task to waken his friend, who seemed determined with a Herculean effort to cling onto the remnants of sleep, like a man hanging from a cliff edge by his fingernails, despite being shaken, shouted at and having the bed covers pulled from him with a sudden, swift movement. Once vertical at last, Jack took forever to wash, shave and then arrange his hair into a shape and fashion which suited him. He spent some time in front of the mirror adjusting his thatch first this way and then that. To Oliver, the final result looked very much like the wild rough and tumble look his companion had exhibited when he had been dragged from his bed. Then came the performance of choosing his outfit for the day from his very limited wardrobe. After much consideration, Jack stepped into the very same clothes he had worn the day before.

  Oliver was a patient man with a very even temper, but this was wearing both down to snapping point. As usual Jack was blithely unaware of the tensions and irritations he was creating (was he ever?) and as he strode to the front door with a cry of ‘Come on, Oliver, let’s be off,’ he failed to notice his companions fierce look and exasperated exclamation.

  The courtyard of the coaching inn was a scene of chaos. There were three coaches in attendance, one of which seemed to be inhabited by a tribe of screaming and mewling children. One scruffy youth was clambering about on the roof of the cab, howling life a wolf and refusing to come down. In charge of the brood was a fat red-faced woman who bellowed incessantly at them to no avail.

  ‘I hope to heaven that is not our coach,’ observed Oliver.

  ‘It will not be, I can guarantee you,’ responded Jack, ‘for I would not set foot on it if it was. I’d rather walk.’

  As fate would have it, this highly animated nursery wagon was not their coach. After consulting an official, they were directed to the correct conveyance. They were only just in time for there were only two se
ats left and the coach was ready to depart. The other passengers glowered at them as they entered, realising that they would now have less room on the journey. Oliver and Jack squeezed themselves into the available spaces, facing each other like stiff bookends.

  ‘Better’n that a load of squawking brats,’ observed Jack leaning forward and mothing the words not quite sotto voce, prompting a few disgruntled glances from the other passengers.

  Oliver just nodded in response.

  With a violent lurch and a loud inarticulate cry from the driver, the coach rocketed forth into motion. It was as though some giant invisible hand had taken hold of the vehicle and shaken it. A shower of parcels and small pieces of hand luggage cascaded down from the rack. One thin fellow in a clerical collar lost his seat altogether and landed on the floor with a yelp. Jack leaned forward to help the poor devil back into his seat.

  ‘There you are, your reverence,’ said Jack

  ‘Thank you so much,’ replied the man, adjusting his pince-nez.

  ‘That’s all right. You can do the same for me next time were jolted about like corks all at sea.’

  The man responded with an embarrassed grin.

  For a time, the coach rattled through the streets of London and then shuddered to a halt in a thick stream of traffic. There followed a tedious half hour where the coach inched its way along through a throng of vehicles that crowded and clogged the thoroughfares of the city.

  During this tortuous time, Oliver studied the other passengers. Apart from himself and Jack there were four fellow travellers. There was the clerical gentleman, a stern looking lady who was the epitome of a strict governess or matron with pinched features and a mouth that probably never approached a smile; a plump fellow in a tight fitting tweed suit who was reading some sporting periodical and a fourth individual who interested Oliver the most. This fellow was sitting at the furthest corner of carriage on the opposite window seat to Oliver. He was a tall man, dressed in a long leather coat with a high collar, above which appeared a thin skeletal face with bright beady eyes that suggested their owner was a shrewd and difficult customer. There was a definite touch of cruelty about his features that strangely unnerved Oliver. It was a face he thought he had seen before, but he was not sure where. Maybe in the dock? The fellow’s coat was buttoned, but as Oliver scrutinised it, he suspected that the slight bulge on the right side around the level of the man’s waist indicated that he was carrying a pistol.