At length the coach escaped the confines of the city and reached the open road. The horses sped along the rural highway, the carriage now maintaining a regular rocking rhythm.
Jack leaned forward towards his friend. ‘What time d’you reckon we’ll get to Throate Manor? I’m starving.’ He spoke in a husky whisper, but Mr Dawkins’ husky whisper had a volume that was stronger than most people’s normal speaking voice.
‘Not until late afternoon. But fear not, you should be able to grab a morsel or two when we change horses at the Green Dragon en route,’ came the reply.
Jack nodded. ‘That’s good, ‘cause I didn’t want my rumbling tum to disturb the other passengers.’ He sat back with a grin, amused by his own observation.
Oliver had noticed that the eyes of sinister cove in the corner had flickered with dark interest and his body had stiffened when he had heard Jack mention the words ‘Throate Manor.’
As the journey continued, he found his eyes constantly drawn to examining this dark stranger. If only he could remember where he had seen him before.
In just over an hour after leaving London, the coach pulled into the courtyard of the Green Dragon where fresh horses were to be secured. ‘This will be a ‘alf ‘our hinterlude,’ the coachman informed them. With great relief the passengers tumbled out of their confinement, like convicts on parole, stretching their limbs and breathing in the fresh air of freedom. In an instant Jack Dawkins made a beeline for the inn in search of a tankard of ale and some vitals. Oliver was content to forego this pleasure; he had taken the precaution of breakfasting well before setting out that morning and so was content to remain outside enjoying the sunshine and indulging in a gentle stroll. As he took pleasure in exercising his limbs after the cramped conditions inside the coach, he was aware that he was being followed. He turned around suddenly and came face to face with the thin skeletal faced passenger who had attracted his attention. The man doffed his cap in a theatrical manner.
‘Pardon me for interrupting your quiet contemplations, sir,’ he said in a smooth and what Oliver considered was a palpably false polite manner, ‘but I could not help overhearing you and your companion mention Throate Manor.’
Oliver did not respond. He merely raised his eyebrows in gentle enquiry. His lawyer’s training had taught him that silence was often the greatest lure, it seduced more information than the witness intended to impart.
‘I, er just wondered if you knew the old gentleman who resides there: Sir Ebenezer.’
‘What is the purpose of your enquiry, sir? asked Oliver in a not unfriendly fashion.
The man shrugged. ‘I was just interested to hear news of the gentleman’s welfare. I gather that he has not been in the best of health recently.’
‘You know him then?’
The fellow’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Oliver a shifty look, which told him that a lie was on its way. ‘I have encountered the gentleman on occasion, but I am particularly friendly with his son Jeremiah, a fine upstanding fellow. You will have met him, no doubt.’
Again, Oliver gave a non-committal smile. ‘You are on your way to Throate Manor yourself, Mr…?’
‘Trench, Eugene Trench.’ The words came out too quickly and the man’s face soured as he realised his mistake. What a fool he was to give his real name. ‘No, no,’ he carried on hurriedly, ‘not yet at least. I have business in the village but, who knows, if time allows, I may take a trip up the house and pass on my compliments.’
Oliver flashed him a brief enigmatic smile. ‘And what is your business, sir?’ he asked, snatching the opportunity to turn the tables in this interview. There was something about this fellow he did not like: he was duplicitous, dangerous and his interest in Sir Ebenezer and Throate Manor could bode nothing but ill for the house and its inhabitants.
‘Property,’ Trench replied airily. ‘I deal in property. Other people’s property.’
‘Houses?’
‘Yes, houses, carriages, jewellery etcetera. All kinds of property. If you have something of value to dispose of, I am your man.’
‘That must keep you busy.’
‘Indeed. A worker ant am I. I enjoy the activity and the rewards it brings. You look like a fine set up young gentleman – what’s your game?’
‘My game? Oh, I’m not quite sure I’ve settled on the game yet. I’m still at the inquisitive stage. Ah, I see my companion is returning after taking his fill inside the inn. If you will excuse me.’ With a gentle bow, Oliver Twist turned his back on Eugene Trench and walked towards Jack Dawkins who had emerged from the doorway of the inn, running his coat sleeve across his mouth, an habitual gesture of his which indicated that he had just partaken of food and drink and was the removing the evidence.
‘They have some very tasty pies in there, Oliver. I rather made a glutton of myself by wolfing down two with a nice tankard of cold beer.’
Oliver smiled, patting his friend on his arm in an affectionate paternal fashion. Sometimes he almost regarded Jack like a child for he had all the enthusiasm and mannerisms of an innocent in the world achieving enjoyment from simple pleasures and lacking the steely discipline of responsibility.
‘I trust then that you will be sufficiently fuelled to keep you going for some hours now.’
‘Maybe. You know me, Oliver. I likes my grub.’
Oliver chuckled. ‘Indeed, I do know you.’
‘What were you nattering about with that fellow Trench just now?’
‘You know him?’
‘Know of him. He’s got a bit of a reputation for being a slithery snake. When I was on the game, dipping and that, I heard his name mentioned as a man not to fall foul of. A gambling cheat I gather. He’s a bit dangerous. I saw him once with two of his henchmen giving some poor fellow a hard time.’
‘What constitutes a hard time?’
‘Don’t be naïve, my friend.’
Oliver shook his head woefully. ‘I don’t like it, not one little bit.’
‘Don’t like what?’
In a swift and a concise manner, Oliver relayed the substance of the conversation he had had with Trench. Then it was Jack’s turn to shake his head woefully.
‘Blimey, that is creepy. ‘He glanced over to where Trench was leaning against the wall of the inn. ‘What does he want with Sir Eustace? And where does young Master Jeremiah come in?’
‘Those are the very questions I asked myself. I am not sure if Trench impinges on our mission, but I do believe we have to watch out for him.’
‘And watch our backs,’
Oliver thought for a moment and then grabbed hold of Jack’s sleeve. ‘Listen, when we reach the village of Denbigh, as before I’ll engage a carriage to take me up to the Manor as arranged, but you stay behind in the village and keep an eye on our friend over there. Follow him in a discreet manner and see what he gets up to.’
Jack Dawkins beamed. ‘Like the old days when I shadowed some old geezer ready to snatch his handkerchief – those silken lovelies. I was top of my class in that department. They didn’t call me the Artful Dodger for nothin’.’
‘Let’s hope you haven’t gone rusty.’
Not me.’
‘If there is any danger, you’ll have to get word to me up at the hall.’
‘No problem. Don’t worry your head about that.’
‘Book a room at the local inn for the night and we’ll rendezvous there in the morning unless…’
‘Unless something untoward crops up, eh?’
Morning had also reached Lady Twemlow’s London house. Despite the invading sunbeams, the atmosphere was sombre. Dr Sloper had called early to see his patient and Felicity waited outside her employer’s bedroom while he ministered to her. He emerged, after twenty minutes, his face a neutral mask.
‘How is her ladyship?’ enquired Felicity gently.
Sloper gave a shrug of the shoulders. He paused for a moment before replying assembling his thoughts. He knew that he had to be accurate in relaying his verdict so that no recrimina
tions could be aimed in his direction.
‘Well,’ he said at length, measuring his words carefully, ‘physically she is on the mend. She’s still a little weak and her head aches but that is to be expected and is quite normal. However, her mental state is quite a puzzle. She seems to have very little grasp of who she is. I have known her ladyship for some years and I have always found her to be, how shall I put it, very forthright in her views. She does not suffer fools gladly.’
Or anyone, thought Felicity but remained silent.
‘At the moment it would seem the blow to her head has softened her nature somewhat. She seems remarkably meek and amenable which is not the Lady Amelia Whitestone I know. It is probably the result of the concussion and she will, no doubt, return to her usual self in due course. In the meantime, treat her kindly, as I’m sure you always do, and answer her every request and whim, as I’m sure you also always do. There must be no tension or resistance to her desires in her life at the moment. Any kind of stress may well retard her recovery. I am sure I am leaving her in safe hands.’
With these words’ Dr Sloper made a swift departure leaving the house strangely silent. There was now only Maggie the young maid and Sarah the cook, a recluse in the kitchen, on the premises now that Arthur was no longer present. At the thought of him, Felicity felt a pang in her heart. It was guilt, remorse and a certain sadness. She had treated the fellow badly, but he had revealed himself to be a monster and in many ways she had escaped a terrible fate.
Slowly she made her way up the stairs once more and, after tapping gently on Lady Whitestone’s bedroom, she entered. The occupant was sitting up in bed gently humming. On seeing Felicity, her eyes widened with delight and she smiled broadly. ‘Oh, my dear, how lovely to see you,’ she cooed, patting the bed by her side. ‘Do come and sit here.’
Felicity hesitated. This kind of familiarity from her employer was alien to her. ‘I just came to see if you would like a cup of tea and maybe a boiled egg.’
‘What an angel you are. So kind. Tea and an egg with some lovely bread and butter would be most agreeable, but first I’d like you to come and sit by me, my dear Felicity.’
My dear Felicity! The old woman had surely lost her mind. She had never been ‘my dear Felicity’ in all the time she had been in the harridan’s employ.
‘Come. Come, come, sit.’
Felicity remembered Dr Sloper’s injunction that there should be no resistance to her ladyship’s desires which would cause her distress and restrict her recovery. Felicity sat on the bed and Lady Whitestone took hold of her hand. ‘You are so good to me, my dear. So very kind. You’ve been like a daughter to me.’
At these words Felicity’s mouth dropped open although she was struck dumb by the sentiment. Obviously the old lady was delirious. It was as though she had become another woman, as though the fairies had replaced the frosty old witch in the night with this soft-hearted and befuddled one.
‘I try to do my job as best I can,’ she found herself muttering at length.
‘Oh, I think our relationship is much greater than that of employer and employee, don’t you think, my dear?’
‘Well…’
‘I have grown very fond of you and I do believe that you have some affection for me also.’
‘Well…’
‘Of course my dear. I don’t wish to embarrass you. Enough said.’ Lady Whitestone squeezed Felicity’s hand and gave her a broad smile. ‘Now before you arrange for my tea and that lovely egg, I want you to send a note around to my lawyer, old Percy Boffin asking him to come ‘round to see me urgently and for him to bring with him a copy of my will.’
‘But are you sure you are well enough to be receiving visitors.’
‘Great heaven’s yes. I feel fine and I’m sure that with the tea and egg inside me, I’ll be wanting to get dressed. Now, my darling girl, be off and carry out my wishes like you always do.’
Despite being bewildered by Lady Whitestone’s behaviour and request, as always Felicity carried out her employers wishes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She saw them!
Amelia Throate had just emerged from her boudoir and was making her stately way to her husband’s room to ascertain how the old goat was this morning when she spied him, accompanied by that irritating fellow Lightwood, descending the main staircase. Their progress was slow: Ebenezer was shuffling, uncertain on his feet after many days in bed, and Lightwood was having to support and guide him every step of the way. What on earth were they up to? The old fool shouldn’t be out of bed. He wasn’t well enough. Such vigorous activity could be too much for him; it could bring on a relapse. This latter thought brought a sly smile to her lips and prevented her from crying out in order bring them to a halt. Instead, she determined to keep watch on them unseen to observe exactly what they were doing.
On reaching the bottom of the staircase, they turned left down the corridor that led towards the rear of the house. They are going to the private garden, thought Amelia Throate. Her husband often liked to walk about there in the morning on his own, enjoying the solitude. ‘His escape from me!’ she hissed quietly with some passion.
Suddenly, a plan, a daring, vicious, exciting and great problem-solving plan rushed into Lady Amelia Throate’s head fully formed. It was delicious and could work. With care she would make it work. With a chuckle she turned on her heel and made her way up to the top floor of the house, leaving her husband and Lightwood to make their slow progress to the garden.
Within minutes she was on the roof of Throate Manor, making her way along the little wooden boardwalk that ran around the perimeter of the building. The sky was a cloudless blue with a faint chilling breeze, but Amelia Throate did not notice it. She was warmed by the thrill of her venture. She moved with great care along the narrow footway, passing at interval the large classic statues perched on the edge of the roof gazing down at the grounds below. Eventually she reached the rear of the building, at the spot overlooking the private garden. It was here that the statues of the three graces were situated. She placed herself between Aglaia and Euphroyne and gazed down. She was disappointed to observe that the garden was empty. Had she been wrong? Had her dratted husband and that equally dratted secretary man gone elsewhere? Her spirits which had been soaring and inflamed by her outrageous plan now began to falter. The scheme that had sprung so perfectly formed to her mind from nowhere seemed to be in danger of crumbling. And then… and then she heard the mutter of voices.
She leaned over further and to her delight she saw her husband and the Lightfoot fellow emerge onto the lawn below. Sir Ebenezer threw his arms wide to embrace the fresh air like an old friend he had not encountered in a long time. He even shook himself free of Lightwood’s support and began to stroll about the lawn in a childlike manner – a stiff, slow and awkward childlike manner.
Where would he settle? He would have to settle at some point. She knew her husband’s energy levels wouldn’t allow him to carry on tottering about in this jerky somnambulistic fashion. Which of the graces did he favour? Would it be Aglaia who represented brightness and light or Thalia the grace of all things blooming. Personally, Amelia favoured Euphrosyne who represented joy. How fitting if Euphrosyne were the one who helped her carry out the deed for it would certainly bring her great joy.
At length, her husband returned from his perambulations to join Lightwood who had stayed on the edge of the lawn keeping a keen eye on his charge.
The two men now engaged in quiet casual conversation, the nature of which Amelia could not determine, placed as she was far above them on the roof. As the two men talked, they moved gently, first this way and then that but frustratingly never stopping still for any length of time. Then Ebenezer spotted a flower in the edge of the lawn. To Amelia’s eyes it looked like a butter cup. She saw him move forward, reach down and pluck it and hold it to his nose. He’s like an imbecilic child, she thought. He always had that naïve trait even when he was younger. Now, in his weak dotage, it had grown stronger
. But nevertheless, this naïve appreciation of the little yellow flower had placed him just where she wanted him. Sadly, it was not under Euphrosyne’s watchful eye. It was Aglaia who was the chosen one. So be it. Now she could be rid of the old devil and be free to live the life she wanted in the time left to her. London society, theatres, gown shops and jewellers beckoned.
Energised by this thought, she moved with stealth to the statue, checked that her husband stood directly in its trajectory and then she heaved against the granite edifice with all her might. At first nothing happened. It didn’t move. This surprised her. She assumed that these weathered icons, which had been at the mercy of all the elements for centuries – the heat of the sun, the cold of the ice and snow and the corrosive drenching of the rain would have made them very vulnerable and susceptible to movement by force. Grim determination drove her on; she pushed harder. Eventually, her efforts were rewarded: there came a gentle grating sound of stone shifting on stone. The thing trembled and then moved. With all her might, she leant heavily against the statue of Euphrosyne. It groaned gently and started to tilt. Lady Amelia Throate gave a grunt of exultant pleasure, wrapping her arms around the statue for one final push. Then suddenly with remarkable speed it left its moorings and began its journey. So swift was its descent that she had not time to release her hold on the granite missile and, with a cry of terrified wonder, she and the statue plunged earthwards.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 19
