Below, Sir Ebenezer heard the cry of alarm and gazed skywards, as did Roger Littlewood. Both were amazed and shocked to see two dark objects hurtling towards them. With the speed of a lizard, Lightwood grabbed the arm of his employer and dragged him backwards out of harm’s way. Just in time as it happened, for a second later the two flying missiles landed were he had been standing.
‘What in Heaven …?’ Sir Ebenezer managed, before shock robbed him temporarily of further dialogue. Both men gazed in amazement at the two shapes on the lawn. Roger could see that one was a stone edifice, severed in two by the fall, but the other was a human. A woman. She was lying face downwards, but he was fairly certain he knew her identity. As did Sir Ebenezer.
Slowly, Roger bent forward and gently turned the body over. It was indeed Lady Amelia Throate, her face caked in mud, traversed with thin rivulets of blood. The glassy eyes were open, but there was no doubt that she was dead.
Roger looked up at Sir Ebenezer and saw that he had grasped that fact also. ‘What on earth was the old girl doing up there?’ he asked, shaking his head.
I think she was trying to kill you, thought Roger, as he gazed down at the decapitated statue embedded in the damp grass of the lawn. She meant you to be under that thing, his thought continued, but remained unspoken. Taking the old man’s arm, he led him towards the French windows. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do now. I’ll get Bulstrode to deal with things.’
Percival Boffin, Lady Whitestone’s lawyer, closed his client’s bedroom door and stood for some moment as though caught in a trance. He shook his head in bewilderment. Was the woman with whom he had just been in conference the real Lady Whitestone? Where were those gorgon eyes, that guillotine of a voice, that brusque and aggressive demeanour? They had, it would seem, evaporated, and been replaced by a warm glance, a gentle smile, a kindly nature and a reasonableness of nature that he had not experienced before.
With a sigh and shake of the head, he brought himself round from his silent cogitations and, tucking his briefcase under his arm, he made his way down the curving staircase to the hallway bellow where he found Felicity Waring, her ladyship’s companion waiting, an apprehensive frown on her brow.
‘Well, young lady, this is a portentous day for you,’ he observed.
‘Really, sir?’
‘Indeed. Indeed. Do you not know why your mistress sent for me?’
Felicity shook her head.
The old lawyer pursed his lips. Should he tell the girl or should he allow her to find out for herself? No doubt Lady Whitestone would pass on the news now that the business was concluded. However, it was so surprising that he could not resist the urge to tell the girl. He was bursting to pass on the information to someone and who more appropriate than Miss Felicity Waring herself. It was totally unprofessional, but he could not help himself.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I am sure your mistress will make you cognisant of the arrangement but perhaps it is as well that I give you the basic details now so that you will not be shocked when she tells you.’
‘Tells me what?’
‘Lady Whitestone has settled a considerable amount of her fortune on you. She says that your diligence and kindness to her has touched her heart and she has come to regard you as a daughter that she never had. When she dies, you will be a very rich woman.’
Felicity stared open-mouthed at the old legal gentleman and her body shivered at the startling nature of the words he had just uttered. Was she dreaming? Was this all real? How could the old curmudgeon who had treated her in so ill and a cruel cavalier fashion for over two years now perform a volte face and reward her as though she were ‘a daughter that she never had.’ The world had gone mad. At least, her world had. She suddenly felt faint and weak at the knees. Boffin observing the effect his words had on the young lady guided her to a chair and patted her hand.
‘I did not realise that you would be so affected by this news,’ he said kindly.
‘It is not a jest then?’
Boffin shook his head. ‘No, no. That is not my nature. What I told you is the truth. You will inherit the bulk of Lady Whitestone’s fortune when she passes on. That is good news, is it not?’
It was sometime later when she was alone that Felicity Waring mused that if as Boffin had asserted, Lady Whitestone now regarded her as a daughter, this was purely as a result of a blow to her head, which had directed the old lady’s mind down a kinder more humane path. Her personality has transformed; she had become a different woman. It was as though the wicked fairy had metamorphosed into the benevolent good fairy. It was a fantastic concept, proving that life was a great deal stranger than fairy stories.
‘That is the plan, then.’ Jack Dawkins tapped the side of his head. ‘I shadow Master Trench and sees that he gets up to no good regarding old man Throate, while you engage a carriage and trip off up to the Manor’
Oliver nodded. ‘If nothing ill transpires, I will meet you here at the inn this evening or by the morning at the latest.’
‘And if something … er, transpires?’
‘Get a message to me as soon as possible up at the Manor.’
Jack gave a mock salute.
They were standing in the courtyard of The Farmer’s Boy in Denbigh just having alighted, stiff and tired, from the coach. As they conversed they kept an eagle eye on Eugene Trench who was in conversation with the coach driver.
‘Don’t fret, Oliver. This line of work is more up my street that sitting on a hard stool in a dusty office. Trust me.’
The two men shook hands and Oliver departed.
Jack made his way to the door of the inn and lurked there in the shadows watching Trench. At length the villain moved away and, clasping a canvas bag that he had retrieved from the luggage rack on the back of the coach, made his way into the village.
Within seconds, Jack had engaged the coach driver in conversation.
‘That thin fellow you was gassing with just now, what was he talking about?’
The coachman screwed up his face into a suspicious scowl. ‘What’s hit to do with you?’ he growled aggressively.
Jack drew a short-bladed knife from his belt and held it up before the coachman’s face. ‘You could say I’m a nosey blighter. A dangerous, nosey blighter. A bit unstable in my ways as well. So, it’s not going to hurt you to tell me, is it? Or, I it’s likely a refusal may hurt you.’ He lowered the knife with the blade pointing at the man’s stomach.
Immediately the demeanour of the coach driver changed, his lips forming a nervous smile. ‘T’were nothin’ himportant, sir,’ he said.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Jack.
‘Well, he just was a wantin’ to ‘ire a horse and was asking where there was a farrier in these parts. That’s hall.’
‘And where is this farrier?’
‘At Bell Cross. Left down the road awhile and turn right by the old watermill. You’ll see the smithy some hundred yards down the track. Tom Cuff be his name.’
Jack Dawkins slipped the knife back in his belt and tapped the coach driver on the arm.
‘I’m much obliged to you,’ he said and then made his way out of the courtyard on to the highway.
As he walked briskly, catching sight of Trench in far distance, he reasoned that if Trench were after a horse, he must have it in mind to ride to the Manor in order to commit some mischief or other up there. Some mischief that he needed to prevent.
Meanwhile Oliver was being driven in a stately fashion in an old growler hired from Ethelred Grenson and Sons, Transportation for the Gentry, who were based and had been founded in Denbigh village in 1701. In fact, the driver was old man Grenson himself. Oliver was experiencing a rapid sea change of emotions has he sat back in the carriage gazing out at the lush scenery passing by. He thought that perhaps – maybe – possibly – he had solved the mystery of Sir Ebenezer’s son. Well, there was a vague, slender chance he was right; if he wasn’t, he had no idea what to do next. However, this
wasn’t his only concern. The image of Eugene Trench loomed up in his imagination. On this point he was quite certain, this scaramouche presented a direct threat to his client. However, the problem was that he had no idea what form or nature this threat might take. He hoped to heaven that Jack would be able prevent any catastrophe. Sadly, he wasn’t sure his old friend was up to the demands of the task. Only time would tell.
Oliver grew conscious that the coach was slowing down and yet they were some miles away from Throate Manor. He pulled down the window of the carriage and gazed out. The road they were travelling on was narrow and he observed that there was a horse drawn vehicle approaching in the other direction. As it drew nearer, he saw to his heart stopping consternation that it was a hearse with the top hatted driver dressed in suitable funereal livery.
As the two carriages drew up side by side, the drivers exchanged pleasantries. Oliver could not quite hear the conversation, but he judged that the hearse driver was informing old man Grenson about his cargo. Obviously these were two old businessmen from Denbigh who knew each other well and were on good terms. Eventually, they afforded each other a hearty wave and continued their separate journeys. Oliver lifted the flap at the back of the carriage which allowed him to communicate with the driver.
‘What was that all about?’ he asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.
‘Oh, terrible, young sir,’ came the reply. ‘There has been a tragedy up at the Manor.’
Oliver’s heart sank. ‘Sir Ebenezer…’ He said.
‘No, no. It’s her ladyship. A fearful accident. She fell from the roof of the Manor. She be as dead as a doornail. Fell all the way down. What a tragedy. Awful. Awful.’
Oliver closed the flap. Awful, awful indeed. What on earth was he to make of this dark development?
CHAPTER THIRTY
There is an ancient adage that runs: ‘old habits die hard.’ Like all such adages, it holds the firm gem of a universal truth and could easily be applied to Jeremiah Throate. Indeed, his old habits became the great undoing of him. Despite his recent acquisition of wealth, albeit by nefarious ways, and his temporary comfortable quarters in the Hotel Splendide, his natural leanings were not to the glistening shops, theatres and bars of London’s West End which the well to do frequent when in town, but his penchant was for the lower drinking houses down by the river where not only could he buy a cheap glass of gin but maybe pick up a game. It is true that his fingers itched, and his hands shook if he was away from a gambling ambience for more than a few days. It wasn’t the financial rewards that stimulated and thrilled him, but the simple power of winning. The scooping of the cash to his side of the table while staring at the downfallen loser on the other side. It was like vitals and wine to him.
And so, rising late from his bed, only a little before noon, Jeremiah Throate set forth to a little drinking house in Upper-Swandam Lane, the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge, called The Toilers Arms where he hoped that he might muscle in on some little game of chance. He entered the dank and foul-smelling establishment and made his way through a throng of shadowy characters to the bar and ordered a gin and water.
The fat barman was less than monosyllabic. Grunts, it appeared was his native language, but nevertheless after paying for his drink, he attempted to engage the fellow in some sort of communication. He slipped a pack of cards from his pocket – he always had one about his person - and used them as a visual aid. ‘Is there a game?’ he enunciated slowly, fanning the pack. ‘Cards,’ he added for good measure.
The barman grunted again and mouthed something Jeremiah could not interpret but the fellow’s piggy eye glanced in the direction of the end of the bar where a stout individual with a dark straggly beard, smoking a clay pipe stood, idly running his finger through a shallow pool of spilt ale.
Jeremiah assumed that this was the man to give him more information as long as he had mastered the art of talking. Picking up his drink he moved down to the end of the bar and nodded to the man in a friendly fashion. ‘I gather you might know if there’s a game going on. Cards. Dice maybe?’
The man lifted his grimy features, blew a thick coil of smoke from the corner of his mouth and stared at Jeremiah for a long while without saying a word. Eventually, he spoke. ‘Why?’ he said and repeated the action with the coil of smoke.
‘I’d be interested. I’d like to sit in.’
There was another long interval before the man replied. ‘Be here at nine tonight.’ With these few words, the conversation was over. He turned his back on Jeremiah, preventing any further intercourse between them. Nevertheless, Jeremiah was satisfied. There was the chance of a game that evening. That pleased him. It would be good to sit around a table once more with a group of greedy men whom he could impoverish with a flash of a full house. While he was smiling at this thought and sipping his gin, he had no notion that he was being observed by two characters sitting far away from the bar in deepest and dankest section of the inn. They were grinning too for they could not believe their luck. After all their efforts pounding the streets in search of the devil, here was the very prey they were after. He had just walked into their lair, their sticky web. And they were determined that he would never get out of it.
This was Barney Kepple and Alf Joint, Eugene Trench’s redoubtable henchmen. They were small of brain but full of brawn and vile of nature. Without a word, they clinked their mugs of ale in celebration and grinned. They took a gulp of ale and waited.
Eventually, Jeremiah Throate placed his glass down on the counter with a decisive deliberate motion and made his way to the door. Within seconds Kepple and Joint were on their feet and heading in the same direction.
After two gins, Jeremiah felt like returning to his wonderful hotel bed for an afternoon nap before he returned The Toilers for his game of cards. He wandered down the empty street towards the river as yet still innocent of the silhouetted figures who, with increasing speed, were dogging his footsteps. As he reached the thoroughfare that ran along the murky, sluggish Thames, some instinct caused him to turn ‘round and gaze behind him.
And then he saw them. Although they were in shadow he recognised them straight away. How could he not? He had encountered them before. Close up. They were like familiar sketches by George Cruikshank come to life; grotesque sketch-like creatures, creations of some dark comic imagination. Fearsome and risible at the same time. He turned quickly and increased his pace. They did better than that: they began to run. And as they did so, they extracted their weapons. Kepple had a stout cosh and Joint a savage looking knife.
Jeremiah Throate was now very frightened. In panic, he scrambled over the parapet and dropped down onto the muddy shore of the Thames. He landed unsteadily on his feet but then dropped to his knees which sank into the soggy gritty wetness. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that his pursuers were glaring at him from the parapet, uttering inarticulate Neanderthal cries. Then they began to clamber over the wall. Squelching to his feet, Throate began running again along the sodden shore. He could tell by the sound of threatening yells behind him that they were gaining on him. His heart began thump against his chest and his eyes watered as he exerted himself to attain a faster pace, but it was difficult on this wet and shifting surface. He stumbled once more and this time fell full length onto the sand. By the time he had managed to stagger to his feet, Kepple and Joint were on him.
Sir Ebenezer Throate had returned to his bed. He lay awake gazing at the ceiling. He was strangely drained of emotion given that he had just witnessed the death of his wife of some thirty-five years. They hadn’t been the most idyllic thirty-five years, but they had survived them as opposing armies do having moments of conflict and the occasional periods of truce. He had loved Amelia when they got married and the magic had lasted a few years before they… well he had to admit it … before they both grew selfish and only became concerned about themselves and their own individual well-being. This had festered and mutated from dislike to hatred on both their sides.
He had mourned the loss of the pretty young maiden long ago and so he wasn’t going to do it now. He wasn’t heartless enough to feel glad that his wife had died but he could not summon up sufficient sadness within his breast to bring a tear to the eye. She was gone now, and it was a pity, but it did bring him a sense of relief and, indeed, a sense of release. With this thought firmly set in his mind, he slipped into peaceful untroubled slumber.
The horse that Eugene Trench had hired from farrier Tom Cuff was, he thought, a reasonable mount but he had paid a king’s ransom for the privilege of borrowing it for the day. He’d also had to cough up a few coins for information regarding the layout of the Throate estate. Cuff knew it well and regarded his knowledge as a commodity to be purchased. In this instance, Trench was content enough to pay; it was an investment which, if all worked out, would pay great dividends.
On Cuff’s advice, he had left the main track to the house and was making his way through Cowper’s Copse, a straggle of dense woodland that skirted the main grounds of the house.
‘When you get to the little wooden bridge by the stream, it is best to leave your horse there and make the rest of the way on foot. There is only a narrow footpath leading up from the lower meadow which will take you up to the rear of the property. The horse would find this very hard going.’
Trench thanked him for his information, suggesting, while never actually confirming, that he was a relative of Sir Ebenezer who was making a surprise visit. He came at last to the wooden bridge, dismounted and tethered the house to one of its struts. Snatching up his carpet bag, which he’d hung from the pommel of the saddle, he made his way across the stream and out into the open countryside. A green meadow stretched out before him with long grass waving in the stiff breeze. It rose up like a rippling green carpet to a plateau beyond on which was perched a strangely shaped building: Throate Manor.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 20
