It took him some moments to locate the faint pathway which meandered its way through the waist high stalks towards his goal. With a will, grasping the carpet bag to his chest he set forth.
Roger Lightwood sat in his office with a cup of tea and gazed across at the dark suited gentleman opposite him. It was Bulstrode, the Throate’s manservant. His ancient features were dappled with tears and his eyes were red from crying.
‘I am sorry, Master Lightwood to behave in this fashion. I don’t know what has happened to me,’ he blubbed, his chest heaving with emotion.
‘Grief, my dear Bulstrode. Grief is what has happened to you’.
The old servant nodded soberly. ‘I suppose you are right, sir. I have served in this house man and boy for fifty years. I attended to Sir Ebenezer’s father, before him. I know it’s a foolish thing to say, but I felt part of the family. And now there is this terrible day.’
Lightwood smiled kindly. ‘You are part of the family. This household wouldn’t function without your input. You are part of the substance of the building, its foundations, its furniture, its life. I can see that, and I’ve only been here a short time’.
‘Thank you for that, sir. You are very kind. I know that Sir Ebenezer and Lady Amelia have never been what you might say fulsome in their praise and were rarely warm to me personally, but I believe they trusted me, relied on me, and counted on me for support and assurance.’
‘Of course they did… do.’
The tears started again. ‘And now her ladyship’s gone. Cut down so cruelly, well before her allotted time. Poor Lady Amelia. She will be greatly missed.’ Bulstrode buried his face in an enormous blue handkerchief.
At this point, Roger was lost for words. He sympathised with the old fellow and understood his distress, but he had no words to counteract these very strong emotions. He was aware that any death was a tragedy, but he could not summon up any real feelings of loss for Lady Throate. She had treated him with disdain ever since he arrived and was dismissive of his duties. Her treatment of her husband was cruel and harsh. So, he remained silent, allowing the ancient retainer to expunge them from his body in tears and sighs.
Lightwood himself felt drained. The events of the past few weeks had ravaged his sensibilities and wearied him more than he realised. His sudden romantic attachment to Felicity and then the ensuing separation from his beloved, not quite knowing when he would see her again, had affected him greatly. Then there was the murderous attack on his employer which he had been forced to hide from the authorities which was followed by the mysterious death of Dr Benbow, an event that further added to his stress. And now there was the tragic demise of Lady Throate. It seemed that he was living through a waking nightmare. The fact that he had a sobbing manservant in his room did not help him catch a firm hold on reality. He almost felt like shedding some tears himself.
His miserable contemplations were interrupted by a harsh ringing sound. It was the great doorbell. It jangled vigorously, the clapper striking the large bell chamber with force so that the tintinnabulation could be heard throughout the house. The sound brought a sudden cessation to Bulstrode’s sobs. He stiffened, wiped his face vigorously with the now squelchy handkerchief. ‘We have a visitor,’ he said, rising stiffly, his sense of duty to the Throate family manfully trying to override his emotions. ‘I must go and answer the door,’ he said.
Lightwood gently returned the man to his seat. ‘You are in no fit state at the moment to perform such a duty. I too am a servant of this household. I’ll see to the visitor on this occasion. You stay here and regain your composure.’
Moments later, Roger Lightwood pulled open the door of Throate Manor to find a tall young man on the threshold. He had keen eyes, an intelligent face which was framed by blonde hair. He bowed his head in greeting.
‘I am Oliver Twist from the firm of Gripwind and Biddle, acting for Sir Ebenezer Throate. I am here to see Sir Ebenezer privately on a matter of great delicacy.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Barney Kepple and Alf Joint gazed down at the bloody body on the shore of the Thames. It was that of Jeremiah Throate. He lay face down in the mud and he was not moving. Worse than that: he was not breathing. The two men wore expressions of grim dismay.
‘We’ve gone and done it now, Alf,’ said Barney. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’
Alf nodded vigorously. ‘I know. I know. We just got carried away.’
Barney gave a self-deprecating sneer. ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. We were only supposed to hurt him and then take him back to the gaff – not… not kill the blighter. He’s no good dead.’
Alf groaned. ‘We’re as good as dead ‘uns ourselves now. Trench will have spleens for watch chains.’
‘If only you hadn’t clubbed him with your stick so hard on the back of his head.’
‘What d’yer mean? If only you hadn’t stuck your knife in his chest.’
They fell silent for a moment.
‘Well, what’s done is done. He’s dead and that’s it,’ observed Barney at length.
‘What do we do now?’
‘We have no option. We make ourselves scarce, I reckon. We disappear. We have to. This little fandango brings our relationship with Trench to a close. We need to get out of London. Away from his clutches.’
‘Clutches… yes,’ mumbled Alf, his brain hurting.
‘Come on, let’s get away from here.’
The two men turned and began running, leaving the corpse sprawled out, face down on the wet mud on the shore of the gently flowing Thames. If they had only searched his body before departing, they would have discovered a precious pearl necklace in his inside pocket. However, at high tide both the necklace and Jeremiah Throate’s body were swept out into the murky waters of the river.
Tom Cuff thought it very odd that in less than half an hour he had another stranger on his doorstep requesting a mount and details of the layout of the Throate estate. However, it did not give him too much pause when he knew there was more money to be made out of the situation.
‘I’m sorry young fellow,’ he said, slipping the coins into the pocket of his leather apron, ‘I ain’t got a horse I can let you have at the moment. But I do have a pony. She’s small and stout but surefooted and will certainly get you where you’re going.’ He avoided adding the word ‘eventually’ in case it may prompt a refusal.
Jack Dawkins knew he had no choice in the matter. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he muttered to himself, as Tom Cuff led him through his smithy to where the beast was tethered. Well, the farrier had been honest: the pony was small, and she was stout. He had omitted to mention that she was also rather grizzled with age.
Cuff saddled her up and Jack clambered aboard. Once seated in the saddle, he found his legs almost touched the ground. He was well aware that he made a very comical, indeed farcical sight as he trotted from the yard onto the track that would lead him to Throate Manor. Thank the Lord, he thought, none of my friends can see me now – I look like an act from the circus.
Despite his encouragement to the pony, who was named, Flora, the nag seemed intent on taking the journey at a comfortable pace. Pressing his legs vigorously against its flanks, shaking the reins and crying ‘Come on Flora, let’s fly’ had no effect on the pony whatsoever. Jack was beginning to think that it might have been better to go on foot. He dreaded to think how far ahead Eugene Trench was now and what mischief he was up to.
They entered the wood, pony and man, and then remarkably, as though somewhat spooked by the gloom and the low overhanging branches, Flora picked up speed and achieved a reasonable jogging pace. The surroundings were so alien to a city bred boy and bordering on the fairy-tale fantastical with the spider tracery of interlocking branches above him, split at intervals with pale needle beams of light and strange rustlings and weird squeaks in the darkness. To Jack it resembled the landscape of some strange dream.
He thought back to his Fagin days. They were hard and demanding but there was a kind of rough camaraderie
then and no real sense of danger and worry about the future. The old devil had been hard task master and could not be trusted, but nevertheless Jack had felt and strange kind of security under his regime. Here he was now, wrapped in a world of uncertainty with no indication of how things would end. And he was on his own: a solo agent. The thought made him shiver.
Eventually he reached the wooden bridge as he been told he would by Tom Cuff. And there was a horse tethered there. Trench’s mount no doubt.
‘Here’s company for you, Flora,’ Jack said, dismounting and tying up the pony to one of the struts on the bridge.
Within minutes he was trekking across the meadow of tall grass in pursuit of Eugene Trench. Oh, how he wished he was seated in the snug of a London ale house with a foaming tankard before him.
Roger Lightwood had led Oliver to one of the sitting rooms in Throate Manor and bid him take a seat. ‘Sir Ebenezer is resting now,’ he said, standing awkwardly by the fireplace. ‘As you know he is not in the best of health and today he has had a tremendous shock. I regret to say that this morning Lady Throate met with a terrible accident and died.’
Oliver nodded respectfully. This is only confirmed what the coachman had told him. ‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ he said softly. ‘It is a sad state of affairs indeed.’
‘As you will know I am responsible for all Sir Ebenezer’s private and business matters and so regarding his rather fragile state at the moment, I can assure you whatever information you have to impart to him can be vouchsafed to me.’
‘I am not sure that would be quite appropriate, Mr Braggle,’ said Oliver.
‘I do not see…’ Roger Lightwood halted mid-sentence, his face suddenly drained of colour and an expression of horror freezing his features.
‘You are Thomas Braggle are you not? You were raised by Amos Braggle of Murray Court.’
It was some moments before Lightwood could reply, his eyes flickering wildly as thought he was desperately seeking the words to use in response to this man’s statement.
‘What nonsense is this?’
‘Come now, sir. There is no need for prevarication. Your reaction to my statement clearly reveals that it is correct. There is no shame in the matter and indeed there is much to be gained by admitting the fact that your given name was Thomas Braggle.’
Lightwood turned his back on Oliver and rested his head on the mantelpiece and groaned. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘Firstly, a simple statement admitting that you are who I say you are.’
There was a long tense silence and then Lightwood turned around slowly. Oliver could see that his eyes were moist with tears. ‘Very well, I am… I was Thomas Braggle. But I have made a new brighter life for myself.’
Oliver smiled. ‘Much brighter than you realise, sir. I believe I know the outline of your story, but I would be obliged if you would recount, in general terms, what happened to you after the death of the man who brought you up and regarded you as his son.’
‘Why on earth should you wish to know all that? What is the purpose?’
‘Trust me, sir. I mean you no discredit. It is important not only to me and my services to Sir Ebenezer but vital to your future well-being and happiness.’
After a long pause, Lightwood gave a deep sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said, wearily. ‘You seem to know most of my story anyway. I don’t suppose dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s can do me further harm. With what inheritance I gained from my father, Mr Braggle, I enrolled at the University of London to study law and commerce. I call him my father for so I regarded him although I was not of his flesh. I was born an orphan, spending my early years in the poor house.’
Oliver knew all about such circumstances and indicated as much with a nod of the head.
‘It was during my second year there, I fell by the wayside. I had lived somewhat extravagantly, I’m afraid. I was not used to handling my own finances and I turned into the prodigal son, spending money lavishly, carelessly I suppose, and inevitably I drifted into debt. In a desperate attempt to extricate myself from the dire situation, I foolishly resorted to gambling as a means of getting my hands on further funds. Of course I failed. It is an idiot’s pursuit. I sank deeper into the mire and my studies suffered greatly. Eventually, the whole focus of my life became gambling – the desperate attempt get hold of funds. In the end, I gave up my life at university and took a lowly position in a tavern where regular games of chance were held.’
‘The Saracen’s Head’.
Lightwood’s eyes widened with surprise.
‘Why yes… How did you know?’
‘Later. Pray continue.’
Lightwood hesitated a moment as though he was about to press Oliver for more detail and then thought better of it and continued his narrative.
‘At this time, I had reached the bottom of the well. I really thought I would sink beneath the surface of the murky waters. I even contemplated doing away with myself… and then good fortune came to my rescue. I was traversing one of the narrow streets in the city of London – it was an aimless perambulation – when I saw a distinguished old gentleman being set upon by a couple footpads. They were only youngsters, less than twenty, chancing their arm no doubt, but they had managed to bring their victim to the ground. I roared out a warning as I raced towards them. For a moment they gazed up at me in surprise, this tall fellow racing towards them, shaking his fists. One of the boys high-tailed it immediately, but the other was more reticent to go and he made a move to reach into the gentleman’s coat pocket just as I was upon him. I gave a swift and heavy clout around the ears and with a sharp cry, one of pain mixed with indignation, he too ran off.
‘I helped the gentleman to his feet. He was shaken but unharmed and most profuse in his thanks for ‘my gallant actions’ as he referred to them. I walked him to a nearby tavern where I plied him with a large brandy which did much to revive his spirits. He introduced himself as Sir Ebenezer Throate who was making one of his rare visits up to town from the country. I remember him saying they would grow even rarer after the unpleasant experience he had just endured. And then, once more, he expressed his unbounded gratitude to me for my actions. We stayed in that tavern for over an hour and chatted most amiably. I told him a little of my history, but I cut out the disreputable segments. He just knew me as an ex-university student who had fallen on hard times. He asked me to join that evening at his hotel to take dinner with him. It was an invitation I was more than happy to accept.’
Oliver could tell from Lightwood’s expression and brightness of his eyes that he was actually enjoying relating this part of his history; it allowed him to experience again in a vicarious manner this fortuitous moment from his life.
‘That evening my life changed forever. Sir Ebenezer was still full of praise and gratitude for what he regarded as my ‘gallant actions’ but which in fact were just my natural instincts to go to the aid of a man in trouble. I certainly had not thought I was doing anything out of the ordinary. We chatted and enjoyed each other’s company. I sensed that Sir Ebenezer was a lonely man who was delighted in being in amiable company. By the end of the evening he had invited me to come and work for him, to be his secretary, as ‘my right-hand man’ he termed it. He offered me lodgings at the Manor house and an excellent salary. How could I refuse?’ Lightwood laughed suddenly. ‘I didn’t refuse. And so now I am here, serving my master.’
Oliver sat back in his chair. ‘Thank you for your frankness and the details you have vouchsafed me. Now I think it is only fair that I give you my story.’
Trench, somewhat out breath, had reached the rear of Throate Manor. He leaned against the wall of the old pile, waiting for his breathing to return to its regular rhythm. He was not used to so much physical exertion or the potency of country air which, it seemed to him, had almost as much power of intoxication as bathtub gin. He opened his carpet bag and checked the contents: a pistol, a short rifle and a long knife with a savage serrated blade. It was an assassin’s kit, although Trench
did not regard himself as an assassin. Although he had been responsible for a number of deaths, he had only actually killed one person himself. But now that was about to change. He was here ‘to do in old man Throate’ as he conceived the mission in order to flush out his son Jeremiah. On Sir Ebenezer’s death, the young man would emerge from hiding to claim the family fortune and that’s when Trench would have him – would have him to bleed him of his fortune before bleeding him to death. This thought brought a broad grin to his thin perspiring features. If only he had known that this was now a fool’s errand: Jeremiah Throate was dead and thus his plan was futile, but Fate had contrived to make him ignorant of this dark irony.
Fastening up the bag, he began to make his way along the rear of the building in search of an entry to the premises, some insignificant aperture – a door or a window – which would allow him access to the lower reaches of the building so that he then could make his way in a surreptitious fashion to Sir Ebenezer’s quarters, wherever they maybe. He was confident he could find them and the man himself without too much difficulty.
He soon came across what he was seeking: both a door and a window situated by a small flagged area which had some washing hanging on a line strung between two poles. Creeping up to the window, he gazed through the grimy pain. He saw that the room beyond was the kitchen, a large chamber with all the paraphernalia for cooking including a large oven. Standing at a large rough table in the middle of the room was a plump middle-aged woman, stirring something in a very large bowl. Obviously she was the cook. She was alone and therefore vulnerable. Very vulnerable. Things were going his way very nicely.
He tried the door. It opened easily with a slight creak. The woman, so intent on her stirring duties did not hear him enter and was not aware that there was anyone in the room until a shadow fell across the table. With a little gasp of surprise, she turned and looked up to see a tall thin man of grimy aspect holding a pistol. She fell back with a cry of alarm.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 21
