Oliver Twist Investigates

by G. M. Best

  I was horrified by the news, not least because for a time I did indeed believe you had been killed. However, I sent out my spies and it wasn’t long before your survival was known. And, indeed, your story then acquired a wider fame because Dickens betrayed both you and Nancy. He saw in your tribulations a perfect story to help him achieve fame by uncovering the horrors of the workhouse system. He began writing in monthly installments about you, although he must have known it would endanger Nancy’s life and your future. People say he is a great writer and that he has a strong social concern to help others. I think he had a stronger desire to become famous. You and poor Nancy were just steps to that.

  Contrast Dickens’s motives with mine and then you’ll see you meant more to me than to him. I, who hate travelling, even journeyed with that sniveller Monks when he proved determined to see you. I wanted to ensure he brought no harm to you. We had to tread carefully to avoid detection by those who guarded you, but we did manage one evening to draw near to the house unseen. My heart leapt when I saw you sitting asleep by the window, still clutching in your hands the book you had been reading. The jessamine and honeysuckle that crept over the casement were not as attractive to my nostrils as the smell of your sweet, sweet body. Who knows what Monks would have done had he been alone. He was so consumed with rage at the sight of you, it was all I could do to restrain him from climbing through the window. As it was, it was my efforts to draw him away which aroused you from your slumber. You screamed for help when you saw me, but there was no need, Oliver. I was only protecting you from Monks.

  But let me come to the point. It was your precious Dickens who informed me of Nancy’s treachery. He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last journalist to betray his sources. He even sent me advance information of her intended meeting with Brownlow and Rose Maylie, counting on me to ensure she was removed. Believe me, Dickens wanted Nancy killed. And the more brutal the method the better. And I, blind fool that I was, did what he expected. All I could think about was that Nancy had ensured you might never again be in my hands. She had no right to do that and her actions endangered us all. You knew too much about us all for your escape to be ignored.

  Beside myself with a mixture of jealousy and fear, I told Bill what Dickens had told me. I spelt out to him how she had given him laudanum to send him to sleep so that she could steal out at night to find those most interested in our downfall and peach to them. I got young Bolter to tell how he’d followed her and seen her meet a gentleman and a lady. He spelt out how she had told against us without her being under any kind of threat or compulsion. I will not pretend ignorance. I knew what reaction all this would evoke in Bill. Even at the best of times, he was an easy man to arouse. He left me with such anger and bitterness in his heart that I knew what the outcome would be and I rejoiced at the prospect of what he would do to her. I felt certain he would dance to my tune.

  But, remember, Oliver, Dickens used me as much as I used Bill. Can you imagine what it’s like for me to know I was tricked into actions that have condemned me to the gallows and not to know the reason why Dickens did what he did? If so, you’ll know why I want you now to find out why he wanted Nancy dead. I want you to seek out the truth so that old Fagin will have the last laugh over this alleged great writer. His motive must be one he wants hidden from the world and I want you to expose it. It’s in your interests to do so because, believe me, Dickens knows more about Nancy and about your birth than he has written about, and you know less about your origins than you think. You see, dear boy, I cannot comment on Nancy’s belief that you might be her child but I can say I think you are not and never were any relation to the Maylies or to Monks. It is my view that Nancy will have revealed to Dickens secrets about your birth. Secrets that she kept hidden from me and from Bill and from you. Those secrets may have cost Nancy her life. Certainly they were secrets that Dickens hoped would die with her.

  I have to stop now. I gather the preparations for my public farewell are complete and so my time on this unpleasant earth is about to end. I will soon have the white cap placed over my face and the noose looped around my neck. I doubt whether anyone will grieve over my departure and, whilst frightened of the fate that awaits me, I am not sorry to leave this bleak stone dungeon and even bleaker world. I have screamed and shouted enough in this place. However, I will die happier if you find out the truth about Charles Dickens’s relationship with Nancy, if not for my sake, then for yours. And if not for your sake, then for hers. Find out why Nancy had to die. What secret did she possess that made him want to ensure her destruction?

  And so, my dear boy, I wish you the fondest of farewells, knowing for certain you will always have cause to remember me till you join me in death,

  With all my fondest love,

  Fagin.

  3

  A HINT OF BLACKMAIL

  Fagin’s letter swept away all my pretence of having acquired respectability. I found that his death had not erased one jot of the power he still held over me. The memories I had desperately sought to suppress about the abuse I had faced at his hands now resurfaced with an intensity that was almost overpowering. A noose round the neck was insufficient punishment for one who had totally destroyed not only my childhood but also that of many others. Such were my emotions that I came out in a cold sweat and I physically trembled. Indeed my stomach churned to such an extent that I was thrice violently sick. Having been brought up in a workhouse, I was no innocent child, but even its dehumanizing horrors had not prepared me for what I had faced in the sinful clutches of that most evil of men. And what made the memory worse was that, though my brain told me that I was the victim – just like all those before me who had taken his fancy – I still felt that somehow I too was to blame for what happened. Had I somehow encouraged his attentions? I had been a mere child, lost and friendless, yet still could I not have resisted more? Should I not have embraced death in preference to Fagin’s hideous embraces?

  What made matters worse was that his letter insidiously poisoned all the very things that had helped me survive. The birthmark I could not dispute, for I had known of its existence for as long as I could remember, but did it truly mark me as Nancy’s bastard child? Was I really born to be a member of Fagin’s gang? Had Nancy actually tricked Bill Sikes into securing my release by arranging that ill-fated burglary? And how on earth had she secured the assistance of Charles Dickens? Surely Fagin was wrong in insinuating that it was payment for her favours? A man like him would scarce stoop so low as to seek pleasure from such a low-born prostitute, however charming she could be. And what of Fagin’s story of betrayal? Had Dickens truly engineered Nancy’s murder by betraying her to Fagin in the knowledge that this would evoke Bill Sikes’s ruthless anger? It seemed to me to be nonsense but, at the same time, I could not see why Fagin should be challenging me to find out why Dickens had wanted Nancy murdered unless there was some truth in his tale.

  My inner turmoil was not helped by the fact Fagin had brought into question my relationship with Agnes Fleming and therefore with her sister, Rose Maylie, the person I had come to look upon as my aunt and whom I most loved in the world now that Mr Brownlow was dead. Knowing Rose’s honest nature, I was under no doubt that had she ever had the slightest question mark about my parentage, she would not have hidden it. I therefore drew hope from the fact that she had never questioned that I was anyone other than the son of her dead sister. On the contrary, she had always welcomed me into her life, despite my illegitimate status and all the sordid experiences of my early life. No aunt could have lavished such loving affection on a nephew as she had done me. For that reason the one thing of which I was certain was that I had no desire to speak about Fagin’s letter to Rose. For all I knew, the contents of Fagin’s letter might be no more than a dead man’s wicked lie – a cruel means of rekindling his power over me. How could I possibly risk jeopardizing my relationship with her by disclosing information that might well be false?

  Once the first huge shock had worn off, my thoughts
turned to how best I should deal with the matter. It was obvious that finding out the truth would be no easy task. Nancy, Bill, Fagin, and Monks were all dead and, as far as I knew, all Fagin’s gang had probably long since either been hanged for their criminal activities or else, like the Artful Dodger, been transported to Australia. I had heard nothing of Mr Bumble since that wicked man’s loss of status and I had no desire to renew our acquaintance, even if I had the means of discovering his whereabouts, which I did not. Unfortunately Mr Brownlow’s death deprived me of the one obvious source that might have known more about what really happened.

  I eventually decided that the only person that I could confide in and who might be placed to shed further light on my birth was Mrs Bedwin, even though I had been at first reluctant to involve her. I knew I could trust her completely because she had nursed me in my affliction like a substitute mother, enfolding me in her warmth and natural kindness when many a housekeeper would have acted otherwise. Most women in her position would have advised their master not to take in a child from the gutter. However, Mrs Bedwin had looked at me and seen not a monster but a weak, thin and pallid child so ill-treated as to be near death’s door. She had given me not just the physical care required to ensure my survival, but the emotional support that made me want to live. I can recall as if it was yesterday how, once my life was no longer in danger, she carried me downstairs to her own room to sit by her side and how she cried tears of joy at my recovery. Though I tried my best I could not eat all the toasted bread and strong broth she made for me – that would have required a whole workhouse full of starving boys! This was one occasion when Oliver Twist did not require to ask for more.

  In some ways recalling those days when Mrs Bedwin had cared for me gave me courage to believe that Fagin’s allegations must be wrong. It was in Mrs Bedwin’s room that I had first seen the painting of Agnes Fleming. At the time Mrs Bedwin had no idea whom it portrayed. I remember telling her that I felt as if the lady’s sorrowful eyes were following me round the room. And then Mr Brownlow was taken aback by the similarity he saw between the portrait and myself. He said the features of Agnes Fleming could be taken as a living copy: the same eyes, the same nose, the same mouth, even the same expression. Mrs Bedwin had endorsed his opinion. More importantly, Monks’ obsessive pursuit of my destruction was surely overwhelming proof that the reason for the likeness was that I was indeed Agnes’s child. Mr Brownlow had come to have no doubts about my ancestry and I had no doubt myself that Mrs Bedwin shared his certainty. Her love for me had certainly not diminished over the years but had grown ever stronger.

  After Mr Brownlow’s death it was only her love for her own family that separated us. She had nursed her master through his final illness and then, not without some deliberation because of her affection for me, decided it was time to spend her last days with her son, who had recently returned to London after many years working overseas as a clerk to a merchant in the West Indies. William Bedwin had acquired enough in his years abroad to make a comfortable home for himself and he was keen to care for his mother. Recognizing that she did not like the idea of leaving me alone, he had made it clear that I would always be a welcome person in his home and, needless to say, I had taken up his kind offer and become a regular visitor to their hearth.

  Normally I looked forward to seeing Mrs Bedwin, but, on this occasion, despite my hopes that she would somehow prove Fagin to be wrong, I was filled with trepidation. Her son’s house was in a reasonably respectable but very overcrowded section of the city. It was an old-fashioned dwelling, darkened by age and smoke and weather. Once standing proud midst open countryside, it was now heavily enclosed by newer and far less attractive buildings, so that not even a blade of grass survived to mark its earlier rural state. Its black and forbidding exterior and the confusing courtyards that now surrounded it did little to commend it, neither at first glance did one’s first entrance. Stepping inside the soot-covered house was like moving into its past because its faded furnishings were also almost entirely the product of an earlier age and fashion, except for a few rather incongruous additions that had been acquired throughout her son’s years abroad. These were clearly visible because the house was extremely well lit by both candle and fire. Indeed the first action of any bespectacled visitor coming in from the cold was always to wipe their glasses so that they could remove the instant condensation on them.

  Any criticism of the house’s appearance was soon negated because of the warmth of welcome all entrants received. It put even the heat coming from the large fireplace to shame. Rather like his house, William Bedwin was not a man to be judged by appearances. Outwardly his sallow complexion, grizzled hair and rather grim visage made him appear a gloomy figure, especially as he dressed almost entirely in black. Moreover, years of being subjected to the beck and call of a dictatorial master had left him with a rather haunted look, as if he was never quite sure what demand would be placed on him next. Yet beneath this outward exterior was a generous and warm-hearted man, who delighted in telling a good story and in helping others. He greeted me with all his usual cheer and so too did his mother, though age was now making her visibly frailer each time we met.

  After exchanging initial pleasantries, I confided that I had a matter of some concern, which I needed to share with my former nurse. William said he would happily leave us to talk alone because he had to attend to some shopping. Once he was gone, I explained to Mrs Bedwin that I had unexpectedly received a letter written years earlier by Fagin on the eve of his execution and that its contents had deeply troubled me. At the mention of his name her untroubled face clouded over.

  ‘That wicked, sinful wretch. I’m surprised you did not consign the letter unread to the fire. I hope you may not think me uncharitable, for I try to be a good Christian, but I hope its author is still burning in torment in Hell. I see no reason why whatever he has written should not similarly be consumed by flames.’

  ‘You may well be right but what is done cannot be undone. I have read his letter and it is now I who am consumed by torment.’

  Her kind face looked with surprise at the intensity of anguish written on my face. She took my hand in hers and urged me to confide in her. Her touch was sufficient to open the floodgates of my heart and, abandoning that stiff upper lip so demanded of a gentleman, I am not ashamed to say I openly wept. Finding it impossible to voice my feelings, I reached into my pocket, and drew out the cursed letter and urged her to read it. This she reluctantly did. I watched as her countenance changed and the tears began to fall. She seemed to age visibly before my eyes as if the burden of what she was reading was cutting away at her remaining strength. I feared I had overburdened her but I had not counted on her strong willpower or the depth of her love for me. As she thrust the document back into my hand so as to rid herself of its hateful touch her face hardened and she gave voice to her anger at its contents:

  ‘How could this disgusting man have treated you so! I knew you had been beaten and I suspected worse, but this confirmation of my fears still hits me hard. Oh, Oliver, Oliver, how much you have suffered and through no fault of your own. This man was a monster and yet he dares to describe his feelings for you as being nothing but love! He knew nothing of love. Unnatural lust is all he felt and, what makes it even worse, he shows no contrition even though he knew when he wrote this that he was about to meet his maker. And to think he must have treated other boys like this over many years. It makes me sick to the stomach. If ever there was a fiend in human form, it is he.’

  ‘But even a fiend can speak truth,’ I replied. ‘He appears to believe that I am not who you think me to be and never was. Far from being the nephew of Rose Maylie, I am the bastard child of Nancy.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. Not for one moment. I can assure you Mr Brownlow had no doubts as to your birth. No doubts whatsoever. Nor did Mr Monks think any other than that you were his relation. This is a wicked, wicked lie, a damned lie.’

  ‘But what about the allegations he makes about
Charles Dickens?’ I asked.

  ‘How can you believe them to contain a shred of accuracy? The man is virtually a saint – look at the way he champions the cause of the downtrodden in his novels and exposes all that is hypocritical and wrong with our country. I know Nancy did much that redeemed her, but there is no way such a gentleman would have had a relationship with such a woman. Because Nancy protected you, you sometimes forget her true character and the many crimes she committed. How can you give any of what Fagin says credence? The man never knew the meaning of truthfulness. Talk of some kind of conspiracy to have Nancy killed is simply the wild imaginings of this malevolent creature. None of us liked what happened to her but you must realize that it was no surprise that she should have died brutally at the hands of Bill Sikes. You know yourself that the man was a violent and coarse bully of the very worst kind. Take my advice – burn this foul letter and forget you ever read it. Look to the future, not to an unhappy past.’

  Such words brought out all the secret feelings of unworthiness that had for so long marred my life and I answered her in all honesty. ‘In my heart I have always known that the unnatural practices I engaged in as a child makes me unworthy of a happy life, so how can I look to the future with anything but foreboding. Nancy should never have died to save my sin-sick soul. You have no idea of the many heinous practices in which I engaged whilst I was Fagin’s prisoner. If you did you would never be able to look at me again. All your kindness and affection would turn to dust and ashes and you would shun my presence.’