by G. M. Best
‘But, why did you not tell Mr Brownlow this when he faced you with plotting with Monks?’ I asked.
‘Think of all that had happened, Master Oliver. Nancy was dead and Monks was a spineless wreck. We feared what action might be taken against us if we admitted the deception, especially as by then Agnes’s real child was dead. And dead because of the treatment received at our hands.’
Even as I asked who the child was, I knew the answer Mr Bumble would give me. It was Dick, my sole friend and playmate in the workhouse where we both had been so cruelly treated. We had been whipped and starved and shut up together many and many a time. Dick’s pale face had been the only one I had wanted to see after fleeing from Mr Sowerberry’s before I set out for London. Through the gates of the workhouse Dick had thrust out his pale emaciated arm to touch me.
‘You mustn’t say you saw me, Dick,’ I had told him. ‘I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick, and I am going to seek my fortune some long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!’
‘I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,’ he had replied with a faint smile. ‘I am very glad to see you one last time, but don’t stop, don’t stop.’
‘No, I won’t stop but I wanted to say goodbye to you before I left. I promise you that I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! Don’t talk of dying. I’ll make my fortune and then return to make sure you can leave here and be well and happy!’
‘I hope so, but I think your good fortune will happen after I am dead and not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven and angels and kind faces that I never see when I am awake.’
With what little energy he had, Dick had climbed up the low gate and flung his little arms around my neck. ‘Kiss me,’ he whispered. And as we kissed he offered the first blessing I had ever had on my head: ‘Goodbye, Oliver! God bless you!’
I now knew that in seeking to advance her son’s interests, Nancy had helped deny the birthright of my one true childhood friend and, in the process, had doomed his guiltless soul to an early death. Thrusting a handful of gold coins into Mr Bumble’s palm as the tears filled my eyes, I stumbled away from his rotting, hateful presence. Judging from the commotion as I left the room, I suspect that those around him ensured he soon lost the coins I had given him by depriving him of the little life his skeletal body still retained. But I cared not what happened to Mr Bumble. My thoughts lay entirely with my childhood companion who for my sake had been so cruelly condemned.
11
THE MYSTERY REMAINS
The fact that I was Nancy’s child did not resolve the mystery of her death. However, it gave me the courage to confide the result of my investigations to Rose Maylie. Supposing me to be her nephew, she had lovingly lavished so much interest and affection on me that I cared for her more than any other living soul. I hated the idea that I might cause her any distress by my revelations but I felt she had to know that I was not the love child of her weak and erring sister, Agnes. Nevertheless, the decision to inform her was not an easy one because I feared to risk the end of our loving relationship. Rose had forgiven her sister’s crime of passion, but I doubted she would find it so easy to accept me as the bastard son of a common whore, even if, all those years ago, she had shown such concern for Nancy’s well-being. All I could offer in my real mother’s defence was that her devotion to me was unquestionable. After all, she had been prepared to commit any act to rescue me from the brutalities of the life that she herself had suffered.
Rose and Harry Maylie resided in a pretty village, which at the time of these events was still just on the outskirts of London. Sadly it has now been totally enveloped by the all-encompassing urban sprawl of our metropolis. Their pretty house stood on the corner of an ancient common so that, although it was approached through a growing sprawl of new housing, its immediate surroundings were woody lanes and, beyond these, the eye could gaze upon open meadowland, the haunt of skylarks. It was a low, thatched affair, its walls old and weather-stained, its casements full of richly coloured geraniums, and its most prominent feature a large bow-window to the right of its oaken door, framed by clematis on one side and a climbing rose on the other. I had come to regard this small picturesque place as almost a second home and the very image of comfort and content. It had a fragrant flower-filled garden, full of hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and fruit trees of all sorts so that to my eye it was a second Eden.
As a sickly child I had exchanged the horrors of the workhouse and of Fagin’s den for the beauties of the Maylie’s garden. It was as if I had been transported from Hell to Heaven and I shall always associate Rose with the beauty of her flowers. Even Charles Dickens failed to write an adequate account not only of the pleasure and delight but also of the peace of mind I found in that rural idyll. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls, the ivy crept around the trunks of the trees, and the garden flowers perfumed the air with delicious scents. When I looked out of the house I loved to watch Mrs Maylie and Rose working together to tend their paradise, I listened with pleasure to all they said. And each morning I would rise early and roam the nearby fields, plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers to embellish her breakfast table.
Time and a change of residence had not diminished Rose’s ability to make her garden a haven of tranquillity and, as a man, I had often sat with Rose amid this house’s special sweet-scented beauty and whiled away the hours, especially remembering those friends we had lost. It was within its beauty that I had confided most of my sorrow at Mr Brownlow’s death and Rose, blessed angel that she was, had done much to ease my path during the darkest days of my mourning. Now I had to speak of an equal grief, yet the day seemed unaware of my new-found gloom. There was scarce a cloud to dapple the deep-blue sky, aglow with sunshine that burnished the blossoms all around me, and made the view over hill and dale and rich woodland one glorious vista of nature at its fairest and best.
I paused for a moment to smell once more the perfumed air before knocking at the oaken front door for admittance. It was opened by faithful Brittles, who had served the family since he was a lad and who had come close to murdering me all those years ago when Sikes had used me to break into their home. He greeted me with his usual delight, took my overcoat, told me I was warmly expected and led me into the parlour, which was the scene of the smiling and untiring discharge of much of Rose’s domestic duties. Rose’s welcome was as warm as it had ever been. Her simple goodness radiated through her every look and glance, and, not surprisingly, I felt the years had treated her kindly.
To my eyes she was almost exactly the same in appearance as when we had first met and she was just a young girl of seventeen radiating an artless loveliness. The only difference now was that motherhood had made her a little more rounded in shape and the early death of one of her children had made her a little wiser and perhaps a little less naïve. It pained me to risk bringing any fresh shadows into her life but I felt I had no choice. The honesty she expected from all those around her demanded that I should no longer let her live a lie. At an earlier meeting I had already intimated to her husband, Harry, the gist of what I wanted to tell her, and I relied on his common sense to support her through whatever pain I caused. Harry had taken time off from his work to ensure that he could attend our meeting. He had grown physically stouter and his thinning hair made him appear older, but he too was remarkably unchanged. Nobility of heart and mind does not always show itself physically, but in their case it did, and, if ever a couple’s love and inherent kindness prevented the cruel marks of time, it was so with them.
Harry had told his wife that I was coming to give her some news relating to my family. He had arranged for their children to be taken out for the day by some friends. As you can imagine, Rose was anxious to hear my news. For my part I was less keen to communicate what I had discovered of my ancestry because, now that the moment had come, I feared even more the potential outcome on our relationship. I thought the likely result w
ould be that she would never again permit me to cross her threshold.
‘Rose,’ I said, ‘do you remember what I promised you when I was a child?’
‘You promised me many things, Oliver.’
‘I said that I wanted only to work for you and to give you pleasure by watering your flowers and watching your birds and running up and down for you the whole day long to make you happy. I’m not sure that I ever kept that promise in the way my childish heart had hoped, but now I must say things that will diminish your happiness. It is my hope that you will pardon me for the pain I must cause you, but, if that is not the case, I will understand.’
Rose looked alarmed, not only at my words but at my obvious discomposure. She grasped my hand and sought to reassure me, saying, ‘Nothing you can say can undo the love we share, Oliver. Surely you must know that.’
Strengthened by this, I commenced my tale, informing her of the result of my investigations. It was not an easy task and I am not ashamed to say I shed tears in the telling. When I had finished, her soft blue eyes looked at me so strangely, then she shuddered, turning her face slightly away from me. Harry, good and true as ever, took one of her trembling hands and, anxious to comfort her, pressed it to his lips. To my eyes she seemed unable to register even his concern. I could sense the shock she had sustained and I cannot describe the agony that reaction caused within my breast. I now believed the revelation of my pedigree could have but one outcome. She would disown any future acquaintance with me. My heart felt as if it were about to break. I looked to take my leave, but Harry quietly signalled me to stay. I acknowledged my consent and we both stood awaiting her to voice her grief.
After what seemed an interminable silence she said, ‘I can see your resemblance to her, Oliver, and it grieves me because now I cannot hide from the fact that your mother was a consummate liar. She entirely convinced me that she was speaking the truth when she came to see Mr Brownlow and me. Now I must question whether I will ever be able to trust my judgement again. Nancy told me how much she hated her life and how painful she found it that, because of her life of ill-repute, even the poorest women fell back before her as she made her way along a crowded pavement. She said her whole life had been spent in the midst of cold and hunger and riot and drunkenness and that she could expect to die only in the gutter. And when I pitied her, she thanked me for my kindness and blessed me for my goodness. After she told me you were Edwin Leeford’s illegitimate son and of the plots of Fagin and Monks against you, I begged her to seek safety with us, but, with tears in her eyes, she told me it was too late for her to turn from her life of sin and sorrow and that she could not desert the man she loved. It pains me to say it but, yes, what an amazing actress she was, Oliver.
‘When Mr Brownlow and I met her in the mist on London Bridge, she was exactly as you would have expected an informer to be. She was restless in her gestures, agitated in her manner, afraid to speak out on the public road lest we be overheard. The information we required to seize hold of Monks had to be dragged out of her, detailed though her description of him was. She convinced us she was in fear of her life. She said she had nightmares in which she was surrounded by bloody shrouds and felt the fires of hell burning her. She told us she had tried reading a book, but every page had the word ‘coffin’ writ large upon it. We offered her asylum, either in England or abroad, but she told us she was chained to her old life and had gone too far to turn back. Her only escape would be to throw herself, like many before her, into the river. Looking back, her every move, her every gesture, her every word was calculated to win our sympathy and our hearts.’
I replied to her: ‘I am not so sure that it was all acting, Rose. Do not forget that within hours of that meeting, she lay bludgeoned to death. Maybe some of her fears were genuine.’ I paused, wondering whether I should speak of what Betsy had told me. Then I took the plunge, saying, ‘My mother believed that someone had tried to kill at least three of the people around her and that she might be next. One of those whom she believed to have been endangered was you. She thought your illness was due to poisoning. Was it? And, if so, who could have been responsible? I ask because I believe the same person may have been Nancy’s murderer. You see, I am no longer sure that Bill Sikes killed her.’
Rose was visibly startled by my words and took some time to reflect before answering my questions. Then she said, ‘I do not think I can help you, Oliver. All I can say is that the cause of my illness was certainly very mysterious and very sudden. I remember I had been in such high spirits that I and my dear mama – for that is what Harry’s mother became to me – had been for a long walk. There was a brilliant moon and a light wind had sprung up that was unusually refreshing. When we returned I was still not tired and so I began to play the piano. Suddenly and inexplicably I became very downcast and began weeping inconsolably. The blood drained from my face and I began to feel very ill. Hot and cold flushes swept over me. Mama immediately sent me to my bed and summoned medical assistance. And that’s all I remember. I was later told that I had nearly died and that only mama’s prompt sending for medical help saved me.’
Harry, who had sat patiently while we spoke, gently grasped his wife’s hand and kissed her cheek. ‘I don’t like to be reminded, dear, of how close I came to losing you, but this may be important. On the walk, did you eat or drink anything unusual?’
Rose pondered for what seemed an eternity, but was in reality no more than a few minutes. At last she said, ‘Now I think back there was one possible way I might have been poisoned. I drank a small glass of milk which I thought was offered in kindness by a friendly young chap, whom we met outside a public house on our return journey.’ She saw the look of triumph in my eyes as I urged her to describe him. ‘It’s a long time ago, Oliver, and we met but for a brief moment. All I can recall is that he was lively and good-humoured and reasonably though not well dressed. He was sitting outside having a drink as we passed by and he greeted us most politely and asked if we could give him directions, as he was a stranger to the area. We obliged and chatted to him for a short while. I cannot remember much of what we said, although I do seem to think some of it was about Mr Dickens’ serializations and what a good storywriter he was. He was then just becoming very fashionable and the young man was obviously a devotee. He offered to buy us refreshments. Mama declined but I said I would be grateful for a small glass of milk if the inn could provide such a drink. He went inside and returned with one. I drank it, thanked him for his kindness, and we said our goodbyes.’
Excitedly I stood up from my chair and said to them both, ‘Then I believe Nancy was right and you, Rose, were poisoned alongside Bill Sikes and Mary Hogarth. Dickens fell out with my unfortunate mother because he believed her guilty of Mary’s death, but I now think he got that wrong. Nancy had no part in Mary Hogarth’s death. She had no reason to bear any grudge against her and she had every reason to not risk endangering her relationship with Dickens. But I am at a loss to know what I can do about finding out the truth now. I have sought the help of every likely person to get thus far in my investigations.’ I looked my former confidante in the eye and added, ‘Rose, if I may still call you that, all I can do is thank you for your past friendship and kindness and render my apologies that your kindness to the bastard son of a whore ever endangered your life.’
Harry grasped my arm and gasped, ‘Oliver, how can you say such a thing!’ A glance at his wife seemed to confirm his thoughts and he spoke the words I had feared would never be said, telling me that, although I was not Rose’s nephew, I was still their dear, dear friend:
‘Oliver, you know I fell in love with Rose although her own history was shrouded with some mystery. You know I willingly married her even when I knew her sister had proved a weak and fallen creature. I have never regretted for a moment either action. No wife could have been more loving or more devoted. She is my dearest companion and friend and the most loving mother of our children. We have both known you since you were but a small boy and we loved you for you
rself. Just because we wrongly thought you were Agnes’s child, does that mean we should turn our backs on you, who have been a friend for so many years and who have been more sinned against than sinning? We would be poor friends and worse Christians if we did that.’
He held out his hand and I am not ashamed to say my eyes filled with tears both at his words and at this sign of their continuing friendship. I shook his hand most warmly. Rose got up from her chair and threw her arms around us both. When our emotions were more under control, Harry was the first to speak and his words astounded me.
‘Oliver, I have a vested interest in trying to discover who almost killed Rose. The memory of those dark days of her illness still sometimes haunts me in my dreams. I know of one person who just may be able to help us. A few weeks ago I was hearing a court case in my capacity as a magistrate. One of the witnesses was a man whom I recognized. At first I could not place where I had seen him before, but then it came to me. He was one of the men who gave evidence at the trial against Fagin. I imagine his knowledge of what happened in those last few weeks is probably unmatched. A few enquiries with my friends in the police and I am sure they will tell me where he can be found. I gather this man is often used by them as an informer.’