‘I am Roger Lightwood. Whom do I have the pleasure…?’
‘Ah, he we are,’ cried the girl, rushing forward towards the carpeted steps of the imposing hotel. ‘Thank you for your kindness, she said turning to him with a smile. ‘As you can see, I am fully recovered. I must go now and attend to my mistress, Lady Whitestone.’
And then with a cheery wave, she vanished into the whirl of the revolving door.
It had all happened so quickly that Roger had once again been struck dumb and immobile. She had come into his life without warning and had left it in the same fashion. He didn’t even know her name. However, there were two things he was conscious of: that he was in love with this delightful creature and that his cold had left him altogether.
CHAPTER FIVE
Matthew Varney was just completing his morning ablutions as the sun rose over the canopy of a busy London reaching its noon time high. As usual Varney had been late to bed, very late to bed. As he had climbed the stairs to his shabby apartment, the morning light was already beginning to streak the sky and street sweepers were preparing to brandish their brushes in readiness for another day of drudgery along the thoroughfares of the city. Tired as he was, he had slept badly. The night had not been good for him. His run of bad luck had extended itself further. More losses. More debt. More threats. More misery. As the razor dragged over his recalcitrant whiskers, he contemplated the possibility of escaping London into the country, somewhere deep and rural, somewhere anonymous, where no one knew him and where those to whom he owed money could not find him.
As he struggled into his grubby shirt, he mused on the possible benefits of such a move. There would still be gambling out there in the pastoral hinterland and although the stakes would hardly be very high, he would have no problems running rings around his opponents, inbred yokels who thought that the moon was made of cheese. For the first time in many days, he managed a weak smile. This could be his answer. His salvation. Perhaps he should pack and leave today. Why hesitate?
The decision was made. The sense of it was overwhelming as was the realisation that if he stayed disaster would certainly strike. In a hurried and desperate fashion, he began to grab what few possessions he had and stuff them into a canvas bag in preparation for his swift departure when there was a knock at the door. It shattered the silence and pierced his heart. He froze with fear. He never had visitors. He had no family, friends nor acquaintances. Such encumbrances were a hindrance. The only cause a person or persons would have to knock on his door would be to collect money owed to them. Money that he did not have.
The knock came again. It was brutish and loud and the door shook with the force of it. It wasn’t the landlord for he had a key and entered without ceremony. It was no doubt one of the legion to whom he owed a gambling debt.
They had found out his lair.
The small knot of fear inside him that had been instigated by the first knock on his door developed into a thick bowline knot. It inflated his stomach and forced his heart to beat faster than a racing engine. On instinct he ran to the window and threw it open and gazed out. A panorama of slated canopies and drunken chimney pots spread out before him like vast uneven carpet. If he clambered out and dropped down to the roof below perhaps he could effect his escape that way, gradually scrambling from rooftop to rooftop and thus eventually to the street and safety.
There was no time to ponder the practicalities of such a plan: it was his only option. He pulled a rickety chair to the window, clambered on to it and was about to put one leg over the sill when there was an almighty explosion and groaning of splintering wood as door of his room burst open. It swung violently to one side and came to rest at an angle, the top pair of hinges having come completely adrift from the frame. On the threshold were two swarthy characters, short but bulky. Their faces had been stolen from a pair of gargoyles. One carried a cudgel, the other an iron bar. Varney had never seen these creatures before and indeed he wished that he was not seeing them now. Their mean-spirited scowls and small belligerent eyes told him they were men of neither reason nor compromise. Behind this ugly couple he observed another figure, tall and gaunt with a grey face and dark piercing glance. This was a face he did know. It belonged to a man he loathed and feared – feared far more than his grisly companions.
Varney took in this tableau in an instant and then quickly returned to his task of leaving the room by the window. Now there was an even more desperate need to escape. But before he could launch himself onto the roof below, the two burly intruders had grabbed his arms and hauled him like a sack of grain, back into the room where they dumped him with some force onto the floor.
He gave a cry. Whether it was of pain or fear not even Varney himself could be certain.
The tall thin man entered the room and gazed down upon the wretch Varney. He loured over him like the very Devil himself.
‘I am so sorry to interrupt your morning constitutional, Mr Varney,’ he said in his strange rasping fashion, ‘but I call on a matter of business. Urgent business.’
‘You’ll get your money, Mr Trench,’ replied Varney, his voice as well as his limbs shaking in terror.
Eugene Trench allowed himself a small false chuckle. It was purely for effect; there really was no humour in the situation at all. And besides Mr Trench had no time for humour, it was a folly and a waste of time.
‘Please give me a few more days,’ begged Varney, scrabbling into a sitting position.
‘It is the usual bleat that I have heard from you on numerous occasions. Over the last three months you have given me your oath many times to pay your debt, but you have failed. You have lied, cheated and to be frank sir, you have severely incommoded me’.
‘Just a few more days. That is all I ask.’
Trench shook his head. ‘Search him,’ he snapped, addressing his vicious minions. They obeyed, tearing and wrenching at Varney’s clothing until they had taken everything that was about his person: a cheap pocket watch, a pack of cards, a voluminous and heavily stained paisley handkerchief and a small purse that contained a few coins of meagre value.
‘You miserable dog,’ sneered Trench, a faint flush suffusing his ashen features. ‘There is nothing for me at all.’
‘Just a few more days,’ repeated Varney, his voice now reduced to a squeak. ‘I promise I’ll repay you everything.’
Trench sighed and turned away from Varney and addressed his companions. ‘Kill him,’ he said.
Varney felt the first blow, one made by the cudgel before the everlasting darkness of death took him. The second blow made by the iron bar smashed his skull so violently that parts of his brain began to dribble out onto the threadbare carpet.
Trench scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper and then laid it on the dead body.
CHAPTER SIX
‘This is a bit of an adventure ain’t… er…isn’t it, eh, Oliver?’
Jack Dawkins looked out of the coach window at the lush Surrey countryside as it rolled by, providing a remarkable green backdrop to this final portion of the journey from London. They were now rocking along in Sir Ebenezer Throate’s own private coach which had collected them from The Rising Sun, the main coaching inn in the quaint town of Dorking in the edge of the Surrey hills.
This trip was not Mr Oliver Twist’s notion of ‘a bit of adventure’. He perceived it as an inconvenient interruption to his normal work back at the office in the City. Having to travel into the depths of the country to draw up a client’s will, stay the night in his draughty old house – Mr Gripwind had warned him of the errant gusts, ‘Take a thick nightgown and several scarves m’boy’ - and then spend another morning rocking and juddering in a coach back to London was no adventure. It was a tedious enterprise. Why couldn’t Sir Ebenezer Throate come up to town himself and visit our offices, Oliver mused, then it would only take an hour or two at the most to set the matter right. Still he was the junior in the firm and if someone has to undertake this ‘adventure’ as Jack put it, then it had to be him.
Oliver s
miled indulgently at his companion. ‘I suppose anything that takes us away from the familiar is a bit of an adventure,’ he said with admirable restraint.
Jack rubbed his hands together with pleasure. ‘Never been inside a big manor house before. It’ll be like parading around in Buckingham Palace.’
Oliver chuckled. ‘Not quite,’ he said softly, almost to himself. He glanced at his pocket watch and sighed. He estimated there was at least another half an hour’s journey to go before they reached their destination.
At last Throate Manor finally hove into view. Even Jack, who, leaning out of the coach window in child-like anticipation and spied the Manor first, could see that it was not the most elegant of buildings. It looked to him as though it had been designed by a child with a deficient attention span. It stood bold, brash and ugly on the horizon, surrounded by the generous and lush sweep of uninhabited countryside.
‘There she blows, cap’n,’ said Jack, affecting a nautical tone. Oliver peered out of the window at his side of the coach and caught his first sight of the country seat of Sir Ebenezer Throate glistening in the late afternoon sun.
Within ten minutes the coach had driven up the long winding drive to the front entrance. Here the weary travellers were met by a tall imposing figure of funereal appearance who introduced himself as Bulstrode the butler.
Jack bowed and then held out his hand. ‘Charmed h’im sure,’ he said in a voice that was not quite his own.
Bulstrode ignored the gesture. ‘Allow me to show you to your rooms, gentlemen, and then Sir Ebenezer will be happy to see you in the orangery.
‘Thank you,’ said Oliver.
A liveried youth appeared from nowhere and proceeded to carry the luggage from the coach ahead of them as Bulstrode led them into the house.
As they progressed through the great hall, up the broad curved staircase and along a baffling series of corridors, Jack Dawkins’ mouth remained open in wonder at the sumptuous furnishings, the shiny vases of oriental origin and impressive works of art adorning the walls. Something of the old Dodger stirred within him. Here was rich pickings indeed. A choice selection of some of these knick-knacks in his possession and he would never want again. His little horned alter ego concocted a nefarious plan but the new reformed Jack quickly if not easily squashed it.
Oliver, ignorant of his companion’s moral tussle, was gazing with equal admiration at the sumptuous dressing of this eccentric house. Inherited wealth was a magical thing to him. Riches conjured out of thin air. While the lot of mankind was to struggle and scrape, to sweat and labour to attain whatever livelihood and possessions their industry, talent and abilities were able to obtain and sustain, the landed gentry sat back, held out their hands and great wealth, comfort and property were bestowed upon them without exercising a muscle, engaging a brain cell (if they had one) or carrying out any deserving action. It did not make Oliver so much angry as sad – sad that the scales of fortune, in both senses of the word, were so unfairly balanced.
Some thirty minutes later, having swilled away the grime of the journey and donned a fresh collar, Oliver, accompanied by Jack Dawkins, was led by Bulstrode back down the same baffling series of corridors to the great hallway once more and thence to the orangery.
As they approached, Oliver observed two figures, glimpsed through the fine tracery of foliage which splayed against the glass of the chamber. One, seated on a large chair, was Sir Ebenezer. He recognised him from Mr Gripwind’s description: a corpulent man of pale complexion, save for the raspberry qualities of his nose, the possessor of a pair bulging rheumy eyes, with the round summit of a bald head emerging through the clouds of unruly white hair. The description had an artist’s accuracy. The other occupant of the orangery was a tall, dark-haired man with sharp features and saturnine looks. He was pacing to and fro in an angry, agitated manner. Both men were conversing with raised voices. Oliver could not hear the specifics of the conversation but it was being carried out with much heat.
Observing this spectacle, Bulstrode seemed for a moment discomfited. On reaching the entrance to the orangery he halted and turned deferentially to Oliver. ‘If you would care to wait here, sir,’ he said in his usual stoical manner, ‘I will ascertain whether Sir Ebenezer is ready to receive you now.’
Oliver nodded in agreement.
Jack who had also noted the altercation taking place, nudged Oliver and rolled his eyes while allowing himself a little smirk. Oliver did not respond.
Bulstrode knocked discreetly on the door and entered. As he did so, Sir Ebenezer could be plainly heard bellowing, ‘No, sir. How many more times? Not again. No, sir!’
And then the door was closed and muffled sounds only could be perceived.
‘Quite a little hullaballoo in there, Oliver,’ said Jack with some pleasure. ‘So, not everything is rosy in paradise, eh?’
‘So it would seem,’ replied Oliver, straining his ears to catch the gist. However, Bulstrode’s intrusion appeared to burst the balloon of this particular altercation and with a roar of frustration, the saturnine young man burst from the room, pushing past Oliver with a gruff, ‘Out of my way, sir.’ He strode off down the corridor as though he were competing in some form of demonic walking race.
There was further exchange of raised eyebrows between the two friends.
‘A bird with severely ruffled plumage there, my dear,’ observed Jack with a satisfied grin. He enjoyed the spectacle of the higher orders being discomfited.
Bulstrode returned, still serene and stoic, as though unaware that any disconcerting ripples had disturbed the placid surface of life at Throate Manor.
‘Sir Ebenezer will see you now, gentlemen,’ he said, beckoning us to enter the orangery.
His lordship bade them take seats close to him.
‘I am indulging in my first brandy and soda of the evening. Would you gentlemen care to join me?’
Jack nodded vigorously but Oliver declined. ‘Later perhaps, after we have discussed business’, he said, respectfully.
‘Keeping a clear head, eh? Well, I am sure you’re wise to do so but the days when I weighed wisdom against intoxication are over. Now I choose the latter every the time.’ He chuckled grimly at his own aphorism.
Bulstrode supplied Jack with a drink and then replenished Sir Ebenezer’s glass liberally with brandy and a mean whisper of soda.
Sir Ebenezer took a large gulp and then relaxed back in his chair. ‘So’, he said expansively, his raspberry nose twitching, ‘you are the bright young man at Gripwind and Biddle.’
‘Modesty forbids that I claim such a title, sir, but I am the junior partner there and measured against my superiors I am young.’
The baronet chuckled. ‘A discreet answer. I like you, Twist. I like you already.’ With this he gave a studied glance at Jack Dawkins. ‘This is a most delicate and private business, perhaps it would be well if we conducted it alone.’
Jack frowned but made as if to rise. Oliver halted him with a small eloquent gesture of his hand. ‘Mr Dawkins is my clerk and is privy to all my legal affairs. You can rely on his discretion.’ As he was saying these words, Oliver Twist threw up a brief prayer to Heaven requesting that this very suspect statement proved to be correct.
Sir Ebenezer paused a moment, took another sip of brandy and then nodded in acceptance of Oliver’s claim. ‘Very well. Let us begin. Let me impress upon you that what I am about to discuss with you is a very private and personal matter and I rely on you – on you both - to treat it with discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said Oliver.
‘Definitely,’ agreed Jack cheerily.
‘Very well. As you know I wish to make some alterations to my will…’
Oliver withdrew several sheets of parchment from the case he was carrying and spread them out on his knee. ‘I have your original Last Will and Testament here, completed just under five years ago. I have studied it closely.’
‘It was composed in rather a hurry. I had a severe bout of pneumonia at the time and i
t was feared – or hoped by some – that I would be carried off very shortly. But I rallied. I have since had time to consider the matter with more care’.
Oliver nodded and waited for the old baronet to continue.
‘A wise move,’ chipped in Jack but his observation was ignored by the two men.
‘I wish to make a considerable allowance for my younger son.’
Oliver frowned and glanced at the document on his knee. ‘As I recall, you have already willed the bulk of your estate to your son.’
Sir Ebenezer’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. ‘And they said you were a bright young man. Take note of my words, Mr Twist. My younger son.’
‘But you have only one son, Mr Jeremiah Throate, whom I believe we had the… occasion to see just now.’
‘This is where we move into delicate territory, Mr Twist. Jeremiah is not my only son. He is my legitimate son, the son of my wife and me. However, I have another son. The result of a foolish lapse some twenty-five years ago. A brief encounter with a serving girl when drink and passion overtook me. Moments of madness can have dire consequences. The girl fell pregnant…’
Sir Ebenezer turned away and seemed to me studying the intricate fronds of one of the great palms at the rear of the chamber.
Oliver knew to wait. It would be inappropriate to either interrupt or prompt his client. With a severe shake of the head, he indicated as much to Jack who appeared to be on the verge of interrogating the baronet.
When Sir Ebenezer turned to face them once more, his eyes were moist with tears.
‘I am ashamed to say that I behaved abominably. I paid the girl off and effectively washed my hands of her and her… our offspring. I later learned that she gave birth to a boy whom she deposited with some charitable institution in the city. I never saw her again and I never saw my son. Mr Twist, I cannot tell you how guilt has wracked and haunted me all these years, to cast both the girl and my son out on to the stormy sea of life, taking no effort to support them, care for them. I cannot tell you …’
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 4