Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor

by David Stuart Davies

  Sir Ebenezer’s voice faded. He shifted awkwardly in his seat again and another inspection of one of the palms was taken. Oliver observed that the baronet’s shoulders rose and fell with repressed sobbing. And then all at once the old man seemed to pull himself together. He wiped his ripe bulbous nose with a large silk handkerchief and continued in a more robust fashion.

  ‘However, now I feel strangely compelled…’ The image of the apparition that made nocturnal visits to his bedroom flashed upon his inner eye and his mouth dried as a consequence. Brandy was administered, allowing him to continue. ‘I hope it is not too late to make some amends to the boy by providing for him in my will.’

  ‘That is perfectly possible,’ said Oliver.

  Sir Ebenezer gave Oliver a sour smile. ‘It is not so easy as that, Mr Twist. If only it were. You see I have no idea where or who my son is. Therefore, I am asking you to find him. To bring him to me.’

  ‘Cor blimey,’ cried Jack Dawkins involuntarily before his jaw dropped with the weight of his surprise.

  ‘But sir,’ responded Oliver in a tone of gentle protest, ‘I am a lawyer not a policeman. Surely it is the official police whom you need to engage in this matter.’

  ‘You really think I could go to the police with my dilemma?’ In a desperate act of theatricality, Sir Ebenezer gazed around the room as though he were in frantic search of something. ‘Where, oh where,’ he cried with more than a note of anger in his voice, ‘is that smart young man from Gripwind and Biddle whom I was promised would visit me.’

  ‘Oh, he is here,’ said Jack, pointing at Oliver. ‘Mr Twist is a bright ‘un all right.’

  ‘Then, sir’ the baronet said to Oliver as though it was he who had made the claim, ‘you will realise that I cannot go to the police or engage a detective of the private sort and risk exposure. Above all the name of the Throate family must remain untainted and respected. I know I can trust the old firm of Gripwind and Biddle who have handled the family’s business for generations. Find the boy, sir, and bring him to me.’

  Oliver was momentarily struck dumb by this unexpected request. This order. As a representative of Gripwind and Biddle, he knew he could not refuse this commission from one of its most important of clients. ‘As you wish, sir. I will do what I can,’ he replied at length with feigned enthusiasm, his soul already heavy with the weight of such a responsibility.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘My answer is the same as your father’s: no.’ Lady Amelia Throate gazed at her son over the folds of her fan with more than a modicum of distaste. In fact, she despised the boy. She had disliked him as an infant and as his avaricious, selfish character formed, she had grown more and more disgusted by her own offspring, but she had been prepared to succour and cosset him because she was aware of her responsibilities: she was his mother and, God help her, he was the heir to the Throate estate. But now he was fully grown and all those embryonic malevolent aspects of his character had reached an ugly maturity and in her eyes he had become a monster. In return he had demonstrated no respect or affection for either of his parents, using his father solely as a source of cash to fund his obsession with the turn of a card or the throw of a dice. Now he was badgering her in her own boudoir for more money.

  ‘If you had your way you would bleed this family dry to pay off your gambling debts and we should end up in the bankruptcy courts,’ she said coolly.

  Jeremiah Throate began pacing again. It was the only outlet for his agitation. He knew that while he could rant at his father, he must at all costs present a civilised and reasonable front to his mother. ‘I will end up in court or worse if I do not pay this money. Mother, you cannot allow such things to happen to me,’ he said with a soft passion, his voice hardly stronger than a whisper.

  ‘You are mistaken. It seems that I can. Perhaps it will teach you a lesson’.

  ‘It may well be a lesson from which I am unable to benefit.’

  ‘What can you mean by that, pray?’

  Jeremiah saw this query as a small chink in her armour. She was intrigued, a little uncertain. Now was the time to strike. He rushed to her side and knelt down by her. ‘Mother, the man to whom I owe this money is an unscrupulous fellow. A blackguard. If I do not pay him the hundred guineas, he will not take me to court. He will merely take my life.’

  Lady Throate chuckled. ‘What nonsense. Now you bring a penny dreadful melodrama into play in order to persuade me to finance your shabby pastime.’

  ‘Mother, it is the truth!’

  He raised his voice for the first time and Lady Throate stiffened with anger.

  ‘I have heard enough. You have your allowance. You must live on that or gain employment to subsidise your passion for the cards. You will not get another penny from either your father or I as long as we are alive. When we are dead the estate will be yours and then you will be at liberty to squander that away to your heart’s content.’

  Her cool and implacable obstinacy to his pleas caused Jeremiah Throate’s temper to snap. A wave of desperation crashed over him and he grabbed hold of his mother’s arms and shook her violently.

  ‘The man will kill me. Do you hear me? Kill me. Kill your son. You must help me.’

  Far from being frightened or intimidated by this ferocious and violent outburst, Lady Throate’s anger rose to the same level as her son’s. Her eyes blazed and her body stiffened. With a determined gesture she thrust him from her and smote him across the face with her fan.

  ‘How dare you! How dare you assault me! You are nothing more than a common ruffian. A guttersnipe with no morals. If this man is bent on killing you, then I say, let him do it. The world will be a sweeter place without you in it. You are my son, I know, but I feel no connection to you, no warmth, no love. You are an alien creature to me. You have long since smothered any maternal feelings within me by your cruel thoughtless actions and disregard for the sensibilities and honour of your family. We only see you now when you need money. Well, no more will you get forty pieces of silver from me or your father. Now go! Leave this house. You are no longer welcome here.’

  With these words, Lady Amelia Throate rose regally from her chair and strode from the room.

  For some moments her son stood as though petrified by her fierce words and then breaking this spell he strode to the window and gazed out at the green parkland beyond, seeing nothing but dark clouds of despair. He shuddered with emotion at the thought of what might, what would happen to him.

  Was this really the end?

  Trench would seek him out wherever he tried to hide. And when he found him…

  Was there no answer? No reprieve?

  If only his father would take it upon himself to meet his maker.

  If only.

  He turned slowly and gazed at his mother’s sumptuous bedchamber and then suddenly something caught his attention. Like a jackdaw, his eyes focused on the bright object. Sitting on the dressing table, shining in the candlelight was a silver box; from it trailing out of it onto the tapestry cover was the end of a necklace. A lustrous pearl necklace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The day was dwindling and the sky darkened into a soft purple dusk. The candlelight in the orangery cast eerie shadows amongst the palms as though strange jungle beasts were lurking there ready, with the flicker of a flame, to pounce.

  Reluctantly having accepted Sir Ebenezer’s mission to discover the whereabouts of his illegitimate offspring, Oliver Twist had extracted a notebook from his document satchel and was trying to ascertain as many facts as he could regarding the case in order to aid him in this needle in a haystack affair.

  Sir Ebenezer was reluctant and vague. Oliver remembered Fagin using an expression ‘like pulling hen’s teeth’ in relation to trying to extract information from an unwilling source. To a young boy this seemed a nonsensical and rather bizarre simile. After all hens do not possess teeth and therefore the task was an impossible one. But now Oliver knew exactly what the old scoundrel meant.

  ‘Let’s start
again, sir,’ said Oliver with a sigh. ‘Exactly what year was the child born?’

  ‘As I told you,’ replied the baronet, crustily. ‘About twenty-five years ago.’ In truth it wasn’t that he could not be accurate as to details but he was both embarrassed and ashamed to be discussing the matter with a stranger, a young man who was not much older than the son he was desirous to locate. A man of his class and breeding did not expose one’s private life with all its peccadilloes to the lower orders.

  Oliver sighed again and realised that the only way to progress was to be bold and forthright. He took a deep breath and addressed his client in a stern confident manner. ‘Sir Ebenezer, the task you have set me is a difficult and onerous one and the only chance I have in succeeding is if I have detailed and accurate information to work upon. ‘About’ twenty-five years will not do. I need specifics and a great deal of them. You must give me as much information as you possess concerning this matter. Either that or the venture is doomed to failure.’

  It took a great effort on Jack Dawkins’ part not to burst into a round of spontaneous applause. However, he managed to contain himself thus far, but he did utter the words, ‘He’s right, Sir Ebenezer’ in a wheezy undertone.

  For a brief moment Sir Ebenezer’s face moulded itself into a mask of great indignation. He was not used to being spoken to in such a challenging manner, but then common sense overruled his petty aristocratic sensibilities. His features softened and he gave a nod of submission. ‘Very well,’ he said, gazing at his empty brandy glass like child whose favourite toy has just broken. ‘If you would be so kind as to replenish my glass, I’ll tell you all you need to know. At least all that I am able.’

  Before Oliver could move a muscle, Jack Dawkins was on his feet and had snatched the brandy bottle from the nearby table. With the swift and nimble action of a practised pickpocket, he splashed a generous quantity into Sir Ebenezer’s glass.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Oliver, once the baronet was sitting back in his chair, cradling his glass of brandy, ‘exactly what year was your second son born’.

  ‘1832.’

  ‘Do you know the date?’

  Sir Ebenezer shook his head. ‘Not the exact birth date but I believe it was August.’

  Oliver noted these details down in his notebook.

  What was the mother’s name?’

  ‘Her name was Louise Clerihew.’ He said the name warmly and the craggy old features softened for an instant as he recalled the girl, the slight frame, the tumbling chestnut hair, the simple but kind eyes and the beguiling smile. And then she faded like a figure disappearing into the mist on an autumn day. Soon there was just empty greyness and a dull ache in his heart.

  ‘And she surrendered the child up to…’

  ‘An orphanage in Battersea. Tranton House, I believe it was called. She left the child on the doorstep with a note begging them to look after the baby. She wrote to me to inform me of the fact.’ He delivered this information as though he were chewing on a tough, indigestible bit of beef.

  ‘You have the letter? The handwriting could be of help.’

  ‘I do not, sir. I burnt it on receipt.’

  ‘Did the mother name the child?’

  ‘If she did, she did not impart that information to me. She wrote that it was a healthy child, a boy and that was all’.

  ‘No mention of the colour of its eyes or any other distinguishing feature.’

  ‘None.’ And then the old man hesitated. ‘She did write that… that he was his father’s child.’

  ‘What did you understand she meant by that?

  Sir Ebenezer gave a mild shrug. ‘I suppose she meant it looked somewhat like me, but how a mewling blob can look like anyone at that age is beyond me.’

  Oliver Twist nodded. His client was completely unaware how emotionally unsettled Oliver was by the story he was unravelling. It bore such similarities to his own history – unmarried mother, child left in care of disinterested strangers…. That word ‘care’ had many interpretations but for a child in that situation they were all dark unpleasant ones.

  ‘And you have no idea what became of the child or the mother.’

  Sir Ebenezer shook his head. ‘None.’

  ‘Over the intervening years has anyone contacted you claiming to be either the mother or your child?’

  The words ‘has anyone contacted you’ sent a chill running up the curved spine of the old aristocrat. He certainly had no intention of revealing the details of his nocturnal visitations in case he was considered insane. He took another gulp of brandy to cover his nerves.

  ‘No,’ he said at length.

  Oliver gazed at the scant notes which failed to fill a page in his small notebook. There was hardly sufficient material there to weave a pair of gloves for a mouse let alone discover the whereabouts of a long-lost son and heir to the Throate fortune.

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of which may be of help to me? Anything at all?’

  Sir Ebenezer took the question seriously and cudgelled what was left of his tired, geriatric brain. ‘Well,’ he said at length, keen to present some morsel, however insignificant, to this young fellow Twist, ‘I gave the girl a locket, a gold locket, as a keepsake. It may be she left it with the child.’

  ‘Or pawned it for cash,’ observed Jack, with a knowing wink.

  Sir Ebenezer knew the fellow could be right but he ignored him. He looked smart and bright enough but he radiated an aura that was discomfiting to him.

  ‘What did this locket look like?’ asked Oliver, still making notes.

  ‘It was in the shape of a heart and bore the Throate coat of arms on the back.’

  ‘May I ask you, sir, why, after all these years you have suddenly decided to try and track down your son.’

  Once again the images of the ghostly figure that haunted his room at night reared up in his imagination. With an effort of will and the aid of a further gulp of brandy, he managed to banish the vision from his mind. ‘As a man grows older and nears that time when he knows that he must leave this world, he is able to look back over the years with a kind of detached view to consider his mistakes and failings – to review the pain he has administered and the people he has wronged. It is a sad and melancholy occupation for there is very little a man can do about the hurts inflicted and injustices performed at this late stage of his life apart from shed a few tears and say his prayers, asking the good Lord for forgiveness. But in this instance there is something I can do about it. With your help. If I am able share some of my wealth with this young ill-used creature it will make my going all the sweeter. He didn’t ask to be born and certainly he did not deserve to end up in a workhouse somewhere… So Master Twist you will be doing a great Christian deed if you can restore my son to me.’

  Oliver fought hard with his emotions, desperately trying to extricate his personal feelings provoked by this far from comfortable scenario presented to him by Sir Ebenezer, which cruelly paralleled his own situation far too closely for comfort.

  ‘Mr Dawkins and I will do what we can.’

  ‘Very good.’ Sir Ebenezer gave a heavy sigh as though some great burden had been lifted from his soul. ‘I would ask one further boon of you. As I intimated earlier, this is a secret matter and what I have revealed must go no further. No other soul must know of it. I have kept the secret close to my chest all these years and I have revealed it to only one other person, my secretary, Roger Lightwood who knows of my plan to try and find my lost heir. No one else must know. And, gentlemen, that includes Lady Throate. Do I make myself clear?’

  Oliver and Jack nodded in unison.

  ‘Good. And now dinner, gentlemen. I am sure after your long journey you are ready for some vitals. The Throate table provides simple fare but it is plentiful and wholesome.’

  Speaking for myself,’ said Jack Dawkins, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m starving. I could eat a scabby horse.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  As dusk descended on Brighton, none of its gaiety
diminished. In the warm evening air, with the sun dipping beyond the horizon, spilling its last golden shadows across the water, people still thronged the promenade while the cafés and restaurants resounded with noisy chatter. Barrel organs churned out simple melodies to punctuate the embryonic night. All was glamour, noise and ease.

  Inside the foyer of the Royal Court Hotel, Roger Lightwood sat nervously in the corner by a large potted palm which he hoped would help to hide him from general view. He watched with fascination the constant of the flow of human traffic as it buzzed, paraded and gyrated past his vantage point. It was an ever-changing cyclorama. From time to time he asked himself what on earth he was doing there. What did he hope to achieve? He had no fully formed plan in mind. He was simply following his desire to see the pretty young lady again, the pretty young lady whom he had knocked to the ground; the pretty young lady who had apparently cured his cold; the young lady with whom he was now madly in love.

  He cursed himself for not obtaining her name. Was she for ever destined to be, ‘the pretty young lady’?

  As the one static point amidst the cacophonous whirl of humanity that revolved around him in the foyer, he sometimes asked himself what he intended to do if this creature of his dreams should suddenly appear. He could hardly rush up to the girl and declare his love for her. How foolish he would seem. She would think he was some kind of mad man and call a policeman and have him arrested. But nevertheless, abandoning all logic, he stayed, constantly surveying the crowd, watching and waiting. He was prepared to be satisfied with merely a glimpse of that pretty face once again. This was the last night of his holiday and at least he could take that treasured memory back with him to Surrey.

  The premise behind the proverb, ‘everything comes to he who waits’ is created out of the unsound notion that wishful thinking brings results rather than the realistic probability that it doesn’t. However, in Roger Lightwood’s case the proverb proved to be accurate: the improbable came true. After two hours of sentinel duty his persistence was rewarded. The object of his affection materialised in the foyer as if out of thin air. He had willed her to appear – and here she was. She was dressed in a dark emerald outfit which highlighted her fair skin and chestnut hair. Instinctively Roger half rose from his chair, a broad beam wreathing his features. But then he hesitated as he observed that the girl was not alone. She was accompanied by a tall, aged woman, whose face was incredibly wrinkled as though she had left it in a bath of water for too long. She gazed about her in the most imperious fashion, observing the world with distaste through a lorgnette, her narrow eyes tightened with general disapproval. The thin lips were clamped together in repose giving every indication that their owner disapproved of everything and everyone. It seemed to Roger that her mouth had never been utilised in the act of smiling. A grin would be an alien response to those thin, hard lips. This, he supposed, was Lady Whitestone, the girl’s employer, and thus it became quite clear to the young man that the object of his affection was shackled to a gorgon.