Without a word, he attended to the patient. ‘My, my,’ he said to himself. ‘This is serious. Very serious. He has lost a great deal of blood.’ He turned a stern face to Bulstrode. ‘Hot water, please. I must dress the wound first’.
Once again Bulstrode turned quickly on his heel and left the chamber.
As Dr Benbow opened his capacious medical bag and began to remove various items, he cast a glance at Oliver. ‘And who might you be, sir?’ he enquired.
‘I am Oliver Twist, Sir Ebenezer’s lawyer.’
‘I see. And do you know what has gone on here? How this came about?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I do not, sir. It seems that Sir Ebenezer was attacked in the night.’
Dr Benbow cut away the baronet’s night shirt with a small pair of scissors to expose the wound. ‘This is very nasty but the knife has missed the heart and any major blood vessels as far as I can ascertain – but it is deep. He really needs one of those experimental blood transfusions I’ve read about to make up for his loss of blood but I’m just a country practitioner with none of that fancy apparatus or London expertise at my command. I’m afraid his lordship will have to do with my care and attention. Ah, here comes the hot water.’
While the dishevelled medic set about dressing and binding the wound, Oliver turned these dramatic events over in his mind once more. He was trying to see a pattern and an overall picture. Obviously, someone had tried to kill Sir Ebenezer – and looking at the pale comatose body in front of him, maybe they would succeed. The old fellow had hung on to life by a thread thus far, but it seemed unlikely that he would escape the embrace of the grim reaper. This raised the two key questions of who and why. Oliver wondered whether the ‘why’ had something to do with the old man’s desire to change his will in favour of his illegitimate son. But who would know of that? As far as he was aware only Jack, himself and the absent secretary Roger Lightwood were privy to that information unless Sir Ebenezer had confided in someone else without telling him. If Sir Ebenezer dies, we may never find out, he mooted.
Murder, Oliver reasoned that in the main is prompted either by hatred or greed – or both. Taking this as a working hypothesis, the ideal culprit would appear to be Jeremiah Throate, the penurious and rejected legitimate offspring of Sir Ebenezer who gave such a dramatic performance in the dining hall last evening. He seemed to possess the reckless spirit for such a rash and dastardly act. But could he, when brought to the point, actually murder his own father? That corrupting elixir of anger and alcohol may well have prompted him to take that fatal action. If not Jeremiah, who else had cause to kill the old man? For the moment, Oliver drew a blank. He was well aware there would be other candidates, but he lacked the knowledge to take this consideration further. He needed more information and more facts upon which to build a theory. It would seem logical to assume that the malefactor was someone within the household but that was not necessarily certain. He made a mental note to check later if there were any signs of a forced entry.
He had a private word in Bulstrode’s capacious ear. ‘I think it would be wise and appropriate to inform Lady Throate and her son of the tragedy,’ he said sotto voce.
Bulstrode’s bright eyes flashed and he nodded. ‘I have already been to master Jeremiah’s room, but he was not there. It seems that he has left the house early this morning, but I will now go and pass on the sad news to Lady Amelia. She will by now have completed her morning toilet.’
In the same time-honoured practised fashion, Bulstrode once again turned slowly on his heel and left the chamber.
So, Jeremiah has ‘left the house’, thought Oliver with interest. Certainly, the actions of a guilty man. Perhaps the matter was that simple. Son kills father to obtain his inheritance earlier than nature intended. However, if this were the case, surely, he would have handled the matter with more finesse. It was all rather too obvious – unless of course the murder was a rash drink fuelled spur-of-the-moment decision. Oliver’s ruminations were interrupted by a faint groaning sound which penetrated the hush of the room. It came from Sir Ebenezer, whose body was now stirring and his eyelids fluttering like two errant butterflies.
‘Praise be,’ said Dr Benbow. ‘The old goat is a real fighter. The arrogance of the aristocracy often finds unusual channels in which to exhibit itself.’ So saying he took a phial of pale green liquid from his bag and applied it to Sir Ebenezer’s lips.
‘Come on sir, drink it down,’ the doctor chimed loudly and slowly poured the liquid into the old man’s mouth. Some dribbled down his chin, but most of it was consumed.
Dr Benbow stood back from the bed and gave a short dark chuckle. ‘Well, there is life in the old dog yet. All is not lost.’ He threw a brief smile at Oliver who returned it with a nod.
‘That is good news,’ he said.
‘We must now wait for time and nature to take their course. But surely, this…’ the doctor indicated the wound… ‘is a matter for the police. The savage attack has been made on an exalted person of the realm…’
‘The police will not be involved. This is a private matter.’ This imperious statement uttered in clear stentorian tones came from Lady Amelia Throate who was standing in the doorway. Like a queen at a state occasion she entered the room and progressed to the bed. Here she gazed down at her husband with so sign of emotion on her fine chiselled features. Oliver knew that the aristocracy considered a demonstration of grief or high emotion of any kind unbecoming and repugnant, but he was surprised that she exhibited no shock, sadness nor sorrow whatsoever at the sight of her blood bespattered husband. Her face was a hard, emotionless mask.
‘Will he live?’ she asked sharply, turning to the doctor.
Benbow, who was obviously used to the artic ways of her ladyship, seemed unruffled by her brusque manner. He gave an animated shrug, his wild hair quivering in response. ‘I don’t know. He has lost a considerable amount of blood and I would expect him to be dead by now… but remarkably he remains with us. It is possible that he will recover.’
‘I see. Well, do what you can, doctor.’ With one final glance at the pale unconscious figure lying in the bed she turned to go and then spying Oliver she addressed him.
‘Good morning, Mr Twist. I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. No details of this unfortunate incident should leave this house.’
Unfortunate incident. Obviously, the lady of the house was a mistress of the understatement. He nodded in reluctant acceptance of her request. ‘As you wish, mi’ lady. But in hiding the truth, you are allowing a villain, a possible murderer, to escape. Whoever has done this deed should be brought to justice.’
‘What would be the purpose of that? How will it affect matters here? Not a jot. The capture of such a malefactor will not influence my husband’s chances of living or dying. Justice is an overrated concept, I’m afraid, more valued in the theory than in practice. We shall have justice elsewhere in the end. The matter is closed. This unfortunate incident is secret history.’
Without further words she left the chamber leaving behind her an icy blast.
Dr Benbow broke the silence by snapping his capacious medical bag shut. ‘Well,’ he said stretching, ‘my work here is done for the moment. I shall return in the late afternoon to see if there has been any change in the patient. Someone should be in attendant at the bedside at all times.’
‘I will arrange for one of the maids to sit with him,’ intoned Bulstrode.
‘And if there is any change however minor in his condition you must send for me.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘In the meantime, Bulstrode, since you dragged me from my slumbers betimes, perhaps you’d be good enough to find me some breakfast. A couple of eggs and a fine rasher of bacon would go down a treat, I can tell you. Like a treat.’
Bulstrode nodded.
‘Perhaps my young companion would care to join me also.’
The mention of breakfast made Oliver suddenly realise how hungry he felt. All the drama had
sharpened his appetite.
‘If that would be convenient,’ he said.
Bulstrode nodded. ‘If you two gentlemen would make your way down to the dining hall, I will organise the matter.’
‘Oh, could you make that three breakfasts,’ Oliver said, before Bulstrode departed. ‘I will attempt to rouse my clerk Mr Dawkins and encourage him to join us.’
Certainly, sir.’
Although the hour of ten in the morning was but a few minutes away, Jack Dawkins was still abed and, thought Oliver as he knocked heartily on his door, no doubt dreaming his Dodgerish dreams. It opened moments later, and a bleary sleep-absorbed face peered out. ‘What is it? A fire?’
‘Not quite. But certain dramatic events have been taking place while you have been snoring into your pillow.’
‘Don’t tell me young Jeremiah killed his father in order to inherit this old pile of bricks.’
‘You are not far from the mark.’
‘God’s bodkin, I thought this lawyering lark was a sedate gentlemanly thing. Come in, my dear Oliver and tell me all while I pull on my clothes’.
Oliver found it useful to present his friend with a recital of the events of the morning for it allowed him to put all the elements in place and present himself with a clear overall picture.
‘And to think I slept through the whole thing,’ observed Jack, scraping his tangled locks into some semblance of order. ‘How does this leave us, Oliver? What do we do now?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. We still have a commission – to find Sir Ebenezer’s son. The lost child of his youthful affair. There is now more than ever a sense of urgency concerning that task. Who can say how long the old fellow is for this world but I also feel that it is important to discover the identity of the perpetrator of last night’s dastardly deed.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s got to be that drunken lunatic who made an exhibition of himself last night in the dining hall. The son, Jeremiah.’
Oliver pulled a face. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
Jack Dawkins gave a sarcastic chuckle. ‘Maybe? You have some other candidate in mind?’
‘Not at present but my legal training has taught me to always look beyond the obvious.
‘Anything you say, Master Twist.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Reuben Bechstein’s shop in Murray’s Court always appeared closed. There was no light in the grimy window to indicate that the establishment was open for business. Indeed, it was only the presence of three mildewed brass balls hanging disconsolately over the shabby doorway that gave any evidence that these dismal premises were in fact a business and not just a derelict dwelling waiting with patience for demolition.
Once inside, the prospective customer new to the establishment may well have believed that Bechstein’s was a wholesale merchant for fine dust and cobwebs for these seemed to be the principal items on show in his gloomy emporium. Daylight hardly filtered through the bleary panes and the only other source of illumination was a spindly guttering candle which Bechstein kept by him on the counter. He sat motionless with infinite patience not unlike a small squat bald-headed spider waiting for the next customer. He had the facility of sending both his brain and body into a kind of suspended animation in between the sporadic visitation of clients. He felt neither the cold – there was never any warmth on these premises – nor the tedious passage of time.
The many clocks which ticked and tocked noisily on shelves and cabinets that crowded the shop were just making their way towards the prick of noon, when Reuben Bechstein received his first visitation of the day. A tall swarthy man with a hangdog expression and what would have been an ebullient swagger had not alcohol and a certain haunted look undermined it. The shop bell clunked tunelessly to herald his arrival. Despite the sepulchral illumination, the old pawnbroker recognised the customer. It was Jeremiah Throate. A regular.
Bechstein snapped out of his trance, his arms scrabbling over the counter in readiness to examine the article brought for perusal – whatever it was.
‘Good day, sir,’ he croaked in a voice that was little used and so had grown rusty with the passing of the years. ‘What can I do for you?’ In essence the words were reversed in his own mind. ‘What can you do for me?’ is what he really meant.
Throate leaned over the counter and retrieved an item from his coat pocket. He allowed himself a brief smug smile as he laid the pearl necklace on the counter.
‘What will you give me for this choice item?’ he said smoothly.
Bechstein gazed at the necklace for a moment before clamping a magnifying implement to his eye in order to examine it at close quarters. For some seconds he studied the pearls closely by the flickering light of the candle and then lifting the necklace gently, he weighed the item in his sensitive arachnid fingers. Finally, he placed one of the largest pearls between his rotting teeth and bit gently upon it. With a shake of his head, replaced the necklace on the counter. He murmured a few incomprehensible words to himself before addressing his customer.
‘I hope that you didn’t pay too much for this little trinket, my dear sir. It is mere paste. Not worth more than a few guineas, I’m afraid.’
Throate’s body stiffened. ‘You lie, you rogue.’
Bechstein, who was used to such accusations from irate and greedy customers, merely smiled. ‘If that is what you think, take it away. Try elsewhere. Anyone who knows his pearls will tell you the same. Imitation. Cheap paste.’
Throate snatched up the necklace away from Bechstein’s spidery clutches but already his spirits were sinking. He knew in his heart that the fellow was telling the truth. He held the pearls close to his face. To his uneducated eye they seemed perfect, although he could now appreciate that they did feel a trifle light in weight.
‘As you are one of my regulars, sir, I’m prepared to offer three guineas for the item if that will help.’
If that will help! The words bore a shaft into Throate’s heart. Three guineas! When he owed a hundred! He had pinned his hope on the blasted pearls. What was his mother doing with a paste necklace? What had happened to the real one?
Throate nodded dumbly as he handed back the cheap trinket to the pawnbroker. ‘Very well,’ he said, the words hardly more than a whisper.
Bechstein nodded and smiled. With one deft speedy movement he scooped up the item and placed it in a drawer. From his capacious leather purse which dangled like a fat dead rat from the belt around his waist he withdrew a number of coins and placed them on the counter.
‘There we are, sir,’ he said graciously. ‘Full payment for said article.’
Throate scraped the coins up with a weary grunt and without further intercourse hurried from the shop.
Emerging into the dingy light of the cramped court where sunlight rarely strayed, he suddenly found himself flanked by two strangers. They epitomised the word ‘disreputable’. They were swarthy in appearance, unshaven, unkempt and uncouth. Neither had a full set of teeth and their greasy, tattered and ill-fitting clothes would have been rejected by any self-respecting scarecrow. To Throate’s surprise and disgust, each man took him by the arm as though they were ready to march him away – which in fact they were.
‘Good day to you, Mister Throate,’ said one, touching his shabby hat with two even shabbier gloved fingers.
‘Or should that be Sir Jeremiah Throate now?’ said the other, grinning, exposing what few teeth he had.
Throate’s surprise at their approach darkened into something approaching fear when he realised they knew who he was. Who were these verminous creatures and what did they want with him? The two men tightened their grip around his arms and, as if to answer his unspoken thought, one of them said, ‘We have come to take you to a friend of yours. He is most anxious to have words with his Lordship. Come along now.’
‘The Devil I will,’ Throate cried brusquely as he tried to shake the two unsavoury limpets from his arms but without any success. Their grip grew tighter and stronger causing him to wince with
pain.
‘I think you will,’ said the stouter of the two producing a short-pointed knife and holding it up to his victim’s throat.
‘We don’t want to do you here, but we will if we have to,’ said the other, grinning like a cheerful gargoyle. ‘It’s up to you.’
Throate made the sensible choice and complied with their demands. The trio shuffled from the court, down an alley and into a waiting carriage. Throate was bundled inside with one of his abductors while the other hauled himself up into the driver’s seat.
The blinds were drawn as the carriage set off at some speed.
So many questions were whirling around in Throate’s mind now, but he had little time to assess them let alone try to answer any as his fellow travellers cudgelled him heartily on the back of his head with the butt of a pistol. A sudden explosion of light accompanied by a sharp searing plain in the head lasted a few seconds before Jeremiah Throate slumped lifeless onto the floor of the rocking carriage. His assailant pulled a doubtful face, his thick ugly lips curving downwards in an expression of dismay. ‘I hopes I ain’t overdone it.’ He said to himself, inspecting the butt of the pistol, now tipped with blood. ‘Mr Trench wanted this specimen alive.’
As Fate would have it, he hadn’t overdone it and some thirty minutes later, a foggy, groggy consciousness slowly began to creep back into Jeremiah Throate’s inert body. At first, he heard voices, echoing, it seemed down a dark, smoky corridor and then the sensation of light, hazy and grey, forced itself upon him, enticing him to prise open his eyelids. Everything was a blur at first as though having been immersed in water for some time his head was now thrust above the surface. Everything shimmered indistinctly before him. He also realised that the voices he thought he had heard actually belonged to just one person. A tall thin man dressed in black. As his senses were slowly restored to him, the overwhelming sensation was the dull throbbing pain in his head.
Then he remembered. In short memory bursts he recollected the last few minutes before… before the pain and the darkness.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 8