They nodded dumbly.
‘Put the word out. Say there’s a five-pound reward for letting you know where Throate is. Is that understood?’
Both men acknowledged in gruff whispers that they did indeed understand.
‘Then what are you waiting for, you idiots. Be about it.’
In an ungainly scuffle the two men left the chamber.
‘My Dearest Felicity
How long the days and hours seem since we last met, last talked, last held each other close, last kissed. My heart aches to be with you again. Our separation has placed me on the rack. What makes things worse is that I have no notion as to when we shall be united. I had hoped to discuss the matter with my employer, Sir Ebenezer Throate and see if it was possible for him to find you some employment at Throate Manor until we could be married and maybe then we could take a small cottage on the estate. Oh, what a wonderful dream that would be.
Unfortunately, fate has thrown an obstacle in that particular pathway. I returned to discover that my employer is seriously ill and indeed may not recover. The circumstances surrounding his dramatic decline in health are rather complicated and I have been sworn to secrecy concerning the details of the matter. However, should his health fade and he pass away, I am afraid that my own future will be in doubt. I am sure that I would be dismissed from my post for I am well aware that Lady Throate has no fondness for me and believes I am an unnecessary drain on the family purse. So it would seem that at the moment no definite plans can be made to secure our future happiness. The only bright spark on our dark horizon is the possibility of a brief meeting. If I could get away for a day, I could travel to London and spend a few hours in your company if you could secure a similar escape from your duties. Do let me know, my darling, if this is possible and practical. I shall wait with bated breath and an aching heart until I hear from you.
Believe me to be your most adoring,
Roger.’
Felicity Waring laid the letter down on the coverlet on her bed and smoothed the paper out, allowing her fingers to run gently across the missive with sensuous care. A small tear appeared the corner of her right eye. Oh cruel world, she thought. Why must we be separated, rather like those lovers in that Shakespeare play, Romeo and Juliet. If only she had money, wealth, the means to allow her independence and personal freedom, she could be with her love. Instead she was shackled to that wrinkled harridan who was, at this moment, snoring grotesquely a few rooms away and who in a very short time would be calling out for her to attend to her morning toilette. And her duties for the day would start and continue until the old crone retired for the night, her face plastered in some unction she believed foolishly would make her look young and beautiful. There was no respite for Felicity in that day long entrapment, apart from an hour or so when her charge took an afternoon nap. What chance had she to secure the time for even the briefest of liaisons with dear Roger. The tear grew bigger and was joined by a fellow in the other eye.
She would have slumped down on the bed in despair, but she was frightened of crumpling the letter that laid there. What was she to do? What could she do to extricate herself from this prison cell? Her dark thoughts were interrupted by the stentorian tones of Lady Whitestone calling from her bedroom. She sounded to be in her usual ill-humour. Wiping her eyes, and straightening her dress, Felicity, like a well-trained dog, made her way to her mistress’s bedroom, slipping on the heavy chains of duty as she did so.
Dr Benbow was pleased with his patient’s progress. He wasn’t quite out of the wood yet, but the path to the lesser brambles and sunshine beyond was now visible. Sir Ebenezer was still sleeping but it was a natural, restful sleep which the medical man hoped would restore the patient’s energy and recuperative reserves. Benbow felt the Sir Ebenezer’s pulse. It was still faint but regular.
At that moment the servant girl entered the room carrying a tray which contained a bowl of something brown and steaming. ‘Some soup for his lordship,’ she said shyly.
The doctor nodded. ‘Place it on the table by his bed. She did so, curtsied and made a hurried exit. The doctor stared at the soup, still steaming despite its protracted journey from the kitchen, and then glanced at his slumbering patient. He certainly wasn’t going to wake him up to partake of some broth. Sleep would do the old man greater benefit than a few mouthfuls of vegetable stock. However, it did look quite good though. He leaned over the bowl and breathed in the steamy fumes. It smelt good also. It was quite a while since he had partaken of some vitals. As he studied the bowl further, he found his tummy began to rumble gently and pangs of hunger materialised out of nowhere. Goodness, now that soup looked so appetising. Like a rural elixir. There was also a crumbly chunk of bread leaning seductively by the bowl. It would probably be cold and indigestible by the time the old man woke. It would be such a pity to waste it. Surely, it would not be too terrible to take a few mouthfuls.
Somewhat furtively he glanced around the room to ascertain that the servant girl had indeed gone before taking hold of the spoon and dipping it deep into the bowl of soup. He sipped it, feeling the pungent liquid fill his mouth with a warm glow. He took another spoonful. It was interesting rather than delicious. It had a strange piquant taste but, by Jove, it appeased his hunger. Like an alcoholic presented with a full bottle of gin, he could not resist taking yet another taste. And another. And another. Before he knew it, the bowl was nearly empty. It was then that he began to feel a little odd. The rumbling in his tummy had stopped and now it began to feel constricted as though someone was tightening his belt in a savage fashion. He began to sweat profusely, and his throat felt as though it was on fire. In some distress, with great effort he rose from the chair. This sudden ague that had attacked his constitution was increasing in its vehemence. As he made his way to the door like a stumbling drunkard, his vision began to blur and the room swayed around him, moving in and out of focus. At the back of his tortured mind he realised what had happened to him. It was monstrous and tragic, but it could be the only explanation.
His fingers felt for the doorknob and eventually they found it. With a Herculean effort, he wrenched open the door and staggered on to the landing, colliding with Roger Lightwood and collapsing into his arms.
‘I’ve been poisoned,’ he croaked, his vocal cords almost giving up the ghost. ‘I’ve been poisoned.’ It was at this point that death overtook him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was late in the day when Oliver and Jack entered the cramped office at the University of London which bore the legend ‘Admissions Record Office’. It was a dingy chamber which seemed to have been taken over by a whole army of box files and bookcases groaning with leather bound ledgers. In the midst of this gloomy haven, illuminated by a series of candles, sat a tall, spindly geriatric gentleman with a thatch of straw-coloured hair which emerged from his scalp at a variety of acute angles as though they were desperate to escape their moorings. He was seated at a tall desk, scribbling away with a monster quill pen, the feather of which flashed rhythmically to and fro across the fellow’s cadaverous face like a fluffy pendulum.
So engrossed in his task was he, that it took him sometime to become cognisant of the fact that two strangers had entered his domain. On eventually realising this, he stopped his activity immediately and rather like a mechanical toy, with stiff precise movements, he placed his quill down on the desk and swivelled on his chair to face them. He had a long thin face with sunken cheeks and a pallor that a ghost would have been proud to own. He peered at his visitors inquisitively over an ancient pair of pence nez.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, his voice thin and reedy, ‘you do know where you are?’
Oliver nodded. ‘We believe we do. This is the Admissions Record Office.’
The man shifted in his chair and nodded his head vigorously, causing his pince-nez to slip down to the end of his long bony nose where they balanced themselves most precariously on the tip. ‘Correct, correct. How wonderful. This is something of a red-letter day. The last t
ime anyone came in here who was not a known employee of the university was…’ He closed his eyes and muttered gently to himself for some thirty seconds, before announcing, ‘The tenth of September, the year before last and that was a representative from a scholarly gown company who had lost his way.’ He grinned a skeletal grin. ‘Are you sure you gentlemen have not lost your way also?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Oliver. ‘We are seeking information which I believe you can provide for us.’
‘Oh, excellent, excellent. I hope the information you seek will be difficult to obtain. I do love a challenge. Simple tasks are so mundane, don’t you think?’ He ran his hands together with such ferocious glee and relish, Jack thought he may well start a fire. ‘My name is Scrope-Mantle: a hyphenated name I inherited from my dear parents who were determined that my mother should not relinquish her maiden name on the occasion of her marriage. Manville Scrope-Mantle at your service.’ His head sank onto his chest in a slow deferential movement.
Oliver gave a curt bow in response as it seemed appropriate to do so. He wanted to keep on the good side of this apparently obliging fellow. Jack Dawkins followed suit in a less efficient and decorous manner.
‘I am Oliver Twist, and this is my assistant, Jack Dawkins. We are representatives of the legal firm Gripwind and Biddle. We are seeking information regarding a past student at the university’, said Oliver.
‘Well we have hundreds of them to choose from.’
‘His name is Braggle. Tom or Thomas Braggle.’
‘What years did he attend?’
‘Ah, that I cannot be sure. Some five or six years ago.’
Scrope-Mantle clapped his hands. ‘Excellently vague. A very pleasing challenge. Now gentlemen I suggest you take a seat on the old wooden bench over there because – with a modicum of luck – I shall be quite some time.’ Without another word, he hopped off his stool and like a large gentrified stick insect disappeared behind a stack of files into the darker and dustier recesses of the room.
Oliver and Jack exchanged glances and slight shrugs of the shoulders and did as they were bidden. They sat in silence and waited while in the distance, unseen, they heard Scrope-Mantle rustling paper and muttering to himself in a chirpy fashion like a parrot that had discovered a large cache of bird seed.
Time passed, the candles dwindled, and evening shadows began to creep into the room. Jack yawned. He was bored and pessimistic. He had held little hope for this exercise in the first place but now he considered it a futile one. He was convinced that the gibbering idiot he could hear in the dusty realm beyond would fail miserably in his mission. Jack was longing for a pint of ale and something warm to munch. On the other hand, Oliver was occupying his time mulling over all the information they had gleaned about the young man they were seeking. Admittedly there were mere fragments of the tapestry that, as yet, could not be woven into a whole, but with each new addition the picture was growing, and he had play about with these fragments. Oliver was convinced that imagination as well as facts would help to solve this mystery
‘Are you making any progress, sir?’ called out Jack Dawkins suddenly with a brusqueness that clearly indicated that his patience was waning.
After a pause came the muffled response. ‘Yes, yes. Possibly. Definitely …and yet I’m not sure.’
‘Blimey,’ muttered Jack, ‘we could be here till doomsday – and then we’d be no wiser.’
‘Have a little patience, old fellow. A few hours of our time matters not if we obtain the information we seek.’
‘If. That’s a monster if, Oliver.’
Oliver had no response to this, partly because he knew Jack was correct. The pair then lapsed into silence once more, while Scrope-Mantle’s chuntering continued.
A further forty minutes passed and then they heard a cry of triumph and moments later, a dusty Scrope-Mantle stumbled into view clasping a tattered sheet of paper. It had yellowed with age and the ink was now a pale cousin of its earlier bold self.
‘I have it. I have it,’ he cried, panting heavily as though he had just run a marathon or scaled a mountain peak. ‘And it is most satisfying,’ he added, ‘because it presents a mystery. Very satisfying.’
‘A mystery?’ queried Oliver.
Scrope-Mantle nodded vigorously and laid the sheet of paper down on his desk. ‘Come, come, see for yourself.’
Both Oliver and Jack moved to the desk and peered down at the paper. Scrope-Mantle’s bony finger traced out the faded handwritten script.
‘See, here. October 1850. Thomas Braggle enrols at the University to study law and commerce. The end of year comment from the Dean: ‘An excellent student who has consistently worked well’. Then the second year… The comment from the Dean: ‘There has been a falling off of effort this semester. The student seems troubled and distracted for some strange reason’. Then, in his third and final year, ‘this particular student left summarily without taking his final exams.’
‘What explanation was given for this? It seems a remarkably rash thing to do. Something quite dramatic must have occurred to bring about this state of affairs,’ said Oliver with some consternation.
Scrope-Mantle gave a gentle smile of satisfaction. ‘There are no reasons given, no explanation provided why Mr Braggle absented himself from the university in such a fashion at this crucial time. It leaves quite a satisfying mystery, don’t you think?’
‘We have enough mystery to be going on with, thank you,’ observed Jack. ‘We could do without more being heaped on our load.’
Scrope-Mantle nodded with feigned sympathy. ‘The young have many ways of causing us consternation. However, I do have one scrap of information which may well provide some consolation to you.’ His finger hovered over the faded script on the tattered page. ‘There is a forwarding address to which his possessions should be sent.’
Oliver and Jack leaned forward to scrutinise the faded script. When their eyes focused on the address scribbled on the page, they both simultaneously gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘Good gracious,’ cried Oliver.
‘Crikey Moses,’ cried Jack.
And they both exchanged shocked open-mouthed stares.
‘It’s a beauty. One of the finest that Bowes and Mandelson ever produced.’ Amos Crimper caressed the pistol he had just retrieved from the window of his emporium, ‘Amos Crimper, Gunsmith to the Gentry.’ Judging by the clothes and demeanour, the fellow who had expressed an interest in the pistol was hardly a member of ‘the Gentry’ – his clothes were creased and rumpled, his hair unkempt and his chin had obviously not seen a razor for at least two days. However, he was a potential customer – a breed that was somewhat thin on the ground of late. Mister Crimper could not be as fussy as he once had been in choosing who to serve.
‘You would find it hard to obtain a more accurate and serviceable weapon than this little beauty,’ he was saying, as he continued to stroke at butt and barrel as though it was a newborn baby.
Jeremiah Throate held out his hand – a fairly grubby one, Crimper observed, to take hold of the gun. With some reluctance, the gunsmith passed it over. Throate grasped it firmly. He liked the feel of it. The weight of the thing and the comfort of the handle gave him confidence. He took a step back and held his arm out straight, aiming at the glass display case behind Crimper who winced and gave a little whelp of alarm as he did so.
‘Do, do be careful, sir,’ he cried.
‘Is it loaded?’ asked Throate.
‘I’m not sure. Please put it down and I will check.’ Crimper managed to generate a small laugh. ‘We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we?’
‘Oh, I can check myself to see if this little beauty is ready for action.’
Crimper’s eyes bulged and his face paled. He really didn’t like the tone of this fellow’s remark. There was a certain air of danger in his manner.
‘Oh, yes. It has ammunition neatly stowed. Very convenient.’
Crimper gave another nervous laugh and held out his ha
nd. ‘If you please, sir?’
Throate raised his brow in gentle query. ‘What…?’
‘If you’ll pass the gun back to me.’
‘Oh, I can’t do that?’
‘You… you can’t do that? Why… why…why?’ Crimper was now beside himself with terror. He was convinced that this ruffian was about to shoot him.
‘It’s just what I need. Fits my purposes exactly. So I intend to take it.’
‘Oh, I see. You wish to purchase the weapon,’ grinned the gunsmith, the invisible clutching hand around his heart releasing its tight grip a little.
The man shook his head. ‘No. I intend to take it.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
Throate took a step forward and pressed the point of the pistol against Crimper’s chest. ‘I intend to take it,’ he repeated darkly and then added, in softer tones as though speaking to a child, ‘to steal it.’
‘Steal…’ It seemed that Crimper still did not quite understand Throate’s words, although his senses told him to be frightened.
‘Take it without paying for it.’
‘No, no, sir, you cannot do that.’
‘Oh yes I can. In fact, I can do it one of two ways. I can just slip it into my belt and walk out of the shop, allowing you to get on with your business and keeping your miserable mouth shut – or if you cause some disturbance I can just shoot you and walk out of the shop anyway’.
Now the fog cleared, and the situation became clear to Crimper. ‘Oh,’ he said.
Throate smiled. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘I… I would take it as a great favour if… if you would not harm me. I will not cause a disturbance, I assure you.’
‘Good man, Master Crimper. It has been a pleasure to do business with you.’ Throate slipped the pistol in his belt, to the left side so that it was hidden by his jacket and then gave a swift salute to the quivering gunsmith before quitting his premises. With swift strides, almost breaking into a trot, Throate put as much ground between him and Crimper’s shop as he could.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 13