‘What a way you have with words, Oliver. A veritable Shakespeare you are.’
‘I am afraid that we must postpone our mission tonight. I want to wake up with a career and prospects tomorrow.’
Jack emptied his tankard and ran his sleeve across his mouth. ‘And I want you to wake up to tomorrow with a career and prospects as well. I depend on you.’
Exchanging grim smiles, the two friends slunk out of The Saracen’s Head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Felicity had just finished writing a passionate, wordy and completely effusive love letter to Roger Lightwood when there was a knock at her door. It was sharp and imperative. She was surprised that effect of flesh on wood could create such an intimidating sound, but it did. At first she could not imagine who the visitor to her room could be. It certainly was not Lady Whitestone. Felicity had left her grumbling in her sleep some forty minutes ago. The fact that she wouldn’t allow consciousness to visit her until dawn was well and truly established.
Felicity moved to the door and leaning her face forward she called out: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Arthur. I have to see you,’ came the muffled reply.
Felicity gave a silent groan. He had never approached her room before which unnerved her. She really didn’t want to see Arthur or become entangled in a conversation with him. No doubt he would want to talk about their relationship, their blossoming romance - but to her it had withered and died. There was a faint strand of guilt wrapped up in her emotions. She knew she was being unreasonable and cruel in rejecting Arthur in such a sudden and abrupt fashion, but at the same time she was well aware that it would be very wrong to pretend there was a rose-tinted romantic future for them. There was only one man who could hold a place in her heart: Roger Lightwood. Compared to him, Arthur Wren was a mere insubstantial shadow. While Felicity was pondering how to respond, the insistent knock came again.
‘Let me in, Felicity. I need to see you.’
The rough aggressive note in his voice startled her. ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘It is not appropriate now. I am ready for bed. Please go away.’
‘I must see you.’ The voice was louder now and had a threatening edge to it. He rattled the doorknob and shook the door as though he was attempting to break it down to gain entry.
Felicity gave a small shriek of fear and stepped back from door. ‘Go away. You are frightening me,’ she cried, wrapping her arms around her slender frame for comfort.
‘I need to see you. I… I love you.’ The voice was more conciliatory now, but it still remained insistent.
‘No, no. You must leave me alone. Go away,’ was all that she could muster.
There was a silence and then a thunderous bang as he thumped his fist hard against the door in anger and frustration. ‘You strumpet!’ he cried. ‘You have duped me. Led me on. You will pay for this. Mark my words, my fine lady: You will pay for this.’ He thumped the door once again and then she heard his retreating footsteps down the corridor.
Felicity threw herself on the bed and burst into tears. She felt frightened, alone and terribly vulnerable. What was going to happen to her? Would she ever find happiness? As the bleak answer reared itself up in her mind’s eyes, she buried her head in the pillow, sobbing her heart out.
Mr Crow, as he was referred to in the game of cards in the upper room of The Saracen’s Head, was feeling very sorry for himself. Not only was he a little lightheaded, thanks to the never empty brandy glass at his side, but devastated at the current state of his finances. After a very encouraging start, when he had hauled in quite a considerable amount of cash, he had now fallen on hard times and the money was slipping through his fingers like water from a tap. Initially there had been four players round the table but two had dropped out and he was left playing a fellow called Trench who certainly knew his way around a deck of cards. Crow felt like a rank amateur in his presence.
I am so low in cash now,’ said Crow with rare humility, ‘that I had better finish before I become bankrupt.’
‘Oh, no. One more game. We must have one more game,’ said Tench with icy smoothness. It was an order not a suggestion.
‘But I have so little cash left.’
Trench beamed. ‘Never mind, put in what you have, along with that pearl neck pin and your silver snuff box. They can be your collateral.’
The Judge was certainly not happy about this arrangement. He really wanted to leave while he still had a few coins left to call his own. As for the pin – a present from his wife – and the snuff box – it had belonged to his father – held for him, an unsentimental man, emotional connections which he did not want to lose. However, as a high court judge of long-standing, he had developed a keen appreciation of mood and circumstance and was well aware of the eyes that peered at him through the candle-flickering gloom of that stuffy room - eyes that he was quite sure posed a physical threat to his person if he did not fall in with Trench’s suggestion. In other words, he was trapped. He cursed himself for allowing himself to become involved in such a situation as he placed these treasured personal items, along with his few remaining coins, in the centre of the table. He knew he would never see them again. These were not games of intelligence and cunning. His opponent was a cheat. A master of prestidigitation and the sleight of hand – a cheat, nonetheless. The rogue deserved to hang… And if he had his way.
But he did not have his way.
Some thirty minutes later, he shuffled from the darkened tavern – the drinkers had long gone – almost relieved that he still had a coat on his back. Well, he told himself with great chagrin, he had learned his lesson. No more would he go seeking out illicit card games in dubious gambling haunts. In future he would restrict himself to a few rounds of poker with his genteel colleagues at his club. The excitement would be tepid, but at least he would retain both his dignity and his family heirlooms.
As Judge Crow (as we must think of him) made his way towards the main thoroughfare on his long journey home, he passed by a narrow alley less than a hundred yards from The Saracen’s Head. As he did so, he failed to observe a dark figure hiding there in the shadows. Hiding and waiting.
‘What do we do next?’ asked Jack Dawkins as he and Oliver Twist sat around the sitting room fire late that night.
Oliver didn’t know but was loathe to admit it. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, dragging the word out almost to the crack of doom. ‘Well,’ he said again in the same manner, while he cudgelled his brains to come up with a pertinent reply. He knew that Jack saw him as a fount of wisdom and a sharp thinker, and he didn’t want to let the fellow down. ‘Well,’ came the third, strangulated utterance, ‘we have made considerable progress today. We now know where Sir Ebenezer’s illegitimate offspring was taken from the orphanage and who brought him up.’
‘Brought up as Tom Braggle, an apprentice carpenter who started at university…,’ added Jack.
‘And then he left under some kind of cloud. And his forwarding address was The Saracen’s Head, Houndsditch.’
‘And bad company was mentioned.’
‘Yes, well, I reckon we were in the midst of bad company tonight in that very tavern. But in response to your query regarding what we do next, I’m afraid the answer is as plain as the nose on your face. Tomorrow, I’m afraid we shall have to revisit to the Saracen’s Head and make a further attempt to discover if Tom Braggle is still known there.’
Jack nodded glumly. ‘So be it. Let’s hope there ain’t no members of the judiciary in attendance this time.’
‘I trust so.’
‘And on that note I think I will take myself off to dreamland.’
‘Good night, old fellow.’
Left alone, Oliver stared at the dying embers of the fire and pondered further. Where on earth was all this business leading? By some trick of fate, he had wandered into a weird landscape. He was a lawyer – that was his calling - but now he it seemed he had turned into some kind of enquiry agent and adventurer. A glowing coal sank to the lower regions of t
he grate with a gentle hiss emitting a final spurt of orange flame. This seemed to place a new thought in his mind. Perhaps this was his life’s lot. He was never to be settled. He had started life as a workhouse brat, became a pickpocket under the control of a crooked pied piper and then was transformed into a pampered foundling before maturing and … And now, here he was seeking the illegitimate son of a rich aristocratic client in the lowest drinking houses in London. Life’s rich tapestry? If so, oh how he wished for a bland piece of plain material with no surprising pattern instead. With a sigh, Oliver doused the lights and made his way upstairs.
Jeremiah Throate consulted his watch. It was just after one in the morning. Perhaps he had misjudged things. Was it possible that his mortal enemy – he really thought of him in that clichéd fashion – was staying the night in The Saracen’s Head? He never used to. He had observed the last gambler leave nearly an hour ago: a slouching wretch in dark clothing and a tri-corn hat worn low. He recognised the gait and demeanour of a serious loser. A duped loser. After all, he had been one himself. It was likely that Trench and that worm of a landlord were dividing the spoils over a final drink of the night, but how long did that take? Throate was beginning to shiver and to have thoughts about abandoning his vigil. After all, he could kill Trench another day. A few more hours would not make that much difference, although he was eager to send the devil to kingdom come. Such an act would, he felt, bring a kind of serenity to his troubled soul.
As these thoughts drifted around his tired mind, he heard the sound of a door being unlatched and opening on its creaking hinges. This was accompanied by the sound of muffled voices. Someone was leaving the tavern at last. Edging his way to the corner of the alley, he peered around the corner. He could see two figures in the narrow shaft of pale light emanating from the doorway. Two figures whom he recognised; Hubert Faddle and Eugene Trench. Throate felt his heart begin to race. The moment had come. He now could carry out his plan. The thought of it caused him to shiver with a mixture of fear and excitement. The door of the tavern closed with a groan and Trench set off walking briskly.
Throate dug his hand into his jacket and dragged the pistol from its resting place. By this time, Trench who was walking briskly had passed the alley and was being devoured by the shadows further up the street.
Throate stepped out of the alley and, holding the pistol at arm’s length, aimed it at the back of the disappearing silhouette which was his ‘mortal enemy’ Eugene Trench.
He pulled the trigger.
It did not move. Nothing happened.
He pulled the trigger again. It resisted the pressure of his finger. It was jammed. A third attempt also ended in failure. He stared in disbelief at the useless weapon. He opened his mouth, but no utterance emerged. He was lost for words.
He glanced up the street. His mortal enemy had been swallowed up by the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Great Heavens, girl, take more care. You’re brushing my hair, not pulling out weeds in a cabbage patch,’ Wilhelmina Whitestone snapped angrily at Felicity Waring as she carried out the morning’s hair brushing duties with far more vigour than usual. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you today. You seem to be in some sort of dream. Pull yourself out of it at once or it will be the worse for you, my girl!’
‘I’m sorry, Lady Wilhelmina,’ muttered Felicity in response to this brittle tirade. It was true, she was in some sort of dream this morning: a bad dream. She couldn’t eradicate the words of Arthur Wren from her mind and the vicious way they had been expressed: ‘You strumpet! You have duped me. Led me on. You will pay for this. Mark my words, my fine lady. You will pay for this.’ They had echoed in her head from the moment they had been uttered. She hardly slept a wink that night, worrying that Arthur would break down her bedroom door and act out his revenge. She shuddered again at the thought of it. She did feel a pang of guilt for rejecting him after she had been so warm to the fellow in the past, but now her heart and affections were held by another, it would be so wrong to carry on any kind of intimate relationship with another man.
‘Come on, come on. Attend to your duties instead of gawping there like an indolent statue.’ Her mistress’s fierce tones shook her from her reverie. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Wilhelmina,’ she repeated.
‘You know that I particularly wish to look my best today when I go to Lady Twemlow’s luncheon party. She is always ferocious in her scrutiny of her guests’ appearance. I want to make sure I outshine her in glamour and beauty. I have a reputation to uphold.’
‘I am sure you will do that easily,’ said Felicity mechanically, as she began brushing her mistress’s hair with more care.
‘So am I,’ came the brusque reply, ‘provided that my hair is treated with gentleness and sensitivity.’
As Felicity brushed the thin grey locks, attempting to tease some body into them, her mind was elsewhere. Once more, a small knot of fear was beginning to grow inside her as she realised that while her mistress was away from the house attending this pompous luncheon party given by the grotesque harridan Lady Twemlow – out of the same self-deluded and arrogant stable as Wilhelmina Whitestone herself – she would be alone on the premises with Arthur Wren. What on earth was she to do? If only Roger Lightwood were here to protect her.
It was mid-morning when Oliver and Jack approached The Saracen’s Head again. This time the door was shut and there was no sign of activity.
‘It’s my understanding that landlords sleep late, Oliver.’
‘I am sure you are correct, but it is only just over an hour before noon when thirsty men desire their ale. Surely Mr Faddle will have completed his morning ablutions by now.’
Jack said nothing, but his expression indicated that he thought this concept was unlikely.
Undaunted, Oliver rapped loudly on the door. When, after a minute there was no response, he repeated the action, knocking louder and longer than before. A window above them creaked open and a tousled head poked out.
‘Come back at noon. We’re shut now,’ cried the apparition.
‘Ah, Mr Faddle. It is not drink I require, but a conversation with you concerning a legal matter.’
The landlord frowned. ‘Legal matter. What legal matter?’
Oliver could tell he had hooked his fish. ‘If I could take some ten minutes of your time, I could explain. I cannot do so openly in the street.’
‘A legal matter, you say.’
‘Indeed, I am a representative of Messrs Gripwind and Biddle, a legal firm in the city.’
‘Are you now. Very well. Wait there while I get dressed and come down for you.’ With that Hubert Faddle disappeared and the window banged shut.
Oliver and Jack exchanged amused glances and then waited. Some ten minutes later the door of The Saracen’s Head creaked open and the landlord bid them enter. The bar parlour was gloomy and rich in the stench of sour ale and pipe tobacco. So unpleasantly pungent was the atmosphere that Oliver could feel his breakfast stirring unpleasantly in his gut.
‘Sit yerself down gentlemen.’ Faddle indicated a table by the curtained window. ‘Now I fancy my morning tankard of ale. Can I get one for you two?’
Oliver shook his head vigorously. The thought of cold ale at this time of day, especially when the pungent atmosphere was making his breakfast rebel would lead to an emetic disaster. On the other hand, Jack nodded vigorously. ‘A pint of ale would slip down very nicely, thank you.’ He flashed a smile at Oliver.
Faddle produced the drinks and sat down, passing a tankard to Jack. ‘That’ll be two pence, young sir,’ he said with a grin.
Jack’s jaw dropped. He had assumed that the ale would be on the house. He glanced over at Oliver, his eyes wide in surprise, but his friend just smirked. With flustered reluctance, Jack rummaged in his pockets and produced the two pence.
‘Thank you,’ said Faddle scooping the money up in a well-practised fashion. ‘Now then, legal business. What legal business?’
‘We are trying to trace someone
who we believe lodged on these premises some two or three years ago.’
Faddle’s face fell. He had been harbouring a fancy notion that some unknown benefactor had died and left him a sum of money. That was the sort of ‘legal business’ he was interested in.
‘Oh, yes,’ was his guarded response.
Jack slurped his ale and wiped the froth away with the sleeve of his coat.
‘The man in question is Thomas Braggle.’
‘Oh, him.’
‘You know this man then.’
‘Yes, I know him. Long streak of water.’ He gave a mouth twisting sneer before taking a gulp of ale.
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Well now, this is legal business ain’t it? That’s what you said.’
Oliver nodded apprehensively.
‘Legal business is fees and costs and such like. Fees have to be paid. Information comes at a price. You being legal gentlemen will know that.’
‘How much?’ said Jack, cutting to the quick but failing to keep the anger from his voice.
Faddle pursed his lips. ‘I’m not a greedy man, gentlemen. I reckon a couple of sovereigns would fit the bill.’
‘I am sure that can be arranged, Mr Faddle, providing you have real information about Thomas Braggle.’
‘Oh, that I can confirm. No problem there, I assure you.’
Oliver reached inside his purse and withdrew two sovereigns and placed them on the table. ‘Let us hear what you have to tell us, Mr Faddle, and then the sovereigns can be yours.’
The landlord nodded and smiled. ‘We occasionally had the odd card school in one of the upper rooms in this establishment. It is a friendly social event. Perhaps you’d like to join us some time. We’re having a game tonight.’ He rubbed his hands together avariciously.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 15