Oliver shook his head. ‘We’re not ones for gambling are we, Mister Dawkins?’
Jack opened his mouth to speak, to contradict this assertion but he observed the warning in his friend’s glance and he just nodded in agreement.
‘Pray continue with your narrative, Mr Faddle,’ prompted Oliver.
‘Very well. Young Master Braggle became a regular here when he was a student a learning things. Sadly, he was reckless in his dealings with cards. Betting large sums and losing. We tried to warn him, tried to keep him on the straight and narrow but he was a hot-heated young fellow and took no heed of us. As a result, he fell into debt and borrowed to excavate himself out of his hole, only to end up deeper than ever down the pit. In the end he was forced to give up his learning, sell what chattels he had and come to live here. I felt sorry for the lad and gave him a job, as barman and cellar man. A menial role you might say, way below his capabilities, but he was grateful and settled in here quite nicely.’
Faddle took another gulp of ale.
Oliver waited for the rest of the tale. He was well experienced dealing with devious characters to know that he wasn’t being told the full details of Braggle’s story. This was a censored and sanitised version, but at least there were some details which would be of use.
‘There’s not much more to tell, gentlemen. One day Mr Braggle just upped and left. He never told us why or where he was going. He paid all his dues though.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?’ asked Jack, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘Surely there was more to his leaving that what you’ve just said.’
Faddle seemed surprised and a little taken back by this interjection – an interjection from the monkey rather than the organ grinder. Oliver reacted quickly to this subtle change by slipping his hand over the two sovereigns.
‘It does seem an abrupt end to your story, Mr Faddle,’ he said judiciously. ‘I think my friend and I are of one mind that there is a little more to tell. We certainly do not want to leave here with half a tale…’ - his hand now picked up the sovereigns and jingled them ‘…you will appreciate our concern.’
Faddle’s eyes flickered nervously. He knew that he was in danger of losing his reward and it was clear he was wondering just how much he could reveal to these to ‘legal gentlemen.’ After a moment’s pause, he gave a hearty chuckle, but it was unconvincing merriment and both Oliver and Jack knew it.
‘Well,’ said Faddle, ‘there is really not much I can add… but apparently our young friend encountered a gentleman in the city – under what circumstances I honestly do not know – and this gentleman, a rich cove, offered Braggle a proper job.’
‘What kind of job?’ asked Jack.
Faddle shrugged. ‘I really have no idea. Truly. But Braggle was a pleased as punch about it. It was to be a new life for him and that was why he was determined to cut himself from all ties at The Saracen’s Head, despite the fact we had been very kind to him.’ Suddenly Faddle’s face darkened and he leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘But I can tell you this,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘young Master Braggle left here in a coach which bore a coat of arms on its side.’ He sat back with a flourish as though he had produced the crown jewels out of a top hat.
‘Did you recognise the coat of arms? asked Oliver.
Faddle shook his head. ‘No, I did not. I have no knowledge of such things. The aristocracy is a closed book to me. I am but a humble inn keeper.’
A little more than that, thought Jack, but on this rare occasion kept his thoughts to himself. He had encountered the breed before: fingers in many pies, most of them unsavoury and not to be trusted with the truth.
Can you provide any details of this coat of arms?’ asked Oliver. Think man.’ He chinked the coins again as bait.
Faddle screwed up his face in an act of desperate recollection. ‘Well, there were… a boar’s head… with nasty tusks. I remember that. And an oak tree. Well, I think it was an oak tree. One tree looks like another to me.’
Oliver and Jack exchanged glances, the latter’s mouth gaping as he did so. Oliver gave a brief negative shake of the head to indicate that his friend should not say a thing.
‘That’s all. I only glimpsed the coach briefly. Braggle was anxious to be away,’ concluded Faddle.
Oliver passed the two sovereigns to the landlord of The Saracen’s Head, bid him good morning, and with Jack in tow, he left the premises.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jeremiah Throate sat in a gloomy tavern feeling very sorry for himself. Not only had the assassination of his deadly enemy failed miserably because of a faulty pistol – which he had consigned to a watery grave at the bottom of the Thames in a fit of anger – but his supply of cash was running out. The trinkets that he had filched from the man he had robbed (and killed) had realised little by the time the pawn merchant had taken his cut and the few notes from his wallet had gone on lodgings, food and alcohol. He saw a pattern begin to emerge. He would have to do it again: tackle some lonely devil in some benighted alley and relieve him of his cash and valuables, taking as much trouble as he could not to kill the blighter this time, in order that he could survive a few more days in the city. The situation was farcical, horrendous. Whoever controlled the Fates was having an enormous laugh at his expense. Here he was, the son of a baronet, disowned by his parents and unable to return to the family seat in case the thugs employed by his debtor caught him and killed him. As he contemplated this unhappy situation, he sighed, his body shuddering with emotion. There must, there really must be some escape, some solution to his dilemma.
He raised his tankard to his lips and drained it. He decided to move on to a more felicitous drinking hole. Why not? While he still had a few shillings in his pocket he would live the life he was meant to not the one he was forced to.
Felicity removed the lustrous diamond necklace from its velvet casket and carefully draped it around Lady Whitestone’s neck.
‘This will certainly outshine anything that the decrepit Dorothea Twemlow can conjure up from her jewellery box,’ observed her ladyship with an acid grin
‘Indeed, it is magnificent,’ said Felicity with genuine feeling.
‘A family heirloom. And I can tell you, my girl, it is worth a fortune. An absolute fortune.’
Jeremiah Throate passed through the foyer of the Hotel Rialto and into the smart bar area beyond. He was aware that his clothes were now somewhat shabby for this establishment, but he assumed that his bearing and arrogant swagger would carry the day. And they seemed to.
The bar salon was empty apart from two men, smart city types, sitting at a small table by the fire. They looked like father and son. Jeremiah ordered a gin and water and sat close by them. The younger of the men was wearing a very smart morning suit and rested a smart shiny top hat on his knee and was flourishing a gilt-edged card in his right hand.
‘This is an invitation to Lady Twemlow’s Luncheon Party,’ he was saying. ‘Ghastly event. I’m only going as a favour to my aunt. I have to keep the old dear sweet. It’s an investment for when she shuffles off upstairs. I’m hoping there’ll be a happy parcel for me in her will when she goes. But, I do so hate these sorts of functions. All small sandwiches and empty-headed chatter. It’s mainly a female affair with lots of ladies of advanced faces parading around in their dated finery exhibiting the family jewels, attempting to outshine each other.’ He spoke in a lively manner; his observations were only slightly seasoned with sarcasm.
His companion, an older fellow more sedately dressed, with a rubicund complexion and the possessor of a curved nose that a goshawk would envy, chuckled at his friend’s conversation. ‘So, no young pretties to sooth the eye then?’ he said.
The young man shook his head. ‘Just a crew of desiccated dames, bejewelled up to the eyebrows, all believing that the shining diadems brought them back their youth.’
‘Poor boy.’
Jeremiah was fascinated by this conversation, especially the mention of ‘family jewel
s’ and ‘shining diadems’. These phrases made him lick his lips. As he savoured his gin and water, he studied the younger man, the one with the frock coat and top hat. As he did so an idea began to form in his brain. It was a shocking, reckless idea but as it took shape he began to grow excited. It was daring, it was risky, well, it was outrageous, but it could be the answer to his current dilemma.
‘Indeed, Auberon, my dear fellow, the youngest filly there will no doubt be approaching fifty but looking a decade older.’
Auberon chuckled. ‘The only thing for it, Cyril, my dear boy, is to ingratiate yourself to one of the old dears, snatch her tiara and hightail back to your club’.
‘It is an idea. And after a few glasses of champagne – if I can secure them – I may well be enticed into doing just that.’ Cyril grinned before consulting his pocket watch. ‘Ah, I had better be on my way. My aunt is a stickler for time keeping. I am meeting her there at the Twemlow residence in Chelsea.’
The older man raised his glass. ‘Bon voyage,’ he grinned.
The young man rose, gave a theatrical bow and left the room.
He was swiftly followed by Jeremiah Throate.
Out in the quiet street, the young man began searching for a carriage for hire. He hurried along the pavement and down a narrow alley which would lead him to a major thoroughfare, but he was destined not to reach it. Halfway down the alley, he felt a hand on the scruff of his neck, a hand that then swivelled him round so that he came face to face with a tall, dark saturnine figure.
‘What the…’ He managed to cry before he was punched hard in the face. He heard his nose break just before he lost consciousness and slumped to the floor. Minutes later, the tall saturnine figure emerged from the far side of the alley. He was wearing an impressive frock coat, albeit a little small for his frame, and with shiny top hat perched precariously on his head.
Oliver and Jack were seated in Samson’s Chop House devouring a pair of lamb cutlets with mashed potatoes and peas. As usual, Jack’s method of eating was to fill his mouth to full capacity so that his cheeks bulged before he began the process of chewing and swallowing. As a result, while dining, he had little capacity for conversation, or at least conversation that was decipherable. He had just made a lengthy observation which was completely unintelligible, but Oliver could guess what the gist of it was. They had exchanged few words since leaving the Saracen’s Head, each of their minds filled with the information they had gleaned and the possible implications. Oliver, in particular, tried hard to fit this part of the puzzle into the whole so that it began to make sense. It seemed to him that the more they learned, the more tangled the mystery became.
He squashed a group pea with his fork and brought them to his mouth and then hesitated. ‘All the indications are that the heart of this conundrum lies back at Throate Manor.’
Jack nodded and added a muffled comment in agreement.
‘The coach in which Braggle left the The Saracen’s Head was obviously the one owned by Sir Ebenezer Throate: the boar’s heads with tusks and the spreading oak tree, part of his family crest, clearly indicate that.’
Jack nodded his head and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘So, what was he doing at Throate Manor and why didn’t Sir Ebenezer tell us?’
Oliver popped the peas in his mouth. ‘I don’t know. I can’t believe he is taking us for a pair of fools, sending us out to look for his lost offspring when the fellow was conveyed there in his coach a few years ago. It is all so confusing.’
‘And blooming irritating.’
‘I concur on that point.’
‘What we gonna do, Oliver?’
‘I believe there is only one thing we can do now and that is to convey the information we have gleaned to Sir Ebenezer and see what light he can throw upon the matter. To that end, we shall once more travel down to Throate Manor first thing in the morning.’
‘Very well. But I tell you one thing, my friend.’
‘What is that?’
‘This meat is rather tough’.
When Lady Whitestone had departed for the Lady Twemlow’s luncheon party in all her finery, Felicity had swiftly returned to her room and locked the door. She had not seen Arthur Wren that day, but she knew that he was in the building somewhere and no doubt he was aware of her ladyship’s absence. It was an ideal time for him to make another attempt to get her in his clutches – for whatever purpose she shuddered to think. Was he still angry? Would he hurt her or beg her to be his? All such scenarios were abhorrent to her. She just did not want to see him again in private. It would be bad enough during her duties in the company of others. She had made her position clear to him regarding her affections, he should, he must accept them. She prayed that he would.
She lay on her bed with the first volume of a novel and tried to read but the words just danced before her, fluttering in and out of focus, refusing to make sense in her head. She was too tense, too apprehensive to allow herself to be caught up in the life of some fictional characters of no consequence. There was too much drama in her own life for her to concentrate. She dropped the book on the floor by her bed and laid back and closed her eyes, hoping that she could fall asleep. An afternoon nap was a luxury she rarely had the opportunity to indulge in and she had slept very badly the night before.
Despite her qualms, she soon found her body relaxing as her tiredness carried her away into a deep sleep. Her chest rose with a gentle regularity and the tightness of her forehead and the lines around her mouth eased as slumber helped to knit up that ravelled sleeve of care, as the Bard has it.
She was not aware of the turning of the doorknob and the pressure against the door as someone sought entry without success. With a muttered oath, this someone gave up and went away.
Eventually Felicity was roused from her slumbers by the sound of a bell, a small bell that rattled rather than it rang. It was Lady Whitestone’s bell, the one that summoned Felicity to her mistress’s boudoir for some chore or other. It took Felicity some moments to throw off the web of deep sleep and bring herself round and to realise what was happening. She pulled herself onto the side of the bed and brushed down her dress. The bell sounded again. It was insistent. It always was insistent. Had she been asleep so long that Lady Whitestone had returned from the luncheon party and was now no doubt requiring assistance to disrobe? She really must not have stayed at the function for only a short time. Long enough no doubt to parade around the room showing off the diamond necklace as though it were some grand decoration bestowed on her by royalty. Felicity allowed herself a brief smile at the thought before checking her appearance in the mirror. Satisfied that looked acceptable, she unlocked her door and hurried along to her mistress’s boudoir.
She knocked gently and entered. At first she was surprised to find the room empty. There was no sign of her ladyship. With some hesitation, Felicity called out her name. There was no reply. Then she heard the door close behind her and standing in the shadow was Arthur Wren. His face was pale and damp with sweat and he wore a strange alien expression. His lips parted in a demonic grin.
Jeremiah Throate passed through the portals of the Twemlow mansion with ease. The flunkey on the door took his invitation without a glance at him. Throate slipped into the throng of the rich and privileged, of whom he had once been a full member himself before his parents had become recalcitrant and boorish. He snatched a glass of champagne from a passing flunkey and downed it in one gulp and then sought out another. The air was filled with empty chatter and the whole scene reminded Throate of a farmyard filled with clucking chickens milling around aimlessly not really taking any notice of each other. The ensemble was predominantly female, mainly ladies of an age when beauty and sweetness had deserted them to be replaced by outrageously expensive and garish gowns adorned with rich sparkling trinkets. Throate was fascinated and delighted as he patrolled the room eyeing these gewgaws with the eye of an eager poacher. Which particular item was to be his? In particular, which would fetch the biggest financial reward? He circ
led the room numerous times, slowly studying the goods on show while availing himself of further glasses of champagne – the alcohol fuelling not only his greed but his confidence and bravado. After much contemplation, he honed in on one grotesque old crone, a woman with a shrill monotone of a voice and face the texture of a wrinkled sheet. She was also the possessor of a magnificent pearl necklace. This was an ideal piece to take for each of the pearls could be sold separately over a period, keeping him in comparative comfort for some time.
Grabbing a passing waiter, he asked him who the ‘stately lady in the blue and gold dress was.’
‘That’s Lady Whitestone, sir. A great friend of my mistress.’
Throate gave a curt nod and released the fellow.
Now he was ready to put his hazy plan into operation. Slipping back into the hallway, he checked that it was now empty.
Excellent.
All the guests had arrived and the flunkey who had met him at the door had disappeared. He also noticed a charming pewter ornament in the shape of a Grecian urn situated on a shelf nearby. Throate took it from its perch and ran his fingers over it. It was, he thought, quite beautiful, but for him its beauty resided in its weight and sturdiness rather that its shape.
Replacing the ornament back on the shelf, with a satisfied smirk he returned to the room where the guests were still mingling and chatting in a stultified fashion and headed straight for Lady Whitestone who was in conversation with a fat dumpy little woman in an orange gown that somehow matched her complexion. As he drew near to the two, he saw that in fact they were not actually in conversation. The dumpy woman was being talked at in a hectoring fashion by her companion.
Throate strode up to the pair and gave a delicate cough. ‘Lady Whitestone,’ he said in sonorous tones as though he was about to start delivering a eulogy.
The lady in question, froze mid-sentence and turned her gorgon gaze on this stranger who had had the temerity to interrupt her. Before she could respond, Throate continued. ‘I am so sorry to disturb you, your ladyship, but there is a gentleman in the hallway who is desirous to speak to you on a very urgent matter. Apparently some catastrophe has occurred at your house.’
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 16