Lady Whitestone’s skeletal hand flew up to her face. ‘Gracious,’ she said, the word escaping hoarsely like a jet of steam. ‘Is it Wren? A tall fellow with a preposterous moustache.’
Throate nodded. ‘Most likely. He didn’t give his name. He seemed greatly distressed and urged me to take you to him.’
‘Very well. Take me to him,’ snapped the dragon.
Without another word, Throate led Lady Whitestone through the throng and into the hallway – the empty hallway.
‘Well, where is the fellow?’ crowed her ladyship shifting her gaze rapidly up and down.
In a swift and nimble action, Throate picked up the Grecian urn and brought it down with some force on the back of Lady Whitestone’s head. He reckoned that he would need such power in order for the weapon to make sufficient impact hindered as it was by the strange, elaborate concoction the woman wore of her head. For such a voluble creature, Lady Whitestone’s reaction to the blow was brief and succinct. A mere soft ‘Oh’ and she collapsed to the floor.
Throate wasted no time in relieving the prone woman of his prize: the diamond necklace. Stuffing it in his coat pocket, he gave a satisfied chuckle and made for the door. Within minutes he was on the street heading as fast as his legs would carry him from the town house of Lady Twemlow. He was smiling. And why not? In the last few hours he had availed himself of a fine new set of clothes and a precious pearl necklace. There was every reason to smile, wasn’t there?
‘Here we are. Just the two of us. In the boudoir.’
Once upon a time Felicity Waring had thought that Arthur Wren was quite good looking. He was tall and slim and had a soldier’s bearing with neat features and large blue eyes and there was that rather impressive moustache; but looking at him now in the pale light of Lady Whitestone’s bedchamber, he resembled some kind of demon. His flesh was damp and sickly white, while those usually placid blue eyes now bulged in a ferocious mad fashion, as though they were in danger of leaving their sockets. The moustache was damp with sweat and the lips seemed stuck in a maniacal rictus smile. He was the living representation of a drawing from a Penny Dreadful. At first she didn’t know what to say, how to respond to this man of whom she had once thought fondly but was now a dark threatening stranger. She edged her way backwards and found herself bumping into the bed.
‘That’s right, my dear,’ Wren gurgled. ‘Time to get ready for bed.’ He took a step forward. ‘Take off your clothes my dear. It is time that we became better acquainted.’
Felicity let out a little scream as the implication of Wren’s words became clear to her. She made a desperate attempt to skirt round the bed, but he bounded forth, grabbed her arms and with a growl threw her down on to the mattress. Now the little scream grew into a full bloated bellow. In truth it was a mixture of fear and rage. Felicity realised that she was going to have to fight for her life and a flame of anger began to flicker and grow within her tiny frame. Pulling her arms free, she curved her fingers into a claw and struck out at her attacker’s face. Her nails made contact with his flesh and she dragged them down his face leaving bloody score lines on each cheek.
Wren gave a whelp of pain and staggered back, losing his footing. He dropped to the floor. This gave Felicity the opportunity to jump from the bed and make an attempt to head for the door, but Wren was on his feet again in an instance and grabbed her once more, thrusting her to him in a clumsy embrace. His face, now bloodied and scarred, appeared like some cruel demon from folk lore. He pushed this frightful visage forward in an attempt to kiss her. This time, she seemed to succumb to his advances, but when their lips were almost touching, she jerked her head upwards and bit Wren on the nose. She bit him with the force and tenacity of a terrier. She held on for some moments. So strong was her purchase on the nose that she thought she may well tear the end of it off.
Wren was now mewling with pain and he released his hold of Felicity, his hands flying up to his damaged bloody face. Felicity ran from the room, but she had only reached the landing when she felt a hand tugging at the back of her gown. It was her attacker again. With a roar of fury, he swung her round, but in doing so he loosened his grip and she managed to pull away once more. She reached the top of the stairs before he grabbed her again. He shook her hard, blood from his facial wounds flying wildly and spotting dress and face. Instinctively she relaxed her body, going almost limp in Wren’s arms and then as he also relaxed his grasp, with a burst of desperate energy she thrust him from her. Surprised by this ferocious action, Wren stumbled backwards and then as he realised he had reached the very edge of the top step, he gave a cry of alarm. Rather like a marionette whose puppeteer has lost control of the strings, his body jangled wildly, arms flailing, head twisting and feet dancing. It was to no avail. He had lost his balance and the inevitable happened. His mouth opened in horror, but no sound emerged and in a strange silent motion he fell backwards – into space. He did eventually cry out in pain when his body came into contact with the staircase. His legs flew high in the air causing his carcass to perform a complete somersault before continuing its tortuous journey down the stairs to the bottom. Here it landed in the hallway with a muffled thud and lay still.
For some moments Felicity remained rooted to the spot, shocked into inaction by the speed and terror of the events of the last few minutes. Her mind fought off the image of Arthur Wren’s damp blood-stained face pressing close to her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then moved to the bannister rail and gazed down at the body sprawled on the floor in the hallway. The sight made her shudder with emotion – a mixture of horror and relief. It looked like the man was dead.
Like a somnambulist, Felicity made her way down the stairs, treating every step with apprehension. Her eyes were trained on the unmoving body of Arthur Wren lying face down on the hall floor. On reaching him, she knelt down and felt for a pulse. There was none. She shook him gently but there was no response. Then she noticed the unnatural angle of his head in relation to his body. It was as though it had been twisted round by an invisible hand. Twisted until it had snapped.
Great heavens, she thought, standing up and stifling a cry of anguish with her hand, the poor devil has broken his neck. He really is dead. With the acceptance of this fact, she could contain her emotions no longer and burst into tears. What exactly was at the heart of her wretched misery at that moment, she would have been hard pressed to explain. Was she bereft at the death of a man who, until a short time ago, had treated kindly, with affection? Was she feeling sorry for herself after undergoing a terrible ordeal at the hands of the same man? Or was it the realisation that she was responsible for his ugly death? Whatever the cause and most likely it was a mixture of all three, she dropped to her knees and sobbed her heart out.
What was she to do now?
At Throate Manor, in the kitchen, Lizzie Barnes had extracted her secret jug of gin and poured herself a generous measure into a stone mug and then added a splash of water. She needed a drink. She needed a mental softener to take away the hard corners and realities of life. Yet again. It seemed that all her plans, all her efforts had come to nought. After all those barren years, she had thought that her dream was about to come true – but not now. She took a long drink of the gin. It burned her throat and made her gag, but she was glad it did. She deserved the discomfort. She deserved the pain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was one of Lady Twemlow’s flunkeys who discovered the body of Lady Whitestone in the hall and in a discrete fashion raised the alarm. Her body was carried into a private sitting room and medical help was summoned. Lady Twemlow was more upset by the disturbance to her party than the condition of her guest. As she gazed down at her unconscious friend and sneered. ‘Wilhomina was always wont to be the centre of attention,’ she observed coldly.
The Twemlow family physician by the name of Quelp attended to the patient and was most concerned to see the wound on Lady Whitestone’s head. ‘The lady had been brutally attacked from behind. There has been a viciou
s criminal assault. The police should be called.’
‘Great heavens, I cannot have great burly policemen tramping about my house during my party. What would the guests think? Please just attend to the lady’s hurts and we’ll deal with the matter later. The woman’s not dead is she? Or dying?’
Quelp was used to Lady Twemlow’s curt and imperious manner and was not at all surprised by her dismissive attitude. ‘I think she will recover,’ he said, cautiously. ‘Her breathing is fairly regular, but I have no notion of any damage that the concussion may have caused.’
‘Bring her round as swiftly as you can and then we will arrange a carriage to take her back to her home where she can be nursed by her own people. Now I must go. I have guests to attend to.’
Without another word she swept from the room on an artic breeze.
Quelp sighed. If it wasn’t for his fee, he would depart these premises immediately. But there was the fee.
He felt his patient’s pulse. It was regular and reasonably strong which was a good sign. He attended to the gash on her head, bathing it, applying an astringent antiseptic which caused Lady Whitestone’s features to twitch with discomfort, which was another good sign. Quelp then bandaged the head, satisfied that he had done all he could to the surface wound but realising that only time would reveal any affect the blow had on the brain of the lady.
Extracting a small phial of smelling salts, he held it under the nose of his patient. After a few moments, it wrinkled briskly, and she gave a dry guttural cough while the eyelids flickered gently but as yet showed no signs of opening completely.
‘Can you hear me, your ladyship?’ Quelp said softly close to her ear, while he still continued waving the phial under her nose. A moment later, she coughed a little and then spluttered and then gasped for air. It was an action which finally propelled her eyes open.
‘Welcome back,’ grinned Quelp, still holding the restorative phial under her nose.
Lady Whitestone heard the voice as thought it was a whisper on a summer breeze and at the moment all she could see was a kaleidoscopic array of soft shapes and colours.
‘Don’t try to move just yet,’ came the voice again, ‘but do try to stay awake.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said a faint voice.
Quelp felt a sense of relief. No matter what unfortunate incident had brought this lady to her current situation, at least she was alive and would recover in time. His work was almost done.
‘A restorative nip of brandy will help to clear the cobwebs,’ said Quelp, moving to the door. ‘I will arrange it.’
‘Thank you so much,’ came the gentle reply.
Before obtaining the brandy, Quelp sought out Lady Twemlow who was still touring the room, interfering with her guests and taking control of their conversation and informed her that Lady W had regained consciousness and that it seemed most likely she would make a full recovery.
Lady Twemlow beamed at this news. ‘Excellent. I will pass a message on to her coachman who is in the kitchen with the others. Do you think she will be fit enough to drive home in half an hour?’
Before Quelp could reply – a reply that would have been in the negative – Lady Twemlow continued. ‘The sooner she is out of my house and away, she is no longer my responsibility. She must be invalided at home – not here. Make sure she is ready to travel in half an hour.’ Without another word she turned and honed in on another group of guests, interrupting their chatter.
And so, it was that some thirty minutes later, a frail and somewhat befuddled Lady Wilhelmina Whitestone was seen off the premises by Dr Quelp and bundled into her carriage. The coachman had been told a vague story about his mistress having a fall and banging her head. ‘Her own physician should be informed as soon as possible.’
The coachman nodded. ‘I’ll inform her ladyship’s companion, Miss Waring. She will arrange matters,’ he said before gently urging the horse to set forth at a gentle trot.
On arriving back at her ladyship’s town house, the coachman ran into the house for assistance to help Lady Whitestone inside. To his surprise he encountered her ladyship’s physician Dr Sloper in the hallway along with Miss Felicity Waring. His surprise transcended into shock when he observed the body of Arthur Wren lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs.
‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ said Felicity in a strained voice that was not quite hers.
‘A fatal one, I’m afraid,’ added Sloper in funeral tones. ‘The poor fellow’s taken a fatal tumble down the stairs. Broken his neck.’
‘Gracious me.’ The coachman removed his hat in respect of the corpse. ‘That makes two terrible accidents in one day. Her ladyship has hurt her head at the party. She needs medical attention I’m afraid. She’s very weak.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Felicity.
Outside in the carriage. I can’t manage to bring her in on me own. She’s all of a doodah.’
‘I’d better go and take a look at her,’ said Sloper. ‘In the meantime, it would be best to cover up Mr Wren’s body with a blanket.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Felicity, relieved at the prospect of hiding the evidence of her deed from view. The sooner the body was out of the house, the better.
Oliver Twist sat back in his armchair by his own fireside and slowly munched an apple, savouring its juice and texture while he allowed his mind to roam freely over the events of the last few days, conjuring up images and recalling conversations. He was desperately trying to make some sense of the strange puzzle that had been dropped in his lap. Rather than answers and solutions, his cogitations just threw up more questions, which now rattled around his brain. Did Sir Ebenezer know more about the identity and whereabouts of his illegitimate son than he had confided to them and, if so, why was he keeping anything back if he wanted the boy to be found? Who had tried to kill Sir Ebenezer and why? Where was Thomas Braggle now and where had he travelled to in the Throate coach? This last conundrum threw up a remarkable theory that was both fantastic and reasonable in its concept. It was highly improbable, but nevertheless… The more Oliver pondered on it, the more excited he became. Was it really as simple and as farcical as all that?
Oliver’s brain began to hurt as these questions and others crowded his brain. He hoped that his visit to the ancestral seat of the Throat family and an audience with Sir Ebenezer the following day would help to clear the mud from these dark waters. With a sigh, he threw the apple core into the grate and watched it sizzle and burn.
In another location in London, in less salubrious surroundings, Eugene Trench was also musing. His cogitations were aided by a large glass of brandy. He swilled it around the balloon glass until is spun like a small whirlpool and he stared at it closely, drawing inspiration from the sight and the fumes of it. At the centre of his thoughts was Jeremiah Throate. It wasn’t just the large sum of money that this oily rascal owed him, that caused Trench to be annoyed, it was the fact that he had managed to slip though his clutches on several occasions. It hurt his overweening pride This was not a scenario that ever occurred or had never occurred until now. When Eugene Trench wanted to nail a man, he nailed him with ease.
He found his grasp of the brandy glass tightening with frustration. Throate was still a free man, hiding somewhere in London. A needle in a bloody haystack. Although Kepple and Joint were out there searching, Trench had little faith in their prowess in this particular mission. There were effective and fairly efficient where thuggery was concerned but sophisticated thinking, or indeed thinking of any kind, was not their forte. Trench took a sip of brandy and accepted the fact that he would have to do the job himself. But how? He needed some means of luring Jeremiah Throate out into the open, into his clutches. He closed his eyes and thought and thought. Then it came to him. Out of nowhere, it seemed, he conceived of a fully-fledged notion. His eyes flashed open and he took a gulp of the heart-warming liquor. The idea was good, and he smiled his vulpine smile. With the death of his father, Sir Ebenezer, Jeremiah would return to Throate Ma
nor to claim his inheritance which would, of course, provide him with the funds to pay for the debt he owed Trench. However, this simple transaction would not satisfy Trench now. The young Throate needed to be punished for the inconvenience he had caused and punished severely. The lesson would be harsh one, a warning to others who thought they could get the better of Eugene Trench. There was no doubt about it, the bastard Throate would not live long enough to enjoy his newfound wealth.
The vulpine smile broadened, the thin lips parting to allow a glimpse of a row of thin brown teeth. He was pleased with his cogitations. So, it was settled in his mind: he would travel to Throate Manor on the morrow and by some means bring about the death of Sir Ebenezer Throate.
When Lady Whitestone regained consciousness, she found she was in bed. She did not recognise it as her own bed and indeed she did not recognise her own bedroom as, with a great effort, she pulled herself up into a sitting position. She was able to discern that it was nighttime for although the shades were drawn she could see a thin strip of dark sky down one side. The room was illuminated by two candles which bathed the room in a faint amber glow. She sighed heavily, hoping vague that this action might clear her mind and help her to understand where she was and why she was here.
As she studied her surroundings, she noticed a little bell on the bedside table. That no doubt had been placed there in order for me to summon assistance, her foggy brain told her. She reached out for the bell, but it was some moments before she was able to grasp it firmly, her outstretched fingers at first being wide of the mark.
She rang the bell. And kept on ringing it as though she was caught in a spasm and could not stop. There was pleasure in the action. The tinkling filled the air with a kind of manic ferocity for which the bell had not been designed.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 17