‘Not another sound, lady, or it will be your last,’ the strange man sneered.
Lizzie Barnes’ stomach did a somersault and for a few moments she thought she was going to be sick.
‘If you do as you’re told, I won’t harm you,’ said the man, waving the pistol at her.
She nodded vigorously, incapable of speech.
‘Good girl. Now then I need you to provide me with some information. I want to know something of the layout of this house and in particular where I will find Sir Ebenezer Throate this fine day.’
Lady Whitestone lay back against the pillow and sighed. ‘I cannot eat any more, my dear. I have had sufficient. Felicity gazed down at the plate that lay on her ladyship’s lap. The food - a simple concoction of mashed potatoes and thinly sliced chicken – had hardly been touched.
‘Are you sure you cannot manage a few more mouthfuls?’
Lady Whitestone shook her head. ‘Sufficient unto the day. I am quite satisfied. Don’t fret my dear, I do so hate to see that lovely brow of yours furrowed with concern.’
‘Well, we must build up your strength,’ Felicity replied.
‘It will be restored in due course, I am sure.’ Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed Felicity’s hand. ‘Don’t you worry about me, you little darling. Whatever happens to me, I know I’ve reached the peak of my happiness having you by my side. I am so fond of you.’
A lump lodged itself inside Felicity’s throat and she began to weep. In her heart she knew that these sentiments and indeed the whole of Lady Whitestone’s recent behaviour was the result of her accident and not the emotions and sentiments of the real person that she had served for over two years, but it touched her to see the woman whom she had hated and reviled behave in such a kind and loving fashion towards her. She wondered how long this beatific transformation would last. Would her mistress fall asleep one evening and wake up the next day as her old self? The thought horrified her, but she realised that it was one she would have to live with.
‘Leave me now, my dear,’ Lady Whitestone was saying. ‘I am still very tired, and I would like to sleep.’
‘Of course,’ said Felicity, taking up the tray from the bed and then on impulse leaning over the old woman, she kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good night.’
Lady Whitestone smiled and her eyes shone brightly with pleasure. ‘Thank you, my dear. God bless.’ And then she slipped very quickly into deep slumber.
‘My commission from Sir Ebenezer was to try and track down a certain individual,’ began Oliver in a faltering manner. He had not quite thought out how he would explain matters – very delicate matters – to Roger Lightwood/Thomas Braggle/Bastard Throate.
Lightwood, now his recital was over, had taken a seat opposite, his features indicating that he was all attention which added to Oliver’s awkwardness. With a gruff embarrassed cough, Oliver resumed his narrative. ‘Sir Ebenezer confided in me – along with my associate Mr Dawkins – that some twenty-seven years ago he formed a liaison with a young lady servant here in Throate Manor. The result of this amorous relationship was that the young woman fell pregnant – was with child. Much to his shame, to avoid a scandal, he sent the girl away with some money and never saw her again. She gave birth in a London poor house and then gave her infant over to a baby farm, where…’
Oliver paused at this juncture for Roger Lightwood emitted a strange gargling sound, halfway between a moan and a roar of indignation, and his whole body shook as though suddenly taken by the palsy. ‘You’re not saying…’ he managed to gasp a few moments later, ‘you’re not. My God, this can’t be real.’ With another strange cry, he slumped back in his chair, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.
‘I am sorry to break it to you like this but, it would appear that in fact you are that child. You are Sir Ebenezer’s illegitimate son. He set me upon the task of finding you because he wanted to enfold you in his bosom and make reparations for the injustice he wrought upon you.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ said Lightwood, after a long pause, the words floating out from his mouth as the merest whisper.
‘There a dark irony in this affair, I grant you. It seems that Fate anticipated your father’s desires and brought you two together in the strangest of ways.’
‘Sir Ebenezer… my father.’
Oliver nodded. ‘The trail I have followed from Madame Camila Sponge’s establishment to Amos Braggle’s old shop where you served your apprenticeship and was brought up by Amos Braggle who gave you his name.’
‘A name I disgraced by my profligate ways. That’s why I changed it. But is it true? Is Sir Ebenezer really my father…?’
‘Yes, sir. The facts speak for themselves.’
‘This is… amazing,’ Littlewood croaked, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I am bewildered and astounded…’ Suddenly he paused, his body stiffening. ‘But who, then, is my mother?’
‘She was a maid servant here at Throat Manor. Her name was Louise Clerihew, but I am afraid I have no notion where she is now or even if she is alive.
Littlewood began to weep. The dramatic revelations of the last few minutes had hit him hard and his emotions were like a small vessel tossed on a turbulent sea. ‘And Sir Ebenezer has no knowledge of her whereabouts?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. He lost touch with her within weeks of her confessing to him that she was with child. He sent her out into the world with a small amount of money… an act he now feels great guilt about’.
‘And so he should – the devil,’ snarled Lightwood, wiping the tears away.
‘This guilt has eaten away at him over the years and it is only recently with intimations of his own mortality that he wanted to try and right part of his wrong by bringing you into the family household.’
‘Part of his wrong! I was left an orphan and my mother… abandoned. How can he right those wrongs?’
‘We all make mistakes. You must learn to forgive him.’
Lightwood shook his heads. ‘I’m …I’m not sure I can…’
Oliver had no response to this. Instead he placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. The two men, drained of conversation formed a dark silent tableau in the gloomy chamber.
Jack Dawkins had reached the perimeter of Throate Manor and searched the area but there was no sign of Eugene Trench. Jack had been wracking his brains to determine exactly what kind of mischief Trench was up to. Was he planning a robbery, taking some valuable item from the house, or was his mission darker? Was he intending to hurt someone? To kill someone? What he knew of the fellow, Jack was aware that he was quite capable of such a terrible act. But in truth, after much contemplation pondering the matter, he was really no wiser. All he knew was that unless Trench had magical powers to make himself invisible, he must have entered the Manor in some way. If that was really the case, he had little time in which to act. A feeling of panic began to invade Jack’s mind and he realised there was only one sensible course of action. He sprinted around the building towards the front and approached the large oaken front door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked hard against the wood and tugged vigorously on the bell pull. And continued to ring it until it swung open and to his surprise he found himself face to face with Oliver Twist.
Each man stared at the other for some moments temporarily struck dumb by the vision before him. It was Jack who broke the silence. ‘He’s in the house. I think he’s in the house. Trench!’
As he garbled these words, another figure appeared in the shadows behind Oliver. ‘Who is this?’ the man enquired in a tired, bewildered voice.
Oliver turned to Roger Lightwood. ‘It is my assistant. He has information that an enemy of the Throate family may well be on the premises. A dangerous fellow called Trench. No doubt his intentions are nefarious.’
‘Sir Ebenezer,’ cried Lightwood.
No further words were necessary. Lightwood turned and headed for the staircase. Oliver followed, along with Jack.
‘He’s resting in
his bedroom,’ cried Lightwood as they reached the landing. ‘Pray God, he is safe.’
Moments later the three men burst into Sir Ebenezer’s bedroom and froze at the sight that met their gaze. Sir Ebenezer was sitting on the bottom of the bed, his eyes wide with bewilderment and fear. Standing by his side with a knife at his neck was a grotesque figure who wore a tight-fitting leather mask over his head which concealed all his features.
Both Oliver and Jack knew it was Trench but it would have been difficult to prove it in a court of law.
‘Stay put,’ the figure growled. ‘One move and the execution will take place earlier than planned.’
‘Let Sir Ebenezer go,’ said Oliver, his voice, much to his surprise, steady and commanding. ‘There is nothing to be gained by hurting the gentleman.’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘No there isn’t,’ cried Jack, aching to move but have the sense to stay still. ‘You can’t hope to escape from this room. There’s three of us here ready to stop you.’
The figure laughed. ‘You ain’t going to stop me. I come prepared.’ While keeping the knife just breaking the skin of the baronet’s neck, Trench leaned forward towards a canvas bag on the bed and extracted a pistol. ‘This has six chambers. Two bullets apiece, if you don’t behave yourselves.’ He gurgled with dark merriment before laying the pistol down on the bed within easy grasp.
‘Now’, he announced grandly, ‘I am going to deal with this old goat and then you are going to step aside and allow me to make my grand exit. Don’t think you can follow me because I have the key to the room, and I’ll be locking you in. If you decide to play hero, by damn, I’ll shoot you. And I can tell you, gentlemen, that would be give me great pleasure.’
‘You villain,’ cried Roger Littlewood, his features pale and drawn. He had suddenly been dragged into a nightmare in which a man he had recently been told was his father was going to have his throat cut before his eyes and yet he knew he couldn’t do anything about it.
Behind his mask, Trench smiled. ‘A villain who has the upper hand. A villain who has been far too clever for the lot of you.’
As he was addressing Lightwood with relish, Oliver tapped Jack’s sleeve to gain his attention. ‘FD,’ he said.
Jacks eyes flashed with excitement and he nodded vigorously. ‘FD… now!’
At this signal, both men man a loud weird howling sound, with Oliver feinting to the right and Jack to the left in a pincer movement towards Trench. So sudden and shocking was this dramatic movement that momentarily Trench was paralysed with surprise and before he could regain his composure the two friends were on him. Oliver punched him hard in his masked face while Jack, dragged his arm from Sir Ebenezer’s neck and twisting his wrist sharply made him drop the knife.
Sir Ebenezer staggered forward away from harm’s way and fell into Lightwood’s arms. Oliver hit Trench again, knocking him unconscious. He slumped to the floor like a rag doll. Jack snatched two of the curtain cords and bound the villain tightly, before Oliver dragged the leather mask from his head.
‘Trench,’ cried Roger, staring down at the sweaty twisted face. ‘Eugene Trench.’
‘The same,’ grinned Jack, grabbing hold of Oliver’s hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘What a team, eh, Oliver. Just like the old days. The FD, eh? Fagin’s diversion. Worked a treat. We learned something useful from the old rascal after all’.
Oliver smiled wryly.
Dusk was falling as Dr Sloper closed the door of Lady Whitestone’s room and made his way like an elusive shadow down the staircase to the sitting room where Felicity was sitting in the growing gloom with only one lamp to illuminate the chamber. She sat forward in her chair in a posture that suggested that she was about to leave it. Leave it with some urgency. She had not been able to relax, eat or function in any practical sense all day. The remarkable change of circumstances in the last twenty fours had completely baffled her mind. It was, she thought, as though she had entered some strange dreamlike state where nothing was real or sensible.
Sloper gave a brief cough to announce his appearance in the room. Felicity stiffened even more and turned her head in a jerky fashion in his direction.
‘Oh, Dr Sloper,’ she said. And then after a pause, when she had collected her thoughts which were strewn hither and thither about her brain, added, ‘And how is the patient this evening.’
Sloper shook his head sadly in a practised manner. It was the shake he always used when he had to pass on grim tidings to family members. ‘She is serene and resigned. She knows the end is near and is ready for the journey.’
‘The journey… You mean…?’
‘I am afraid so, my dear. It is a just a matter of hours now. She is not fighting the inevitable. It is as though she is welcoming it with open arms. You ought to go up to her and say your last find farewell before she crosses the Rubicon.’
Felicity sudden found she was sobbing, her body wracked with heaving sighs and the tears gushing down her face. This, for a woman who had been nothing but a torment and a tyrant to her for two years and then in the last few days had treated with kindness, love and generosity as though she was her daughter.
She found her mistress asleep, breathing lightly, the face, sans powder and paint, aged and wrinkled and yet exuding an aura of tranquillity and contentment. Felicity sat beside the bed and took Lady Whitestone’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently. The old lady feeling the warmth and the pressure of the hold, smiled and opened her eyes briefly.
‘Good night, my dear,’ she said, her voice a merest whisper. ‘Sweet dreams.’ The eyes closed again, and she drifted off into that permanent long sleep that awaits us all.
It was Bulstode, returned to his normal stoical self, who discovered Lizzie Barnes in the kitchen trussed up like a Christmas turkey. As he untied her bonds, he informed her of the dramatic incidents that had occurred at Throate Manor in the last few hours.
‘And would you believe it,’ he said with excitement as he helped Lizzie to her feet, ‘it turns out that Mr Lightwood is really Sir Ebenezer’s son.’
Lizzie Barnes gave a shriek, her legs giving way and she collapsed to the ground again.
‘My Lord,’ cried Bulstrode, ‘I had no idea that piece of news would affect you so.’
‘Is it true? Is it really true? Roger is…’ muttered Lizzie, her mind awhirl as she desperately attempted to come to terms with the news.
‘Yes, yes. Sir Ebenezer has said so. That young lawyer from London sorted it all out.’
‘The Lord be praised,’ grinned Lizzie, as the tears began to fall.
Sir Ebenezer Throate was seated in his favourite chair in the orangery, clasping a glass of brandy as the evening shadows began to fall. Gathered around him were Oliver Twist, Roger Lightwood and Jack Dawkins. The police had just departed the building with the body of Eugene Trench and a written statement of the incident penned by Oliver and signed by the others.
‘I seemed to have lived through a lifetime of events in one day,’ Sir Ebenezer observed wryly, before taking a large gulp of the warming liquor. ‘I have lost and gained in a most dramatic fashion. Poor Amelia has gone to her maker and I have regained a son. My emotions are all at sea.’ Then he turned his tired features towards Lightwood and smiled, ‘But Mr Twist you have brought me the greatest gift any man could wish for, his son. His fine, upstanding son.’ He reached forward and clasped Lightwood’s arm, his eyes moistening. ‘Welcome home, my boy. I hope you can forgive me.’
Lightwood knelt down by his father and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. ‘It would be so very wrong of me not to. God bless you, sir,’ he said.
Jack gave a nervous cough, thoroughly embarrassed by this sentimental exchange.
‘But tell me, Mr Twist,’ said Sir Ebenezer in a more business-like tone, wiping his tears away, ‘why on earth was this scoundrel Trench so intent on killing me. I didn’t know the fellow.’
‘He is associated with your other son, Jeremiah whom I gather owed Trench a considerable su
m of money…’
‘Bah! That boy is always in debt. He’s a wastrel. If ever there was a cuckoo in the nest it was he.’
‘Well, he has gone to ground, out of Trench’s grasp and so it would seem he had a crazy scheme to murder you in order that Jeremiah would inherit your fortune, thus bringing him out in the open again. With Jeremiah becoming a rich man that would allow Trench to leech off him for many years to come.’
‘The devil. Where is Jeremiah now?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.’
‘Well, if he does appear, he can be assured that I will disown the bounder. I have my good son now who will carry on the Throate dynasty with dignity and grace.’
‘You must not be too harsh on Jeremiah, father,’ said Lightwood.
‘Oh, yes, I must. That boy has been no son to me, and I will not weep if I never see him again.’
Sir Ebenezer Throate did not know that when he did he his son Jeremiah once more, it would be on a slab in a dark and gloomy mortuary and that he would shed some tears for his wretched and dissolute son.
Later that evening, Roger Lightwood sat in his room at his little desk penning a letter with great fervour and excitement.
My Darling Felicity,
I have the most remarkable news. My whole world has been turned around in a miraculous fashion for the better. It is absolutely incredible. I feel as though I am living a dream and yet it is reality. The changes in my fortune have removed all barriers to our happiness together…
About the same time as Roger Lightwood was penning his missive, Felicity Waring was about a similar task in her own little room in London.
Dearest Roger
You will not believe what happened to me today. Indeed, I find it hard to believe it myself. Only a few days ago I was a penurious companion and tonight I am the heir to a considerable fortune. I am living a fantasy. Wealth means little to me, but the changes in my fortune have removed all barriers to our happiness together…
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 22