Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 2

  ‘Excellent fellow,’ cried a saturnine young man as he spied the brandy. It was he who had ordered the drink for his fellow gamblers. It hadn’t been an entirely altruistic gesture. He knew that a tipsy gambler is a careless gambler. It had been a ploy of his to encourage his comrades to imbibe liberally, while he sipped slowly and kept a cool head. It was a procedure that he had used on many previous occasions to his advantage.

  He swept the brandy bottle from the tray and relieved it of its cork. ‘Glasses, gentlemen,’ said the saturnine young man. The glasses filled to the brim, their benefactor proposed a toast. ‘To Lady Luck,’ he cried with a bold gesture, which allowed him to spill a liberal amount of alcohol from his own glass, it ran along his arm and dampened his shirt sleeve. The men drank and emptied their glasses as it seemed so did the saturnine young man but then his had been less than half full. They all drank, that is, all but one. A tall thin fellow whose face resided in deep shadow left his drink untouched. His skeletal fingers played idly around the stem of the glass as he stared stoically at the pack of cards in the middle of the table as though mesmerised by them.

  With a grin Mr Faddle replenished the glasses. At this rate he may well sell another bottle.

  In the flickering, amber gloom, the game commenced. The stakes were high, as the saturnine young man liked. These were all serious gamblers to whom coppers and shillings were of no consequence. The guinea was their currency and plenty of them. The room was stuffy and sepulchral and the men were studied and sweaty. Thin sheens of perspiration glimmered in the candlelight on their collective foreheads. The shadows played idly on the walls, stretching towards the ceiling and then dashing away again on a flickering whim.

  One man, an importer of items from the Far East, clad in a thick tweed suit more suited to grouse hunting on the Yorkshire moors than a steamy gambling den, allowed himself a brief sweaty smile as he studied his hand; the rest wore emotionless masks, tired eyes peering forth from damp faces. The game proceeded in comparative silence broken only by grunted demands to the dealer and the chink of coins. Stakes were raised. Players fell by the wayside, much lighter of pocket than when they had started. Eventually, there were just two gladiators facing each other across the table, across the great pile of cash accumulated out of men’s hope and greed. One was the saturnine young man who had ordered the brandy and the other was the tall thin fellow whose face still remained partially in shadow. An automaton of a man with faint rasping voice as though his vocal cords had been corrupted through lack of use. He shifted easily in his chair with the lithe sinewy movements of a practised gambler. For a brief moment he allowed himself a rare smile. It was lupine and predatory. The saturnine young man failed to notice it.

  All eyes in the room were now on these two and the considerable fortune that lay between them. The temperature seemed to soar in that stuffy chamber and the saturnine young man loosened his necktie as the sweat began to trickle down the side of his face in rivulets. The face of his opponent, however, was dry, the features relaxed while the eyes hinted at amusement.

  ‘Now sir,’ he said in that curious rasping tone of his. ‘Why do we not make this wager a little more interesting?’ The words were easy and simple, but the implications were great.

  The saturnine young man twitched with apprehension. He leaned forward and with some difficulty he managed to raise an eyebrow of enquiry.

  ‘Let us double the stakes on this last hand,’ his opponent explained. ‘One hundred guineas.’ There was a united murmur of surprise around the table. All eyes swivelled towards the young man whose lips quivered with some undecipherable emotions. Was it fear? Was it pleasure? Was it shock?

  It was fear.

  With a great effort of determination, the young man forced his recalcitrant lips into a smile. ‘A fine wager,’ he said, the words not quite matching the tone of his querulous voice. ‘But,’ he added swiftly, ‘I am afraid I do not have sufficient funds about my person.’

  His opponent smiled easily. ‘I am prepared to take a note of credit. We are all gentlemen here. Our word is as good as our bond, surely.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young man readily, stepping further onto the web. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you accept the wager? Double the stake. One hundred guineas?’

  ‘Of course.’

  A steely silence settled on the room as the cards were dealt. Even the wayward shadows settled down to a gentle meandering around the walls.

  The saturnine young man’s hands shook as he took his hand and scrutinised the cards.

  ‘Earlier this evening, my dear sir,’ said his opponent, ‘you toasted Lady Luck. I thank you for such a gesture for it would seem that she has landed on my shoulders.’ With a smooth eloquent gesture, he placed his cards down on the table.

  It was a royal flush.

  ‘And your cards, sir?’

  The young man’s cards spluttered from his fingers onto the rough-grained wood of the table. They were pathetic impostors to the crown. He sat frozen to the spot, the model for a horrified statue.

  ‘The game is mine,’ said his opponent casually, racking over the coins and notes to his side of the table. ‘And now if I can trouble you for that credit note which I trust you will honour within seven days.’

  ‘Seven days,’ the young man gasped, the voice just managing to scrabble its way out from a constricted larynx.

  ‘As in the usual terms,’ came the smooth reply. He passed over his card. The despondent loser cast an eye over it. It belonged to a Mr Eugene Trench who resided at an address in Islington.

  A sheet of paper with pen and ink miraculously appeared on the table in front of the young man who was unusually less saturnine at this moment. The supplier of these items was the beaming landlord who was used to such occasions and prided himself on being prepared.

  With quivering hand, the young man scribbled out the credit note to Mr Eugene Trench for one hundred… the hand faltered seriously here and several of the observers took an intake of breath.

  ‘G-U-I-N-E-A-S’ prompted Mr Trench.

  A spark, a demon spark of anger glowed momentarily in the young man’s eyes and his free hand curved itself into a claw. But common sense and a kind of innate decorum won the day and the spark faded and the fingers relaxed. With a flourish, the young man signed his name: Jeremiah Throate Esq.

  ‘And where do you reside, young sir?’ enquired Mr Trench after retrieving the note and blowing on the paper to dry the ink.

  ‘I have rooms at the Albany, but my country seat is Throate Manor,’ said the young man, pushing back his chair. ‘And now gentlemen, I bid you good night.’

  By the time he had reached the street, Jeremiah Throate had lost all his swagger and bravado and the saturnine qualities that he had exuded earlier in the evening had been overtaken by those of despair and anguish. ‘What am I to do?’ he wailed as he staggered forth in the dark midnight streets. His predicament was simple. He had lost all his money in that game, money that had accrued from his meagre allowance and from a successful series of card games – success that had given him the sense of invincibility that had proved false. Now, like an overeager railway engine, he had hit the buffers. The loss of all his money was bad enough, but now he owed a further hundred guineas to a practised card sharp. A hundred guineas which he did not possess.

  His fingers scrabbled for his hip flask and leaning against the railings, he poured a liberal quantity of brandy down his throat. It made him choke for a moment but then strangely, as the alcohol seeped into his system, it helped to clear his head and steady his nerves. No problem is insurmountable if one was clever, he told himself. He had the brains, the courage, the cunning and the immorality to ensure that the problem could be eradicated. Indeed, something must be done, and something would be done; the only question was the nature of this something.

  Approximately, at the same time as Jeremiah Throate was contemplating his future actions, his benighted father, having regained consciousness from his brief f
ainting fit was quivering beneath his bedsheets, too fearful to peep out to see whether the dreaded apparition had actually departed and faded into the moonlight. The words of the sprit echoed within his brain: ‘Remember your special son in your will.’ Of course, he knew of the true import of this command and he would be more than happy to obey it. But he could not for the simple reason that he did not know where his special child was or if, indeed, it was still alive.

  Back at The Saracen’s Head, the gamblers had all departed homeward, lighter of pocket and weary of heart. All that is apart from Mr Eugene Trench who was savouring a final nightcap at a table close by the dying embers of the fire in the bar parlour. His companion was the well-upholstered landlord, Hubert Faddle, who rested a generous mug of porter on his equally generous stomach while his mouth formed itself into a crescent mooned grin.

  ‘A very successful evening for you, my dear sir. A very successful and profitable evening,’ he said raising his mug in a spirited toast.

  Mr Trench, who was not given to displaying any kinds of emotion, merely nodded, but cast over a quantity of sovereigns to his host. ‘For your pains.’

  ‘Oh, I assure you there was no pain involved.’ Faddle laughed at his own observation. ‘Pleasure, more like.’ It is always a treat to watch you at work, my dear Mr Trench. The way you palm the cards is sheer poetry, a work of art.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘You weave magic. That’s what it is. Indeed, you are a magician, a sorcerer with those pieces of pasteboard… and I am merely the sorcerer’s apprentice.’ Delighted with this allusion, he took a large gulp of porter.

  ‘Your assistance is always most welcome,’ said Trench. ‘More so than usual tonight. It was pleasing to me to bring that arrogant puppy down a peg or two.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll get the rest of the money? The fellow looked somewhat distraught as he departed.’

  ‘I suspect he’ll go home to the family seat and beg for the cash from his rich papa. I am sure he has done it before. They all do. Dogs of that breed. If not, it will give me equal pleasure to set my men upon him. Rest assured, Mr Faddle, either way, Jeremiah Throate will pay.’ He gazed into the fading coals and allowed himself a rare smile. The lips parted slightly, and the eyes glittered more intently, but it was a cold thing, a bitter thing, a thing lacking in human kindness was Eugene Trench’s smile.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It is one of the great failings of human nature that we cannot escape from our Unpleasant Past. It lies festering like some graveyard ghoul in those dark regions of the brain where our cheerful thoughts never care to wander for they have brisk, cheerful and uplifting business to be concerned about elsewhere. But our Unpleasant Past waits in the gloomy, craggy corners, in the slimy recesses, patiently humming some little discordant, self-satisfied tune while it bides its time until it is the moment to strike; the moment to remind us of how it was, how unpleasant, painful and demoralising it was. It only needs an image, a place, a word, a taste, a smell, a touch, a smile, a laugh, a blow or any of a thousand other trifles to prompt it into action. It only needs a very little thing.

  Or, indeed, a dream.

  For it is in dreams that the dark unconscious has full reign. In that sleeping time of night, our moral protectors are dormant, wrapped in their own comforting nightgowns and are at rest. At this time, past midnight, when the stars are at their fiercest in the heavens, our Unpleasant Past leaves its secret place and rides forth, unhindered by any restraint, to feed our minds with those bad memories.

  Thus it was with Oliver Twist whose brain, during the daylight hours, is so full of business and love, optimism and anticipation, care and consideration, jollity and extravagance, enthusiasm and patience that the past, unpleasant though it was, and it was very unpleasant indeed, does not come to bother him. The shield of goodness which surrounds him is too strong for the darts of his Unpleasant Past. In the daytime, that is.

  But at night, there is a different story to tell. The good Mr Twist, a young fellow of twenty-eight years old, is placed on the rack of bad dreams and experiences again in the perspiring dark of his feverish bed the torments of his childhood. Out of the bedroom shadows come figures from his past, animated by imagination and fear, to taunt him. Here the fearful Bill Sikes is conjured up, apparently alive and just as vicious, his hand grasping for Oliver’s neck. Oliver can see him, hear him, can smell and almost touch him. And then comes the dangling form of the hanged Fagin, dancing in sprightly fashion on the gallows as though he were part of a music hall troupe, his bright avaricious eyes, wide open and shining like two puddles caught in the moonlight.

  On the occasions of these nocturnal visions, Oliver Twist would rise from his bed, drenched in perspiration, weak with fatigue and fearful to return to the uncharted regions of sleep in case the nightmare demons finally had their way with him. Thankfully such occasions are not frequent, but when they come, they have a dual effect. They make him gloriously thankful to the Lord for the influence, beneficence and love of the recently deceased Mr Brownlow who rescued him from the dark world of Fagin and Bill Sikes; but they also rob him of energy and brightness of mind for a day or two, after which the memory of the night fears fades… until the next time

  Oliver woke one morning bright and early, and despite emerging from a peaceful and dreamless slumber into that strange limbo state where sleep is retreating over one border while consciousness is forging ahead over the other, old apprehensions still disturbed the young fellow. As his eyes attempted to focus on the dark dressing gown hanging behind the door, in the half-light of the bedroom it seemed to manifest itself into the old sinner himself. The garment appeared to shimmer with movement and Oliver expected Fagin’s gaunt, greedy face to loom out from the folds of the dressing gown collar, grinning maliciously. He blinked hard and the illusion disappeared as illusions do. And in its place was a mundane dressing gown.

  Oliver’s own innate mental strength allowed him, rather like the proverbial duck and water, to shake off these moments quickly without any ill effect. To dwell on them, he knew, would lead him down dark and dangerous pathways.

  As his sharp razor smoothed his chin some five minutes later, Oliver had forgotten the sinister image of the dressing gown and was considering the prospect of breakfast, which he knew would be waiting for him when he made his way downstairs. The face that stared back at him in the shaving mirror was an attractive one with its firm set jaw, pale blue eyes and feathery blond hair. It was only his slightly crooked nose, a trifle too large for his slim features that robbed him of the appellation of ‘handsome’. Although it has to be said that certain ladies considered this prominent feature the most pleasing aspect of his appearance.

  His ablutions completed and dressed for the day, he descended to the dining room. Despite being a rising young lawyer in the firm of Gripwind and Biddle and secure in the comfortable inheritance left to him by his beloved benefactor, Mr Brownlow, Oliver did not engage an army of servants to rally to his beck and call. He was not only conscious of his penurious past, but his natural modesty forbade such pampering notions. However, he did employ the services of a housekeeper, Mrs Ada Clout. She was a demure twinkling angel of a woman in prospect but as sharp as a tack and ruthless as a lion when dealing with tradesmen. She cared for Oliver as if he had been her own son – the son she lost to diphtheria some thirty years before. Whatever time Oliver Twist entered the dining room in the morning, Mrs Clout, by some strange telepathic process, would be bringing in the coffee pot to be placed on the table as Oliver took his seat. She would then disappear and return in a trice with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon just as her master was taking his first sip of coffee. And such was the case today.

  ‘Lovely morning, sir,’ she observed.

  ‘It is,’ said Oliver, a man of few words at this time of day.

  Mrs Clout left her master to his vitals.

  As Oliver devoured his breakfast, he took time to count his blessings. He knew he was a lucky man in so many ways. He had his health
, his comfort, and his career was flourishing. They were very pleased with him at Gripwind and Biddle where he was a junior partner. And indeed, as the fulsome and barrel-shaped senior partner Horatio Gripwind was accustomed to observing – ‘but not junior, for much longer, Master Twist, if I get my little way. A full-blown partner is what you’ll be, if I get my way, Master Twist’.

  But Oliver had to admit, as he laid his cutlery down on an empty plate, there was something missing in his life. He wasn’t quite sure what, but there was a little gap. The nearest definition he could supply for this missing segment was in the words ‘excitement’ and ‘romance’. Things were too placid for him. After the turbulent seas of his Fagin days, his ship of life had become becalmed rather like the ancient mariner in Mr Coleridge’s poem:

  ‘As idle as a painted ship

  Upon a painted ocean.’

  Oliver wanted, indeed he felt he needed something dramatic to happen in his life.

  Fate, it would seem, had the same idea.

  Oliver Twist was sitting at his desk poring over some critical but very boring documents when there was a gentle tap at his door. Oliver not only recognised the tap, or to be more precise, the owner of the tap, the tapper himself if you like, but through experience and familiarity he could ascertain the mood and tone of the tap. On this occasion he deduced that it was apprehensive mixed with a tinge of guilt. The perpetrator of the taps was Jack Dawkins.

  Oliver bade the tapper enter.

  The door swung open and did indeed reveal the figure of Jack Dawkins, whom to Oliver would always be the Artful Dodger, that ragged companion of his youth when both boys were in the thrall of Fagin. Despite the weight of years removing the youthful bloom from his features and gaining a certain respectability, which caused him to behave – on the whole – as an upright law-abiding citizen, there was still the air of the attractive rogue about Jack. After many years of not seeing each other, the two childhood comrades had been reunited earlier that year when Jack had sought out Oliver to help him with a spot of serious bother in which, with Dawkins-like aplomb, he had landed himself. With a different kind aplomb but equally efficacious, Oliver had managed to extricate his old friend from the mire. Not only that but Oliver had taken it upon himself to assume the role of guardian for this now very vulnerable fellow despite him being several years Jack’s junior. Oliver had persuaded Messrs Gripwind and Biddle to employ his old acquaintance Jack Dawkins as his clerk – a rather grand title for what in reality was the role of dogsbody. Jack’s remuneration was meagre, but Oliver kindly offered to supplement it from his own salary. And then Oliver had set about educating the supposedly reformed reprobate in order that he might carry out his professional duties more effectively and with more accuracy.