Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 9

  ‘Ah, you are with us once more,’ said the voice of the tall thin man dressed in black.

  Jeremiah Throate raised his head to focus on the speaker. Both actions caused him considerable pain and he grimaced.

  ‘I am afraid that Master Kepple was rather over-zealous in his treatment of you, Sir Jeremiah for which I must apologise.’

  Several things became obvious to Throate all at once. He was in a light airy room which was devoid of furniture apart from the chair he was sitting on, his hands were secured behind his back and that the man standing before him was Eugene Trench.

  ‘’What is all this? What do you want from me?’ Throate asked in what seemed to him to be a strangely disembodied voice.

  Trench gave a slight bow but there was no reverence or respect in the gesture. It was a joke, a sneer, a travesty.

  ‘Your Lordship,’ he said sarcastically.

  Throate frowned. What game were these people playing with him? The gross villains who had captured him had also found humour in addressing him in this manner. What did it all mean?

  ‘I’ve brought you here,’ continued Trench, as he began to stroll around the room, his boots clicking sharply on the bare floorboards, ‘ not just in order to celebrate your good fortune to make secure arrangements for the payment of your not inconsiderable debt to me.’

  With some discomfort, Throate shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What good news.’

  ‘No play acting please. It is pointless and insulting to my intelligence.’

  ‘I really do not know what you are talking about.’

  There was a passionate earnestness in Throate’s response that caused Trench to cease his perambulations and stare at his captive with curiosity.

  ‘I refer to the death of your father and your natural accession to his title.’

  ‘The death of my father…’

  Trench rolled his eyes. ‘This will not do, Throate. I know very well that your father has been murdered and that I am looking directly at the culprit of the crime now.’

  ‘Murdered. What do you mean? How do you know?’

  ‘I have been informed. A reliable source.’

  ‘Who?’

  Trench shook his head. ‘It is politic that I preserve the individual’s anonymity. Suffice it to say that they were employed in a very minor capacity at Throate Manor and have deserted their post now. I am like Macbeth in Mr Shakespeare’s play, there are many houses where I keep ‘a servant fee’d’.

  ‘But I was there last night and my father was hale and hearty…’

  ‘And was dead by this morning, stabbed through the heart.’

  At this news a flurry of mixed emotions filled Throate’s senses. In an instant he was aware of all the various implications his father’s death would bring. He had lost the man who had brought him into the world and nurtured him when a youth, but a man from whom had grown distant and indeed, a man who he had started to hate. His death also meant that he would inherit his title and riches and along with his mother become master of Throate Manor and all its lands. If this news were true.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ he said at last.

  Trench smirked. ‘More Macbeth: ‘methinks the lad doth protest too much’. The gossip with the servants is that Master Throate himself is the murderer. He threatened his father in front of witnesses last night at dinner and then carried out the deed in the appropriately named dead of night.’

  An image of Jeremiah’s father lying prostrate in a pool of blood flashed into his mind and although he was quick to dismiss it, he was surprised how much the vision pleased him.

  ‘I… kill my father. No, no. It is a lie. I would not… I could not… My father… No.’

  Trench held up his hand to stop this emotional prevarication. ‘It is not my place to judge and besides I care not whether you slaughtered the old man or not. The most important point is that you now have claim to half his wealth and that allows you to pay me the considerable debt you owe me. You have not forgotten those fifty guineas, I trust.’

  ‘Is it really true that my father is dead?’

  ‘You have need to ask me that?’

  ‘Yes, by God, I do. The last time I saw my father he was drunk but alive. I swear it.’

  For a fleeting moment a look of uncertainty fluttered across Trench’s features. His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed as he surveyed his captive with a keenly.

  ‘And you had no hand in his demise?’ Trench asked at length.

  Jeremiah Throat shook his head. ‘If my father is dead, I was unaware of it.’

  Trench smiled or at least his lips curled upwards a little. It was the nearest he got to a show of pleasure or amusement. ‘Well, you surprise me, my friend. I felt sure that you had done the old man in to get your greedy fingers on the loot. Now you are asking me to believe that some other kind soul took it into their own hands to do your dirty work, thus propelling you into a position of wealth and position – Sir Jeremiah.’

  ‘I tell you…. if my father is dead – murdered – I swear I have no knowledge or involvement in the deed.’

  ‘Well, it matters little to me whether you knifed the old codger or not. The outcome is the same, you are now in a position to rifle the Throate coffers and come up with the money to settle your debts – with interest, of course.’

  ‘Interest?’

  ‘It is not without considerable trouble that I have had to track you down and bring you here. Time and money, your Lordship. Time and money. I must be recompensed for my trouble. That will add another twenty guineas to your bill.’

  Jeremiah Throate opened his mouth to protest, but common sense prevailed, and he shut it again. He was in no position to protest, to state terms or to disagree about anything. He was a captive of the cruellest of malefactors – a pipe upon which Trench could play whatever tune he wished.

  ‘You must return to Throate Manor post haste to offer succour to your mother and claim the title and the requisite amount of funds. My trusted companions, Mr Kepple and Mr Joint here will accompany you to make sure your journey is a swift one which does not allow you time to construct various machinations concerning your new fortune that would bring me displeasure and bring your own existence into jeopardy. I am sure you understand.’

  Jeremiah Throate understood all too well.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The journey back to London was a miserable one for Oliver Twist. He and Jack had been obliged to take the public coach from Dorking which was crowded to bursting and ill-ventilated. The weather was extremely inclement with the wind buffeting the coach and sending fierce errant drafts into the carriage that chilled to the marrow. However, it wasn’t only these discomforts that lowered his sprits, it was the circumstances in which he now found himself: that of a young lawyer with a severely wounded client from a murderous attack who had secured a promise from him to discover the whereabouts of his illegitimate son. It was a task he felt ill-suited for and one he had no desire to undertake. But he had given his word. And he knew that his employers would have wished him to. Such an important and long-standing client of the firm of Gripwind and Biddle must be indulged at all costs.

  While Oliver’s brow was creased with worry and discomfort, his companion Jack Dawkins slumbered peacefully by his side, emitting a gentle purr of a snore every fifteen minutes or so. Oliver envied his friend’s ability to place the real world at bay at will. Whether asleep or awake, Jack had the great facility to banish worries and concerns from his mind. This, of course, was partly due to him never quite recognising the implications and consequences of challenging situations.

  Oliver knew that when they returned to the office, he would have to report to Mr Gripwind, giving him a full account of all that had transpired at Throate Manor during their ill-fated visit. He was also cognisant of the fact that at this juncture, he would have to place upon his head, the metaphorical detective’s hat and begin his search for the Unknown Throate.

  Jack Dawkins gave a gentle snore and snuggled down deeper
into his great coat. ‘Oh, for such oblivion,’ murmured Oliver to himself.

  While these thoughts were playing around the young lawyer’s brain, he failed to notice three horsemen passing the coach, travelling in the opposite direction. Fate had arranged that major characters in this drama should criss-cross each other at this juncture, for the three riders were none other than Jeremiah Throat and his two grim chaperones, Barney Kepple and Alf Joint. If Oliver had glanced out of the window, he would have observed the three men, each stern of face, with Jeremiah Throate’s expression by far the sternest.

  The louring clouds and incessant swish of rain against the windowpane did not dampen Roger Lightwood’s mood of contentment as he attended to his morning ablutions. Outside, the promenade of Brighton was all but deserted apart from a few hardy souls bent like hairpins against the wind and the rain, but in Roger’s world it was all sunshine and warmth for he knew that afternoon he would be snatching a few hours of bliss with his beloved. He had been informed that following lunch, Lady Whitestone indulged in a prolonged nap which afforded Felicity Waring some time to herself and so an assignation with Roger had been arranged. It would be brief but delicious. Sadly, it would be their last meeting for some time as this was Roger’s last day of his vacation. That evening he was to return to Throate Manor and his secretarial duties. Much had to be arranged between the two sweethearts before they were separated by menial responsibilities. Their future had to be discussed and planned for. At the thought of the future wrapped in the warm clouds of connubial bliss, Roger’s heart almost exploded with pleasure. His mind had been so absorbed in these beatific contemplations that he had not noticed that he had tied his cravat inside out. On eventually observing this, he smiled broadly at his foolishness. Such was the power of love, he told himself. He was indeed a happy and a very lucky man.

  A tap at the door seemed innocuous, but it was about to rob Roger Lightwood of this sense of happiness and luck. A minion appeared on the threshold; a youth of spotty complexion dressed in the clothes of a bell boy which were too large for him. He held in his hand a pale blue envelope.

  ‘Message for Mr R Lightwood,’ he intoned in a mechanical fashion, his glassy eyes never quite making contact with the recipient of the missive.

  ‘I am he,’ responded Roger and held out his hand for the envelope. For a brief moment, the youth seemed reluctant to relinquish it and then with a shrug of the shoulder he passed it over to Roger and without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.

  Roger sat on the bed and tore open the envelope and read the letter contained within. The first words his eyes fell upon were ‘My Dearest Roger’ which prompted a strange tingling feeling to manifest itself up his spine. Quickly, he glanced at the signature and it was as he guessed, as he hoped, that of ‘your own Felicity’. After establishing the provenance of the epistle, Roger now devoured the contents, a task that gradually dulled the brightness in his eye and created tenseness about the lips which diminished the attractiveness of his features considerably.

  ‘My Dearest Roger,’ he read again before consuming the body of the letter which ran:

  ‘I write in haste. On a sudden whim Lady Whitestone had decided to return home today. She has not enjoyed her stay in Brighton. Too few people have paid court to her. In fact, no one has paid court to her and today’s inclement weather and cool temperature was the final straw. We are to catch the noon train back to town. As a result, I will not be able to keep our rendezvous this afternoon and indeed, I have no time to come along to your hotel to bid you adieu. This is so cruel but as a kept lackey I must do as my mistress commands. There is much packing and final preparations to be made for our return journey. For the moment we shall have to keep in contact by letter. The address by which you may reach me is printed overleaf. Please write soon. I long for the day when we shall be reunited.

  Your own Felicity.’

  Roger stared at the letter for some moments almost as though he was posing for a statue: ‘Lovelorn Youth on Receiving Bad News from His Sweetheart.’ His spirits sank as did his shoulders. He had not contemplated such an outcome. His life had become like the helter skelter ride on the pier. Last night he had been high, at the top and now this letter had brought him swiftly whizzing down to the bottom. As if to demonstrate this situation, he sneezed. And then sneezed again. The malady had returned.

  In the bustling noisy damp crowd that thronged the Brighton station that lunchtime, one figure cut a swathe through the multitudinous travellers, her furled parasol held aloft like a military standard. This aged Britannia was none other than Lady Wilhelmina Whitestone who was hurrying, with dogged determination towards the reserved First-Class carriage on the London bound train. Trailing in her wake, like two ferry boats were her companion, Felicity Waring, burdened by two of her employer’s suitcases and a perspiring railway porter pushing a trolley with the remainder of her ladyship’s luggage. Batting the odd impertinent soul who had the temerity to get in her way with her with her parasol, Lady Whitestone reached her appointed carriage some time before the others. She waited imperiously, until the little porter skipped round from his trolley and opened the compartment door.

  In the shadows near the bookstall, stood a tall man observing this scene with heightened emotion. His eyes, a little damp, focussed on the slight figure of Felicity Waring as she supervised the transference of the luggage on to the train. Once this operation had been carried out, she thanked the porter and passed him a small coin before boarding the train herself, as she did so, she turned for a fleeting moment and gazed out at the platform, little realising that she was being observed by the man in the shadows.

  Roger Lightwood placed his palm to his lips and blew a kiss out towards her. ‘Farwell, my love,’ he muttered.

  Felicity Waring unaware of the gesture, disappeared from sight into the gloom of the carriage.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jeremiah Throate strode into the hall of Throate Manor, closely followed by his two companions. The manservant Bulstrode appeared before them, as though manifested out of thin air.

  ‘Where is my mother?’ snapped Jeremiah, his swagger returning somewhat now that he was on home territory.

  ‘Good day, Master Jeremy. Lady Throate is in the morning room.’

  Without another word, Jeremiah swept past the butler as did the other two men. On reaching the door of the morning room, he turned to Kepple and Joint. ‘You wait here until I determine the lie of the land. Mother can be difficult. Your presence may cause complications.’

  The two malefactors exchanged glances. In truth neither knew what the best course of action they should take. Should they obey Throate’s instructions or should they ignore them. True to form, they took the least line of resistance and both nodded their heads in agreement.

  Throate slipped into the morning room. His mother was seated by the window attending to some needlepoint. She glanced up with surprise and then disdain as she recognised the visitor.

  ‘Is it true, mother?’ said Jeremiah, approaching her.

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘About father – that he is dead?’

  A thin smile materialised on her ladyship’s face and her eyes twinkled with dark amusement. ‘It hasn’t taken long for one of the vultures to start circling,’ she said, laying down her needlework. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, my boy, but your father is not dead. He lives.’

  A mixture of emotions invaded Jeremiah Throate’s senses. He hadn’t wished the irritating, stubborn old fool any harm and was somewhat relived that he wasn’t dead while, at the same time, he had relished the idea of assuming his father’s title and the monetary accoutrements that this would bring. He was also conscious that there were dire consequences to his continuing state of penury in the form of the two cut-throats waiting outside the room and their cruel master in the city.

  Lady Throate resumed her needlework. ‘I am sure you are dismayed,’ she said, her voice calm but brittle, ‘that your attemp
t to kill your father failed. It seems you are incompetent at murder as all else.’

  ‘Kill my father. What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Please don’t play the innocent with me. We both know very well you tried to stab your father to death last evening. You nearly succeeded, but the old devil is made of stern stuff and he survived.’

  Jeremiah shook his head vigorously. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I… I would never harm the old boy. Someone stabbed him, you say. Well, it wasn’t me. It must have been someone else.’

  ‘Nonsense. Who would want to kill him? What benefit would anyone receive by his demise. Only you.’

  ‘No. No. No!’ Jeremiah threw himself down on his knees by his mother’s side. ‘You have to believe me. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I… I am not so base a creature as to kill my own flesh and blood.’

  Amelia Throate paused and turned to face her son, her eyes searching his features, apparently searching for the truth in his troubled visage. She sighed heavily.

  ‘In truth, I do not know what to think. I am not fully convinced by your protestations, but as your mother I suppose I have a duty to accept your word.’

  ‘Bless you.’ He made to kiss his mother’s hand, but she withdrew it.

  Like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office, he rose to his feet and bowed his head. ‘I have a pressing problem, however, which brings me here today.’

  ‘I have no wish to hear of your pressing problems. I have sufficient of my own,’ came the terse reply.

  ‘But my life is at stake.’

  ‘It is a well-worn tale. Your life always seems to be at stake. A gambling debt no doubt. As usual.’

  ‘Mother, there are two men in the corridor outside this room, two men who have accompanied me here in order to secure certain monies which I owe them. If they do not get it, they will kill me.’

  ‘Then they had better get on with it. As we established yesterday, you will not receive another penny from me or your father while there is breath left in our bodies. You have preyed upon our monetary kindness and gullibility for the last time.’