Dodger of the Dials (30 page)

‘Your face has turned ashen, Dodger,’ Oliver said as I raised my hand up to cover it. ‘Even more so than before. You have something to tell me? You know the agent?’

‘I might do,’ I replied. ‘You finish telling me about Anthony. He was killed because he found out about such a thing? Is that what you think?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Oliver replied. ‘He wouldn’t reveal any of the names of the people involved but he did tell me that his investigations had begun after being approached in secret by a police constable. It was this constable who informed Anthony about a highly corrupt
superior officer and said that a number of other policemen knew about the man’s villainy. The constable insisted on anonymity and I was told hardly anything else other than the name that Anthony himself had given to the story. He referred to the article he was writing cryptically as
Dark Satanic
and he kept his documents safe inside a little metal deposit box which he never let out of his sight.’

‘A metal deposit box,’ I repeated. ‘Was it black with silver lining?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Just like the one you described finding to the court. The one that was missing from the police inventory.’

‘Bastards!’ I exclaimed aloud then as I realised what wicked games had been played against me. Oliver jumped and told me to quieten myself. ‘Double-dealing buggers!’ I cried, ignoring him. ‘It’s as I’ve always said, Twist! The biggest criminals are in uniform!’

Again, Turnkey Baines called through from the corridor outside and Oliver got up and crossed over to the door to assure him that all was fine, despite the noise. By the time he returned to the opposite bed again I was still fuming but I was ready to listen to more. My eyes was fixed on the stone floor as Oliver continued.

‘When I heard that Anthony had been murdered,’ he said as he sat down, ‘I knew that this powerful policeman must have got to him. I still had no idea which officer it might be and, when your name was released as the culprit, I assumed that you and Flynn had been hired by him to kill poor Anthony. I have to admit, Dodger, that I went to your trial hoping that you would both be given death.’

I looked up at him with bitterness. ‘Well, you got your wish then,’ I said.

‘But it was at the trial that I realised that you were, in fact, innocent. I believed your testimony while the rest of the press bench just scoffed at it. And I believed you because I knew something that
they did not. I knew how much Anthony loved poetry.’ Oliver smiled then as if at a private joke. ‘And I suddenly realised what
Dark Satanic
meant. Or rather who.’

He picked up his pad again and scribbled something onto it. Then he held it up for me to see and I peered in closer so I could read it by the light of the fire.

It read,
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT MILLS
.

‘The peeler who testified against me,’ I replied, not caring to keep my voice down. ‘The one who claimed to have received a telegram. That is who Slade is working for.’ Oliver may have had his reasons for not wanting his name overheard but I was happy for the turnkey outside to hear who was responsible for all this.

‘That’s him,’ Oliver confirmed in a quieter voice. ‘Or rather Dark Satanic Mills.’

‘Is that his name then?’ I asked in confusion. ‘He had some queer parents if so.’

‘Dark Satanic Mills is from “Jerusalem”,’ said Oliver still smiling.

‘Oh, yeah?’ I replied. ‘Well, he didn’t look Jewish to me.’ Oliver suppressed a bigger smile.

‘“Jerusalem” is a poem by William Blake,’ he explained as if talking to an ignorant peasant. ‘Of a very religious nature. It gets recited in churches a lot which you’d know if you ever set foot in one.’ He was starting to get a bit cheeky and I was about to take him to task for mocking a man condemned to death. But Oliver was already busy clearing his throat. ‘“And was Jerusalem builded here,”’ he said with a look of concentration on his face, ‘“among these dark Satanic Mills?”’ He then gave a small chuckle. ‘Clever Anthony,’ he muttered as he began writing again, ‘it’s a play on DS Mills.’

‘Listen, Twist,’ I interrupted, hoping that me still calling him by his poorhouse name would annoy him. ‘I don’t have time to sit
here all night appreciating poetry with you. I’m a busy man with places to be.’

‘So that was how I knew that Mills was our man,’ Oliver continued over me. ‘Well, that and his ridiculous testimony which – apart from me – nobody thought to question.’

‘That’s because the judge was in on the plot,’ I said causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. ‘That much I do know.’

‘And you know a good deal more, I imagine?’ said Oliver and again his pencil poised over the pad. ‘Which is why I’m here. Well, I think it’s time for our interview to begin, Dodger. First question. Who do you think is Mills’ agent in the underworld?’

‘His name is William Slade,’ I replied without hesitation. ‘And he goes by Weeping Billy.’

*

For the next few minutes I spoke fast, telling Oliver Twist all what I knew about this whole dark business. Oliver had never heard of Slade before but he was very interested to learn that a High Court judge was seen in Slade’s brothel and had overseen my trial, weighing things against me. But it was when I mentioned what Tanner had told me in the press yard – about how his brother, another Slade man, was charged with murdering a policeman in circumstances similar to my own arrest – that Oliver saw a connection with his own investigations.

‘There is only one policeman who that can be,’ he said and tapped his pencil onto the pad as if it were helping him think quicker, ‘Constable Wingham. Anthony himself covered the Wingham trial in great detail. It was weeks before Anthony’s murder and the official story seemed so sound. He was killed by a burglar, case closed. But it makes perfect sense now that I think about it. Wingham must be the policeman that came to Anthony with the story about Mills and then Mills must have found out and had him
killed. And again, as with you, Slade arranged for one of his own men to take the blame. So there is a discernible pattern.’ He was almost bouncing on top of Mouse’s old bed now which I felt was in very poor taste. ‘What a tremendous lead!’

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Twist,’ I said, glaring at him hard, ‘but it doesn’t alter my situation one bit, does it? I’m going to hang the day after tomorrow for something I never done. How does any of this do me good?’

Oliver checked his enthusiasm and then spoke with more gravity. ‘Dodger, nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to save your life, believe me!’ he said, holding my eye. ‘Perhaps then you will see that I am not, and have never been, your enemy. But you have to understand,’ his mood dropped again and I caught a rare glimpse of shame from the boy, ‘that I can’t do anything with this information until I know who to trust with it.’

I was back on my feet again and so wild that I did not care if the turnkey should come and bring our interview to an early close. ‘Then what use are you to me, Twist?’ I demanded as I lifted up my chains and rattled them in his face. ‘What use have you ever been?’

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ he said, sounding it at last, ‘but I have my own life to think about. Mills has people killed who he thinks are out to expose him. Anthony and this Constable Wingham, it now seems. I need to tread carefully.’

‘Oh, I understand!’ I shouted back at him. ‘You mean to tiptoe about and take your sweet time with it all. Meanwhile, it’s curtains for poor Dawkins here! But you ain’t bothered! Your class never care about what happens to the likes of me.’ I looked him straight in the eyes for this next thing, knowing it would cut deep. ‘You might not think yourself my enemy, Twist,’ I said. ‘But you’ve never been my friend.’

I could see that Oliver was bothered by this. Here, after all, was
someone what had just told me that he had become a journalist to help defend the poor man. Well, who was the poor man if not me?

‘If I can move fast enough to prevent your hanging then I will,’ he promised me in a tone what sounded sincere, ‘but it’s not my fault that your execution is so soon. I came in here knowing one half of the puzzle – Detective Mills – and you have given me the other half – William Slade. So I have enough to work with to build a case – more than Anthony ever did. But I need to approach someone in the police force who I know is not in league with Mills and I have no way of knowing who to trust. You just said yourself that the police were all crooks. In which case, who do I go to with any of this?’

‘Wilfred Bracken,’ I said without missing a beat. ‘He’s an inspector what is stationed in the Holborn division. Go to him.’

‘I’ve heard the name,’ Oliver said as he wrote it down. ‘You think he’s a good man?’

‘No, he’s a cruel, flint-hearted terror,’ I declared with some authority as he underlined the words. ‘Among other things he’s responsible for arresting my mother for a crime what she then hanged for. He’s forever pushing his miserable face into my business and stomping around the rookeries like he owns the place.’ I sighed then, hating to admit this next thing. ‘But if there is one peeler out there what is not a criminal then it’s him. I’ve known plenty of crooks what’ve tried to bribe him out of arresting them but he never bites. Like I say, he’s a joyless sod.’

‘Thank you, Dodger,’ Oliver said as he put the pad away, ‘that’s another excellent tip. This inspector may help to clear your name.’

‘Well, don’t mention that part to him or he might not bother,’ I said and just then we heard the sound of the cell door being opened again. Oliver spoke quick before Turnkey Baines could enter the room.

‘This was worthwhile,’ he said in a hurried whisper, ‘and if I can work fast enough and gather more evidence to present to this Bracken then I can perhaps save you from the noose.’

We both turned to see the light from the candlestick held by the turnkey shine through into the room.

‘I hope you’ve found the interview to your satisfaction, Mr Brownlow, sir!’ Baines said once the door was opened wide. ‘You had longer than agreed upon on account of how it may be the last proper conversation your young subject will ever have. But the big hand is reaching the small hand and it’s about to strike midnight, would you believe? It’s chapel tomorrow and this fellow must be up early to hear the condemned service. So I’ll walk you out.’

Oliver got to his feet but he kept his face fixed upon mine and not on the turnkey’s. ‘They don’t usually allow visitors on Sunday but I’ll try to arrange to see you tomorrow too. I will also attempt to see the authorities and get them to postpone your hanging if it can be done. But, Dodger …’ he came towards me now against the turnkey’s wishes, ‘I won’t make promises I can’t keep and I think you know that. So let us part on good terms.’ His hand was outstretched. ‘If I cannot save you I can at least clear your name posthumously and that I will promise.’

‘A fat lot of value a clear name is when you’re buried in the earth,’ I replied and I almost considered refusing his hand. I had been so angry with the boy for such a long time that it felt unnatural for us to part on friendly terms. But he had come here to see me in my lowest hour and was prepared to take my side which few others would. So, after some hesitation, I decided to take his hand after all and I thanked him for coming.

‘I do care about what happens to you, Dodger,’ he said before turning away. ‘I never wanted to see either you or Fagin end up like this.’ Then he turned away and headed out of the cell.

‘Oliver?’ I said once he was out in the corridor. He turned to hear what I had to say, but it was too late. Turnkey Baines had swung the iron door shut and I was again in darkness. Seconds later, as Baines had said they would, the St Sepulchre bells began chiming for midnight.

Chapter 19
The Many Ghosts of Newgate

Including a summons to meet the most dangerous criminal in London

‘It is only repentance that can save your eternal soul now.’

Two coffins was displayed in the chapel for those what was due to hang on the very next morning. There was supposed to be three but the one meant for Mouse was already under the ground.

‘And only God’s forgiveness can protect you from fiery damnation.’

I had been made to sit at the end of the condemned pew on this Sunday so the whole congregation could tell at a glance which one was the famous killer of Anthony Rylance. The Ordinary was delivering the very same words he had for Old Edwards just seven days before. I wondered if he ever changed them at all.

‘If, however, He should choose not to answer your prayers then Hell awaits you.’

I looked at the nearest coffin, the one what I had been told was meant for me. It was too small for the job and I wanted to tell someone. You can’t bury me in that.

‘Death is not the end. For any of us.’

Beside me sat the woman called Alice Burgess who was also set to swing tomorrow. She was bent over in prayer as was everyone else on the condemned pew.

‘It is only to be feared by those with hands incarnadine.’

Soon, and for the first time in my life, I was praying along with the rest of them.

*

If my midnight reunion with Oliver Twist had taught me anything it was that sometimes a boy born poor can rise up and join the rich world if only luck and hard pushing would conspire together. So it was not true – as Mouse had claimed just days before – that the future of a slum baby, such as his son, was already writ. Robin Flynn, an infant who I felt even more responsibility to now that he had lost both parents, would not have to travel the same road as his father and his uncle Jack had done – things could be different for him. Oliver had proved that such an orphan might not one day find himself meeting the same end as we had. This was the one thing I kept telling myself on the final day before my execution date. That one of the few things left worth praying for was the continued innocence of Robin Flynn.

As I stumbled through the prison – both my arms and my legs was still fettered and I was being led by the guards – I thought of nothing save for Robin and what his future might hold. I had always imagined that Mouse and myself would grow into old men together, both of us made fat and rich on the winnings we had acquired in our leaner, hungrier days. I had told Mouse, on numerous occasions, that his boy Robin would grow up benefitting from our labours and would not want for nothing. But the miserable truth struck as the turnkeys stopped me tripping as we passed the courtyard where Mouse and I had climbed the walls during our failed escape. Robin was much better off without me as his top sawyer. I was a bad influence on all who I met and so his upbringing was more secure without me around to corrupt it. My frame of mind was as dark as it had ever been then and I reflected on whether I did, in truth, deserve to die.