Oliver Twist Investigates (14 page)

Amid the questions, one thing became certain. I had to see the great writer again and I knew the meeting would not be an easy one. Dickens had not told me all the truth on our
first meeting. Would I be any more successful on a return visit in obtaining what he truly knew about Nancy's murder? And would he admit to being my father?

Dickens agreed to meet me again but this time not at his house. I suspect he feared a scene. He therefore preferred to hold our meeting elsewhere and told me to make my way to the ruins of Rochester Castle, a place he associated with the happiest days of his childhood. Rochester was not a place I knew but, as I walked along its old High Street, I admired its many old houses and strange gables, and understood a little why Dickens held the place in such affection. When I reached the castle he was waiting for me at the foot of its ancient, ivy-covered walls and he was the first to speak.

‘I have happy memories of this place which I oft frequented as a child. Of course the town has shrunk fearfully from the picture I retained in my head. I had entertained the idea that the High Street was at least as wide as Regent Street in London, but now I find it is little better than a lane. The public clock, which I supposed to be the finest in the world, now appears to be as moon-faced and weak a clock as I ever saw, and the town hall, which I thought a model for the palace of Aladdin, is in reality a
rather mean brick heap. It was a relief to come here and find this castle at least unchanged. A man's life seems a brief little practical joke in comparison with the solidity, stature, and strength of its walls, even though the blue sky now provides its sole roof and crows and jackdaws are its only warders.'

I made no comment and he went on. ‘While waiting for you I climbed its rugged staircase, stopping now and then to capture glimpses of the Medway or to peer down through the gaps between the bare joists that are all that remain of former floors. The view from the castle ramparts on to the cathedral and the crumbling remains of the old priory is delightful. You can see the row of staid old red-brick houses where the Cathedral dignitaries live and the shrunken fragments of one of the old city gates. And the old trees with their high tops below me are just as I remember them. Oh, how I used to love this place when I was a child and I could dream its former glories back into life in my imagination! Don't you agree, Mr Twist, that there are few things in this beautiful country of England more picturesque to the eye, and agreeable to the fancy, than an old cathedral town. Have you been inside the cathedral?'

‘No, not yet,' I replied.

‘You must, if only to see the battered effigies of clergy long since deceased and the praying figures of knights and ladies on the tombs, with little headless generations of sons and daughters kneeling around them. And there is nothing quite like the soft and mellow light provided by cathedral stained-glass windows. It's no surprise to me that men and women believe their prayers may be better answered within such hallowed surroundings.'

‘And both you and I may be much in need of prayer after this meeting,' I interrupted, sensing that his conversation
was but a thin disguise to hide his nervousness at our second meeting.

He smiled and replied, ‘I see you are keen to tell me what you have uncovered, so proceed, and maybe we will leave our sight-seeing till later.'

We moved to sit on a bench and there, under the leafy boughs of a tree, I outlined to him all the things that had happened to me since we had last met. Only a few passing birds bore witness to our meeting. He listened patiently but with increasing agitation, nodding his head and interrupting my story with the occasional phrase, such as ‘God bless my soul,' or ‘Oh Lord no!' He then asked me to wait while he walked for a time to compose himself.

I watched him pace backwards and forwards. He appeared deep in conversation with himself. Every emotion known to man seemed to cross his troubled face. At least a half hour must have passed by. Then he returned to tell me what was either the truth or a cleverly constructed story. How can you tell the difference when you are dealing with Britain's greatest storyteller? All I can say is that throughout our conversation he seemed to be one who could not stand still, but must be moving and that he waved his arms so dramatically it was a wonder his manner did not draw an audience and so negate the secrecy of our meeting.

‘Last time we met I told you how it was Nancy who seduced me when I was still a child. And that was true,' he began. ‘What I did not say is that, corrupted though she was, she was only a month or two older than I. She told me long afterwards that she failed to take any precautions. Whether that was because she thought me too young to be a danger to her or whether simply she was too drunk, I cannot say. She told me she became pregnant but was too frightened to
tell anyone. Young in years though she was, she had seen the result of enough bloody backroom abortions for the prospect of one to fill her with terror.

‘Inevitably a day came when her pregnancy could no longer be concealed. Of course, by then it was too late for her to have an abortion. She told me Fagin was furious and beat her most cruelly, almost to the extent where both she and the child were lost. However, he did not cast her out as she had expected. Apparently there is a market even for pregnant girls and Fagin always put cash first. It is hard to conceive – if you'll pardon that expression – of a more monstrous situation than a pregnant thirteen-year-old girl forced to engage in further sexual practices with deviant men, but that was Nancy's fate until she gave birth. She told me Fagin had planned it so that no one would aid her when the time arrived, but the other prostitutes intervened. It was fortunate that they did because the birth proved difficult and, had a midwife not been called, both mother and child would have been lost. As it was, Nancy suffered such damage that any future pregnancy became an impossibility. For that mercy she expressed her gratitude to God.

She was not allowed to keep the child for long. Fagin disposed of it. For nine years she pushed the memory of her unwanted child to the back of her mind knowing no one would wish to have a whore and a thief for a mother. Imagine her consternation when she saw the naked back of Fagin's latest recruit and recognized the one feature of her child she recalled with ease: a birthmark. Her instant response was to protect you and to that end she devoted all her energies. Her plan to palm you off as Leeford's stepbrother was inspired, but she needed an ally, and naturally she looked to the one other person who could be
counted upon to help. That person was the father of her son. Our meeting in Newgate prison was no accident. What a fool I was. Nancy had been seeking me out for days.

‘Nancy did not, at first, tell me of my own connection with you. As I told you before, I was on the lookout for a good story and she simply seized her moment to provide me with one. Telling me I was your father came later when she had to seek a means of ensuring I became not just a listener but also a participant in your rescue. Of course at first I refused to believe her, but Nancy arranged for me to catch a glimpse of you. That was all it took. You were the very spit of myself as a child. Look into a mirror, Oliver, and compare your features with mine.' He pulled out a small mirror from his coat pocket. ‘Is the likeness still not apparent?'

It was true. As I looked at his marred but still handsome face, I saw myself as I might look in the future.

‘So you were prepared to not only betray my mother, but to abandon your own son!' I angrily shouted. ‘Presumably a bastard son was an embarrassment to an author trying to make his name.'

‘Yes, you would have been an embarrassment, although I was more concerned about how my wife would react than the reading public. But I did not desert you. Although I remained filled with hate for your mother, you were still my son, my innocent son. Don't you see, Oliver? My book on your life stuck to the lie she had created. If that was wrong, I am truly sorry. I did it for your own good.'

‘But it suited you too. It removed any link between you and me. It convicted Bill Sikes of Nancy's death. If I were to be cynical, what better way to hide a murder than to convict another of the crime?'

‘No, Oliver, believe me, I thought Sikes had killed Nancy.
I will not disguise the fact that I revelled in the fact he had or that I wished I had had the courage to strike her myself. But you were my son. I did not abandon you. Nancy thought she had transformed you into a child with great expectations, but, in reality, she had not. It was a great blow to Mr Brownlow, who had become inordinately fond of you, when he discovered that poor Edward Leeford had squandered virtually all the family wealth and that your half of the inheritance was essentially one of debts.'

‘That is why I am forever grateful for the way Mr Brownlow more or less adopted me and made me his heir.'

‘So you see him as your benefactor?'

I nodded my assent. ‘He was the kindest, most generous of guardians and he left me better placed financially than my mother could have possibly dreamed.'

‘I do not question his kindness,' said Dickens, ‘but you are looking at your real benefactor. I am afraid I lied to you at our last meeting. You were right in thinking that Mr Brownlow had no fortune of any note until recently. I denied knowledge of whence that money came but in fact I know its source. It was my newly found wealth as a successful novelist that funded your education and it is my money which today still sustains your current way of life. This may sound like the stuff of which novels are made, but ask your lawyer if you do not believe me. I will remove the gag of secrecy I imposed upon him. I am the man who has fulfilled the great expectations your mother wanted for you, not Mr Brownlow. He acceded to my offer of help because he knew you would benefit and he wrongly assumed that my generosity was simply a product of my thankfulness at the boost my career had received from writing your story. All I asked of him in return was that he should not disclose what
I had done. Though reluctant to take the credit for himself, he let your best interests determine his response.'

My mind reeled at this latest revelation. My whole world appeared to have been built on lies and misunderstandings. I had been surrounded by deceit from the moment of my birth. And yet, looking at Dickens's earnest face, I did not doubt that he was telling the truth or that he needed me to respond to him as a son rather than as a stranger. But, as yet, I could not give him what he most wanted. My mother's death divided us. He was far too intelligent not to recognize that. Both of us grappled with our emotions and suppressed them. He reached out his hand and tentatively placed it on my shoulder. I managed not to recoil but I could not prevent some of my hurt finding expression.

‘Has a child not the right to know who its parents are? My mother seems to have thought it was better for her child to believe Agnes Fleming was his mother than a common whore and thief. Maybe I can just about understand that. But you? Why should you also deny me? You obviously thought it was better for me to remain deceived, not only on this matter but also on the very source of my inheritance, rather than to know who my father was. Is that really fair? I can see it suited your reputation to keep our relationship secret. However, although I cannot speak for all children, I believe most would want to know their true parentage. Could neither of you see that it is more important to me to be wanted than to have money and possessions? How can I feel wanted when you have both denied me? And how can I now make any response to the father who, for all I know, might have murdered my mother?'

‘Believe me, Oliver, I did not murder Nancy. My crime was only to betray your mother, but it was in the belief that
she had destroyed one of life's angels. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I confess I cannot understand why I took the illnesses of both Sikes and Rose Maylie at face value. I must have been blind. Your information that these were also instances of poisoning means I have to accept that Nancy was almost certainly not Mary Hogarth's murderer. And, if that is the case, I have three overwhelming reasons to help you discover the real truth of what happened. I owe it to Mary. I owe it to your mother. And I owe it to my son because, if this mystery remains, I fear you may always suspect me.'

‘Those are fine words, but I cannot see what more we can do. Who else is left to shed any light on these tragic events?'

Dickens looked across at me. ‘There are two', he said, ‘and their names are Charley Bates and Jack Dawkins. You and I will have to discover their whereabouts. The last I heard Bates had resolved to turn his back on a life of crime and he was a carrier's lad in Northamptonshire. As for Dawkins, although he was sentenced to transportation, he must still be traceable. If we put our minds to it, we may be able to find at least one of them.'

I found myself agreeing. What else could I do?

It took some weeks and the help of Harry Maylie's police connections to discover that Charley Bates had ceased being a carrier's lad and had last been seen working as a travelling street-entertainer in the Midlands. Both Harry and Dickens were keen to accompany me, but I insisted on going alone in search of him. I left Dickens still relentlessly pursuing with all his journalistic skills what had happened to the Artful Dodger.

I cannot recall much of my long journey. My mind was not on the scenery through which I travelled, but I know I passed through many soot-covered towns, whose inhabitants lived out their servitude in an almost perpetual darkness. Through the industrialized areas through which I passed visitors sought in vain for any quiet and attractive scenery. All around were furnaces and factories, belching forth their fumes and flames. In overcrowded tenements and disease-ridden streets human misery was far more evident than human happiness. I prayed repeatedly that my
efforts would be rewarded and that I would find Charley Bates, but sometimes my mood was as black as the smoke-filled sky outside and I despaired. Even if I found him, would he really know any more about the sordid events that surrounded Nancy's murder than I had already discovered? And, if he did, would he be prepared to tell the person who had helped destroy Fagin's gang? I oscillated between moments of hope that the truth would finally be revealed and periods of deep despondency.

I first heard definite news that I was catching up with Bates at a small market town called Bakewell in Derbyshire. Having discovered that he had been entertaining crowds there only the previous day, I determined to set off early the next day for Cromford, which I was told was his next destination. That evening I ate well on cold veal pie and a gooseberry tart, reflecting all the while on my forthcoming conversation.

The next day I rose early. It was a gloomy morning and all the surrounding hills were covered with mist, but I was eager to be on my way. After I had walked a few miles the mists dispersed and for a time I enjoyed the beautiful scenery around me, furnished as it is with steep rocks and ancient woodland. However, even here the hand of man had wrought destruction, for I saw the remains of many oaks, hollies, and mountain ashes which had been felled and stripped of their bark. As I passed through the villages of Winster and Wensley the weather once more rapidly deteriorated. Matlock Vale, which I had been assured was a wonderful sight, was obscured by heavy rain clouds, and I was glad to arrive just after noon at Cromford. On my entry to the town I was very conscious of the fact that Cromford's once rural cottages were now dominated by
industrial buildings and that these, to use a phrase coined by Blake, were indeed dark satanic mills. Even the town's stream neither rippled nor cascaded because it was channelled by the hand of man to serve the needs of the cotton works.

I decided I had time to take a stroll to Arkwright's great mill, which had a reputation for looking after its workers more than most other factories, but I cannot say I envied them the conditions in which they lived and worked. The workers I saw looked exhausted and were filthy and unkempt. They smelt of oil and their clothes were covered with dust and grime and wispy trails of cotton fibre. When I briefly toured part of the mill I felt as if I was suffocating because the air I breathed was thick with cotton flue. I watched with horror young children – some, like me, products of the workhouse – crouching low beneath the noisy machinery, risking life and limb to gather waste and keep the threads functioning. I knew they faced severe injury and possible death if even just their hair or part of their meagre clothing got momentarily caught. And for the factory child there was no time for play because carding engines, drawing frames, and winding rovers never stop operating. The visit did little to raise my sinking spirits. It seemed to me that the mills were just another way in which society showed how it viewed children as entirely expendable. How can this country describe itself as Christian? Did not our Lord say any man mistreating children would be putting a millstone round his neck when it came to seeking salvation?

In sombre mood I took up residence at an inn called the Black Dog. It was no better and no worse than countless others I had stayed in on my journey, though its landlord,
fat, stupid, and splay-footed, was more helpful than most. At some stage it had probably enjoyed a picturesque view but, as I looked from its begrimed windows, the inclement weather deprived the scenery around not only of any colour but also of the little beauty which had survived the area's industrialization. Even the crude clamour of the mill, so successful in blocking out the sound of any trilling bird, failed to cover the sound of the icy rain, which beat against the inn's windowpanes. Storm clouds scudded across the darkening sky, bringing more rain from the chill North Sea, and for a time the relentless downpour glazed the stone pavements, giving them the illusion of polished marble.

I waited till the worst of the weather was over before stepping outside again. Even so I had to pass through many a puddle and my feet were soon wet through. It was a busy market day that afternoon and the streets were crowded with impudent mechanics. They seemed heedless of the rain which had soaked their dirty heads and seeped into their drab clothes. Far from dampening their spirits, the rain appeared to have strengthened their resolve to amuse themselves at the expense of many a shopkeeper or stallholder. I passed many men standing in groups, smoking and gossiping, while around them street-sellers vied with the dirt-encrusted shops to sell anything and everything, from pocket combs and clothes'-pegs to guinea pigs and ferrets. Poor linnets, blinded in the vain hope that this would make them sing more sweetly, vied for space with the skins of strayed and stolen cats, which had been flayed alive in order to get a better-priced pelt. Shrunken fruit, plumped out to look better than it was, competed for purchase with dried fish, hung from hooks and looking like bats asleep.
Harassed women hurried to purchase what meagre items they could afford for their families and the air was filled with the din and confusion of countless loud voices simultaneously bellowing as they extolled the virtues of buying their produce or the rags that frequently passed for clothing.

A sickly-looking boy of about five or six years almost knocked me over as he ran home with some cheap scraps he had been given. The holes in his clothes at his elbows and knees revealed fearful sores and gashes. His naked feet were blue with the cold. His blond hair, still flattened by the earlier rain, was unbelievably dirty, and his face covered with a grime which even the heavy downpour had failed to cleanse. And yet his face bore traces of a beauty that, had the circumstance of his life been different, would have brought him much attention and won over many a female heart. He was wide of brow, firm of jaw, and had a pleasing line to his nose. It was the pinched mouth and the hardness around the eyes that spoke of experiences beyond his tender years, while the signs of malnutrition gave his features an unpleasant hardness. I pressed some coins into his pitiful hand and asked if he could tell me where a street entertainer would be most likely to perform his act. After a moment's hesitation he pointed out where I should go, calling God's blessing on my head.

I quickly worked my way through the crowd. Bates was indeed where I had been told I might find him and his act had drawn quite a reasonably sized audience. The ready and businesslike way he conducted his buffoonery was quite remarkable and far better than I had expected to witness. Part of his act consisted in imitating the mannerisms of passersby. He seemed able to seize on their peculiarities and
mimic them with just the right amount of exaggeration to make each a source of amusement. The pompous and the proud, the timid and the bold, the rich and the poor, all fell victim to his wicked gift. And he interspersed his routines with a humorous patter which made even the oldest joke seem wondrously fresh and amusing. It was obvious that the crowd liked him and their appreciation at the end of his act was expressed in tangible form as coins were thrown into his dingy hat.

As people dispersed I walked up to him. Gone was the boy I remembered. On closer inspection, I saw the greasepaint with which he had smeared his face in a vain attempt to disguise the fact that his eyes were sunken and his face scored with the lines and wrinkles that stemmed from premature ageing. His cheeks were hollow and livid and I sensed that, beneath his showmanship, his frame trembled. He jovially extended his arm so I could add my money to the collection but there was a melancholy man behind the outward smile. I placed the expected coin in his hand. ‘Hallo, Charley. Remember me,' I said. After a momentary pause, the painted mask that was his face seemed to crack. ‘Let me look at you. Oliver? Is it really you?' I nodded. He smiled and winked. ‘My, you're the fine gentleman, now. It's good to know one of us Fagin lads made good. But then, you always were the lucky one.'

‘That's not how I remember it, Charley.'

‘Ah, well, perhaps not. You were more sensitive than the rest of us. I thought picking pockets was the most daring thing a boy could do and I laughed at those who thought my life to be bad, especially those do-gooders who handed out religious tracts. I used to use them to light the occasional pipe. They seemed to forget that most of us lads
couldn't read or write, and those of us who could knew tracts would nivver fill our bellies. They said we had lost our innocence. I think I may have been innocent once but boys don't stay innocent for long, do they, when they've no home of their own and it's a choice between starvation and theft?'

‘It wasn't just theft we were expected to do.'

‘Ay, that's true. It was an ill day when I began working for Fagin, who expected other services from us as well. You did well to get out of it.'

‘Come, let me buy you a drink, Charley. For old times' sake,' I replied.

As we drank our beers in the nearby pub Charley told me something of his history following Fagin's capture. Frightened at seeing the evil Jew's execution, he had abandoned his illegal lifestyle and tried to settle to a conventional job, but he told me he soon appreciated that his talents were wasted as a carrier and that living in one place was not for him. I tried to hide my impatience. It was not his history that interested me.

‘Couldn't settle, you see, Oliver. I've nivver been used to a proper home and it didn't come easy to start one. I didn't want to return to the thieving, tempting though that was, so I decided to put to a different use all that training Fagin had given me. As a pickpocket you learn to watch people very closely and both the Dodger and I used sometimes to amuse ourselves at night by imitating those we had robbed during the day. I found I could use that mimicry to earn my bread. And, if the audience gets bored, I use other means to amuse them. All that picking of pockets means I can do almost anything with my hands. I started with card tricks. All card tricks are just quickness of hand. The greatest art is what is
called forcing, where you make someone take the card you wish 'em to and he's not conscious of it, but I particularly enjoy slipping the card like this.'

He took out a pack and showed me the ace of hearts. He then shuffled and reshuffled the cards, each time managing to place the ace wherever I requested in the pack, top, bottom, or centre. Seeing my amusement, he offered to do his sovereign trick if I would entrust him with one. I willingly agreed and placed one in his hand, which he then clenched. When he opened his fist the sovereign had been replaced by a farthing. He then stretched out his other hand and effortlessly drew out my pocket-handkerchief. To my surprise it had a knot in it. He told me to untie it. I did so and uncovered my original sovereign. Charley laughed at my discomforture. I surrendered my sovereign to him.

‘Do you want to see some more?' he said. ‘I can take empty cups and make 'taters appear under 'em, or make a cabbage appear in your hat. Or I can show you some of my juggling with balls and knives and rings.'

I told him I'd prefer to just talk, if it was all right with him, and I ordered some more beers. He talked to me a bit about his early life before he had taken up with Fagin. He described how his father had killed his mother because she had sauced him for drinking too much. He had punched her so hard and so frequently that, after a few days of intense suffering, she had died. Fear that his young son might speak of what he had seen had led his father to throw Charley into the river in the hope that he would drown. Though rescued from that fate, the homeless child had soon been coerced into a life of crime. Once he had finished his own story, Charley listened with increasing interest as I told him about what I had uncovered. Of course my account
was highly selective. I did not tell him I was Nancy's son or that Dickens was my father, but I told him of the poisoning attempts and Noah's account of the meeting between Nancy and Bill following the Dodger's arrest. I asked him whether she had been right to think the Dodger was out to destroy her.

‘When you met us, Oliver, we appeared to you such a jolly crew. But think of what happened to you in the short time you were with us and then reflect what must have been our experience, living for years with that unholy sod, Fagin. We were taught all the best ways to steal and then he took pleasure in tormenting us with the constant prospect of the gallows. He found it amusing that we daily risked our lives. We were encouraged to spy on one another and made to feel it was good when he beat one of the others. It was fear more than fun that made us dance to his devil's tune. And as you know, we were subject to constant abuse because he expected us to engage in whatever sexual acts he wished for himself or his clients. If we clung to each other it was because it was the only home we knew, however much we hated and despised it.

‘For years Fagin delighted in playing us off against one another, but when you arrived his power was definitely on the wane. The Dodger, although outwardly still subservient, was increasingly becoming his own man. Nancy, for so long his creature, was becoming openly defiant and no longer prepared to do all he asked. And Fagin felt increasingly powerless to cope with these challenges to his authority because of his fear of Bill. Even Toby Crackit felt able to increasingly be rude to him.