Oliver Twist Investigates (2 page)

Some might think that I would rejoice in having my history recorded by so remarkable a writer as Charles Dickens, but I can assure you the opposite was true. It did not help me that Dickens had etched Nancy's murder into the very fabric of British society. Through the skill of his pen the whole world felt that Nancy's death was the worst of all the bad deeds committed in London under cover of darkness. His powerful depiction of her destruction at the hands of her lover, Bill Sikes, convinced a generation that it was the foulest and cruellest of all the horrors that ever rose with an ill scent upon the morning's miasmic air. Sideshows and theatres put on their own versions of my story, competing to depict as gruesomely as possible Nancy's slaughter for having the temerity to protect me from the machinations of Fagin and Monks. As I walked the streets their posters constantly reminded me that I would always be seen as the pauper saved by a prostitute. I resented the fact that Dickens was able to move on from the story of Oliver Twist to fresh writing triumphs whilst leaving me trapped in his literary past. Believe me, it is not easy to be always viewed as the emaciated and maltreated workhouse boy who asked for more.

My search for what really happened to Nancy began a few days after my twenty-first birthday in December 1846 when I was summoned to meet a solicitor by the name of Barnabus Moulton, ostensibly in order to hear news of ‘a former friend'. I must confess it was my curiosity rather than any hope of renewing contact with a previous acquaintance that drew me to respond. I was unaware that I had any friends from my past! Moulton's chambers were in a decaying and rather forbidding-looking house in Cook's Court. The day
was already closing in and the gaslights were newly lit but not yet effective when I arrived. A servant ushered me into a gloomy, cavernous, and ill-decorated room, which smelt heavily of books and leather. In its centre was a large oaken table surrounded by heavy, broad-backed old-fashioned mahogany chairs, whose seats were so covered with documents and files as to make impossible any chance of their serving their original purpose. Old books and ancient parchments, yellowed with age, were thrown in no apparent order across the top of the table, making it also unusable save for the collection of dust. Bookcases, filled with countless volumes, covered all the walls bar one. On its grimy surface hung a large oil painting of a man whose stern demeanour seemed to judge all who entered. Beneath it, with his back towards me, sat a grey-haired figure dressed entirely in black, working at a small desk on which stood two silver antique candlesticks. They gave off insufficient light to the room as a whole but enough to enable him to continue his studies.

When Moulton turned I saw his likeness to the portrait, which was either of him or his father. He rose and, despite a twist of the gout, rapidly advanced towards me, holding out his gnarled hand in greeting. He was older than I had expected and would clearly never see seventy again, but there was no frailty about his rather dour manner. His deep-socketed eyes were cool and direct rather than welcoming and his handshake was firm and dry. He effortlessly set me at my ease. His every gesture seemed to epitomize patience and probity. Had I known whom he represented I would have been less sure of his trustworthiness, but I was naïvely innocent of any suspicion. It therefore came as a great shock when he informed me that he was working on behalf of
Fagin. My horror at hearing this name prevented me from departing immediately. I was rooted to the spot as I recalled so vividly the man who had scarred my childhood in ways Dickens had not permitted his pen to portray because of the hypocritical sensitivities of our society. Images of our association flashed through my mind and made me feel physically sick.

Yet Moulton appeared oblivious of my state. He told me in a matter-of-fact tone how Fagin, shortly before he was to be publicly hanged for his crimes, had written what he chose to call ‘a final testament'. He had given strict instructions that it should be kept in a vault until I was fully a man. After I had come of age, Moulton had been told to hand over the document to me. Saying this, he unlocked a small drawer in the desk, pulled out a slim, dusty envelope, and handed it towards me. I made no move to accept the proffered package but he insisted, telling me I could always destroy it unopened and unread if I so desired. He literally pressed the loathsome object into my trembling hands, and I was in so much inward turmoil I did not resist. I cannot even recall how I left his chambers but I somehow pulled myself together and did, thrusting Fagin's testament into one of my pockets.

Once back in my room, only the lack of a fire prevented me from burning the envelope's contents unopened. I suspect if Mr Brownlow had still been alive I would have sought some other means of destruction, because that is undoubtedly what he would have advised me to do. However, to my intense grief, my dearest guardian and friend had died the previous year, bequeathing to me all that remained of his fortune, which turned out to be quite a respectable amount and far more than I had expected –
enough to make me a reasonably wealthy man. I felt I had no other person in whom I could confide, other than Mrs Bedwin, Mr Brownlow's former housekeeper, but I was reluctant to involve her in my sordid past. In the end my curiosity overcame my circumspection and, with shaking hands, I took a thin knife and slit open what Moulton had given me. Inside the envelope were some dirty sheets of paper. These were covered with a scrawling handwriting, which, even after the passage of so many years, I easily identified as Fagin's script. After a momentary hesitation I reluctantly began to read his testament and what he revealed then consigned all my certainties to oblivion. Thus was he able to strike at me from beyond the grave. I could not have been more mistaken when I thought the Jew's influence on my life had ended on my final visit to his prison cell.

On that morning Fagin, condemned to the gallows and filth-encrusted with the stinking debris of his prison cell, looked more like a snared beast than a man. No longer buoyed up by some vague and undefined hope of reprieve or some even wilder idea of escape, his once sharp mind had become semi-deranged by fear and an overwhelming sense of his helplessness. He had exhausted his attendants with importunities and now he alternated between demanding what right anyone had to butcher him and whimpering childishly for my forgiveness. Despite my obvious reluctance to go anywhere near him, he had tried to clutch me to his chest, seeming to think that in some magical way I could ensure his escape. Not that I would have helped him had it been within my power. I knew too much of his crimes to wish his release from the noose. The words of forgiveness that he extracted from me gave him
false hope because they contained no element of truth. They were just said in fear. When I left rejoicing from his cell the howling cries of his anguish, which reverberated around the prison, rang in my ears for days but they caused me no loss of sleep at night.

It is therefore the paradox to end all paradoxes that I should have discovered Dickens's story of my early life to be false through this foul man, whose whole life was a constant lie and to whom the truth was always an anathema. For reasons that will become obvious, his account launched me on to the investigative journey that these pages record. What follows is my attempt to set the record straight. Dickens's account of my early life turned out to be just a beautifully written lie by a reporter extraordinaire, who put his fiction before fact. What you are about to read is the truth although I know it lacks the literary skill of the master writer who first penned my tale. Through its pages I will reveal to you the real reason why Nancy loved me more than anyone else in the world. I will tell you the truth of what happened after Sikes had been consumed by rage at Fagin's account of Nancy's treacherous actions. Oh yes, her precious blood did stain the carpet red, seeping into the paws of Bill's dog and thus marking her alleged murderer's final journeying. But I assure you, Sikes struck no fatal blow. Nancy was not bludgeoned to death by his savage blows.

I was rescued from my nightmares when I discovered they had no basis in reality, but increasingly now I feel that Nancy's spirit cries out for Bill Sikes's name to be rescued from the ignominy into which it has fallen. It was entirely another hand that caused Nancy to breathe her last. I have ensured that my account of what really happened to Nancy will lie undiscovered and unread for many years simply
because my revelations have the power to hurt the living, not least me. However, there will come a time when this is no longer so, and I hope a future generation will then cease to revel in Dickens's story and people will at last understand the real tragedy that surrounded Nancy. Writing what follows has evoked very painful memories and yet it has never made me regret opening Fagin's letter. Foul and crude though its contents are, they set me on to the path that led to the truth. Maybe therefore his testament is his damned soul's one claim to mercy. If so, let God forgive him his many misdeeds because I cannot. Read it and I think you will see why.

My dear boy, I know you will be surprised to hear from me after all these intervening years, but I have every confidence that my presence will still be very much with you. I was always master to those I met and you were always very special to me. You don't need me to remind you of that, do you?

I awoke, cold and wretched, on this, my final morning. Only the thought of our meeting and what I had to tell you sustained me. When I saw that that interfering prude, Brownlow, was accompanying you, it was the cruellest blow because I knew then that we could not be alone together. I found our final meeting such a painful one, not least because I could not voice what I really intended to say. This letter will tell you that which I was unable to say to you then. I have deliberately arranged that this letter should not be sent to you until your entry into full manhood. If it were to be delivered straight away, I am pretty sure that meddlesome fool Brownlow would never let you see its contents. This testament will serve a double purpose. I write to undeceive
you about the events of your youth and, in so doing, perhaps make some amends. But this document also lets you know, Oliver, the extent to which I am still thinking of you, the loveliest of all my boys.

As I pen this I can hear the sound of St Sepulchre's and of the gallows being prepared for me and the memory of past pleasures is all I have left before I face that hideous apparatus of death. My dear boy let me indulge in a little reminiscing. Our first meeting is engraved on my memory. I hope it is equally so on yours. It was after the Artful Dodger found you wandering the streets, fresh from your flight from old Sowerberry and your ill treatment as an undertaker's mute. Jack's talents did not just lie in theft. He always had a soft spot for a pretty face. He brought you into my home whilst I was cooking some sausages for my sweet little boys. I recall you were such an innocent child and you stared at all the silk pocket-handkerchiefs that hung in the room with no notion as to why they were all there. I told you they were all ready for the wash, much to the amusement of the lads. Your gullibility, while it lasted, was a delight we all enjoyed.

Though you were at first naïvely innocent, it soon became obvious to me that you were also intelligent. I like that in a boy. A beautiful body without a mind is only half the pleasure. Though exhausted from your travels, you were very quick to espy my hidden wealth that very day. When we had all fed and the lads had gone out to do some more work, I thought you were asleep because of the gin I had given you and so, deceived, I inspected my rings, brooches, bracelets, and other jewellery, with their costly workmanship and magnificent materials. You had a unique ability to be always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But you didn't deceive me for long, did you, my dear? Remember how I placed the bread knife at your sweet delicate throat and asked you to forget you had seen my precious treasures, all that I hoped to live on in my old age? Remember your punishment, Oliver? How I asked you to wash before me? That revealed other treasures, didn't it? You were such a beautiful boy. And beautiful things are there to be enjoyed, aren't they, my dear?

Do you still recall the rest of that first full day with us? I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was greatly amused that Jack Dawkins and Charley Bates found you such a prig. I played the merry gentleman and placed a snuffbox in one pocket, a notecase in another, and a watch in a third. Then I placed a chain round my neck and a diamond pin in my shirt, and pretended to be out shopping. Jack and Charley showed all their superb skills to rob me of the items without my noticing. And you were so delightfully green and naïve. You never saw the fondling that accompanied the filching. They weren't just groping for handkerchiefs and wallets that day, Oliver, as you later came to appreciate. Stealing has such a wonderful feel to it if it's done properly. And I always gave my personal attention to all my protégés, ensuring you were all taught exactly what was expected.

And then Nancy and Bet joined us. You thought they were such nice girls, although we could still smell the semen on them from their latest clients. But then you didn't yet know that pleasure, did you, Oliver? As you read this you will have come of age and probably experienced the favours of prostitutes. If so, you'll know the delights of women don't match up to the little games we used to play. Just you, me, Charley and Jack. A sweet little foursome fondling and searching each other's treasures. It pained me greatly that
your oft-expressed desire to go on to the streets with the lads was not the product of a wish to widen your experience but to escape it. I don't mind admitting, my dear boy, I didn't want to part company with you. I had no problem taking payment from Monks to arrange for your career with us to become a permanent one. I was being paid for what was supremely pleasurable.

Although our acquaintance had just begun, I missed your pallid beauty desperately when the damned police took you because they believed you had stolen things from old Brownlow. Hence my determination to get you back, especially when I heard you were in a bed in his house. My bed was where I wanted you to be. So I had Nancy pretend to be your sister so she could reclaim you. That was how you first met Bill and his ferocious dog, Bull's-eye. Which did you fear most, Oliver? The cur or the curses? The fierce growling of that savage creature or the blows of Bill? And Mr Brownlow had given you such fine clothes to wear. Remember how Charley and Jack admired them and gradually began to strip you of them? You knew then how keen we were to see you again. And all you could do was ungratefully plead for mercy and beg to be sent back to that old man. Did he treat you better than us? Were his embraces more to your taste?

It wasn't the way to greet old friends. You can't blame us for encouraging Bull's-eye to attack you. Love-bites were all we wanted and you were playing so hard to get. When Nancy intervened so aggressively to protect you, I failed to recognize it as a warning sign that she might become a danger to all of us. It was seeing you stripped to the waist. It betrayed to her your origin because the scars on your shoulders marked you as a workhouse brat. It's beyond me
why someone should savagely beat a boy when there is so much pleasure to be had in other ways, but few escape permanent damage that pass through its care. You certainly hadn't. And suddenly there is Nancy, herself born and bred in its uncharitable environs, threatening to put that old fool Bumble's mark on all of us rather than see you hurt further. Her face white with rage, her emotion so high she bit her lower lip till the blood flowed. She swore she would rather have died than bring you back to us.

Bill had to shake her more than a little, didn't he, my dear, shake her till she fainted away. You later saw the livid bruises on her arms and neck. They were the first signs of the brutality she was to bear for your sake. And much of it in vain as was certainly the case this time. With her lying unconscious, Charley showed you the way to bed again and undressed you fully. I'm sure he lived up to his name of Master Bates. He had such a unique talent in that direction. Always a pleasure to watch him at work, although you were not – how shall I put it? – very forthcoming at the time. I seem to remember we had to resort to solitary confinement to win more co-operation from you. And we talked of the many delights of hanging – rather ironic in view of my position now. They say that a man gets an erection when he's hung. Well, Oliver, you'll still be in my thoughts as the very noose tightens around my neck and it will not be the rope that brings me a final pleasure. My dear boy, does the image of my love give you secret delight? As a man, can you bear to caress another and not think of my caresses? No amount of contrition can erase our past. Think of it, Oliver, just you and I damned together for eternity for our actions.

But the memory of past pleasures leads me to digress. As I have intimated, Nancy's view of you changed when she
saw your workhouse origins. I later discovered it was not the scars that had moved her so greatly but a small birthmark visible on your back. It made her desperate to discover more about you. This was an easy task for her to accomplish. You had told most of your story to the Dodger and he was always ready to spend the time of day with Nancy. It turned out that the workhouse from which you had escaped was the same one into which I had forced Nancy to surrender her own bastard child some years ago. A bastard child with a birthmark very similar to the one you carry. Brownlow may have imagined he saw a family resemblance in your features and Monks may have believed you to be his half-brother, but Nancy saw in you her own long-lost child. That is why she was prepared to do anything to save you and why it was only on the night she was murdered that you really became an orphan. So you see, my dear boy, your ancestry truly fitted you to be one of us.

Nancy was able to enlist the help of the up and coming journalist Dickens, whom she had met in earlier days. I shouldn't be surprised if it was more than words between them. He's a handsome, high-spirited, energetic chap, even if his clothes are a bit loud for a gentleman and his speech a trifle too affected. I have good reason to detest the man but I can see why ladies would like him, with his fresh-faced pinky complexion, fine forehead, firmly set mouth, and expressive eyes. And Nancy had a way with the toffs. It was probably part payment for pleasing him so much that made Dickens express his willingness to help her rescue you from me. And together they came up with a plan. Nancy would pretend to go along with my desire to ensure you became a full-blown thief. She would ensure that we got wind of a house ripe for the plucking. In reality the inmates of that
house, who were known to Dickens, would be tipped off about the burglary. They would be waiting for the break-in and they would ensure you were retaken from us. It almost all went like clockwork. Bill and his mate, Toby Crackit, took you on their ill-fated expedition, much to your terror at the time. They found the house, broke through one of its small windows, and thrust you inside so you could then let them in by the street door. Your rescuers were at hand and fired their guns to serve a double purpose. They wanted not only to send Bill and Toby running, but also to make them believe you had been wounded and probably killed. Nancy had the sense to appreciate your future would only become secure if Monks and I believed you were dead.

I was horrified by the news, not least because for a time I did indeed believe you had been killed. However, I sent out my spies and it wasn't long before your survival was known. And, indeed, your story then acquired a wider fame because Dickens betrayed both you and Nancy. He saw in your tribulations a perfect story to help him achieve fame by uncovering the horrors of the workhouse system. He began writing in monthly installments about you, although he must have known it would endanger Nancy's life and your future. People say he is a great writer and that he has a strong social concern to help others. I think he had a stronger desire to become famous. You and poor Nancy were just steps to that.

Contrast Dickens's motives with mine and then you'll see you meant more to me than to him. I, who hate travelling, even journeyed with that sniveller Monks when he proved determined to see you. I wanted to ensure he brought no harm to you. We had to tread carefully to avoid detection by those who guarded you, but we did manage one evening to
draw near to the house unseen. My heart leapt when I saw you sitting asleep by the window, still clutching in your hands the book you had been reading. The jessamine and honeysuckle that crept over the casement were not as attractive to my nostrils as the smell of your sweet, sweet body. Who knows what Monks would have done had he been alone. He was so consumed with rage at the sight of you, it was all I could do to restrain him from climbing through the window. As it was, it was my efforts to draw him away which aroused you from your slumber. You screamed for help when you saw me, but there was no need, Oliver. I was only protecting you from Monks.

But let me come to the point. It was your precious Dickens who informed me of Nancy's treachery. He wasn't the first and he won't be the last journalist to betray his sources. He even sent me advance information of her intended meeting with Brownlow and Rose Maylie, counting on me to ensure she was removed. Believe me, Dickens wanted Nancy killed. And the more brutal the method the better. And I, blind fool that I was, did what he expected. All I could think about was that Nancy had ensured you might never again be in my hands. She had no right to do that and her actions endangered us all. You knew too much about us all for your escape to be ignored.

Beside myself with a mixture of jealousy and fear, I told Bill what Dickens had told me. I spelt out to him how she had given him laudanum to send him to sleep so that she could steal out at night to find those most interested in our downfall and peach to them. I got young Bolter to tell how he'd followed her and seen her meet a gentleman and a lady. He spelt out how she had told against us without her being under any kind of threat or compulsion. I will not pretend
ignorance. I knew what reaction all this would evoke in Bill. Even at the best of times, he was an easy man to arouse. He left me with such anger and bitterness in his heart that I knew what the outcome would be and I rejoiced at the prospect of what he would do to her. I felt certain he would dance to my tune.

But, remember, Oliver, Dickens used me as much as I used Bill. Can you imagine what it's like for me to know I was tricked into actions that have condemned me to the gallows and not to know the reason why Dickens did what he did? If so, you'll know why I want you now to find out why he wanted Nancy dead. I want you to seek out the truth so that old Fagin will have the last laugh over this alleged great writer. His motive must be one he wants hidden from the world and I want you to expose it. It's in your interests to do so because, believe me, Dickens knows more about Nancy and about your birth than he has written about, and you know less about your origins than you think. You see, dear boy, I cannot comment on Nancy's belief that you might be her child but I can say I think you are not and never were any relation to the Maylies or to Monks. It is my view that Nancy will have revealed to Dickens secrets about your birth. Secrets that she kept hidden from me and from Bill and from you. Those secrets may have cost Nancy her life. Certainly they were secrets that Dickens hoped would die with her.