OLIVER – THE TWIST
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Introduction
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It was the type of night that the old city wore like a banner, a familiar image several generations later. The dirty yellow-brown smog wrapped itself about everyone and everything, "you're mine" it said, knowing that none could gainsay it. The figure in a drab coat, with his hat pulled low, walked into the mews unobserved, stepping down into the area at the back of the premises. He'd made himself familiar with the place over the past week, coming and going in various guises, an unremarkable working man. By night he'd patrolled the main street with a regularity that failed to coincide with the beat of the local bobby.
"Give me the child until he is seven and I will show you the man," said the philosopher. Less distinguished individuals might perhaps make a similar claim. Certainly, the ageing man testing the bars of the window, at the back of that dark house, had lost nothing of his ancient learning. A peculiar appliance, extracted from a capacious pocket, locked snugly onto two bars. With great ease he turned the central crank and the metal rods bent then snapped. Within a couple of minutes he'd removed all five bars. He removed his jemmy from that useful coat - having placed the broken bars in the shadows - to prise open the window. There I think we must leave him and see what lead to these events.
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A night on the town
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"I'll be late, Bullard" said Mr Twist, turning back to his man. Bullard wasn't a typical manservant, being as familiar with the stone jug as he was with the dressing of a gentleman. He did however have other useful qualities: not least his familiarity with half the prigs and flash-houses in town. It was fifteen years since Bullard had rescued Twist from an encounter with the Si Fan (a criminal gang or Tong) of Limehouse. His employer had many faults but ingratitude wasn't one of them.
"Very good, sir."
"Your time is your own; be here by breakfast." Oliver Twist's domestic arrangements were simple enough for a man of his wealth. He lived in rented chambers, kept the one servant and no carriage. Having lost much of his first fortune he was determined to cling tight to his second. He wasn't greedy but he exhibited some caution except with trivial expenses.
A police Sergeant walked down the street, doing his rounds, checking on each of the Constables on their beats. He was a tall, handsome man, looking the epitome of authority in his smart uniform. "Good evening, Mr Twist."
"Evening, Sergeant; a quiet night?"
"So far. Having a pleasant evening out?"
"I'm going to a music hall; in Camden. Have you been to the Canterbury of late?"
The Canterbury was a more fashionable place than Twist's destination. "Not recently," the officer said with a sigh of regret.
"We must do something about that; have a word with Bullard if you've a fancy to go again." Mr Twist had a private box at the Canterbury that Sergeant 'Honest' Jack Tumbrel been known to use.
"Much obliged to you, Mr Twist."
"Not at all, Sergeant, it's a pleasure to help our police."
The Lighthorseman music hall didn't trouble to hide its origins as a public house. Although extended over the years it still smacked as much of the tap room as a palace of varieties. The owner hadn't even troubled to change its name; unbeknownst to him, it wasn't worthwhile. The hall would last just one more year before burning to the ground due to a carelessly discarded cigar. Oliver Twist didn't have the entrée to polite society (for his name was an evil one) but he generally frequented better places than The Lighthorseman.The attraction was a certain up and coming singer, Miss Lily Rosedale, the Yorkshire Songbird. Twist had sent gifts, with his card, to her dressing room on two occasions and hoped to be introduced to her backstage, that very night.
The music hall was on a street corner in the heart of Camden. Huge posters listed its sundry attractions: the third rate tumblers, second rate serio-comics and those hopefuls who topped the bill. Large plaster statues of obese cherubs and squint eyed nymphs held coloured lanterns proclaimed it to be a venue of 'culture'. There was nobody outside when the Hansom drew up as the entertainment had begun some time earlier; no need for 'House Full' signs that night as business was not particularly brisk. Twist entered through one of the two double doors (the only on-street access for several hundred potential customers). Safety wasn't much of a concern at The Lighthorseman (or indeed at many of the music halls). Fairly recent regulations had forced some improvements on reluctant owners, such as the introduction of safety curtains. Nevertheless, a number of halls remained firetraps. The foyer was decorated with slightly worn golden trellis and faintly spotted looking glasses. "Good evening sir," said the attendant. It was unusual for the hall to attract a gentleman in evening dress unless he was management.
"Good evening; I have a box reserved, name of Twist."
"Certainly sir; John!" The man snapped his fingers, "Show Mister Twist to Box One." There were only four boxes (none reserved indefinitely) which were generally taken by friends of the management or those of the star turn. Oliver followed a young man to a set of stairs up to a carpeted corridor, its walls lined with more tarnished trellis and fading, painted fruit.
The auditorium was rectangular as some of the older, less fashionable venues often were. It was two thirds full with a fair number of women in the audience. Thursday night was Ladies Night at The Lighthorseman and it always attracted several family groups too. Mechanics and their wives enjoyed winkles or ham sandwiches; the white coated waiters threaded their way between the tables even during the performances. Respectable shopkeepers and tradesmen drank porter and treated their loved ones to glasses of port. Young clerks on a midweek spree kept the cigar boy busy, they blew a cloud and gave alarmingly vocal opinions of the various turns.
Brandy was brought to Mr Twist (one of those decent bottles kept for the all-too-rare affluent patrons). He endured an ageing chanteuse performing sentimental ballads, followed by Wilmslow Willie, a comic singer whose songs were a blend of humour and pathos. Below Twist's box sat a small man with two male companions. He had the appearance of a successful publican which, in fact, he was. There was something about the fellow that kept drawing Oliver's eye to him.
The Chairman (one of the last of a dying breed) banged his gavel and said in a stentorian voice, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please show your appreciation again for the wonderful Wilmslow Willie!" There was a decent ripple of applause; even the lively clerks were inclined to mercy. "I regret to inform you that Miss Lily Rosedale – the Yorkshire Songbird – cannot be with us this evening…" He broke off because there was some jeering and the clerks expressed their displeasure by throwing nuts. "I am sorry ladies and gentlemen, but it was beyond our control. We do, however, have another wonderful act for you; please welcome, for the first time at The Lighthorseman: Charlie 'Man about Town' Bromley!
"You should have taken her off the bill!" protested a usually mild mannered clerk from Lincolns Inn.
Oliver Twist drained his glass and rose to go. He picked his hat off the peg and shrugged himself into his coat. As he descended the stairs he saw the small bow-legged man below, talking loudly with his pals, "They take us for two foot rules, my dear." His voice was as loud as his suit, being made more confident still by drink. Twist's stopped, seemingly to adjust his gloves, but his eyes continued to watch the men below.
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Weighing the odds at the Cap and Bells
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Gawky Dodds pushed open the door to the 'best room' from which there was already a low buzz of conversation and a high fuzz of tobacco smoke. "Hullo! Who ordered a maypole?" a supposed wit quipped.
Jim Hawksworth looked up. "Hullo, Mr Dodds; c'mon over and pull up a chair. A wet for the gen'leman," he told the barmaid. Hawksworth, a small, slightly plump man of some sixty years was master of all that he surveyed. He was licensed to sell beer and spirits and was duly respected.
"Thank you, Mr Hawksworth," said the younger man, anticipating his first drink of the evening. He usually allowed himself no more than four a night (as work began at seven in the morning). Six days a week as an attendant at the museum was supplemented by three evenings singing. That earned him an additional fifteen to eighteen shillings a week. It was tiring though; at times Hawksworth might have propped his eyelids open with matchsticks.
"Got some bang-up songs for us then, 'ave ye?"
"Yes indeed, Mr Hawksworth including a new composition of my own."
"Good is it?"
"I am rather pleased with it," Freddy Dodds said modestly. "It's called my Old Childhood Pal."
"I look forward to 'earing it," the landlord said. "Scuse me would ya', there's a covey wants a word with me." A man (a labourer judging by his clothes) loitered by the bar trying to catch his eye. The 'Cap and Bells' wasn't just a musical venue but was also something of a sporting pub. Displaying lists for betting purposes had been forbidden for some years but gambling had continued unchecked. Hawksworth was known as a sound fellow, a discreet agent for others involved in the business. Anyone anxious to take their chance on a horserace or boxing match could see the knowing barman of the 'Cap and Bells' who'd be only too happy to take their money.
By seven o'clock the Harmonic Society began with the landlord chairing proceedings. "Gentlemen – and any of you what isn't gentlemen – may I welcome you to the Cap and Bells, famous for the quality of its musical entertainments, its beer and its barmaids," (that to some applause). "We are fortunate to have Mr Dodds with us once again, one of these days, you mark my words, he'll be snapped by the Canterbury. So, let's enjoy him while we can and if any of you generous fellers want to keep his throat lubricated I reckon as he'll appreciate it!"
There was some ragged applause and good natured joshing as Dodds stepped up. "Good evening everyone; it's a pleasure to be here again," he said with a polite nod to the landlord. "The first song is called My Old Childhood Pal." He began to recite, "We were boy's together; always the best of pals, nothing could come between us." Freddy began to sing, "Except a head of golden curls, those little white teeth that shone like pearls." Two strangers entered the saloon and sat down. They looked like respectable working men in heavy jackets and billycock hats. A close observer might have noticed a slight shiftiness in their manner. They were served and - not being inclined to converse - their gaze flitted about the room and its patrons. Like wary flies, it didn't settle on anyone, or anything, in particular for more than a moment.
"He was my best chum,
Helped me in every scrap and scrape,
Be it e'er so rum,
Ripe for every trick and jape,"
Jim Hawksworth slipped behind the bar and made a note in his pocket book before calling a young man through from the other bar. The boy was what they called a leg – in other words a bookie's runner. Jim had quite a list of wagers to forward to his shadowy acquaintances.
Dodds had reached the chorus and the audience seemed reasonably appreciative.
"He was my old childhood pal,
Trusted him with my very life,
But what a fool I was,
To trust him with my wife,"
"What do you reckon then?" said one of the strangers sotto voce.
His companion shrugged. "Dunno yet. The landlord's an old feller; we could settle his hash easily enough. The women and a couple of young lads are no problem. We'll stay for a few and come back in a couple of days." He looked up and gestured at the barmaid. "Porter - two more," he ordered.
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The private world of Mister Oliver Twist
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At this point it may be useful to read an extract from Oliver's unpublished memoirs. That interesting (if unfinished) document was found amongst his effects and remains in private hands. I was privileged to read it and have kindly been allowed to release the following extract from its introduction:
"My early history is in the public domain thanks to the offices of Mr Dickens and it has dogged me all my life. It made me a figure of interest, of sympathy and of fun. In truth he did as good a job as any biographer might without access to my private memories. Unknowingly he presented me as an entirely passive victim tossed about by the tides of life. Only in his account of my confrontation with the workhouse authorities did he come near to my true self. Such an upbringing hardens a person or breaks them entirely. Mr Dickens, like Mr Brownlow and my Aunt before him, wanted a fragile youth and that is what I was happy to give them.
My guardian's early death did of course sadden me. He was my benefactor and the fountainhead of much that was good. I was too young at twenty three for the monies that I inherited. I immediately resigned my commission in the Guards and threw myself upon the fashionable world with gay abandon. I was an object of curiosity to some and a pigeon to be plucked by others. My Aunt (who died shortly after) had already begun to hear evil rumours of my career. I was almost relieved to hear of her death (I'm aware that sounds callous). My doings nearly proved ruinous; by twenty five I had frittered away three quarters of my inheritance. No doubt I'd be bankrupt or washed up by the Thames if things had gone on. I owe my redemption (of sorts) to my friendship with Sir Vivian Crossland. He too had a bad name, being the most terrible rake of the Regency era. His entry to the upper ten thousand had been rescinded long before Sailor Bill came to the throne. Even that old roué George IV considered him to be of poor ton. By the time that I met Crossland he had stopped plunging heavily and was something of a reformed character. He had a liking for me and took me under his wing. He taught me the tricks that card sharpeners used (many of which had probably been used against me). Under his aegis I shunned the hells and learned about horseflesh. Crossland was still welcome in the greatest stables in the country, even if he wasn't invited to dine at the owners' tables. I soon realised that I had a talent for the track and could pick a winner more times than not. By the time Sir Vivian passed away I was familiar with every owner and trainer of significance.
My career as a 'bookmaker' had already begun by that time. I was on my way to making a second fortune and had been befriended by many a gentleman gambler. I might not dine with their families, or be invited to their balls, but they remain happy to make a discreet wager with me. It was through such an acquaintance (whose name I will omit) that I acquired the 'book' of a bookmaker who ran his business through the public houses of Seven Dials. The transition was seamless – I took over his agents and contacts – paying them well – and things expanded more than I could have imagined. Any wager placed in an inn or alehouse of Seven Dials, Covent Garden or St Giles is ultimately made with me. Unexpectedly I found myself at the centre of someone else's web. Most of the ordinary punters have no idea who I am – nor do most of the 'legs' that transmit the details to my lieutenants. A number of publicans know my identity – as do some of the local criminals. I employ a crew of ruffians to ensure my safety. Some of the local policemen have proved friendly, not least a couple of sergeants and an inspector. A weekly wage or generous gifts ensure that the police protect my interests and turn a blind eye when required."
I will leave these unedifying memoirs there and return to my tale.
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The distinguished customer
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The manager of The Lighthorseman was a man with a permanently harassed look. It was as if the running of a rowdy dowdy music hall had taken Timothy Codling by surprise and he resented it. The booking of the stage box (on the prompt side) for six weeks had been the only bright thing on a difficult Monday morning. "Nice to have a gentleman," he observed cheerfully, watching Mr Twist's 'secretary' leave.
"His toff got the wrong hall?" Tom Leaning, the clown, suggested. He was in shirtsleeves and baggy trousers, for there was no show until the evening. He was unrecognisable out of his motley.
Mr Codling ignored his comical colleague, "After the debacle with the 'Yorkshire Songbird' it's most heartening to rent a box out."
"Oo's he after then?"
"Doubtless he enjoys the entertainment," Codling said sniffily.
"He's after one of the girls, more like," Leaning said cynically.
Tom Leaning - if he thought about it at all – would have had to admit that he'd been wrong. The short term tenant of the stage side box made no advances towards the dancers (or any other performer). He didn't stand outside the stage door at eleven thirty with a carriage waiting. There were no extravagant bouquets sent backstage. His card wasn't forwarded to any of the dressing rooms, asking for an audience. There were no bottles of champagne or pretty trinkets for any performer. Instead, Mister Twist attended the show four times a week, accompanied by a neatly dressed fellow who had the appearance of a Head Clerk and a burly man who looked like a ruffian in a borrowed suit (which he was). He sat through several score of turns from Lancashire Clog dancers to robust young ladies bringing opera to the masses. The painted curtains of the proscenium (The Lighthorsemancouldn't run to the real thing) became as familiar to him as the velvet ones of this own study. The fog rising from the two-penny smokes and the fizz of the limelight became a temporary feature of his life. This went on until the end of the third week when Mr Twist apparently lost all interest in The Lighthorseman.
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An offer is made
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"Hullo gents, what's your pleasure?" said Jim Hawksworth. It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon and the Cap and Bells was devoid of all but a couple of regulars. The two men who'd entered looked like mechanics in their unremarkable working gear. He'd seen them before but hadn't got to know them.
The taller of the two looked at the old fellow sat by the fire as if he might be an informer. He tapped his nose and said, "I hear that you're a sporting cove and might know where we can lay a fair sized wager."
The landlord rubbed his damp hands on his (fairly) clean apron. "I'm the chap; whether you lay an alderman or a pony."
"Can we talk in here?" said the second man, edging towards the Snug.
"This is the safest crib in town but, if it makes yer 'appy, why not?" Jim reflected. Once inside the snug, the strangers made a point of shutting the door. It was then that they revealed a cosh and a pair of brass knuckles. "You've made a big mistake, boys," they were told.
"No, Mr Hawksworth; we're here to advise you not to make a mistake."
As confident as a cockerel, the landlord smiled. "I've been threatened by experts. I was brought up in a ken that'd make yer hair stand on end."
"Old man - old man - those days have gone," said the shorter, paler fellow. "Now, we're here to make you an offer that you'd be wise not to refuse."
"You gonna promise to keep the peace hereabouts?"
"No," the darker man told him, "We're the local agents for a well known sporting organisation. The people that we represent are the top people in town for taking wagers. What they want to do is offer their services to you."
"This is better than a play," Jim said humorously. "We're already well set in that line, thanks."
"But now our people are moving in."
"Do you know who yer messing with?"
"An old pot man," said the tall man scornfully.
"Does the name Pat Kelly mean anything to you? All gambling here goes through him." The aforementioned Mr Kelly was a moderately influential local villain who had two main lines (gambling and the fencing of stolen goods).
"He's nothing more than a magsman," was the reply. "Now, we represent the number one name in the business, up west."
"Up west? You're a modest trot from home, old son. This is Camden and we don't appreciate flash coves sending Covent Garden porters off their patch just to stir the pot. Take my advice and be off."
"You have seven days to consider our offer and see sense, Mr Hawksworth. There'll be no unpleasantness as yet. In the meantime we've been asked to say one more thing to you." And, with that, he said it…
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The Lending Shop
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Number seven Cobnut Court hid itself in a shady corner of a dingy court, near Flower and Dean Street. If anything it seemed even older than its elderly neighbours. Is it fanciful to suppose that it had fled there from another place, avoiding the great fire of '66 (being already aged at that time)? Had it been dependent upon passing trade it would have long since closed its shutters. Fortunately for the proprietor, Lucius Tallow, being out of the public gaze was a matter of some importance. Ostensibly he ran a lending shop – an unofficial pawn shop – where the poor might pledge small items. The impoverished always find such places however well hidden.
There was however a peculiarity to the shop; an architect or builder might notice what the untrained eye couldn't. The dimensions of several rooms were significantly smaller than might be expected. If every board and panel was lifted, what unexpected treasures might have been revealed? Mr Tallow's main income came from the fencing of stolen goods. Seven Cobnut Court was a flash-house and a successful one to boot.
The shopkeeper's third line of business was what might be called tool hire. He didn't rent out the kinds of items that honest workmen might need. He specialised in those tools required by cracksmen and housebreakers. One Friday night, in October, Lucius was in the private parlour of his shop, cleaning his latest acquisition: a pair of pistols. It was ten at night, two hours before the official closing time. The shyer of his clientele were prone to come to the side door at any time of day or night anyway. Tallow polished the pistols until they gleamed (remember that the fingerprinting of suspects was unknown) merely out of professional pride. There was always a demand for firearms, which he would rent out on a daily basis.
"Lovely," he declared, with satisfaction, wrapping the guns in cloth.
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Matters of business are discussed
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Lovell Lane, known locally as Lover's Lane, was a blind alley running in a dogleg off Hart Street. Hart Street (now Floral Street) was notorious then for its filth and its disorderly houses. Number five Lovell Lane was a private house with a door to the street left open permanently. A red, transparent blind was illuminated from behind by gas light. The cognoscenti knew that signified an accommodation house where rooms might be let at four shillings a night. The young women that brought men there were only remarkable for a lack of bonnets, or shawls, and sometimes their skirts were lifted a little too high. If one chose to walk through the nearby streets at two o'clock in the morning one would have seen the lines of carts and barrows heading towards Covent Garden market.
The guardian of the accommodation house was one Tobias Pease. Ignorance as to his ultimate employer protected both parties. The agent (Samuel Barber) occupied the ground floor rear and paid Tobias his weekly wage, which was all Tobias needed to know. He wouldn't have been surprised though to find out that the true owner was the well dressed gent that occasionally used the top floor; usually at night.
Late one Wednesday evening, a Hansom cabriolet picked its way along Hart Street. The dirt and damp made for a more cautious journey than at other times. It wanted but half an hour until midnight and a coffee stall stood near the corner of Lovell Lane. The spring barrow held a table on which sat several cans of coffee, warmed by a charcoal burner. The stall hadn't been set up for more than a few minutes and the coffee was still lukewarm. The only customer thus far didn't intend to pay 1/2d for his drink - and two thin slices of bread and butter – so the proprietor didn't greatly care. Samuel Barber drank the coffee without comment; only when he noticed the passengers disembarking from the Hansom did he complain. "It was cold," he said, putting the mug down on the table.
"Sorry, Mr Barber," said the street-seller insincerely. He was wary of Barber though, whose reputation went before him.
"Excuse me, sir!" Barber called as he walked towards the cab.
"Ah, Barber," said Mr Twist. "Just wait here a moment, dear," said the gentleman. The young woman with him was about twenty and of tall, elegant stature. She wore a black silk cloak that looked better in the dark, and her bonnet was gaily decorated with ribbons. Sophie Milliner had once been a sewing girl in a genteel residence in the West End. Of late she'd resided on Dean Street, Soho, with what was euphemistically called a 'fancy man'. We would call him what he was: a pimp.
"Good evening, sir," said Barber. "A friend of yours?" he said pointedly, glancing towards Miss Milliner.
"A Haymarket ladybird as you very well know," Twist said with a grimace.
"No offence meant, sir."
"None taken," Oliver replied. "How goes business?"
"Very well; this week most of the punters haven't known prime horseflesh from a donkey."
"That's very heartening," said the man of business. He took out a cigar case and offered one to Barber. "Now, that other matter – Mr Hawksworth at the Cap and Bells – how goes it?"
"A couple of the boys visited him last night and made him a proposal."
"Will he accept?"
"They always do, in the end," Barber reflected. "They've given him seven days."
"Is there likely to be any trouble?"
"All the betting is done through Pat Kelly; he's nothing."
"Kelly, hey? We ran him out of Covent Garden years ago," Twist said with a nod. "Did your boys use the name I gave them?"
"So they said," Barber confirmed. "They weren't entirely sure what it all meant?"
Mister Twist, impervious to the hint, added "Make sure they're back in a sennight." He started to turn away then remembered, "Oh, one more thing. There's a Constable Lemuel Shaw: you said that his beat takes him past the Cap and Bells?"
"That's right."
"Pay him a couple of yellow boys this week and two more the following week. I like to show my appreciation of our brave police force."
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Funny business
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"Go on, boy," said Jim Hawksworth, "you're not meeting your sweetheart on the dilly, get those pots back."
Peter Winkworth abandoned the attempt to straighten his muffler, grinned and placed his hat so far back that he seemed likely to lose it with any sudden movement. "Yes, Mr Aitch." Fourteen year old Peter was the potboy at the Cap and Bells. His principal duties were to collect and wash used mugs and also to walk the neighbourhood with foaming cans of beer, a measuring jug, and twenty pots hanging on a stick. In a morning he had to go out and collect the empty pots, generally left out on railings or walls. As he set off he didn't notice the two loafers in the street watching him.
"Cheek! I'll give him something for his bloody cheek: an efink!" The man was angry and spat crumbs everywhere as he talked.
"Pass the plate," said Jed, allowing his leader's rant to go over his head. Edward pushed the plate of German sausage towards him. The trio were sat in the main room of Pat's house, which was a cross between a thieves' kitchen and the Property Store of a provincial theatre. A battered Chinoiserie screen concealed a chamber pot on a bare table. A battered hat rested atop a Grecian statue with a chipped nose. The air was thick with smoke as all present were happy to smoke and eat at the same time.
"Not bad are they?" Edward remarked of the sausages (fried to the point of being burnt).
Jed shrugged, "I liked it better when it ran in the Derby," (which was an unkind slur).
"Will you two shut up about sausages," Pat snapped. "Twist thinks he's moving into Camden does he? Well, he's got another think coming."
"Young Tom has gone to ground and they made a right mess of Isaac." Two of the legs had been beaten up as a warning to stay out of the Cap and Bells.
The candles in the candelabrum continued to splutter. It was a pretty piece of heavy silver; doubtless the legal owners had thought so too. "There's a real draught this morning," Edward complained.
"And it's blowing from Covent Garden," Pat said bitterly. "Well, Twist is off his patch and had better get back on it or… steps will be taken," he said impressively, if vaguely. At that moment there was a knock on the street door. Jed returned with a sly looking youth who hung around their gang in the hope of picking up the occasional sixpence.
"Oh, it's you, what is it?" Pat asked.
"Please, Mr Kelly, I've brought you some news."
"Spit it out then boy."
"It's Peter, the potboy at the Cap and Bells…" It's probably worth noting at this juncture that Peter was a distant cousin of Mrs Sally Hawksworth. Being childless, Peter was something like a favourite son to the couple.
"What of him?"
"He's been done over by two strangers; had his arm broken. They got away. Mr Hawksworth said you should know."
"This is beyond a joke!" Pat raged, standing up.
"Yes, Mr Kelly. I've run straight here to give you the message," said the young hopeful.
"Give the boy sixpence," Pat commanded. "We need to stop this, right here!"
Even if the doors to London's club-land had long since been barred to Twist, most days saw him entering Lollard's Chop House, just off St James', at precisely five minutes to two. Any gentleman requiring him was thus able to accost him in the street or approach him as he dined. Slips or folded papers were discreetly proffered. Disdaining convention, Oliver always brought his own newspaper, which was neatly placed on top of such offerings. The waiters (worried looking fellows who had to pay to launder the linen) survived on tips and always found Mr Twist most generous. They were happy to guide a visitor to his table. Of its sort the place was decent – it wasn't a slap bang where one's meal was thrust before one. The regular diner sat waiting for his veal (having been warned off the beef by a solicitous waiter) when a young man approached the table. He was well dressed but had a distracted air. "Mr Twist, may I speak with you?"
Twist was at a small table, which only seated two and was generally reserved for him. "Please, sit down, Mr Carnaby."
"Thank you," the younger man said, twisting his gloves nervously in his hands.
"You have something for me?" Twist said, coming straight to the point.
"That's the thing," said Carnaby, "I know that this is jolly inconvenient but I'm a little short of funds right now."
"And what is that to me?" Oliver said pointedly.
"It's not that I can't pay, it's just that I need a little more time. I get my allowance quarterly you see – and it will be another five weeks."
"If you'd won you would have given me five weeks to pay, I suppose?"
"Well… I see what you mean. The thing is that I've had a bit of bad luck. When I made the wager I did have the money but… well… I've been a trifle unlucky with the cards too."
"Meaning you won't pay me."
"Meaning I can't pay, dash it," said the agitated young man.
"You know that I have your note-of-hand?"
"Of course, and you will get your money," Carnaby promised, "just not yet."
"Why don't you go to the cents-per-cent?"
"Money lenders! That would cost me a fortune," the visitor objected. "Any way, I couldn't possibly be seen there".
"What price peace of mind?"
"Well, I'm sorry but I can't do that. I truly regret this but you will just have to wait. I promise you faithfully that you will have the money five weeks today."
"It's amazing that when a man owes money he suddenly does one a favour by even considering payment," Twist reflected.
"That's unfair."
"No, unfair is if I write to your father," Oliver pointed out.
"You wouldn't! He'll burst a blood vessel!"
"Well, if you consider your father's health to be of importance, I suggest you seek out a loan," Twist concluded.
Stepney, Bethnal Green, Spitalfields and Whitechapel had been Hawksworth's nursery. It was the particular briar patch that he'd been born and bred in. Not that he'd gone there very often of late: an 'old lag' like him should perhaps still have been on the other side of the world. The Australian climate hadn't suited Mr Hawksworth for he was bred in a murkier, foggier clime. Not that he ever talked about either place for, with a change of name, he had determined to erase his past. No, he hadn't lived in those parts for nearly half a century. He'd been a boy when he'd left and he was then a grey haired man. There was little risk of being recognised but he still had at least one acquaintance there from his youth. He'd bumped into the man by chance when they were both in their cups. Allowing his mouth to run away with him, his old acquaintance had admitted that he was still 'in the business' (by which he meant crime) and in a much bigger way. The publican, that reformed character, now sought him out.
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The finale - He bows out
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"Dodger," Oliver Twist said, startled. There'd been no obvious sign of forced entry to his rooms and he'd entered wholly unaware.
"For one night only," the intruder admitted. "Jack Dawkins esquire was last heard of on the other side of the world." He stared at Oliver with interest, "We've got old, Nolly."
"It comes to us all." Twist eyed the pistols levelled at his chest. "You think to murder me?"
"That depends on how much of a greenhead you are." The erstwhile Mr Dawkins looked at the portal. "Shut the door – if you make any sudden movements – or sounds – I'll fire and be hanged with it."
Twist did as he was bid and shut the door. "You'll hang, if you shoot me." He glanced about him to see if there was anything that might be used as a weapon or a distraction.
"I was born for the nubbing cheat as old Fagey used to call it," Dodger smiled.
"Don't speak to me of that devil!"
"The devil what stopped you from starving – or freezing – to death? Oh yes, Fagin was a regular devil, but not like those irregular devils in clean collars and tight weskits that run the parish!" That was an undeniable truth. The good, Christian gentleman that operated the Poor Law lacked the milk of human kindness. Dodger eyed his captive, "Well, Nolly, just back off a little further; that's it, good man."
"I'm curious to know how you tracked me down?" Oliver said, playing for time.
"Keeping me talking are ya? Well, do you remember young Charley Bates?"
Twist paused to consider then a juvenile member of Fagin's gang came back to his mind. "The pick-pocket?" he suggested.
"Well he's still in business, shall we say. He has a cross crib in Spitalfields and his own crew of prigs; done well for himself has Charley."
"If you call that doing well," Oliver sniffed.
"That, from a man like you? Nolly, Nolly, don't pretend that you're any better."
Oliver shrugged, "Go on; so Bates put you on to me?"
"Oh you're well known, mate, it was only a question of where you lived. Do you know, Charley offered to do you himself – have you screwed down – for £25?"
"Good of you not to take him up on it," Oliver said cynically.
"You ain't worth twenty five, Nolly. He soon found you though and put me onto a ken where I could get these pops. I can do it myself, if I choose."
"What do you want, Dawkins? You want me to stay out of the Cap and Bells? It's done," Twist promised. "It's not such a prize that it's worth my life."
"You stay out of Camden altogether; I don't want to see you," the publican told him.
"It's a deal, between two old pals."
"Don't come it, Nolly," said Dawkins bitterly. "Just remember, I know where to find you and I won't be so agreeable next time. We won't shake on it."
"I understand," said Oliver.
"It's clear then; this is the only warning you'll get. I mean it."
"I can see that you do. It's a deal."
Under the threat of the pistols, Oliver went back out to the entrance hall and opened the front door for his unwanted guest. A cold wind was blowing in from the east. There was the distant sound of singing as a party went on to a finish to dance and drink until dawn.
Carefully, Dawkins stepped out onto the steps, not lowering his guard. Twist watched him, weighing up whether it was worth calling for help. It wasn't. He couldn't afford his own private world to be opened up to the scrutiny of the authorities. "Goodbye then, Nolly," said Dawkins, slipping into the night and back into the normal life of Jim Hawksworth, landlord of the Cap and Bells.
Oliver stood for a few moments, watching the small figure vanish into the ill lit street. As he turned to go back inside he was suddenly aware of a shape rising up from the shadows of the area. "Goodbye, Nolly," the voice parroted; the last words Oliver Twist heard. Pat Kelly's bullet took him right in the throat. Edward Leaford, in Hell, laughed.
.
The end
Glossary
The area: a space in front of a building, access to a basement used by servants
Bang up: first rate
Bobby: A policeman (from the founder, Sir Robert Peel)
Bookie's runner: one who runs errands for an illegal book-maker
Coves: men (cant)
Cross Crib: a house frequented by thieves (cant)
Derby: a famous horse race
Dilly: Piccadilly; a place to promenade
Edward Leaford: a protagonist in Oliver Twist that attempted to have Oliver killed
Efink: Knife (back slang)
Fencing: the business of receiving stolen goods (cant)
Finish: a venue to end the night
Flash houses: a place where stolen goods are received
Greenhead: a naïve or immature person (slang)
Haymarket Ladybird: an area frequented by prostitutes
Hells: Gambling houses
Ken: a criminal's lair
Leg: see bookie's runner
Magsman: a street swindler
Nubbing cheat: the gallows (Georgian cant)
Prigs: thieves (cant)
Rowdy dowdy: low, vulgar (slang)
Screwed down: i.e. in a coffin
Sennight: a seven night i.e. a week
Serio comics: an act that is part serious and part comical
Settle his hash: deal with him physically
Smokes: cigars
Slap bang: the cheaper chop houses where one's plate is banged down in front of one
Si Fan: a reference to the Fu Manchu books of the early 20th century
Toff: an upper class person (from toffee nosed, a reference to a snuff taker)
Two foot rules: Fools (Cockney rhyming slang)
Weskit: a waistcoat (dialect)
Wet: a drink, a beer
Yellow boys: guineas, money (slang)