fagin returns

7/30/2019 Fagin Returns

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Fagin returns

Chapter 1. Prologue: Fagin Does Not Try to Explain HisMiraculous Resurrection and Predicts His Inevitable

Death

The question you are

asking, my dears, is did

I escape the rope, and if

so, how did this miracle

come about?

Well as to the first, my

dears, ain't I here before

you, large as life and

twice as natural, as my

old friend and colleague the Artful Dodger

used to have it, he that was awaiting me atthe gates of Newgate with a suitable

disguise to spirit me off to the Indies for a

new life, that started in conditions worse

than slavery and ended up with me, a

prosperous merchant, back in the capitalcity, breathing in the noxious fumes of

successful industry, after years of labouring

in God's fresh air. And didn't it begin with


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me toiling under a tropic sun, sweating like

the sons of Shem, and, today, me with one

of those same blackfellers my constantcompanion, wafting cool air upon my old

face every time I feel the sweat of honest

toil dewing my brow.

How are the mighty fallen, it is written, but

by the grace of He who sees all, the fallen

may be lifted up also, and their last statebeing better than their first, like Job of old.

You see before you, I

hope, an older and a wiser

man, my dears, and richer,

too, come back to tie upall the loose ends left in

the old tale, which had me

waiting behind bars,

waiting for a meagre last

meal before travelling in a

tumbrel to the appointed

place of my execution.


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But still you ask, how did I escape the

noose? Indeed I ask it too, for that is the

purpose of my return to the place of my riseand fall, to seek out those who caused my

downfall, if such be still living, as well as

whoever opened up the prison gates, as it's

said Paul and Silas were divinely favoured

in your Christian scriptures, for both evil

and good shall receive their just reward, onthis earth as well as in the next. Though I

must confess that I be of the Saducee

persuasion, who hold that this life be all

there is, and the end be of eternal darkness.

You observe, no doubt my dears, that myyears in exile have lent a philosophical cast

to my thinking. But then in the bad old

times, when the world would have cast its

stones upon me, for the "crime" of

befriending little beggar lads and training

them up to regain a small smidgeon of whatshould have been rightly theirs, if this had

been truly a Christian countryfor while I

deny the blasphemous legend of his divine


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conception, as must all my race, I do affirm

that the world would indeed be a better place

if the world were governed by his precepts,starting with that hanging judge who placed

a black rag upon his head to pronounce

sentence of death upon an old Jew who had

sought only to do good to those who lay

alongside of me in the gutter.

But still you ask, with the importunity ofthose who have not acquired the patience of

we who are as full of years as I, how comes

it that I escaped that dread fate?

Well, suffice it to say that jailers are

notoriously ill-paid, and someoneI maynot say who, at this stage, my dears, for

indeed I know not his or her name, though I

suspect young Nolly may have had a hand in

itsomeone unknown as yet to me, my

dears, produced the largesse that opened

wide those prison gates, and prevailed upon

the Dodger to come out of hiding and spirit

me away to where a vessel lay at anchor,

ready to set sail for the Indies on the next


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tide, taking me to what I hoped would be a

better life in the New World, but which

turned out, at the outset at least, to be much,much worse than anything I had experienced

heretofore, saving only that dread moment

when sentence was pronounced upon me,

and I truly believed that all was lost.

For a while in the Indies I was bound in

chains made of money, welded together withgreed, and ministering in my bondage to the

sweet tooths of ladies at their ttes--ttes,

and their menfolk doing their deals in the

coffee houses of the city, labouring as I did

for years in the sugar plantations.How I rose from being less than a slave, to

becoming, first, an overseer, then as kinder

treatment of my black brothers in bondage

was seen to have increased the crops

sevenfold, eventually to take command of

all my master's affairs, ultimately to take his

place when he died, leaving no issue (his

childless bride having died in stillbirth),

myself being the only named beneficiary in


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his will, all that is a tale you must needs

possess yourself in patience to hear in God's

good time, my dears, for it is not my mainpurpose here with you today, which is to see

that justice be done, before I be taken into

the great Darkness which awaits us all.

For know you that there has grown a canker

in my belly which defeats all the brilliance

of medical science, and I know that my timebe not long. It is possible that there may be

some medical genius at one of your new

hospitals with the genius to excise the

malign growth and grant me even more

fullness of days, but such is not my mainpurpose.

Revenge, sweeter than the cane which my

calloused hands learned to hate with every

fibre of my being, is certainly a

consideration. But reward, for those whose

beneficence brought me out of jail, is the

major part of it.


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So Fagin is dead, my dears, dead long since.

The one you see before you, dressed in silks

rather than the ragged gabardine you lastsaw me in, is the prosperous Mr Cohen, a

Jewish trader from the Indies, master of the

sugar trade.

And this middle-aged gent you see along of

me you might think once went by the

sobriquet of the Artful Dodger, but you'd bewrong, my dears. It's true I sometimes calls

him Dodge, when we're closeted at home,

remembering old times. But that's an old

friend's privilege.

To the world he now goes by his givenmoniker, so he's plain Jack Dawkins from

daybreak to sunset. What the doxies call him

outside the waking hours is not for polite

company to enquire, still less to know.

And so, as honest Abe Cohen and hispartner, Jack, set forth from Tilbury Dock to

find themselves lodgings, it's time our tale to

begin.


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Chapter 1. In which Mr Cohen and Mr Dawkins findlodgings

"Hoh yus," said the Dodgeror Jack

Dawkins, as we must learn to call him now"this will do wery well, wery well indeed."

The room was reasonably well-appointed,

though the windows somewhat begrimed

with many years of tobacco smoke. He

crossed to rub a porthole through which hecould view the bustle of the docks.

"It have a wery pleasant prospect," he

continued, "wery pleasant indeed."

He cocked his head on one side, like the

cockney sparrow he had always resembled,and fixed his eye on the landlady, as he

moved into haggling mode. For her part, she

was not too sure of what to make of him.

He looked prosperous enough, and there was

no mistaking the opulence of his Jewish

companion's dress. But there was something

about this other, she could not quite put her

finger upon it, which gave her pause.


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You can take the boy out of the slums, it is

said, but you can't take the slums out of the

boy. And despite the miasma of a fine bayrum that surrounded his carefully coiffed

head, there was a sort of metaphysical stink

about him, that worried her somewhat.

If she had known him in his days as a dirty-

faced pickpocket she would no doubt have

been hard put to it to recognise this smartly-dressed trader. Yes, the face was still snub-

nosed, flat-browed, his stature short, his legs

bow-legged in their drainpipe trousers, the

small, sharp eyes hooded, though bright with

sudden flashes of mischief.But then, as a boy he had even then had

about him all the airs and manners of a man,

mature in some ways beyond his tender

years.

His headgear was no longer the batteredtopper of yore, but still he wore his

billycock stuck on the top of his head so

lightly, that you might think it likely to fall


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off every moment. He still had that

mannerism of every now and then giving his

head a sudden twitch, bringing it back to itsold place again.

Gone was the ragged topcoat, too big for his

size, reaching nearly down to his heels, the

cuffs turned back, half-way up his arm, to

get his hands out of the sleeves. But he still

maintained the habit of thrusting them deepinto the pockets of his trousers; for there he

still kept them. Under the conservative mien

of a man of affairs could still be discerned

the roystering and swaggering of a young

gentleman at war with the world, for ever insearch of the main chance, his rather ugly

eyes darting about, as if to look out for

Peelers, or a gentleman so careless as to

leave a silk handkerchief hanging out of his

pocket, or a lady whose purse was just

begging to be snatched.

He was, in short, the very model of a

modern man of business. Rather than

picking the pockets of the moderately well


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off, he had learned that there were better

pickings in the higher echelons of society.

He took an elegantly manicured hand out ofhis pocket, a purse in his fist, which he

proffered to her.

"A month in advance, I think you said,

ma'am," he said. "How about if we made it a

twelve-month?"

"Oh, come now Jack, my dear," objected the

old Jew, "let's not be too hasty, eh? We may

find more elegant accommodation up west."

But the purse had transferred from Dawkins'

fist into the landlady's pocket as if by a

conjuror's prestidigitation.

"That'll do very nicely, sirs," she said, her

heavily rouged cheeks creasing into a smile.

"It ain't Albany, I'll grant ye, Abie," said the

man, " but it will serve." He tapped his nose

with his forefinger. "And it be wery close tothe docks . . ." He left the sentence

unfinished, but Cohen could see the virtue of

easy access to oceanic transport, should a


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quick getaway become necessary, of a

sudden.

"You're right, of course, Jack my dear," hesaid, "as you nearly always are."

"We'll take it, ma'am," he said to the

woman, for all the world as if he were not

aware the transaction had already been

concluded, whether he approved of it or no.

"Well then, sirs," she said as she paused to

exit the apartment, "I shall send the boy up

with your boxes, shall I?"

"That will be very kind, ma'am," said the

Jew, "very kind indeed."

"'Wery kind indeed,'" mocked his

companion. "It's his job, Abie, ain't it? Or

d'you think I might busy meself hauling up

your stuff, doing me back in, up all them

stairs. And why do we need to be so high up,

eh, tell me that?""Those effluvia at ground level are bad for

my chest, you know that, Jack my dear. I'm

no longer a young man."


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"If you ever was one, eh, Abie," laughed the

younger man. "If you ever was one."

All this time, there had been anunacknowledged fourth person present, a

tall, handsome black man, dressed more

simply though no less elegantly than his

companions. He had stood to one side,

silently aware of all that had transpired,

uninvolved but yet not unconcerned with theoutcome of the proceedings.

He coughed quietly behind a white-gloved

hand.

"Pardon me sirs," he said, "but surely it

would be more appropriate for me to bringup your boxes." His voice was deep and

mellifluous, the substance of his speech like

the product of a mission school, which

indeed was where he had learned his

English, but also overlaid with the sing-songcadence of the Indies.

The landlady's eyes started almost out of her

head with alarm.


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"Thiser . . ." She cast around in her mind

for the appropriate designation for this

African apparition. "This, er, gentleman,"she tried again, "is he to be a part of your

establishment, sirs? Mrs Thweedle's

lodgings has always been very respectable,

with no goings on of any kind. I'm not at all

sure how my other lodgers would like to

share my roof with such a heathen.""Madam, I am no heathen," began that

worthy, but Dawkins interrupted him with

an impatient wave of his hand.

"Hush, Jimbo," he urged. "Leave this to

me.""Yes, ma'am," he continued, addressing the

lady directly, "this, er, gentleman is Mister

Cohen's manservant. His skin may be of a

different complexion to you or I, but he ain't

no heathen. He's right there. He be as good aChristian as most and better than many."

"But where shall he sleep? This apartment

has but two bedrooms!"


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in any way in question, then please address

yourself and your concerns to Mister

Dawkins here, or if all else fails, to myself.One of us will take care of the matter, in the

light of any such unlikely contingency."

There was a pause, while the landlady's

greed struggled with her sense ofamour propre,

the former ultimately gaining the victory

over the latter. She shrugged and raised herarms and dropped them to her side again,

and left the room.

"I shall fetch your boxes then, sir," said

Orinoco, and followed her through the door.

"'Mrs Thweedle's lodgings 'as always beenwery respeccable, with no goings on of any

kind'," mocked Dawkins in a high-pitched

falsetto. "'H'I'm not at all sure as 'ow my

other lodgers would like to share my roof

with such an 'eathen.'""You may laugh if you will, my dear," said

the Jew, "but I suspect it was no laughing

matter to Orinoco."


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feared being overheard, then continuing in a

whisper: "When I wasFagin, I had to watch

my P's and Q's, being at everyone's beck andcall, from Bill Sykes to Sir Robert Peel

himself. But now, thanks in a large part to

you, Jack my dear, I have been

transmogrified into a gent of means. I may

live as I please, for the gold in my pockets

gives me that right, isn't it?"And besides, what would you have had me

do, cast my lovely Orinoco adrift, to fend for

himself in the wild waters of the Caribbean?

The law may have freed his body from

slavery, Jack, but it has not freed men'ssouls from prejudice, as I know only too

well, having myself to overcome the

preconceptions clouding their perceptions of

my race."

"You always was too kind for yer own good,

Abie. But I loves yer fer it."


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"Well, then," said Dawkins after another

puff on his cigar, "what's on the old agenda

fer today, eh, Abie?""Why we must find little Nolly and see what

manner of a man he has grown into. And

perhaps involve him in a little matter of

trade I have in my mind, perhaps to our

mutual benefit."

"Oh that's more like it, Abie, man," said the

other, rubbing his hands together vigorously.

"I near lost the talent for trade, all those

weeks aboard ship with nought to do than

watch the flying fishes play. When do we

start?""Why, Jack my dear," exclaimed Cohen,

tapping the ashes of his pipe on to the floor

with none of his companion's fastidiousness,

"what better time than the present?

Procrastination is the thief of time, Jack mydear."

"So you always say, though I'm jiggered if I

know what it means."


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And, so saying, they both quit the room, as

Orinoco brought the first of their boxes into

it. As they left, he took a small brush fromhis pocket and swept his master's ash into

his palm.

Then he sat himself down, took a pipe from

his own pocket, and proceeded to enjoy it,

with his eyes closed.


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of the whereabouts of the house's former

residents."

There was indeed an urchin on the streetcorner, his nose running, his feet bare, on his

head a battered billycock like an elder

brother of the one on Dawkins' head.

"'Ere! You, kid! Come over 'ere."

The boy shambled over and wiped his noseon a sleeve already silvered by nasal mucus.

"Wha'?"

"This 'ouse, it's empty."

"Yus," was the answer to this self-evident

statement."Where've they gone?"

"Gawn."

"Where to?"

"'Ow much is it worth to you? Half a

sov'rin?"

Dawkins flipped him a sixpenny piece,

which the boy plucked out of the air with the

facility of a first-class cricketer.


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"A tanner? A measley tanner? You won't get

much for that in this city. Where you bin

lately, a charity kip?"Dawkins swung his arm to give the boy a

clip round the ear, but the target skipped

away out of range.

"They've gawn, that's all I know, scarpered.

The old man snuffed it, and when the

bailiffs come round to collect their owings

there wasn't nobody 'ome. They auctioned

off the furniture and stuff but they didn't git

much for it. Folks round here don't have

spare cash for much else than gin 'n' baccy."

"Let me speak to the boy, Jack my dear,"said Cohen, his voice settling into the same

wheedling tone he had used to his boys in

days of yore.

"Come here, young man. No one's going to

hurt you. My friend's sixpenny bit is onlythe first instalment of a much larger sum if

you can help us find our friends."

"Wha'?"


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"He means: there's lots more where that

come from, you play your cards right,"

explained Dawkins.The boy edged closer to the couple, taking

care to keep Cohen between himself and the

younger man, whose hand was still balled

into a fist.

"Wha' djoo wan' me t'do?" he demanded, his

voice trembling between terror and defiance.

Cohen draped his arm over the boy's

shoulders, Fagin-like, and whispered in his

ear.

"Even if you don't know where our friends

have gone, my dear," he said, "there must be

someone who knows more about their

whereabouts than you."

"Aw Abie," interjected Dawkins, "can't you

see ye're wastin' yer time? He knows

nought. Show 'im a sovrin and he'll tell youanyfink, and all of it lies."

"Maybe so, Jack, but maybe not. This here is

a boy and boys congregate in gangs, as you


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well remember. And boys talk. Perhaps one

of them carried some boxes for a few pence,

perhaps another heard them give instructionsto the coachman who carried them away.

Isn't it so, boy?"

"It might be. But it'd be worth more than a

tanner if I tell't ye."

"Of course it would, my dear. Of course it

would. You see, Jack, he does know

something."

"Yus, 'ow ter pull the wool over an' old

man's eyes, and 'im having fergit the ways of

the London streets, where it's dawg eat dawg

and divil take the 'indmost."

"Sometimes one has to trust one's instincts,

Jack my dear, and my instincts tell me this

scruffy lad is not unlike a similar one I took

into my employ and who grew into a mighty

trader. Not unlike you when we met, Jack."The Jew consulted his watch, a huge gold

timepiece taken from a weskit pocket.


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"'Tis time to dine. And no doubt this lad

could manage to join us in a meal at yonder

tavern. What d'you say, lad. Are youhungry?"

"I could murder some pig's trotters, sir."

"See, Jack, the lad has learned some

manners as soon as food is mentioned, even

though his chosen menu is offensive to me.

He'll be more helpful with a full belly."

The tavern was not crowded, but the roar of

customers shouting as if they were separated

by leagues rather than rough tables between

them made conversation difficult. A

mechanical piano stood, dusty and broken,in a corner. A couple of doxies performed an

ugly dance before it, bellowing out the

tuneless words of a raucous ditty in lieu of

music.

"This kip used to be so refined," saidDawkins as they sat round a table, and one

of the dancers left off her cavorting to take

their order. Dawkins had a mug of mild ale,


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So saying, he pressed another silver

sixpence in the boy's hand, wiping the grime

off on to the side of his breeches after he haddone so.

"And what shall we call you, young man?"

"Folks call me Nemo, on account I ain't got

no proper moniker."

"Nobody, Jack. How sad. Well, MisterNemo, we shall meet again one day hence,

isn't it, eh?"

Dawkins coughed as they left the smoky

tavern and made their way down the street

looking for some conveyance northwards to

St Marylebone. A yellow miasma lay like a

pall across the city.

"Cripes," said the younger man, "dunno

what's wuss, the stink in there or out here."

"Industry, Jack my dear, industry. As our

northern cousins put it: where there's muckthere's brass."

"Brass?"


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"Money, Jack, money. Though there's

precious little of it here, so it seems."

By now they had reached Park Lane, withnever a cabriolet to be seen. From across in

the park could be heard the sound of

hammering and a great construction, like a

huge greenhouse, could be seen, dwarfing

the trees.

"What'll that be they're building, d'ye think,

Fagin?"

"Hush, Jack," said the Jew, looking

anxiously to right and left, "never call me

that. Ye never know who might be eaves-

dropping."

"That'll be," he continued, regaining his

composure, "that'll be Prince Albert's great

exhibition hall, where all the industrial

wonders of the world shall be assembled.

They say it'll be a palace, made of glass,when 'tis done."

Just then a cabriolet drew near. Dawkins

hailing it, and both entering in, they made


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Chapter 3. An Inspector's need for candles

Chief Inspector Eustace Grabwell's eyrie, as

appropriately he described it, was in

actuality an attic high in the eaves of

Scotland Yard. A tall man, he was

constantly banging his head on the beams

which transversed the tiny room. He had a

kitchen table which served him as a desk,

and a single chair, which he vacated infavour of an unexpected visitor, an equally

tall, elegantly-dressed middle-aged man

with a strawberry mark down the side of his

face, shaped rather like the continent of

Africa, or perhaps South America.

On the table was a shoebox, filled to

overflowing with pasteboard cards, covered

with spidery handwriting.

"Yes, my lord," said the policeman, riffling

through them and picking out a card, "I have

some data on the individual concerned."

"Dahter?" queried his guest.


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sorry, my lord, I cannot pronounce this

name, it's in some heathen African tongue

A-K-A Orinoco.""Yes, yes," said the other, impatiently, "all

this, this I know."

"Quite so, my lord, your lordship having

graciously conveyed this data to me."

"So why is he not in custody and on his wayto the gallows?"

The policeman pursed his lips and closed his

eyes for a moment as if considering his

visitor's question.

"Of course, my lord," he said after a shortpause, "that would be the most obvious

course of action . . . " He paused again. ". . .

in the short term. The Jew is an escaped

felon and we could pick him up just like

that." He snapped his fingers. "And though

we have nothing specific against the manDawkins, no doubt he was an accomplice in

Fagin's escape, and we could probably indict

him for that . . . "


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He paused again. "Well then . . . "

"Well then what, man?" cried the other.

"Pick him up! Send him to the gallows, ashe so richly deserves."

"So he does, my lord, your lordship has the

truth of it exactly, precisely so."

"Well then, man . . . "

"But what exactly has brought him here, mylord?" asked the policeman. "That's what

concerns me. He could have stayed safe and

out of reach in Jamaica . . . "

"Trinidad, actually."

"As you say, my lord. But he has chosen toreturn to this place of danger. The man is not

a fool."

"I never said he was."

"So it's obvious that some further mischief is

afoot. So if we bide our time, not only canwe sweep up Fagin and Dawkins any time

we want, with a bit of patience we can also


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catch whichever villains they have come to

do business with."

"That business being . . . ?""At this moment, I cannot say, but" He

lifted up the box of cards. "be assured, the

answer is here."

"In your box of cards, man? How can that

be?" The other snorted with impatience. "Isthis some sort of conjuring trick?"

Grabwell laughed, shortly.

"No, my lord. No rabbits pulled out of hats.

Nothing up my sleeves. Merely adding up

two and two and two, and sometimesmaking fouror even six or seven."

The man stood up. "Chief inspector," he

exclaimed, "I fear you are wasting my time."

"Bear with me I pray, my lord. I promise

you it will be worth your while. Especially

if, as I believe, you have a more personal

reason for seeing Fagin swing."


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and-such workhouse, illegitimate son of

Miss Agnes Fleming, deceased, and Mister

Edwin Leeford, present status unknown.Convictions: one, for stealing of books.

Inheritor of the Brownlow fortune, by which

name he goes now. See also Fagin, and bank

crash."

"Is that it?"

The policeman looked quizzically at his

superior and tapped the edge of the card on

the table.

"Not quite, my lord. There's a new entry to

be added: See also Lord Monks."

The lord in questionfor he was the earl of

that nameleapt to his feet, overturning his

chair. He grabbed the cardbox and emptied

it on to the table. Several of the cards fell on

to the floor.

"You dare to collect data on me, youimpudent worm!" he exclaimed. "Give me

the card and I shall destroy it!"

Grabwell raised a conciliatory hand.


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"Hold on, hold on, my lord. You will do

yourself a mischief. I have not yet created a

card for you, though I fully intend to do so.""You shall not!"

"Let me put the case to you, my lord, that

Fagin has certain information about your

business in the Indies . . . "

Monks looked about to explode again, butGrabworhy held up a conciliatory hand. "I

speak only hypothetically, my lord, but let

us say, if you will bear with me, that Fagin

wishes to contact Twist A-K-A Brownlow

for some purpose that might injure your

Lordship. If I do not have you on mydatabase, then how shall that connection be

recorded?"

Monks made his chair straight and sat upon

it. His voice was not so apoplectic, though

his breath came still faster than normal."And have you found such a connection?"

he demanded.


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"Not quite, my lord. If only you had not put

the cards out of order in such a precipitate

manner. Oh yes, here is Fagin's card. Quote:"Subject was heard to state '. . . we must find

little Nolly and see what manner of a man he

has grown into. And perhaps involve him in

a little matter of trade I have in my mind,

perhaps to our mutual benefit.' End of

quote.""And is that what was actually said?"

"Yes, well one of my colleagues down that

part of the river has suborned Fagin's

landlady, a woman called Missus Thweedle,

who has the excellent habit of listening atkeyholes."

"We do not know that this trade business

concerns me."

"No, not yet, my lord."

"Not yet?""We cannot at this stage rule out any

eventuality."


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He gathered the cards together and began to

put them back into order. Then he wrote on

the card for Oliver Twist: See also EdwardLeeford.


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redder still, squashed like a strawberry

between his broken-veined cheeks, his eyes

small and slit-like with great puffs of fatdistorting the eyelids. He thumped on his

desk and the door to his office opened. A

short little woman appeared, her face

troubled, her hands trembling at her sides.

"Will ye take a dish of tea with me before ye

leave, sirs? Or would ye perhaps prefersomething stronger? Get out the bottle,

Jemima."

The little woman went to a cupboard and

produced a bottle of colourless liquor and

three glasses, which she placed before him."Pour it out, woman, pour it out," he cried.

"We don't want to keep the gentlemen

waiting now, do we?" She obeyed promptly,

but her hands were shaking so, the neck of

the bottle beat a regular tattoo on the sidesof the glasses as she poured, some of the

liquid spilling on to the desk, which she

dried with a grubby sleeve.


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"It might be after the bank crash," said

Dawkins. "We fear he may have lost his

fortune then," added the Jew."Thebank crash, gentlemen? Which one,

pray? There have been a number. These

entries are all in chronological order. Unless

you can give me an exact date, I fear I

cannot help you."

"Perhaps if we went to speak to some of

your, er, residents," said Cohen, "perhaps in

their dinner break. We might chance upon

someone who might have a recollection."

"Out of the question, I'm afraid, sir. We give

them little enough leisure to digest theirfood. I'll not have that disrupted. And,

besides, some of them may be here

incognito, so to speak. They might not take

kindly to being questioned by two strangers,

especially if one . . . "he coughed behindhis hand" . . . is of what I might call a

more exotic race or persuasion than they are

used to, saving your presence, sir."


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"Monks? You must be joking! He'll do ye no

good."

"I think we must stir the anthill a bit, Jackmy dear, see what happens. Westminster,

driver, to the Houses of Parliament."


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Chapter 5. Mr Cohen stirs up an ant-hill

"You're deep, you are," said Dawkins as

their cabriolet rattled past the Duke of

Wellington's house at Hyde Park Corner,

"too deep for me sometimes, Abie. What are

you on about now?"

"Patience, Jack my dear. Let us consider

rather what we have learned so far today."

"Precious little that I can see, Abie," said the

other. "Nolly seems to've vanished wivout a

trace."

"Not so, Jack my dear. He might almost be

said to have left a trail to help us find him."

"What trail, Abie?"

"Consider what he has told us, my dear."

"Well, he's left 'is 'ome and gawn to

workuss."

"But he didn't stay there, did he?"

"Nah."

"And how did he leave?"

"In a carriage and pair."


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may serve something more fitting to my diet

than pig's trotters."

"So what was all that about, Abie?" askedDawkins after they had found an eating

house and placed their order. "Y'know that

feller won't keep 'is promise to yer. Monks'll

know an ol' Jew an' a Christian been arskin'

arter 'im."

"Of course he will, Jack my dear. An

excellent steak, is it not? I don't expect it's

kosher, but you can't have everything."

"What I'd like is to know why you want

Monks to know all about us."

"Stirring up the ant-hill, Jack, that's all. He'll

get rattled, and when Christians get rattled,

they blunder. Ain't it so, Jack?"

"I suppose so. What now?"

The Jew consulted his pocket watch.

"I think it's back to Tilbury, Jack, see if

Mistress Thweedle's beds aren't as lumpy as

they seem." He yawned.


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Chapter 6. A purpose starts working out

Orinoco was standing by the front door of

their lodgings.

"There is a person waiting to see you, sir,"

he said.

"A person?"

"A female person, sir. I think she may be the

landlady's daughter. I have left her in theliving room."

"Miss Thweedle?" said the Jew as he came

into the room.

"'Ow djoo know my name?"

"My dear young lady, you have yourmother's eyes, though you are, of course,

younger and prettier than she.

"What can I do for you?"

The girl was indeed pretty, but her eyes

darted to left and to right as if she fearedsomeone might be closeted nearby,

eavesdropping.

"Me ma listens at keyholes," she said.


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"Indeed?" The Jew waited for further

revelations.

"And I think she's a grass.""Grass?"

"Police informer," explained Dawkins, who

had just entered the room.

"I 'eard 'er talking to a bloke, I fink 'e were

some kind o' police agent, and shementioned your name. 'E said yer real name

were Fagin."

It was now Cohen's turn to glance anxiously

from side to side.

"Hush, my dear," he said, putting his fingeracross her lips. "Never mention that name. It

could be dangerous to you and your mother,

not to mention me and my associates.

Besides, Fagin's long dead, sentenced to

death at the assizes before you were born,

my dear. He would be an old man now if hehad survived the rope, a very old man

indeed, but he didn't and he isn't, so that's

that, my dear.


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"Well, that's a turn up for the book an' no

mistake," said Dawkins, "suppose we'll 'ave

ter be looking' fer new lodgin's nah.""Not at all Jack, not at all," replied the Jew,

settling himself comfortably in his armchair.

"Things is turning out capital Jack, capital.

Couldn't be better, as a matter of fact."

"'Ow so, Abie, wiv a grass ear'oling

everyfink we say?"

"Because, my dear Jack, we now have a

direct line straight into Scotland Yard. We

can lead them off the scent any time we

choose.

"'Sarah', Jack. What a lovely name that is,

my dear, real lovely, to be sure. It means

'she laughs', in our Hebrew. 'Tis to be hoped

God will bless her and give her cause for

laughter for the service she has rendered us

this day."Oh yes."

"Will I turn down the sheets for you now,

master?" asked Orinoco.


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"Indeed you may, my friend, indeed you

may," said the Jew. "I shall sleep sounder

this night, seeing as how my purpose isworking itself out. Oh yes."


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Chapter 7. Business is truly business

"Quite like old times, ain't it Jack?" said

Cohen, surveying the half-dozen grimy faces

observing his next action, they having just

mopped up six dishes of pigs' trotters

between them. (Indeed, dear reader, so

redolent of those old times was the scene,

that we almost forgot his new nomenclature,

and nearly called him Fagin rather thanCohen!)

"Orl right," said Dawkins, "if you lads 'as

done wiv feedin' yer faces, let's git dahn ter

bizniss nah."

"Patience, Jack my dear, patience," said theJew. "You'll give the poor lads indigestion.

"Ye see, my dears," he continued, "Jack

here's lost touch with an old friend of his

while he's been away in the Indies, and he's

a bit upset about it, ain't you, Jack?""Yus," said that worthy gruffly, for he had

little faith in the youngsters' ability to

furnish any intelligence of any value.


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"What be yer frien's nyme?" asked Nemo.

"All in good time, my dear Mister Nemo,"

said Cohen, "for we don't know the namesof you who have stretched your legs under

our table in this tavern. Shall you do the

introductions, my dear?"

"Well, this one's Nebbie, on account of his

big conk." That boy stood up and bowed,

sweeping a battered cap from his head as he

did so. "Sit dahn, you eejit," hissed Nemo.

"Next we 'ave Smart Boy, cos he always

likes ter get himsel' in the smartest togs 'e

can beg, borrow orersteal.

"Then there's Posh, cos he comes from

gennelman stock though 'e's come dahn in

the world lately, as ye can see.

"Next we 'ave Ruby, cos 'e's a bit of a rube."

"But that's an expression from my own

race!" exclaimed Cohen. "Was your motherin fact from Hebrew stock, lad?"


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"'E never knew his ma, but his cock's bin

snipped, ain't it Rube?" The boy nodded and

was about to open his breeches to confirmhe had suffered the rite of circumcision, but

Nemo pulled him down.

"An' that's about it, sir."

"But you haven't named them all," objected

the Jew, indicating a gloomy faced

individual with the stem of his pipe.

"Oh 'im," replied Nemo. "'E's not really one

of us. Don't say nuffink, just 'angs around."

"But 'e scoffed the trotters like the rest of

yer," objected Dawkins. "I warned yer, we

wasn't abaht ter feed the 'ole bleedin'

neighbourhood."

"Enough, Jack," said Cohen, "I like a lad

who can keep his own counsel. I'll wager

he'll have plenty to say for himself once the

silver and gold starts talking, eh, my dear?"We shall call you . . .er . . . he paused

for a moment's thought, then clapped his


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hands with gleeI know! You shall be the

Sphinx, my dear, strong and silent, eh?

The boy nodded silently and produced a wansmile.

Capital, Jack, ain't it? These lads'll runs the

Peelers ragged if need be.

"Well now, as you say, let's get down to

business. Did any of you lads see our friendsflying the coop? I expect it's too much to

hope you heard any mention of a

destination?"

Just then another boy joined them, more of a

young man in truth, dressed just as raggedly

as them, and the oldest of them all.

Well if it's bizness we're talkin', he said,

bizness gotta go through me, an' I'm not

'avin' you jew us out of our rights.

Rights? demanded Dawkins. Rights! I'll

give ye rights. And I'll thank ye to keep acivil tongue in yer head.


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And who might you be, my dear? Cohen

spoke in a conciliatory tone, ignoring the

youth's rudeness.'E's . . . , began Nemo, but the youth

interrupted him. Never you mind, he said.

No names, no pack drill, eh?

So ye're of a military turn of mind, my

dear, are ye? Well then, I'm sure we can

establish a chain of command that will

satisfy ye, won't we Jack?

If ye say so, Abie, said Dawkins, who

would rather have run the young man out of

the tavern into the street, if truth be told.

You knows best.

So young man, we shall call you the

Commander. How would that be?

Suit yerself, said the young man, but it

was clear from the way he held himself

upright as he sat himself down, that thechosen nomenclature pleased him not a

little. So what's on yer mind, then? heasked, with still a trace of his former


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aggression in his voice. And while we're

swapping names, like, who would you be?

Well, Commander sir, my dear, that iseasily sorted. My name is Cohen, and my

friend here is Mister Dawkins. As we were

just explaining to your followers, here, we

are fresh arrived from the Indies and went

looking for an old friend of my friend, only

to find his former home deserted and fallensadly into decay. Mister Nemo here offered

the opinion that they had removed,

following an unfortunate decline in their

circumstances.

Done a moonlight flit, like, opined Nemo.Yer shouldn't go spilling stuff like that to

anybody what asks, said the Commander,

wivout knowing who they is, or anyfink

about 'em.

But they seemed . . . , began Nemo.Niver mind 'ow they seemed! exclaimed

the young man. Yer didn't ought to a done

it, not wivout checking wiv me first.


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Quite right, Commander sir, my dear, said

Cohen. We might have been police agents,

such as snoop around all the while collectinginformation to entrap the unwary. But here

we are now and no harm done, eh? Sitting

around chatting and sharing modest vittles.

Which I ain't seen any of, pointed out the

young man. Yes, said Cohen. Perhaps

you could summon the serving wench toremedy that omission, eh Jack?

Dawkins grunted, though whether

affirmatively or to indicate his disapproval,

a neutral observer might have found it

difficult to discern.Now, said Cohen, after the young man

had wiped a greasy mouth on his sleeve in

time-honoured fashion, the question is: can

you and your . . . er . . . colleagues help us

find the former occupants of that desertedhouse? I assure you any information of

value will be more than generously

rewarded.


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Well, somefink on account would be wery

welcome, said the Commander.

Yer jokin' ain'tcha? interjected Dawkins.Payment by results, my dear Commander,

payment by results, observed Cohen,

pouring oil on potentially stormy waters.

Let us consider what we already know.

Well . . . , began Nemo, glancing to theCommander for permission to speak.

Go on, my dear, go on.

Well, we know as how they've done a flit,

continued Nemo. I dunno if you've bin to

workuss? That towards the Jew and hiscompanion. Dawkins was about to speak,

but Cohen placed a restraining hand on his

arm. Let the boy continue, he said. Go

on, my dear, go on.

I saw 'em, I saw 'em! This from Ruby, in

an excited voice.

Did you indeed, my dear? Did anyone elseobserve their going? Shaken heads all


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round, apart from the silent one, whom

Cohen had named the Sphinx. Did you see

anything? Cohen asked him. He looked asif he was about to speak, glanced at the

Commander, and then shook his head.

Well then, Ruby my dear, continued the

Jew, tell us what exactly you did see.

It were a carriage an' pair. Near midnight it

must've bin, 'cos I 'eard it chime from

Marrybone soon arter. The young man . . .

Oliver? prompted Dawkins.

Hush, Jack, let him tell his tale his own

way, in his own time.

Yus, that was 'is moniker, 'cos I 'eard a

young gel call 'im that one time, but she

weren't there when he done the flit."

"No servants, my dear?"

"No."

"That ain't true. There were someone else

wiv 'im. I know 'cos I carried the boxes for

'em an' I saw 'im."


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Cohen turned to the Sphinx and laid a

reassuring hand on his arm.

"Was you indeed, my dear? And who thatmight have been?"

"Dunno, rightly, 'cos they never come out of

the carriage, but I think they was gentry. 'E

said somefink to the Oliver bloke, wery

quiet like so I couldn't 'ear the exact words,

but it was a man, I'd swear me life to it I

would."

"Was there any kind of escutcheon on the

doors of the carriage, my dear?"

"Scutch'n?"

"A coat of arms, a shield of any sort."

"A badge, like," explained Dawkins.

"Oh. It were dark, so I couldn't 'ardly see,"

said Ruby, anxious not to surrender the

Jew's attention.

"I could! I could!" interrupted the Sphinx

once again. "It were some kind of an 'og."

"Og?" queried Cohen.


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"A pig, like," the boy replied. "A pig with

big tusks."

"Wild boar," explained Dawkins."Precisely, my dear Jack, a wild boar,

emblem of the Duke of Gloucester, if I'm

not very much mistaken."

"Dooka Gloster?"

"Yes, an aristocrat of rather more nobilitythan the recently elevated Lord Monks, Jack

my dear. Our Nolly continues to have

friends in high places, don't he?"

"Could it be the same caboodle whot picked

'im up from . . . ?""Yes, yes, Jack. Let's not speak of it yet. All

this bears thinkin' on, my dear."

The Jew stood up.

"Well, my dears, this is all very interesting,

but not a great deal of help.""Payment by results, you said."


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"So I did, my dear Commander, and you

shall be paid. Here is a half-sovereign for

you."


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Chapter 8. An heraldic puzzler

Sir Charles Young was not used to climbing

so many stairs. He was, after all, in his fifty-

sixth year, though nearly a score more years

would pass before death should remove him

from office. Also, as he muttered to himself

when he paused for breath outside

Grabwell's door, he could not understand

why he, the Garter King of Arms, had tocome to Scotland Yard and not the

policeman to his own domain.

When he pushed open the door and saw the

size of the office to which he had been

summoned, with not even a chair for avisitor such as he, he was tempted to return

to the gentleman's club from which the

constable had so peremptorily extracted him.

"Welcome, Sir Charles, welcome," said

Grabwell, vacating his seat and carrying it to

the front of his card-strewn desk. "Do be

seated, I pray." He perched on the desk and

observed his visitor with a quizzical eye.


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"Sir Charles," he began after a short pause,

"what exactly is it you do?"

"Is this what you have dragged me up allthose confounded stairs for?" expostulated

his visitor, his face scarlet with the apoplexy

which plagued him when confronted with

stress or idiocy. "Are you not aware of who

I am?"

"Certainly, sir," replied Grabwell, "you are

Her Majesty's Garter King of Arms and I am

hoping you can render me some small

assistance in a matter relating to heraldry."

"There are reference books which could no

doubt tell you what you seek to know," saidSir Charles. "I take it you do not possess a

British Museum reader's card."

"That I do not, Sir Charles."

"Well, since I am here, tell me of your

query.""I am seeking, Sir Charles, to know of any

families that have a wild boar on their

escutcheon."


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His visitor relaxed into a more pedagogical

mode. "The wild boar, orSanglieras we call it,

appears on a number of coats of arms. I takeit you are not interested in civic heraldry."

"I think not, Sir Charles, though I cannot

rule it out. For the moment, however, I am

searching for individuals who might have a

wild boar emblazoned on the sides of their

carriage."

"Well, as I am sure even you must know, the

boar was the emblem of King Richard the

Third, and apart from the lion, was the only

animal borne in the roll of Henry III, though

I cannot imagine that such royals couldfigure in any of your investigations. But for

instance, just cudgeling my memory, the

Trewarthen family arms are 'Argent, a boar

passant gules armed or', that is a boar on a

silver ground, walking to the left, with gold

tusks and hooves. The Pollock badge is 'A

boar passant pierced by an arrow', referring

to the legend that a Pollock chieftain saved

the life of the King when a boar was about


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to attack him. A similar legend is associated

with the Bairds, with the Gordons, which

has three boars' heads on its arms, and of thefamily of Lewis, the chieftain of which is

said to have saved the life of the Prince of

Wales, though in that case their arms bear a

dragon, not a boar, which I can explain . . ."

"I do not think that will be necessary, Sir

Charles," said the detective, holding up hishand.

Not at all dissuaded, the herald continued:

"The boar appears on many Celtic coats of

arms as an emblem of war, for instance the

Clan Lockhart. It is also a symbol ofhospitality as in theBoar's Head Carol, which no

doubt you sang when up at university."

Grabwell had never been to any higher seat

of learning, but he indicated assent

nevertheless."The boar also appears on some colonial

coats of arms, for instance in Canada."

Grabwell leaned forward.


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"Or the Indies, Sir Charles?" he asked.

"I cannot think of any."

"So we have Trewarthen and Pollock andBaird and Gordon and Lewis," recapitulated

the policeman.

Sir Charles wrinkled his brow in thought for

a moment.

"Well," he said. "There is also Gricethat'sthe name of a young boar, you knowand

Bushe, and Cochrane, and Cradock, and

Danskine, and Kellet, and Perrot, and

several that have the prefix 'swine', for

instance Swynbourne and Swyney, and

Swyneford, as well as Wynsingtone. I

cannot think of any more offhand, but if you

will but pay a visit to my office, I'm sure one

of my clerks can dig out some more for

you."

Grabwell hopped off his perch on the deskand extended his hand.


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"Thank you, Sir Charles. I may certainly do

that. And you have been most helpful.

Thankee once again."The herald ignored the proffered hand and

left, clumping down the stairs.

Grabwell picked up a blank card on it and

wrote:

"Young, Sir Charles George: Garter King ofArms, son of illegitimate daughter of the late

Charles Howard, eleventh duke of Norfolk

and earl marshal. Knighted August the 27th,

1842. Played an active part in the funerals of

George III, George IV, and William IV, and

the coronations of George IV, William IV,and Queen Victoria. Residence: 9 Princes

Terrace, Hyde Park Gate, London."

"H'mm," he said to himself. "Too much

data. Rather worse than too little."

And he filed the card away in his shoebox.


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Chapter 9. A pieman, and a huntsman

Mr Timothy Grice was proud of his pies,

and with good reason. For he abjured the

adulteration with inedible parts of the pig

that destroyed the digestion of so many

Victorians, using only the best pork

from Gloucester Old Spot pigs, cooked

using a special recipe that had come over

from Germany with Albert the PrinceConsort, when Timothy's family name was

then Greisz.

"It's the liquor from pig's

trotters, ye see, Nolly," he said

to Oliver, (for it was he, whomhe was entertaining at his home

in Melton Mowbray). "We pour

it through the 'oles in the top of

the pie, which turns into this

lovely jelly as it cools."

He smacked his lips, as another

mouthful went down his gullet

to add to his size, his adam's

apple bobbing up and down in


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sympathy with his swallowing.

It seemed his diet of pork and pastry played

a significant role in contributing to the manwho was so busily adding to his mass. His

body and especially his visage were self-

evidently pig-shaped, his face pink and

round, with short, greying bristles upon his

chin. His belly also was round, testimony to

the repasts he served himself fromhis groaning table.

His business had made him extremely rich.

He cut into the pie before him, savouring the

aroma of the uncured flesh before he

speared a sizeable portion of the grey meatand the chunky pie crust upon his fork,

popping it between his perfect, ivory-

coloured teeth, chewing it with appreciative

grunts.

"It's a pity . . .m'mm, m'mm. . . ain't it, Nolly?" hesaid to his companion, in between grunts,

"you ain't never learned yerself to ride . .

.m'mm, m'mm. . . ain't it, Nolly?"


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"Not much of a call for it in the city, Porky,"

replied Oliver. "But why, particularly?"

Grice threw down his fork with a metallicclatter that scattered pie-crust crumbs on to

the pine table of his kitchen. He moistened

his fingers and harvested the crumbs into his

mouth.

"Why?" he cried. "Why? It's only Friday,

ain't it, Nolly, Saturday being the regglar

outin' o' the Quorn hunt tomorrer. What

better experience can there be fer a young

gennelman ter gather outside Quorn 'All

termorrer morn, a stirrup-cup down yer

golloper an' one o' my Melton Mowbray piesin the pocket o' yer pink coat fer ye ter

nibble on as yer foller arter the 'ounds as

they foller in full cry arter old daddy fox?

An' the sun comin' up as yer munch, what's

more. What could be better?

"Come on, Nolly me old matey. I can find

ye a nice docile old mare to saddle up for ye,

for the experience of a lifetime. An' ye shall


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meet Sir Richard Sutton, Bart, oo's Master

of the 'Unt an' owner of the

'All. 'E'll no doubt be pleased ter getWatkins, 'is butler, ter conduct ye around the

'All, ter show ye all the improvements 'e's

made ter it. Oh, Nolly, do say ye'll come."

"Very well," said Oliver, "I shall come. But

not to ride. No doubt Sir Richard has a

library in his Hall where I can bury my head

in a good book while you follow the hounds

to the destruction of their prey."

"Well," said Grice, "as fer that, I ain't at all

sure as 'e's much of a reader.

"But if ye'll come termorrer, mebbe ye'll

change yer mind about not ridin' to 'ounds

when the spirit of the 'Unt gits inter ye."

"Perhaps, Porky, perhaps," the younger man

replied, reaching across to take possession

of the last of his companion's pie.


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Chapter 10. Of a Chinese sage and a mysterious hog

"An 'og, Dodge my dear," said Cohen,

ruminantly, as he sipped at his morning dish

of tea. "An 'og. That's the clue we've bin

seeking."

"A clue to what, Abe?" asked his companion

at the breakfast table. "I don't see as we're

getting any closer to where young Nolly's

bin took."

"Closer, my dear, but not close enough. That

I'll grant ye," agreed the Jew.

"But as a Chinese sage wrote once, a

thousand mile march must start with a single

step.""Well you an' I ain't Chinamen, Abe, an' it

don't seem ter me as we're gettin' any

forrarder."

"When we can't see the way forward, my

dear, then we must thank Jehovah that hehas given us time to reflect."

"Is that another Chink saying?"


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Cohen laughed as the man-servant, Orinoco,

poured him another tea.

"No, Dodge my dear," he said, "No. That isone of mine."

"Well then, what does your reflectin' tell

ye?"

"Very little at this stage," said Cohen. "It is

as the Christians' Saint Paul puts it sopicturesquely, we see as in a glass, darkly.

But we have cleaned a small corner of it,

perceiving something very strange.

"An 'og, my dear. An 'og."

"An' what's that to do with anything, Abe?""Perhaps nothing, my dear, perhaps

everything. We shall not know for certain

until we can see more of the big picture."

Orinoco coughed behind a white-gloved

hand.

"D'ye 'ave somefink ter say, Jimbo?" asked

Dawkins.


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"Forgive me, sir, for this intervention," said

the black, "but might there not be a book to

help you out of this dilemma?""A book, Jimbo?"

"On heraldry, sir."

Cohen turned in his chair to look at the man-

servant standing deferentially behind him.

"And where do you suggest we might findsuch a book?"

"Ol' Brownlow was a great one fer browsin'

in bookshops, Abe," said Dawkins, "didn't

'e?"

"He certainly was, Jack my dear. I recall thatis where your paths first crossed. We shall

go there directly, immediately after we

have finished breaking our fast."

Orinoco coughed behind his hand again.

"What is it, Jimbo?" demanded Dawkins.

"Spit it out, man. If ye've anything ter say

just say it. No need ter stand on ceemony


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'ere, when we're just three old mates havin' a

dish o' tea together."

"Well, sir, it strikes me that we could spenda very long time browsing in vain in

bookshops for the information we seek. And

still we might find nothing."

"Ye're right Jimbo," said Dawkins in a voice

cast down with despair.

"So that'd be a waste of time."

"No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Let us not

dismiss Orinoco's useful suggestion out of

hand. As one door closes another opens, isn't

it?"

"Precisely, sir. If you'll forgive me again, sir

. . ."

"Oh come on Jimbo, don't keep us all in

suspenders."

"Well, it did strike me that there is one place

in London that is a depository for every

book that's published in these islands. By


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law, every one of them must be deposited

there."

Cohen jumped up from the table, knockingdown his chair, and waltzed the man-servant

round the room. But Dawkins was still

mystified.

"An' where would this depository be,

Jimbo?" he asked. "Does ye know that?"

"Of course he does," cried the Jew,

collapsing into the chair which Orinoco had

only just managed in time to set upright

behind his broad posterior. "Doesn't ye, my

dear Orinoco? Ye know what ye're on

about."

"Well, I'm blessed if I do," said Jack.

"The Museum, Jack my dear, the British

Museum." He wiped his mouth with a

napkin that still bore traces of the previous

evening's supper."We must catch an omnibus to

Bloomsbury."


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He bustled about as Orinoco fetched his

gabardine.

"I believe you will find there is a bus thatwill take you down Oxford Street," said the

man-servant. "From there it is but a short

walk to the Museum. But you will need to

obtain for yourself a reader's ticket."

"I've no worries on that score," said the Jew.

"Dodge here will fix it, as he fixes all things,

don't ye , Jack my dear?"

"With brute force and sheer bleedin'

ignorance," said that worthy, "beggin' yer

pardon for me language."

"No offence, Jack my dear, ye always was a

bit of a rough diamond. But stir yer stumps

my dear. Time's a-wasting."

And he clattered down the stairs like a

stampeding elephant, out the door, and on to

a West End omnibus which Jack had hailedas it came propitiously by.

"Let us ride outside," said Cohen as they

climbed the stairs to the upper platform.


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"We shall enjoy one of your cigars as we

observe the passing show.

He settled himself down upon one of theslatted wooden banquettes and produced the

weed in question and proceeded to light it

up, enjoying the morning sun as it bathed

the open platform in its beams.

And so they wended their way through the

city, blissfully unaware that their

transportation bore the solution to their

quest: an advertising slogan, the words

GRICE'S PIES. And the picture of an

heraldic boar.


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Chapter 11. A-hunting he shall not go

The sun was shining when Oliver joined Timothy Grice for breakfast, though

he had hoped for a downpour to prevent the morning's equestrian outing. But,

bright as the sunshine might be, it was far outshone by the brilliance of his

host's hunting costume.Grice had procured for Oliver an outfit that was hardly the derniere cri in

fashion, and not merely because it was one of his old cast-offs, albeit at a time

before he had achieved his present pork-fed girth.Nevertheless, on Oliver's more youthful frame it hung like a sack of potatoes."Eat up, young Nolly," commanded Grice as he placed before his guest on

which a huge slice of thick sirloin was crowned by two golden fried eggs. "Get

some decent vittles down yer an' mayhap ye'll soon grow into it.

"But what d'ye think o' me own clobber, then?"He extended for Oliver's inspection apatent leather boot so shiny he thought

he could see himself reflected in it.

The tops were of the most delicate

cream-colour, the whole devoid of

mud or speck of dirt."It's very shiny," he said."Shiny? O' course it's shiny. My man

knows 'e'll get 'em ter do again if theboots weren't as shiny as that mirror

over the mantleshelf."But never mind the shine, lad. Take a

gander at the workmanship. Them's

Andersons.""Andersons?"

"'Ave ye bin livin' in the smoke an' ye don't know best bootmakers in the world

is Andersons? Not to mention 'is breeches. Better than Savile Row, they is.""Oh yes," said Oliver, though in truth the name meant nothing to him."Andersons of South Audley Street, boy, not too far from where ye used ter

live, afore the bank crash.""Oh yes," said Oliver, though in truth none the wiser."And what d'ye think o' me titfer?"


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They left the breakfast table and into the courtyard, where Grice's carriage and

pair was ready and waiting, plus two horses that could not be more unalike, the

one a grand coal-black stallion, snorting and stamping in the morning air, as if

impatient to be about the morning's business, the other a sad looking mare, just

over seventeen hands high, or some six feet from the ground to its withers,

which Oliver deduced to be his mount, if in fact he decided to follow thehounds upon her.The only similarity between the two nags was that they were both without any

hair at the pasterns to protect them from the flints, it being the custom

thereabouts to shave the legs of horses.Oliver's was a sort of mouse colour, with dun mane and tail, her head small, her

girth a mere trifle, and her shaven legs, very long and spidery, her whole body

shaking and shivering as if with the ague. Little as he knew about the matter of

horses, Oliver could already read her fate in the knacker's yard in her very

stance."I think I could ride her," he said, more in pity than decision. "She looks quiet

enough.""As a lamb, Nolly," said Grice, "as a lamb.""I trust she will not gambol like one," replied Oliver as they mounted the

carriage, Grice's groom following after on the stallion, leading the mare.Quorn Hall was abuzz with preparations for the hunt when they alighted

outside the main entrance, horses moving restlessly from foot to foot, their

riders bending down to take a stirrup cup from a tray borne by a liveriedfunctionary, the hounds barking and straining at the leash, the hubbubb of

conversation mainly about commerce."Take your bill at three months," said one, "or give you three and a half

discount for cash.""Cottons is fell," said another."Now for a leg up," said Grice to Oliver. "My man'll hold 'er steady while ye

mount 'er."

But Oliver was staring at a man upon a brave stallion, a strawberry mark downthe side of his face like the bruise from a recent slap. He was by the side of an

aristocratic looking gentleman, equally well mounted, and both rode through

the mele towards the two friends."Oh, Nolly," said Grice. "'Ere come Sir Richard Sutton to speak ter me. I'll

introduce ye to 'im."The two riders stopped by the couple.


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"Sir Richard," said Grice, "please allow me ter introdooce me friend up from

London, Mister Oliver . . .""Twist!" expostulated the baronet's companion."Do you two know each other?" asked the Master of the Hunt."Sir," said Oliver, "my birth name was Oliver Twist, but I have taken the name

of my late guardian, Mr Brownlow. And yes, I know this gentleman. He is my

half-brother, Edward Leeford. As wicked a rogue as ever was wished by the

devil upon this earth, for all that he's bought himself a peerage and a cabinet

seat.""And you will end up in a pauper's grave," yelled the earl, as Oliver turned on

his heel and entered the Hall. "Or better still, a hangman's noose, alongside

your old gangmaster, Fagin!"


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Chapter 12. Cohen learns a revolutionary way of thinking

"Afraid not sir," said the uniformed clerk

behind the big mahogany desk. "You has to

apply in writing, and it can take two to

three weeks.""But I am a visitor from abroad, from the

Indies as a matter of fact," said Cohen. "In

two weeks I shall be on a clipper sailing

homeward."

The clerk shook his head. "Nothing I can doabout it, I'm afraid, sir. Rules is"

"Meant to be broken," interjected

Dawkins. "Excuse us, Abe old chap, while I


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have a discussion of a pecuniary nature with

this gentleman."

He leaned across and whispered somethingin the official's ear.

Whereupon the clerk came round from

behind the desk and he and the Dodger went

a short distance off and conversed for a

minute or two in whispers.

"Well, Mister Cohen," the clerk said on his

return, "seeing as how it's a weekday and all

the desks isn't occupied, and bearing in

mind your Imperial service, of which I

wasn't aware until this here gentleman

pointed it out to me, I think we may be ableto accommodate you after all."

He scribbled on two pieces of pasteboard

and handed them over.

"These here is temporary cards as we issue

to gents as forgot or mislaid the genuwineharticle, some of our readers being

hextremely habsent-minded, don't you

know.


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"Perhaps if you hintends to return on the

morrow, you could kindly bring the requisite

written application, which I shall file withthose received three weeks back, to keep the

paper all shipshape and Bristol fashion, as it

were."

They moved inside the reading room, a huge

domed construction of concrete and steel

opened only lately. The rows of deskslooked brand new, in contrast with the piles

of dog-eared books on most of them.

"Struth," declared Dawkins. "It's like an 'uge

cathedral, ain't it?"

"A cathedral to learning, Jack my dear," theJew replied. "As we

shall see, when our

books arrive."

"Ssshhh!"

The complaint camefrom the occupant of

the neighbouring

desk, who put a


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finger to his lips and pointed to the sign

attached to a nearby pillar. "SILENCE," it

read.The complainant was a big burly man with

a big, bushy beard, black streaked with

silver. On his cheek was a huge, painful-

looking carbuncle.

He was about to return to his studies, having

issued his rebuke to his neighbours when his

whole frame was wracked by a fit of

coughing so severe that its volume caused

far more disturbance than the brief exchange

which he had inspired.

As the fit progressed, his features becamescarlet under his beard, and bubbles of saliva

bejewelled his lips. His wheezing so

alarmed Cohen that he sprang to his side.

"My dear sir," said the Jew, "may I get you a

glass of water?"Tears sprang from the man's eyes as his

paroxysms continued. He shook his head


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and waved his hand to reinforce the

negative.

"Entschuldigen," he gasped eventually, "excuseme, please. I have an infection of the chest.

My doctor says I must rest, but I cannot."

He wiped his eyes with a red spotted

kerchief and loudly blew his nose into it,

gazing at the nasal product before stuffing it

into his pocket.

"Kein blut," he murmured to himself, "Gott sei dank."

"It is good that you thank God," said Cohen.

"Religion is a great comfort in times of

sickness."

The bearded man made a noise with his

mouth: "Pshaw! I agree with Mr Kingsley, it

is an opiate, a spiritual laudanum to quiet the

masses."

"Mr Kingsley?"

"The priest, Charles Kingsley. Have you not

read his story,The Water Babies? An excellent


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fable, despite being rather fantastical.

For myself, I prefer the works of Dickens."

And then he was overcome by another fit ofcoughing, after which he laid his head on the

desk and breathed fitfully, as if his end

was nigh.

"My dear sir," said Cohen. "Perhaps some

fresh air might do you good. These books

are full of dust."

The man opened his eyes but did not raise

his head.

"A draught of good German beer would do

me more good than that verdammt limonadewhich

myverdammtphysician says is all I may drink."

"Then let us exit this place for I believe it is

time for luncheon and there must be a tavern

close by. Did we not pass such an

establishment on our way from the omnibus,

Jack?"Dawkins nodded his head, and the two of

them helped the man to his feet, ignoring his

protests.


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"But my studies . . ."

"Your books can wait. They will still be here

when we have all had some sustenance.Comelet us go."

At the nearby inn, the bearded man took a

long draught from the tankard which had

been set before him, wiped his mouth and

sighed.

He pushed his chair back and was about to

stand.

"I thank you for your kindness," he said. "It

was indeed an act of human solidarity. But

there is work I must do."

"Not before ye've got some vittles down yer

neck," said Dawkins, snapping his fingers

for service.

"Yes, my dear sir, my friend speaks truth.

We must not neglect our physical selves, or

our mental functions will suffer."

"I see you are a materialist," the other

replied. "Das ist gut."


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"No," replied Cohen, "just an old Jew trying

to make sense of a confusing world."

"A Jew? My grandfather was a rabbi. Butmy father became a Christian because

otherwise he could not obtain

advancement."

"And you, my dear sir?"

"Me? I am a revolutionary. I do not havetime for religion.

"Now sir, since it appears to me you are new

to the British Museum, perhaps I may repay

your kindness with some help in your

studies."

"We're wantin' ter look up an 'og," said

Dawkins.

"An heraldic device," explained Cohen, "in

the shape of a wild boar. We believe it may

provide a clue to the whereabouts of a young

friend who may have found sanctuary withone whose carriage bears that escutcheon."


110/169

"And you believe your friend may be

lodging with some aristocrat."

"Precisely, my dear sir.""Well, this country's nobility has fallen on

hard times. The bank crash . . ."

"Yes, we believe our friend may have fallen

victim to it."

"Well, Britain has a new aristocracy.Perhaps you might better seek among them."

"And who might they be, my dear sir?"

"The bourgeoisie."

"Boojah-what?" demanded Dawkins.

"The captains of industry. Your boar maynot be a heraldic beast, but a trademark."

"For what class of produce, would you say,

sir?"

"I know not. A pork butcher perhaps? I

cannot say. You should look for someoneseeking respectability, perhaps a recent

immigrant, like myself.


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"And now, my dear sirs, I really must return

to my studies, before another bank crash

invalidates my conclusions.""And what would be the subject of your

investigations, dear sir? Will you explain to

the world how we may avoid crashes of

banks in the future?"

"No sir, I will explain how they will be

inevitable, until there are no more banks."

And he walked forcefully out of the tavern.

"What an extraordinary gentleman,"

exclaimed Cohen, as the door slammed shut

behind their guest.

"I fink all them books 'as gawn ter 'is 'ead. If

they abolish banks, what'll we do wiv our

cash, eh? Keep it under the floorboards as

you used ter, in the old days, eh?"

He tapped his nose.

"We could do a lot worse, Jack, unless the

Peelers come calling."

Cohen stood up.


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"Come along, Dodge. We must find a pork

butchers. Strange, ain't it, how that unclean

beast keeps intruding himself upon oursearches?"


113/169

Chapter 13. Trouble in Lombard Street

At the very same time that the German

gentleman returned to studying how the

banking system might be brought down,

Inspector Grabwell was about to experience

the phenomenon in a real-life situation.

He had taken the 7.55am train from

Greenwich up to London Bridge as per

usual, and was turning out of Tooley Streetand across the bridge for his customary brisk

45-minute walk to his office off Whitehall

when he heard a strange sort of mumbling

sound, not unlike Lord Tennyson's

"murmuring of innumeable bees". It grewlouder as he crossed over the river, and

when he was about to turn into Thames

Street on the north bank of the river for the

first time he could identify it as the shouting

of a crowd, or more properly, a mob.

Now crowd control played no part in

Grabwell's employment remit, but on the

other hand preventing civil disturbance was

undoubtedly every citizen's duty, so instead


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of proceeding along the riverbank in a

westerly direction, he pressed forward

towards the epicentre of the noise, whichbecame unbearably loud as he drew near to

Lombard Street.

It was a very large crowd indeed, and the

numerous fists waved in the air and cries of

"Give us our money", "Break down the

doors", and the like, confirmed to him hisinitial perception that this was no ordinary

crowd. It was, in fact, a mob in every sense

of the word, and the few Peelers he could

see standing helpless on its perimeter were

able to do nothing to control it."Grabwell of the Yard," he said to one

closest to him. "What on earth's going on

here, constable?"

"Looks like a run, sir," the man replied.

"A run on a bank? There's been nothing inthe press."

"No sir. At this stage it's only a rumour, so

there may be nothing in it."


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"I'd trust word-of-mouth over newsprint any

day," said Grabwell. "But at least they ain't

denying it. When there's an official denialyou know it's only a matter of time before

the rumour turns out to be true."

"They's some pretty high-born folk on the

board, sir," said the man.

"One of them's said to be a lord."

"A lord, eh? Worse and worse. Give me a

good old-fashioned businessman over an

aristocrat, any day. He'll fleece ye, but he'll

leave ye a little so's he can come back for

more on the morrer. But a lord? Mark my

words, these folks have got a lot to worryabout."

"Oh here come the yeomanry, sir," said the

man. "They'll clear the street."

"Unless the bullets start flying. Well I'm orf,

just in case. What was the name of the lordyou say might be on the board, constable?"

"I 'eard tell it was a cove called Monks, sir."


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"Was it, by jove?"

And him in my office only yesterday, laying

down the law, thought Grabwell. That'll bearthinking on.

And having cogitated his way up Kingsway,

along the Strand, and down Whitehall, when

he had climbed up to his attic, he had new

data to enter into his shoebox.


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Chapter 14. A dish of tay

Orinoco lay back on his master's bed,

smoking a cheroot, blowing the sweet-

smelling smoke into the air. He liked Cohen,

and respected himnot, in truth like a

master, but more as a man whom he admired

and liked. Nevertheless, it was good when

Cohen was abroad, leaving himself master

of all he surveyed. He closed his eyes, thebetter to savour his enjoyment.

A tap on the door interrupted his reverie,

and he jumped up from the bed, waving his

hand in the air to dispel the cigar smoke.

Er, come in, he said. The young woman ofthe house, Sarah, put her head round the

door.

I 'opes as I ain't disturbing you, sir, she

said. But . . . I was wonderin' . . . was there

anything you was wantin'?Orinoco conjectured for a moment. There

were, indeed, many things he might be

wanting at any moment, for he was a man of


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great ambition; but, on the other hand,

within the realm of achievable objectives, to

have been stretched out on his master'ssettee, one of his cheroots between his

fingers, and its not unpleasant fumes filling

his nostrils, really was the height of his

current ambition. Plus, he might have added,

if he had been of a more churlish

disposition, not to have had his sweetlassitude disturbed by an intruder.

But then, the young miss was not

unattractive, and he was, after all, a young

man at the height of his powers.

"Not really, young missie," he said, "in fact Ithought my life was at the last moment near

as perfect as it might be, until you came

knocking, causing me to realise that what it

lacked was good company, such as that from

your goodself. Pray come in and take a

seat."

On so saying, he sat himself once more upon

the settee and patted the space beside him.


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"Do be seated, young missie," he said.

Now Sarah was not entirely unskilled in the

ways of young men with young maids, andeven though she had chosen to enter, as it

were, this young lion's den, she was not

minded to become too close to him,

geographically speaking, too quickly. So she

sat herself demurely upon a dining room

chair, placed her hands upon her knees, andlooked around the room.

"You've done it up real nice, avenchu?" she

opined, by way of a conversational opener.

Orinoco, also, surveyed the room. He saw,

in fact, a room furnished in the shabbygenteel taste of its owner, its blandness

enlivened by a few books placed, spines

upwards, on the far side of the dining table

from the chair on which his visitor sat.

"It serves," he said. "I do not like all thisplush and curlicues so typical of today's

middle-classes, myself. My own taste leans

towards the simplicity of Nipponese zen."


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Then, seeing that he had lost his young guest

totally, he added: "Japanese."

"Oo," exclaimed Sarah, "'as you ever binthere? There wuz a tea clipper in t'other day,

but I think they woz chinky Chinamen, not

Japs. I dunno as 'ow their quarters was set

out."

"Speaking of tay," he said, leaping to his

feet, just remembering his manners, "could

you fancy a dish of same?"

She also stood. "I could go and get a brew,"

she said. "Me ma allus 'as kettle on the 'ob.

It'd be no trouble, really."

"My master has a little spirit stove for just

such eventualities as this," said her host.

"Forgive me if I absent myself from you a

while to prepare an infusion." And he

vanished into an ante-chamber which did the

office of a kitchen on the rare occasionswhen his master and Mister Dawkins dined

at home.


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Left to herself, Sarah picked up one of the

books and flicked through it. She was

disappointed to find it had no pictures."Ah," said Orinoco on his return, "I see you

have discerned we have Mister Disraeli's

latest. I find it interesting that one of his

political persuasion should be so aware of

the gulf between rich and poor in this

country of yours, though to be perfectlyfrank with you, I am not sure that fiction is

an appropriate vehicle for the subject. I

much prefer the factual study Herr Engels

has made of the living and working

conditions of the poor people of Manchester.I have a copy in my room, if you would like

to peruse it."

At that moment, the door burst in, and

Mistress Thweedle flew into the room,

sending the tray and teapot and cups flying

before her from Orinoco's hands.


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"Git out of here, you baggage!" she cried.

"Consorting with lodgers, indeed, and with a

pagan blackie at that.""I assure you, Mistress," replied said

"blackie", "nothing untoward was occurring,

just a discussion about Herr Engels'

examination of the state of the working class

over a dish of tay. Which I see your mode of

entry has flooded your beautiful carpet."

He took a snow-white handkerchief from his

sleeve and attempted to mop up the deluge.

"And, as I believe my master has explained

to you, I am no pagan, but the graduate, both

baptised and confirmed into the Anglicancommunion, at the mission college in

Jamaica.

In othere words, as good a Christian as

yourself, and possibly the better, madam."

"Never mind all that malarkey," sheresponded, "it's not allowed, not allowed at

all, for young gents to entertain ladies of the

opposite sex in their rooms with the door


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shut tight. And you, miss," to the tearful

Sarah, "you oughtooa know'd much better.

"Nah get you dahn, and attend to yer chores,like ya should be."

The girl exited as fast as her little legs could

carry her.

"When yer master comes 'ome," she said to

Orinoco," tell 'im I'm givin' 'im 'is noticestraight away. I'm not 'avin' such goin's on in

my respeccable establishment, no I hain't.

So 'e'll be orf in the mornin', and

fagin returns

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