Dodger of the Dials (40 page)

‘That woman,’ said one of the red bowlers pointing to Lily, ‘is the property of William Slade. You put her back where you found her.’

‘But Mr Dawkins here,’ returned Lily as I continued brandishing my gun at them, ‘is my property. And if I tell him to shoot you, he will.’ These boys exchanged glances on hearing my name. I was the man what had killed Anthony Rylance, after all.

‘Step aside, gentleman,’ I said, indicating that they should just come up the stairs so that we could pass. ‘Or catch a shot.’

None of them had the steel to rush me and instead they just did as bid. Then Lily and myself – still holding hands – edged past them and rushed down to the landing below what led to the front
door. There, two more red-hatted Slade men was stood blocking our path – our final obstacle. They was the pair what I had seen earlier asleep in the drawing room and the big one had still not had a chance to put his trousers back on. Lily and I was in such a hurry that I did not recognise either until the trouserless one, who from the waist down was just wearing old and yellowing underwear, called out my name. It was only then that I noticed that it was Georgie Bluchers.

‘Dodger?’ he gawped as we both stared at one another in amazement. ‘Haven’t they hanged you yet?’

Just at that moment the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight.

‘Damn it, Georgie,’ I replied. ‘I knew there was somewhere I was supposed to be.’ I looked from him to the man on his right. This, I was also surprised to see, was the Chickenstalker – another of my old Diallers. ‘More to the purpose, boys,’ I asked, ‘is what you two are doing with those stupid red hats on? You look like a right pair of clowns.’

Behind us, I could sense that the other Slade men was creeping down the stairs to this floor. It would not be long before somebody summoned the courage to make a run at me.

‘We ain’t your Diallers no more,’ sneered the Chickenstalker. He was the man whose nose I had thrown the pewter pot at on that occasion in the Three Cripples taproom and had taken a sour attitude to me ever since. ‘We’re Slade men. He pays us twice what we earned under you.’ Then he reached for his belt and pulled out a sharp-looking blade what he had tucked under it. ‘You was always just a mouth, Dodger. Nothing else.’

Lily and myself was moving down the length of this corridor slow, knowing that the men behind was closing in. My gun was pointed at the Chickenstalker but I would be able to turn and shoot
those behind if I had to. But whoever I shot, the others would be able to jump on me afterwards so it was just a question of who had the nerve to lunge for me.

‘Slade is a thief-taker,’ I said loud for every crook in the place to hear. ‘He works for the police, see. He set up my murder and he’d done it before. To one of you red hats!’ Disbelieving laughter came from one of the Slade men up the stairs. But, as I continued talking, another told him to shush. ‘Tanner his name was,’ I shouted, knowing that it was over for me the moment the trigger was pulled. ‘He swung for killing a policeman. Slade made that happen, an’ all. That’s the man you’re working for now, Stalker.’

‘The police got him to kill a police?’ he jeered, turning the knife in his hand. ‘More mouth!’ Then he flashed me a sick grin and when he spoke next it was for the benefit of those what was coming up on me from behind. ‘I know this Jack Dawkins of old,’ he announced. ‘It’s all posturing with this one. Ain’t that so, Georgie?’

Georgie’s answer was short and succinct. He punched the Chickenstalker in the side of the face. Stalker crashed hard against the wall, dropping his knife, and the men behind me called out foul.

‘Don’t be daft, Stalks,’ he said as he turned and opened the front door. ‘The Dodger’s back!’ Then he waved Lily and myself through and we dashed past, thanking him as we did so.

‘We can’t leave Scratcher,’ Lily exclaimed once the three of us was out into the front rose garden and Georgie was shutting the door behind us. ‘Let’s get him. He’s in the outhouse round the back.’

‘Not no more he ain’t,’ I assured her and pulled her up the garden path towards the front gate. ‘He’s with Oliver Twist. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Daylight had at last broken over London as we ran through
the garden gate and out into that genteel Hammersmith street. I pointed further down the opposite side of the lane where our curricle was waiting for us. In the driver’s seat was Morris Bolter holding the reins while Oliver Brownlow was sat next to him giving him orders. Scratcher alerted them to the fact that the three of us was running towards their one-horsed vehicle and Oliver seemed unhappy by the presence of Georgie Bluchers, a big man in a red hat he had not expected, who was not wearing trousers.

‘This curricle will not carry six,’ he complained as the three of us jumped on to the back of the carriage and held onto the part what was just designed for one footman. ‘We’ll topple under the weight.’ But then the remaining red hats all poured out into the street behind us and by now some of them was carrying firearms. So Oliver nudged at Morris to crack the whip hard and the horse began galloping off in the other direction carrying a load far heavier than it was used to. One of the Slade men fired at us with his barker but we was too far away for it to do any damage and it just had the effect of spurring our steed on even faster. Georgie then removed his red bowler hat from off of his head and chucked it into the air. It landed on the cobbles of that pleasant tree-lined street and he whooped at our pursuers.

‘Thank Mr Slade for his employment,’ he shouted at them just before we turned out of the street and galloped away. ‘But red ain’t my colour.’

Chapter 24
Strange Reflections

A race is on between the authorities and the underworld to see which can catch me first

The lightweight body of the curricle almost overturned twice by the time we had passed Kensington Canal Lock and whenever our horse made a sharp turn the three of us what was clinging on to the back was almost tossed away like unwelcome insects. It was when we reached Little Chelsea that Oliver decided he had tolerated these driving conditions for long enough. He must have told Morris Bolter to draw up in a discreet courtyard by a water pump so we could refresh ourselves and the over-relied-upon horse could drink from the trough. Then he came around the back to reclaim his pistol, introduce himself to Lily and ask me who the man in the underwear was.

‘It’s Ollie Poorhouse!’ Georgie exclaimed. I had already told him about my reunion with Oliver during the ride and he jumped down onto the pavement and took his first proper look at the adult Oliver. ‘C’mere, you daft sod!’

It seemed that Georgie had not been carrying about with him the same animosity that I had for the pale-faced orphan what I had brought home to our den all those years ago and he pulled Oliver towards him and crushed him within his warm embrace. Oliver looked most uncomfortable by this extravagant display of emotion from such a rough character in a state of half-dress and I was unsure
if he even remembered who Georgie was. Then Georgie released Oliver from his grip and turned his attention to little Scratcher and he seemed just as thrilled to see the boy. Whether or not jolly Georgie had known that Lily and Scratcher was being held on those premises against their will, and had both suffered physical abuse from the hands of his former employer, was an issue I would raise at a later date. To be fair to him, he had just helped us escape and his celebratory outpourings was going some way to lift what might have otherwise been a sombre mood and so I decided not to press the matter just yet.

‘Oliver Brownlow,’ I then announced, remembering to use his preferred name, ‘allow me to introduce my lady friend, Miss Lillian Lennox.’

Lily had also alighted from the back of the curricle and had grown most pale from the rough ride we had just experienced as well as – I would imagine – from the ordeal what she had suffered through that night. But as soon as she noticed Oliver standing there, dressed all smart with nice shiny buttons and a gold pocket watch chain visible from his waistcoat, her face grew much brighter and she gave him a gentle curtsey.

‘Very pleasant to meet you, Mr Brownlow,’ she said as she offered him her hand and he took it without hesitation. ‘I hope we shall come to know one another better, you and I,’ she added after he had kissed it. Nothing brings out the charming, gentle side of a life-hardened prostitute quite like finding herself in the presence of a young man what smells of money. In turn, Oliver smiled back at her like he had never in his life seen a woman before.

‘Right, that’s enough of that,’ I said, keen to break up the tender meeting before Oliver began finding her a bit too appealing for his own good, ‘we’ve matters to attend to.’

‘Quite right,’ nodded Oliver and he at last moved his eyes away
from Lily before I had to tell him to find his own fancy woman. ‘I need to get Morris back to the office of the
Morning Chronicle
so I can get down every detail he knows of the plot between Slade and Detective Mills. Including anything that will help to clear your name, Dodger.’

‘Just leave my name right out of it, eh, Poorhouse?’ Georgie winked and punched him in the arm. ‘Don’t forget, we know where you live now!’ he laughed. Oliver winced and bent his knees so he was eye-level with Scratcher.

‘This child should be returned to his mother,’ Oliver said and placed a comforting arm over the boy’s shoulder. ‘That should be our first priority. After all,’ he looked up at Lily and spoke in a gentle manner, ‘is not a child’s safety more precious than anything?’

‘So true, Mr Brownlow,’ sighed Lily in an accent much posher than her own. ‘So very true.’

‘Call me Oliver, please,’ he smiled back at her. I was starting to get good and sick of Mr Wonderful here. I clapped my hands to snap them both out of it.

‘It’s decided then,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘Georgie’ll take young Scratcher back to his home in Bethnal Green where I’m sure his mother is worried silly about him.’ I spoke fast, so that Scratcher did not have time to mention that it was me what had snatched him away from the maternal bosom in the first place. ‘Meanwhile, Lily and myself need hiding before word of my escape gets out and I’m spotted by a conscientious peeler. Not to mention the army of other Slade men what will be hunting for us already.’

‘I’ll get Scratcher home safe,’ said Georgie as he took the boy’s hand. ‘If someone else pays for the omnibus fare.’ Oliver reached into his coat for his purse, while muttering a remark about how they might not let him on a bus looking like that. ‘But, Dodger,’ Georgie said ignoring him, ‘you’ve got to tell us how you escaped
first!’ His face was as wide with dog-like expectation. ‘And, most of all, where is Mouse hiding?’

I looked back at them all and was at a sudden loss as to how to respond to that. I realised that news of Mouse’s death had not travelled far beyond the environs of Newgate and that it was probable that it was only Oliver among this company who knew about his fatal fall from the prison walls. Lily, Georgie, Scratcher – and even Morris – all had their heads turned towards me to hear what had happened to my convicted partner, although it was only Georgie who seemed to assume that the news would be good. But the cold truth was that Mouse Flynn had died during a failed escape attempt of my devising. Had I not persuaded him to try and liberate himself in that way then he would have still been alive when the Rum Mort arranged for the more successful gaol break two nights later and would have crawled with me to freedom. These facts was impossible to deny and the thought of them made my eyes sting in shame. I decided then that I would not dishonour the memory of Mouse by softening the account of his tragic end and nor would I be evasive about my own role in it. I stood there in that obscure courtyard in Little Chelsea and confessed to the whole truth and nothing but. Nobody said much back to me.

*

As far as the good people of London was concerned I had been dead for over an hour when the curricle at last returned to the street where Oliver lived. By then, if events had proceeded as the judge had intended them to, the small coffin what was meant for me should have been nailed shut and placed in the ground with me in it. I flattered myself that many of the spectators what went along to my hanging would have cheered in support when they was informed about my sensational escape from Newgate. But you
never knew with some people – there was a chance that most would have felt cheated out of a spectacle and booed in disappointment.

But in the humble vicinity of Hungerford Stairs, where poor Anthony Rylance had met his end just a few doors down from Oliver’s home, I was not such a celebrity. The early risers here did not react to seeing me riding on the back of that small vehicle with any recognition or surprise at all. I was holding hands with Lily as we trundled along and she rested her head onto my shoulder and I had my other arm around her. Since we had been travelling she had become much more withdrawn but had shown me some bruises underneath her clothes what had not been there when I last saw her. My anger at Slade for his mistreatment of my love was matched only by her own. Lily flinched and her skin coloured redder whenever his name was mentioned.

‘My landlady is accustomed to me resting at home during the daytime,’ Oliver explained after he had returned the curricle to its nearby stable and left a short message of apology for its owner. ‘I’m well known for working in the office through the night so it won’t seem strange to her if she hears that someone is in the bedroom during light hours.’

Oliver was keen to get Morris Bolter back to his office so he could get his full testament about Slade’s dealings with a high-ranking peeler down onto paper. He was unsure as to how much of Bolter’s story would be useful in presenting his case to a safe policeman, such as Inspector Bracken, as Morris himself would have his identity veiled. But he also knew that if the story were thought to be sound then it would be the beginning of the end for Mills, as a career-minded cove like Bracken would have all the details to prove the rest for himself.

Bolter himself was already starting to look as though he regretted agreeing to act the Judas but he had been seen by the other Slade
men fleeing the brothel with us so there was no turning back for him now.