The Artful Dodger meets the Fowler household. #SampleSunday #Kindle

Dr Fowler commanded Jack to sit on the stool and remain silent.  All four turned expectantly towards the door as it opened and Surgeon Wills walked into the room.

He beamed upon Fowler and Beatrice and bowed cordially to Lambert who had quietly stood up and taken a place beside the fire-place.

Wills had been in the house a number of times and he found it very pleasant after a life spent mostly upon board ship.  He cast his gaze upon the comfortable furniture, the homely knick-knacks, the pleasant paintings and the rows of books.

Then his gaze alighted upon Jack.  His eyes stopped for the briefest moment and moved on towards the sideboard.   His eyes returned once more to Jack.  They moved on once again, to Beatrice.  Once more, however, they were inexorably dragged back.

He peered closely, sought out his pince-nez and peered even more closely.

‘My goodness,’ he cried.  ‘It’s young Dawkins.’

Jack sprang to his feet and rushed across to the surgeon, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

‘Hang on, Jackie,’ Wills said.  ‘I’m not a water-pump.’

‘Sorry, Mr Wills,’ said Jack.  ‘It’s just that I’m real pleased to see you.’  He turned towards Lambert, bristling with vindication.

‘It seems we owe the boy an apology,’ Fowler said.

‘Possibly,’ said Lambert.  He turned to Wills.  ‘It’s clear that you know the boy,’ he said.  ‘But he claims that he assisted you in the infirmary.  Is there any chance that this is true?’

‘Every chance,’ answered Wills.  ‘He was invaluable to me.  Better than some of my paid assistants.  The boy is quick-witted and nimble-fingered.  He was adept at putting on dressings.  Once, as I recall, he even stitched a convict’s wound.’

‘Told yer,’ Jack said triumphantly.

‘I’m sure he’s nimble-fingered,’ said Fowler.  ‘It’s probably the reason he’s in New South Wales.’

‘That’s true for certain,’ Wills said.  He gave Jack a look which was a mixture of the stern and the fond.

‘This, my dear friends,’ explained Wills, ‘ is the notorious Artful Dodger.  He was the chief lieutenant of one of the worst criminals in London.  No doubt, had he not been caught, he would have become an equally infamous criminal chief in due time.’

‘Artful Dodger?’ said Beatrice.  ‘What a peculiar title.’

‘Artful because he was the most adroit picker of pockets in the Capital,’ said Wills.  ‘And Dodger because once he’d made his steal he would duck, dive and dodge faster than any policeman could follow.  It’s all in his record, which I had occasion to read on board the transportation ship.’

‘Lambert here wants me to take me into my home,’ said Fowler.  ‘What do you think of that?’

Wills considered.  ‘It’s a risk.  I’ll not deny it.  But Jack Dawkins is as bright as he’s cunning.  He can read a little and write the odd word.  If you can turn his blackened soul to goodness then he may prove a good servant.’

‘Oh let’s try to turn his blackened soul,’ cried Beatrice.  ‘Please, Father, let’s try.’

Fowler smiled fondly at his daughter.  He always found it hard to refuse her.

He considered it carefully and at great length.  The others fell silent and waited.  Even the sofa appeared to hold its breath.

‘We shall try,’ he said at last.  ‘We shall give him a trial.’

‘A trial?’ Jack said.  ‘I don’t want no more trials.’

Fowler laughed.  ‘By trial I mean we will keep you here for a while, maybe two months.  If you prove yourself amenable and hard-working, and eschew wrong-doing completely, then you will be given an extension of six months.  We will review your behaviour every six months thereafter.’

‘That’s harsher terms than Parliament operates on,’ said Lambert with a whistle.  ‘But I don’t think you’ll get fairer than that, Jack Dawkins.’

‘But will Governor Gipps agree it?’ Fowler asked, suddenly doubtful.

Lambert nodded.  ‘I think so.  He will want to please Chief Killara.’

‘Then it’s settled,’ cried Beatrice with joy.

Fowler turned to Jack with a stern look.  ‘First my lad, you shall have a bath.’

Jack backed towards the wall, his hands held up as if warding off an enemy.

‘No I won’t,’ he said.  ‘A bath robs your strength and addles your brains.  Everyone knows that.’

For answer, Fowler rang the bell.  The maid entered immediately.  She blushed, realising that her speed would indicate she had been listening at the door.

‘Lisa,’ Fowler said, ‘ask Mrs Bullmore to join us.’

Lisa curtseyed and disappeared.

Two minutes later she reappeared.  Her face looked rather strained.  ‘She’s coming,’ she said.  ‘She was in the middle of a pie.’

She felt a presence behind her and stepped to one side.

Mrs Bullmore stepped into the room and, with a magisterial look, surveyed them all.

‘I was in the middle of a pie, Dr Fowler,’ she said.

She was a small woman, not quite five feet high but appearing almost as many broad.  She was dressed in black for she was a widow.  A white smock covered her upper body.  It had, no doubt, been clean this morning, but now it looked like the apparel of a murderer.

Blood stains were spattered across the front of the smock in a diagonal line, the result of a fearsome contest with a hen reluctant to give up its life.  Mrs Bullmore was a firm believer in serving only the freshest of food and, wherever possible, preferred to dispatch her own rather than leaving this task to the butcher.

One of the hen’s feathers was lodged in a pocket, either a belated attempt at surrender on the part of the fowl or a trophy of war on the part of Mrs Bullmore.

Below the blood could be seen a thick smear of butter, flour and lard.  Arranged upon this foundation were gravy stains, picked out in the shape of Mrs Bullmore’s small but heavy hands.

She wore a linen cap upon her head but this had proved inadequate for its job and her hair was festooned with traces of flour, sugar and egg, the residue of a recalcitrant lemon meringue pie.

She stood with a large knife, which appeared covered in brown gore, and fixed Fowler with her stare.

‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your work,’ Fowler said.

‘It was your pie I was in the middle of,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ Fowler said.  ‘But I wanted to show you Jack Dawkins.  He is to join the household.  And, directly you have finished your lunch duties, I want you to give him a bath.’

Mrs Bullmore stared at Jack.  She took a deep, satisfied intake of breath.  ‘It will be my pleasure, Dr Fowler,’ she said.

Jack cringed, feeling almost as threatened as he used to be by Bill Sikes.

*****************

For a short time only Artful is available on Kindle for at a reduced price of $1.22, 77p or €0.89.   It can be borrowed free in the USA by Amazon Prime customers.

Talking with Lynn Shepherd

Today, I’m delighted to be talking with Lynn Shepherd, author of Murder at Mansfield Park and Tom-All-Alone’s.  

When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer?  Was there a specific event that made you decide?

I think it was always there as a dream, but that dream only hardened into an ambition after I went freelance as a copywriter in 2000, and finally had some time to devote to serious writing of my own. Two and a half unpublished novels later Murder at Mansfield Park was accepted by a UK publisher in 2009, and then by a US one, and then by an Australian one…

Which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

I read a lot of classic English fiction, and my love for writers like Austen and Dickens goes very deep. But I’ve also been influenced by modern writers – I admire AS Byatt very much, especially her earlier novels, and the crime writer who’s had the most impact on me is Joan Smith. I love her Loretta Lawson novels.

What made you choose to write your modern take on classic novels?  Did you have any worries about tackling characters who would be greatly loved by readers?

The initial idea for turning Jane Austen into a murder mystery just popped into my head unbidden in the summer of 2008. I had no idea or intention at that stage of doing the same thing again. But once Murder at Mansfield Park was published I started to wonder whether I was onto quite an interesting and unusual idea. After all, there are many murder mysteries set in the Victorian period (some of them very good), but no-one’s done quite the same thing as I’ve done in Tom-All-Alone’s (which is published in the US as The Solitary House). In other words, creating a new story that runs parallel with another book – in this case Bleak House. And yes, there’s always a risk if you work with a classic that people love, but I think most people who’ve read my novels can see that I love those classics just as much as they do, and have written my own books in that spirit.

Why did you choose the novels that you based your books on?  In hindsight would other choices have been more fun or useful to work with?

I chose the books primarily because I love and admire them. After all, who’d want to spend all those months working with a text you couldn’t stand! Mansfield Park has always intrigued me since it’s Austen’s ‘problem child’ – she’s trying to do something different and more serious and it doesn’t quite come off, and I found the reasons for that comparative failure extremely interesting to explore. As for Bleak House, I’ve always considered it the quintessential Dickens – a marvellous book, and marvellous material to mine.

What’s been your favourite moment in your writing career?

That call from my agent saying I had my first deal! I think many writers would probably say the same.

If you could spend time with two favourite characters, one from another writer and one from your fiction who would they be and what might you all do?

Taking my own characters first, I think it would be Charles Maddox senior, the ‘thief taker from Murder at Mansfield Park who appears again, as an old man, in Tom-All-Alone’s/The Solitary House. He’s a very sophisticated and well-educated man, but he also made a career out of solving of crime at a time when there was no police force as we know it. He dealt with crimes involving the highest in the land, and the most brutal realities of life on the streets, so he’d have wonderful stories to tell.

As for another writer’s characters, I think I would it would be Robert Lovelace, the rakish libertine in Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. Richardson is not read much these days, but Clarissa is a masterpiece of European literature, and Lovelace is by far his most dazzling creation.

And what would we three do? I think we would explore some of the areas of 18^th and 19^th century London that these two characters would have known, and then end up having what would no doubt be a hugely stimulating dinner – I’m sure sparks would fly!

How do you research your novels?  Do you research before you start to write or do you do it on an ongoing process?

There was much more research for Tom-All-Alone’s/The Solitary House than for Murder at Mansfield Park. For the Austen, most of the work went into getting the language right; for the Dickens, it was a much bigger task, because I had to bring Victorian London back to life. That meant a lot of reading. Though in principle I always do the minimum of research before I start writing and fill in the gaps afterwards, because otherwise you can fall into the trap of having the research dictate the story, rather than the other way round. I hate it when I read books and stumble over huge lumps of only partially digested research which the writer’s obviously spent days looking for, and is going to get in there one way or another!

Which research tools, sources and web-sites did you find most useful?

The www.victorianlondon.org website is excellent for the later 19^th century. The http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com and http://austenonly.com/ sites are also very helpful for Regency customs and background.

What would be a typical writing day for you?  Do you have set times, spaces, routines or rituals?

Because I write for my day job I’m very disciplined – at the desk by 8.30 usually, and then I write through till about 5.

If you were to give advice to someone thinking of writing a novel what would it be?

Don’t give up! Having the talent is only the start – if you’re going to get published you’ll need determination, perseverance, and a very thick skin. But it can be done!

What is your next writing project?

My third book is called A Treacherous Likeness, and is, in effect, a sequel to Tom-All-Alone’s/The Solitary House. It’s out in February from Corsair in theUK, and later in 2013 in North America from Random House.

Thanks very much for talking with me, Lynn.

Tom-All-Alone’s is published in the UK by Corsair, and in North America by Random House as The Solitary House. Murder at Mansfield Park is available as an e-book from Corsair in the UK, and is published by St Martin’s Press in the US and Canada, and Allen & Unwin in Australia.

Lynn’s website is www.lynn-shepherd.com, and this includes a video which was shot in some of the locations used in Tom-All-Alone’s/The Solitary House. Her Twitter ID is @Lynn_Shepherd.

Next Friday I’ll be talking with Angus Donald, author of the Outlaw novels.  Sherwood here we come.

‘Artful’ #SampleSunday #Free today #Kindle #amwriting

Chapter 6 New Horizons

The prisoners were taken out of the barracks and mustered along the quayside.  A party of Government officials appeared and, together with Lieutenant Bolt, passed up and down the line of men, studying their papers as they did so.

If a man looked as though he might prove particularly useful one of the officials pointed him out and a guard led him away.  Beresford was one of the first to be selected.

‘No,’ cried Jack.

‘Shut it,’ said the guard.

‘But he’s my father,’ Jack pleaded.  ‘You wouldn’t want to separate an orphan child from his father would you?’

The guard raised his hand to cuff him but one of the officials signalled to him to desist.

He was a tall man with a well-groomed beard and a thick head of hair with straggly locks framing his face like the ears of a basset hound.  His spectacles balanced upon the end of a sharp, thin nose.

‘Are you really trying to tell me that this man is your father?’ he asked.

Jack nodded.  The man consulted his papers.

‘It says here,’ he read, ‘that you are called Jack Dawkins and that this fellow, who you claim to be your father, is called Beresford.’

‘It’s his first name.’

The official tapped his fingers on his chin and turned to Beresford.  ‘Is this boy your child?’

Before Beresford could answer, Jack threw himself upon his knees and held his hands up to the official.  ‘I’m a bastard,’ he said.  ‘There’s no record of us.  We’ve just found each other after years of separation.’

The official shook his head and patted Jack on the head.  ‘Good try but I fear not good enough.  Even if you were related I’m afraid that the colony could not easily find work for one such as you.’

‘Come along, Dr Fowler,’ said the leader of the party, ‘we haven’t all day.’

The doctor patted Jack on the head and moved on.

The guard pulled at Beresford’s arm.  He resisted for a moment and clasped Jack on the shoulder.

‘I thought we’d not be able to stay together, lad,’ he said.  ‘But I’ll always remember you.  Look after yourself and remember; keep a lid on your swagger.’

The guard led Beresford away.  A familiar snigger sounded from further down the line.

‘Get lost, Crimp,’ Jack said.

Beresford need have had no worries concerning Jack’s behaviour at this moment.  No matter how much he tried to swagger, the chill in his heart prevented it.

The official party worked its way down the line, selecting about a third of the men for government work.  Those who were selected either had specialist skills or were particularly strong-looking men like Beresford and Trench.  Those left over were as varied a looking bunch of miscreants as could be found in Newgate or the House of Lords.

They were now herded close together and a new party of men strolled up and down, documents and little purses clasped in their hands.  These were the free settlers.

Some were inhabitants of Sydney wishing to be assigned servants.  Others were settlers from further away, many of them men termed squatters who owned vast tracts of land out in the wilderness.  They were looking for experienced men to tend their flocks or till their fields, or, failing this, men who looked strong enough to work until they dropped.

The wealthiest looking settlers were at the head of the line and they made selection of all the best men.  The whole process was much more chaotic and speedy than the measured progress of the government officials.  The settlers were in a hurry to get the choicest men possible and they knew they dare not linger over-long for fear of losing out to a rival.

In the end there were only two prisoners left on the quayside; Dodger and Crimp.

There were very few settlers either.  They looked long and hard at the two remaining figures before shaking their heads and leaving.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ cried Dodger bitterly.  ‘Can’t yer see what a bargain I am?’

Only one man scrutinised them still.  He was a huge man, nearly six feet tall and broad and fat.  He leaned upon a thick walking stick.  His right foot was swaddled in bandages.

Although the man was big his head was very small, looking like the head of a fox or weasel jammed onto the neck of a man.  His beady eyes were cold and unreadable.  A raw, red scar ran from just beneath his left eye to the edge of his lip.

He chewed tobacco and every so often spat it out, staining his bandaged foot brown.  Dodger noticed him staring and fell quiet, having no wish to attract his attention.

They continued in this impasse for a few minutes, until the man lurched over to him.  He held Dodger’s chin and scrutinised him carefully as if he were a horse or a dog.

‘Open yer mouth,’ he growled.

The voice was so harsh, so reminiscent of the all too-familiar one of Sikes, that Dodger obeyed.  The man peered at his teeth and shut his jaw with a snap.  He then turned and did the same with Crimp.

‘Take your glove off,’ he told Crimp.

Crimp gave an anxious look and shook his head.  The man lifted his fist and, muttering, Crimp inched it off.  Dodger gasped.  The top of the fingers had disappeared; the stumps which remained were blackened and charred.

The big man examined the hand for a moment and then shrugged as if he expected little different.

‘They’ll do,’ he said to the one remaining official.  He reached into a mud-stained purse and pulled out a sovereign and some silver.

‘It’s two pounds, Mr Stone,’ said the clerk, ‘one pound per convict.’

‘He’s only a lad and a puny one at that,’ Stone said, poking Dodger in the chest. ‘And the bloke’s not much better.  I think I should get a discount on account of the lack of eye and hand of the one and the puniness and ugliness of the other.’

‘How much are you offering?’

‘Thirty bob for the pair.’

The clerk considered for a moment, pocketed the money and thrust two sets of papers into Stone’s hand.  ‘Fred Crimp and Jack Dawkins,’ he said.  ‘Yours for thirty bob and no questions asked.’

He turned towards Crimp and Jack.  ‘This is Seth Stone, your new master,’ he said.  ‘Do well by him and he’ll do well by you.’

I doubt that, thought Dodger.

‘My carriage is there,’ Stone said, pointing to a tumble-down crate.  A donkey with a hang-dog expression stood in the traces.  ‘You can walk behind.’

The clerk handed Jack and Crimp a parcel each which contained some bedding and clothing.

As they walked towards the cart Crimp muttered, ‘I must have died and gone to heaven.  Do you know why?  Because I’m going to make your life hell.’

 ’Artful’ is free today on Kindle and all Kindle apps.  Click on the pictures to the right to buy.

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Sensational Discovery. Oscar Wilde interviews.

I recently visited Paris with my wife.  One day, as we strolled along the Left Bank, a tremendous rain-storm sent us scurrying into an alley for cover.  It was quite dark in the alley and I banged my shin against something hard and sharp.  I bent down to examine it and was astonished to find a battered old suitcase with rusty lock.

It is not something I would normally do but I decided there and then to take the suitcase.  I brought it home to Menton and tried to get into it.  No luck.  In the end I had to buy a hack-saw and cut the lock completely.

I looked inside and my jaw dropped open.  (This is the second time in my life that I have had such a comic book reaction but I promise you, drop open it did.)

Inside the suitcase were a mass of papers which proved to be interviews which Oscar Wilde had conducted with prominent people of his time.

I aim to post these periodically on my blog, starting with the first interview when the fifteen year old Wilde interviewed Charles Dickens only two weeks before his death.  (In fact I begin to wonder whether the two events were in any way connected.)

However, I start not with any of Wilde’s own interviews but by one from his friend, Lord Alfred Douglas, known affectionally to his friends as Bosie.

For lovers of history there is an added piquancy.  This interview took place the day after Valentine’s Day 1895 which was the opening night of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’

The Bosie Papers

15 February 1895

Following the triumphant first night of Oscar’s latest play we were visited at our hotel by a hysterical old woman by the name of Lady Flashman.  Apparently she had seen ‘Earnest’ the night before and, being as empty-headed as she was wealthy, took it into her head that Oscar, the darling of the London stage, would like nothing better than to write a play about her decrepit old husband.  She must have imagined that he would swoon at the very idea.

Strangely enough, Oscar decided to see the woman.  He was clearly in an exultant mood after the astonishing success of the first night.

As always he was courtesy itself although I could see through the façade that he was utterly disgusted by the aging harpy.  He pretended that he was beguiled and besotted by her and she flirted with him in a manner more suited to the madam of a bordello. 

To my astonishment Oscar agreed to undertake an interview with her husband and asked me to pass him his day-book so that he could find a suitable time.  The old baggage fluttered her eyes at him and said that there was no need to make an appointment. 

‘I’ve brought my Hector with me,’ she said.  ‘He is waiting in the lounge.’

Oscar was so delighted with her that he agreed to meet with the old man there and then.  I tried to dissuade him from this but he brushed aside my objections which I must say I found very wounding.  Then, to rub salt into my wounds, he asked me to be the amanuensis of the interview. 

Naturally I determined to refuse and make a wounding departure.  However, Oscar had made his request in front of the fawning Lady Flashman so I had to swallow my chagrin and agree.

A servant was summoned and sent to bring her old fool of a husband to meet us. 

As events unfolded I surprised even myself by discovering that I was, in fact, a superb amanuensis.  Here is my record of Oscar and Harry Flashman’s first meeting. 

Picture if you will, the refined Oscar sitting at his ease in his Norfolk jacket with the gorgeous silk handkerchief I had bought him drooping from his pocket.  Then picture the nature of his visitor.

Sir Harry Flashman was a hulking great creature, six feet tall, as broad as a navvy with moustache and whiskers from a previous century.  He looked to be aged about fifty-five or so although he was actually in his early seventies.  There was a toe-curling revoltingness about him, something which made my nostrils contract.  At the same time, I must admit he had something about him, some charisma or animal force.  It made me want to run to the toilet.

Sir Harry – G’day to you Mr Wilde.

Oscar – (rising and taking the brute by the hand).  Good day to you, Sir Harry.  Your wife tells me that you would like me to write your memoirs.

Sir Harry – (staring venomously at his wife) That’s what she said, is it?

Oscar – It most certainly is.  She tells me that you’ve had a fascinating life.  She even went as far as to call you ‘Her Hector.’

Sir Harry – (to his wife) That’s so flattering of you, Elsbeth.  Now, why don’t you get yourself off to Oxford Street and buy yourself something for the weekend.

At this point, with much false cooing and curtseying, Lady Flashman made her departure.

Oscar – Charming woman, your wife.

Sir Harry – Aye, she’s a charmer right enough.  You’re welcome to view her charms (sitting forward in his chair suspiciously) but only from a distance.  Now then, Mr Wilde, my idiot of a wife has got it into her head that you’d be the perfect person to write my memoirs.  I can’t see for the life of me why anybody would want to read them and even less so if you were to write ‘em.

Me – How dare you, sir.  Oscar is the darling of Literary London.

Sir Harry – (turning to me with a belligerent look) When I want to be cheeked by some office boy, I’ll let him know, thank you kindly.

Oscar – Sir Harry, this is no office boy.  This is Lord Alfred Douglas, son of the Marquess of Queensbury.

Sir Harry – (with a repulsive leer) Oh, so you’re the one.  Not much like your old man, are you?  I can’t see you watching at a Boxing Ring.  Or riding a horse.  (Turning to Oscar.)  Or perhaps I’m mistaken.  Perhaps you like to go riding with this young man, Mr Wilde?

(Long silence.)

Oscar – Lord Alfred’s father is a great hunter of the fox but Bosie, dear child, is more a poet by inclination.

Sir Harry – I didn’t come here to talk about inclinations if you take my meaning, Mr Wilde.  Nor about hunting.  I’m here because my wife wants you to memorialise me.

At this point I made to rise, thinking that the time to end the interview had arrived.  But Sir Harry Flashman gave me a glance like a viper which made me feel quite giddy.

To my astonishment, Oscar said that he concurred with the notion of conducting the interview.  Imagine my horror.

The brute staggered to his feet, gave me the filthiest leer I have ever received and stuck his card in my waistcoat pocket.

Sir Harry – There are Office Boy.  Get in touch when your friend has a free moment.

Then he stalked out of the room but not, alas, out of our lives.

Oscar – (with a grin) Oh do lighten up, Bosie.

Artful #Free on Kindle Select #SampleSunday #amwriting

Artful is free on Kindle Select this weekend.  Here’s the first chapter.

Detail of an original George Cruikshank engraving showing the Artful Dodger introducing Oliver to Fagin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

CHAPTER 1 TRANSPORTED

The sun crawled up the London sky like an invalid part way through convalescence.  If it could have wheezed it would have wheezed.  If it could have coughed it would have coughed.  It would have been a thick, phlegm-heavy cough which would struggle to clear the stinking, oily air lying like a sodden blanket upon the city.

In the streets below, a line of soldiers escorted a column of men towards the river.  The men’s legs shuffled due to the heavy chains which linked them together.  The convicts were of all sizes: short and wiry, short and fat, tall and thin, tall and scrawny and almost every other conceivable combination.  They were of all ages: men in their twenties and men in their sixties, and every age between.

All except one.

Bringing up the rear was a boy of perhaps twelve years old, dressed in men’s clothing which hung upon him as loosely as a bloodhound’s flesh.

Whereas the others in the line looked beaten and despairing to a man, the young boy gave a huge grin.  He swaggered along, jaunty as possible, whistling tunelessly.

‘Good luck, Dodger,’ came a call from the gathering crowd.

‘You show ‘em, Dodger,’ cried another.

‘I’m off to be Her Majesty’s High Ambassador to the New South Welsh,’ he said, flourishing his hat.  ‘When I’ve sorted everyfink out I’ll be back.  Fourteen years in the diplomatic service is nothing to a young gentleman like me.’

‘Shut it back there,’ called one of the soldiers.

The boy turned towards the crowd.  ‘You’d have thought that Queen Vicky would have given me a less common guard of honour.’

He started to whistle once more and acknowledged the applause and cheers of the crowd.

Most of the spectators were members of the East End community, poor, shabbily dressed and grimy with dirt.  A small group, however, looked very out of place and they caught Dodger’s eye.

They were a family which had got caught up in the throng and looked very nervous to have done so.  The father was a man in his late thirties, tall and upright with fine mutton-chop whiskers.  His wife was small and slight and the man held her close to him as if to protect her from the crowd.  The steely look upon her face, however, suggested that any protection he might offer would be quite redundant.

The parents kept a tight watch on three girls.  The eldest was aged about fifteen and had a sharp face with eyes which darted everywhere with great suspicion.  A toddler of perhaps two or three was cradled in her mother’s arms, looking with great anxiety not at the crowd but at her eldest sister.

It was the middle daughter who held Dodger’s gaze.  She was a couple of years younger than he but, unlike him, upright in posture and well nourished.  She was very pale and her face held a scatter of freckles as close to each other as stars in the night sky.  A straw hat perched precariously upon a mass of wayward curls which seemed to frolic about her head.  She stared open-mouthed at the column, her head turning from side to side, watching each of the convicts as they passed.  She looked as though she was about to burst into tears.

Dodger came close towards her and she stopped and stared directly at him.  Her eyes opened wide, so wide that her hat jiggled slightly upon her head.

He gave her a grin and swept of his hat with a flourish.  She waved back and was roundly told to stay still by her sister.

As he turned the corner, Dodger glanced back.  The girl was still staring at him.  She raised her hand but he could not for the life of him tell whether it was to say farewell or hello.

As they marched along, Jack became aware that one of the convicts kept sneaking glances towards him.  He was a little man, as skinny as a gutter-cat, with one sharp, nervous eye.  The other was covered by a ragged black patch.  His right hand was hidden in a filthy glove, held at an odd angle.  His left hand continually stroked his mouth, a mouth which was puckered up into a permanent snarl, the skin around it creased and rutted.  He had the figure of a man in his twenties but his malformed face was that of someone twice that age.

The line of convicts had to take a turn in the road and as they did so they slowed to a halt.  The skinny man took the opportunity to sidle up towards Jack and jabbed him in the ribs.

‘Recognise me?’ he asked.  His voice was a low sneer.

Jack shook his head.

‘Well you should do.  You’re one of Fagin’s boys ain’t you?  In fact, you’re his prime boy, the pick of the bunch, so they say.’

‘You may know me, but I don’t know you,’ Jack replied.  The man made him shiver, as if an icy blast had sneaked in through a crack in the door.

‘You’ll come to know me,’ said the man.  Flecks of spittle bubbled on his lips and he wiped them ineffectively.  ‘My name’s Crimp and Fagin’s the reason I’m convicted and being sent off to the ends of the earth.’

He fell silent and peered into Jack’s face as if seeking for some answer to an irritating puzzle.  ‘And I reckon you had a hand in it as well,’ he said finally.

Jack shook his head.  ‘I’ve never seen you before, guvnor, honest.’  Jack was a good judge of people.  Crimp did not look much of a man but Jack guessed that he meant a lot of trouble.

Crimp spat on Jack’s foot.  ‘If it weren’t for the big boss I’ve had swung no doubt.  And all because Fagin did the dirty on us.’

‘So where’s your boss?’ Jack asked.  ‘Is he being transported?’

Crimp gave a high-pitched laugh.  ‘Don’t be stupid.  He’s safe from the law, being as how he is the law.’

Jack eyed him narrowly, hoping that the line would start up again so that he could get away.

The man leaned closer.  ‘Do you know how long this voyage lasts?’

Jack shook his head.

‘Seven months, eight months, sometimes more.’  Crimp grabbed hold of Jack’s chin and jerked his head around.

‘So there’s plenty of time for us to get better acquainted, Jack Dawkins.  And plenty of time for me to remind you of how the old Jew did for me.’

Jack swallowed, uneasy that the man knew his name.

A convict close by, a big man with curly hair, watched the incident.  He scratched his head thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

The skinny man slid away from Jack but remained watching him with narrowed eyes.

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What Charley Bates thinks about the Artful Dodger

Dodger is the bestest.  He’s quicker than all the rest of us put together.  He can spot a likely geezer from half a street away, size him up and work out what he’s got that’s worth nicking.

His fingers must be like eels.  They can get in anywhere.  And out they come with exactly what he wants.

Then it’s off, as fast as an alley cat being chased by dogs.  Nobody even sees where he goes.

He looks after the rest of us you know.  He’s good like that.  We feel safe as houses with him around.  Feel like we’re on top of the world.

Will he get caught?  Pull the other one.  No one will be able to catch him.  Not our Dodger.  You must be blooming daft.  Not our Dodger.

See if Charley was right in his estimation.  Download ‘Artful’ for your Kindle or Kindle app.

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What Nancy thought about the Artful Dodger

As the author of ‘Artful’ I was pleased to have been sent an old box from an anonymous source.  Imagine my amazement when I looked inside and found a packet of dirty, worm-eaten letters which related to the chief character of my novel.

I thought that it was in the interests of historical accuracy to share these thoughts with the world.

These are the thoughts of Nancy:

Don’t believe what Fagin says, whatever it is.  Jack Dawkins is a lovely boy, a right little genelman.  He always looks after me and the other girls.  Tips his hat to me whenever he sees me and if he’s stole a choice silk scarf he’ll keep it from the Old Un and give it me.

He should of course after all I’ve done for him.  Not that I expect it and not that I’ve told him everything.  Some things are best kept from the young uns, I say.

Fagin’s boys look up to him as well.  He’s like a hero to them.  They all want to be like Dodger.  He’s such a marvel, you see.  He’s the best pick-pocket in London and London’s full of ‘em.  But there’s none half as good as Dodger, not on either side of the river, not in the City or the East End or the Other End.   No one half as good in the whole bloomin Empire probably.

I wish sometimes he’d get away from Fagin.  But he won’t, I know he won’t.  He seems to dote on the old villain.  Not that Fagin hasn’t been good to him.  Gave him a roof over his head, and me as well, and fed us even if it were little better than scraps.  And he gave Jack a trade into the bargain, trained him up to thieving.

But I still wish Jack would get away, set up for himself.  He’d keep all he took then and not have to give it all up to the Old Un.  But whatever he does, he’ll be all right.  He’ll never get caught and he’ll always be around to look after his old Nancy.

Read about Dodger’s adventures in my novel ‘Artful’.  It is available on Kindle Select for $3.99, £2.54 or €3.11. 

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What Bill Sikes thought of the Artful Dodger

Yesterday I published Fagin’s thoughts concerning his principal pick-pocket, the Artful Dodger.  Today I publish the second document which is written by Fagin’s old boy, Bill Sikes, a man who in later life set up his own criminal concern.  It seems from the document that he was being interviewed by some fool-hardy soul.

Bill Sikes by Fred Barnard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dodger?  Scheming little villain.  I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him.  Just as soon as feed him to Bulls-Eye than have to put up with his ugly little mug, his little sharp eyes taking it all in, watching what’s going on, storing it away in that nasty little head of his.

No idea where he came from, don’t care in the slightest.  Some gutter down Billinsgate way, I reckon.  He’s fishy enough for it, and slippery as an eel.  He told me once he was some rich geezer’s kid.  Airs and graces, airs and graces.

Is he good at his job?

That’s a puzzler.  Much though it grieves me to admit it, I reckon he is.  He’s sneaky you see, he sneaks about so as you don’t know he’s there.  Then, bang, he’s got his little fingers inside your pocket and he’s orf away from the scene.

Has he stolen from me?  You looking for a wallop?  Would I let a little villain like that steal from me?

The watch?  I gave him that.  As a present.  He never took it from me and if he says he did I’ll crack his head open.  Nobody gets one over on Bill Sikes.  Not even the Artful Dodger.

You can buy my book ‘Artful’ on Amazon Kindle.

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What Fagin thought of the Artful Dodger

i have just been sent an old box from an anonymous source.  Imagine my amazement when I looked inside and found a packet of dirty, worm-eaten letters which related to the chief character of my novel, Artful.

I thought that it was in the interests of historical accuracy to share these thoughts with the world.

The first missive was penned by his old mentor, Fagin.

Detail of an original George Cruikshank engraving showing the Artful Dodger introducing Oliver to Fagin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

MY FRIEND ARTFUL

Ah, Artful, what a boy was he?  It was me what named him Artful Dodger because there was none who could dodge like him, none as fast on their feet or able to turn and swerve like a mongrel with an itch in his tail.

Not that he needed to dodge that much, oh no.  You see he was the best I’ve ever knowed: the slyest, sneakiest, most swift-fingered pick-pocket I’ve ever had the pleasure to train.  That’s why I called him Artful, ’cause he was.  He was as cunning as a mother fox, as quick with his tricks as the Chancellor of the Chequer, the Hogarth of the filch.

He was clever, I give him that.  Don’t know where he got it from but he was.  Truth to tell I was beginning to think that it wouldn’t be long before he could outsmart me.  Bit of a concern for the future that was, nagging, if you like, at the back of me head.

But I wasn’t worried yet, not really, not yet.  Artful was loyal, you see.  I knew that might not last ’cause they all turn nasty in the end.  Look at Sikes, the villain, and he owed everything to me.  But I knew that Artful would stay true to me for a good few years yet.  I think he was grateful to me or perhaps he knew which side of the bread his dripping was on.  You see, I looked after him.  And he looked after me.  Pals we were, almost, even though he was my employee.  Someone, I think it may have been Toby Crackit, said that Artful was my Left-tenant, maybe ’cause he left all he pinched to me and he lived with me.

So imagine the blow when he made his one mistake.  He was caught and sent to trial for one measly snuff-box.  And now he’s gone.  To New South Wales which is full of criminals.  I worry my heart out for the boy.  I do hope he’s all right and will come back to his old pal one day.  I wonder what’s happening to the boy now?

Read Artful to find out what did happen to the Artful Dodger.  Available on Amazon Kindle.

To the Death. Artful. #samplesunday #amwriting #Kindle

CHAPTER 4 TO THE DEATH

Jack managed to get one free and kicked down savagely.  There sounded the sharp crack of broken bone and Crimp cried out.  He felt his nose gingerly.  Blood spurted through his fingers.

‘He’s broke me nose,’ he cried.

Jack leapt off the ladder and slipped through the crowd of convicts with Crimp and Trench lumbering after him.  Jack really did live up to his name and for a good five minutes he artfully dodged and swerved, ducked and dived, eluding the clutching hands of his pursuers.  Most of the men were happy to aid him in his flight, having no love for his enemies but a smidgeon of admiration for him.

In the end Trench cried out, ‘A half-crown for the man who catches him.’   Loyalties switched instantly and in moments Jack found himself caught in a web of arms.  He was dragged in front of Trench.

‘You broke my friend’s nose,’ Trench said.  ‘That was foolish of yer.  You’ve got some comeuppance to come.’  He pulled Jack’s Top Hat from his head, put it to his mouth and bit the crown off.

‘You bastard,’ cried Jack,  ‘That’s my property.’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ said Trench, dropping the battered hat upon the floor and stamping on it.

‘Let me break his fingers,’ cried Crimp.

‘If you want,’ said Trench, grabbing hold of Jack’s hand and holding it towards him.

‘Not his fingers,’ came a voice from the crowd.  A swell of angry voices seemed to agree.

‘Why not?’ said Crimp.  ‘He broke my nose.  Why shouldn’t I break his fingers?’

‘That’s his trade,’ said the voice.  ‘He’s a pick-pocket.  You can’t take away the lad’s profession.’

Crimp squeezed on Jack’s fingers.  But as he looked at the increasingly angry crowd he suddenly thought better of it and let Jack’s hand drop.

‘Okay then,’ he said.  ‘I’ll leave the lad his fingers.  But what can I do to him then?’

‘Give him a beating,’ said the voice.  ‘But don’t harm his hands.’

Crimp called out to Trench.  He grabbed Jack by the neck and held him fast while Crimp sized up where to strike.  His first punch hit Jack in the shoulder.

‘There must be a butterfly in here,’ Jack said, peering down as he brushed at his shoulder.  ‘I swear its gentle wing just touched me.’

The crowd laughed at his words, jeering at Crimp for his puniness.

Crimp growled in fury and laid into Jack with a will.  Jack didn’t say another word.

It was only when he was knocked unconscious and began to slide to the floor that Trench held up his hand.  ‘Enough for now, Fred,’ he said.  ‘He won’t forget this lesson.’

The next three days were the worst that Jack ever experienced.  Every morning he was beaten by Crimp and every afternoon beaten once again.  Trench would sit and watch this, chuckling and guffawing as though it was the finest comedy in the halls.  The rest of the convicts were angered by it but for the moment no one dared intervene.

On the fourth day, anyone who happened to be lurking in the darkest part of the hold might have seen Jack whispering something in Tommy Windle’s ear.  He gave the cabin boy a note.

Jack watched Tom slip away to the ladder leading up to the deck.  He bit his lips anxiously and took a deep breath.

Then he turned, strode up to Trench and kicked him on the shin.

‘I’ve had enough of seeing you hide behind your pal,’ he cried.  ‘Why don’t you fight your own battles for a change?  I challenge you to a prize-fight.’

Artful is available on Kindle and on Smashwords.

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