Newman Noggs shuffled forward to stand in the light of the hearth. Despite the turnaround in his fortunes, years of unwilling yet obligatory servitude to the contemptible Ralph Nickleby had left its mark in the melancholic slope of his shoulders, pained expression across his furrowed brow and gnarled, fidgeting fingers. Although he was now a man of sufficient resources, he still favoured plain and simple clothing, as though having already once lost a fortune had left a permanent scar on his psyche, and the fear of a recurrence of said loss counselled his every consideration when it came to the matter of expenditure.
His coat, whilst well fitted to his slight frame, showed signs of wear at the cuffs and a missing button – a sartorial expression of his refusal to believe he deserved the acceptance of his friends and peers. His fall from a well-to-do family to the status of nothing more than a menial clerk, through the ever-descending labyrinthine passages of drink and injudicious speculation, meant redemption was still a difficult concept for him to endure.
“Come, come, Noggs,” Pickman gestured to the gathering, correctly interpreting the man’s unease. “Every man here is on equal ground. Status and means hold no sway in this court. As a respected member our little assembly, you will be heard without prejudice or ridicule. I see you came prepared.” He nodded in encouragement towards the wrinkled sheets of paper in Noggs’ hands.
“Yes,” Noggs admitted reluctantly. Then more boldly, as if only just making his mind up at that very moment, he held the letter up so that all gathered could see. “Yes. I have here correspondence that will never reach its recipient. I will make sure of that, and you will come to see why. The contents will prove too distressing to the young gentleman and his family, their identity most of you will be familiar with, and of the tragedies and abuses imposed upon them by the machinations of Mister Ralph Nickleby.”
At the utterance of that name, there was a collective drawing in of breath and much tutting and shaking of heads. “But –” Noggs faltered “– the truth cannot lie in the bottom of a dusty drawer.”
The group, as one, leaned forward, their collective interest piqued. Noggs cleared his throat and perched a pair of grimy pince-nez upon his rubicund nose. At his lowest point in life, he rarely spoke in sentences of more than three or four words. Now, addressing a room full of expectant faces, no matter how familiar, in a state of sobriety was a terrifying prospect causing the muscle under his left eye to spasm. Yet, he was committed and pressed on.
“You will all be very aware of the circumstances of my previous engagement, and the downfall of my employer? Yes, of course, it could not have passed unremarked. However, you will not be in the possession of the events that occurred concurrently to the collapse of his financial empire. Ralph Nickleby was a man of secrets, and not just those belonging to his victims which he harboured and exploited, but his own secrets – a long history of dishonourable and despicable behaviour conducted with free will and a severe lack of conscience. The man, in a word, was a monster.”
Noggs sighed, the weight of his regret at his involvement in recent affairs, however peripheral, pressing his shoulders even further down. He shook out the sheets of paper and cleared his throat.
“I should preface the reading of this letter by introducing its author. A good man of a stout and earthy nature, who knows right from wrong and proved to be a loyal friend to the young gentleman in question. John Browdie is a corn merchant who made the acquaintance of Nicholas, Ralph’s nephew, whilst he was stationed at Dotheboys Hall. Not knowing the whereabouts of Nicholas’ residence in Devonshire, he made the calculated and accurate assumption that I was still responsible for closing down Ralph Nickleby’s business affairs in London. This letter was addressed to our offices in Golden Square, and fortuitously arrived the morning I was due to shut the door for the final time and hand over the keys to the land agent. Browdie, not having enclosed his correspondence to Nicholas under separate cover, had simply written instructions in his opening lines for the letter to be forwarded in its entirety at my discretion.”
Noggs twitched his head and blinked furiously, hoping that he had provided adequate justification for reading a communication not directly intended for his attention. There was no indication of disapproval on the faces arranged before him. Pickman made a noise in the back of his throat and looked pointedly at the letter. Noggs, in return, raised the papers closer to his face, tilting the pages towards the hearth so that the firelight could better illuminate the words scrawled upon them. His lips trembled, mouthing silent words until he reached the passages he sought.
…It was an unexpected but grand and welcome sight to see you at my door, Nicholas. Mrs Browdie and myself were beyond pleased to receive you and to hear your news. Whilst grieved at the passing of poor young Smike, I cannot say I am not thankful to hear that your uncle will no longer play his wicked games and treat his relations so poorly. Why, if he had not taken matters into his own hands and brought the sorry affair to an end himself, I am not at all sure that I would not have taken the next coach up to London and beaten him black and blue, much in the manner of the hiding you delivered onto that wretch, Wackford Squeers.
As you know, I rode out to Dotheboys Hall to see how the news of the master’s well-deserved misfortune was being received at the school. And I returned with a tale of how the boys had brought about their own rebellion and delivered a severe punishment upon the remaining Squeers family, driving them from that evil place.
What I did not report was the discovery of such imaginable horror that I have not, until now, been able to find the words or the courage to put pen to paper. But what I saw, Nicholas, and what I heard… I described the Hall as evil, but that does not even begin to paint a true depiction of what I witnessed. Hellish and wicked and sinful, it was. Even now, Mrs Browdie wakes me in the night, claiming that I scream and bellow loud enough to wake the dead. I can clearly recall the dreams that cause this extreme reaction and spend the next day in a state of deep anxiety and dread, as if some horror lurks just outside the width of my sight… a dark, brooding shape looming just over my shoulder to make me doubt that I did enough.
I arrived at the Hall to be greeted by the most uproarious scene. Boys were running wild, with much yelling and whooping. Mrs Squeers and her brood of two were amongst the thick of it, wailing and weeping.
It was amid the riotous confusion that I became aware of a small, cold and bony hand grasping my fingers. I looked down to see such a scrawny, miserable boy – more dirt and rags than child – staring up at me with eyes as round and dull as two old pennies. He pulled on my hand, with no more strength than a day-old kitten, and I could tell that he wanted me to go with him. I followed, my attention peaked by the intense nature of the boy’s expression and his haste to get to our destination.
He led me to the old stables, long abandoned and used for storing furniture and a collection of broken things. It was a dark and damp place even though rods of light came through the weather-damaged roof, so I pulled to doors open, as wide as I could, and entered. It took me some minutes to realise what I was looking at. Stacks upon stacks of mouldering trunks and cases and crates. Some still had labels tied to the handles. I looked at a few and read names, boys’ names, but none that I recognized.
Curiosity took hold, and I lifted the lid of one box. There was not much in it, a small wooden horse, and a book of the Gospels. I turned the cover and saw an inscription on the first page. Kind and sorrowful words from a mother to son, wishing him happiness at his new school and encouraging him to make the best of this singular opportunity. It fair made my heart want to burst with anger.
I turned to the boy and asked him if this was his trunk. He shook his head and pointed to the farthest corner of the stables. I wondered if the owner of the book was hiding there and moved forward to fetch him into the light. But when I reach the far end, there was no one there, just more crumbling boxes and, at odds with the rest of the building, a swept space on the floor with a sturdy trapdoor set in. I wondered what new cruel punishment Squeers had conjured up, and made to pull on the brass ring attached to the door. The boy made a strange, frightened sound and fled as fast as his stick thin legs could carry him.
Hefting the door open, I was greeted with the most terrible stench. It was rotten and raw, like a stagnant pond newly dredged, and scraped at the back of my throat. Peering into the hole, I could see stone steps, only a few before the darkness swallowed them. I looked about and saw an oil lantern hanging on a nail in the wall, a flint and strike-a-light sitting on a nearby ledge. Once the lamp was alight, I descended the stairs, taking care as I approached the bottom of the flight for they were slick and oily. I held the lamp aloft and spied wall sconces holding old iron torches. With care, I lit those nearest to me and turned round to survey the room.
I can barely describe with enough words what I saw. There, in the centre of the room was what I took to be a well, for it was a low wall in the shape of circle. Some intuition told me not to cross over and look down into the hole. Instead, I swept my gaze about and took in the room. The rough-hewn stone walls were marked with dark blotches and streaks. The far side of the room was still in darkness, so I ventured forth. As I drew nearer, a shape loomed into view, a shape that glowed soft and white in the lamplight. But it was not until I was upon it that I recognized, with a start, a pile of bones standing some six or seven foot high. I admit I laughed at my own foolishness and without reason, kicked at the pile. For whatever nonsensical reason, Squeers had kept the bones from all the meals he had eaten. Perhaps to make the meagre gruels and meatless broths they fed the boys?
The bones shifted and slipped. Something small and round detached itself from the mound and rolled to my feet. I looked and barely suppressed a yell of shock. It was a skull, but not of any animal. It was the skull of a child.
It was as that moment, I heard it. A soft, scratching noise akin to rats in the walls. Only no rat could pass through these solid rocks. I came to realise, with a growing horror ,that the sound was echoing up from the well. Now, I am not a timid man, as you know, but will freely admit to being sore afraid that that moment. Bracing myself, I forced my reluctant feet towards the brick wall surrounding what I was now suspecting was no well at all. With a deep breath, gagging as the stench once again grasped at my gullet, I peered over.
All I saw was a bottomless black hole. Extending my arm out so that the lamp could shine its feeble light into the abyss, I still could not see anything, and yet the noise continued and seemed to be coming closer. Something hissed and, startled, I dropped the lantern. It span away into the hole, the flame extinguishing, but not before I saw something. Something I have never seen before or thought to exist, and something I pray I will never see again.
Eyes. Glittering, blinking black eyes looking back up at me, set into pale grey, misshapen faces. I stumbled back many paces, banging clumsily against the rock wall and slipped, coming down heavily on the bottom few stairs. Winded, I righted myself to a sitting position and shook my head, sure that my imagination had taken ahold of my sanity. When I had fallen, I had struck out my hand to soften the landing. I became aware that my hand was now wet and sticky. I lifted it into the torch light and at first thought I had injured myself but a quick examination proved this not to be the case.
I stood, took the nearest torch from the wall and lowered it towards the step. There was blood, dark blood, not fresh but not yet dried in this damp cellar. My gorge rose but my revulsion was overtaken by the awareness of a new sound. I turned to see a head and shoulders rising above the rim of the well. One thin, leathery arm, then two, swung over the lip and, defying their apparent feebleness, gripped the brickwork and hauled the rest of the creature’s body out of the pit.
And I mean creature, for although vaguely human in shape, there were so many things unhuman about it. It stood facing me, its breath harsh and rasping, ribs expanding and collapsing, visible under wrinkled and hairless skin the colour of wet London clay, and yet I did not believe it could see me clearly. The long whiskered snout that protruded from its face quivered, as if to scent me out. Its long grey tongue flicked out between fiercely sharp fangs, tasting the air, its large, pointed ears swivelled about as if to hear me. I instinctively knew that for as long as I stood still, it would not be able to locate me. but I could not stay in that underground room forever.
My mind was made for me when more heads started to emerge from the well. The creatures had started to keen as one. A nerve-shredding wail punctuated with grunts and yelps. My courage was failing fast and I knew I had to act before even one of those monsters got within a few feet of me. I had seen the pile of bones and instinctively knew what my fate would be.
With a scream, I ran at the first beast, brandishing the torch ahead of me like Jophiel’s flaming sword. I had understood enough in that small amount of time that light was not their friend. The creature grunted and lashed out, but the arc of fire danced around it, confusing it. With as hefty a lunge as I could managed, I thrust the torch into the brute’s chest. It screeched and staggered backwards. Another thrust and it toppled over , back into the well, its shriek piercing the inky gloom. Like a madman, I set about the other creatures, swinging and whacking at any extended body part that was attempting to exit the well. They each fell back, disappearing into the blackness, but one of the damned monstrosities grabbed at the torch, wrenching it from my hand. Fortunately, as it did so, it lost its grasp on the brickwork and also tumbled away.
But I was to have no respite. Although I had managed to force the miscreations to temporarily withdraw, I could hear the rage in their growls and barks, and knew that they would be back within minutes. I cast my eyes about and uttered a prayer of thanks when I spied a cluster of jars of lamp oil. I caught one up and, having no time to open it properly, smashed the neck against the wall. I poured and splashed the contents into the well, making sure to cover the inner face of the hole. I snatched up a second bottle and repeated the action, and a third and fourth time. The screeching had turned from anger to protest and then back to anger. I knew I had only seconds left. Seizing two more torches from their sconces, I threw them into the midst of the seething mass as it slipped and scrabbled to exit the shadowy pit.
The noise was something I never wish to hear again. As if all the devils in Hell had raised their voices as one to sing a demonic chorus. The room was now brightly lit from the burning well, and I noted only then not just one mound of bones, but several,pushed into the darkest recesses.
How many? I asked myself, as the realisation dawned as to what hideous activity had taken place in the depths of Dotheboys Hall. How many boys had been despatched to Greta Bridge and how many parents had been told their sons had died or run away? How many, like that poor, brave lad Smike, had been abandoned at the school to never be missed or considered again?
I sat there until the flames had burned out, until I was sure that I was the only living thing in that hellhole of a cellar. And, I am not ashamed to admit this to your good self, I sobbed for all the lost boys. My despair turned to fury as I came to think of those who perpetrated this heinous crime. There is no doubt in my mind that your uncle was involved, given that he actively sought out families with troublesome dependents and made a tidy profit from it. But he is now beyond the arm of human justice and I can only hope, God forgive me, that he burns as fiercely in Hell as those creatures in the pit.
I took up the last remaining lit torch from its sconce and
with all haste, staggered up the stairs, slamming the trap door behind me. Without hesitation, I set the torch upon the nearest stack of boxes, piling armfuls of straw around it, watching the fire catch hold. Very soon, the barn was ablaze and folding in on itself, burying whatever may have remained of those creatures in their underground tomb to choke and die.
I stood in the yard for a moment, watching the thick, grimy smoke billow away into the sky, before turning back to face the hall. I could see the lads had done their work, windows were broken, furniture lay smashed on the cobbles, doors tilted drunkenly on their hinges. Scores of boys were running across the fields, hooting like wild geese, free of the misery inflicted upon them over the years. Others, now spent, stood huddled and mute. I herded them together and sent one of the oldest to fetch the town constable and the good folk of Greta Bridge to do their Christian duty to these poor wretches.
As for Wackford Squeers, let me just say it is a remarkable coincidence that Mrs Browdie has a cousin working as a crewmate on the transportation ships…
Hands dropping to his side, Noggs bowed his head, exhausted from the effort of his narration. Not a sound could be heard from his audience, just the rumble and crack of the fire as it burned in the grate.
Pickman, who had listened with a strange expression on his face that darkened as the tale progressed, finally broke the silence. He rose from his seat, giving a soft grunt as he pulled himself upright. He poured a glass of brandy and took it over to Noggs, who shook his head. Realising his mistake, Pickman muttered his apologies and passed the glass to the nearest person seated behind him.
“So, then what?” asked Pickman.
Newman Noggs gave a shuddering sigh that rattled through his entire body.
“I wrote to Mr Browdie explaining that Nicholas can never be made aware of the events he has described. The boy is too gentle a soul, it would score him to his heart to know that he was ignorant of such atrocities and that the same fate could have befallen his cousin, Smike. I appealed to Browdie’s good nature to bear this heavy load upon his own shoulders and he, being the stout and reliant fellow I believe him to be, replied with a promise I trust him to keep. And so that concludes my business in London. Through the unwarranted charity of my friends, I have the use of a small cottage close to where Nicholas and his family now live. I leave for the West Country tomorrow. This–” he spat with some vehemence, “–will not be leaving with me.”
He lifted up the letter and stared at it with an expression of determination. With a flourish, he crumpled the pages into a ball and flung it into the fire, whereupon it bloomed red and black before collapsing in upon itself and disappearing into the flames.