Two months had passed since Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse. Mr. Bumble had become the master of the workhouse, but he was unhappy. He no longer wore the gold-lace trimmed coat and the cocked hat of the parish officer. And he quarreled constantly with the new Mrs. Bumble.
"I was misled by six teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs, a small quantity of secondhand furniture, and twenty pounds in cash," Mr. Bumble said to himself. "We've been married only a short time, but it seems like forever."
He had just had another argument with his wife. Snatching up his hat, he left the workhouse in a hurry. He roamed the streets until it began to rain heavily. Then he stepped inside a pub.
Mr. Bumble went into the parlor to enjoy his drink and read the newspaper. There was only one other person sitting at the table: a tall man, wearing a dark cloak. The man's clothes were dusty, as if he'd traveled a great distance.
As Mr. Bumble read the newspaper, he couldn't resist stealing a look at the stranger. And every time he did, the stranger was looking at him!
Finally the man said, "I think I've seen you before. You used to be the parish officer, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bumble in surprise.
The stranger stood up and closed the door so no one would overhear him.
"I came to this place today to find you. I want some information, and I'm willing to pay for it." He pushed some coins across the table.
The master of the workhouse carefully examined the coins to be sure that they were genuine. Then he put them in his pocket.
"Cast your mind back to the workhouse about ten or twelve years ago," said the stranger. "A boy was born there one night."
"Many boys were. How can you expect me to remember just one?"
"I'm talking about a meek-looking, pale boy, who was apprenticed to an undertaker. He later ran away to London."
"Why, you mean Oliver Twist!" said Mr. Bumble. "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a worse rascal in the work—"
"I don't want to hear about him," interrupted the stranger. "I've heard enough of him. I want to know about the old woman who took care of his mother. Where is she?"
"You're talking about old Sally," said Mr. Bumble. "She died last winter."
The stranger sat lost in thought for a few minutes. Mr. Bumble couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
"It doesn't matter," the stranger said at last. With that, he rose as if to depart.
But Mr. Bumble saw an opportunity to make some more money. He remembered how agitated his wife had been on the night that Sally died. Although he didn't know everything Sally had told Mrs. Bumble, he knew it concerned Oliver.
"There's one woman who might be able to help you," he said.
The stranger's face seemed to fill with fear. "How can I find her?"
"You'll have to go through me."
The stranger wrote out an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Mr. Bumble. "Bring her to me tomorrow night at nine o'clock."
After that the two men left the pub, heading in opposite directions. But Mr. Bumble soon realized he needed one more piece of information and hurried after the stranger.
"What do you want?" cried the man, whirling around.
"What name am I to ask for tomorrow night?"
"Monks!" The man strode hastily away.
The sky was dull and overcast when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble set out the next night. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, were spread out densely, as if preparing for a violent thunderstorm. The Bumbles were both wrapped in shabby outer garments that would protect them from the rain and keep them from being recognized.
They headed toward some run-down houses bordering the river. The people who lived there survived by theft and other crimes. Among these houses stood an old factory building.
"This should be the place," said Mr. Bumble, consulting the scrap of paper in his hand.
"Hello!" cried a voice from above. "I'll be down in a minute."
"Is that the man?" Mrs. Bumble asked.
Her husband nodded.
"Then say as little as you can until we find out what he wants."
Monks opened the door, motioned for them to come in quickly, and then shut the door. "Is this the woman?"
Mr. Bumble only nodded, remembering his wife's warning.
Suddenly there was a crack of thunder. Monks turned away for a few minutes. When he looked at them again, his face was distorted and discolored.
"These fits come over me now and then," he said. "Thunder sometimes brings them on."
A lantern cast a dim light. Monks motioned for them to sit down. Mr. Bumble looked nervously around, but Mrs. Bumble was calm.
"Let's get down to business," Monks said to Mrs. Bumble. "Were you with Oliver's mother the night she died?"
"Yes."
"Something was taken from her. Something that she wore . . ."
"What's the information worth to you?" Mrs. Bumble interrupted.
"It could be twenty pounds; it could be nothing."
"I know I have what you want. Make it twenty-five pounds."
"Twenty-five?" Monks pulled away. "What if your information is useless?"
"You can easily take the money from me. I'm alone and unprotected here."
"Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected," Mr. Bumble said in a voice trembling with fear.
Monks removed a canvas bag from his pocket and laid twenty-five pounds on the table. Mrs. Bumble began her story.
"Sally told me she stole a gold necklace from Oliver's mother. She sold it to a pawn shop, but she told me where to find the pawn ticket. I redeemed the necklace, and . . . here it is."
Mrs. Bumble held out a gold locket. Monks pried it open with trembling hands. Inside were two locks of hair and a wedding ring. The locket was inscribed Agnes, with space left for a last name. There was also a date, which was about a year before Oliver was born.
"Is this what you wanted from me?" asked Mrs. Bumble.
"It is," said Monks. "And now I must destroy this evidence of Oliver's past."
He suddenly wheeled the table aside and pulled up a trapdoor in the floor. The three of them looked down at the river swirling angrily below. Monks took a deep breath and then threw the locket into the river.