Into the Storm

by Avi

“You wrote to me, didn’t you?”

  “From the ship … I suppose I did.”

  “Asking blackmail money —”

  “Sir! Blackmail? Heaven forfend! You wrong me! I was merely asking you for the money you — to make my point precisely — owed me.”

  “Well, you can thank my father for this visit,” Sir Albert said. “He intercepted that letter and passed it on to me. You said you had my brother. Well, where is he? My lord father has said — in a most unseemly temper — that I’m not to come back unless I bring Laurence with me.”

  “And do you,” Mr. Clemspool inquired carefully, “intend to … take him home?”

  Albert snorted with disdain. “Take him home! Look here, Clemspool, I came to this awful place to make sure you did what you promised to do, get rid of him, for good. My father won’t let the Kirkle name go to nothing. He can settle for me. I’m the real thing. Not Laurence.”

  Mr. Clemspool, feeling a rush of his old confidence, flipped the tails of his jacket, sat down on the bench, and leaned back against the wall. “All very well for you to talk, Sir Albert,” he replied in his best haughty tones. “Don’t think I haven’t devoted myself to your cause. Indeed, I wouldn’t be here” — he waved his hands in a gesture that encompassed the jail cell — “if you had not managed to make a muddle of things.”

  “Me?”

  “No point in going into details,” Mr. Clemspool said airily. “In order to achieve your desired object, sir, you must deal with me. To begin, you must get me out of here.”

  Albert shook his head. “I’m not interested in you, Clemspool. Just my bothersome brother.”

  Mr. Clemspool smiled blandly. “Sir, I appreciate your frankness. But without me, you can’t get him, can you? Mind, your brother and I have become great friends. You should also know that I’m aware of the money he took.”

  “How much of it is left?”

  “Oh,” Mr. Clemspool said with his best shrug of indifference, “most of it.”

  “Where is it?” asked Albert, suddenly alert.

  Mr. Clemspool smiled shrewdly. “If I may be so bold, Sir Albert,” he said, “I should like to offer an arrangement. Help me get out of this place, and you and I — together — shall go to Laurence. Have no fear. I’ll take care of him. As for the money, sir, why, you can have it all.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Albert asked.

  Mr. Clemspool drew himself up with dignity. “Sir, I consider myself an honest man, a moral man. Have you read your Bible, sir —”

  Albert cut him off. “Cut the cant, Clemspool. Where’s my brother?”

  “No, sir,” Mr. Clemspool replied grandly, “you either help me or you can forget about the money. As for your brother, he will —”

  “Will what?”

  Mr. Clemspool reached into the air and snatched at it. “Why, sir, I will be forced — on strictly moral grounds, you understand — to aid your brother in his desired return to England … and, to make my point precisely, encourage him to go to your father.”

  “All right,” Albert interjected quickly. “just tell me what I have to do.”

  “I told you. Get me out of here.”

  “How?”

  “That oaf of a jail keeper left the cell door open. I shall walk out.”

  “But —”

  “Your task is to go find the blockhead. Detain him. Busy him for ten minutes. I shall bide my time, then take my leave.”

  “I have a carriage waiting just outside.”

  “Better and better. I’ll just get in it. Follow at your leisure.”

  “Look here, Clemspool —”

  “Sir Albert, do you wish to have that boy taken care of? Do you desire the money? Or do you want him — and the money — to return to England?”

  Albert gave a grunt and slipped out of the cell. Mr. Clemspool hovered by the door. After five minutes he walked out of the jail quite unnoticed.

  Mr. Clemspool glared out the carriage window at the passing streets of Lowell.

  “The world,” he snarled at Albert, who sat slouched across from him with a vacant look on his face, “the entire world would be better off without young people. Look at Adam! Look at Eve! And young, weren’t they? Well then, consider the harm they did! How difficult for the rest of us! Yes, it’s young people like that who cause most of the problems in the world. What a pity I wasn’t there to advise them.”

  “I’m young,” Albert drawled.

  “You make my point precisely,” snapped Mr. Clemspool. “But no doubt I shall be happier when I return to my room, take a bath, shave, and find some clean clothing. I don’t like jails. Never have.”

  Albert leered. “Been in them before, eh?”

  The top of Mr. Clemspool’s bald head turned quite pink. “That, sir, is none of your business. I will only say, if governments insist upon putting citizens in such places, they might have the courtesy to make them comfortable. Hello!” he suddenly cried, and banged on the roof of the carriage. “Stop!”

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Albert, startled by the outburst and the lurching halt of the carriage.

  “There! You see that boy!” Mr. Clemspool cried, pointing out the window at Jeb Grafton.

  Jeb was walking down the sidewalk, shoe-shine box tucked under an arm, cap pulled low over his face.

  “What about him? He looks dirty enough.”

  “He must be detained!” cried Mr. Clemspool. “Money, Sir Albert, money….” He thrust open the door and, pulling Albert along with him, tumbled out of the carriage. “We’ll be right back,” he cried to the carriage driver. “Don’t move.” Then he ordered Albert, “You go ahead of the boy. I’ll catch him up from the rear. Hurry!”

  A reluctant Albert lumbered along the street, pushing his way by pedestrians until he had passed Jeb. Mr. Clemspool, simultaneously, crept up behind him.

  “There you are!” he cried as he clamped his hand tightly upon the unsuspecting boy’s right shoulder.

  Startled, Jeb twisted about and saw who had apprehended him. He then tried to pull free and run only to have Albert block his way.

  “What do you want from me?” Jeb cried.

  “Come along quickly,” Mr. Clemspool insisted. Holding tightly to one of the boy’s arms with both hands, he dragged him toward the carriage.

  “I don’t want to go,” Jeb cried, trying to resist.

  “You’ll come with me or go to the police, do you hear!” Mr. Clemspool hissed into the boy’s ear. Albert helped by shoving the boy from behind.

  Jeb, seeing that there was no one to rescue him, gave in to the pressure.

  “In you go!” cried Mr. Clemspool as he pushed Jeb into the carriage. Then he too climbed in and took a place directly across from the boy to make sure he stayed. Albert squeezed in next to Jeb.

  “What do you want with me?” Jeb, feeling overwhelmed, sniffled.

  “What do I want with you?” bellowed Mr. Clemspool. “What do you think I want? I want what’s mine. You got into that room in Shagwell’s house. Where is my key?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeb said.

  Mr. Clemspool leaned forward and shook a fat fist before the boy’s nose. “Wretched youth! Of course you know what I’m talking about. The key, you dunce, the one I sent you into the room for. Where is it?”

  “I don’t have it,” Jeb said tearfully. “I don’t! You can search all my pockets. I don’t have it!”

  Albert looked across at Mr. Clemspool. “What’s all this about a key?”

  “Never mind,” the man snapped. “He knows what I’m talking about. You say you don’t have it. Did you have it?” he demanded of the boy.

  After a moment Jeb nodded.

  “You contemptible swindler! I knew you did. You probably called in the police too, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t, mister! I swear I didn’t!”

  “Then what happened to that key?” Mr. Clemspool roared.

  Jeb, wilting before the onslaught, sniffled,
smeared his nose with the back of his hand, took a breath, and said, “A boy took it from me.”

  “A boy?” cried an exasperated Mr. Clemspool. “What boy?”

  Jeb squeezed himself farther into the corner. “The same one as you wanted me to watch.”

  “Laurence?” Mr. Clemspool screeched.

  Jeb nodded.

  “Look here,” Albert said, finally interested, “is he talking about my brother?”

  Jeb glanced at Albert, realized it was the man Laurence was running away from, and grew even more frightened.

  Ignoring Albert’s question, Mr. Clemspool leaned forward so that his hot face was close to Jeb’s. “Are you telling the truth, boy?” he demanded with loathing.

  “Yes, sir…. He and another boy took it,” Jeb said.

  “What other boy?”

  “I don’t know his name. But he’s Irish.”

  “Irish? What difference does that make?” Mr. Clemspool shouted. With a spasm of anger, he heaved himself back into his seat. Then, full of rage, he snatched at the air as if it were Laurence himself. “Now answer this,” he cried at Jeb. “Is Laurence aware of what that key is for?”

  “You just said it was for some precious property. And I didn’t even tell him that.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He ran away.”

  Mr. Clemspool flung his head back. “I hate that boy!” he screamed.

  “I say,” interjected Albert, “what is this all about?”

  Mr. Clemspool leaned forward again and pressed an accusatory finger on Jeb’s nose. “Get out, and don’t ever let me see you again. If the police catch you — and I have a good friend in the police — you’ll spend the rest of your contemptible life in prison. Do you understand? The rest of your life! Now get out and go away!”

  Jeb stared at Mr. Clemspool, trying to decide if he should believe the man or not. Cautiously, he sat up, wiggled toward the carriage door, threw it open, and leaped out.

  Albert pulled the door shut.

  “Clemspool,” he said again, “what is all this?”

  The man cast a withering look at the young lord. “Your brother, sir, is about to recover all that money.”

  Albert sat up. “My father’s — Lord Kirkle’s — money?”

  “And if he does, sir, I have not the slightest doubt he will gallop home to Belgrave Square, and that, sir, will be the end of you.”

  Albert’s face reddened and grew blotchy with alarm. “But you said you knew where Laurence was,” he gasped.

  “I do.”

  “Then … then,” the young man stammered, “don’t you think we should seize him?”

  Instead of answering, Mr. Clemspool leaned out of the carriage window and instructed the driver to take them directly to the Spindle City Hotel.

  Once there, however, Mr. Clemspool was at some perplexity as to how to proceed. Though he longed to find Laurence, he had no desire to confront Mr. Grout. He decided, therefore, that it would be much more prudent to wait and watch.

  “Remember, sir,” he said to Albert, “it’s your brother we’re seeking. Keep an eye out for him.”

  By way of a reply Albert gave a grunt.

  “As we have the time,” said Mr. Clemspool, “I shall tell you what happened in Liverpool. And you will see, sir, that no fault can be attached to me. Indeed, on your behalf — to make my point precisely — I have suffered much.”

  Mr. Drabble, his recovered volume of Shakespeare under his arm, and excited by his discovery of Maura’s dwelling place, returned breathlessly to the Spindle City Hotel. Wanting to make certain he did not forget his beloved’s address, he asked at the clerk’s desk for pencil and paper.

  On the paper he wrote:

  Where Maura O’Connell lives:

  87 Cabot Street

  Neither Laurence nor Mr. Grout was in the room. With hardly a thought of them, Mr. Drabble secreted the paper under his pillow, stretched out on his bed, and — his head propped up with his hands — gave way to romantic imaginings. Once more he looked into Maura’s blue eyes. The vision made him sigh.

  Tell my sister I’m here and not to worry,” Patrick requested as Laurence was about to leave the Hamlyn house.

  “Shall I say what happened to you?”

  “I suppose you’d better. But I’m thinking you should also be letting her know it was you who rescued me.”

  “Why?”

  “It will do you some good.”

  Laurence looked at Patrick earnestly. “Are you still my friend then …?”

  “By the Holy Mother, Laurence, I’m still thinking it over. It’s a bit of a thing, isn’t it, not knowing your friend from your enemy, and him the same person? Faith, I’m saying the truth. If I’d known in Liverpool what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t have helped you.”

  “But why?” replied a shocked Laurence.

  “Ah, Laurence, you don’t know the misery your father dealt!”

  “But maybe he didn’t know.”

  “If he’s taking the money from us, he should be knowing!” Patrick replied with anger.

  “But I didn’t know.”

  Patrick suddenly shrugged. “Sure then, the innocence of babes,” he said bitterly.

  Laurence, afraid to say any more on the subject, muttered, “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” and set off.

  It was not long before he was standing in front of the Shagwell Cotton Mill, gazing at the buildings. Impressed by the noise and numbers of people he saw, he hesitated as to whether to go forward or not. Not that anyone paid him any notice.

  Preparing to wait for Maura — Mrs. Hamlyn had said the lunch break came at twelve-thirty — Laurence sat against one of the mill walls. There, in a spot bathed in warm sunlight, he gave himself over to musing about his confession to Patrick.

  Laurence could hardly believe the facts of his life as he’d told them to his friend. Though he knew perfectly well his father was Lord Kirkle, their privileged world seemed very remote. Once again he told himself he was no longer a part of it. That made Patrick’s hostility all the harder to bear. Even so, the question arose again: Would he — if he got the money back — return to England?

  With a sigh, Laurence acknowledged he didn’t know the answer. “I’m not Sir Laurence Kirkle,” he said aloud, “I’m Laurence Worthy.” With a rueful smile, he recalled how he’d gotten the name Worthy. From a muffin man in London…. Yet perhaps he was not Laurence Worthy either but someone new. Not that Patrick noticed, he thought sadly.

  Laurence assumed that Albert meant to bring him back to London. Even if he did return, it wouldn’t be Albert who took him. Upon that Laurence was resolved. “Maybe,” he said out loud, “I am John Faherty. If I am, I have no brother in this world.”

  But over and over again the boy’s thoughts circled back to the question of Lord Kirkle’s money. Perhaps if he could get it back, all his questions would be answered.

  As the sun shifted, Laurence began to feel chilly. In search of warmth he thrust his hands in his pockets and felt the key Jeb had given him. He had forgotten all about it. On the key shank he read the words:

  MERRIMACK VALLEY CONSOLIDATED BANK

  AND LAND COMPANY

  How, Laurence wondered, had a boy like Jeb come by such a key? And what was it for? He was about to toss it away when the city lunch bells startled him. Half past twelve! Maura! Cramming the key back in his pocket, Laurence scrambled to his feet.

  As he looked on, hordes of people burst from the large building and swept out from the yard, making their way to boardinghouses where meals would be waiting for them. They had thirty-five minutes to get there, eat, and be back to their work.

  Those who did not leave the mill sat or strolled, alone or with others, eating from buckets, kerchiefs, or leather pouches.

  Laurence searched the crowds for Maura. It took some fifteen minutes before he spied her. She was leaning against a sunny wall, eyes closed, face turned toward the warmth. By her side was a young man who now and again seeme
d to be speaking to her, though, for all Laurence could see, she did not reply.

  He approached cautiously. “Miss O’Connell,” he called.

  Maura looked about, staring at him with puzzlement. Then she realized who it was. “Faith and glory,” she cried, “it’s Laurence himself!” Not only was she surprised to see him, she found herself glad too. “And what might you be doing here?”

  “It’s Patrick….”

  Maura shook her head and smiled. “I should have guessed it was only you and he in mischief again.” She turned to Nathaniel. “This is Laurence, a poor English boy that Patrick befriended in Liverpool. He was on the ship with us.”

  “Welcome to America,” Nathaniel said.

  “Miss O’Connell,” Laurence said, “Patrick is perfectly fine. But he wasn’t when I found him.”

  Maura’s smile faded. She put a hand to her throat. “Why, what do you mean?”

  Laurence told her what had happened to her brother, how and where he found him, and that he was now with Mrs. Hamlyn.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura said, flinging her hair out of her face with a snap of her head, “are we Irish to get no peace in this world? Laurence, I’ve done you wrong,” she conceded. “It’s twice now you’ve been kind to my brother. Once is friendship. Twice is more like kith and kin. I’ll ever be thankful to you.”

  Laurence, wondering what she would say if she knew what he had told Patrick, made no reply.

  “Mr. Brewster, do I have the time to see him now?” Maura asked Nathaniel.

  “Not nearly,” said the young man. “But at least you know he’s all right.”

  “Are you the man he’s staying with?” Laurence asked.

  “I am.”

  “He said the boys knew where he lived, and he’s afraid to go there. He’s staying at Mrs. Hamlyn’s.”

  “He is probably wise,” agreed Nathaniel grimly. “I’ll go back with you tonight,” he said to Maura.

  “I’ll come too,” Laurence offered.

  Maura, worried now, looking down, said only, “That would be fine.”

  “But I have to go to my friends first and tell them where I am,” Laurence said.