by Avi
There was a general shaking of heads. “Not me, sir.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Bartholomew,” said Mr. Knox.
“Disappointing,” said the minister with a sad shake of his head. “One wants to trust these lads, but … most unfortunate.”
“What was it about then?” Mr. Knox asked.
“Last night, quite late,” Mr. Bartholomew said, “two boys boarded the Charity. One was Irish, the other English. Both adrift.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Naturally, I took them in. I tried to get the Irish boy to the Catholic Society for the Protection of Abandoned Irish Boys, but he would have none of it. The other lad, however, the English one, is a different problem. His accent, his manner, suggest someone of better class. He did admit to having run away from home. And the bad welt upon his cheek seemed to indicate why.”
Mr. Knox leaned forward. “Excuse me, sir. Did you say this boy had a welt on his cheek? His right cheek?”
“I did. Very pronounced it was too.”
“Was his name, by any chance, Laurence, sir?”
“Why, yes, how did you know?”
Inspector Knox swiveled about in his chair. “Mr. Pickler, sir!” he cried.
Toggs, who had been listening with great attention, now looked across the room and saw the man in the bowler glance up from his conversation.
“Mr. Pickler,” cried Mr. Knox. “Be so kind as to step over here, will you?”
Mr. Pickler immediately broke away from his group and approached the desk.
“London luck, Mr. Pickler, sir,” said Mr. Knox sarcastically. “Here’s Reverend Bartholomew, coming to answer your prayers. Claims he’s seen your boy. Mr. Bartholomew, you can have it on my authority that this Mr. Pickler is actually an honest man, and does us the singular honor of being here on behalf of a most illustrious family.”
Mr. Pickler and Mr. Bartholomew shook hands. “I’m gratified to meet you, sir,” the investigator said. “If you have news of Laurence, I should be most pleased to hear it.” He offered up the daguerreotype. “Here’s a picture of him.”
Mr. Bartholomew studied the image intently. “Well, yes,” he said, “that’s him, more or less.”
“And you say you know where he is?”
“Even as we speak he’s waiting for me on my chapel ship.”
Mr. Pickler felt a surge of well-being. “His family will be very appreciative for his return, sir.”
“Well, now,” Mr. Bartholomew said, “this is good news indeed. Most fortuitous, sir.”
“And is the boy safe?” Mr. Pickler inquired.
“A bit worn, but, yes, safe. I shall be delighted to pilot you to him.”
Mr. Pickler made a little bow. “At once, sir, if that’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
Mr. Bartholomew, after thanking Mr. Knox for his help, gestured toward the door. Mr. Pickler moved to it, and the two men left the police office.
“Mr. Broderick!” Inspector Knox called as soon as the two men had gone. One of the constables hurried forward.
“Yes, sir?”
“This morning I sent a directive to the force, concerning a boy named Laurence,” Mr. Knox explained. “Please be so good as to send out a second notice. No further searching is required. We’ve had a little miracle. That London boy has been found.” With a shrug of his shoulders, the inspector went back to his papers.
As for Toggs, he had followed Mr. Pickler and Mr. Bartholomew out of the building.
How much, sir,” Mr. Pickler asked the minister as they strode along toward the Charity, “did Laurence inform you about the circumstances that brought him to Liverpool?” Behind them, Ralph Toggs kept a careful distance.
“I was only able,” Mr. Bartholomew replied, “to gather that he had run away from home.”
Mr. Pickler stopped. “Did he say that?”
“Not in so many words. But understand, Mr. Pickler, I have had considerable experience with runaways. One comes to see common elements.”
“He did not say he was abducted?”
“Not a hint.”
“No mention of a Mr. Clemspool?”
“Never heard the name.”
“What did he speak of then?”
“When I asked the boy to explain the nasty welt upon his face—”
“Ah, yes, the welt.”
“He colored up, became very agitated, and would say no more.”
“What did you make of that, sir?”
“I assumed the welt and his departure from home were connected.”
Mr. Pickler halted again. “Sir, what are you suggesting?”
“While it pains me to say so, Mr. Pickler, all my experience in these matters leads me to believe that boy was thrashed with excessive violence at home. His clothing was of a superior quality but quite cut up. One might almost say sliced. I’ve seen it any number of times. If one is thrashed with a cane, that’s the result. I shall show it to you.”
Mr. Pickler was beginning to feel ill.
“I can’t imagine,” Mr. Bartholomew went on, “what the boy might have done to provoke such a beating.”
“Tell me,” Mr. Pickler said at last, his pace slowing, “about the boy he was with. I believe I overheard you say—”
“A poor Irish lad.”
“An unlikely companion.”
“Perhaps. But I suspect they had one thing in common.”
“And what was that?”
“They seemed desperate enough to become thieves.”
Yet again the investigator halted. “Explain yourself, sir.”
“It’s part of the runaway saga, I fear. Full of bravado when they leave home—whatever home it might be, Irish or English—these boys become isolated, frightened, desperate by turns, and all too easily turn to acts of a criminal nature. To survive, sir. Or they take their own lives. I’m afraid I see it every day. My ministry is designed to offer other choices.”
The investigator remained silent for a while. Finally he said, “Mr. Bartholomew, you cannot truly think that the boy ran away from his home of his own free will.”
“But I do.”
It was too much for Mr. Pickler. “Sir, the boy’s father is Lord Kirkle!” he cried.
A shocked Mr. Bartholomew stopped and stared at the investigator. “I am truly sorry to hear it,” he said softly. “But, sir, life has taught me that people do not run away from happiness.”
For the rest of the way to the docks, Mr. Pickler, caught up in distressed speculation, remained silent. But upon reaching the chapel ship he said, “Mr. Bartholomew, I may well have underestimated the boy’s desire to run away. I now fear there might be some resistance to being returned to his father’s home.” He looked about. Some forty feet away, Toggs lurked, watching the two men.
He had been enjoying himself immensely. He could not help but think he would enjoy telling that Irish girl of his adventures.
“That young sailor over there,” Mr. Pickler said, “perhaps I should ask him to guard the gangway. Just in case. I don’t want Laurence to escape.”
“If you wish,” Mr. Bartholomew agreed. “Here, young man! You there!” he shouted.
“You calling me, mate?” Toggs replied.
“I am, my good fellow. Would you be good enough to come closer?”
Toggs, swaggering slightly, sauntered over.
“Look here, young sir,” Mr. Bartholomew said to Toggs, “we’re in need of some assistance. My friend here”—he indicated Mr. Pickler—“is about to go aboard to secure a runaway boy. Would you be kind enough to stand guard at the gangway and catch the boy if he eludes us?”
Toggs grinned. “Happy to give a hand, mate.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Bartholomew said. “We shall be most grateful. All right then, Mr. Pickler, shall we go on board?”
Mr. Pickler allowed himself to be led up the gangway. When he reached the deck, he called down to Toggs. “At the foot of the gangway, if you please. The boy might try to jump off the ship.” He was th
inking of Laurence’s departure from the hotel.
“I can handle a skiff, mate, but I don’t swim,” Toggs admitted.
“I don’t think it’s likely he’ll go into the water,” Mr. Pickler replied. “But he might try to leap to the dock.”
“Don’t you worry none,” Toggs said, giving a salute. “If he blows, I’ll nab him.”
“Well, sir, this is curious,” Mr. Bartholomew declared.
Mr. Pickler turned. In his hands the minister was holding Laurence’s torn clothing. “This is what the boy had been wearing,” he said. “I can’t imagine why it’s here on deck. I did give him some better clothes. But do look at the rips, sir. Perhaps you’ll agree with me as to their cause.”
Mr. Pickler examined the clothing. In dismay, he shook his head. “May I keep these?”
“Of course. Now just follow me, please,” Mr. Bartholomew called to Mr. Pickler. “The boy should be along here.” The minister led the way to the room where he had left Laurence. It was empty. “Perhaps he’s gone to the chapel,” the minister said, inwardly pleased by the thought. But Laurence was not there either.
“If you will return to the deck,” an increasingly upset Mr. Bartholomew said, “I shall look into my own rooms.” He hurried off.
Already certain that Laurence would not be found on the Charity, Mr. Pickler went to the deck even as he plunged into a whirl of self-recrimination. Could it be that this boy—from one of the grandest homes in the nation—truly wished to run away?
Mr. Bartholomew returned to the deck. “Unless the boy has gone off for a stroll, I am afraid he’s bolted. I’m deeply embarrassed.”
“Nothing to suggest where or why?”
The minister shook his head. “What can I say?” he said woefully. “He promised to remain.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Mr. Pickler assured him, though he was in truth seething with frustration. “You had no idea who he was. And if he gave you his word … He appears to be a most determined lad.”
Mr. Pickler gazed across the docks and beyond, up at the city. To have been so close to success so many times only to have the boy slip past him yet again …
“Mr. Pickler,” Mr. Bartholomew said, “I do have one small idea.”
“I should be grateful for anything.”
“The other fellow, that Irish lad, claimed that he and his sister were staying at a lodging house in the city. A Mrs. Sonderbye’s. Patrick wanted to take Laurence there. Claimed he would give him a ticket to America.”
“Did he!” Mr. Pickler cried.
“I chose not to believe any of it, of course. For this impoverished Irish lad to give away a ticket to America, why, it was absurd. Typical Irish blarney.”
“Did he mention the name of the ship?”
“I fear not. But now that I reconsider all this … You see, I was taking the Irish boy to a charity home when he ran off. Perhaps he did have a sister and she was staying at Mrs. Sonderbye’s lodging house. True or not, perhaps your Laurence believed that ticket was possible. If so, he might have gone to that lodging house. I should be happy to take you there.”
Mr. Pickler considered the offer. What Mr. Bartholomew had told him made him very uncomfortable. The truth was he wanted to get away from the minister. He leaned over the bulwark. “You there, young fellow!”
“Still here, mate,” Ralph Toggs returned.
“Do you know of a lodging place in the city run by a Mrs. Sonderbye?”
Toggs grinned again. “Know it like the palm of my hand, mate.”
“We think the boy we are looking for might have gone there. If you could show me the way, I’d be willing to pay you well. Could you?”
“Nothing to it!”
“I’ll be happy to pilot you there myself,” the minister offered again.
“I appreciate that, sir,” Mr. Pickler replied. “But I suppose there’s a chance the boy will meander back. If so, please take him to the police office. No, this young man will guide me to that lodging. Quite sufficient.” He held out his hand. “You have been very helpful, sir.”
Mr. Bartholomew shook it warmly. “I do wish I could have provided more success.”
Eager to move on, Mr. Pickler, with Laurence’s torn clothes bundled up in his hands, hurried down the gangway. Toggs was waiting for him.
“Mrs. Sonderbye’s, you say, mate?”
“Is it very far?”
“All you have to do is follow me,” Toggs assured him. And off they went.
As Ralph Toggs led the investigator away from the docks and up through the city toward Mrs. Sonderbye’s lodging house, he was thinking about Maura. How nice it would be if she saw him with this gentleman. He might even offer her protection. Get some decent food for her. But only for her, not her brother. She’d have to drop him. He had no use for tykes.
For his part, Mr. Pickler kept thinking over what the minister had told him regarding Laurence. The thought that his lordship had lied to him proved very upsetting.
But then the city, with its squalid, filthy streets and jostling crowds, depressed him. To think that Sir Laurence Kirkle should be part of this!
“Do you mind my asking,” said Toggs as they turned a corner, “who’s this bloke we’re looking for? He got a name?”
“His name is Laurence,” replied Mr. Pickler stiffly, not feeling particularly inclined to chat.
“What’s so special about him?” Toggs pressed.
Mr. Pickler considered his companion. The young man—cocky, swaggering—was not the kind of person with whom he liked to associate. With a stab of bitterness, Mr. Pickler wished once more that he had never taken on the case. But then, there was his own family to consider.
“Just take me to the lodging house,” he said.
Toggs touched his hat and started off. “In case you were wondering, my name is Ralph Toggs. You the boy’s father?”
“Oh, no!” Mr. Pickler replied indignantly. “I am simply trying to find him.”
Toggs said no more.
Along with the other occupants in Mrs. Sonderbye’s basement, Maura, Patrick, and Mr. Drabble sat on the floor and ate the breakfast the landlady had provided: a cup of tea and one piece of stale bread each.
“As soon as we’re finished,” Mr. Drabble explained, his voice low so as to keep their affairs private, “we must proceed to the medical exam.”
“What is it?” asked Patrick, who had never dealt with any medical man.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” the actor assured him. “Merely tedious. The lines are long for those who go steerage like us.”
“What’s steerage?”
“The very lowest class of ticket, Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Drabble said. “The way we mortals are obliged to go. In any case, once the doctor stamps our tickets, we must secure provisions for the voyage, take ourselves to the dock, board the ship, and bid farewell to fair England!”
“How long will the voyage take?” Patrick asked next.
“From one to two months—”
“Two months!” the boy cried.
“Shhh…. It all depends on the ship, the tides, the winds.”
“They say many perish going over,” Maura said.
“But, Miss O’Connell,” the actor said, “didn’t your father get across?”
“By all that’s holy, it’s true,” Maura said, ashamed at her worry. “And I for one shall be glad to leave this terrible lodging house. It’s more cemetery here than a place fit for life.”
“My dear,” Mr. Drabble said, “I can assure you, America will be like paradise. And when we—”
“Is there a girl who has a brother named Patrick down there?” a voice called from the top of the basement steps.
Patrick, taken by surprise, looked around.
“Anyone know about a Patrick below?” the voice demanded again.
Mr. Drabble unfolded himself and went to the foot of the stairs. “And who, my good man, desires to know?” he asked.
“There are two boys in the street,
wanting to see the sister of a boy named Patrick, and they won’t go till they do. They insist she’s here.”
Maura looked at her brother. “Patrick, do you know what this is about?”
“It must be that Laurence,” Patrick answered. “The English boy. He’ll be asking about the ticket I promised. He didn’t know I’d be here.”
Feeling suddenly threatened, Maura said, “You need not see him.”
“But shouldn’t I at least be telling him that I’m safe and the ticket is not to be his?” Patrick asked.
“I suppose you should if you truly did promise,” Maura allowed. “But I’ll go along to make certain you say what needs to be said. Tell them we’re coming,” she informed Mr. Drabble.
The actor relayed the message.
Fearful about what the English boy might do, Maura said, “Mr. Drabble, would you be kind enough to come with us? You just might be needed….”
“Of course, my dear, of course.”
It was Patrick who led the way up the old steps. The three picked their way through the crowded hallway and stepped onto the porch.
Laurence and Fred were waiting on the street. Fred was all energy, looking this way and that as if danger might appear from any direction. Laurence, completely disheveled, bore a face showing nothing but fear.
“You’re here!” Laurence cried with relief when he saw Patrick.
Patrick grinned sheepishly. “I got away.”
Maura gazed at Laurence with surprise. He was merely a wretched, frightened boy, not at all what she expected. She found herself moved to pity.
“This your friend?” Fred asked. “The one you told me about?”
Laurence nodded.
“Look here,” Fred called up to Patrick on the porch, “this here boy, Laurence, says you’ve got a ticket for America to give him. That the truth?”
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” Patrick said, pained to say it.
Laurence gasped. “Gone?” he said. “But you gave your word!”
Patrick came down a step. “You must forgive me, Laurence,” he said. “I shouldn’t have offered. Remember, I was telling you I couldn’t be certain. The ticket was already bespoken. My sister gave it away.” He darted an angry look at Mr. Drabble.
