by Avi
Still, I stood by the main door, not sure what I should do. It was only after catching glimpses of the inviting interior beyond the swinging door that I went inside.
Glowing gas lamps hung from the ceiling from many places, providing bright light directly or by reflection from the many mirrors and cut-glass panels that dotted the walls. But there were pools of darkness, too, in corners, where one might be enfolded by shadow and thus go unnoticed.
I went in and first passed a booth enclosed by glass. Inside sat a great mustached fellow at a high table, back to the wall, a tumbler before him. I assumed he was the publican keeping a watchful eye upon his establishment.
Within was a long, polished wood counter upon which bowls of shucked oysters had been placed, nets of lemons, and baskets of bread. A young woman dispensed drinks from brown bottles or beer pulls. Walls were covered with paintings of racehorses, of soldiers, of Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert—for I suppose even she would need an escort there. In one corner a cheerful fire blazed in a large stone fireplace.
The large room was crowded, rumbling with constant babble and chat, the air ripe with smells of gin, beer, brandy, and pipe and cigar smoke whose swirling reek ebbed and flowed.
As I pushed my way through the throng in search of my father, I realized there was another room to the right, a place set out with tables and booths. Lunch was being served by scurrying waiters. My father was not there. To the left, however, was yet another room, where men were playing cards. At a corner table, along with two other men, sat my father. One of the men was a workingman, the second a clerk, perhaps a businessman. These two had half-filled glasses before them. My father did not. The trio concentrated solely on the cards before them. In the middle of the table was a pile of coins to which they added or from which they subtracted as the game progressed.
I could see by the ongoing action that they were engaged in a game known as commerce. Its play was simple: Three cards were dealt, facedown. The players peeked at them, kept some, discarded others, then received new ones as they tried to get the strongest combination of three, the highest winning. In short, it was a gambling game.
I watched as Father reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of coins, which he dumped upon the table. From time to time he won. More often than not he lost. What most amazed me was not his losses, but my clear memory of him saying he had “not a penny.”
I held back, trying to make sense of the scene before me. Father’s ease at playing the game—the three played in almost complete silence—suggested considerable experience with it, an aspect of his life previously unknown by me.
As I stood there watching from across the room—no one paid me the slightest attention—I noticed another man seated apart and alone. I had no idea who he was, but I was struck by the intensity of his gaze, which appeared to be focused solely upon my father.
He wore a fine black frock coat like a man of business, a top hat, white neckcloth, and a maroon vest. His smooth face showed little emotion.
He stood up—a walking stick was in his hand—and made his way to the cardplayers’ table and stood just behind the man playing opposite my father—as if he desired to be noticed. As it happened, it wasn’t long before Father chanced to glance up. When he saw this man, he started.
The man responded with a quick nod. My father returned the same brief gesture. Even so, he finished his hand, losing all the coins he’d set down, then threw down his cards—whether disgusted or frustrated, I could not tell—and left the table. Then he and the man withdrew into a shadowy corner, where they engaged in earnest conversation that clearly was not meant to be heard by others. I certainly heard none of it. But it was perfectly obvious that these two men knew each other, speaking to each other as they did with considerable familiarity.
Indeed, it appeared to be a most serious discussion—perhaps an argument—with much nodding and shaking of heads. At one point the man with the walking stick used it to tap my father on the chest. I saw it as a gesture of contempt and command. My father’s face grew redder. Which is to say, I was seeing something I rarely experienced in my father: anger.
At length the two stepped apart—without shaking hands. My father turned toward the door. His face was flushed, serious, unusually grave. So deep was he in his thoughts that he actually passed close to me without noticing. I watched as he quickly left the Red Lion.
I was about to follow but chose to glance back at the man with whom he had argued. That gentleman had gone to the table where my father had been, seated himself, picked up the discarded cards, and played. He won hand after hand, until the other men left, fuming. The man I’d been watching simply sat at the table, as if waiting for others to join him.
I tapped the arm of the man closest to me.
He turned. “Yes, boy. What do you want?”
“Excuse me, sir, but that man over there,” I whispered, pointing to the man with whom my father had spoken. “Do you know his name?”
The man glanced over, then gave a short snort of a laugh. “Course I do. ’E’s become well-known round ’ere.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Showed up last summer,” he said. “Some say from America. Some say Ireland.’E’s become one of the best gamblers in the City. Finnegan O’Doul.”
O’Doul! The man to whom my father owed the three hundred pounds.
I stared at Mr. O’Doul. As I did, another man approached him, standing as straight as a rod, saluting in military fashion, and then bringing down his wooden leg sharply upon the floor—bang!
It was none other than Sergeant Muldspoon.
CHAPTER 19
I Seek Advice
Are not teachers human? Are they not, really, people just like us? Do we not realize that they—like ourselves—have lives beyond school? Then, why, when we do see them in places other than in the schools we share, does it seem so strange?
My primary thought was not how remarkable it was that O’Doul and Muldspoon should meet, but that Old Moldy would catch me, and cane me, for not being in school. This despite the fact that there was no law requiring any British child to be in school—Old Moldy’s or any other. Still, I felt compelled to flee, to leave the Red Lion as quickly as I could.
Even when I managed my escape—nothing hard—I did not stop for breath, but hurried off as though pursued. In my head I could almost hear the clump of the sergeant’s wooden peg leg following me.
When, after a few blocks, I finally slowed, I looked back to make sure Sergeant Muldspoon was not following. Only then did I allow myself a pause to consider what I had observed. Here was something ominous: The two men who were causing me and my family the most misery, together.
Beyond that I had to consider:
First: Not only had I seen my father gambling, I had seen him losing money—money that he’d claimed he did not have.
Second: My father, despite saying he did not know Mr. Finnegan O’Doul, was approached by this very man. Then he spoke to him at some length—with familiarity, albeit with anger.
Third: Mr. O’Doul had a reputation as a sharp gambler.
Fourth: Sergeant Muldspoon, the one adult in the world who might be called my enemy, approached that same Mr. O’Doul on the most familiar terms. What possible connection could they have?
Fifth: I could not help but sense that something very unsavory was swirling about my father, not merely debt, but something grossly illegal. Inspector Copperfield’s words more than suggested that.
Even when I considered all these points, I could make little sense of them, save one major thing. It was what I’d suspected but now knew for a certainty: To wit: I could not trust my father to tell the truth.
The more I absorbed this awful fact, the deeper grew my fright. I had known the threat of debtors’prison loomed before us. Yet, seeing my father in the very act of double-dealing—seeing him engaged in a secret life—was truly shocking.
Only gradually did I realize I was panting with the press of my emoti
ons, as if I had run a very long way. In a sense I had: That is, I had come a distance toward a fuller understanding of our awful predicament. What I had fully grasped was this: My world was crumbling.
Yet, as I looked about at the passing parade of people, none of them so much as glanced in my direction. The world cared nothing for me—a mere boy. I felt adrift, alone, in the very midst of Londons millions. That said, I felt compelled to do something. I had absolutely no idea, however, what that something might be.
Gradually, an idea formed. It was not so much a thing to do. Rather, it was the urgent need to speak to someone and seek advice. But whom?
No longer willing to trust Father, I did not wish to confide in him. Nor could I speak to my mother or my sister. Their response would be too angry, too self-absorbed.
I considered Mr. Tuckum. Though he appeared kind, he was a stranger. Moreover, he was the law. I could hardly tell him my father was not committed to the truth.
Lady Euphemia? Out of the question.
One of my schoolmates? It wouldn’t do.
In the end, the only person I could think of was Brigit.
In truth, I really did not know much about Brigit, the person. For example, I did not even know her last name. It was never referred to or used. I had to wonder if even my parents knew it. Brigit was simply “Brigit, our servant.” Of course, this was in no way different from how most servants were spoken of. Had not Great-Aunt Euphemia referred to her butler as merely William, whereas her doctors had last names? Clarissa once told me of a house where successive servants were always called “Alice,” so as to save the mistress the painful exertion of learning new names.
All I knew of Brigit was that she had been a faithful servant in our household for most of my life. She had raised me more than my mother had. Dressed and fed me. Taught me my letters. In that sense, as far as I knew, our lives were her life. By the same token, her life was our life. Had she not, just yesterday, told me we were her family, that my sister and I were her children?
It was only natural, then, that I should turn to her. And that is exactly what I made up my mind to do.
So resolved, I hurried down the street, looking into shop windows until I found one with a clock on display. It was almost three o’clock—just what I had hoped: the hour Clarissa was to meet her suitor, Mr. Farquatt, in the park behind St. Botolph’s Church. While my sister had more than hinted that she now saw scant reason to consider the little man’s attentions, I had no doubt that her vanity would bring her to the meeting. Moreover, if she went, Brigit must, as a discreet chaperone, accompany her. Clarissa was nothing if not proper. So it was that I turned in the direction of St. Botolph’s.
As I strode along, I realized there was another reason to reach the park quickly. I must inform Clarissa—and convince her—that the likelihood of support from Great-Aunt Euphemia was nil and that she should know that when she made her reckoning in regard to Mr. Farquatt.
I soon stood opposite St. Botolph’s Church. Looking across Bishopsgate, I realized that just next to it, on the far side of a narrow lane, was a police station. Police stations had been of little consequence to me … previously. Given my new world of worries, including my talk with Inspector Copperfield, the sight made me uneasy. It was almost as if, even as I looked at it, it was looking at me—and with none too favorable an eye.
As I stood there, the church bells began tolling the hour, which made me recall the urgency of my mission. All the same, when I crossed over the street, dodging the flow of cabs, carts, omnibuses, and horses, I made a point of approaching the park from the far side of the church, thereby avoiding any nearness to the police station.
The park in question was small. In older days it had been a cemetery, so a few melancholy gravestones still stood. They looked like exhausted sentinels, guarding a past that had already fled, their eroded words unreadable by those who never came to read them.
Around the edge of the green was an ill-kept flagstone walk, lined with benches. As I came round the rear of the church, I spied Brigit on one bench. On another, across the green, I saw Clarissa. Seated next to her was Mr. Farquatt.
“Brigit!” I called in a low voice.
She actually jumped and looked about. “Oh, Master John!” she cried, hand to throat. “I had no idea—”
“I must speak with you,” I said.
“But your sister …” She glanced across the grass.
“Brigit, it’s urgent,” I pressed, coming up to her. “And it concerns Clarissa.”
“Master John,” said Brigit, lowering her voice, “I think Mr. Farquatt is about to request your sister’s hand in marriage.”
“Now?”
“I believe so,” she said, her voice full of emotion. “But, John, I truly haven’t the knowing if she should accept him or no. Either way I must stay to protect her.”
Again I glanced across the park. My sister and her suitor were certainly in deep conversation, though it appeared—for I could not hear their words—that Mr. Farquatt was doing most of the talking. Clarissa was listening intently, a look of perplexity on her face.
I sat down next to Brigit and said, “Brigit, I have to tell you what I’ve discovered.”
“Master John,” she whispered, “surely your news can wait.”
“Brigit,” I blurted out, “my father was not telling the truth.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Brigit suddenly exclaimed. “Mr. Farquatt is going down on his knees!”
“My father is in debt to that Mr. O’Doul,” I went on, barely attending to what was happening across the way. “I’m sure of it.”
Brigit, even as she put hands to her ears to keep from hearing me, whispered, “Master John, I beg you, don’t talk of that matter.”
“And though Father said otherwise,” I continued, “I’m sure he does know this Mr. O’Doul. What’s more, Mr. O’Doul is a gambler. And, Brigit, I saw Father gambling.”
“She’s listening to him, Master John. She’s listening!”
“That’s not all,” I persisted. “There’s no way Father can get relief from that debt from his great-aunt. It will not happen.”
“Oh, my dear, dear Clarissa …”
“Which means he will surely go to debtors’prison.”
“Sweet Jesus,” cried Brigit, coming to her feet and pressing her two hands before her chest in a gesture of anguish. “I think … I think … she’s refusing him!”
“And, Brigit,”! hurried on, “I myself have received warnings from a police inspector.”
Brigit turned sharply. “What did you say?”
“Father seems to be mixed in with something … very odd. I don’t know what it is precisely. But it … may be a crime”
She stared at me. “What kind of inspector did you say?”
“A police inspector. From Scotland Yard.”
She stared at me. But then, as if recalling what was happening across the way, she abruptly turned to look back across the green. “Great heavens,” she cried. “Mr. Farquatt is going. Clarissa has sent him off.”
“Brigit, listen to me!” I cried. “If what I say is true, we are truly ruined! We shall all be on the streets—or worse!”
Brigit swung around toward me, her eyes glistening with tears, gazing at me through a torrent of emotions. “Master John,” she whispered, “it’s only Clarissa I can be thinking of!” She jumped up and ran across the park toward my sister.
A moment later I went after her.
CHAPTER 20
I Learn of Mr. Farquatt’s Proposal
By the time I caught up with Brigit and Clarissa, the two were embracing each other. There were many tears.
“But why did you refuse him?” Brigit was asking.
“Brigit,” my sister struggled to say between gulping sobs, “when Great-Aunt Euphemia bequeaths her wealth to Father, we shall ascend to a new station in life. There shall be no end of wonderful suitors to choose from the
n—gentlemen of wealth and position. Mr. Farquatt will be beneath me.”
“Clarissa,” said Brigit, “you must follow your heart.”
“Dear Great-Aunt Euphemia told Father it would happen. He told us.”
“Clarissa,” I cried, unable to hold back any longer, “she said nothing of the kind.”
Clarissa turned and looked down upon me. “What are you doing here? And what would you know about the matter?” she said. “You’re just a little boy.”
“Clarissa,” I said, “Father didn’t go to Great-Aunt. He asked me to go. Which I did. And she didn’t say she would give him anything. She only said she would think about it.”
A flicker of unease furrowed my sister’s brow. She looked to Brigit and then back to me. “What are you talking about?” she said in a choked voice. “How could that be?”
“Clarissa, Father wasn’t telling the truth.”
“Pa … not telling the truth?” she echoed faintly. “Why?”
“I don’t know why. But he’s still in debt. And it’s a debt he can’t pay. I’m sure Great-Aunt won’t give him the money he needs. Which means he will go to debtors’prison.”
Clarissa stared at me. As she absorbed my words, her face seemed to crumple. Tears began to flow anew. She turned to Brigit, as if Brigit must provide verification. “Brigit …?”
Brigit seemed at a loss for what to say.
Clarissa’s fist went to her mouth, and she spun about to look in the direction Mr. Farquatt had gone. “But … but …” The next moment she threw herself back into Brigit’s arms. “But what am I to do?” she cried.
We started back to the Halfmoon Inn—my sister gasping and gulping, eyes swollen and red, supported by Brigit, who had an arm around her waist.
Even I pitied her.
“Brigit,” Clarissa managed to cough out after a while, “Mr. Farquatt pleaded with me to marry him. He offered to settle me in France. I said it was not … possible. My new life made it … undesirable. And he … he … even offered to pay Pa’s debt.”
