by Avi
Bridy closed her eyes. “Mr. Jerry Jenkins …”
“Who?” cried Mr. Hamlyn, so altering his tone that Bridy jumped.
“Jerry-myra Jenkins …,” Bridy managed to say.
“I don’t believe it!” Mr. Hamlyn murmured, and he pulled off his gloves and nightcap as if they were impediments to his hearing. “Go on,” he said with barely suppressed impatience. “What did he say?”
Slowly, awkwardly, and with much coaching, Bridy repeated the message. When she’d done, Mr. Hamlyn lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes. He looked grim.
“Will that be all, master?” the maid asked.
Mr. Hamlyn opened his eyes. “You may go, Kate. Let the girl stay.”
After whispering words of encouragement into Bridy’s ear, the maid slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
For a long time Mr. Hamlyn — lips pursed, brow furrowed — remained silent, lost in thought. Bridy, most uncomfortable, scratched a leg. At last the man looked down at her and smiled. “What’s your name?” he asked kindly.
“Bridy.”
“Bridy, I’d like you to do something for me.”
“Yes, please,” Bridy whispered.
“You’ll know the man — the one who gave you the message — if you see him again, won’t you?”
Bridy nodded.
“He’s an evil man, Bridy. A man who intends me harm. I want you to watch for him. If you see him again, you’re to tell me right away. Do you understand? At once. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mind, you mustn’t fail. I’m counting on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
As soon as Bridy left the room, Mr. Hamlyn set about writing a note to Mr. Tolliver.
It was midday when Laurence, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Drabble trudged into Lowell. Having walked fifteen miles on each of two days — sleeping one night in a warm barn with the permission of a farmer — they were tired, chilled, but in reasonable spirits.
“It’s all very well to be here,” Mr. Drabble observed. “But now what do we do?”
Mr. Grout said, “We ’ead for a place I know, that’s wot. The Spindle City ’Otel and Oyster Bar.”
“And how, sir, do you know about this establishment?”
“That’s where that Mr. Jenkins — the one ’oo promised me a quick job — told me to go.”
Mr. Drabble shook his head. “Without telling you what the job is.”
“See ’ere, Drabble, as long as it means money, we can’t be too particular, can we? Yer the one who said we should walk ’ere, and yer right. We don’t ’ave much.”
“Sometimes, my friend,” said Mr. Drabble, “I think you are too trusting.”
“It’s me new nature,” Mr. Grout returned agreeably. “But if we’re goin’ to find Clemspool and get that money back, risk is wot we ’ave to take. Ain’t that so, laddie?” He clasped Laurence’s shoulder by way of showing him that their partnership was very much in effect.
“I think so,” agreed Laurence, who wanted only to get to a warm room.
“I knew yer would,” said Mr. Grout. With that understanding, he approached a working man and asked for and received information regarding the location of the hotel. Calling on his companions to follow, he started off.
Their way took them along busy Merrimack Street. Suddenly Mr. Drabble stopped.
“Great heavens!” he cried. “Look!” Across the way, among some business buildings, was a structure that had the distinct look of a church, though its steeple had been lopped off. A large sign stretched across its facade.
* * *
BOSTON MUSEUM AND STOCK COMPANY
Strictly Moral Plays
Tonight: LOVE’S SACRIFICE
Seats 25C–50C
8:00 P.M.
Roderick Wyman, Manager-Actor
Coming soon! The Tragedy of HAMLET
* * *
“They do have theaters in America!” Mr. Drabble exclaimed with delight. “There may be a place for me after all!”
Mr. Grout studied the sign. “I can’t make it all out,” he confessed. “Yer have to read it to me.”
Mr. Drabble obliged, explaining that Hamlet was a play by Shakespeare.
Mr. Grout whooped with excitement. “Mr. Drabble,” he said, “as soon as they know yer ’ere in town, they’ll be desperate to ’ave yer. I congratulate yer on yer success.”
Mr. Drabble paled. Thin as he was, he seemed to dwindle further before Mr. Grout’s and Laurence’s eyes. “Well … I do have to meet them first,” he managed to say, his low voice becoming almost childlike in its meekness. “But, yes, of course, I can hope for the best.”
“Never mind ’ope,” Mr. Grout urged. “Yer need to go to them right away.”
“Now?” Mr. Drabble cried with alarm.
“Yer want the work, don’t yer? And yer know ’ow fine yer are. Why, they’ll be beggin’ yer to take part soon as they clap eyes on yer, won’t they? Besides, it’ll pay for some food and lodgin’ while we’re ’ere.”
“Well, yes,” the actor felt obliged to agree. “I suppose.”
“Mr. Drabble,” Mr. Grout enthused, “a man doesn’t ’ave much in the way of time except the right now, does ’e? Take ’old of yer chance. Don’t yer worry about the laddie and me. We’ll take us a room at the ’otel to get out of this weather. Yer can join us as soon as they shake yer ’and.”
“But … but I’m not sure I’m … prepared.”
“’Ere now, Mr. Drabble, yer the best in the world.”
The actor turned red behind his curtain of hair. “But … I’ve never been on a real stage before,” he blurted out. “Oh, I’ve tried,” he fairly wept, “and I do know the words well — perfectly, in fact — but that has never been enough. I think it’s because I don’t look tragic. I look the fool. But believe me, friends, inside I am tragic!” He hid his face with his hands.
“Now see ’ere, Drabble,” Mr. Grout said with gentle gruffness, “don’t go blowin’ yerself down. What might be foolin’ in England is more than likely tragic ’ere in America.”
Mr. Drabble, clutching his volume of Shakespeare, took a deep breath and stared across at the theater. He swallowed hard. “But …”
“Yer ’ave to,” Mr. Grout insisted. “It’s yer fate.”
“Well then,” replied the actor meekly, “who am I to contradict my most loyal audience?” He bowed low, straightened up, then commenced a painfully slow crossing of the street.
Nervous to the point of trembling, the actor approached the theater building. He tried the front door but — to his great relief — found it locked. He turned about. Mr. Grout and Laurence were watching.
“There’s another door by the side!” Mr. Grout bellowed.
Feeling he had no choice, Mr. Drabble walked to the right where he saw an open door. Mr. Grout, nodding by way of encouragement, waved him on.
Heart knocking against his thin chest, Mr. Drabble entered a shadowy hallway hung with forests, oceans, castles, cliffs, and raging rivers — all painted on canvas. At the far end he heard the sound of voices. Struggling to control his anxiety, Mr. Drabble crept forward.
The room he entered was large and bare, striped by multi-colored light streaming through a stained-glass window high above. On an ill-swept floor six men and two women, blank faces expressing boredom, shuffling feet and twitching fingers suggesting irritation, were listening to a man.
This man was short, fat, and toothless, his bulk made even more voluminous by the velvet cape that reached from his thick shoulders to his buckled shoes. “It is art we serve, dear friends, art,” the man was saying. “Not money. For you to ask for more is —” He paused, becoming aware that someone had come into the room. Instead of simply turning, he gathered up his cape and spun about so that the velvet swirled around him.
“Sir?” he inquired. “Do you have business with me?”
Mr. Drabble threw himself into the deepest of bows, so
low his long fingers scraped the floor. Then he righted himself and threw back the hair from his face. “Sir,” he began tentatively, “my name is Horatio Drabble, late of the Liverpool stage, just arrived from England.”
“Roderick Wyman at your service,” the American returned in a voice that boomed like a cannon. “But what, sir, might I do for you?”
“I’ve … I’ve only just come … to this fair city,” Mr. Drabble stammered, “and … seeing the sign before your theater, I thought … perhaps that … I might make application to be part of your … illustrious company.”
“What roles, sir, are you familiar with?”
“I know Hamlet in its entirety. But I am … best suited to play the … noble prince himself.”
“Are you, indeed!” Mr. Wyman cried. “Let us observe act three, scene one,” he said.
Mr. Drabble braced himself, looked heavenward, and extended one arm high. “To be, or not to be: that is the question: whether —”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Mr. Wyman interrupted, “that’s not our style. It may do for the Old World but not the New. In any case, I am to play the role of Hamlet. I thank you for your interest and encourage you to become a member of the noble audience.”
So saying, the manager swirled about and once again began to harangue his company.
Mr. Drabble was too stunned to do anything but stand where he was. But as Mr. Wyman continued to ignore him, the English actor turned and made his way sadly out of the theater. Oh, why, he kept repeating to himself, did I ever leave Liverpool!
He glanced across the street. To his relief Laurence and Mr. Grout had moved on.
Utterly dejected, Mr. Drabble trudged along the city streets, heading where he cared not. As far as he was concerned, his acting career was over. He would have to find something else to do with his life, a life that had become a tragedy without an audience.
“Everyone,” Mr. Drabble moaned, “has a place in life but me.”
Indeed, he would have to forget about Maura O’Connell. Oh, if only he could see her again. If only he could render her some service! If only he could find some way to prove his love for her….
When he reached a canal, Mr. Drabble stared into its flowing waters for a long time. Tenderly, as though laying a flower on a grave, he set his volume of Shakespeare on the bank, cried, wiped at his tears, and slowly walked away.
Mr. Clemspool, fresh from his morning’s tour of the Shagwell Cotton Mill, entered the Merrimack Valley Consolidated Bank and Land Company building in central Lowell.
“I need a safe-deposit box,” he informed a gentleman who inquired if he might be of service. In an inner office, he was introduced to a Mr. Artridge, a pale-faced, thin-lipped, clean-shaven man of middle years who informed Mr. Clemspool — as if he were sharing one of nature’s deep secrets — that he was vice president of the bank.
“I’ve only just come from England, sir,” Mr. Clemspool explained grandly, “with a large quantity of British bills. I should like to change the pounds into dollars and provide for their safekeeping in a locked security box — with my own key, of course.”
Nothing could be easier. Papers were produced, the relevant information recorded, fees explained, and Mr. Clemspool was gently asked for the English money.
With silent dexterity Mr. Artridge counted the pile, then pronounced — as if it were another secret — the American value as four thousand six hundred and thirty-two dollars and sixteen cents.
“A tidy sum, sir,” the vice president said. “May I inquire … will you be staying with us long?”
Mr. Clemspool smiled. “I’m thinking of investing here.”
Mr. Artridge folded his well-manicured hands together. “We might be able to give advice,” he suggested.
“And I should be happy to receive it.”
“Were you thinking of any particular kind of investments?”
Mr. Clemspool fingered the air and then, as it were, plucked out the words “Cotton mills.”
The merest hint of a smile played about Mr. Artridge’s lips.
“Say,” continued Mr. Clemspool, “the Shagwell Cotton Mill.”
Mr. Artridge frowned.
“Not sound?” Mr. Clemspool returned, quick to take the hint.
“There are … better prospects. Far better.”
“Can you say more?”
The banker stared at his hands and then lifted his clear blue eyes. “In financial difficulties,” he said.
Mr. Clemspool responded with a sage nod. “Sir, I have heard your advice and shall take advantage of it.”
More papers were signed, a receipt given, the money deposited in a box — with a little held out for daily use. The box was then placed in the bank’s vault and the key handed over to Mr. Clemspool.
“That key, sir, is your pass to the vault. You need not speak to me to gain entry. Merely show it to the teller. You’ll notice it has the bank’s name engraved upon it along with the number of the box. It is now your responsibility. Do keep it in a safe place.”
“I shall,” said Mr. Clemspool, taking the key tenderly and stowing it with care in an inner vest pocket.
When Mr. Clemspool emerged from the bank onto Merrimack Street, he was filled with a serene sense that everything was moving along just as he wanted. He had secured Lord Kirkle’s money for himself. He was settled in Mr. Shagwell’s house. He had discovered just how weak the mill owner’s position was. The perfect moment for squeezing the man for all he had. “Get them while they’re weak,” he murmured with relish. Perhaps, he thought, he might even take over the mill himself. Intensely gratified by his own intelligence, judgment, and luck, he patted the bank key in his vest pocket.
Mr. Clemspool, suffused with a deep contentment, sauntered along busy Merrimack Street, looking into shop windows, watching the crowds. He even purchased a newspaper — The People’s Voice.
“Blacken your boots!”
Hearing the cry, Mr. Clemspool looked about. When he saw a shoe-shine boy, the Englishman decided that polished shoes were exactly in keeping with his mood. With a flamboyant gesture, he hailed the boy and requested that his boots be cleaned as well as blackened.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Clemspool asked expansively.
“Jeb Grafton, sir.”
“Now, Jeb, my boy, I want those shoes extrabright.”
Jeb was only too happy to oblige. After suggesting that Mr. Clemspool lean back against a building and place his foot upon his box, he set to work.
Mr. Clemspool opened his newspaper and began to read, casually skipping from item to item, from time to time lowering the pages to gaze along the street. He was just about to conclude that Lowell was quite the perfect place for him when he saw — walking side by side and coming his way — Laurence and Mr. Grout.
Great Heavens! Matthew Clemspool was so stunned by the sight that he nearly jumped into the air. As it was, his foot slipped off the shoe-shine box, and Jeb had to replace it firmly.
Panicky, Mr. Clemspool hastily lifted the newspaper to hide his face, then peeked out from behind it again. Mr. Grout, he noted, was no longer dressed as a gentleman but looked like an American workingman. As for Laurence, though he seemed thinner and paler than Mr. Clemspool remembered him in the ship’s stateroom, searching for the money, there was no question as to who he was. The mark on his right cheek — just barely visible — was sufficient proof of that.
Mr. Clemspool’s reaction passed quickly from panic to fury. That these two should be together, looking for all the world as if they were friends, was — in his view — a betrayal of the highest order! His whole body quivered with indignation.
Questions poured in upon him. How did they come to be together? How did they get to Lowell? Why were they here, of all places? As far as Mr. Clemspool was concerned, to ask that question was to answer it: They were pursuing him and the money! Oh, the effrontery!
Nonetheless, it took but a second for Mr. Clemspool to grasp that all his plans for Lowell would be in jeopa
rdy with those two lurking about. The boy — alone — was not a danger. Who would listen to him? But his powerful father, Lord Kirkle …
As for Toby Grout, the young man knew a great deal too much about Brother’s Keeper. If people started to listen to him and believed what they heard — that Mr. Clemspool had spirited away many boys from England — Mr. Clemspool would not be able to stay in Lowell.
Mr. Grout and Laurence passed only a few feet from the agitated man. Once they moved on, Mr. Clemspool lowered the newspaper — such was his rage that his fingers shook and made the paper rattle. He watched them enter the Spindle City Hotel and Oyster Bar.
“That will be two cents,” Jeb informed him.
With a start, the Englishman thrust his hand into a pocket, found some coins — inspected them to make sure he was not giving away too much — and handed them to the boy.
Mr. Clemspool pondered. Should he flee? That was the last thing he wished to do. What with Mr. Shagwell ripe for plucking, he was about to become a truly wealthy man. But to achieve his goal, he would have to get rid of Laurence and Mr. Grout and do it fast — lest they interfere.
“Something the matter, mister?” Jeb asked.
“Quickly,” Mr. Clemspool said. “Go into that hotel.”
“The Spindle?”
“See if a man with an eye patch and a boy are registering to stay. I’ll give you ten cents! Hurry.”
Jeb leaped up and ran for the hotel entrance. When he was gone, Mr. Clemspool tried frantically to think of a way to get rid of the two.
Breathless, Jeb returned. “They were signing in,” he announced.
“Villains …,” hissed Mr. Clemspool. He looked down at the boy. “Is there a constable headquarters somewhere near about?”
“A what?” Jeb asked.
“A law officer. A …”
“A policeman?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a station just over to Worthen Street.”
“Can you take me there?”
“I suppose I could.”
“I’ll pay you. But hurry. This is an emergency!”
