Into the Storm

by Avi

  Patrick stopped.

  Nick grinned. “Looks like Tom and me surprised you, eh?” he said.

  “What … do you want?” Eyeing the big boy and not wishing to fight anymore, Patrick darted a look back over his shoulder. That was when he realized that Tom had slipped behind him. There was no one else about.

  “You didn’t think you could get away with dumping me in the canal, did you?”

  “You’re the one who started it,” Patrick cried.

  “All I know is I’m going to end it,” said Nick, advancing.

  Patrick tried to back away only to come up against Tom. He turned back toward Nick. The boy’s hands were balled into fists.

  Knowing he had to do something, Patrick spun about and tried to push by Tom so as to get back to the church. But Tom was ready for him and shoved him so hard that Patrick fell down. There he lay, momentarily stunned.

  When he looked up, Nick was standing over him, grabbing at his shirt. “Do you want any more, Paddy? Do you?”

  Patrick was too frightened, too groggy to answer.

  “Come on now,” Nick cried. “On your feet.” He pulled Patrick up.

  “What we going to do with him?” Tom asked.

  “Grab his arm,” Nick ordered. “Twist it up and around.”

  Patrick felt his arm grabbed and shoved up, making him double over in pain.

  “We’ll take him to the shanty. We can keep him there till we decide what to do.”

  “What if someone comes looking for him?” Tom asked.

  “Don’t worry about that. No one will know what we’re doing. Come on now, Paddy.”

  With Tom holding his arm behind him and Nick poking at him, a dazed Patrick was led away.

  In the Shagwell home, Mr. Clemspool was ready for tea. Just before leaving his room, he touched the bank key in his vest pocket — making sure it was safe — and paused. Would it not be more prudent to secure the key rather than carry it about on his person? If Mr. Grout attacked him … The man at the bank did say anyone might walk in and use it.

  Mr. Clemspool surveyed the room and its furnishings: a bed with a small table next to it, a chair, a dressing table, a wardrobe. The small table had a drawer in it.

  He slid the drawer open. Inside was a slim book of poetry extolling the virtues of Lowell. Mr. Clemspool took it up and carefully placed the key between the cover and the endpaper. Then he returned the book to the drawer, closed it, and went down to tea.

  In the best parlor a cheerful fire blazed in the fireplace. Mrs. Shagwell served tea and small sandwiches with an elegant silver tea set that came, she claimed, from the hands of Paul Revere himself. Though Mr. Clemspool had not the slightest idea who Paul Revere was, he allowed as how he would have expected no less in so fine a home.

  “I understand you were given a tour of the mill this morning,” Mrs. Shagwell said.

  “It was — to make my point precisely — inspiring,” Mr. Clemspool observed.

  “I trust you know, Mr. Clemspool,” Mrs. Shagwell confided in a low voice, “it is one of the most prosperous mills in the city.”

  Mr. Clemspool’s face glowed. “I’m not the least surprised to hear you say so,” he cooed.

  His hostess leaned forward. “And you must realize, sir, that my husband does not accept any investor. Only the right people — such as yourself — are welcome.”

  Mr. Clemspool smiled and took another sip of tea.

  It was not long before Mr. Shagwell arrived. Though seeming rather agitated to the Englishman, he settled himself into his favorite commodious chair and worked hard to be congenial, chatting about mill business and how much there was to do, particularly now that he had been gone for such a length of time. “They all depend on me,” he said expansively, “more than I would like.”

  But in time the conversation fell into a lull. At last the mill owner turned to his wife. “My dear Mrs. Shagwell,” he said, “I wonder if you would be so kind as to leave us. I have some particular words to exchange with our guest. Matters,” he said with a knowing nod, “of business.”

  “Of course, Mr. Shagwell,” his wife replied, and swept out of the room, shutting the parlor doors behind her with a firm snap, the sound conveying just as much knowing as her husband’s nod.

  Mr. Shagwell leaned back in his chair and briefly closed his eyes as if preparing for battle.

  Mr. Clemspool watched his host with sudden apprehension, for clearly the man’s manner had changed.

  “Mr. Clemspool,” the mill owner finally said, clasping his hands over his broad chest, “I have heard some unsavory reports about you.”

  “From a boy?” cried Mr. Clemspool, ready to leap from his chair. “From Grout?”

  The look of bafflement on Mr. Shagwell’s face was sufficient to make Mr. Clemspool wish he had not reacted so.

  “Not at all.”

  “Then from whom came these reports?”

  Mr. Shagwell cleared his throat. “Does the name Jeremiah Jenkins mean anything to you?”

  Mr. Clemspool made a mental note that this was the second time that day Mr. Jenkins’s name had been mentioned.

  “No,” he replied tersely. “I have not had the honor of the gentleman’s acquaintance.”

  “Curious,” allowed Mr. Shagwell. “He seems to know of you.”

  “Does he? How?” Such was Mr. Clemspool’s nervousness that he began to wonder if — despite Mr. Shagwell’s denial — there was some connection between this Jenkins, Grout, and Laurence.

  “You might recall, sir,” continued Mr. Shagwell, “I spoke to Mr. Jenkins from the carriage in Boston.”

  Mr. Clemspool did remember, but the encounter was so fleeting, his impression was at best vague.

  “He is a business associate,” Mr. Shagwell continued, “someone with whom, from time to time, I meet and share views.”

  “What was he saying about me?” inquired Mr. Clemspool.

  The mill owner considered his guest with his small gray eyes. His company was in need of money, but it would only make matters worse if he became entangled in anything fraudulent.

  “I am afraid, sir,” Mr. Shagwell said at last, “the word was not flattering.”

  “You know,” Mr. Clemspool said, eager to strike a blow of his own, “that when I met with my banker here in town to transfer some of my investment funds, I made some inquiries about you … and your business.” He offered up a patently false smile.

  Mr. Shagwell flinched. “And pray, sir, what did this banker say?”

  “I am afraid,” said the Englishman, “it was not very flattering either.”

  The two men contemplated each other with growing suspicion. On one side, Mr. Shagwell was increasingly certain his guest was exactly the swindler Mr. Jenkins had said he was. For his part, Mr. Clemspool was becoming more and more convinced that Mr. Grout and Laurence were, in some way, behind Mr. Shagwell’s altered attitude toward him.

  Mr. Clemspool leaned forward. “Let me tell you, sir, what my banker said pertaining to the Shagwell Cotton Mill. In regard to investment, he said, it might be best to look elsewhere. He told me, sir, that your business is … in financial trouble.”

  Mr. Clemspool studied his host to see if he had hit the mark. He was quite certain — from the look of distress upon Mr. Shagwell’s face — that he had.

  Indeed, Mr. Shagwell felt compelled to cover his eyes with a hand. If there was word abroad that his mill was in difficult straits, he was closer to the edge of ruin than he had thought.

  His thin lips twisted in a sickly grin. “Well, sir,” he replied, “the reports regarding you were not altogether pleasing either. I heard the words swindler, thief, fraud. Is that possible?”

  “Grout did talk to you!” cried Mr. Clemspool.

  “I assure you, I have not seen Mr. Grout since we were on board the Robert Peel. Nor do I have any intention of seeing him.”

  “Then a boy. A boy by the name of Laurence.”

  “I am not in the habit of taking advice from boys
.”

  “It’s all lies anyway,” Mr. Clemspool burst out. “Do I work very hard? Do I sail close to the wind? Am I willing to take advantage and squeeze when necessary? I hope I am, sir. Does that make a man a crook? It does not.

  “Do you read your Bible, sir?” Mr. Clemspool suddenly asked.

  “Of course,” returned Mr. Shagwell with growing vexation.

  “Genesis. Chapter four. Verses five through nine. Cain and Abel. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ The answer, of course, is yes. And, sir, I prefer to think of you, to make my point precisely, as my brother.”

  Mr. Shagwell grew hot. “You are not my brother, sir!” he cried. “Do you or do you not have money to invest?”

  “I do,” returned Mr. Clemspool with as much heat.

  “How much?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “You have been to England. Does the name Kirkle mean anything to you? I represent Lord Kirkle. But I will not invest his money in a failing business. Honesty is very important to me, sir. Is your business in trouble or is it not? I suspect it is. Now, I may promise to give you what you need. But you must return the favor before you see any cash.”

  Mr. Shagwelllooked at his guest quizzically. “What could you possibly need from me?” he asked.

  “I wish to establish a business. I want you to make a public statement as to my virtues, value, and position.”

  “Why?”

  “So that I may raise money, sir. Capital.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Why should you care? Why do you want money? For the same reasons I do. That should be a sufficient answer.”

  Though his face had turned red, Mr. Shagwell’s small gray eyes turned harder than usual. “Mr. Clemspool, sir, I must ask you to leave my house, immediately.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the startled Englishman cried.

  “You have been playing me for the fool, sir. I am not interested in taking the part.”

  “But …”

  “Out!”

  Mr. Clemspool rose on shaky knees. “Very well, sir, I shall just go to my room —”

  “Never mind your room. Leave at once. Send word where you may be found, and I shall arrange to have your things sent on to you.”

  Mr. Clemspool gasped. “But …”

  Mr. Shagwell opened the door of the parlor. “I am asking you to leave, sir.”

  All Mr. Clemspool could think of was the bank-vault key he had left in the bedside table drawer. “There are certain items —”

  “Have you no self-respect, sir! I have asked you to go!”

  Ashen-faced, Mr. Clemspool walked out of the room and house.

  Mr. Shagwell remained sitting, now and again running his fingers through his mane of gray hair. He had, he realized, made a terrible mistake in regard to Mr. Clemspool. Thank goodness he need have no more to do with him!

  Mr. Clemspool, bald head glistening with perspiration, paced back and forth in the small hotel room he had taken only minutes before. Now and again he lifted agitated hands and snatched at the air with frustration.

  Who was this Jenkins? How did it happen that a stranger was saying vile things about him?

  And what of being banished by Shagwell? Was not his house the one to which Sir Albert Kirkle would be sending his money? It was! How was he to get it now?

  Finally, what was he to do about Laurence and Grout, the two of them so irksomely in Lowell?

  Presumably the police would take care of Grout. Laurence, however, was quite another matter. Would it be worthwhile to get hold of him again? If he held the boy for ransom from Lord Kirkle — why, that could mean months…. And how was he to live?

  He could only hope that boy — Jeb, wasn’t it? — had found his way to Laurence and had been able to pry out some information about him. It would be exceedingly useful to know what young Kirkle and Grout were about.

  But most vexatious was the matter of the key to the safe-deposit box. He had to retrieve it. The question was, How?

  The room was at the back of the Shagwell house, on the second floor. A window looked out upon a garden. Might it be possible to enter that garden, climb in through that rear window, and reclaim the key from the book in the bedside table? Mr. Clemspool sighed. He could not do it. But someone else …

  Then he thought again of the boy he’d hired to watch Laurence. The thought made Mr. Clemspool smile. Jeb Grafton was just the one to retrieve the key. And they were to meet at eight.

  With collar turned up against the night chill, Mr. Clemspool walked through the streets of Lowell. He was glad it was a dark night.

  As he approached the Spindle City Hotel, he saw someone he knew: Mr. Tolliver. Mr. Clemspool stopped and watched the policeman go into the hotel.

  Good! thought Mr. Clemspool with a spurt of hope. Perhaps the policeman’s come to arrest Grout! The Englishman searched for an appropriate observation spot and found one across the street, in the entryway of a shuttered store.

  After fifteen minutes had passed, there was no sign of the policeman, but now Jeb Grafton appeared from around the corner. With him was, of all people, Laurence Kirkle, shoe-shine box under his arm. From the way the two hiked along, side by side and chatting, it appeared as if the boys had become friends.

  Mr. Clemspool grinned broadly. This Jeb was a winner! Just the lad to get the bank key.

  With a wave, Laurence went into the hotel, leaving Jeb alone.

  Mr. Clemspool sprang forward. “Well done!” he cried, turning Jeb about and guiding him forcibly back across the street, where the two of them would be less conspicuous.

  “It was easy,” Jeb said. “We’re working together.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Shoe shine. I’ve been teaching him how. So I can stay with him. I even lent him my box, so he’ll be sure to show up tomorrow morning.”

  “Did you find out why he’s in Lowell?”

  Jeb shrugged. “With his friends.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “They’re looking for someone.”

  Mr. Clemspool’s heart jumped. “Who?” he asked.

  “He wouldn’t say,” Jeb replied. Then he asked, “You going to pay me?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Mr. Clemspool reached into his pocket, found some coins, and gave the boy a twenty-five-cent piece. “Now then,” he said, “you have pleased me so much, I will offer you another job. How would you like to earn … ?”

  “Ten dollars!” exclaimed Jeb. He’d have earned almost eleven dollars that day. More than the cost of a doctor’s visit for his mother.

  “That’s what I’m offering.”

  “I guess I would,” Jeb said eagerly. “What do I have to do?”

  “I assure you, it will take very little effort on your part.”

  Jeb gazed up at Mr. Clemspool. “It’s not doing anything bad, is it?”

  “Dear boy,” cried Mr. Clemspool as he led Jeb in the direction of Mr. Shagwell’s house, “you must not even entertain such thoughts!”

  Laurence was lying on his bed when Mr. Drabble came into the room.

  “Look!” the boy cried, bounding up and holding out his hand, where some coins lay. “I earned eleven cents!”

  Tired and dejected, Mr. Drabble made a perfunctory glance at the money. “And how did you get that?” he asked dully.

  “I was working. Shoe shining. Blacking boots. You see, I met a boy, and he taught me. It isn’t hard.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” the actor said as he slumped down on his bed and clutched his thin knees. “And where is Mr. Grout?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen him all afternoon,” Laurence replied. “Have you been at the theater?”

  After a moment Mr. Drabble slowly shook his head.

  “Why not?” a puzzled Laurence asked.

  At first Mr. Drabble said nothing. Then he sighed. “I am, as the poet said, ‘bound in shallows and in miseries.’”

  “I don’t understand.”
>
  “Mr. Laurence … unlike you, I was not offered a position. I was, in fact, rejected.”

  “But Mr. Grout said they would hire you for sure.”

  “I was invited — merely — to sit with the audience.”

  “Oh.”

  “You, young man,” said Mr. Drabble as he lay back, put his arms under his head, and stared at the ceiling, “have climbed far higher than I. And you are dealing with boots.”

  “Would … would you like my money?” Laurence asked.

  Mr. Drabble shook his head.

  Laurence held the coins out anyway. “I’ll be sure to be earning more tomorrow.”

  Tears dropped from Mr. Drabble’s eyes. “I’m sure you will,” the actor said, and turned away.

  It was nearly eight in the evening by the time Maura reached Mrs. Hamlyn’s house. Her head throbbed. Her back ached. Her feet were so sore that she carried her shoes, preferring the cold ground to the pain from the leather.

  In the hallway she was greeted by Bridy, who gave her a great hug, babbling about someone named Jenkins even as she dragged Maura to the dining table.

  Dinner, with Mrs. Hamlyn presiding, had already begun. The eight other young women were there, busily eating like wolf cubs but finding time to chat too. A chair was drawn out for Maura. She sat, sighed audibly, and watched amazedly as her plate was filled with food.

  “Your first day, my dear?” asked one of the other lodgers, a lemon-haired, dimple-cheeked young woman in her late teens.

  Maura could only nod.

  “Then bravo to you, and well begun,” the young woman cried. “I don’t doubt but it was the worst day of your life. You can rejoice you’ll not have to meet its like again.”

  There was a chorus of boisterous agreement from the other boarders, who commenced exchanging dreadful stories of their first days in the mills.

  At first, Maura felt too tired to eat, and merely picked at her food. But, heartened by the talk, she soon regained some strength and devoured all she had been given.

  As she ate, she paid close attention as the others offered now this suggestion, now that to help her with tomorrow’s work.