Escape From Home (25 page)

M
aura was doubting she'd ever get back to Mrs. Sonderbye's when she caught sight of Patrick running up the street.

“Patrick!” she shouted.

Patrick stopped, turned, and saw his sister. With a whoop of joy he raced back and embraced her.

“Oh, Patrick, I thought I'd lost you for sure.”

“I was only at the docks, Maura.”

She took hold of her brother by his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Patrick O'Connell,” she said, “you had me near bled of life last night when I couldn't find you. Where and why, in the name of glory, did you go?”

“I thought you were in danger,” Patrick explained. “It's you I was thinking of.”

“What danger?”

“Wasn't that runner, that Ralph Toggs, asking after you at the lodging house.”

Maura was taken aback. “
For me
?” she cried.

“It was right after you left with Mr. Drabble. Who should come along but that Ralph Toggs, the one that brought us to Mrs. Sonderbye's. And he was asking about you, Maura.”

“Me?”

“Faith, he was. And when he learned you'd gone, he said he'd find you. So off he went. I was that fearful I ran after him.”

“Patrick O'Connell, promise me we'll never leave each other's side again. Not for an instant!”

“But I need to tell you all of what I was doing,” Patrick said, and told Maura not just about Toggs but about the English boy, the attempted theft from the ship, how he himself summoned the dock police, how he and the boy fled until they came upon the
Charity
, where Mr. Bartholomew took them in. “So you see, Maura, I was perfectly safe all the time.”

“And with a Protestant clergyman.”

“But didn't I get away from him?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” his sister said sternly, “why would you be doing all that for an English boy? Have you forgotten so quickly? What have we to do for the English when they lord it over us?”

“Ah, Maura, you can hardly believe how bad off he is. Worse than us. Not a penny in his pocket. And hasn't he run off from home. Wanting to go to America. That's why I offered him the ticket.”

“What ticket?”

“The one Mother won't be using.”

“Patrick,” Maura replied, “there's no ticket to give.”

“Where's it gone to then?” he asked.

“I've given it to Mr. Drabble. Sure, I could do no less. Last night he helped me look for you. In fact, we should be getting back. He'll be wondering if I'm lost too.”

Patrick was beginning not to like Mr. Drabble. “Isn't Mr. Drabble English?” he asked.

Maura drew herself up with indignation. “It's not the same at all,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because he's been kind to me. Now come along,” she said, and set a fast pace.

Patrick, hurrying after, was now sure he didn't like the actor.

Suddenly, Maura stopped. “This English boy, might his name be Laurence, and him dressed in rags and with a welt on his cheek?”

“Why, that is him. How did you know?”

“Patrick,” his sister said, “it's the police themselves who are looking for him.”

“The police!”

“It's true. When I was searching for you early on, I met some of them. Didn't they give me his name. ‘Laurence,' they said, reading his name from a paper. They're searching everywhere for him. The Lord knows what that means. By the Holy Mother, Patrick, have you thought that that boy might not be so innocent as you'd believe?”

“Maura, I don't know why they're after him, but you've only to see him to know he's done nothing wrong.”

“Well, it no longer matters,” his sister said as they set off again to the lodging house. “You'll not be seeing him again.”

T
oggs needed little time to reach City Hall and the police headquarters. After loitering a bit outside while deciding what he might say if questions were asked, he started down the circular staircase. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, he strolled into the office, hat set rakishly, hands in pockets.

The room was busy. Inspector Knox was at his place behind the high desk, leafing through papers. A number of blue-coated constables were seated on the bench engaged in earnest conversation with a man in a bowler hat. A poorly dressed fellow lay sprawled upon the floor of the prisoner's holding dock, fast asleep. As for Fred, Toggs saw no sign of him. Whether his rival had come and gone was another matter. He approached Inspector Knox.

At first the inspector ignored him. Toggs was patient. Finally Mr. Knox looked up. “Yes, lad, what is it?” he asked curtly.

Toggs snatched off his hat. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I'm looking for a friend.”

Mr. Knox was stern. “Someone taken in?”

“Not that I know, sir,” Toggs said. “He left in a rush, if you know my meaning.”

“That him?” Mr. Knox asked, pointing to the man in the holding cage.

Toggs considered the sleeping man as if the possibility were real. “No, sir, it's not.”

“What's your fellow's name? He might have been charged.”

“Fred, sir, Fred. Nothing but a chit of a boy. Doesn't even have a last name. Weasel faced and nasty, to tell the truth. Ginger hair.”

“Not here,” Mr. Knox said, and continued sorting through his papers.

Toggs put on his hat and turned to leave just as Mr. Bartholomew entered the room and approached the desk.

Mr. Knox looked up. “Here, young man,” he barked at Toggs, “stand aside and let the gentleman approach.”

Toggs did so.

“Good morning, Mr. Bartholomew,” the inspector said, reaching over his desk and shaking the minister's hand.

“A good morning to you, Mr. Knox.”

“Is the
Charity
still afloat then?” Mr. Knox asked.

At the word
Charity
, Toggs, who was halfway to the door, stopped and looked around with interest.

“Sitting pretty, sir,” the minister replied.

“And what brings you to us this morning, sir?” Mr. Knox inquired.

“I'm sorry to trouble you, Inspector, but I need to determine if you received my message. I sent it with a boy earlier this morning.”

Toggs edged closer.

“You might have sent it,” Mr. Knox said, “but it never reached this desk. Gentlemen!” he called out to the constables. “Any of you take in a message from Mr. Bartholomew this morning?”

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.

H
ow 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 thinking 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.