Into the Storm (30 page)

M
r. 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.

G
reat 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 jeopardy 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!”

W
ith the expectation that he would soon have money in his pocket from his job with Mr. Jenkins — and that Mr. Drabble would be earning even more — Toby Grout requested a decent room from the man at the registration desk.

“Do you 'ave a gent by the name of Jenkins stoppin' 'ere?” he inquired, once matters of accommodation had been settled.

“We do indeed, but I don't think he's in at the moment,” was the reply.

“When 'e does come, yer can tell 'im Toby Grout's arrived and ready to work.”

“I certainly will.”

The room Mr. Grout took was rather small and, despite a window, quite airless. With four beds it looked more like a dormitory than a hotel room. The mattresses, stretched over rope webbing, were hardly more than thick blankets. The pillows were thin as doormats.

“Yer can take yer pick of the beds,” Mr. Grout urged Laurence. “Whatever yer want.”

Laurence chose one and sat on it.

“I'm goin' to take meself a walk to see what I can do about findin' Clemspool,” Mr. Grout announced. “Do yer want to come along?”

“I'll stay here,” Laurence said, thinking he would rather go out on his own and start looking for Patrick.

“Suit yerself,” agreed Mr. Grout. “I suspect Drabble will be along after a while. Then we can celebrate 'is success.”

When Mr. Grout left, Laurence remained sitting on the bed, the first time since he had left the bottom hold on the ship that he'd been alone.

He took a deep breath. So many extraordinary things had happened to him. He thought of that time — how long ago it seemed! — in his father's study, where he'd suffered his brother's cruelty. He thought of his flight, his days in Liverpool, the long, lonely voyage. Yet here he was in America. That very day he had walked fifteen winter miles. He had become friends with a London thief. Truly, he was no longer what he had been. Then he thought about what Mr. Grout had promised — the return of his father's money.

What would he do if they actually did get the money back from Mr. Clemspool? Would he return to England? Should he? Laurence had to acknowledge he had no answers. Instead, he thought about Patrick, happy to think his friend was not far away. And though he was eager to start looking for him, the long walk of the past two days, the excitement, had taken its toll. With a yawn, he lay down and fell into a sleep.

T
he
Yorkshire
, true to her reputation as the fastest ship in the North Atlantic fleet, had crossed the ocean in twenty-seven days, a near record. Sir Albert Kirkle, slouching over the quarterdeck rail, gazed across the bay at the city of Boston. From out of his greatcoat sleeves, his hands dangled as if they were marionette hands cut from their strings.

For the young lord it had been an excessively boring voyage. Even the constant good if chilly weather held no pleasure for him. While he had been keenly interested in the plentiful food available at the captain's table, he had kept to himself. It was much too distasteful to explain the reasons for his voyage. He was also too lazy to lie about it.

Now, as Sir Albert contemplated the American city that rose before him, he felt the annoying obligation to concoct some strategy to find Laurence. After all, though Lord Kirkle said he was not to return to England without the boy, Sir Albert's only reason for going to America was to make sure his brother
did not
return. No, he had no intention of sharing his father's money with anyone.

But the United States was immense. No saying where Laurence actually was. It might be impossible to find him. That, mused Albert, was his great hope. How much better it would be if the boy disappeared on his own — without any assistance from him.

But, if assistance was what it required to keep the boy on this side of the Atlantic, assistance was exactly what he was prepared to give. And that meant finding Mr. Clemspool, since the man claimed he was holding Laurence. Furthermore,
Sir Albert assumed that Clemspool would — for a price — be willing to
do
something about the boy.

Alas, Albert's only clue to Clemspool's whereabouts was the unfortunate letter that the proprietor of Brother's Keeper had written to him and that his father had intercepted. Clemspool was reachable through a Mr. Ambrose Shagwell of Lowell, Massachusetts.

Albert wished he could avoid this Shagwell fellow entirely, but his father had seen the letter. If Lord Kirkle made contact with the American and discovered Albert had not called upon him … No, he must see the man.

The young lord had taken the trouble to learn that the city of Lowell was but a short distance from Boston, hardly more than an hour's railway ride. First thing tomorrow, he supposed, he would have to go. How boring!