Into the Storm (40 page)

I
n the hotel room it was Albert who recovered his composure first. He trudged to the room door and made a nervous check of the hallway. Neither Laurence nor Mr. Drabble were in sight.

“This has become an exhausting business,” he said, turning back into the room and shutting the door firmly behind him as if that would put an end to the business.

A scowling Mr. Clemspool sat on the floor, methodically checking his bones.

“I say, Clemspool,” Albert complained, “have you noticed, every time you make a plan things go smash?”

Mr. Clemspool darted a wrathful glance up at the young lord. “You, sir,” he sneered, “are nothing more than an insufferable buffoon.” With much groaning and moaning, he got up and brushed himself off. Then he looked at his pocket watch.

Albert cracked his knuckles. “What are we to do now? Does the boy have this bank key or not?”

“He must.”

“Don't you think we should pursue him?”

“How do I know where he's gone?”

“Then what are we to do?”

“You just told me, sir, that everything I plan goes badly. Now you presume to ask my advice. I can see why your father prefers his younger son to his elder. At least he's got some pluck. Are you not capable, sir, of any thoughts on your own behalf?”

“Look here, Clemspool,” Albert protested, “the boy said
you
took the money. Did you?”

“I
had
it,” Mr. Clemspool snapped, “but I put it in a bank vault to keep it safe for you. Then Laurence stole the key. That's what we need. It may yet be here somewhere. He left quickly.”

The two began a frenzied search, turning over the beds, stripping them of blankets, even flipping through the pages of Mr. Drabble's Shakespeare.

“What about this?” Albert asked, finding a piece of paper, the one on which Mr. Drabble had written:

 

Where Maura O'Connell lives:
87 Cabot Street

 

Mr. Clemspool snatched at the paper, considered it momentarily, then flung it away with indifference. But though the two searched thoroughly, they found no key.

Exasperated, Mr. Clemspool sat upon one of the now righted beds and pondered what they might do next.

“That boy you had in the carriage,” Albert suggested, “do you think he knows more than he said?”

“Now how would I know that?” Mr. Clemspool replied.

“He just might be worth trying,” Albert offered.

“You simpleton! I don't know where he is either!” cried Mr. Clemspool, reaching out as if to find some answer in the air. There was none.

But outside the door there were footsteps. In the next moment the doorknob rattled. Startled, Mr. Clemspool looked up. Sir Albert's face paled like a boiled potato.

“Hide yourself behind the door!” Mr. Clemspool hissed. Hardly had Albert done so than the door swung open and into the room stepped Mr. Grout.

It was with considerable and mutual surprise that Toby Grout and Matthew Clemspool gazed at each other.

Mr. Clemspool affected a sickly smile. “Ah, Mr. Grout, sir,” he exclaimed, his bald head sweating profusely. “How very pleasant indeed it is to see you again.”

Mr. Grout fixed his glittering eye upon his former partner. “Wot yer doin' 'ere, Clemspool?”

“Why, good sir, having learned that you were in town, I decided to make a social call in hopes that we could let bygones be bygones.”

“Clemspool! Where's the money yer took from me?” was the rejoinder. “I wants it back.”

“Sir,” Mr. Clemspool protested, “I will swear upon my immortal soul that I have not so much as one penny at my disposal.”

Mr. Grout raised his massive fists and took a step forward.

Retreating in haste, Mr. Clemspool crashed against a bed and sat down.

“You took that money from me!” Mr. Grout roared.

“Let me merely say …,” Mr. Clemspool cast about for a reply. Then remembering that Albert was hiding behind the door, he said, “Mr. Grout, sir, back on the ship you expressed your desire to return the money to the esteemed Kirkle family. Did you not?”

“I said it when I thought the laddie was dead. Only 'e's alive so it's to 'im I'll be givin' it back.”

“Well now,” said Mr. Clemspool, doing his best to feign surprise, “I am truly delighted to learn the boy is alive, especially since you informed me you'd seen his ghost. But if he is alive, I rejoice and will work to restore the money to the family directly. Happily we are well served. For here, sir,” he said with a flashing smile, “is the very one to receive it. Will you come forth, sir?”

With some uncertainty, Albert emerged from behind the door.

“May I introduce Sir Albert Kirkle,” Mr. Clemspool said sweetly. “Laurence's elder, affectionate brother. He came all the way from London to rescue the boy and return him to his loving home, where he is deeply missed.

“Sir Albert, this gentleman is Toby Grout, a man, I assure you, of the highest moral values and the will — not to mention the strength — to put them into effect. He worked with me” — he gave a knowing wink — “on many projects.”

Albert nodded curtly. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Toby Grout considered Albert with suspicion. “Yer really the laddie's brother?” he asked.

“I am.”

“And did Clemspool 'ere give yer the money 'e prigged from me that I prigged from yer brother?”

“Mr. Grout, I have received nothing. But it has been promised.”

“Promised! By 'im? And are yer really thinkin' the villain will give it to yer?”

“I believe Mr. Clemspool to be an honorable man,” Albert avowed.

“Then yer the biggest block'ead in the world,” said Mr. Grout, leaning suddenly over Mr. Clemspool. That gentleman leaned away. It was not far enough. The one-eyed man clamped his hands on Mr. Clemspool's shoulders and dragged him up.

“Sir!” cried Mr. Clemspool.

“Yer a villain!” cried Mr. Grout. “A liar! Yer came 'ere lookin' for somethin'. Wot is it?”

“Sir, you are quite mistaken. And, to make my point precisely —”

“I'm sick of yer persnickety precisely points!” yelled Mr. Grout, shaking Mr. Clemspool so hard, the man's teeth clicked like a baby's rattle. “I wants to know where the money is!”

“Sir Albert,” bleated Mr. Clemspool. “Get some help!”

Albert took a step toward the door only to be stared into stopping by the force of Mr. Grout's look.

The onetime prizefighter now transferred his large hands to Mr. Clemspool's neck. “Clemspool,” he threatened, “tell me where that money is or yer won't be able to manage one more lyin' breath.”

“I don't have it,” the man gasped. “I don't!”

“But yer were lookin' for somethin', and that tells me yer knows somethin'. Tell me now or —” His hands squeezed.

“I don't know!” Mr. Clemspool screamed.

Mr. Grout squeezed even tighter.

“It's in the bank!”

Mr. Grout released his grip slightly. “Wot's in wot bank?”

“The money is in the Merrimack Valley Consolidated Bank and Land Company. Here! In Lowell!”

“Get it,” Mr. Grout said.

“I can't!”

“Why?”

“It requires a key. I thought it might be here.”

“Did yer find it?”

Mr. Clemspool managed to shake his head.

“Where is it then?”

Mr. Clemspool coughed. “Unhand me, and I'll tell you what I know.”

Mr. Grout loosened his grip. Mr. Clemspool promptly subsided onto the bed and worked his fingers about his neck as if to make sure his head was still attached in proper fashion.

“The truth is, sir,” he began through heavy breathing, “I was informed Laurence had it.”

“Laurence! Yer lyin'!”

“It's true!”

“Empty yer pockets,” Mr. Grout demanded.

“Sir!”

“Do it!”

Mr. Clemspool did so. Nothing but coins.

“Yers too,” Mr. Grout said to Albert.

“I say …”

“Do it!”

Albert's pockets revealed no key.

“And yer sure yer don't know where the key is?” Mr. Grout said to Mr. Clemspool.

The man lifted his hand as though in court. “I swear.”

Stymied, Mr. Grout backed away from the bed, perplexed about what to do next. He wished Laurence or Mr. Drabble was there so one of them could tell him. All he could think of was to say, “Get out! The both of yer. And don't let me see yer 'ere again, Clemspool. Ever. It'll go much worse, I warn yer.”

Mr. Clemspool picked himself up and walked hastily to the door. “I wish you much luck, sir. Truly.” And he fled the room. Albert scurried after him, slamming the door.

Mr. Grout, much troubled, thought he should at least put the chaotic room in order. It was while doing so that he found Mr. Drabble's note.

 

Where Maura O'Connell lives:
87 Cabot Street

 

Too impatient to struggle through the words, Mr. Grout stuffed the paper into his pocket.

When the room was at last more or less in order, the big man turned his mind to Mr. Jenkins. The reason he was working for the American was to find the whereabouts of Mr. Clemspool, but — by heaven — he had done that himself. There was no more reason to seek Jenkins out. Hastily, Mr. Grout rebuked himself: Hadn't he told the man he would help in his demonstration? He had! And wasn't part of his reformed character the keeping of vows? It was! Knowing he would be the better man for keeping his word, Mr. Grout resolved to do as he had promised.

But, oh, how he wished Mr. Drabble and Laurence would return! This matter of the money, a bank, and a key was all much too confusing!

K
eeping a careful distance, Jeb followed Laurence and the man until they reached their destination. The place took Jeb by surprise. It was the same house Mr. Jenkins had pointed out to him, the one owned by that hateful Irishman, James Hamlyn.

Sitting on the front steps was a girl. Laurence and his friend spoke to her, then knocked upon the door.

The door opened and a woman looked out. Jeb watched as Laurence and the man disappeared inside, leaving the girl on the steps.

What would Laurence have to do with Mr. Hamlyn? Jeb wondered. He waited and waited only to realize that the boy, for whatever reasons, was staying inside. With a shrug, he turned and headed back into the middle of town. If he could find Mr. Clemspool, he could at least report the boy's whereabouts. He paused to memorize the address. “Eighty-seven Cabot Street,” he said out loud to make sure he remembered it.

The winter sky was already turning dark as he walked. He saw a man pasting up an announcement on a wall.

Jeb stopped. “What's that say?” he asked the man posting the sign.

The man read it to him.

“Is Mr. Jenkins really going to talk?”

“That's what it says.”

“He's a friend of mine.”

“Is that so?”

On the spot Jeb made up his mind to be there. Mr. Jenkins
always made him feel better. And maybe he'd have some work for him.

Reaching Merrimack Street, Jeb spied a hansom cab outside the main entrance to the Spindle City Hotel. He slowed, wondering if it could be Mr. Clemspool's.

Nervous, Jeb approached the carriage and peeked inside. Sure enough, Mr. Clemspool and his friend were there. Did he wish to deal with them again? Then he thought of his mother and the money….

Taking a deep breath, Jeb tapped on the cab's door.

Mr. Clemspool's face appeared at the window. “I thought I informed you I never wished to see you again,” he snapped.

“I know where that boy Laurence has gone to,” Jeb said quickly.

“My good young friend,” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed, “you have done well! And where is he?”

Jeb took another deep breath. Then he said, “It'll cost you ten dollars.”

Not long after, the hansom cab was inching its way up Cabot Street.

“That's the house, right there,” Jeb said, pointing out the carriage window.

“You're quite sure?”

“I saw him go in.”

“He might have come out,” Mr. Clemspool said.

The carriage driver, having no orders to stop, continued on. Two streets later, Mr. Clemspool called to him.

“All right then,” he said to Jeb. “What do you know about that house?”

“It's a boardinghouse. They take in Irish boarders.”

“Anything else?”

“There's a Mr. Hamlyn who owns it.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing. He's Irish too.”

“Oh, hang the Irish,” Albert interjected. “What's my brother doing there? And how, Clemspool, do you expect to get him out?”

“I'm not sure,” the man growled.

“Mister,” Jeb asked, “can I get my money now?”

“Money? You have the effrontery to ask for money when I don't even
know
he's inside. You might be lying. Indeed, you probably are.”

“He is there!” protested Jeb.

“Come on, Clemspool,” drawled Albert, “give the boy some money.”

After first giving Albert an annoyed glare, Mr. Clemspool reached into his pocket, drew out a fistful of coins, selected one, and offered it to Jeb.

The boy looked at the half-dime piece. “You said ten dollars,” he objected.

“For the key!” hissed Mr. Clemspool. “Not a piece of fraudulent information. Consider yourself lucky to get anything.”

Reluctantly, Jeb took the coin, pushed open the door, and stepped onto the pavement.

Mr. Clemspool shook a fist at him. “Now get away from here!”

Jeb spit on the ground and walked off.

Mr. Clemspool slumped back into his seat.

“Here, I'm frightfully hungry,” Albert announced.

“Then take yourself away,” Mr. Clemspool said in a sulky voice.

“What do you intend to do, just sit here?”

“Sir, I intend to draw the carriage closer to that house and wait for your brother to come out. He's got to sometime or other. And when he does, I will get the key.”

“But it's dark,” protested Albert. “And I'm exhausted! He could be there for the night.”

“I doubt it. He's staying at the hotel.”

“Then why don't we wait for him there?”

“Because then we might have to deal with those others. This could be easier. But if you wish to go back, you're welcome to.”

Albert shook his head. “And leave that money to you? To make
my
point precisely, I don't trust you.”

“The feeling is mutual, sir,” Mr. Clemspool snarled.

“What time is it?” Albert asked.

Mr. Clemspool drew out his pocket watch and squinted at it. “Seven-twenty.”