Into the Storm (8 page)

M
r. Phineas Pickler, new bowler hat in one hand, a paper-wrapped package in the other, stood before Lord Kirkle in his lordship's study. Upon the desk between them lay a few pinned sheets of paper — Mr. Pickler's report regarding the running away of Sir Laurence Kirkle.

Having just read the report, Lord Kirkle sat with his hands clasped before him. Pain filled his red watery eyes. As Mr. Pickler waited — and he had been standing quietly for several minutes — his lordship, in an agitated state, kept lifting up and putting down the papers.

Restless, Mr. Pickler glanced about the room. He contemplated the cost of the heavy furniture. He wondered if anyone actually read the many leather-bound books that filled the shelves. He ventured to ask himself if the green velvet curtains covering the front windows were ever pulled back so as to let sunlight in, thereby making unnecessary the fireplace, with its hot, glowing coals. Finally — and not for the first time, for he had read it on his earlier visit to this Belgrave mansion — Mr. Pickler pondered the family
MOTTO,
chiseled below the gleaming marble mantel.

 

F
OR
C
OUNTRY
, G
LORY
— F
OR
F
AMILY
, H
ONOR

 

What price honor? Mr. Pickler asked himself silently, and thought of his own home, of his wife and two children.

Lord Kirkle stood up. The light cast by the fireplace
flames caused his black silken waistcoat to gleam and the gold watch and chain that stretched over his stomach to glow. Slowly, he asked again in anguish, “And you are quite sure, Mr. Pickler, that my son has left England?”

“I do not have absolute proof of it, my lord,” the investigator replied. “But all indications lead me to that conclusion.”

“And where has he gone, do you think?”

“I believe he boarded the packet ship
Robert Peel
, which is bound for the American city of Boston.”

“Boston …,”
his lordship murmured. “As a stowaway.”

“I fear so.”

Lord Kirkle shuddered visibly. “And that one thousand pounds he … borrowed?”

“As my report indicates, it was apparently stolen from him. By whom I cannot say.”

“How … how could he do this to me?” Lord Kirkle sighed.

“My lord, he had help.”

Lord Kirkle looked up sharply. “From whom? And why doesn't your report say that?”

Mr. Pickler stared into his new bowler. Recollecting that Lord Kirkle had not told him the truth about the circumstances of Sir Laurence's leaving, he felt constrained to be wary. “In the last instance,” he said, “he received help from a street urchin by the name of Fred.”

“A street urchin?”
Lord Kirkle asked incredulously. “A boy by the name of Fred?”

“That seems to have been his only name.”

“And who is
he
, sir?”

“My lord, I believe Sir Laurence became a pawn in a struggle within a local organization in Liverpool called the Lime Street Runners Association. This … Fred was a member, if you will.”

Lord Kirkle took up and dropped Mr. Pickler's report as if it were a leaden weight. “All this is beyond my understanding,” he admitted. “What I need to know is
why
my boy left. You don't say that in your report either, do you?” He looked right at Mr. Pickler. The investigator slowly lifted his eyes. The two men stared at each other.

It was Lord Kirkle who turned away.

“No, it is not written there,” Mr. Pickler allowed.

Lord Kirkle moved from behind the barrier of his desk and approached the fire. He held his hands out and washed them in the warmth, his breathing labored. “I appreciate your tact,” Lord Kirkle said at last. “All the same, sir, I desire you to say what needs to be said.”

Mouth dry, heart beating rapidly, Mr. Pickler squeezed the rim of his bowler. “My lord,” he began, “just before your son left this house he was — I believe — beaten.” Though Lord Kirkle's body stiffened, he said nothing.

Emboldened by the silence, Mr. Pickler continued. “His clothing was cut in many places, my lord.” Putting aside his bowler, the investigator unwrapped his package and drew forth Laurence's filthy torn jacket. He laid it upon the desk.

Lord Kirkle held up the jacket. Light showed through the rents. The man groaned.

“Moreover, my lord,” Mr. Pickler went on nervously, “the boy bore a disfiguring welt upon his face. Presumably … it came from that beating.”

In the stillness of the room, the clock's ticking sounded like a heartbeat. “My lord,” Mr. Pickler ventured after a moment, “if what I said is untrue and I have brought an unjust accusation, I will withdraw from your house immediately.”

Lord Kirkle stroked the torn jacket, even looped his fat fingers through the rips. In a choked voice he said, “It is true, sir.”

The investigator allowed himself a deep breath. “It is my judgment,” he continued in a stronger voice, “that the beating as well as the wound on his face not only propelled Sir Laurence from this house, but made it easier for another to prey upon him.”

Lord Kirkle looked up sharply. “Another sir?”

“I have come to the conclusion, my lord, that while in the first instance Sir Laurence desired to leave London, he was aided by someone.”

“Who?” Lord Kirkle demanded.

“My lord, does the name Matthew Clemspool mean anything to you?”

“Never heard of him.”

“My inquiries have informed me that he has a business called Brother's Keeper. On Bow Lane. In the City. Its principal purpose is to exploit the conflicts between younger and older brothers in families of wealth.”

“I don't grasp your meaning, sir.”

“If,” Mr. Pickler explained, “a younger brother wishes to trouble or push aside an older brother, he engages Mr. Clemspool. By the same token, if an older brother wishes to trouble or push aside a younger one, he also engages Mr. Clemspool.”

From his pocket Mr. Pickler drew out the tincture of rhubarb. He held the bottle up. “This, sir, was procured for your son by this Mr. Clemspool. A chemist had advised me it contains something beyond the tincture. He suspects a sleeping potion.”

“Despicable! I will have this Clemspool fellow arrested!”

“He seems to have vanished.”

“I'll track him down!”

“He is not to be traced.”

“Are you implying, Mr. Pickler, that this scoundrel
abducted
Laurence?”

Mr. Pickler bobbed his head and swallowed hard. “No, sir, I am not saying that.”

“Then, good heavens, man,” Lord Kirkle thundered, “what
are
you saying?”

“My lord, you have another son.”

“What about him?”

“Perhaps, my lord,” the investigator offered, “it would be wise to ask —” He hesitated. Then, speaking more softly, he added, “Ask Sir Albert if
he
has had any dealings with this Matthew Clemspool.”

It took a moment for Lord Kirkle to absorb the thought. When he had, his face turned fiery. “Mr. Pickler,” he cried, “are you fully aware of what you are saying?”

“My lord, this Mr. Clemspool informed me himself that
he helped Sir Laurence leave London and reach Liverpool. He was employed to do so, I believe, by … your elder son. Once in Liverpool I am quite sure Sir Laurence got on a ship that sailed for America — as a stowaway.”

The blood drained from Lord Kirkle's face. His body sagged. He would have fallen if he had not grasped the edge of the desk. Only with great effort did he pull himself up to his full height.

“Mr. Pickler,” he whispered in a breaking voice, “do you think my boy is … alive?”

“To the best of my knowledge, my lord. But they do not treat stowaways kindly. And … many die on these emigrant boats.” Mr. Pickler looked into his bowler, which, for security, he had retrieved from the desk. “Even if your son survived the voyage and reached America, I don't know how we could find him.” The investigator looked up. “America is a measureless place. We have only the
Robert Peel
's destination to go on.”

For several minutes Lord Kirkle said nothing. Then, speaking very slowly, he said, “Mr. Pickler, I thank you for your efforts. Your services are no longer required. Consider yourself dismissed.”

Mr. Pickler was so astonished by Lord Kirkle's words that he had no breath to respond.

“Leave my home
immediately
, sir,” Lord Kirkle croaked hoarsely. “At once! You are not to share your speculations with anyone —
anyone
. If you do, it shall be worth your life.”

“My lord,” Mr. Pickler gasped, “I only beg to say —”

“Go!” Lord Kirkle shouted. “Leave me!”

Though it took every ounce of his willpower to keep from bursting into tears, there was nothing else for Mr. Pickler to do but turn toward the door. When he reached it, he paused and attempted to speak. Lord Kirkle prevented him.

“You will be well paid for your trouble, Mr. Pickler. Double your fee. I will give you a good character if asked. Now remove yourself from my house. And do not return.
Ever.
”

Mr. Pickler murmured a final, “My lord,” bobbed his head, and crept from the room.

Lord Kirkle remained leaning on the mantel for a long while. Utterly wretched, he crossed to the corner of the room and pulled upon a braided rope. A servant entered.

“Richards,” Lord Kirkle managed to say. “Is Sir Albert at home?”

“I believe he is, my lord.”

“I wish him here. At once.”

A
weary Lord Kirkle sank upon his chair, drew Laurence's tattered jacket toward him, and buried his face in it.

The door to the study soon opened. Sir Albert clumped in, a complacent smile upon his face.

“My —,” he began to say, but stopped short when he saw his father's anguished look. And the familiar jacket. Albert's first thought was that Laurence had been found. Perhaps dead. It took all his strength to keep from smiling. “My lord …,” he tried again.

Lord Kirkle stared at his elder son with bloodshot eyes. “Sir,” he said, his voice trembling, “I intend to ask you some questions. You had best answer me truthfully.”

“Of … course, my lord,” Albert stammered.

“Albert, does the name Matthew Clemspool mean anything to you?”

Taken by surprise, Albert swallowed hard and squeezed his hands until his knuckles cracked. “I … I … am not sure.”

“What does that ‘not sure' mean, sir?” Lord Kirkle demanded. “Do you or do you not know him?”

“Well, perhaps I have heard the name, but —”

Lord Kirkle sprang from his chair so suddenly that Albert
jumped back. “Have you had
any
dealings with this scoundrel?” his father demanded.

“I don't know that —”

“I have been informed that this Matthew Clemspool helped your brother leave London and reach Liverpool, from which point the boy went to America as a stowaway.”

Sir Albert gasped. “But, sir … what has that to do with me?” His knuckles cracked again.

Lord Kirkle continued. “I have been further informed that Mr. Clemspool's business is to involve himself in older-younger brother tensions on behalf of one or the other. It has been suggested, sir, that you and Mr. Clemspool have had business dealings.”

“He's a liar and swindler,” replied Sir Albert. “If you knew him as I do —”

“Then you
have
dealt with him!” Lord Kirkle roared.

“Well, yes, I suppose, in some —”

“Do you admit, sir, that you conspired to have Laurence spirited away from London, that he might go off to America?”

Albert gulped for air. “No, sir … not at all,” he stammered. “It wasn't that. It was only to teach the nuisance his proper place. I had no intention of —”

“Do you know what you have done?” Lord Kirkle shouted. “Do you?”

“I didn't do anything, my lord,” Albert whined. “Nothing. I swear I didn't. I —”

“Because of you, your brother is a beggarly stowaway on a ship for Boston. Alone! At the mercy of any and all! Quite possibly dead! And even if by some happy chance he does reach America alive, he will be lost to us — forever.”

“I'll … I'll go find him,” Albert cried. “I will. I'll leave right away.”

“By God, sir!” Lord Kirkle shouted, his face contorted with rage. “You had best do exactly that! Consider yourself cut off from every penny you think is yours save what you need to bring your brother back. Do you understand me, sir? Find your brother! Now remove yourself from my sight!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go!”

Sir Albert hurried from the room — and met his mother in the hallway. The small woman was looking alarmed. “What is it?” she asked. “The servants are saying something has happened.”

“It's Laurence.”

“Has he been found?”

“The fool has actually gone to America.”

“America!”

“And would you believe, Mama, the governor has asked me to fetch him back.”

“You? But how can he expect that you …?”

“Never mind. He's asked, and of course I'll go. Now excuse me. Duty calls,” he said sarcastically, “and I must prepare myself.”

As Albert hurried on, all he could think was that he must do something and do it quickly. He knew well that his father preferred Laurence to him, knew that his father's will gave his brother too much and him too little. Yes, he would go to America. He would find Laurence. But once he found him — if he found him — he would make sure his dear brother
never
came home.