Laurence spun headfirst into a muddy gutter. There he sprawled, stunned and coated with filth. When he did try to get up, he staggered and fell again, tearing a shoe.
It took a while for his head to clear of dizziness. Only then did he look about. The thief—and his money—had vanished.
Laurence pressed clenched fists against his eyes in an attempt to slow his whirling fury. When he was a bit calmer, he reached again into his pocket. This time he felt a few bills. Something was left. Sighing, he closed his eyes with weariness.
A smack on his shoulder made him start up and look around. A police constable—enormous in his Wellington boots, wide belt and buckle, tall hat, and double row of bright buttons cascading down his blue swallow-tailed coat—loomed over him. In his hand he carried the heavy truncheon that he had used to strike Laurence.
“Ere, what’s this sittin’ about for?” the constable demanded.
Greatly relieved to see a man of law, Laurence jumped to his feet. “Oh, Constable, I am glad you came! I don’t think you’re too late.”
“Late for what?” the constable said, surprised by the boldness of the boy and his well-bred English.
“I’ve been robbed by a man pretending to be a lame beggar,” Laurence explained with high-pitched indignation. “He was very deceitful. But I can describe him with accuracy. He followed me, you see, knocked me down, and stole a great sum of money from me. He’s gone that way. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded when you get the money back for me.”
The constable gazed at the ragged boy with puzzlement. “What did you say?” he asked. He truly could not fathom what Laurence was talking about.
“Listen to me!” the exasperated boy cried. He stamped his foot. “I was set upon by a wicked man who stole a great sum of money from me.”
The constable broke into a grin. “Is that the truth now?” he said with sarcasm. “Just ’ow much did he take from you?”
“I don’t know exactly. Almost a thousand pounds.”
“One thousand quid, you say?” remarked the constable with mock amazement.
“I was only able to save a little of it.”
“I should ’ope you did!”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Laurence demanded.
“I get it!” the constable exclaimed. “You’ve ’ad yourself a corkin’ good time at the races, ’aven’t you? Regular swell, you are.”
It was Laurence’s turn to be confused. “I beg your pardon. What do you mean by races?”
“Or maybe,” the constable went on, “you were down visiting Her Majesty at Windsor, and she offered you up a ’andsome pension for yer noble deeds. Perhaps you killed a dragon, eh? Why, for all I know, you might be Saint George ’isself come back for an evening’s stroll. One thousand pounds! Cor!” The constable laughed uproariously. “I’d be ’appy as a pig in muck to live on that for many a year.”
“But it’s true!” Laurence cried in his most shrill voice.
“Right-o,” the constable returned, “and I’m the duke of York! Now, look here, laddie, come on out of the street and trot on your way so we’ll ’ave no more nonsense.”
“Why … you don’t believe me, do you?” Laurence said. To prove he was telling the truth, he plunged his hand into his pocket. “There! You see. I do have money!” He held out his few remaining notes.
The constable’s amusement ended. “Ere now! Where did the likes of you get all that?”
“Why … why from my father.”
The constable took a step forward.
“Come on then! ’Onest truth, now. You filched it.”
Laurence, shocked by the accusation, backed away. “No, that’s not true. I mean, don’t you know who I am?”
“Am I supposed to?” the constable said, edging closer.
Laurence continued to back away. “My name is Sir Laurence Kirkle. I’m Lord Kirkle’s son.”
“Right. And I’m the sultan of all the Turks!” the constable roared. “You bloody thief!” Lunging forward, he attempted to snatch the bills out of Laurence’s hand. The movement caught the boy unprepared. Pound notes exploded into the air. Laurence tried to catch them but managed to snare only one bill. The constable, with his truncheon raised, had prevented him from reaching the rest.
Laurence clutched the single note.
“Come on then! Give over the last of that money. And you can consider yourself under arrest.”
Arrest! Laurence stared at the constable. The next moment, panic took hold. He turned and began to run. Behind him, he heard the ragged and repeated rasp of the policeman’s rattle, summoning help. The sound made Laurence run that much faster.
Fifteen minutes later, he slumped against a gate. He could go no farther. Every muscle was in pain. His head throbbed. He was sick at heart. He had no doubt but that every policeman in London was searching for him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw—standing just a few feet away and gazing at him forlornly—a wretched-looking beggar boy with tattered clothing, ripped shoes, hands and arms caked with filth, and a bloody red welt upon his face. With disgust and fear, Laurence drew back. Here was another thief.
It took a few seconds for him to realize he was seeing his own reflection in a shopwindow glass. He was looking at a thief. He had stolen money from his father. He had run away from home. He would be caught. He would be put in jail. He was disgraced. “It’s all so unfair,” he moaned.
He thought of returning home and taking his punishment—whatever that might be. But a vision of the constable standing at his father’s door, preventing entry, rose up before him. He could not go home. Oh, why had he said he was Lord Kirkle’s son!
But even that was not his worst thought. Far worse was a vision of his oafish older brother mocking him, telling the world that he, Laurence, was indeed a thief.
It was a humiliation Laurence could not face. Because of Albert more than anyone, he would not, could not, return. Ever.
He examined the money he had managed to keep. Of the thousand pounds he had taken only one pound remained! Would it enable him to reach America? It did not matter. What was important was that he get to Liverpool.
Albert Kirkle stepped into his father’s study and closed the door behind him. His lordship, hands behind his back, head down, was pacing nervously. On the ottoman sat Lady Kirkle. She was a small woman, with the face of a china doll. Her hair was pulled back severely. The many layers of her long silk dress made her seem even smaller than she was, and every time she moved, she rustled like a delicate paper package. Now and again she daubed at her eyes with the tip of a handkerchief.
Albert, who was trying to appear solemn but was having trouble suppressing his elation, announced, “He’s here.” In his large hand he held a small card.
Lady Kirkle leaned forward. “Does he seem respectable?” she inquired. Her voice was full of alarm.
Albert shrugged. “As much as one might expect,” he replied.
“Young, old?”
“Old to me,” Albert said with a smirk.
Lady Kirkle addressed her husband, who was pacing up and down. “James?” she called softly.
Lord Kirkle, caught up in his own thoughts, stopped pacing and looked at his pocket watch. It was seven o’clock in the evening.
“James,” Lady Kirkle said a little more loudly. “The man you sent for is here.”
“Is he?” he said. He took a step toward the door only to stop and turn instead toward the fire.
“My dear, how much are we to tell him?” she asked his lordship carefully. Even as she spoke, she glanced at the long table upon which lay the broken cane and Laurence’s bloodstained cravat.
Lord Kirkle was staring into the fire.
“My lord,” Albert said, crunching his knuckles, “if this man were to be in any way indiscreet or … well, you know.”
“I want the boy found,” Lord Kirkle rumbled.
“Really, James!” his wife said soothingly. “We all do. What are you suggesting?”
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With a handkerchief, Lord Kirkle blotted away the beads of sweat on his forehead. “I shall do whatever is necessary to find Laurence. I don’t give a tinker’s damn about what anyone thinks!”
“My dear! You must not swear!”
“I beg your pardon. I’m greatly troubled.”
“What is this man’s name?” Lady Kirkle asked her son.
Lord Kirkle held out a hand. Albert gave him the card he had been holding. His father looked at it.
“The fellow’s name is Pickler,” Lord Kirkle informed his wife. “Phineas Pickler.”
Lady Kirkle grimaced. “My dear, he’s not Irish, is he?”
“I don’t care.”
“Who was it who recommended this man?” she asked.
“Lord Mulling.”
His wife nodded. “Then he’s sure to be trustworthy,” she said.
Lord Kirkle frowned. “Albert,” he said, “show the man in.”
Albert exchanged a look with his mother. She nodded. “Yes, sir,” the boy said, and stepped from the room.
Lady Kirkle sat very erect. “My dear,” she said, “we all want Laurence home again. To think otherwise is positively wicked. At the same time—for Albert’s sake, for his sisters’ sake, for Laurence’s own sake, I might add—the season is about to begin. We must avoid scandal.”
“Beatrice, I want the boy found!” Lord Kirkle repeated.
Lady Kirkle took the measure of her husband with care. Then, very quietly, she said, “My dear, the cane.”
Starting, Lord Kirkle snatched up the broken cane and the cravat and flung both into the fire. Just then the door opened, and Albert ushered Mr. Phineas Pickler into the room.
Mr. Pickler was a small potbellied man of some forty years. A smooth egg-shaped face with a sharp chin and pointy nose as well as round, slightly protuberant eyes helped give him the look of a sparrow. Indeed, the jacket he wore was of striped browns, his vest and trousers of brown checks. His boots were brightly polished. In well-manicured hands rested a brown bowler.
“My lady, my lord Kirkle,” Albert announced, “may I present Mr. Phineas Pickler.”
Mr. Pickler bobbed a bit of a bow—as if he were picking up crumbs—first to Lady Kirkle, then to his lordship. “My lady. My lord,” he said. He spoke softly, without emotion. Lady Kirkle was relieved to find the man looking so mild.
Lord Kirkle, meanwhile, struggled to find the proper words with which to begin. “Mr. Pickler,” he finally said, “you have been recommended to us by Lord Mulling.”
Mr. Pickler bobbed his head again. “Lord Mulling has been kind.”
“Recommended,” Lord Kirkle continued, “as a man of discretion, with singular skills in … emergency family matters. We appreciate your willingness to come upon such short notice.”
Yet again Mr. Pickler bobbed his head. Then he cocked his head and waited.
Lord Kirkle, feeling ashamed, mopped his brow. “The fact of the matter is, our younger son, Sir Laurence, aged eleven, has”—Lord Kirkle swallowed hard—“has removed himself from this home.”
“I am deeply saddened to hear it, my lord.”
“And,” Lord Kirkle continued, “I have reason to believe—it sounds preposterous, I know—that he is trying to leave England for … for America.”
“America …,” Mr. Pickler echoed.
“Yes, quite. I … We want him found and brought back. As soon as possible. This evening.”
“Of course.”
Lord Kirkle cleared his throat. “You seem to have some, what shall I say, experience in these matters of finding, returning … the young, and so forth. Eh, what?”
Once again Mr. Pickler nodded. “I have been allowed to be of use, sir.”
Lady Kirkle leaned forward. “Mr. Pickler, we wish everything to be done with the utmost discretion.”
The man placed his bowler over his heart. “The sole mission of my life, my lady, is to please.”
“But I want him home!” Lord Kirkle burst out, pounding his table with a fist, causing Lady Kirkle, Albert, and Mr. Pickler to start.
“Well, sir,” Lord Kirkle challenged. “Can you do it?”
Mr. Pickler looked into his bowler as if the answer lay there. “My lady,” he said, lifting his birdlike eyes, “my lord, sir, in these matters—which are delicate indeed—much depends on two factors.”
“We can pay you what you need,” Albert put in.
“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt as to your liberality. But if you permit me, sir, the two factors I was referring to are, one, speed, and two, information. May I ask when the boy left?”
“This very afternoon.”
“You have acted quickly. That bodes well. As for information …”
Lady Kirkle tensed. “What kind of information?”
“You see, my lady,” Mr. Pickler said after a quick peek into his bowler, “my success in finding those who absent themselves from good homes depends upon my knowledge of the circumstances that led to the young person’s unfortunate departure. I should know what he looks like. What he was wearing. His character. Finally, sir—and here I fear I must intrude—I must know the … cause.”
A deep silence filled the room.
On the ottoman. Lady Kirkle rustled her skirts. “You will have a full description of him,” she offered.
“My lady,” Mr. Pickler replied softly, “that will be appreciated. But with all due respect, a description, though vital, will not alone suffice.”
Albert burst forth. “He’s a hotheaded, impudent—”
“Albert!” Lord Kirkle barked. Albert stepped back and glowered. Lady Kirkle watched her husband. His lordship was staring at the fire again. Suddenly, he swung about. “Very well, Mr. Pickler. You shall have a full explanation.”
“My lord,” Mr. Pickler returned, “I am humbled by your trust.”
“Albert, Beatrice,” Lord Kirkle said briskly, “please leave me alone with Mr. Pickler.”
Albert looked at his mother. She made a nod. “Perhaps,” Albert suggested to his father, “I should stay and—”
“Albert,” Lord Kirkle snapped, “you will leave as I asked!”
“My dear James …,” his wife protested.
“I prefer to speak to Mr. Pickler alone,” his lordship said, his voice quivering with anger. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.
Albert opened the door. With an agitated rustling of her skirts, Lady Kirkle gathered herself up and swept out of the room. A pouting Albert followed her.
In the study, the only sound was the occasional settling of the burning coal in the grate. Mr. Pickler, eyes downcast, waited patiently while Lord Kirkle resumed his pacing. Finally, his lordship dropped himself into the chair behind his table.
Fussing nervously, he pulled open the table drawer. For a few moments he gazed absentmindedly at the pile of money that lay there. Suddenly he cried, “The Irish rents!” and plucked up the notes and began counting them rapidly. “My God!” he cried when he had tallied the pile a second time. In horror, he flung the bills down, sat back in his chair, and pressed his eyes with his hands.
“My lord,” Mr. Pickler inquired—but only after making a quick search of his bowler—“did the boy take some money?”
For a long time Lord Kirkle made no reply. Then he whispered, “One thousand pounds.”
Mr. Pickler was speechless.
Lord Kirkle sat up stiffly and, almost savagely, said, “Mr. Pickler, you may take a seat. I shall endeavor to give the full particulars. It is not a happy story.”
“My lord,” Mr. Pickler said, “if I have learned one thing from my efforts to find and return wayward youths who leave good homes, it is this: Young people do not have the best judgment.”
“I want him returned, Mr. Pickler,” Lord Kirkle said with a voice that came from deep within him. “I want my boy home!”
“My lord, I have no doubt we shall achieve that. May I ask some questions?”
“You may.”
Mr. Pickler cleare
d his throat, as if to clear away something disagreeable. “Was there one particular happenstance, sir, that prompted the boy’s departure?”
Lord Kirkle rose quickly, moved toward the mantel, and stared once more into the fire. His face was hidden from Mr. Pickler.
“It was a punishment,” his lordship said without turning around. “The result of some dispute with his elder brother. They … they do not get along.”
“Was it a … specific punishment, my lord?”
Lord Kirkle felt heavy. Old. Troubled. Absentmindedly, his fingers traced the family motto below the mantel.
FOR COUNTRY, GLORY—FOR FAMILY, HONOR
Lord Kirkle drew himself up, turned, and looked Mr. Pickler in the eyes. “Yes … the punishment,” he said in the posture and voice he used when addressing his peers in the House of Lords. “Yes. Laurence was confined to his room for tea.”
Mr. Pickler blinked in surprise. It was hard for him to keep from smiling. “My lord,” he said, “I am moved by the confidence you show in me. But what you have said permits me to confirm what I said, to wit, young people lack good judgment. Your information encourages me to say that I will have your son home in a very short time.”
“Do you think so?”
“My lord, you have honored me with your complete confidence. I shall repay it by bringing your boy back.”
Colder and colder. Laurence, without overcoat or scarf, was chilled to the bone. He was ravenous too. When the fog had lifted, it only gave way to a dreary freezing rain.
From somewhere in the darkness, he heard the muted tinkling of a bell. It sounded to him like the mocking laughter of an elf. Once Laurence searched, he discovered it came from a small tentlike structure in which stood an old man selling muffins from a great wicker hamper. Gray lumps of knobby dough, they nonetheless smelled wonderful to Laurence. He approached timidly.
The muffin man, a toothless, weak-chinned fellow, peeped out from multiple wraps of shawls, capes, and mufflers. The wraps made his eyes appear, in the light of a street lamp, like two raisins atop a cinnamon bun. Now and again he struck the little bell that dangled from the tent’s edge.