Escape From Home (9 page)

M
r. Clemspool was sitting in his office, ruminating upon his talk with Sir Albert, when he heard a knock upon his door. It startled him. No bell had rung downstairs. There had been no sound of steps. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, saw who his caller was, and frowned.

“Mr. Grout, sir,” he said, “how many times must I tell you it's unwise to come to Bow Lane unannounced. You might be noticed. But,” he added more graciously, “as it turns out, I have new and immediate work for you, and I was going—”

“Never mind yer work.” The man chuckled as he pushed his way into the room. “I'm not the man I was. I've made me mint. From this 'ere day forward, I'm a bloomin' swell.” No sooner did he say the words than he set his parcels down and rapped sharply on the wood door frame two times. “If me luck 'olds, that is.”

“And how did you achieve such luck?” Mr. Clemspool inquired.

“Never mind the 'ow. Yer plays yer games, Clemspool, I plays mine. That's our rule, isn't it? We don't ask questions 'less we're workin' together. And I'm 'ere to tell yer that I won't be workin' for yer no more. I'm leavin' this miserable country. Emigratin' to America!” He dumped his packages on the desk and from his pocket ripped out a false beard and flung it at Mr. Clemspool.

“America!” Mr. Clemspool cried as he caught up the beard. “Just the place for a young man. Well then, Mr. Grout, I promise you there will be no questions about your good luck. But I do hope you are not entirely done working for me. I have one final job to offer you. Happily it pertains to America.”

“Doin' wot?”

“Oh, my usual.” Mr. Clemspool plucked some invisible strings. “Making certain that someone who has left England … does not come back.”

Mr. Grout frowned. “I don't know as I wants to—”

“How often have we worked together? Fifty times? A hundred? I assure you, sir, this event shall pay you so handsomely that even in your new circumstance you could not possibly refuse. And, since you are so intent upon commencing your new life, what would you say to starting this very night? The Liverpool train leaves, let me think … Yes! Within the hour.

“Of course, Mr. Grout, as befits your new status, you must travel first class. I, in my more humble status, shall travel third. That way we shall cover both ends of the train. But in so doing we cannot fail to find our young man!”

L
aurence was so cold and hungry that as he trudged along Tottenham Court Road, he fancied he could smell food on every side. But the muffin man, as well as the muffin he had given him, was long gone. Once he reached Euston Station, the boy thought, he would find warmth and food. He did not care what it cost; he would get some.

But his exhaustion was growing. He was sore. He felt bouts of dizziness. The welt on his face throbbed. Despite the cold, penetrating drizzle—which sometimes turned to snow—flashes of sweating heat burst upon him only to be followed by chills so sharp his teeth chattered. Blowing on his hands to keep them warm, he would have given anything to be in his own bed. Yet over and over again he told himself he had no choice—he must escape from London.

Laurence hardly knew which he feared most, thieves or the police. To protect himself against the former, he kept one hand thrust deep in his jacket pocket, fist tight around the money that remained. The image of the man with the eye patch, the one who had robbed him, kept rising before him. Even so, he pushed on, pausing only to step into an alley and—to his shame—relieve himself.

He resumed walking. And then, up ahead, he did see a police constable. Distinct in his tall stiff hat, the man was casually sauntering in Laurence's direction, whistling. Now and then he paused and held up a lantern to inspect doorways and dark alleys.

Laurence ducked down behind some ash bins. As he waited and watched—trembling—he imagined what the police would do if they caught him. They would put him in irons. A trial would follow and then the inevitable guilty verdict when his father and Albert testified against him. He saw himself standing before a periwigged judge, listening as the man meted out a sentence of transportation to the desolate penal colonies of Australia. Or perhaps he would be sent to the hulks, rotting ships used as prisons. No matter, the shame and disgrace seemed worse than any such fate.

Oh, why had he ever taken the money! Perhaps Albert had been right all along. Perhaps he, Sir Laurence Kirkle, was a bad person…. No, he had stopped
being
that person. He was Laurence
Worthy
now.

“Laurence Worthy.” Laurence whispered the name out loud through chattering teeth. Far better to disappear than to bring disgrace upon the Kirkle family. There was a hint of nobility in that. A martyrdom.

The constable had passed. Laurence moved on.

Twenty minutes later he came to Euston Station, grand with massive columns and an archway that reminded Laurence of a Roman temple his father had once shown him in a book. Horses and carriages kept coming to provide assistance to the crowds of passengers at the entrance. Boxes and trunks were piled everywhere, while porters carted goods in barrows, or on heads and backs.

Laurence slipped forward from one mound of boxes to another until he saw that he was heading right for another constable. Quickly, he ducked behind some crates, then peeked out through the drizzle.

The constable was just a few feet away and turning toward Laurence when he was approached by another man. This man wore a bowler and had drawn up the collar of his ordinary striped coat.

“Mr. Pickler, sir!” The constable greeted the newcomer with a crisp salute. “Pleasant to see you.”

“The same, Mr. Griffin….” The two men shook hands.

“Off on holiday?” the policeman asked.

“Not at all,” Mr. Pickler returned. “I'm searching for another runaway.”

Hearing the words, Laurence leaned forward to listen intently. The man in the bowler must be a policeman too. In disguise, the boy thought with alarm.

“Lots of runaways these days, eh?” Constable Griffin said. “You must be busy.”

Mr. Pickler smiled grimly. “Young lord, this one.”

“Heaven keep us! I'd like to know what
he
's got to run from!”

“He's in earnest, Mr. Griffin. He took a thousand pounds from his father.”

“Crikey! One thousand! Did he really?”

“His lordship called me in. Informed me so himself,” Mr. Pickler said with pride.

“You do get on with them swells, don't you?”

Mr. Pickler allowed himself a slight smile. Then he said, “The boy announced he would run off to America.”

“Ah! That's what brings you here. You think the lad's heading for Liverpool.”

“The late train.”

“And traveling first class all the way,” Mr. Griffin said laughingly. “Cheerful way to run off, I say, with all that lolly.”

“We will stop him, Mr. Griffin,” Mr. Pickler said with confidence. “Usual reward when we do.”

The constable took out a notebook and pencil from a pocket. “All right then, Mr. Pickler, what's this one look like?”

“Eleven years old. The right height for his age. Sandy hair and blue eyes. Scrubbed pink cheeks. Dressed absolutely proper. When he left, he was ready for high tea. Answers to the name of Sir Laurence Kirkle.”

“Kirkle?”

Mr. Pickler nodded.

The constable, impressed, made a low whistle.

“Here's a picture.” Mr. Pickler held up the daguerreotype.

The constable eyed it. “Regular young swell, you might say, eh, Mr. Pickler?”

“Considering the money he took, I expect him to arrive in a carriage. Shouldn't be hard to spot.”

“A young lord traveling alone, I should think not,” the constable agreed.

“Exactly,” Mr. Pickler said. “Keep the eye open for him, will you? If you see him, hold him. Use your rattle. I'll be about.”

“I'll know him when I see him, Mr. Pickler.” The policeman saluted. “His picture is part of my mind.”

“Very good then.” After another handshake, Mr. Pickler passed through the station entrance.

Laurence, having heard the conversation, felt ill. His worst conjectures had come true. Not only were the police looking for him, his father had called them in! It took all of the boy's willpower not to turn on the spot and run. Only the forbidding thought of spending the night on the cold London streets held him.

Laurence studied the constable, now pacing before the station entrance. Once the boy determined the pattern of the man's route, back and forth, he edged forward by keeping low and dodging behind carriages and carts. When the constable reached the far end of the station entrance, Laurence dashed from his hiding place and into the enormous building itself, then crouched behind a steamer trunk.

In amazement, he saw that the place was wide as a cricket pitch, lofty as a five-story building, crisscrossed with dark beams, and topped with a glass roof blackened by soot. Glowing chandeliers hung from above. Despite the lateness of the hour, the station was crowded. Laurence was glad of that. He would be less likely to be observed.

Before him, behind the low fence that functioned as a barrier, he counted fifteen railway tracks, on many of which waited locomotives painted bright greens and reds, and glowing with bits of polished brass. Some of the engines spewed steam and smoke like beasts ready to charge.

The carriages attached were of different colors: blue, green, yellow. Vaguely, Laurence remembered hearing Albert talk about the colors' representing different classes of travel: first, second, third. Unfortunately, he could not recall which was which.

Before some trains he saw guards standing. Passengers were approaching them and presenting tickets.

Laurence knew then that he had to buy a ticket before he could pass beyond the barrier. Having no idea how much a ticket to Liverpool would cost, he furtively pulled his remaining bill from his pocket. He hoped it would be enough.

Surveying the station again, he noticed—over what looked like a series of holes in the far left wall—a sign that read
TICKETS
. He checked for the man with the bowler. Not seeing him, Laurence stood and moved to join a line of people facing the sign.

“My good man,” Laurence said to the gentleman who stood just ahead of him, “is this where you get tickets for Liverpool?”

The man turned. When he saw who had spoken, he reacted with disdain. “Impertinent beggar!” he snarled. “Be off with you! Third class is over there!”

“But I want first class,” Laurence protested in his high-pitched voice.

“Away with you, or I'll call the guard!” the man cried.

The threat was enough to send Laurence scurrying toward a long straggling line of the third-class passengers. They were dressed poorly. In their arms, at their feet, were all kinds of bags, bundles, and boxes. Laurence took his place at the line's end. Though no one paid him any attention, he felt better when someone came up behind him; he felt part of the crowd.

The line moved forward slowly. At last Laurence reached the ticket window. In order to speak to the agent, he had to stand on his toes.

“Where to?” the man demanded without even looking up.

“Liverpool, please.”

“Shilling,” the man requested.

Laurence offered his bill to the man.

“Here! Where did you get this?” the man demanded.

“It's mine,” Laurence returned, blushing with shame at what he was saying.

The ticket agent glared at Laurence with distrust. “I'll bet me oysters it's yer money,” he snarled.

“It is,” Laurence insisted.

Making a sound that suggested otherwise, the man flung down a paper ticket and the change. Laurence scooped both up, pocketed the change, then slunk away, searching still for the man in the bowler. He wished he'd asked which was the Liverpool track.

Seeing a man who looked like a train guard standing by the barrier, Laurence approached timidly.

“Is this the train for Liverpool?” he inquired, offering his ticket.

“Track twelve,” the man said, taking the ticket, tearing it in half, and returning the stub. He pointed to the far end of the station. “Leaves in four minutes. You better hop it!” He gave Laurence a helpful shove.

The boy began to run. Even as he did, he heard the cry, “All aboard for Liverpool!” and the sound of a whistle shrieking.

Mr. Pickler was lingering some fifty yards from track twelve. Intent as he was upon the entrance of the station, watching as hansom cabs unloaded their passengers, he had his back to the train. When he heard the cry and whistle, he began to fear that he had, after all, been wrong. Apparently the Kirkle boy was not going to be on the last Liverpool train tonight.

Quite casually, he glanced over his shoulder toward the track, observing the last few people heading toward the train. It was then he spied a boy racing toward it. With his clothing torn and filthy, he looked little more than a beggar. Mr. Pickler tried to imagine him without the fearful welt along his cheek. “Good Lord!” he suddenly exclaimed. “It's him!” He began to run. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop!”

Laurence yanked open the door of the first car he came to—a yellow one. He barely poked his head inside when a man cried, “Out! Out! First class only.”

Confused, struggling for breath, Laurence backed out frantically. A second whistle sounded above a distant cry of “Stop!” With a series of clanks, the train began to inch forward. Laurence fought to stay alongside. “Third class!” he yelled. “Third class!”

“Here you are!” A stranger stood on the step of a green carriage by an open door. As the train increased its speed, Laurence made a final burst. The man reached out, caught Laurence's hand, and hauled him aboard.

Mr. Pickler, running hard, reached the first-class carriages. He grasped for a handle only to have his hand shoved away. As he fell back onto the platform, he looked up, catching a glimpse of a grinning gentleman with an eye patch.

In the third-class coach, Laurence, panting for breath, his eyes closed, sat back on a hard wooden bench.

“There, there, my friend,” said a voice almost into his ear. “Not to worry. You've made the train for Liverpool.”

Laurence looked around to see the man who had spoken. He wore a tall hat and a cutaway frock coat with many pockets. His collar was high and stiff, wrapped about with a flowing maroon cravat. He wore the gloves of a gentleman.

“That was a near miss, wasn't it?” the man said.

Laurence, still gasping, only nodded.

“Going all the way to Liverpool?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! I am too.”

“I'm much obliged to you.”

“I am, to make my point precisely,
happy
to help.”

Laurence sighed. He was on his way to Liverpool. Tears came, of elation and grief. For the first time in hours, Laurence felt safe.

On the bench next to him, Mr. Clemspool struggled to keep from smiling.