Free Into the Storm by Avi

anguish, “And you are quite sure, Mr. Pickler, that my son has left England?”
    â€œI do not have absolute proof of it, my lord,” the investigator replied. “But all indications lead me to that conclusion.”
    â€œAnd where has he gone, do you think?”
    â€œI believe he boarded the packet ship Robert Peel , which is bound for the American city of Boston.”
    â€œBoston …,” his lordship murmured. “As a stowaway.”
    â€œI fear so.”
    Lord Kirkle shuddered visibly. “And that one thousand pounds he … borrowed?”
    â€œAs my report indicates, it was apparently stolen from him. By whom I cannot say.”
    â€œHow … how could he do this to me?” Lord Kirkle sighed.
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œA street urchin?” Lord Kirkle asked incredulously. “A boy by the name of Fred?”
    â€œThat seems to have been his only name.”
    â€œAnd who is he , sir?”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œMoreover, 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?”
    â€œI have come to the conclusion, my lord, that while in the first instance Sir Laurence desired to leave London, he was aided by someone.”
    â€œWho?” Lord