“It’s a pathetic excuse and even an idiot would see straight through
it. Not to mention that if someone bothers to check, a quick telegram to the
school will prove that not only is William not ill, but that he is also missing.”
Brutus punctuated his final comment with a slap on the desk with the palm of
his hand.
Ballard glared at it, and then him. “I would suggest you remove that, and yourself if you cannot restrain your temper in my presence.”
Brutus subsided slightly and returned to his seat, but the truth of his words could not be denied. For the first time in his life, Ballard felt circumstance spinning out of his control. How had he not seen the danger? How had he not realised that William was so close to running? And lastly, how had the boy slipped past them?
“Surely Craven can be persuaded to represent our case,” Elijah suggested. “He is, after all, head boy, and his word carries more than a little influence.”
“Precisely what I was going to suggest,” Ballard agreed hastily and did his utmost not to gape at the fourth former who seemed to suddenly have a better grasp of strategy than he had himself. “If Craven claims that William is confined to his rooms with some ague then none will gainsay him. Brutus, go and speak to him. You may explain the circumstances, however try not to provide more information than is absolutely necessary.”
When Brutus had left the room, trailed, as always, by his brother, Ballard beat a retreat to his bedroom. Lying on his bed, he did his best to regroup, to find that calm place inside him where everything and anything was within his grasp. He failed completely. William’s face haunted his mind; twisted in ecstasy or pain, boasting that enticing pout as he tried to understand his latest lesson, or in repose like the most innocent of angels.
“Cropper?”
Brolly’s hesitant whisper came from by the door and Ballard waved him in, feeling the bed dip as the younger boy lay beside him. For a while neither moved and nothing more was said, until Brolly gave a small sigh and Ballard found himself pulled into a hug. For once he didn’t fight it. And, with his head resting on Brolly’s chest and his lover’s arms around him, Ballard felt more secure than he had in weeks.
*
London was bigger and much noisier than William remembered. His only previous
visit had been just after his father’s death, when his mother had come
to see the family solicitor and Mr. Fletchly, father’s business partner.
That had been 5 years ago and his most vivid memory of that time was of the
lions and tigers at the zoological gardens and of having to be on his best behaviour
as he sat and waited in the solicitor’s offices.
This visit was, to say the least, a little different. As he stood gawping at the crowds around Waterloo, William jangled the purse in his pocket. Before the coach pulled away, Moore slipped some coins into William’s hand claiming he had a ‘sure thing’ in a bout that evening and so could easily spare a few shillings. Added to the money William had ‘borrowed’ from Cropper, and his worldly goods now ran to over two guineas. Not including the twenty-pound note, of course, though he would have to visit a bank in order to have that cashed.
Moore had also passed on the address of a lodging house in Lambeth so, when he flagged down a hansom and hopped aboard, William at least had a destination in mind.
“What can I do for you, my lovely?” asked Mrs Sawyer, William’s
prospective landlady.
William inspected the rather tatty surroundings. “Um, how much is it per week, please?” he asked as politely as possible.
“For you and yer ma, is it?”
“No,” William answered. “Just for myself, thank you.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and her demeanour changed. “Fifteen bob, including meals. And don’t expect special treatment ‘cos you’re from out of town. I don’t hold with youngsters travelling alone and I’ll not be putting up with any funny business, do you hear?”
William nodded, wide eyed, and passed over enough for two weeks. Fifteen shillings was more than he was expecting to pay but well within his budget. In any case, tomorrow he would take his twenty pounds to the bank and once he had that, all of London would be his.
*
It was Craven who opened the door when Brutus knocked. A Craven who, frankly, seemed to have been up all night drinking if his dissolute appearance and slurred, “Come in,” were anything to go by. Lyall and Brutus exchanged knowing looks, and followed Craven into his rooms.
The senior boy was collapsed in a chair hugging a jar of whiskey. Around him, littering the floor, were sundry empty decanters and what looked like several days worth of dirty clothing and rubbish.
On Brutus’ nod, Lyall began to tidy, while Brutus perched on Craven’s desk and sought for the right words to discover what had happened. He needn’t have bothered.
“Shouldn’t hafta do that.” The words slopped out, accompanied by some of the whiskey Craven had just swigged back. “S’Samson’s job. Goddamn nigger.”
“Where is he?” Lyall asked, sitting back on his heels with hands full of papers.
Craven took another drink and waved the jar at the mess in the room. “Took off. Bastard was s’pposed to be sorting for the voyage home. Came back Sat’day and he was gone. Gone.” The last was said with a wrenching sob. Craven buried his head in his hands and his shoulders began to shake.
Brutus stared at him helplessly, and then at Lyall who gestured urgently for Brutus to comfort the older boy. How? Brutus thought. If Craven were a lass, well that would be different, but chaps didn’t cry, especially over servants. It just wasn’t done.
Realising his brother was out of his depth, Lyall sighed and thrust the papers in Brutus’ direction. Then, hands free, he squatted next to the weeping Craven and patted his shoulder. “Never mind,” he offered. “You can hire someone else. There’s plenty of decent help to be had and most would leap at the chance to go to the Americas.”
“T’ain’t that,” Craven finally managed around heaving breaths. “Pa’s gonna whup me till I bleed. That boy was worth damn near a thousand bucks.”
Lyall’s eyes opened to comical proportions and Brutus sighed, pried the jar from Craven’s fingers and took a swig himself. It was going to be a long day.
*
Windowless walls reared above him, the endless grey stone made more forbidding by overcast skies and constant drizzle of rain. William straightened his cravat, tugged on his cuffs, and strode up the steps. The door opened before him and he stepped into the quiet hum of a typical day at the Bank of England. Warmth and leather, old paper, ink and damp wool, it reminded William of winter evenings in Cropper’s rooms. He shivered, and looked around for someone to ask about his twenty pounds.
A clerk was free, or at least had no one waiting, so William fished the slightly crumpled note out of his pocket and hurried over.
“Can I help you?” the clerk said, not bothering to look up when William cleared his throat.
William pushed the note across the desk. “I wish to cash this, if you would be so kind. Sovereigns would be acceptable.”
The clerk picked the note up between his thumb and forefinger, examined it briefly, and then glared at William over his eyeglasses. William shuffled under his pejorative gaze, acutely conscious of his lack of suitable outdoor attire and his water flattened hair. “My mother gave it me,” he said. “But I need smaller coinage.”
“In that case,” the clerk gave the damp note another brief glance, “you would be, Master William Bartlett, I presume.”
“I am.”
Grey eyes tracked their way even more slowly over William and he tugged on his cuffs and ran a nervous hand through his hair. He should have spent a few shillings on new clothing before coming here. At least then he wouldn’t have looked like a street urchin.
“And you wish me to cash this,” the clerk waved the note, “in order for you to spend it.”
“That is what I asked, yes,” William answered. He was starting to get annoyed now. This man, this… lackey, was treating him as though he were less than nothing.
“You have some form of identification, I presume. Or an adult to vouch for you?”
“I… um… No.” It had never occurred to William that he would need such a thing. The note was his, a present from his mother. Why wouldn’t the bank cash it?
“Then, I am afraid, the answer is also no, young man,” the clerk said, pushing the note back across the desk with a single finger. “And before you considering complaining, I would suggest you thank me for returning this. I would be entirely within my rights to keep it securely in our vaults until the legal bearer presents himself to redeem it. Count yourself lucky I haven’t summoned a policeman.”
William didn’t need telling twice. He snatched up the note and shoved
it back in his pocket, all the while backing away from the table just in case
the clerk changed his mind. When he reached the door, he broke into a run, and
didn’t stop until he reached London Bridge.