The Prisoner (3 page)

“Boys cannot live on thin gruel and water, and stealing some cheese and a pair of shoes scarcely merits being lashed and locked in a freezing cell with a murderer,” retorted Genevieve. “As for our precious reformatory schools,” she continued mockingly, “they are little more than a place where children are abused and forced to slave under intolerable conditions. If, somehow, they find the will and strength necessary to survive, they are then tossed onto the street with no appreciable skills or money, and callously told to get on with their lives. Which, of course, leads them straight back to thieving and prostitution.”

“Regrettably, we who work within the system can only do so much, Miss MacPhail,” Governor Thomson responded. “By bringing the lad to your attention, I hope I may have played some small part in the possibility of his salvation. The other children I have directed to your custody are doing reasonably well, are they not?”

“They are doing extremely well,” Genevieve assured him. “Far better than they would have otherwise.”

“And I don't doubt that you shall do your utmost to try to help Jack overcome his baser instincts and eventually, perhaps, lead a life that is both honest and productive. Let us hope so, at any rate, for his sake.” He closed his file. “One more altercation with the law, and I'm afraid there will be nothing further that either of us can do except let him suffer the full burden of his sentence.” He rose from his desk and regarded her expectantly, indicating that their business was all but finished.

Satisfied that all the details of their arrangement were in order, Genevieve signed the document, then retrieved the money she carried in the inner pocket of her cloak and handed it to Governor Thomson.

“Thank you, Miss MacPhail,” he said, smiling as he quickly counted it. “I do hope this arrangement shall work out satisfactorily for you.”

“I have no doubt that it shall.” Genevieve rose and moved toward the door, ready to tell Jack that they were leaving.

And froze.

Having completed his task of collecting the dirty crockery from each of the cells, the abundant Warder Sims was now struggling to hoist his heavy tray onto his shoulder. His back was turned to Jack, leaving him blissfully unaware of the fact that the boy had sidled up to him and was stealthily slipping the ring of keys off the warder's belt.

“Here now, what the devil do ye think ye're doing?” the warder growled suddenly, spinning about.

“Nothin',” said Jack, casually stepping away from him.

“Open yer jacket and let me see what ye've got there,” Warder Sims commanded, “before I rip it off yer skinny hide myself.”

Panic gripped Genevieve. If Jack was found stealing before he had even left the prison, Governor Thomson would have no choice but to forfeit their arrangement. Jack would be lashed and thrown back in his cell to half-starve before suffering years of abuse in a reformatory school.

“Mr. Sims, watch out!”
she screamed suddenly, her cry almost ear-splitting as it reverberated against the cold stone walls.
“There is an enormous rat by your foot!”

Pure horror blanched the warder's face. “Where?!” he shouted, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other, as he valiantly tried to balance his tray. “Where?!”

“Right
there!
” she shrieked, pointing at his ankles.

The next thing Genevieve knew, he was flying through the air, yelping in fear, before crashing amidst a mess of gluey bowls and lumpy porridge.

“Get him off me!” he screeched, scrambling to rise. He raced toward her with outstretched arms, as if he expected her to save him. His foot got caught in a wayward bowl which skidded on some porridge, sending him barreling into Governor Thomson's office, where, fortunately, the governor's precious mahogany chair helped to break his fall.

The chair itself did not fare so well.

“For God's sake, Sims, what the devil is the matter with you?” thundered Governor Thomson furiously. “Just look at what you've done to my chair!”

“Is it gone?” whimpered the warder, staring frantically behind himself. “Is it?”

“I'm not sure,” said Genevieve, searching the shadows of the hallway for Jack, who had disappeared.

“I don't see any rat,” the boy reported calmly as he emerged from the darkness around the corner. “It must be gone.”

He strolled past Genevieve into Governor Thomson's office. “Too bad about your chair,” he remarked, his voice edged with sarcasm. He bent over to pick up the mangled piece of furniture. “Maybe it can be fixed.”

When the chair was precariously righted upon its three remaining legs, Mr. Sims's prison keys were lying innocently upon the floor, looking as if they had simply fallen off when he crashed into it.

“My chair!” lamented Governor Thomson, turning over the broken mahogany leg. “It's ruined!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” apologized Warder Sims, looking forlorn. “It's just that—I hate rats.”

“If there is nothing further, then Jack and I must be going,” interjected Genevieve, anxious to have the boy out of there before he tried to steal something else.

“Yes, fine,” said Governor Thomson, looking as if he was torn between weeping over his chair and cracking Warder Sims over the head with its shattered leg. “As for you, young man,” he said, regarding Jack sternly, “see that you abandon your lawless ways and do everything Miss MacPhail tells you. One misstep and you will be back in this jail and on your way to reformatory school, do you hear?” He shook the fractured chair leg at him.

“I'm sure Jack understands his situation,” Genevieve swiftly replied, afraid to let the boy speak lest he offend Governor Thomson yet again. “Good evening, Governor Thomson. Warder Sims,” she added crisply, nodding at the dejected jailer, who still had gray globs of porridge stuck to his uniform.

She put her hand firmly upon Jack's shoulder and steered him toward the door, trying not to think about what the boy had wanted with the warder's keys.

 

T
HE PRISON WAS CLOAKED IN A COLD, DANK BLACK,
and quiet except for the dispiriting sounds of human misery. Long bursts of horrible, phlegmy coughing were intermingled with painful groans, and a soft, pitiful weeping filtered through the air from a desolate woman in one of the cells on the second floor. They were the feeble sounds of hopelessness, the death knell of shattered people who had been cast aside and all but forgotten.

Except by the ignoble Warder Sims, who made it a point never to forget any of his prisoners.

In his rather limited view, whatever circumstances had caused these men, women, and children to end up in his prison were entirely of their own making. And now that these castoffs of society had been relegated to his tender care, he was determined that they be made to pay for their crimes each and every minute. Further, they had to understand that he, and not the fatuous Governor Thomson, was the man in whose hands their miserable lives now rested. Only then could there be order in his prison. If he were to be utterly honest, which he rarely was, he would have also had to admit that he actually relished the act of goading and tormenting his charges.

It was one of the few perquisites of being a prison warder.

This need to affirm his status as the ruler of his domain was what drew him back to Haydon's cell soon after Governor Thomson had retired to his apartment for the evening, still mourning the destruction of his beloved chair. There was unfinished business between this prisoner and himself, and Warder Sims did not intend to let the matter rest—not when his lordship was scheduled to be hanged the following day. That murdering scum had dared to lay his hands upon him. Although Sims had managed to do him some damage, before that filthy strip of a lad had jumped upon his back, the matter was far from finished. It hadn't helped his mood any to have been attacked by an enormous rat and sent skating into the governor's bloody chair on a bowl of greasy porridge. The indignity of that moment, along with the humiliation of having to endure the governor's ire as he cleaned up the mess, had only whetted his desire to further pummel this murderer.

Especially since Sims knew his lordship was in no condition to fight back.

He opened the narrow inspection slide in the door and peered in. The cell was dark, save for a filmy veil of moonlight trickling through the iron bars of the window. The remnants of the demolished bed lay scattered upon the floor at one end of the chamber. Anger surged through him as he thought of himself being thrown into it. His lordship would pay dearly for that. His muscles tense with anticipation, he shifted his gaze to the other side of the cell.

And found it impossibly empty.

“What the hell—”

He fumbled for his key ring, grabbing the door handle as he did so, and was bewildered when the heavy oak portal swung open without the benefit of a key. He snatched a burning lamp from the wall and stepped cautiously into the cell, studying the vacant shadows with determination. For several long moments he stood there, searching wildly, as if he thought he might still find his prisoner if he only looked hard enough, perhaps under the narrow wooden bed, or hiding behind the chamber pot.

Finally the lamp sputtered and went out, leaving him alone in the darkness of the cell, desperately trying to think of how he should tell Governor Thomson that their most illustrious and dangerous prisoner had escaped.

Chapter Two

H
AYDON COULD NOT STAND MUCH LONGER
.

It had taken every shred of his strength just to follow Miss MacPhail and the boy here. He had not initially intended to do so. But the moment Haydon stood outside the prison walls clutching his injured side and gasping for breath, he realized he had absolutely nowhere to go. He knew no one in Inveraray, he was without money, and he was wearing a filthy prison uniform. Moreover, between his illness and his injuries, he knew he could not travel very far.

The sight of the compassionate Miss MacPhail walking with young Jack some distance ahead of him had offered his only hope. He had no illusions that Miss MacPhail would be interested in helping him. Although she was apparently generous and tenderhearted, she believed him to be a murderer. Aside from fearing that he might harm her, there was also the very real threat of her being prosecuted for aiding a criminal, should Haydon be discovered in her care. The lad, however, was another matter. By boldly stealing the warder's keys and unlocking Haydon's cell door, Jack had demonstrated that he was at least somewhat concerned about Haydon's fate. Much as he loathed to ask it of the boy, at that moment he desperately needed assistance. If he could only hide in Miss MacPhail's shed or coach house for a few days, with a little food and water brought to him occasionally, he could regain his strength.

Then he'd get the hell out of Inveraray and try to clear his name.

The fact that there had been no carriage waiting for Miss MacPhail outside the prison, coupled with the relative simplicity of her attire, had suggested that her financial situation was modest. Haydon was therefore surprised to follow her to this fashionable street and watch her enter a large, elegant house of smooth gray stone with numerous windows and a handsomely carved front door. The house was not grand by Haydon's standards, but it bespoke gentility and affluence, as did the homes surrounding it. Jack had appeared utterly indifferent to his new residence, striding up the stairs and into the building without sparing it a second glance. It was clear to Haydon that the boy had no intention of staying there. Perhaps when they had a chance to talk he would be able to make the lad understand what a rare opportunity he was being given.

The draperies in the house had been drawn, leaving only a soft, buttery glow permeating the fabric. Nearly overcome with exhaustion, Haydon had forced himself to stand in the shadow of a neighboring house and wait. After an hour or more, the curtains in an upstairs window parted slightly, and a pale young face stared out at the street below. Haydon retreated farther into the darkness, watching. The face hesitated a moment, then disappeared behind the draperies once again.

Haydon could not be certain it had been Jack. He thought it had looked like him. Did the lad suspect that Haydon had followed him? It was possible. Jack had lived much of his life on the streets, and was undoubtedly more attuned to his surroundings than those who had enjoyed more sheltered existences. On the other hand, the lad might simply have been curious about his new environs, and was taking a moment to contemplate his situation before climbing into a clean, comfortable bed.

Haydon raised a hand to his brow, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.

One by one the lamps in the house were extinguished, until all the windows were sheets of black. Shivering with fever and weary beyond measure, Haydon slowly emerged from the shadows.

Finally, realizing he had no choice, he picked up a handful of stones and began to fling them at the boy's window.

 

T
HERE IS A MAN THROWING STONES AT OUR WINDOW
!” shrieked ten-year-old Annabelle, her pale blonde hair flying out behind her as she raced into Genevieve's room and leaped excitedly upon her bed.

“He's been doing it for a few minutes,” Grace added, clumsily banging into Genevieve's nighttable before joining Annabelle on the mattress. Grace was two years older than her stepsister, but contrary to her name, she lacked the charming mannerisms that came to Annabelle so effortlessly.

“What do you think he wants?” wondered Charlotte, limping in after them. A quiet, serious child of eleven, she had glossy auburn hair and large hazel eyes. Unfortunately, few people noticed anything about her beyond the fact that she walked with a limp.

“Maybe he is a secret admirer of Genevieve's, come to profess his undying love,” rhapsodized Annabelle dreamily.

Grace frowned. “Why wouldn't he come and profess his undying love during the day, when Genevieve is awake?”

“Because then we would all be awake to see him and he wouldn't be a secret admirer anymore,” explained Annabelle.

“But we're all awake now,” pointed out Charlotte.

In fact, Genevieve was only half-awake as she fumbled to light the oil lamp by her bed. Nevertheless, Charlotte's point seemed a valid one. “There is a man throwing stones?” she murmured groggily, staring at the three excited little faces in bemusement.

“And he's terribly handsome!” added Annabelle breathlessly, clasping her delicate hands to her breast. “He looks like a prince!”

“You don't know that,” Grace retorted. “You barely saw him.”

“I did so see him,” Annabelle argued. “And there was moonlight shining down upon his handsome face, and he looked as if his heart was broken.”

“He did look a little sad.” Charlotte carefully arranged herself on the edge of Genevieve's bed and rubbed her stiff leg.

“He wasn't wearing a hat,” reflected Grace, frowning. “Don't princes always wear hats?”

“Princes wear crowns,” Annabelle corrected.

“I thought kings wore crowns,” said Charlotte.

“Kings wear bigger crowns,” Annabelle informed her with great authority. “That is why princes want to become kings—then they get to wear the biggest crown.”

“Are you girls certain there is a man there?” Genevieve wanted nothing more than to return to sleep. Morning came relentlessly early in her busy little household, and she treasured every moment of respite she could get.

“Come and see for yourself!” squealed Annabelle, tugging on her arm.

“Quick, before he leaves and decides to throw himself in the river!” Clearly Grace sensed Genevieve needed some added incentive.

Reluctantly Genevieve dragged herself out of bed and followed the three girls as they raced into their room.

“Stand there so he can't see you,” Charlotte instructed, indicating the corner by the window.

“Why shouldn't he see her?” wondered Annabelle. “Her hair is a bit untidy, but other than that she looks very nice—like a princess.”

“We don't know who he is, Annabelle,” Grace cautioned. “For all we know he could be a dangerous cutthroat.”

Annabelle's blue eyes grew round. “Do you really think so?” She sounded perfectly exhilarated by this new possibility.

“I only meant that a strange man shouldn't see Genevieve in her nightgown,” explained Charlotte impatiently. “It isn't fitting—is it, Genevieve?”

“No, it isn't,” Genevieve agreed. “Now, would you all please lower your voices before you waken the entire house.”

The three girls obediently fell silent. Genevieve slowly drew back part of the curtain, then peered cautiously through the exposed sliver of window.

“Gracious me!” she gasped, whipping the curtain closed.

“Did you see him?” asked Grace excitedly.

“Isn't he handsome?” Annabelle squealed.

“He didn't see your nightgown, did he?” fretted Charlotte.

Jamie bounded into the room, his red-blond hair tousled and his eyes surprisingly alert for an eight-year-old lad who was supposed to be asleep. “What's going on?”

“Is someone sick?” piped Simon, who was three years older but not much taller, scrambling in behind him.

Jack followed the two boys in, scowling. “How does anyone get any sleep around here?”

“Genevieve has a secret admirer waiting for her outside,” reported Annabelle.

“We think he's a prince,” Grace added.

“Or maybe a cutthroat,” finished Charlotte.

Jamie and Simon needed no further enticement. Before Genevieve could stop them, they tore across the room and ripped back the curtain to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger on the street below.

“I see him!” squealed Jamie, ecstatic. “Look!”

The other children swarmed around the window, knocking and jostling one another as they each fought to secure a better view.

“Hello down there!” called Simon cheerfully. He pressed his freckled nose against the glass and waved, inspiring all the other children to do the same.

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

Genevieve stared in horror at Jack, her mind reeling. It was suddenly appallingly clear what the lad had wanted with Warder Sims's keys. Jack sauntered over to the window and took a cursory glance at Haydon. Then he looked at her.

“I didn't think he would come here.” He shrugged.

“You know him?” exclaimed Simon, studying Jack with awe.

“Is he a prince?” asked Annabelle excitedly.

Jack snorted. “Hardly. He's a—”

“He's leaving!” interrupted Grace, diverting everyone's attention back to Haydon.

“Oh my,” murmured Charlotte in a soft, sympathetic voice, “he can hardly walk.”

“What's wrong with him?” wondered Jamie, concerned.

“He was badly beaten by the prison warder for tryin' to help me.” Jack stared at Genevieve, his expression challenging.

“We have to stop him!” said Simon. “Come on!”

“Wait!” cried Genevieve as the children stampeded for the door.

Reluctantly, they stopped and regarded her with impatience.

“I'm not sure this is a good idea,” she ventured, trying to grasp a moment to think.

“We are going to help him, aren't we?” asked Charlotte.

“Of course we are,” Jamie assured her. “Genevieve always helps people.”

“And if he helped Jack, then we should help him,” reasoned Grace.

“We must stop him now,” declared Annabelle, wringing her hands dramatically, “before he disappears forever!”

Genevieve looked helplessly at Jack.

He regarded her with cold contempt, as if her hesitation was no more than what he expected of her.

And then he turned and marched toward the stairs.

The children needed no further encouragement. They raced after him, flying down the staircase with their pale cotton nightgowns billowing around them like wings.

“Stay back!” barked Oliver, bursting suddenly from the kitchen wielding an ax in his wizened, trembling arms. “There's an unsavory rascal out there and I'm going to chop him into wee bits and have Eunice grind him into haggis!”

“Now, Ollie, ye should know better than to be scarin' the bairns with such talk,” chided Doreen, the plentiful lines of her plain, thin face crinkled with disapproval. “However am I to get them to eat their food when ye're constantly fillin' their wee heads with such blather?”

“I'm of no mind to make haggis out of some poor, half-starved wretch,” added Eunice, squeezing her bounteous form into the crowded hallway. “He's bound to be all string and gristle.”

“Oh, Oliver, you mustn't kill him,” pleaded Charlotte earnestly. “He's hurt!”

“And he's Jack's friend,” Grace added.

“We're going to invite him in,” explained Annabelle.

“Then could we have some tea?” asked Simon hopefully. “I'm starving.”

“At this hour?” Eunice regarded Genevieve with dismay. “But we're scarcely fit to receive company, Miss Genevieve—we're all in our nightclothes!”

“He won't mind,” Charlotte assured her.

“He's from prison!” chirped Jamie, as if this were a marvelous endorsement.

Jack threw the front door open. The children surged forward, only to find Haydon's figure slowly retreating down the street.

“Hello there!” Simon shouted.

“Come back!” cried Charlotte.

“We won't let Oliver chop you up for haggis!” Annabelle promised.

Realizing that Haydon might not find that particularly reassuring, Jack sprinted into the frigid darkness in his bare feet, catching up to Haydon just before he disappeared around the corner.

“It's all right,” Jack told him. “You can come in.”

Haydon stared at him in confusion. His vision was blurred by fever, and every step required excruciating effort. Even so, he had no desire to endanger Miss MacPhail and the flock of white-gowned children who were calling to him from the doorstep. This was not what he had planned.

“No.”

“You must,” Jack insisted impatiently. “You're too weak to walk, and soon all of Inveraray will be lookin' for you.”

“Didn't want her to know.” Haydon's tongue felt thick and clumsy as he labored to form the words. “Didn't want her to be part of it.”