فصل 12

CHAPTER 12

ST. NORBERT’S

THE CAB, PULLED BY A LOWLY OLD NAG with a swayback and heavy hooves, moved down a rutted muddy lane lined with trees, their gnarled black branches reaching like skeleton arms into the rainy sky, which had turned from sunny to dark in an instant.

“Do you think we’ll learn anything?” Molly said, peering doubtfully out the cab window. “All we have is the date from the newspaper articles. I’m worried that we’ll need more than that.”

“We have money,” George said, patting his pocket. “My father says money can loosen tongues faster than all the chocolate in the world. You remember the cabdriver in Salisbury? A few quid went a long way with that one.”

“Yes, it did. Still, I hate to have you spend your own money on this.”

“Don’t be silly,” said George. “It’s actually Father’s money, and I rather enjoy spending it.”

Molly smiled—her first smile of the day. But it faded quickly as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a rusted iron gate, each of its two sagging halves bearing the letter S wrapped snakelike around the letter N—the insignia of St. Norbert’s Home for Wayward Boys. Beyond the gate, past a gravel drive that was more mud than gravel, loomed a massive gray stone structure with a slate roof in such poor repair that it appeared ready to slide off.

As Molly and George got out of the cab, the drizzle turned to a downpour. Molly lifted the hood of her cloak, and George tugged up the collar to his overcoat.

George, handing the fare to the driver, said, “Two hours.”

“Aye, Guv’nor,” said the driver. “But I can’t imagine why two fine young people like you would want to spend two hours in that place.” He nodded toward the building. “Ain’t nothing in there but sorrow, you mark my words.”

“You wait for us!” George repeated.

The cabbie nodded again, his bowler spraying water from the rim, and gently flicked the reins, sending the old swayback horse back down the skeleton-lined lane.

Picking their way among the many mud puddles, Molly and George walked up the driveway to the massive oak door of St. Norbert’s. There was an iron door knocker, but it was broken; so George pounded the door with his fist. After a wait of a minute or so, they heard the sound of a bolt sliding, and the door swung open to reveal a bent-over man with a two-day growth of gray beard.

“What do you want?” he complained. His eyes were bloodshot and constantly moving.

“My name is Molly McBride,” said Molly. “This is George, um…”

George, seeing Molly’s hesitation, stepped in. “George…Chester…Maybeck…Dooling,” he said, causing both Molly and the man to raise their eyebrows. He held out his hand. “And you, sir, are…”

“My name’s Grempkin,” said the man, ignoring George’s hand. “I’ll ask again: what do you want?”

“We’d like to meet with the director,” said Molly.

“Would you, now,” said Grempkin.

“We’ve come all the way from London,” said George, following the plan he and Molly had worked out. “There’s been a tragedy in Miss McBride’s family—her parents, you see—and some information has come to light that suggests, strange as it seems, that a relative of hers may be here. At St. Norbert’s.”

Grempkin’s eyebrow arched high into his hairline. “A relative, is it?”

“Possibly,” said Molly.

Grempkin took a closer look at Molly and George, both dressed in the manner of people who come from families with money. He tried to smile, but since he was not used to smiling, what he produced was more of a grimace. When he spoke again his tone was considerably more welcoming.

“Well, now,” he said. “Why don’t you come in from the rain, and I’ll take you to the headmaster.”

The foyer smelled musty, as though no door or window had been opened in years, as if the sun had never shone into this place. From somewhere up the enormous wooden staircase came the cry of a boy, and then a long groan. From somewhere else came the sound of vicious barking.

Grempkin led Molly and George down a long corridor lit by hissing gas lamps. He stopped at an office door with faded lettering that announced that its occupant was MR. CHALMERS GREYSTOKE, HEADMASTER. Grempkin knocked and was summoned inside.

Greystoke, a thin-lipped man with a pinched, pale face, sat behind an ancient desk covered with a formidable layer of dust. He did not appear busy, but he also did not appear to be pleased by the interruption.

“Master Greystoke,” said Grempkin, “this young lady has reason to believe she has a relative here at St. Norbert’s. And since these young people seem to be from fine families”—here Grempkin arched his eyebrows to make sure Greystoke got the point—“I thought you’d want to talk to them.”

“Of course,” said Greystoke, his nostrils flaring at the aroma of money. Molly and George introduced themselves—again using the false names, although George got his in a different order—and Grempkin, after excusing himself, left the room.

“So you believe your relative is at St. Norbert’s,” said Greystoke, looking at Molly.

“Possibly,” said Molly. “His father and mother—my mother’s cousin—went missing twelve years ago, and we believe their infant son was brought here.”

“And the name?” said Greystoke.

“I don’t know the infant’s name,” said Molly. “It wasn’t in the newspaper articles. But the father’s surname was Pan.”

At the mention of the name, Greystoke’s eyes widened just a bit. He hesitated, his eyes darting from Molly to George.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I cannot…that is, our policy is not to divulge specific information of that nature about our charges unless certain, ah, procedures are followed.”

George nodded, stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of currency. “I was charged by Miss McBride’s solicitor to defray any legal expenses necessitated by this inquiry,” he said. “Would this be sufficient?”

George set the stack of bills on the desk and sat down. Greystoke quickly swept the money into his top drawer, along with a puff of dust.

“Mrs. Wilson!” he called, so loudly that both Molly and George jumped in their seats. An elderly woman appeared from a side room.

“The Pan boy,” Greystoke said. “Twelve years back. Parents went missing. Terrible thing.”

“Yes, sir. I remember it well.”

“Get me his file,” he said, giving Mrs. Wilson what Molly thought was an odd look.

She returned with a file so quickly that Molly wondered if it was actually the right file Greystoke was now consulting—or if they showed the same file to every inquisitive visitor. Greystoke muttered to himself, then shut the folder. He laid it on his desk, sending up a small dust cloud.

“A fine boy,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a fine ambassador for St. Norbert’s.”

“Ambassador?” said George. “To where?”

Greystoke cleared his throat, sounding as if he were gargling glue.

“Many years ago,” he said, “the Board of Trustees saw fit to establish a program abroad for our more excellent boys. To broaden their perspective. To widen their horizons, quite literally. I’m happy to say that your cousin—or is it cousin once removed?—qualified for this most generous program.”

“You sent him away,” George said, his voice carrying a hint of challenge.

“We afforded him an opportunity. It is our role as legal guardians to offer our lads the best that life can offer.”

I can see that, thought Molly, recalling the cries she’d heard in the foyer. Aloud, she said, “And when exactly did you send my cousin away? And to where?”

Greystoke consulted the folder again, turning a few pages without appearing to actually look at them.

“It would seem that our records are incomplete,” he said finally. “I don’t seem to see either a date of departure or a destination. Though I’m sure your…relative is in the best of hands.”

“But you took my money!” said George.

“Yes,” said Greystoke. “And then I performed the service of checking the records. Which, as I say, are unfortunately incomplete.”

“You sent him away, and you don’t know where?” said Molly, her voice rising. “Can you at least tell me when?”

“I’m sorry,” said Greystoke, sounding not at all sorrowful. “I can’t help you there. Although perhaps Mr. Grempkin can. He handles the arrangements for the boys who are sent to Run…abroad.”

Molly and George both caught the name Greystoke had half uttered, but neither reacted.

“Well,” said Molly, “can you tell me anything about him? Can you at least tell me his name?”

Again Greystoke leafed through the folder, which Molly was now certain was just a prop. He looked up, shrugged, and said, “I’m afraid we don’t—”

“You said he was a fine boy,” interrupted George. “But you don’t even know his name.”

“We have so many boys here—” Greystoke began.

“I want my money back,” said George, standing up.

“Hold on, there,” said Greystoke. “Mrs. Wilson!” Immediately the old lady appeared.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Pan boy,” Greystoke said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve put these young people on to Grempkin for the details of the program abroad. But what was the boy’s given name—do you recall? It’s lost among the cobwebs, I’m afraid.” He tapped his head and tried on a smile that didn’t fit.

“Oh, yes, sir. I remember him well. Peter, he was. Peter Pan.”

Molly suppressed a gasp. This was the name she’d been expecting. But hearing it was altogether different. “Peter,” she said.

“A lively boy he was,” said Mrs. Wilson. “A shame that—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” interrupted Greystoke. “That will be fine. Now I must ask you two young people to leave. I’ve a great deal of work to do.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” said George, looking pointedly at Greystoke’s empty desk.

Greystoke glared at George, then turned to Molly. “I wish you luck in finding your relative,” he said. “I wish I could have been more helpful.”

“Do you?” said Molly, staring at Greystoke until he turned away.

Leaving Greystoke’s office, Molly and George retraced their steps down the corridor. They found Grempkin waiting in the foyer; he took five pounds from George but revealed little in exchange. He said he had taken the boy Peter, along with four others, to London, and put them on a ship headed abroad, but he claimed to have no recollection of the name of the ship or its destination. By this point Molly and George knew they would get little more from St. Norbert’s, so they went outside, where the cab was waiting. They spoke quietly on the ride back to the train station.

“I can see why they don’t want to tell us anything,” said George. “They’re obviously selling the boys as slaves to Rundoon.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “And one of those boys was Peter. That’s quite an amazing coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Molly, “first we find out that the person who had been warning the Starcatchers when starstuff was about to fall was this Mr. Pan. Then we learn that he disappeared under mysterious circumstances and that he had a son. Now we learn that the son was our own Peter.”

George flinched; he did not like the possessive tone Molly used when she talked about Peter. George sometimes wished there was no Peter.

“But it gets even odder,” continued Molly. “Peter, after years at St. Norbert’s, was sent to Rundoon, and it just so happens that the ship he was placed on was the same ship that I was traveling on. And, more important, it was the ship secretly carrying the largest starstuff Fall in many years. Now do you think that could possibly be a coincidence?”

“No,” said George.

“I don’t either,” said Molly.

“So what do you think it means?” said George.

“I think Peter was meant to be on that ship,” said Molly. “I don’t know who meant him to be there. I suspect the gentlemen at St. Norbert’s do, but clearly they don’t intend to tell us. But he was meant to be there, I’m sure of it, and it seems likely the reason has something to do with his father, the mysterious Mr. Pan. And I wonder if…” Molly trailed off, looking out the cab window.

“If what?” prompted George.

“If perhaps this explains Peter’s unusual powers.”

“I thought that was the starstuff,” said George. “When he was exposed to it, he suddenly could fly and so on.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “But that exposure should have killed him. Instead, it changed him. Father said that was very, very unusual. I think the reason it happened has something to do with his father.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “But I believe there’s a connection between Peter’s father going missing and Peter’s powers and the fact that the Starcatchers are no longer being warned about the starstuff Falls. And I strongly suspect that the Others have something to do with all of this. I need to tell my father about this immediately.”

“But your father is in Paris.”

“Then we must go to Paris.”

“All right,” said George. “We’ll go to Paris.”

“Thank you, George,” said Molly, resting her hand on his for just a moment. In that moment, George felt two strong and conflicting emotions: the thrill of setting off on another adventure with Molly and resentment over the fact that, once again, the adventure revolved around Peter.