She held his gaze, then grimaced and glanced at Barnaby. “After meeting her, I would have to say no.”
“So it could be weeks, even months, before this boy, Jemmie, becomes a target?” Stokes pressed.
Penelope sighed. “I checked with Mrs. Keggs—the Foundling House’s matron—after seeing the Carters yesterday. Mrs. Keggs has trained as a nurse. She’s visited the Carters recently, and her opinion, confirmed by the local doctor, is that Mrs. Carter has at least three months more.”
Stokes nodded. “So Jemmie Carter is not at immediate risk, and setting a watch on him might well work against us. However, if our more direct avenues of investigation fail, we may need to pursue him and others like him to pick up a trail.”
Remembering Jemmie, seeing the boy in his mind’s eye, Barnaby reluctantly nodded. “You’re right—a watch for any length of time might well put the boys already taken at greater risk.” Meeting Stokes’s gaze, he asked, “So if you ‘had cause to visit’ an East End watch house this morning, can I infer that you’ve found some other way forward?”
Stokes hesitated. To Barnaby it was clear he was feeling his way over Penelope; he wasn’t at all sure how much he should say before her.
Penelope spoke before he could. “Rest assured, Inspector, nothing you say will shock me. I’m here to assist in whatever way I can, and am determined to see our four missing boys rescued and the villains exposed.”
Stokes’s brows rose a fraction, but he inclined his head. “A laudable stance, Miss Ashford.”
Barnaby hid a smile; Stokes had clearly been polishing his tact.
“Very well.” Stokes settled his forearms on his desk and clasped his hands. He glanced from Penelope to Barnaby. “As I mentioned yesterday, I knew of a contact who I hoped would help me gain better insight into the identities and whereabouts of burglary schoolmasters who might be currently active in the East End. Through my contact, I was introduced to a man who’s lived all his life in the area. He gave me eight names, together with some addresses, although by the nature of their business these villains move constantly so the latter are likely not to be of much help.”
Stokes drew a sheet from a pile beside his blotter. “This morning I visited Aldgate watch house. The police there verified my list, and added one more name.” He glanced at Barnaby. “So we have nine individuals to pursue.” He transferred his gaze to Penelope. “But we have no guarantee at this point that any of these men are involved in this particular case.”
Following Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby saw Penelope nod—saw the gleam of engaged alertness in her eyes.
“That’s excellent progress, Inspector—you’ve moved a great deal faster than I’d dared hope. I do understand that nothing is yet certain, but we now have a place to start—a route through which to learn more of active burglary schools. Your contact has certainly advanced our cause materially—can I ask you for their name? I’d like to send a note from the Foundling House expressing our gratitude. It never hurts to encourage people when they’ve been helpful.”
Barnaby inwardly winced. He straightened in his chair. He was about to explain to Penelope that revealing contacts was something an investigator never did, when he saw something that froze the words in his throat.
Color was rising in Stokes’s lean cheeks.
Observing the phenomenon, registering Penelope tilting her head as she did the same, Barnaby eased back in his chair again, and left Stokes to her.
Raising her brows, she prompted, “Inspector?”
Stokes shot Barnaby a glance—only to see that he’d get no help from him. He was now as intrigued as Penelope. Lips thinning, Stokes cleared his throat and met Penelope’s gaze. “Miss Martin, a milliner in St. John’s Wood High Street, hails originally from the East End. I met her while investigating another crime to which she was a witness. When I approached her with our present case, Miss Martin suggested introducing me to her father—he’s lived in the area all his life, and now he’s bedridden he spends most of his days listening and talking about what’s going on around about.”
“He gave you the names?” Penelope asked.
Stokes nodded. “However, as I said, we’ve no guarantee our list will lead to your four boys.”
“But those individuals, even if they’re not connected in any way with this latest incident, are surely the most likely to have heard if someone else is actively involved in their trade. They might well be able to help us locate our villain and thus rescue the boys.”
Stokes shook his head. “No—it won’t be that easy. Consider.”
As Stokes leaned forward, Barnaby noticed that his friend was rapidly losing his reticence over interacting with Penelope; like Barnaby, he was starting to treat her as a coinvestigator.
“If we go into the East End,” Stokes continued, “and openly inquire whether any of these men are currently running a burglary school, no one will say they are, even if they are. Instead, the instant we go away, whoever we ask will most likely send word to the men we’ve inquired about, and tell them questions are being asked. That’s how the East End operates. It’s an area that has its own rules, and by and large those rules don’t encourage interference from ouside, especially from the rozzers, as they term us. The certain upshot of us making open inquiries will be that the villains—be they the ones on our list or someone else—will hear of our interest in short order, and they’ll close up shop and move, taking the boys with them, and taking even greater care to hide their tracks.”
Sitting back, Stokes shook his head. “We’ll never catch them by asking questions.”
Frowning, Penelope replied, “I see.” She paused for only an instant before continuing, “From that I gather that you intend to go into the area in disguise, locate these men, and observe their activities from a distance—thus establishing whether they are currently running a burglary school, and if our boys are with them.”
Stokes blinked; he glanced at Barnaby, as if seeking guidance. Unsure of Penelope’s direction, Barnaby had none to give.
When Stokes looked back at her, she trapped his gaze. “Is Miss Martin assisting you in that endeavor?”
Stokes’s eyes widened fractionally; he hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “Miss Martin has agreed to assist us in furthering our investigations along the lines you’ve indicated.”
“Excellent!” Penelope beamed.
Stokes, seeing her smile, wasn’t the only one suddenly uneasy. Eyeing her delight, Barnaby felt his instincts go on full alert.
“So”—Penelope glanced from Stokes to Barnaby, then back again—“when are we to meet with Miss Martin to make our plans?”
Shocked into immobility by the implication of her words, Barnaby didn’t shake free fast enough to stop Stokes from admitting, “I intend to meet with her tomorrow afternoon.” Stokes regarded Penelope with a disbelief even greater than Barnaby’s. “But—”
“You aren’t going.” Barnaby infused the statement—a statement that plainly had to be made—with absolute, unshakable conviction.
Turning her head, Penelope blinked at him. “Of course I am. We have to sort out the details of our disguises, and how best to work to uncover what we need to learn.”
Stokes dragged in a breath. “Miss Ashford—you cannot venture into the East End.”
She turned her gaze—growing darker by the second—on Stokes. “If a milliner from St. John’s Wood can transform herself back into a woman who would pass without comment in the East End, then she’ll know how to disguise me to a similar degree.”
Barnaby found himself literally lost for words. He knew she would scoff if he described her as a beauty, but she was the type of lady who turned men’s heads. Effortlessly. And that was a feature that couldn’t be disguised.
“If Mr. Adair”—Penelope cast him a hard look—“who I’m sure is expecting to join in your hunt, but will need to be equally disguised to do so, and I, join you and Miss Martin in pursuing our inquiries, those inquiries will proceed significantly faster.”<
br />
“Miss Ashford.” Clasping his hands on the desk, Stokes made a valiant effort to retreat to a formal, authoritarian position. “It would be unconscionable of me to allow a lady like you—”
“Inspector Stokes.” Penelope’s voice acquired a precise diction that brooked no interruption whatever. “You will notice that Mr. Adair is remaining silent. That’s because he knows that argument on this issue is futile. I do not require permission from you, nor him, to pursue this matter. I’m bound and determined to see our four boys rescued and the villains prosecuted. Moreover, as administrator of the Foundling House, I am arguably morally obliged to do all I can in that endeavor.” She paused, then added, “I’m sure, if I request Miss Martin’s help in this matter, she will assist me regardless of your views.”
Barnaby glimpsed salvation, the way out of this argument for him and Stokes. He caught Stokes’s gaze. “Perhaps, in light of Miss Ashford’s strongly held notions, we should leave the question of her involvement until after we’ve met with Miss Martin?”
Thus leaving it to Miss Martin to pour the cold water of reality over Penelope’s enthusiasm. He had little doubt that a sensible, worldly milliner—someone used to dealing with fashionable, head-strong ladies—would know just how to convince Penelope that she needed to leave the investigating to others. Miss Martin would unquestionably do a better job of dissuading Penelope than either he or Stokes.
Doubtless having reached the same conclusion, Stokes slowly nodded. “That’s a reasonable suggestion.”
“Good. That’s settled.” Penelope looked at Stokes. “What time tomorrow, and where shall we meet?”
They agreed to meet outside Miss Martin’s shop in St. John’s Wood High Street at two o’clock the following afternoon.
“Excellent.” Penelope rose and shook hands with Stokes.
Turning to the door, she caught Barnaby’s eye. “Are you remaining, or leaving, too, Mr. Adair?”
“I’ll see you home.” Barnaby waited for her to start for the door before exchanging a long-suffering glance with Stokes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Stokes nodded. “Indeed.”
Turning, Barnaby fell in at Penelope’s heels—following in her wake. He no longer minded; the view from that position was sufficient compensation.
“Grimsby? You there, old man?” Smythe ducked beneath the low beams of Grimsby’s ground-floor room. Word had it that Grimsby owned the whole house—all three floors of rickety tenement on Weavers Street.
Hearing a grumbled response from above, Smythe waited by the dusty counter. Around him all manner of old wares clogged the floor, piled here and there with no apparent order. Grimsby claimed to sell bric-a-brac, but Smythe knew most of the goods traded through the shop were stolen. He’d sold stuff he’d lifted through Grimsby himself on occasion.
A heavy, shuffling step on the stairs at the back of the shop heralded the descent of the store’s owner from his rooms on the first floor. The floor above that was where the boys Grimsby tutored learned their lessons. The attic above, concealed unless you knew where to look, was where the boys slept.
Smythe straightened as Grimsby appeared out of the dusty murk. The man was aging, and now carried a considerable paunch, but there was intelligence still alive in the beady eyes that narrowly studied Smythe.
“Smythe.” Grimsby nodded. “What’re you after?”
“I’m after bearing a message from our mutual friend.”
Grimsby’s expression—of canny malicious avarice—didn’t change. “What’s he want?”
“He wants to be assured that you’ll provide the tools for his lark as agreed.”
Grimsby’s features eased. He shrugged. “You can tell him we’ve encountered no difficulties.”
Smythe narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were two boys short?”
“Aye, we are. But unless he’s changed his timetable, we’ve plenty of time to get the last two in and trained up fer you.”
Smythe hesitated, then glanced back at the shop door, confirming there was no one lurking. He lowered his voice. “You still picking off the orphans?”
“Aye—best source of what we need with no one to raise a ruckus. Used to be we had to pick ’em off the streets, and there’s always the risk of a hue and cry that road. But taking the orphans from round here—no one’s fussed.”
“So what’s your prospects for these last two boys? When will you have them?”
Grimsby hesitated, then, beady eyes narrowing, said, “I don’t tell you how to run your business, now do I?”
Smythe straightened. “Give over, Grimsby—I’m the one who has to deal with Alert. And what he’s got on is big.”
“Aye—and just who put your name up for that, heh?”
“You, you old reprobate, but that’s all the more reason I’ll hold you to your promise to get me all eight boys. Eight, all properly trained and trialed. And that takes time—time you’re running out of.”
“What in thunder do you need eight fer, anyway? Never heard of a caper that needs eight all at once.”
“Never you mind why. The way Alert’s playing this, it’s possible I might need all eight boys to do what he wants.”
Grimsby looked suspicious. “You aiming to leave the nippers behind?”
“Not aiming to, no. But I don’t want to have to tell Alert I can’t finish his runs because some boy got stuck in a window, or tripped over a footman on his way out. Trained or not, they make mistakes, and Alert—as you know—isn’t a forgiving man.”
“Aye, well, that’s the only reason I’ve come out of retirement—to appease Mr. Bloody Alert.”
Smythe studied Grimsby. “What’s he got on you, old man?”
“Never you mind. Getting you to see him, and then getting you these boys, that’s my end of things.”
“Exactly what Alert sent me to remind you.” Smythe’s gaze hardened. “So what of these last two boys? I need them—I want to be able to tell Alert that we have all eight as planned.”
Grimsby eyed him for a long moment, then said, “Plenty of orphans littering the streets, but not the sort we need. Suddenly they’re all lumbering oxes, or simpletons, or worse. No use, is what they are.” He paused, then leaned nearer, lowering his voice, “When I told you I’d have the eight, I had eight in mind. We’ve got six of ’em. But with these last two, their sick relatives ain’t turned out to be as sick as I’d heard.”
Smythe read Grimsby’s expression, read his beady little eyes—read between his words. Thought of Alert and his high-stakes game. “So…how sick are they—these ailing relatives? More to the point, what’s their names and where do they live?”
Throughout the next day, Sunday, Penelope was forced to possess her soul with what patience she could—until at last she and Barnaby—Adair—reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Instructed to stop outside the milliner’s shop, the hackney slowed, rolling along as the driver studied the façades.
The carriage halted before a single-fronted, white-painted shop. Drawn blinds screeened the interior, but the sign swinging above the door read GRISELDA MARTIN, MILLINER.
Barnaby—Adair—got out and handed her down. While he paid the jarvey, Penelope considered the three steps leading up to the front door, then turned and saw Stokes walking down the street toward them.
He nodded politely as he joined her. “Miss Ashford.” Over her head, he nodded to Barnaby. “Miss Martin should be expecting us.”
Penelope promptly walked up the steps and tugged the bellpull beside the door. She heard the bell peal inside.
A minute later, light footsteps came hurrying toward the door. A click sounded, and the door swung inward. Penelope looked up into lovely blue eyes set in a sweet, round, rosy-cheeked face. She smiled. “Hello. You must be Miss Martin.”
The woman blinked, then noticed Barnaby and Stokes on the pavement. Stokes quickly stepped forward. “Miss Martin, this is—”
“Penelope Ashford.” Stepping forward, Penelope held out her hand. “I�
�m very pleased to meet you.”
Miss Martin glanced at Penelope’s hand, then hesitantly took it, shook it, then added a bob for good measure.
“No, no.” Penelope moved farther into the shop, drawing Miss Martin with her. “There’s no need for any ceremony. You’ve been very kind in agreeing to help us find our missing boys. I truly am very grateful.”
Following Penelope inside, Barnaby could see the “Us?” forming in Griselda Martin’s eyes. When her gaze shifted to him, he smiled reassuringly. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Martin. I’m a friend of Stokes’s and like Miss Ashford—who is the administrator of the Foundling House where the missing boys should have gone—am most sincerely grateful for your assistance.”
Stokes stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He caught Miss Martin’s eye. “I hope you’ll excuse this invasion, Miss Martin, but—”
“The truth, Miss Martin,” Penelope cut in, “is that I jockeyed Stokes into allowing me to come to meet you, together with himself and Mr. Adair. I’m absolutely determined to rescue the four boys who’ve been taken, and I gather you have a plan to go into the East End and search for clues to the burglary school in which they’ve likely been enrolled.”
Barnaby had a sudden sinking premonition that allowing Penelope to talk freely with Miss Martin would lead to disaster. But then Miss Martin frowned, and he hoped he was wrong.
Penelope hadn’t taken her eyes from Miss Martin’s face. In response to the frown she nodded. “Indeed. I daresay you’re wondering why a lady of my station is so interested in the welfare of four East End boys. The answer is quite simple. While they may not have been handed over to the Foundling House, as was intended, they were, nevertheless, made into our care. Those boys are our charges, and as the administrator of the house, I will not simply turn my back and let them be taken, denied the life that their parents arranged for them, to be instead inducted into a life of crime. That wasn’t their intended destinies, and I will move heaven and earth if necessary to return them to their proper course.”
Where the Heart Leads Page 11