Alert frowned. “Was there anyone else there with the police?”
“I didn’t see anyone…well, except for the lady from the Foundling House. I expect she was there for the boys.”
“Lady?” The man known as Alert halted. “Describe her.”
Smythe was observant; his quick description was enough to identify the lady. Who was indeed a lady. Penelope Ashford. Damn that meddling shrew! Her brother should have sent her to a convent years ago.
But Calverton hadn’t, which had left her free to interfere with his grand plan. To jeopardize it. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the infernal female to have been behind the raid on Grimsby’s school.
His earlier fury tugged at his mind, along with the fear that fueled it. He’d had another visit from his cent-per-cent, but this time, rather than catch him at one of his haunts, the damned usurer had come to the house! To his place of work!
The message couldn’t have been plainer; if he didn’t clear his debt as promised, he’d be ruined. And the depth, breadth, and completeness of that ruin had now assumed epic proportions.
Under the tree, Smythe shifted, drawing his attention. “Like I said, I’ve two of the boys with me—or rather I’ve left them locked up tight. As it happens, they’re the best two by far, even though they’re the ones Grimsby had for the least time. They’re nimble and quick, and I can keep them in line well enough. I’ll need to teach them more—much more if we want to use them to do your jobs—because now we’ll need to get them clean away every time.”
Their original plan had involved leaving the boy used for each house inside the house once he’d passed out the lifted item; the boy would have orders to wait for an hour before attempting to leave—usually the most dangerous stage and the one where the boys were most likely to be caught—but by then Smythe, Alert, and the liberated items would be long gone.
Alert grimaced; Smythe had explained his procedures well enough for him to understand that with only two boys they couldn’t afford to lose them. He grunted. “I suppose, with only two, if you lose one, the other—seeing his own fate demonstrated—would run away rather than keep working.”
“Precisely. The boys need to be clever or they’re no use to me, but if they are…” Smythe shrugged. “These two are clever, but at heart they’re still East End boys. They’ll do what I tell them, as long as they feel safe enough.”
Alert paced. “How long will you need to train them well enough to use?”
“Now I’ve only got the two to concentrate on…four days.”
“Once they’re fully trained, will you be able to do the eight houses all on one night, as we’d planned?”
“No. No chance. Even four in one night is pushing it with only two boys. They get tired, they make mistakes, and you lose all your work.”
Alert thought it over, balancing Smythe’s concerns against his own knowledge of how the police would react once they learned of the burglaries. Any of the burglaries, the thefts he’d planned.
Drawing in a huge breath, he stopped pacing and faced Smythe. “Two nights. We can’t stretch it over more. Four houses on each of two nights. We can order the houses so the more difficult are at the end of the list. That way your boys can grow more experienced with the easier houses before having to face the more demanding—we’re less likely to lose them that way, and if we do, it’ll be toward the end of our game.”
Smythe considered, weighing the pros and cons—the most weighty being that he wanted to do the jobs—then nodded. “All right. We’ll do the eight over two nights.”
“Good.” Alert paused, then said, “We’ll meet here, three nights from now. Until then, keep yourself and those boys out of sight.”
An entirely unnecessary reminder; Smythe suppressed his instinctive reaction and evenly said, “That might not work, depending on when you want to do the jobs.” When Alert frowned, he continued, “I told you before—I need at least three days to study the houses. Given we’re doing so many, even if they’re in the same area, I’d prefer longer, but if I have to I’ll do the scouting in three days. But I won’t go in unless I’ve had at least that long.”
Alert hesitated, then his hand went to his pocket. Smythe stilled, but it was only a piece of paper Alert pulled out.
He looked at it, then held it out. “These are the houses, but the families are still in residence. Once they leave, and we’re ready to do the job, I’ll give you the list of the items we need to lift from each house, as well as details of where in each house the item to be lifted is located.”
Taking the list, Smythe glanced at it, but it was too dark to make out the words. Folding it, he put it in his pocket. “Still just the one item from each house?”
“Yes.” Alert’s gaze sharpened on his face. “As I explained at the outset, with these particular items, one from each house is all we need. You’ll be rich beyond your wildest imaginings with just one—eight items all told. And”—his voice lowered, becoming more steely, more threatening—“there are reasons why, in these instances, only that one item must be taken. To indiscriminately filch anything else will risk…the entire game.”
Smythe shrugged. “Whatever you say. I’ll check out these houses and train the boys—then once the coast is clear, just give me your list of items and we’ll do the deed.”
Alert studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. I’ll see you here three nights from now.”
With that, he turned and walked out of the cemetery.
Smythe remained under the tree and watched until Alert disappeared among the monuments. Smiling to himself, Smythe set off in a different direction.
He patted his pocket, reassured by the crackle of paper inside. He’d been waiting to get something on Alert—something that would identify the man; he didn’t like doing business with people he didn’t know, especially when they were toffs. When things went wrong, toffs had a habit of pointing at the lower orders and claiming complete innocence. Not that Smythe expected to be caught, but having a little something up his sleeve to either ensure Alert’s silence, or alternatively to trade if things got sticky, was always reassuring.
Now he had the list of houses—houses Alert knew contained a very valuable item, and more, that he knew well enough to describe that item and where it was located in detail.
“And how would you know that, my fine gentleman?” Grinning, Smythe answered the question. “Because you’re a regular visitor to every one of those houses.”
Eight houses. If he ever needed to identify Alert, a list of eight houses with which the man was intimately familiar would, Smythe felt sure, do the trick.
18
Investigations are often like pulling teeth.” Barnaby reached for another crumpet from the tray before Griselda’s parlor fire. “Painful and slow.”
Munching on her own crumpet, Penelope swallowed, then humphed. “A slow torture, you mean.”
Barnaby grimaced, but didn’t deny it.
Three days had passed since they’d raided Grimsby’s school; despite the best efforts of everyone involved, they hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about Smythe and the boys he’d spirited away. Jemmie and Dick were still out there somewhere, hence their somber mood.
Griselda slipped from her chair and retrieved the teapot she’d left on the hearth. Prosaically, she refilled their mugs. “How are the boys settling in at the Foundling House?”
“They’re doing very well.” Penelope had spent most of the previous two days smoothing the boys’ way and dealing with the formalities of assuming the guardianship of the two extra boys they’d found. “Of course, being rescued in a police raid on a notorious East End burglary school means they’ve become heroes of sorts, but one can scarcely begrudge them their moment, and it has made finding their feet among the other boys easier.”
It was Saturday afternoon. She’d come to ask Griselda if she’d heard anything from her East End contacts, which, unfortunately, she hadn’t. They’d settled in to console themselves with tea and crumpets b
y the fire in her parlor, then Barnaby had arrived; he’d looked for her first in Mount Street, and been redirected to St. John’s Wood by the redoubtable, unruffleable Leighton.
The day after the raid, he—Barnaby—had hied off to Leicester-shire to speak with the Honorable Carlton Riggs, in the hope Riggs might know who Alert was. As both Barnaby and Griselda knew Riggs by sight, they’d known he wasn’t Alert himself—Alert was, apparently, very fair-haired.
All very well, but instead of immediately and comprehensively satisfying her and Griselda’s curiosity the instant he’d appeared, on spying the crumpets Barnaby had declared himself in dire need of sustenance, refusing to say a word about his findings until his hunger was assuaged.
Which had led her to make a tart comment on the wretched slowness of their investigation, which had resulted in his comment about pulling teeth.
Curled up in one corner of the sofa, she watched him polish off the crumpet. “That’s your second.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You aren’t going to faint—so talk.”
His lips curved in a teasing smile. He reached for his mug, sipped, then sat back in the other corner of the sofa.
She looked at him expectantly; drawing breath, he opened his mouth—only to close it as a sharp knocking sounded on the front door.
Penelope closed her eyes and groaned, then quickly opened them and sat up. “That must be Stokes.” Griselda went past her to the stairs. “Perhaps he’s learned something.” She glared at Barnaby. “Something useful.”
If he’d made any advance, he would have been eager to share it.
Stokes climbed the stairs two at a time, then came to an abrupt halt at the top as he saw them. Penelope smiled and waved. Smiling herself, Griselda welcomed him, then led him to join them.
Subsiding into the armchair opposite Griselda’s, Stokes accepted the mug she offered him. He reached to snag a crumpet, but Penelope shot from the sofa and grabbed the plate. Stokes looked at her in surprise as she retreated to the sofa, shielding the plate within one arm. She caught his eye. “Report first. Then you can eat.”
Stokes looked from her to Barnaby, then shook his head. He sipped his tea, then sighed. “You may as well hand over that plate. I’ve nothing to report—nothing positive anyway.”
Penelope sighed, too, and stood again to put the plate back down on the hearth within Stokes’s reach. “Nothing?”
“Not a peep. Smythe has gone to ground. He’s not been seen at any of his regular haunts. The locals are helping as much as they can. We found where he’d been staying, but he’s moved—God knows where to.” Stokes helped himself to a crumpet.
“The watch on the house in St. John’s Wood Terrace,” Griselda prompted. “Have they seen anyone?”
Stokes shook his head. He chewed, then swallowed. “No one’s been near the place. All I can think of is that Smythe must have been somewhere outside in Weavers Street—he saw us take Grimsby and knew Grimsby would tell us about the house. Smythe knows how to contact Alert, so Smythe warned him off and went into hiding, taking the boys with him.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “Did Riggs have any clue?” He didn’t sound hopeful.
Which proved just as well.
“Not the slightest inkling.” Barnaby’s voice altered, slipping into mimickry. “Indeed, the notion that someone was using the back parlor of his love nest to meet with criminals in the dead of night positively appalled him.”
Penelope snorted.
“Exactly.” Barnaby inclined his head. “Riggs was that sort—pompous and blustering. I asked who else knew about the house, which of his friends he’d entertained there. The list was too long to contemplate. He’s had the place for over a decade and never made any secret of it to his male acquaintance. And of course, that means their gentlemen’s gentlemen, and his man’s friends, and various other servants, and so on and so forth—which is to say, there’s absolutely no way forward via Riggs.”
They didn’t all sigh, but it felt like it. A general moroseness settled over the room, until Griselda glanced around and said, “Buck up. We’ll keep looking. And the one good piece of news is that if we’ve heard nary a whisper about Smythe, that means he’s actively hiding, which means he’s most likely still looking to use the boys for his burglaries, which means he’ll keep them safe and well fed. By all accounts, he’s one to keep his tools in prime condition.”
Penelope blinked. “So he’ll take good care of them because it’s in his own best interests?”
“Exactly. So there’s no sense imagining they’re in danger of being knocked about, or spending their nights shivering under a bridge somewhere. Smythe will most likely take better care of them than Grimsby. He wanted eight, but now he’s only got two—he’s not going to risk them.”
Both Barnaby and Stokes slowly sat up; both were frowning.
“He’s still planning to do these burglaries, isn’t he? The ones with Alert.” Stokes looked at Barnaby. “I assumed he’d give it up after we raided the school.”
Barnaby nodded. “I assumed the same. But as Griselda so sagely points out, he hasn’t given up the plan—because if he had, he’d just let the boys go, and with so many in the East End eager to claim that reward, we’d have heard of it by now. And he would let them go—they’re no threat to him yet, and entirely unnecessary baggage—unless he has a use for them, and the only use would be…” Eyes lighting, he raised his cup in a toast. “The game is still on.”
Stokes leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “So what’s his plan—which houses, and why?”
“It’s not Smythe doing the planning, at least not the where, when, or what for. That’s all coming from Alert. He’s providing the details, Smythe is providing the expertise. And Alert, we know, is a gentleman.”
Penelope raised her brows, wondering what that last fact might imply.
After a moment Barnaby continued, “I’ve been thinking about what Grimsby said about Smythe needing so many boys because he was to hit a whole string of houses in one night.” He looked at Stokes. “That’s not Smythe’s—or any burglar’s—usual modus operandi. The ‘all in one night’ is being dictated by Alert. But why? Why would a gentleman insist on a series of burglaries being done all in one night?”
Stokes stared back at him. Eventually he offered, “The only thing I can think of, as Grimsby also said, is that they’ll get no trouble from the police if the whole series—and one assumes there has to be some reason behind doing a series of burglaries in the first place—is done in one night. Once a burglary is discovered, it takes a day, more usually two, to organize more men on patrol, that sort of thing.”
Barnaby nodded. “Which leaves us with two points. One—correct me if I err, but increased police patrols and so on would only happen if the houses burgled are in Mayfair.” When Stokes nodded, Barnaby continued, “That confirms what we’ve suspected given Smythe’s need for burglary boys—that these burglaries are of a series of houses in Mayfair. However, to my second point, his insistence on the burglaries being done all in one night suggests that once the burglaries—even one of them—are discovered, the outcry will be significant, enough to make any further burglaries in Mayfair too risky.”
Stokes’s face blanked. “Hell.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “The only scenario that makes sense of Alert’s plan—a string of houses in Mayfair that must be burgled all in one night—is that the items to be stolen are extremely valuable.”
Stokes focused on Barnaby. “Any chance of us getting the word out through the ton—putting households on alert? Possibly identifying households that have extremely valuable items of the sort a boy could lift?”
Barnaby looked at him, then glanced at the window and the louring sky beyond. “As to your first question, Parliament rose on Thursday. It’s now late Saturday afternoon.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “We’re too late for any general alert—most ton families will have left town by now. More than that, in the current political climate I don’t think it would b
e wise for Peel to suggest, however obliquely, that the police weren’t able to protect the mansions of Mayfair from the depredations of one burglar.”
Stokes pulled a horrendous face and looked away.
“As for identifying households containing smallish items that are extremely valuable,” Penelope said, “the entire ton is littered with such things. Every house in Mayfair would have at least one, and in many cases more than one.” She grimaced, looking from Stokes to Griselda, then back again. “I know it seems absurd, but generally those things have been in our families for generations. We don’t think of them as valuable, but as Great-aunt Mary’s vase that she got from her Parisian admirer. That sort of thing. The vase might be priceless Limoges, but that’s not why it’s sitting on the corner table, and it’s not how we think of, or remember, it.”
“She’s right.” Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “Forget any idea of identifying which houses.” He grimaced. “While we might now know the sort of item Alert is after, that sadly doesn’t get us much further.”
After a moment, Stokes said, “Perhaps not. But there is one other thing.” He looked at Barnaby. “If, as seems certain, Alert’s plan was designed to avoid police interference, then Alert, whoever he is—”
“Knows a damned sight more than the average gentleman about the workings of the Metropolitan Police.” Barnaby nodded. “Indeed.”
After a moment, he went on, “We can’t find Smythe, and we can’t identify the houses he’s targeting well enough to set any trap. By my reckoning, that leaves us with only one avenue worth exploring.”
Stokes nodded. “We go after Alert.”
She’d told herself it was frustration, disappointment, and simple impatience with the investigation that had driven her to seek distraction—but the truth was, she’d missed him.
Later that night, Penelope lay propped in Barnaby’s big bed. He lay beside her, on his back, one arm crooked above his head. The glow of candlelight fell over them. She let her gaze wander, and smiled with, she had to admit, possessive delight.
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