Where The Heart Leads (31 page)

“And if he needs boys,” Barnaby said, “he’ll hang on to the two he has—he won’t let them go.”

“Damn!”
Stokes gave voice to their frustration. After a moment, he said, “Let’s see what we can learn from Grimsby.”

“Try Wally first.” Penelope glanced at the younger man. “He’s…simpler.”

Not precisely simple, but she was fairly certain Wally wasn’t dealing from a full pack. Turning from her and Barnaby, Stokes faced his prisoners. Sliding her hand into Barnaby’s, Penelope squeezed, then releasing him, made her way quietly back to the boys; she didn’t want them to feel deserted again.

After a moment’s hesitation, Barnaby followed her.

For some moments, Stokes stared impassively at Grimsby, then considered Wally. Eventually, he said, “Wally, isn’t it?” When, a puzzled frown on his face, Wally nodded, Stokes asked, “Who told you to kill Mrs. Carter?”

Wally’s frown deepened. He shook his head. “I didn’t kill no one. Who’s Mrs. Carter?”

It was transparently obvious that Wally was telling the truth. “You took the boy, Jemmie, from his mother—she was Mrs. Carter.”

Wally nodded, his face clearing. “Aye—I fetched Jemmie away. Went with Smythe to fetch him. His ma weren’t well, but she was alive when we left.”

“When you left.” Stokes paused, then ventured, “So you and Jemmie left…”

Wally nodded. “Smythe told me to take Jemmie out so he could speak private like with Jemmie’s ma, then when he came out he said she’d said Jemmie should come along with us because she was feeling poorly and needed to rest.”

“I see. And yesterday you went with Smythe to Black Lion Yard.”

Again Wally nodded. “Aye. We was supposed to fetch another boy—his grandma was ailing.” Wally’s frown returned. “But it all went wrong. We was only wanting to take the boy to put him into Mr. Grimsby’s school here, so he’d have a trade when he grew up, but people there didn’t understand.”

It wasn’t the people of Black Lion Yard who hadn’t understood. Stokes looked at Barnaby, standing beside Penelope. Barnaby tilted his head toward the boys, and mouthed, “Smythe.”

Refocusing on Wally, Stokes asked, “Do you know where Smythe stays—he has two of the boys, hasn’t he?”

“Aye. He took Dick and Jemmie out to train on the streets last night. Said they’re the sharpest two.” Wally’s brow furrowed even
more as he realized. “He hasn’t brought them back though—well, don’t suppose he will, not with all you rozzers about. But I don’t know where he hangs his hat. The boss might know.” He looked at Grimsby.

Who looked thoroughly disgusted. “No, I don’t know. Smythe’s not one to hand out cards, much less invite me around for a glass or two of an evening. Keeps to himself with a vengeance, he does.”

Barnaby had expected no less. He glanced at Penelope, gently squeezed the fingers she’d once again slipped into his hand.

Stokes turned to Grimsby. “You’ve been around long enough to know the ropes, Grimsby. You’ve been running a school here, training boys to assist with burglaries. No judge is going to look kindly on that. You’ll be spending the rest of your unnatural life behind bars. You won’t see daylight again.”

Grimsby’s disgust deepened. “Yeah, I know. So…” He eyed Stokes speculatively. “If I agree to help by telling all I know, what’s me options?”

Stokes’s smile was the epitome of cynical. “If—and I stress if—you can convince me you’ve bared your soul, and what you have assists us in our investigations, then I’ll speak to the judge. A more lenient sentence is the most you can expect. Transportation instead of a cell.”

Grimsby pulled a face. “I’m too old for long sea journeys.”

“Better than spending the rest of your life in the dark, so I’ve heard.” Stokes shrugged. “Regardless, in your case, that’s the best I can do.”

Grimsby screwed up his face, then heaved a huge sigh. “All right. But damn it, I
warned
them—Smythe and Alert both—once I saw that blasted notice. Told them the game was getting too hot, but would they listen? No. No respect for age and experience. And so now
I’m
the one ends behind bars when all I’m doing is teaching nippers a few tricks.
I’m
not the one leading them astray.”

“Don’t you dare try to pretend that you’re not an evil old man preying on the innocence of young boys.”

Penelope’s voice sliced through the closeness, vibrating with so much fury it literally shocked. Everyone fell silent.

Grimsby stared at her—met her eyes across the space—paled, and edged back toward the two burly bobbies.

Stokes cleared his throat. “Indeed. I couldn’t have put it better.”

Grimsby sent a shocked look his way. “Who’s she?” he whispered hoarsely.

“She, and the gentleman beside her, have a close interest in this matter, and between them are probably related to any of the judges you’re likely to meet.” Stokes held Grimsby’s increasingly horrified gaze. “I think that’s your cue to leave aside the excuses and tell us what we want to know.”

Flustered, Grismby waved his shackled hands. “Happy to tell you all I know. I said so.”

Stokes didn’t smile. “Who’s Alert?”

“This toff who’s got some plan to rob places.”

“Houses in Mayfair.”

“Yes. He wanted a cracksman, so I put him onto Smythe, but I don’t know anything about their arrangements.”

“You don’t know anything about the planned burglaries?” Stokes looked skeptical.

“I don’t! Alert plays his cards slap up against his chest—cool beggar, he is. And Smythe’s as close as a clam about any job he does. All I know is Smythe decided he needed eight boys. Eight! I ain’t never heard of a cracksman needing eight boys all at once, but that’s what Smythe said he wanted.”

“And you were happy to supply him, of course.”

Grimsby looked grumpy. “No, as a matter of fact. Eight is hard to get—especially with Smythe being so particular. Wouldn’t have done it, even for him, except…”

When Grimsby shot him a look, Stokes filled in the gap. “Smythe had something on you, some lever to pressure you into doing what he wanted.”

“Not Smythe. Alert.”

Stokes frowned. “How did a toff brush up against the likes of you, let alone get some hold over you?”

Grimsby grimaced. “Happened a few years ago. I was going through a bad patch. Tried a little jemmying on me own. I used to have a flair for it in me youth. Broke into a place—and walked into Alert in the dark. Coshed me, he did. When I came around, he had me trussed tight—he gave me a choice, tell him all about who I was, what I did, how I did it, and so on, and he wouldn’t hand me over to the rozzers. Like I was his entertainment for the evening. I fingered him
for one of those nobs who likes to rub shoulders with us hoi polloi, likes to think of themselves as in the know, so I told him everything.” Grimsby shook his head at his own naïveté. “Didn’t seem any great risk at the time. I mean, he was a toff—a gentleman. What would he care about me and what I told him?”

“But he remembered.”

Grimsby passed a hand over his face. “Aye, all too well.” He paused, then went on, “He said if I provided Smythe with the boys he wanted, he’d forget he’d ever met me.”

“And you believed him?’

“What choice did I have?” Grimsby glanced around, disgusted again. “And here I am anyway, in the arms of the rozzers.”

Leaving Penelope’s side, Barnaby joined Stokes. “You say Alert is a toff—describe him.”

Grimsby eyed him, then said, “Not as tall as you. Brown hair—darkish and straight. Middling to heavy weight. I’ve never seen him in good light, so can’t say much more than that.”

“Clothes?” Barnaby asked.

“Good quality—Mayfair quality.”

“Have you met with him recently?” Stokes asked.

Grimsby nodded. “In a house in St. John’s Wood. We meet in the back parlor. He sends a message to Smythe if he wants us there, or if we need a meet, Smythe leaves a note at some tavern—I don’t know where.”

“Does Smythe know all of Alert’s plan?” Barnaby asked.

“Not as of yesterday. When he came to fetch the boys he was grumbling about Alert being so cagey about naming the targets. Smythe likes to do a fair amount of reconnoitering before he goes in. Smythe knows more’n I do, but he doesn’t know it all. Not yet.”

Stokes frowned. “This house you meet in—it’s his?”

Grimsby pulled a “how should I know” face. “I assume it is. He’s always right at home there, comfy and relaxed.”

“What’s the address?” Stokes asked.

“Number 32, St. John’s Wood Terrace. We always go round the back, to the parlor doors to the garden. There’s a lane running behind.”

Barnaby had been studying Grimsby. “You say Smythe wanting
eight boys is unusual. Why do you think he wants so many?” When Grimsby shrugged, Barnaby let his tone harden. “Guess.”

Grimsby held his gaze for a moment, then said, “If I had to guess, I’d say Alert’s plan was to hit more’n eight houses all at once—all in one night. That way you rozzers wouldn’t have any chance to get in his way.”

Head rising, Barnaby envisioned it, combined the prospect with what Grimsby had already let fall. “You said targets. Specific targets. So Alert is planning to send Smythe to burgle specific houses that he—Alert—has selected in Mayfair, more than eight of them, all in one night.” He refocused on Grimsby. “Is that his plan?”

“That’s as much as I can
guess,
” Grimsby said. “Which houses, I have no clue.”

Stokes eyed Grimsby assessingly, then asked, “Is there anything else—anything at all—you can tell us?”

“Especially about Alert,” Barnaby added.

Grimsby went to shake his head, then stopped. “One thing—don’t know if it’s real or just me imagination, but on more than one occasion, Alert said he knows how the police operate. He stressed it—he was always telling us to leave worrying about the rozzers to him.”

Stokes frowned. He glanced at Barnaby.

Barnaby returned his gaze; no more than Stokes did he like the sound of that. Softly, he said, “A gentleman who feels confident in knowing how the police operate.”

Stokes turned back to Grimsby. “This house in St. John’s Wood Terrace. I think it’s time we paid your Mr. Alert a visit.”

“There’s no ‘Mr. Alert’ living in St. John’s Wood Terrace.” Griselda’s voice had everyone glancing her way. She colored, but looked steadily at Stokes. “I know that stretch. I’m not sure who lives in number 32, but I’m certain their name’s not Alert.”

Stokes nodded. “Hardly surprising—he’ll be using an alias.”

Beside him, Barnaby murmured, “But he’s using his own house?”

That was hard to swallow, but clearly they had to visit St. John’s Wood Terrace to learn what they could. Stokes gave orders for Wally to be taken to Scotland Yard. Sergeant Miller, Grimsby, and his two guards would go with them to St. John’s Wood.

While hackneys were being summoned and the other bobbies
given orders to return to their watch houses, Barnaby and Stokes crossed to where Penelope and Griselda were marshaling the five boys.

Penelope looked up as they neared. Her expression declared she was torn between the duty she felt to see the boys safe and settled at the Foundling House and her determination to catch the villains. The news that Alert was a gentleman would only have driven her resolve to new heights—as it had with Barnaby.

Halting by her side, he met her eyes, and waited for her decision, far too wise in her ways to even hint which way he felt it should go.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll take the boys to the Foundling House.”

He nodded. “I’ll go with Stokes.”

Stokes indicated two constables standing by the door. “Johns and Matthews will see you safely to the Foundling House. They’ve got a hackney waiting.”

Penelope murmured her thanks and started ushering the boys out. The five were still round-eyed, staring at the police, noting the shackles on Grimsby and Wally. Drinking it all in so they could later describe the scene to others—their ticket to importance at least for a few days.

Barnaby helped her to get the boys in the carriage, then took her hand and assisted her up. She paused on the step and looked back at him. He smiled. “I’ll come and tell you all later.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Thank you. I’ll be dying of curiosity until then.”

He released her. Stepping back, he shut the carriage door.

Griselda came bustling up to look in through the window. “I’m going with them. I’ll see you later. I promise to tell you all, including what he”—she tipped her head at Barnaby—“leaves out.”

Penelope laughed and sat back. The two bobbies had already clambered up. The jarvey cracked his whip and the horse started plodding—taking her and her five charges to the Foundling House, where they all belonged.

“Is this it?” Pointing to the door of number 32, St. John’s Wood Terrace, Stokes looked at Grimsby.

“Aye.” Grimsby nodded. “Never came to the front—he always had us come and go through the back lane. But this is the one, right enough.”

Stokes marched up the steps and plied the knocker with an authoritative beat.

After a moment, footsteps approached. The door opened, revealing an older maid in cap and apron. “Yes?”

“Inspector Stokes, Scotland Yard. I’d like to speak with Mr. Alert.”

The maid frowned. “There’s no Mr. Alert here—you must have the wrong address.” Eyeing the small crowd gathered on the pavement with open disapproval, she started to close the door.

“One moment.” Stokes’s tone halted her. “I’ll need to speak with your employer. Please fetch him.”

The maid eyed the rabble behind him—and turned up her nose. “Her. And it’s far too early. It’s barely eight—hardly a decent hour—”

She broke off, staring at Stokes and the notebook he’d hauled from his greatcoat pocket.

He glanced up at her, pencil poised. “Your name, miss?”

She primmed her lips, then, “Very well. Wait here—I’ll fetch Miss Walker.”

She turned and shut the door, allowing Stokes a small smile.

Barnaby joined him on the steps; they leaned on the railings to either side of the porch. “Ten minutes,” Barnaby said. “At least.”

Stokes shrugged. “She might make it in five.”

Eight minutes later the door opened again, but as the vision revealed was rather scantily clad in a lacy robe, Barnaby felt he’d been closer to the mark. The woman’s face was fashionably pale, but there were dark smudges under her eyes. She took in Stokes—slowly—then looked her fill at Barnaby before returning her gaze to Stokes’s face. “Yes?”