A friendship that had grown and deepened, that had come to be because they all shared one trait—a liking for justice, for seeing justice served. They differed in many ways, but that they all shared—it linked them and always would.
She felt Stokes’s gray gaze. She met his eyes—held them for an instant, glorying in the connection, in what she could see and feel, then, knowing she’d blush if she looked too long, she looked down and sipped.
The conversation grew intermittent, desultory.
The tea had grown cold; she was contemplating refreshing the pot when a heavy pounding rattled her front door.
They all looked up. Then Stokes and Barnaby were on their feet, heading for the stairs. Penelope set down her mug and followed. Griselda brought up the rear.
The pounding didn’t stop. Stokes reached the door first. He threw the bolts and hauled it wide.
The young boy who’d been thumping jumped back, eyes flaring wide.
Stokes pinned him with a hard stare. “What’s going on?”
When that just elicited a frightened stare, he tried to soften his tone. “Who did you want to see?”
“Me, obviously.” Griselda pushed past him. She recognized the lad. “Barry—what’s happened?”
Reassured, relieved, the boy came closer. “Me brothers said fer you to come right away, miss—t’ Black Lion Yard. Some beggar tried to kill Horry’s gran’ma.”
The four crowding the front door exchanged one glance, then Pe
nelope fled to fetch her coat, Barnaby at her heels. Griselda turned back to Barry Wills. “Wait here—we’ll be with you in an instant.”
It was evening by the time they reached Black Lion Yard. Leaving the hackney at the entrance, they hurried across the cobbles, dodging the crates and boxes to reach Mary Bushel’s home.
Stokes led the way in. None of them knew what they would find, but all were relieved to see Mary hale and whole in her chair by the fire, flanked by two burly Wills boys.
Both Wills brothers and the small room looked the worse for wear. Barnaby recognized Joe, now sporting a developing black eye and a split lip.
Joe nodded in greeting. “The blackguards came.” He glanced at Mary, satisfaction in his eyes. “Didn’t get Mary nor Horry, either.” He looked at Stokes, and grimaced. “But we couldn’t hold them—they got away.”
Stokes looked grim, but nodded. “Mary’s and Horry’s safety comes first. What happened? Start at the beginning.”
Joe glanced at Mary.
She looked up at him, perched on the arm of her chair, then reached out and patted his hand. “You tell it, dearie.”
Joe nodded and faced them. “Ted and me were here keeping watch. Ted saw them coming—saw the way they looked around as they came. So he and I took Horry out back”—with his head he indicated a curtained doorway—“and listened and watched from there.”
“They knocked,” Mary put in, “polite as you please. Said they were from the bailiff.”
“There were two of them?” Stokes clarified.
Mary nodded. “One was a big bruiser, the other just your average bloke.”
Barnaby caught Stokes’s eye; the description fitted the pair who’d taken Jemmie.
Mary went on, “Asked about me health, and about Horry, where he was. I got annoyed—well, anyone would—and told them they ought to leave. But they didn’t. The big one picked up that cushion there, and…” Her gaze on the cushion, her voice faded away.
Joe put his arm around Mary’s shoulders. He looked at Stokes. “He was going to smother Mary with the cushion. Held it in his hands and came toward her. That’s when we came out.”
Mary sniffed. “A right to-do it was, wrestling, crashing about.”
Stokes frowned. He looked at Joe and his brother. “How did they get away? There’s two of you, and three bobbies were outside.”
Joe looked sheepish. “We thought they’d fight. That they’d try to get through us to Mary and Horry. Only they didn’t. The instant they realized we were set on protecting them, and Horry blew the whistle you gave him, they scarpered. And Smythe’s a big man—you’d need more than two to hold him. He shook us off, pushed the other bloke out, and then went through your bobbies like ninepins.”
“Smythe.” Barnaby couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “You know him?”
Joe nodded. “That’s why I wasn’t all that bothered about him getting away. Least we know who he is.”
“What’s he like, this Smythe?” Stokes asked.
“He’s a cracksman by trade, and word is he’s not a man to cross.” Joe frowned. “Never heard tell that he was one to get blood on his hands—cracksmen generally don’t—but he sure as eggs was going to snuff out Mary.”
“By cracksman, you mean burglar,” Barnaby said. “Does he use boys?”
Joe nodded. “High-class burglar—he definitely uses boys.”
“Do you know where he gets them from?”
Joe shook his head. “Smythe’s a loner—most of the best cracksmen are. He gets his boys from schoolmasters in the slums, but he’ll take them from whoever’s got them. I’ve heard tell he’s right fussy about his boys, but again, good cracksmen are. What makes them good, I suppose.”
Ted, his brother, shifted. When everyone looked at him, he colored and ducked his head. Glancing at his brother, he said, “The other bloke—he works for Grimsby. Most like Smythe’s getting his boys from ole Grimsby, else why’d he have Grimsby’s lad with him to do the snatching?”
Joe was as stunned as the rest of them. “You know the bloke?”
Ted nodded. “Wally. Works for Grimsby.”
Joe shook his head. He looked at Stokes. “I wouldn’t know the geezer again if I saw him.”
Grim-faced, Stokes nodded. “We’ve heard he’s like that—ordinary.”
“Aye, he’s that,” Ted said. “He’s not all that clever, but he knows to follow orders. Been with Grimsby for years.”
“Well—there you are then.” Joe looked at them all. “It’s Grimsby you’re after—everyone knows he runs schools now and then.”
“Where,” Stokes asked, the intensity of the hunt in his voice, “can we find Grimsby?”
“More to the point”—Penelope spoke for the first time—“where can we find his school?”
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
The old saying threaded through Grimsby’s mind as he stepped through the French door into Alert’s parlor. As always, the room was wreathed in shadows. With the clouds heavy in the sky, there was little light to illuminate the room; he could just make out Alert, sitting in his usual armchair by the hearth.
Mentally cursing the man, Grimsby lumbered forward, Smythe at his back. They ranged before Alert, who remained seated, as he always did.
Neither he nor Smythe needed better light to know Alert was furious, although he hid it well.
“What happened?” Alert’s flat tones cut through the silence.
Smythe told him, baldly and succinctly. He concluded with the most pertinent point. “They were waiting for us.”
When Alert didn’t respond, just sat there looking up at them, Grimsby shifted. “We have to back off. The rozzers know of your game. They’re onto it. If you don’t want to walk away, then at least put the business on hold until the interest dies down.”
Alert studied him, but said nothing.
“Look.” Grimsby tried to find words to convey the situation in all its danger. “There’s those notices out there now, and people have heard about a reward. Next thing we know this boy and his grandma
have protection—
local
protection—and bobbies on the watch, too. This has become too hot to handle.” Expression hardening, he reiterated, “We need to back off.”
The man they knew as Alert slowly shook his head. “No.” He held their gazes and waited, letting the absolute finality of his refusal sink in. Unbeknown to them, he’d suffered a visit from his blood-sucking cent-per-cent earlier in the evening—just to remind him that reneging on his promise to repay wouldn’t be a wise idea.
He’d assured the man that all was in place. Even if it was he who said so, his plan was brilliant. It would succeed. He’d be free of his debts once and for all; by the turn of the year, he’d have the fortune he’d for years pretended he had.
“We’ll go ahead”—he looked at Smythe—“with the seven boys we have. As you’ve botched getting the eighth, you’ll make do with seven.”
Smythe gave no sign of agreement or disagreement. Which was good enough for Alert. Smythe wasn’t his principal source of concern.
He looked at Grimsby. “You will continue to train and house the boys. You’ll have them ready for Smythe. He’ll complete their training as necessary. And in a few days, we’ll make our move. All you have to do is play your part for a few more days.” He let his voice soften. “That’s all you need do to ensure you never hear from me again—never hear a whisper about what I know.”
What he knew would see Grimsby transported, and, as Grimsby knew, he could make it happen. And he would if Grimsby didn’t dance to his tune.
He wasn’t at all surprised to see Grimsby’s lips thin, but the man offered no further argument.
Shifting his gaze to Smythe, he arched a brow. “Any comments?”
Smythe stared back at him, then shook his head. “I’ll do the job—jobs—with seven, then. They’re not going to be as well trained as I’d like, but…” He shrugged. “With luck, we’ll get by.”
“Good.” That was exactly what Alert had wanted to hear. Smythe, thank God, knew how to keep him happy.
Smythe tipped his head toward the door. “I’ve the most promising two with me tonight. I’ll take them out on the streets, teach them how to move about the lanes and houses, how to get into and out of the
mansions and to find their way around inside. I’ve found two empty houses in Mayfair. I’ll train them there.”
Alert let his approbation show. “Excellent. So despite this minor hiccup, we’re on track. Our scheme goes forward as planned.”
He looked from one to the other. “Any more questions?”
They shook their heads.
“Well, then.” With a smile, he waved to the door. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
He waited until Smythe had stepped outside and Grimsby was about to follow before saying, in quite a different tone, “Take care, Grimsby.”
Grimsby glanced back at him, then turned and followed Smythe out, pulling the door shut behind him.
Alert sat in the dark and—for the umpteenth time—went over his plan. It was sound. It was necessary. In the silent dark, his need was very clear, the pressure to succeed tangible, real.
He didn’t like to consider failure, but an escape route was an essential part of any careful plan. Sitting back, he looked around, then up, and smiled.
Even if the entire scheme went arse-over-tit, he would escape detection. He’d have to leave London to avoid the cent-per-cent, but he’d still be free.
Judging that sufficient time had elapsed, he rose and let himself out through the French door, carefully locking it behind him. An acquaintance, Riggs, scion of a noble house, owned the town house; Riggs’s mistress, who lived there, was, most helpfully, addicted to laudanum. Riggs, of course, had left London for the delights of the country weeks ago, leaving his town house as the perfect place for the man known as Alert to indulge his alter ego.
As he walked away into the night, he smiled. If the scheme did, indeed, go all to pieces, there was nothing to connect him with it. No way whatever to trace any of it back to him.
F
or what Penelope understood was the very first time, the new police force and the denizens of the East End worked shoulder to shoulder to locate Grimsby and his burglary school.
Joe Wills and his brothers got the word out, telling their mates, ensuring that the request and the purpose behind it, the attack on Mary, the story of Jemmie and his murdered mother, percolated through the area.
It was a densely populated enclave; local word of mouth was more powerful even than printed notices offering a reward.
The information they’d been searching for finally came in late that night. Both Penelope and Griselda had flatly refused to return to their respective homes; Penelope unbent enough to send a note to Calverton House, but otherwise refused to budge. She and Griselda sat in chairs in Stokes’s office and waited alongside the men. Their men. Neither needed any discussion to know that was how things stood.
Joe Wills was shown in just before midnight. He looked uneasy to be surrounded by police, but even as a sergeant ushered him in, triumph glowed in his eyes.
Penelope saw it. She rose. “You found them.”
Joe grinned at her and ducked his head. He nodded to Griselda, then looked at Stokes and Barnaby, now also standing, behind Stokes’s desk. “Someone had the bright idea to look in Grimsby Street.”
Stokes looked at him disbelievingly. “He lives in Grimsby Street?”
“Nah. But the street’s named after his granddad, so seemed likely someone round there might know where he’d sloped off to. Sure
enough, his old auntie still lives there—she told us he has a place in Weavers Street. It’s not far from Grimsby Street.
“We went around there and checked it out quiet like. It was easy to find once we knew where to look—he’s lived there for years.” Joe met Stokes’s eyes. “I left Ned, Ted, and some of our mates watching the place. It’s got two floors above, and attics above that. The neighbors we spoke with didn’t know anything about boys, but if they’re kept indoors on the upper floors, there’s no reason they’d be seen. They—the neighbors—did know that Wally lives there, along with Grimsby.”
Stokes was scribbling. “So there’s at least two men inside the house.”
“Aye.” Joe grimaced. “Don’t know about Smythe. The neighbors know him enough to recognize, but far as they know he ain’t there, and doesn’t normally stay there.”
“Good. It’s Grimsby and the boys we want first. Smythe can come later.” Stokes looked up at the sergeant hovering in the doorway. “Miller—tell Coates I’ll need all the men he can spare.”
The sergeant straightened. “Now, sir?”
Stokes glanced at the clock. “To be assembled downstairs in an hour. I want a cordon around the building before we go in.”
The next hours flew in a frenzy of organization, one in which, for once, Penelope had no role. Reduced to the status of observer, she sat quietly beside Griselda and watched—with nearly as keen an interest as her companion—Stokes in action.
When Barnaby strolled over and arched a brow, she deigned to be impressed. “I had no idea the police were—could be—so efficient.”
He glanced back at Stokes, seated at his desk surrounded by subordinates, all concentrating on a map as they placed their forces. Joe stood at Stokes’s shoulder; Stokes deferred to him frequently, checking that the area was in fact as the map said. Barnaby smiled. “Not all of them, sadly, are. Stokes is different.” Looking back, he met Griselda’s eyes. “In my opinion, he’s the best of the bunch.”
Griselda nodded, and transferred her gaze once more to Stokes.
Penelope studied Barnaby’s face. “How much longer before we go?” For her, that was the only remaining question.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes again. “I’d say within the hour.”
By the time they reached Weavers Street it was edging toward dawn. A small army had quietly encircled the area; more bobbies
hugged the shadows up and down the street. Weavers Street had two arms; Grimsby’s house was in the center of the shorter stretch. A rundown, sagging, largely timber structure, it looked little different from its neighbors; two alleys, barely wide enough for a man, ran down both sides.
It was cold and damp. Fog had rolled in through the night, and now hung low; the close-packed houses kept the wind out, so there was nothing to stir, let alone help lift the dense veils; Penelope could barely see Grimsby’s front door from where she stood beneath the overhang of a rude porch directly across the narrow street.
Peering at the building through the murky gloom, she could just make out shutters, all closed. There wouldn’t be glass in any windows; she hoped the men gathering in the street continued to do so silently.
Stokes and Barnaby had circled the house, checking all exits. From what she’d gathered from their murmured conversation—they were the only two allowed to speak—they believed all escape routes were now blocked.
Feeling expectation rise, Penelope glanced around. The ranks of the bobbies had been swelled by local men. Farther back in the gloom hung women; despite the hour, they’d thrown shawls about their shoulders and come out to watch. Most would be mothers with sons of their own; while their men openly glowered, it was the silent intensity in the women’s shadowed eyes that made Penelope shiver.
Griselda, beside her, arched a brow at her.
Penelope leaned close and whispered, “If Grimsby has an ounce of self-preservatory sense, he’ll give himself up to Stokes.” She glanced at the locals.
Following her gaze, Griselda nodded. “The East End takes care of its own.”
Barnaby materialized from the fog before them. “We’re about to go in. You’re to stay here until Sergeant Miller fetches you—he’ll come and get you, and escort you inside as soon as the boys are freed.” He looked directly at Penelope. “If you don’t stay here until Miller comes, I’ll never, ever, tell you anything about any of my investigations again.”
His lips set in a grim line; even through the gloom, she felt the force of his blue gaze.
Without waiting for any assent, he turned on his heel and stalked off through the fog.
Beside Penelope, Griselda shifted. “Never ever?” she murmured.
Penelope shrugged.
Even though there’d been no general announcement, excitement spread through the watching crowd.
There was a brief flurry of activity about Grimsby’s door; Barnaby was in the thick of it, with Stokes by his side. Then the door swung inward revealing a yawning black cavern. Grabbing a lantern, Stokes unshielded it and led the way inside.
“Police!”
The sudden noise was deafening as bobbies piled through the door. Stokes and Barnaby were lost in the wave. Penelope weaved, trying to see, but a cordon of bobbies lined up outside the door, keeping everyone else out; they blocked her view.
More lights flared on the ground floor, then a faint glow appeared on the first floor. Grabbing Griselda’s arm, Penelope pointed. “They’re going upstairs.” The glow came from deep within the building, distant from the shuttered windows facing the front.
In the front corner of the first floor, another light, smaller and much closer to the windows, bloomed.
“I’ll bet that’s Grimsby,” Griselda said.
One of the shutters on that corner swung open; a large round head topped with scraggly gray hair poked out.
The onlookers promptly jeered.
“Come on down here, Grimsby.”
“Killing old women.”
“We’ll show you what’s what.”
Those and other chants rose through the fog.
Grimsby—it had to be he—goggled. With a weak,
“Strewth!”
he slammed the shutter closed.
The crowd jeered more loudly, baying for his blood.
A series of thuds and thumps emanated from the house, along with shouts that were impossible to make out.
Penelope jigged. She wanted—
needed
—to know what was going on. Where were the boys?
The glow of the lantern had reached the second floor. For long
moments, it remained on that level. The glow strengthened as more lanterns joined the first.
Penelope peered at the boards just below the roofline. Joe Wills had said there were attics, but there were no windows to be seen from the front. There didn’t seem to be any dormers on the sides, either. She jogged Griselda’s elbow. “There’s no windows for the attics.”
Griselda glanced up. “It’ll just be the space under the roof. No windows. Probably no proper floor either, and no walls or ceiling—just the underside of the shingles.”
Penelope shivered. Then she clutched Griselda’s arm and pointed upward again. The lantern bearers—Stokes and Barnaby, she’d wager—had at last found their way into the attics. Light shone through the cracks between the boards and through the ill-fitting shingles. “They’re there.”
For the next five minutes, she prayed that all the boys would be safe, and that all five would be there. She was about to risk never ever knowing anything about Barnaby’s investigations again when Miller came and rescued her. He conducted her and Griselda through the crowd gathering in the street, then through the police cordon and into the house.
If it could be called a house; it appeared more like a warehouse filled to the rafters with junk. Penelope and Griselda halted in what little space there was, midway between the door and the stairs, just as the first boy was led down.
Penelope anxiously counted heads as one by one boys trooped down the stairs.
Five!
She smiled brilliantly, ecstatic with relief.
In the dim light, the boys milled, looking around, confused, clutching blankets around bony shoulders. Imperiously, she called, “This way, boys!”
Her tone and manner, perfected over the years, had an instant effect. The boys’ heads came up; she beckoned, and three quickly headed her way. The other two followed more slowly.
The first three lined up before her. “Excellent.” She studied their faces, recognizing all three—the first three boys who’d been filched from under the Foundling House’s nose.
One, Fred Hachett, blinked large brown eyes up at her. “You’re the lady from the house. M’mum said you was supposed to fetch me, but ole Grimsby came instead.”
“Indeed—he stole you.” Penelope continued to smile, but the gesture now had an edge. “And so we’re taking you back, and sending him to prison.”
The boys glanced around at the bobbies pushing past, most heading out now the boys had been found and the villains caught.
“Were all these rozzers ’ere for us then?” one of the others asked.
Penelope racked her brain, and came up with a name. “Yes, Dan, they were. We’ve been hunting for you for weeks.”
The boys exchanged glances, as if impressed with their worth.
“Right, now.” Penelope beamed at the boys; she could barely believe that after all their searching, they had them back safe and sound. “We’ll be taking you to the Foundling House directly.” She shifted to catch the eyes of the last two boys, who continued to hang back.
Abruptly her heart sank. Sickeningly.
They should have been Dick and Jemmie. But they weren’t.
Seeing her staring, they ducked their heads.
After a moment, one peeked at her from under a grimy fringe. “What about us, then, miss? Tommy here and me—we weren’t s’pposed to go to any house.”
Penelope blinked; she struggled to think through the emotions careening around her mind. “No, but…you’re orphans now, aren’t you?”
Tommy and his friend exchanged glances, then nodded.
“In that case, you can come along, too. We can work out the details later, but there’s no need for you to go out on the streets. You can come along with Fred, Dan, and Ben, and we’ll get you all an excellent breakfast and a warm bed.”
The promise of food guaranteed the boys’ willingness to be transported wherever she wished.
She dragged in a huge breath. “But first, tell me…were there any other boys with you here? Ones who should have gone to the Foundling House?”
“You mean Dick and Jemmie.” Eyes now bright, eager to help, Fred nodded. “They’re here—leastways they
were,
but they went out with Smythe yesterday evening and they ain’t come back.”
Leaving the five boys with Griselda, with strict orders to wait for her, Penelope ducked around milling bobbies and made her way to the
stairs. She reached the foot as Miller came down. “I have to speak with Stokes and Adair—it’s urgent.”
Miller took in her tense expression. He glanced back up the stairs. “They’re coming down now, miss.”
Together with Miller, Penelope retreated to the room’s center as two heavily built bobbies appeared, leading an ordinary-looking man with his wrists in shackles.
Wally—she assumed it was he—looked confused. His hair stood on end, his clothes were rumpled; an expression of complete incomprehension filled his plain face. He gave the bobbies no trouble; they herded him to the side so others could come down the stairs.
Another two bobbies descended, this time leading a much older man. Grimsby. The heavy-jowled, large round head with its scraggly twists of lank gray hair Penelope had already seen. It sat atop hunched shoulders and a sunken chest. Grimsby might once have cut an imposing figure, but now he was old, weighed down with the years. Despite that, shrewd cunning glinted in his eyes as they darted about, taking in the boys and Griselda, the other bobbies, Miller—and Penelope.
She made him frown. Grimsby couldn’t place her.
Stokes and Barnaby were the last down the stairs.
The bobbies led Grimsby to the center of the cleared space, then halted him, turning him to face Stokes. Under Miller’s direction, more lanterns were gathered and perched about the area, flooding it with light.
Penelope grasped the moment; stepping forward, she caught Barnaby’s eye, touched Stokes’s sleeve to get his attention. Once both had turned to her, she spoke quietly. “Dick and Jemmie, the last two boys taken, aren’t here.” Both men immediately looked over at the boys. “Yes, there are five, but two aren’t ones we knew about. According to the others, Dick and Jemmie were here, but Smythe took them out yesterday, and hasn’t yet returned them.”
Stokes swore beneath his breath. He exchanged a glance with Barnaby, who also looked grim. “If Smythe is half as good as he’s said to be, he won’t come within blocks of this place again.”