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.”
“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 Yar
d 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.”
Where the Heart Leads Page 31
