“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?”
“You’re the mistress here?” Stokes colored faintly; judging by the woman’s attire, the question stood an excellent chance of being ambiguous.
She raised impressively arched brows, but nodded. “I am.”
When she volunteered nothing more, just looked at him expectantly, Stokes went on, “I’m looking for a Mr. Alert.”
The woman didn’t reply, waiting for Stokes to explain a connection, then realizing, she said, “There’s no one of that name here. Indeed, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name.”
From Grimsby came a muttered, “Strewth. Knew I should never have trusted the shifty beggar even that much.”
Stokes glanced back at Grimsby. “If you’re still certain this is the house…?” When Grimsby gave an emphatic nod and grumbled “I am,” Stokes went on, “Then we’re still left with one question.”
Turning, he looked at Miss Walker; her maid had reappeared, peering over her shoulder. “A gentleman calling himself Mr. Alert has been using your back parlor to meet with this man”—he waved at Grimsby—“and one other, on a number of occasions in recent weeks. I would like to know how that came to be.”
The confusion on Miss Walker’s face was clearly genuine. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know how that could be.” She glanced at her maid. “We haven’t had any…incidents, have we? No instances of the parlor garden doors being left unlocked?”
The maid shook her head, but she was now frowning.
Barnaby and Stokes both saw it. Stokes asked, “What is it?”
The maid glanced at her mistress, then said, “The armchair by the hearth in the back parlor. Someone’s been sitting there, on and off. I straighten the parlor before I leave at nights, and sometimes the cushion is dented the next morning.”
Stokes looked his puzzlement. “But Miss Walker…?”
Miss Walker turned an interesting shade of pink. “I…ah…” She darted a glance at her maid, then confessed, “I’m usually in bed by the time Hannah leaves, and I sleep rather heavily.”
Hannah nodded. “Very heavily.” There was disapproval in her eyes, but no hint of prevarication.
Barnaby understood, as did Stokes, that they were telling them that Miss Walker was, as many like her were, addicted to laudanum. Once in bed, dosed, she wouldn’t hear an artillery shell exploding in the street.
“Perhaps,” Barnaby suggested, “this man, Mr. Alert, might be known to your…benefactor.”
Stokes took the hint. “Who owns this house, Miss Walker?”
But Miss Walker was now alarmed. She tilted her chin. “I’m sure that’s none of your business. He isn’t here, and you don’t need to bother him over a matter like this.”
“He may be able to help us,” Stokes stated. “And this is a matter of murder.”
Barnaby inwardly groaned. Mentioning murder predictably didn’t help. Miss Walker and the maid were now thoroughly frightened and refused point-blank to reveal anything at all.
There was a shuffling on the pavement, then Griselda joined them; she tugged Stokes’s sleeve.
When he looked at her, she said, “Riggs. The gentleman who owns this house is the Honorable Carlton Riggs.” She glanced past Stokes. “He comes into the shop sometimes to buy bonnets and gloves for Miss Walker.”
Stokes looked back at Miss Walker and raised a brow. She colored, but then nodded. “Yes. Carlton Riggs owns this house—he has for years, for longer than I’ve known him.”
Stokes inclined his head. “And where is Mr. Riggs now?”
Miss Walker blinked at him, then glanced at Barnaby. She clearly recognized him as one of the ton. “Well, he’s on holidays, isn’t he?” She looked back at Stokes. “It’s the off-season for town. He went up north to his family’s house three weeks ago.”
The cemetery that ran alongside the St. John’s Wood church was a dark and gloomy place at the best of times. At eleven o’clock on a foggy November night, the moldering monuments interspersed with old gnarled trees cast more than enough shadow to conceal two men.
Smythe stood under the biggest tree, in the middle of the plot, and watched Alert stroll casually, with the aura of an eccentric gentleman out to take the air, toward him.
He had to give the man points; he was cool under fire. As was their custom, Smythe had left a message with the bartender at the Crown and Anchor in Fleet Street, but this time his message had been rather more than his usual few words. He’d asked for an urgent and immediate meeting, and warned Alert in no uncertain terms against going to their usual place—the parlor in number 32, St. John’s Wood Terrace, a few blocks to the north—nominating the cemetery instead.
As he’d expected, Alert had been intelligent enough to heed his warning. As he’d also anticipated, he wasn’t happy about it.
Halting before Smythe, Alert snapped, “You’d better have a damned good reason for asking for this meeting.”
“I have,” Smythe growled.
Alert glanced across the cemetery. “And why the devil can’t we meet at the house?”
“Because the house, in fact the whole street, is crawling with rozzers just waiting for you and me to show our faces.”
Despite the poor light, Smythe sensed Alert’s start, but he didn’t immediately respond.
When he did, his voice was even, flat—deadly. “What happened?”
Smythe told him what
he knew—that Grimsby’s school had been raided and they’d lost Grimsby, Wally, and five of the boys. Smythe was quietly furious on his own account—the opportunity to pull off a whole string of burglaries of the caliber Alert had described didn’t come around but once in a lifetime; quite aside from the money, he would have made his name, which would have kept him in good standing for the rest of his life. He was angry, but his fury was nothing compared to Alert’s.
Not that Alert did anything more than take two paces away and rest a fist on the edge of a gravestone. It was the rage that screamed in every line of his body, in the stiff, brittle tension that rode him, the violence he contained, that he battled to suppress, that set the very air—and Smythe’s instincts—quivering.
And set him thinking. Such fury suggested Alert was quite possibly desperate to have the buglaries done.
Which, in Smythe’s view, augered well. For him.
He couldn’t do the burglaries without the information Alert had thus far withheld, but perhaps Alert would now be more amenable to running the enterprise Smythe’s way.
“Do you have any idea who—” Fury vibrated through Alert’s voice; he cut himself off and drew a huge breath. “No. That doesn’t matter. We can’t allow ourselves to be distracted—”
Again he broke off. Swinging around, he took three strides in another direction, then halted, lifted his head and breathed deeply again, then he swung to face Smythe. “Yes, it does matter. Or might matter. Do you have any idea who or what brought the police down on Grimsby’s head?”
“Could’ve been anyone. Remember that notice? We were on borrowed time as it was.”
Alert grimaced. “I didn’t realize it might happen so fast. We only needed another week.” He fell to pacing again, but this time with less heat. “Were you there when they grabbed Grimsby?”
“For a bit. I didn’t hang around, especially as I had two of the boys with me. I got there just after the rozzers had gone in—I only stayed long enough to be certain what was happening. I left before they brought Grimsby out.”
Where the Heart Leads Page 32
