Page 113 of Where the Heart Leads
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 by 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 positivelyappalledhim.”
Penelope snorted.
“Exactly.” Barnaby inclined his head. “Riggs wasthatsort—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.”
