Page 133 of Where the Heart Leads
“Five’s the maximum in one night?”
“Four’s more like it. Especially if he’s having to use boys for them all, which according to Grimsby is the case.”
“So Alert’s series of burglaries are currently a work in progress. He’s not finished—which means we have at least one more night, and possibly four more burglaries during which they might be caught.”
Stokes grimaced. “I wouldn’t count on Smythe making a mistake.”
“It doesn’t have to be him.”
Stokes raised his brows. “The boys?”
“There’s always a chance. And if there’s a chance, there’s hope.” Barnaby thought for a minute, then stood and picked his coat up off the chair. “I’m going to see a man about another sort of chance.”
“That’s all he told you? And you let him go?” Penelope looked at Stokes with transparent disgust.
Stokes shrugged and reached for another pikelet. “He’ll tell me if anything useful comes from whatever hare he’s gone to chase. Meanwhile, with more burglaries pending, I’ve enough to think about.”
Penelope humphed. They—she, Stokes, and Griselda—were once again gathered in Griselda’s parlor. Today, Griselda had made pikelets, which Penelope hadn’t had since she’d been in the nursery. It was comforting to sit curled on Griselda’s sofa, a mug of tea in her hand, and nibble and sip.
And share her despondency.
“Joe and Ned Wills dropped by this morning,” Griselda said. “No news, but they said the whole East End has its eyes and ears open. Once Smythe lets the boys go, we’ll have them within hours.”
Stokes sighed. “He won’t.”
“He won’t let them go?” Penelope stared at him.
His expression grim, Stokes shook his head. “He knows we’re searching for them. He’ll either keep them and use them in more burglaries, or he’ll get rid of them in such a way that they won’t pose any threat to him. Perhaps take them to Deptford or Rotherhithe, make them apprentices, or cabin boys on coal haulers. He’ll get money for handing them over, and at the same time ensure they won’t be telling tales to anyone who’ll listen any time soon.”
A knock on the street door took Griselda downstairs; she returned with Barnaby in her wake.
To Penelope, he seemed more intent than she’d expected. He helped himself to three pikelets and Griselda handed him a mug of tea. He sipped as she said, “We were just discussing what Smythe will do with the boys. Stokes thinks he might put them out as apprentices.”
She glanced at Stokes. “You don’t think he’ll kill them?” The nightmare that lurked in the back of her mind.
Stokes met her gaze steadily. “I can’t say he won’t. If he feels they pose a real threat to him, he might.” He looked at Barnaby. “Where have you been?”
Barnaby lowered his mug. “Checking with Lord Winslow—he’s one of the law lords. If it can be proved the boys, as minors operating under an adult’s thumb, were forced to burgle houses against their wishes—and we can prove that by personal testimonies including mine and that of Miss Ashford here—then they’ll be excused the crime and can bear witness against their oppressor.”
Stokes’s expression grew grimmer. “So if we find them, they will indeed pose a threat to Smythe.”
Barnaby nodded. He met Penelope’s eyes. “They’ll be regarded as innocent,ifwe can find them. But we need to find them soon, and get them out of Smythe’s hands. He might not know what ‘under duress’ means, that the boys can testify against him without implicating themselves, but they know too much and, like Grimsby, Smythe will know all about making bargains with the police—he’ll assume the boys will be encouraged to tell all they know in return for lighter sentences.” Sober, he held her gaze. “Which means that whichever way Smythe thinks about it, once Alert’s burglaries are over, Jemmie and Dick are very real threats to him.”
That summation, its implication, settled like a grim reality upon them.
They went over all they knew yet again. Unfortunately, knowing more burglaries would take place didn’t help in doing anything about them, or in locating Smythe and his charges.
“Alert really has tied this up tight.” Stokes set down his mug. “He’s anticipated what we, the police, will do, and from the first worked around us.”
They’d talked themselves to a standstill again. Penelope glanced out the window and saw that the dull day had closed in to an even duller evening. She sighed; setting down her mug, she rose. “I have to go. I’ve another fund-raising dinner tonight.”
Barnaby scanned her face. Setting down his mug, he rose, too. “I’ll see you home.”
Again they had to walk past the church with its cemetery alongside to reach the main road and find a hackney. Once in the carriage rattling toward Mount Street, Barnaby studied Penelope’s profile, then closed his hand about one of hers, lifted it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.
She shot him a sidelong, questioning glance.
He smiled. “Where’s this dinner?”
