Page 123 of Where the Heart Leads
The sergeant behind the counter, a veteran, greeted Stokes with an easy smile and a nod. “Morning, sir. How can we help you?”
“Good morning, Jenkins.” Stokes showed him the order that had been sent to Holborn, explaining it was a fake.
“Holborn.” Jenkins pointed to a section of pegs about ten feet from the counter. “That’s just along there—second row from the top.”
Given the distance between the door and the satchel in question, and its proximity to the desk, the notion that someone had surreptitiously crept in and slipped the order into the Holborn satchel unnoticed was instantly untenable.
“Right, then.” Stokes turned back to Jenkins. “Who has access to the satchels? List all the types of people you normally see coming in here, placing orders—or papers of any kind—in those satchels.”
Jenkins considered, then said, “There aren’t that many, when all’s said and done. There’s the duty sergeants, and the watch sergeants—four each of them. The inspectors like yourself, and their senior investigators, the superintendent, and the governors—the commissioners—although of course they don’t come in themselves. It’s their secretaries we see popping in and out.” The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he looked down the room. He lowered his voice. “Like Mr. Cameron there.”
Both Stokes and Barnaby heard the creak of the door as it swung closed. Looking around, they saw a man both knew by sight sauntering up the room. Douglas Cameron, Lord Huntingdon’s private secretary, was an arrogant sort; it showed in his long-legged walk, and the angle at which he held his head, the elevation of his long nose and pinched nostrils making him appear always to be smelling something noxious.
As if unaware of their presence, Cameron strolled to the satchel for Birmingham, on the opposite side of the room from the Holborn satchel and closer to the counter. Lifting the flap, he slid a folded sheet inside, then dropped the flap, and turned to face them.
He could hardly miss the fact they’d all been watching him. His hard hazel gaze passed over Jenkins and Stokes without a flicker of recognition; they, clearly, were beneath his notice. His gaze reached Barnaby, and stopped. Coolly, Cameron nodded. “Adair. Slumming again?”
Barnaby smiled tightly. “As you see.”
With a faint lift of his brows, Cameron inclined his head and strolled out, every bit as unhurriedly as he’d strolled in.
“Stuck-up bastard,” Barnaby muttered, turning back to the counter.
Lips twitching, Jenkins looked down, shuffling some papers. “Won’t get much argument on that score from anyone here, sir.”
Barnaby sighed. “Sadly, being a stuck-up bastard isn’t any reason to imagine Cameron might be our man.”
Stokes grunted in assent. He nodded to the sergeant. “Thank you, Jenkins.” He hesitated, then said, “On the off chance, could you ask around among the dispatchers, just in case anyone noticed anything odd, anyone not normally in here stopping by, for whatever reason?”
Jenkins nodded. “I’ll do that, sir.”
Barnaby and Stokes left the Dispatch Office and climbed the stairs to Stokes’s domain. Once inside, Stokes pointedly closed the door, something he rarely did, then circled his desk to drop into the chair behind it. Barnaby was already sprawled in one of the chairs facing the desk, a frown denoting deep thought on his face.
Stokes eyed it for several moments, then asked, “What do you think? Can we afford to discount people from the force itself—all those who aren’t gentlemen?”
Barnaby met his eyes. “I think we’re on solid ground concluding that Alert is a gentleman. Accepting that as fact, then, given he’s been meeting with Grimsby and Smythe, I believe we can safely assume it was he, himself, who walked into the Dispatch Office and put that fake order in the Holborn satchel.”
Stokes nodded. “Dealing with Smythe directly, face-to-face, is the biggest risk he’s taken, and by all accounts he took it without the slightest reservation. He’s never tried to distance himself from proceedings—why start with this, relatively minor, event?”
“More, it’s a tangential act, not part of his main plan. Striking back at Penelope and the Foundling House was the act of a confident man, not one in a panic, or frightened of exposure. He’s sure of himself, supremely confident—I can’t see him bothering to get someone else to slip the order into the Holborn bag. Why complicate things?’
“And potentially have someone who might, if questions were asked, remember and volunteer his name?”
“Exactly.” Barnaby nodded decisively. “We delete all nongentlemen from Jenkins’s list. How many does that leave?”
Stokes was writing. “Aside from our friend Cameron, there’s Jury, Partridge, Wallis, Andrews, Passel, Worthington, and Fenwick.” He frowned. “There are a few more in the governors’ offices, assistants whose names I don’t know. But I can get them.”
“Excellent.” Sitting up, Barnaby looked at the list. “As our next step, I think we should see what we can learn about these gentlemen’s finances.”
Starting on a duplicate list, Stokes glanced at him. “You’ll have to do most of that. I can check the pawnbrokers, but if it’s gambling debts…”
Barnaby nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” He smiled and stood. “I know just who to ask.”
“Good.” Stokes handed him the copy of the list of names and rose. “Go and ask. I’ll do the same.” Following Barnaby out of the door, he added, “Time’s running out on us—we need to find those boys.”
That evening saw Penelope at another dinner, this one even more formal than Lady Forsythe’s. Lady Carlingford was an astute political hostess; her guests included a number of donors who contributed to the Foundling House’s coffers, making Penelope’s attendance essential.
She arrived with her mother; after greeting Lady Carlingford, they circulated among the guests, gathered in groups in her ladyship’s drawing room.
