Reaching Queen Street, they hesitated, then Barnaby tugged her to the left. Settling her hand more comfortably in his arm, she strolled beside him. In another season, anyone seeing them would have thought them an affianced couple taking a long stroll the better to spend time in each other’s company. With winter in the air, such a reason was unlikely, but their slow, ambling progress gave them plenty of time to examine the houses they passed.
Just like the couple she saw walking along the other side of Curzon Street.
Reaching the corner where Queen met Curzon, she stared, then tugged on Barnaby’s arm. When he glanced her way, she pointed across and down Curzon Street.
He looked, then snorted.
In unspoken accord, they crossed to the southern side of the street and waited until the other couple strolled up.
Stokes looked shamefaced. He shrugged. “We couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
“Hostages or not, we couldn’t sit at home and do nothing at all,” Griselda stated.
“Anyway,” Stokes said, “I take it from your presence here you felt the same.”
“Actually”—Barnaby glanced at Penelope—“our presence here is more a response to direct action.”
Stokes was instantly alert. “What happened?”
Barnaby described the “diversion.”
“We sent a message,” Penelope said, “but if you’ve been out walking, they wouldn’t know where to find you.”
Stokes nodded. “But we’re here now—and you’re right. They must be doing more houses tonight.” He glanced around. “And most likely in this area.”
“Given the diversion was in Jermyn Streeet,” Barnaby said, “which beats in Mayfair are most likely to be currently deserted?”
Stokes saw his point. He waved to the south. “If we take Piccadilly as the southern boundary, then all the way to the Circus, then up Regent Street”—he pointed to the east—“up as far as Conduit Street. From there, across Bond Street to Bruton Street, along the top of Berkeley Square…and as your rooms are at this end of Jermyn Street, then they’ve probably come running from as far north as Hill Street, and probably”—he turned to look back along Curzon Street—“from all the areas out to Park Lane.”
“So we’re standing more or less in the middle of the deserted patch?” Penelope asked.
Jaw firming, Stokes nodded. “Depending on where in the beat they were, but I haven’t seen any constables since we headed this way.”
“We haven’t seen any, either,” Barnaby said, looking around, “but then we started from where they’ve all gone.”
Stokes swore beneath his breath. “Let’s divide the area and split up.”
He and Barnaby put their heads together and sorted out routes. Stokes nodded. “We’ll meet up again on the south side of Berkeley Square, unless either of us sights the beggars. You’ve got your whistle?”
Penelope patted her pocket. “I have it.”
Barnaby retook her hand. He nodded a farewell to Griselda, then met Stokes’s eyes. “If either of us see a bobby, or even a hackney, we should send word to the Yard and get them to send more men this way.”
Stokes saluted and reached for Griselda’s arm.
Barnaby and Penelope turned to head east along Curzon Street. Before they’d taken even one step a shrill shriek cut through the night and froze them.
Stokes was immediately beside them, searching the night. “Where?”
None of them was sure.
Then a second shriek split the silence. Penelope pointed ahead, to the left. “There! Half Moon Street.”
Picking up her skirts, she ran. In a few strides, Barnaby and Stokes had outstripped her; Griselda appeared at her shoulder.
The shrieking had grown to a continuous wail, escalating in volume the closer they got to the intersection.
Barnaby and Stokes were a few paces from Half Moon Street when the shrieking reached new heights and two small figures came pelting around the corner.
Running at full speed, they streaked past both men before either could react.
Farther back, Penelope skidded to a halt. Now that their shrieks weren’t distorted by the houses, she could hear they were calling for help.
“Dick?” One pale face looked up. She recognized the other. “Jemmie!”
Barely able to believe her eyes, she waved them to where she’d stopped with Griselda beside her.
Jemmie swerved to come to her, but Dick hung back in the middle of the road, eyes wild and staring, glancing back at the way they’d come, ready to dart off again. Jemmie noticed. “It’s the miss from the Foundling House.”
Dick looked at her again; the relief that flooded his face was almost painful to see. He shot over to join Jemmie.
Both boys grabbed her hands, one each, squeezing, jigging in their nervousness. “Please, miss—please save us!”
“Of course.” Penelope bent and hugged them both. Crouching down, she drew Jemmie closer as Griselda also crouched, enfolding Dick in a protective embrace.
Barnaby and Stokes came walking back to them. Both were large men; with their features shadowed and unrecognizable, they were an intimidating sight. Penelope wasn’t surprised when both boys shrank back against her and Griselda. “It’s all right.” She smiled at them reassuringly. “We’re here. But what are we saving you from?”
The words had barely left her lips when a roar erupted, once again shattering the night. They all looked up. Barnaby and Stokes swung about, instinctively ranging themselves between the women and the boys and the oncoming danger.
A huge figure shot out of Half Moon Street, swearing and cursing, charging straight for them.
“Him!” the boys shrieked.
The ogre looked up and saw them—saw Stokes and Barnaby directly ahead of him. He swore, skidded to a halt, scrambled around, and fled in the opposite direction.
Barnaby and Stokes were already after him.
That sliding halt had cost the man too much ground; Barnaby was on him before he’d gone a block, Stokes just behind. In less than a minute they had the villain flat on his face on the cobbles. Barnaby sat on him while Stokes tied his arms and hands, then hobbled his ankles with the reins they’d found attached to his belt.
“I do like a criminal who comes prepared.” Stokes hauled the man to his feet. He looked into his face, then smiled. “Mr. Smythe, I presume.”
Smythe snarled.
23
Who is Alert?” Stokes paced slowly before the chair on which Smythe sat slumped. They’d brought him to Barnaby’s rooms; not only had Jermyn Street been a lot nearer than Scotland Yard, but as Barnaby had been quick to point out, with Alert, whoever he was, connected with the police force, it was far preferable to keep the cards that had at long last fallen into their hands very close to their chests.
Even if Alert knew that something had gone wrong, even if he knew they had Smythe, the less he knew of what they learned from Smythe, the better.
They’d tied Smythe to the chair. He couldn’t break free, and wasn’t trying to. He’d tested his bonds once; finding them secure, he hadn’t wasted effort trying to break them again.
He might be a massive hulk, a burglar and very likely a murderer, too, but he wasn’t stupid; Stokes had every confidence Smythe would eventually tell them all he knew. He’d want something in return, but he had nothing to gain by keeping Alert’s secrets.
They’d set Smythe’s chair in the center of the room, facing the hearth; Stokes paced in the clear space before it. Penelope and Griselda were seated in the armchairs to either side of the now brightly burning fire. Barnaby stood beside Penelope’s chair, one arm braced on the mantelshelf.
Dick and Jemmie were seated at a small table along one wall, wolfing down huge sandwiches Mostyn had produced. Mostyn hovered beside them, as interested as they in the scene being enacted in the room’s center.
Stokes wasn’t surprised when Smythe didn’t immediately answer his question—Smythe was still thinking, his head bowed to
his chest.
What surprised them both was Jemmie’s reply. “He’s a gentl’man—a nob. He’s the one as planned all the burglaries. And he took all the things we stole from the houses.”
Stokes turned to Jemmie; even Smythe lifted his head and looked at him. “You saw him?”
Jemmie squirmed. “Not to reckernize—it was always dark, and he wore a hat and muffler, pretending to be a coachman.”
“The coachman!” Penelope sat up. “That’s it!” She looked at Stokes. “I saw a carriage rolling slowly along while we were walking—I saw the same carriage three times tonight. The last time was as we started back down Bolton Street with the boys and Smythe—the carriage rolled along behind us, along Curzon Street. I couldn’t get the sight of it out of my mind—there was something odd about it—and now I know what. I know what coachmen look like when they’re on the box—they hunch a little. This man sat bolt upright. He was dressed like a coachman, but he wasn’t a coachman—he was a gentleman pretending to be a coachman.”
She looked at Jemmie and Dick. “Was that where the things you took from the other houses tonight went—into that carriage?”
Both boys nodded. “That’s how it was set up,” Jemmie said. “After we left every house, the carriage and Mr. Alert were waiting at the corner to take the thing from us.”
Dick piped up, “Alert would give Smythe a purse, a down payment they called it, after we put each thing in the carriage’s boot.”
“Smythe was supposed to get more money later,” Jemmie added. “After Alert sold the things.”
Stokes glanced at Smythe, and could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. If he waited much longer, the boys might divulge enough for them to guess Alert’s identity, leaving him with nothing to bargain with.
Smythe felt Stokes’s gaze and looked back at him.
Stokes arched a brow. “Any thoughts?” When Smythe hesitated, he went on, “At present, you’ll be charged with burglary, murder, and attempted murder. You’re going to hang, Smythe, all because of your association with Alert and his schemes. As matters stand, he’s got all except one of the items he wanted, and he looks set to get clean away, leaving you to face the wrath of the courts when it’s finally realized just what you stole.”
Smythe shifted. “I might have stolen things, but it was on Alert’s behalf. Pretty obvious it’s not my normal job—whoever heard of taking just one thing once you get in a house?” He looked down. “And I didn’t murder anyone.”
Stokes studied him, then asked, “What about Mrs. Carter?”
Smythe didn’t look up. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Be that as it may”—Stokes’s tone was granite hard—“we have witnesses aplenty that you tried to kill Mary Bushel in Black Lion Yard.”
Smythe snorted. “But I didn’t, did I?” He paused, then went on, still talking to Stokes’s boots, “Murdering people’s not what I’m good at. I’m an ace cracksman. If it hadn’t been for bloody Alert insisting on doing this caper—all eight houses—his way, I’d never have even thought of murder.”
Stokes let the silence stretch, then prompted, “So?”
Smythe finally looked up at Stokes. “If I give you all I know about Alert—and it’s enough for you to identify him—what’ll my charges be?”
After another long moment, Stokes replied, “If what you give us proves enough to identify Alert, and you agree to testify against him if need be, we’ll keep the charges at burglary and attempted murder. If we could prove murder, you’d go to the gallows. Without it, and a recommendation on the grounds of cooperation, it’ll be transportation.” Stokes paused, then said, “Your choice.”
Smythe snorted. “I’ll take transportation.”
“So who is Alert?”
Smythe glanced down. “There’s a hidden pocket in this coat—in the lining off the left side seam, thigh level.” Stokes crouched down, feeling through the coat. “There’s three lists in there.”
Stokes found the folded papers and drew them out. Rising, he smoothed them, then held them up to read. Leaving the hearth, Barnaby joined him.
“Those are the lists Alert gave me. The first is a list of the houses…” Smythe talked them through Alert’s plan, describing their meetings, recounting what they’d said. As he went through the burglaries, the four of the previous night as well as the three they’d completed that night, Stokes and Barnaby cross-referenced the lists—the street addresses of the houses burgled and the items taken.
At one point Barnaby stopped and swore.
Stokes glanced at him. Smythe stopped speaking.
“What?” Stokes asked.
Grimly, Barnaby pointed to one address—that of the first house burgled that night. “That’s Cothelstone House.”
“Your father’s house?”
Barnaby nodded. He took the descriptions of items to be filched and located the relevant entry. “Silver figurine of lady on the table in the library window…good Lord!” He met Stokes’s eyes.
Stokes raised a brow. “It’s valuable, I take it. How much are we talking about?”
Barnaby shook his head. “It’s worth…I have no clue of the figure. The word generally used in reference to that statue is ‘priceless.’ Literally priceless.”
He looked again through the items listed. “We’re not talking a small fortune here. If these other items are of the same caliber, Alert is setting himself up to rival the richest in the land.”
Stokes shook his head. “You’re telling me this statue—in the house of one of the peers overseeing the police, in a house you regularly visit—was sitting there on a table just waiting for some enterprising thief to make off with it?”
Barnaby glanced at him, then shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with m’mother, but I warn you you’re unlikely to have much success. God knows the pater’s been after her to lock it away for years—he gave up decades ago. As Penelope pointed out, these things have been around us since birth, and we don’t even notice them all that much anymore.”
“Until someone nicks them.” Stokes looked disgusted. He turned back to Smythe. “So everything went smoothly, Alert picking up each piece in the carriage after every house, until the last. What went wrong?”
Smythe scowled and looked at the boys. “I’m not clear on that myself. Best you ask them.”
Stokes turned to Dick and Jemmie. “The last house. What happened—how did you two break away?”
The boys exchanged glances, then Jemmie said, “The first night, Smythe didn’t tell us where in the houses we had to go until we got to each house. So we couldn’t plan when to make our move. But later that night, after the first four houses, Alert took us up in his carriage, all three of us, and then stopped at a park somewhere to talk to Smythe about tonight’s houses. They left Dick and me in the carriage, but we listened.”
“We heard that one of us would have to go through the kitchen at the third house—that turned out to be me,” Dick said. “We arranged that whichever of us it was, we’d pick up a knife sharp enough to saw through the reins.” He nodded to the reins Smythe had been carrying, which now hobbled the big man’s feet. “He used them to keep hold of us when we were going between houses, and if one of us was left outside, he’d tie us to a fence or a post with them.”
“We also heard that the last house tonight would be only one of us,” Jemmie went on. “We was supposed to take a small picture off the wall in an upstairs room. Smythe put me in the scullery window at the back, and waited there for me to come out. Because I had to go upstairs, I knew he’d wait a while before getting suspicious—I went out the front door instead. But the front door bolt screeched.”
“I was nearly done cutting through the reins when he came out,” Dick said. “But Smythe heard the screech and guessed what it was. Jemmie helped me get free, but then we saw Smythe coming up the side of the house. We ran.”
“You did very well,” Penelope said, approval and admiration in her tone.
Smythe grunted.
He looked back at Stokes. “So that’s it—all I can tell you. You find a gent who knows all those houses, enough to know all the details written down there—where the things were and exactly how to get to them—you bring him to me, and I’ll tell you if he’s your man.”
Stokes studied Smythe for a long moment. “You’ll recognize him, but then it’s your word against his. Is there anyone else who knows him?”
“Grimsby,” Smythe said. “He’s seen him more than I have.”
Stokes grimaced. “Unfortunately, gaol didn’t agree with Grimsby. He had a heart attack. He’s dead. He can’t help us.”
Smythe glanced down and softly swore. Then he looked across at the boys.
Stokes, following his gaze, asked, “Boys, think hard—did you see Alert, anything about him, well enough to recognize if you saw him again?”
Both boys screwed up their faces, but then shook their heads.
Stokes sighed. He was turning back to Smythe when Jemmie said, “We heard him well enough to know him again, though.”
Penelope beamed at them. “Excellent!” She caught Stokes’s eye. “That’s good enough, isn’t it?”
He thought, then nodded. “It should be.”
“So”—Barnaby had been concentrating on the lists—“all we need now—” He broke off at the sound of someone rapping on the door.
It was a polite rat-a-tat-tat. Barnaby looked at Mostyn, who with a bow went to answer it.
Mostyn left the parlor door ajar. Nobody spoke, the adults waiting to see who it was, the boys too busy polishing off their sandwiches to care.
The latch on the front door clicked; a second later, a rumbling voice, too indistinct to make out, greeted Mostyn.
Mostyn’s reply was clearer. “My lord! We…er, weren’t expecting you.”
“I daresay, Mostyn, but here I am,” an urbane voice declared. “And here’s my hat, too. Now where is that son of mine?”
The parlor door swung open and the Earl of Cothelstone calmly walked in. He surveyed the company, and smiled benignly. “Barnaby, dear boy—you seem to have quite a gathering here.”