“Simon and Portia were much struck by Stokes. They spoke highly of him after the events at Glossup Hall.”
Adair’s smile turned subtly affectionate. Penelope sensed he was pleased and proud on his friend’s behalf even before he said, “That was Stokes’s first major murder case in the ton alone. He did well.”
“How was it you didn’t accompany him into Devon? Or don’t you always work together on cases within the ton?”
“Usually we work together—it’s quicker and more cerain that way. But when the report came in from Glossup Hall, we were in the middle of a long-standing case involving members of the ton here in London. The commissioner and the governors elected to send Stokes to Devon, leaving me to continue the investigation here.”
She’d heard of the scandal that had ensued; naturally, she had questions, which she promptly posed. Said questions were so insightful and so succinctly phrased, he found himself answering readily, seduced by a mind that saw and understood. Until one of the park gates loomed before them. He blinked, then glanced around. They’d walked, more or less in a straight line, away from the Avenue. She’d distracted him with her interrogation—he hadn’t even asked her what he’d come there to learn. Lips setting, he checked and turned her about. “We should return to your mother.”
Penelope shrugged. “She won’t mind. She knows we’re discussing serious matters.”
But none of the other grande dames do. Biting back the words, he quickened his stride.
“So what questions did Stokes raise?” Penelope asked. “I assume there were some.”
“Indeed. He asked if there were any traits or characteristics the four missing boys share.” He forbore giving her any example, not wanting to color her response.
She frowned, her straight dark brows forming a line above her nose. They continued to walk, rather briskly, while she thought. Eventually she volunteered, “They are, all four of them, rather thin and slight, but they’re healthy and strong enough—wiry, if you like. And all struck me as nimble and quick. But they aren’t all the same height. In fact, I can’t think of any other characteristic they have in common. They weren’t even the same age.”
It was his turn to frown. After a moment, he asked, “How tall was the tallest?”
She held up her hand level with her ear. “Dick was about this tall. But Ben—the second one who disappeared—was more than a head shorter.”
“What about their general appearance—were they attractive children, or…?”
She shook her head decisively. “Plain and totally unremarkable. Even if you dressed them well, they would never rate a second glance.”
“Blond hair or brown?”
“Both—varying shades.”
“You said they were nimble and quick—did you mean quick as in movement, or quick-witted?”
Her brows rose. “Both, actually. I was looking forward to teaching all four boys—they were bright, all of them.”
“What about backgrounds? They were all from poor homes, but were these four from more stable families, likely to be better behaved, perhaps easier to train, more tractable?”
She pursed her lips, but again shook her head. “Their families weren’t of any one sort, as such, although all four had gone through difficult times, even for the East End. That’s why the boys were destined for us. All I could say is that there was no hint of any criminal associations in any of the four families.”
He nodded, looking ahead—to where her mother waited in her carriage, staring rather pointedly their way.
Penelope hadn’t noticed; she was busy studying his face. “What does that—what they look like and so on—tell you? How does it help?”
His gaze raking the line of carriages, Barnaby inwardly swore. How long had they been away? He should never have allowed her to distract him with her questions. Countless dowagers were peering at them, some even wielding lorgnettes. “I don’t know.” But I can guess. “I’ll take your answers back to Stokes, and see what he says. He’s better acquainted with that world than I.”
“Yes, please do.” Penelope halted beside the carriage door and fixed her gaze on his face. “You will inform me of what he thinks, won’t you?”
Adair looked down and met her gaze. “Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes, ignoring all the curious glances focused so avidly on them. “As soon as practicable.”
His lips thinned.
Uncaring of propriety, she tightened her grip on his arm, perfectly prepared to cling if he dared try to leave without promising…
Blue eyes like flint, he tersely conceded, “As you wish.”
She smiled and let him go. “Thank you. Until next we meet.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. “Indeed. Until then.”
Steely warning rang in his tone, but she didn’t care; she’d won her point.
He handed her into the carriage, took his leave of her mother, then, with another curt nod, strode off. She noted his direction—toward Scotland Yard, where Peel’s police had their headquarters; leaning back against the seat, she smiled a satisfied smile. Despite her senses’ preoccupation with him, she’d managed that encounter rather well.
4
Stokes was on his feet behind his desk, tidying it before leaving for the day, when Barnaby strode in. Stokes looked up, took in his friend’s features. “What?”
Penelope Ashford is going to be a problem. Barnaby drew in a controlled breath. “I asked Miss Ashford about the four boys.”
Stokes frowned. “Miss Ashford?”
“Penelope Ashford, Portia’s sister, currently the Foundling House’s administrator. She said all four boys were thin, wiry, nimble, and quick—both in movement and wits. She considered them brighter than the norm. Other than that, they range in age from seven to ten years old, are of widely differing heights, totally unprepossessing, and have no other indicative characteristics in common.”
“I see.” Eyes narrowing, Stokes dropped back into his chair. He waited while Barnaby walked in and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, then said, “It sounds like we can cross all arms of the flesh trade off our list.”
Barnaby nodded. “And one at least is far too tall to be useful as a chimney boy, so that’s off the list, too.”
“I ran into Rowland of the Water Police an hour ago—he was here for a meeting. I asked if there was any shortage of cabin boys. Apparently the opposite is the case, so there’s no reason to imagine these boys are being pressed into service on the waves.”
Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So where does that leave us?”
Stokes considered, then his brows rose. “Burglars’ boys. That’s the most likely use for them by far—thin, wiry, nimble, and quick as they are. The fact they’re unremarkable is an added bonus—they wouldn’t be looking for any boy too pretty or noteworthy in any way. And in that part of the city…”
After a moment, Stokes continued, “There have, on and off over the years, been tales—true enough by all accounts—of, for want of a better description, ‘burglary schools’ run in the depths of the East End. The area is crowded. In some parts, it’s a warren of tenements and warehouses that not even the local bobbies are happy going into. These schools come and go. Each doesn’t last long, but often it’s the same people behind them.”
“They move before the police can close them down?”
Stokes nodded. “And as it’s usually impossible to prove they—the proprietors—are involved in any citable crime, one we could take before a magistrate, then…” He shrugged. “By and large they’re ignored.”
Barnaby frowned. “What do these schools teach? What do burglars’ boys need to be taught?”
“We used to think they were used as lookouts, and perhaps they are when the burglar operates in less affluent neighborhoods. But the real use of burglars’ boys is in thieving from the houses of the more affluent, especially the ton. Getting into houses in Mayfair isn’t that easy—most have bars on the ground-floor windows, or
those windows are too small, at least for a man. Thin young boys, however, can often wriggle through. It’s the boys who do the actual lifting of the objects, then pass them out to the burglar. The boys, therefore, need to be trained in creeping about silently in the dark, on polished wood and tiled floors, over rugs, and around furniture. They’re taught the basic layout of ton houses, where to go, where to avoid—where to hide if they rouse the household. They learn how to tell good-quality ornaments from dross, how to remove pictures from their frames, how to pick locks—some are even taught to open safes.”
Barnaby grimaced. “And if something goes wrong…?”
“Precisely. It’s the boy who gets caught, not the burglar.”
Barnaby stared at the window behind Stokes. “So we have a situation that suggests a burglary school is operating, training boys most likely for use in burgling the houses of the ton…” He broke off and met Stokes’s eyes. “Of course! They’re getting ready to commit burglaries over the festive season, while the ton is largely not in residence.”
Stokes frowned. “But most ladies take their jewelery with them to the country—”
“Indeed.” Barnaby’s burgeoning enthusiasm remained undimmed. “But this lot—whoever they are—aren’t after jewelery. The ton packs up house only in terms of clothing and jewelery, and staff—they leave their ornaments, many of which are treasures, behind. Those things remain with the houses, usually with a skeleton staff. Some houses are left with only a caretaker.”
Barnaby’s excitement had infected Stokes. His gaze drifted as he thought, then pinned Barnaby. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, but let’s assume we’re right. Why four? Why in the space of a few weeks snatch four boys for training?”
Barnaby grinned wolfishly. “Because this group is planning a succession of robberies—or has more than one burglar who’s planning to be active over the coming months.”
“While the ton is away from London.” His features hardening, Stokes murmured, “It could be worth it. Worth the effort they’ve already invested to identify four likely lads—and there might be more—and organize to whisk them away.”
A moment passed, with both men following their thoughts, then Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “This could be big—a lot bigger than it appears at present.”
Stokes nodded. “I spoke to the commissioner earlier. He gave me leave to investigate appropriately—the emphasis being on appropriately.” Stokes’s dark smile curved his lips. “I’ll speak with him again tomorrow, and tell him what we now think. I believe I can guarantee having a free hand after that.”
Barnaby smiled cynically. “So what’s our next step? Finding this school?”
“It’s most likely in the East End, somewhere not far from where the boys lived. You said it’s unlikely the boys were identified as potential scholars by any of the Foundling House’s staff. If so, then the most likely explanation for how our ‘schoolmaster’ heard of the four, and more, knew exactly when and how to send a man to fetch them, is that the schoolmaster and his team are locals themselves.”
“The neighbors were certain the man who fetched the boys was from the East End, and that he was merely an errand boy—someone trained in what to say to convince them to surrender the orphans to him.”
“Exactly. These villains know the local ropes well because they’re locals.”
Barnaby grimaced. “I have no idea how to go about searching for a burglary school in the East End. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Looking for anything in the East End isn’t easy, and I’m no more familiar with the area than you.”
“The local force?” Barnaby suggested.
“I’ll notify them, but I don’t expect to get much direct help. The force is in its infancy and predictably not well established in that area.” A minute passed, Stokes tapping one finger on the desktop, then he seemed to come to a decision. He pushed back from the desk. “Leave it with me. There’s someone I know who knows the East End. If I can get them interested in the case, they might consent to help us.” He rose.
Barnaby rose, too. He turned to the door. Stokes came around the desk, snagged his greatcoat from its hook, and followed.
Barnaby paused in the corridor; Stokes halted beside him. “I’ll go off and rack my brains to see if there’s some other way to advance our cause.”
Stokes nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll see the commissioner and tell him our news. And I’ll see my contact. I’ll send word if they’re willing to help.”
They parted. Barnaby went outside into the gathering dusk. Again he paused on the building’s steps to take stock.
Stokes had something to do—an avenue to pursue. He, on the other hand…
The compulsion to act—to not simply sit waiting for Stokes to send word—rode like a goblin on his shoulders. Whispering in his ear.
If he spoke with Penelope Ashford again, now he had some idea of their direction, he might winkle more useful information from her. He had little doubt her brain was crammed with potentially pertinent facts. And he had more or less promised to let her know what Stokes thought.
Pushy female.
Difficult female…with lush, ripe lips.
Distracting lips.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he continued down the steps. The one problem with speaking with Penelope Ashford that night was that to do so he would have to meet her somewhere in the ton.
Evening had come, and with it Penelope had been forced to don what she considered a disguise. She had to convert from being herself to being Miss Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, youngest daughter of Minerva, the Dowager Lady Calverton, and the only unmarried female in the clan.
That last designation grated, not because she had any desire to change her marital status but because it somehow set her apart. Set her on a pedestal that she cynically viewed as akin to an auction block. And while she never had the slightest difficulty dismissing the mistaken assumptions too many young gentlemen inevitably made, the need to do so irked. It was irritating to have to suspend her thoughts and find patience and polite words to send importuning gentlemen to the rightabout.
Especially as, while she might be standing by the side of a ballroom, she was usually mentally elsewhere. Thermopylae, for example. To her the ancient Greeks held a far greater allure than any of the youthful swains who tried to catch her eye.
Tonight’s venue was Lady Hemmingford’s drawing room. Fashionably gowned in green satin of such a dark hue it was almost black—having been forbidden by her family from wearing black, her color of choice—Penelope stood by the wall, a political soiree in full voice before her.
Regardless of her boredom with—indeed, antipathy to—such social events, she couldn’t cry off. Her unfailing attendance with her mother at whatever evening functions the Dowager chose to grace was part of the bargain she had struck with Luc and her mother in return for Lady Calverton remaining in town when the rest of the family had departed for the country, thus allowing her to continue her work at the Foundling House.
Luc and her mother had flatly refused to countenance her remaining in London on her own, or even with Helen, a widowed cousin, as chaperone. Unfortunately, no one could see Helen, sweet tempered and mild, as being able to check her in any way, not even Penelope. Despite her brother’s unhelpful stance, she could see his point.
She also knew that an unvoiced part of their bargain was that she would consent to being paraded before those members of the ton still in the capital, thereby keeping alive her chances of making a suitable match.
Within the family, she did her best to openly quash such thoughts; she saw no benefit in marriage at all—not in her case. When out in society, she, if not openly, then subtly and unrelentingly, discouraged gentlemen from imagining she might change her mind.
She was always taken aback when some young sprig proved too dense to read her message. I’m wearing spectacles, you dolt! was always her first thought. What young lady wishful of contracting a suitabl
e match came to a ton event with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose?
In reality, she could see enough to get by without her spectacles, but things were fuzzy. She could manage within a restricted area like a room, even a ballroom, but she couldn’t make out the expressions on people’s faces. In her teens, she’d decided knowing what was going on around her—every little detail—was far more important than projecting the right appearance. Other young ladies might blink myopically and bumble about in an attempt to deny their shortcoming, but not her.
She was as she was, and the ton could simply make do with that.
Chin elevated, gaze fixed on the cornice across the room, she continued to stand by the side of the Hemmingfords’ drawing room, debating whether among the more recently arrived guests there were any with whom she—or the Foundling House—might benefit from conversation.
She was distantly aware of music issuing from the adjoining salon, but resolutely ignored the tug on her senses. Dancing with gentlemen invariably encouraged them to imagine she was interested in further acquaintance. A sad circumstance given she loved dancing, but she’d learned not to let the music tempt her.
Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, her senses…ruffled. She blinked. That most curious sensation slid over her, as if the nerve endings beneath her skin had been stroked. Warmly. She was about to look around to identify the cause when a disturbingly deep voice murmured, “Good evening, Miss Ashford.”
Blond curls; blue, blue eyes. Resplendent in evening black-and-white, Barnaby Adair appeared by her side.
Turning to face him, she smiled delightedly and, without thinking, gave him her hand.
Barnaby grasped her delicate fingers and bowed over them, seizing the moment to reassemble his customary suave composure, something she’d shattered with that fabulous smile.