17

F or what Penelope understood was the very first time, the new police force and the denizens of the East End worked shoulder to shoulder to locate Grimsby and his burglary school.

Joe Wills and his brothers got the word out, telling their mates, ensuring that the request and the purpose behind it, the attack on Mary, the story of Jemmie and his murdered mother, percolated through the area.

It was a densely populated enclave; local word of mouth was more powerful even than printed notices offering a reward.

The information they'd been searching for finally came in late that night. Both Penelope and Griselda had flatly refused to return to their respective homes; Penelope unbent enough to send a note to Calverton House, but otherwise refused to budge. She and Griselda sat in chairs in Stokes's office and waited alongside the men. Their men. Neither needed any discussion to know that was how things stood.

Joe Wills was shown in just before midnight. He looked uneasy to be surrounded by police, but even as a sergeant ushered him in, triumph glowed in his eyes.

Penelope saw it. She rose. "You found them."

Joe grinned at her and ducked his head. He nodded to Griselda, then looked at Stokes and Barnaby, now also standing, behind Stokes's desk. "Someone had the bright idea to look in Grimsby Street."

Stokes looked at him disbelievingly. "He lives in Grimsby Street?"

"Nah. But the street's named after his granddad, so seemed likely someone round there might know where he'd sloped off to. Sure enough, his old auntie still lives there—she told us he has a place in Weavers Street. It's not far from Grimsby Street.

"We went around there and checked it out quiet like. It was easy to find once we knew where to look—he's lived there for years." Joe met Stokes's eyes. "I left Ned, Ted, and some of our mates watching the place. It's got two floors above, and attics above that. The neighbors we spoke with didn't know anything about boys, but if they're kept indoors on the upper floors, there's no reason they'd be seen. They—the neighbors—did know that Wally lives there, along with Grimsby."

Stokes was scribbling. "So there's at least two men inside the house."

"Aye." Joe grimaced. "Don't know about Smythe. The neighbors know him enough to recognize, but far as they know he ain't there, and doesn't normally stay there."

"Good. It's Grimsby and the boys we want first. Smythe can come later." Stokes looked up at the sergeant hovering in the doorway. "Miller—tell Coates I'll need all the men he can spare."

The sergeant straightened. "Now, sir?"

Stokes glanced at the clock. "To be assembled downstairs in an hour. I want a cordon around the building before we go in."

The next hours flew in a frenzy of organization, one in which, for once, Penelope had no role. Reduced to the status of observer, she sat quietly beside Griselda and watched—with nearly as keen an interest as her companion—Stokes in action.

When Barnaby strolled over and arched a brow, she deigned to be impressed. "I had no idea the police were—could be—so efficient."

He glanced back at Stokes, seated at his desk surrounded by subordinates, all concentrating on a map as they placed their forces. Joe stood at Stokes's shoulder; Stokes deferred to him frequently, checking that the area was in fact as the map said. Barnaby smiled. "Not all of them, sadly, are. Stokes is different." Looking back, he met Griselda's eyes. "In my opinion, he's the best of the bunch."

Griselda nodded, and transferred her gaze once more to Stokes.

Penelope studied Barnaby's face. "How much longer before we go?" For her, that was the only remaining question.

Barnaby glanced at Stokes again. "I'd say within the hour."

By the time they reached Weavers Street it was edging toward dawn. A small army had quietly encircled the area; more bobbies hugged the shadows up and down the street. Weavers Street had two arms; Grimsby's house was in the center of the shorter stretch. A rundown, sagging, largely timber structure, it looked little different from its neighbors; two alleys, barely wide enough for a man, ran down both sides.

It was cold and damp. Fog had rolled in through the night, and now hung low; the close-packed houses kept the wind out, so there was nothing to stir, let alone help lift the dense veils; Penelope could barely see Grimsby's front door from where she stood beneath the overhang of a rude porch directly across the narrow street.

Peering at the building through the murky gloom, she could just make out shutters, all closed. There wouldn't be glass in any windows; she hoped the men gathering in the street continued to do so silently.

Stokes and Barnaby had circled the house, checking all exits. From what she'd gathered from their murmured conversation—they were the only two allowed to speak—they believed all escape routes were now blocked.

Feeling expectation rise, Penelope glanced around. The ranks of the bobbies had been swelled by local men. Farther back in the gloom hung women; despite the hour, they'd thrown shawls about their shoulders and come out to watch. Most would be mothers with sons of their own; while their men openly glowered, it was the silent intensity in the women's shadowed eyes that made Penelope shiver.

Griselda, beside her, arched a brow at her.

Penelope leaned close and whispered, "If Grimsby has an ounce of self-preservatory sense, he'll give himself up to Stokes." She glanced at the locals.

Following her gaze, Griselda nodded. "The East End takes care of its own."

Barnaby materialized from the fog before them. "We're about to go in. You're to stay here until Sergeant Miller fetches you—he'll come and get you, and escort you inside as soon as the boys are freed." He looked directly at Penelope. "If you don't stay here until Miller comes, I'll never, ever, tell you anything about any of my investigations again."

His lips set in a grim line; even through the gloom, she felt the force of his blue gaze.

Without waiting for any assent, he turned on his heel and stalked off through the fog.

Beside Penelope, Griselda shifted. "Never ever?" she murmured.

Penelope shrugged.

Even though there'd been no general announcement, excitement spread through the watching crowd.

There was a brief flurry of activity about Grimsby's door; Barnaby was in the thick of it, with Stokes by his side. Then the door swung inward revealing a yawning black cavern. Grabbing a lantern, Stokes unshielded it and led the way inside.

"Police!"

The sudden noise was deafening as bobbies piled through the door. Stokes and Barnaby were lost in the wave. Penelope weaved, trying to see, but a cordon of bobbies lined up outside the door, keeping everyone else out; they blocked her view.

More lights flared on the ground floor, then a faint glow appeared on the first floor. Grabbing Griselda's arm, Penelope pointed. "They're going upstairs." The glow came from deep within the building, distant from the shuttered windows facing the front.

In the front corner of the first floor, another light, smaller and much closer to the windows, bloomed.

"I'll bet that's Grimsby," Griselda said.

One of the shutters on that corner swung open; a large round head topped with scraggly gray hair poked out.

The onlookers promptly jeered.

"Come on down here, Grimsby."

"Killing old women."

"We'll show you what's what."

Those and other chants rose through the fog.

Grimsby—it had to be he—goggled. With a weak, "Strewth!" he slammed the shutter closed.

The crowd jeered more loudly, baying for his blood.

A series of thuds and thumps emanated from the house, along with shouts that were impossible to make out.

Penelope jigged. She wanted— needed —to know what was going on. Where were the boys?

The glow of the lantern had reached the second floor. For long moments, it remained on that level. The glow strengthened as more lanterns joined the first.

Penelope peered at the boards just below the roofline. Joe Wills had said there were attics, but there were no windows to be seen from the front. There didn't seem to be any dormers on the sides, either. She jogged Griselda's elbow. "There's no windows for the attics."

Griselda glanced up. "It'll just be the space under the roof. No windows. Probably no proper floor either, and no walls or ceiling—just the underside of the shingles."

Penelope shivered. Then she clutched Griselda's arm and pointed upward again. The lantern bearers—Stokes and Barnaby, she'd wager—had at last found their way into the attics. Light shone through the cracks between the boards and through the ill-fitting shingles. "They're there."

For the next five minutes, she prayed that all the boys would be safe, and that all five would be there. She was about to risk never ever knowing anything about Barnaby's investigations again when Miller came and rescued her. He conducted her and Griselda through the crowd gathering in the street, then through the police cordon and into the house.

If it could be called a house; it appeared more like a warehouse filled to the rafters with junk. Penelope and Griselda halted in what little space there was, midway between the door and the stairs, just as the first boy was led down.

Penelope anxiously counted heads as one by one boys trooped down the stairs. Five! She smiled brilliantly, ecstatic with relief.

In the dim light, the boys milled, looking around, confused, clutching blankets around bony shoulders. Imperiously, she called, "This way, boys!"

Her tone and manner, perfected over the years, had an instant effect. The boys' heads came up; she beckoned, and three quickly headed her way. The other two followed more slowly.

The first three lined up before her. "Excellent." She studied their faces, recognizing all three—the first three boys who'd been filched from under the Foundling House's nose.

One, Fred Hachett, blinked large brown eyes up at her. "You're the lady from the house. M'mum said you was supposed to fetch me, but ole Grimsby came instead."

"Indeed—he stole you." Penelope continued to smile, but the gesture now had an edge. "And so we're taking you back, and sending him to prison."

The boys glanced around at the bobbies pushing past, most heading out now the boys had been found and the villains caught.

"Were all these rozzers 'ere for us then?" one of the others asked.

Penelope racked her brain, and came up with a name. "Yes, Dan, they were. We've been hunting for you for weeks."

The boys exchanged glances, as if impressed with their worth.

"Right, now." Penelope beamed at the boys; she could barely believe that after all their searching, they had them back safe and sound. "We'll be taking you to the Foundling House directly." She shifted to catch the eyes of the last two boys, who continued to hang back.

Abruptly her heart sank. Sickeningly.

They should have been Dick and Jemmie. But they weren't.

Seeing her staring, they ducked their heads.

After a moment, one peeked at her from under a grimy fringe. "What about us, then, miss? Tommy here and me—we weren't s'pposed to go to any house."

Penelope blinked; she struggled to think through the emotions careening around her mind. "No, but…you're orphans now, aren't you?"

Tommy and his friend exchanged glances, then nodded.

"In that case, you can come along, too. We can work out the details later, but there's no need for you to go out on the streets. You can come along with Fred, Dan, and Ben, and we'll get you all an excellent breakfast and a warm bed."

The promise of food guaranteed the boys' willingness to be transported wherever she wished.

She dragged in a huge breath. "But first, tell me…were there any other boys with you here? Ones who should have gone to the Foundling House?"

"You mean Dick and Jemmie." Eyes now bright, eager to help, Fred nodded. "They're here—leastways they were, but they went out with Smythe yesterday evening and they ain't come back."

Leaving the five boys with Griselda, with strict orders to wait for her, Penelope ducked around milling bobbies and made her way to the stairs. She reached the foot as Miller came down. "I have to speak with Stokes and Adair—it's urgent."

Miller took in her tense expression. He glanced back up the stairs. "They're coming down now, miss."

Together with Miller, Penelope retreated to the room's center as two heavily built bobbies appeared, leading an ordinary-looking man with his wrists in shackles.

Wally—she assumed it was he—looked confused. His hair stood on end, his clothes were rumpled; an expression of complete incomprehension filled his plain face. He gave the bobbies no trouble; they herded him to the side so others could come down the stairs.

Another two bobbies descended, this time leading a much older man. Grimsby. The heavy-jowled, large round head with its scraggly twists of lank gray hair Penelope had already seen. It sat atop hunched shoulders and a sunken chest. Grimsby might once have cut an imposing figure, but now he was old, weighed down with the years. Despite that, shrewd cunning glinted in his eyes as they darted about, taking in the boys and Griselda, the other bobbies, Miller—and Penelope.

She made him frown. Grimsby couldn't place her.

Stokes and Barnaby were the last down the stairs.

The bobbies led Grimsby to the center of the cleared space, then halted him, turning him to face Stokes. Under Miller's direction, more lanterns were gathered and perched about the area, flooding it with light.

Penelope grasped the moment; stepping forward, she caught Barnaby's eye, touched Stokes's sleeve to get his attention. Once both had turned to her, she spoke quietly. "Dick and Jemmie, the last two boys taken, aren't here." Both men immediately looked over at the boys. "Yes, there are five, but two aren't ones we knew about. According to the others, Dick and Jemmie were here, but Smythe took them out yesterday, and hasn't yet returned them."

Stokes swore beneath his breath. He exchanged a glance with Barnaby, who also looked grim. "If Smythe is half as good as he's said to be, he won't come within blocks of this place again."

"And if he needs boys," Barnaby said, "he'll hang on to the two he has—he won't let them go."

"Damn!" Stokes gave voice to their frustration. After a moment, he said, "Let's see what we can learn from Grimsby."

"Try Wally first." Penelope glanced at the younger man. "He's…simpler."

Not precisely simple, but she was fairly certain Wally wasn't dealing from a full pack. Turning from her and Barnaby, Stokes faced his prisoners. Sliding her hand into Barnaby's, Penelope squeezed, then releasing him, made her way quietly back to the boys; she didn't want them to feel deserted again.

After a moment's hesitation, Barnaby followed her.

For some moments, Stokes stared impassively at Grimsby, then considered Wally. Eventually, he said, "Wally, isn't it?" When, a puzzled frown on his face, Wally nodded, Stokes asked, "Who told you to kill Mrs. Carter?"

Wally's frown deepened. He shook his head. "I didn't kill no one. Who's Mrs. Carter?"

It was transparently obvious that Wally was telling the truth. "You took the boy, Jemmie, from his mother—she was Mrs. Carter."

Wally nodded, his face clearing. "Aye—I fetched Jemmie away. Went with Smythe to fetch him. His ma weren't well, but she was alive when we left."

"When you left." Stokes paused, then ventured, "So you and Jemmie left…"

Wally nodded. "Smythe told me to take Jemmie out so he could speak private like with Jemmie's ma, then when he came out he said she'd said Jemmie should come along with us because she was feeling poorly and needed to rest."

"I see. And yesterday you went with Smythe to Black Lion Yard."

Again Wally nodded. "Aye. We was supposed to fetch another boy—his grandma was ailing." Wally's frown returned. "But it all went wrong. We was only wanting to take the boy to put him into Mr. Grimsby's school here, so he'd have a trade when he grew up, but people there didn't understand."

It wasn't the people of Black Lion Yard who hadn't understood. Stokes looked at Barnaby, standing beside Penelope. Barnaby tilted his head toward the boys, and mouthed, "Smythe."

Refocusing on Wally, Stokes asked, "Do you know where Smythe stays—he has two of the boys, hasn't he?"

"Aye. He took Dick and Jemmie out to train on the streets last night. Said they're the sharpest two." Wally's brow furrowed even more as he realized. "He hasn't brought them back though—well, don't suppose he will, not with all you rozzers about. But I don't know where he hangs his hat. The boss might know." He looked at Grimsby.

Who looked thoroughly disgusted. "No, I don't know. Smythe's not one to hand out cards, much less invite me around for a glass or two of an evening. Keeps to himself with a vengeance, he does."

Barnaby had expected no less. He glanced at Penelope, gently squeezed the fingers she'd once again slipped into his hand.

Stokes turned to Grimsby. "You've been around long enough to know the ropes, Grimsby. You've been running a school here, training boys to assist with burglaries. No judge is going to look kindly on that. You'll be spending the rest of your unnatural life behind bars. You won't see daylight again."

Grimsby's disgust deepened. "Yeah, I know. So…" He eyed Stokes speculatively. "If I agree to help by telling all I know, what's me options?"

Stokes's smile was the epitome of cynical. "If—and I stress if—you can convince me you've bared your soul, and what you have assists us in our investigations, then I'll speak to the judge. A more lenient sentence is the most you can expect. Transportation instead of a cell."

Grimsby pulled a face. "I'm too old for long sea journeys."

"Better than spending the rest of your life in the dark, so I've heard." Stokes shrugged. "Regardless, in your case, that's the best I can do."

Grimsby screwed up his face, then heaved a huge sigh. "All right. But damn it, I warned them—Smythe and Alert both—once I saw that blasted notice. Told them the game was getting too hot, but would they listen? No. No respect for age and experience. And so now I'm the one ends behind bars when all I'm doing is teaching nippers a few tricks. I'm not the one leading them astray."

"Don't you dare try to pretend that you're not an evil old man preying on the innocence of young boys."

Penelope's voice sliced through the closeness, vibrating with so much fury it literally shocked. Everyone fell silent.

Grimsby stared at her—met her eyes across the space—paled, and edged back toward the two burly bobbies.

Stokes cleared his throat. "Indeed. I couldn't have put it better."

Grimsby sent a shocked look his way. "Who's she?" he whispered hoarsely.

"She, and the gentleman beside her, have a close interest in this matter, and between them are probably related to any of the judges you're likely to meet." Stokes held Grimsby's increasingly horrified gaze. "I think that's your cue to leave aside the excuses and tell us what we want to know."

Flustered, Grismby waved his shackled hands. "Happy to tell you all I know. I said so."

Stokes didn't smile. "Who's Alert?"

"This toff who's got some plan to rob places."

"Houses in Mayfair."

"Yes. He wanted a cracksman, so I put him onto Smythe, but I don't know anything about their arrangements."

"You don't know anything about the planned burglaries?" Stokes looked skeptical.

"I don't! Alert plays his cards slap up against his chest—cool beggar, he is. And Smythe's as close as a clam about any job he does. All I know is Smythe decided he needed eight boys. Eight! I ain't never heard of a cracksman needing eight boys all at once, but that's what Smythe said he wanted."

"And you were happy to supply him, of course."

Grimsby looked grumpy. "No, as a matter of fact. Eight is hard to get—especially with Smythe being so particular. Wouldn't have done it, even for him, except…"

When Grimsby shot him a look, Stokes filled in the gap. "Smythe had something on you, some lever to pressure you into doing what he wanted."

"Not Smythe. Alert."

Stokes frowned. "How did a toff brush up against the likes of you, let alone get some hold over you?"

Grimsby grimaced. "Happened a few years ago. I was going through a bad patch. Tried a little jemmying on me own. I used to have a flair for it in me youth. Broke into a place—and walked into Alert in the dark. Coshed me, he did. When I came around, he had me trussed tight—he gave me a choice, tell him all about who I was, what I did, how I did it, and so on, and he wouldn't hand me over to the rozzers. Like I was his entertainment for the evening. I fingered him for one of those nobs who likes to rub shoulders with us hoi polloi, likes to think of themselves as in the know, so I told him everything." Grimsby shook his head at his own na?veté. "Didn't seem any great risk at the time. I mean, he was a toff—a gentleman. What would he care about me and what I told him?"

"But he remembered."

Grimsby passed a hand over his face. "Aye, all too well." He paused, then went on, "He said if I provided Smythe with the boys he wanted, he'd forget he'd ever met me."

"And you believed him?'

"What choice did I have?" Grimsby glanced around, disgusted again. "And here I am anyway, in the arms of the rozzers."

Leaving Penelope's side, Barnaby joined Stokes. "You say Alert is a toff—describe him."

Grimsby eyed him, then said, "Not as tall as you. Brown hair—darkish and straight. Middling to heavy weight. I've never seen him in good light, so can't say much more than that."

"Clothes?" Barnaby asked.

"Good quality—Mayfair quality."

"Have you met with him recently?" Stokes asked.

Grimsby nodded. "In a house in St. John's Wood. We meet in the back parlor. He sends a message to Smythe if he wants us there, or if we need a meet, Smythe leaves a note at some tavern—I don't know where."

"Does Smythe know all of Alert's plan?" Barnaby asked.

"Not as of yesterday. When he came to fetch the boys he was grumbling about Alert being so cagey about naming the targets. Smythe likes to do a fair amount of reconnoitering before he goes in. Smythe knows more'n I do, but he doesn't know it all. Not yet."

Stokes frowned. "This house you meet in—it's his?"

Grimsby pulled a "how should I know" face. "I assume it is. He's always right at home there, comfy and relaxed."

"What's the address?" Stokes asked.

"Number 32, St. John's Wood Terrace. We always go round the back, to the parlor doors to the garden. There's a lane running behind."

Barnaby had been studying Grimsby. "You say Smythe wanting eight boys is unusual. Why do you think he wants so many?" When Grimsby shrugged, Barnaby let his tone harden. "Guess."

Grimsby held his gaze for a moment, then said, "If I had to guess, I'd say Alert's plan was to hit more'n eight houses all at once—all in one night. That way you rozzers wouldn't have any chance to get in his way."

Head rising, Barnaby envisioned it, combined the prospect with what Grimsby had already let fall. "You said targets. Specific targets. So Alert is planning to send Smythe to burgle specific houses that he—Alert—has selected in Mayfair, more than eight of them, all in one night." He refocused on Grimsby. "Is that his plan?"

"That's as much as I can guess, " Grimsby said. "Which houses, I have no clue."

Stokes eyed Grimsby assessingly, then asked, "Is there anything else—anything at all—you can tell us?"

"Especially about Alert," Barnaby added.

Grimsby went to shake his head, then stopped. "One thing—don't know if it's real or just me imagination, but on more than one occasion, Alert said he knows how the police operate. He stressed it—he was always telling us to leave worrying about the rozzers to him."

Stokes frowned. He glanced at Barnaby.

Barnaby returned his gaze; no more than Stokes did he like the sound of that. Softly, he said, "A gentleman who feels confident in knowing how the police operate."

Stokes turned back to Grimsby. "This house in St. John's Wood Terrace. I think it's time we paid your Mr. Alert a visit."

"There's no ‘Mr. Alert' living in St. John's Wood Terrace." Griselda's voice had everyone glancing her way. She colored, but looked steadily at Stokes. "I know that stretch. I'm not sure who lives in number 32, but I'm certain their name's not Alert."

Stokes nodded. "Hardly surprising—he'll be using an alias."

Beside him, Barnaby murmured, "But he's using his own house?"

That was hard to swallow, but clearly they had to visit St. John's Wood Terrace to learn what they could. Stokes gave orders for Wally to be taken to Scotland Yard. Sergeant Miller, Grimsby, and his two guards would go with them to St. John's Wood.

While hackneys were being summoned and the other bobbies given orders to return to their watch houses, Barnaby and Stokes crossed to where Penelope and Griselda were marshaling the five boys.

Penelope looked up as they neared. Her expression declared she was torn between the duty she felt to see the boys safe and settled at the Foundling House and her determination to catch the villains. The news that Alert was a gentleman would only have driven her resolve to new heights—as it had with Barnaby.

Halting by her side, he met her eyes, and waited for her decision, far too wise in her ways to even hint which way he felt it should go.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "I'll take the boys to the Foundling House."

He nodded. "I'll go with Stokes."

Stokes indicated two constables standing by the door. "Johns and Matthews will see you safely to the Foundling House. They've got a hackney waiting."

Penelope murmured her thanks and started ushering the boys out. The five were still round-eyed, staring at the police, noting the shackles on Grimsby and Wally. Drinking it all in so they could later describe the scene to others—their ticket to importance at least for a few days.

Barnaby helped her to get the boys in the carriage, then took her hand and assisted her up. She paused on the step and looked back at him. He smiled. "I'll come and tell you all later."

She squeezed his fingers. "Thank you. I'll be dying of curiosity until then."

He released her. Stepping back, he shut the carriage door.

Griselda came bustling up to look in through the window. "I'm going with them. I'll see you later. I promise to tell you all, including what he"—she tipped her head at Barnaby—"leaves out."

Penelope laughed and sat back. The two bobbies had already clambered up. The jarvey cracked his whip and the horse started plodding—taking her and her five charges to the Foundling House, where they all belonged.

"Is this it?" Pointing to the door of number 32, St. John's Wood Terrace, Stokes looked at Grimsby.

"Aye." Grimsby nodded. "Never came to the front—he always had us come and go through the back lane. But this is the one, right enough."

Stokes marched up the steps and plied the knocker with an authoritative beat.

After a moment, footsteps approached. The door opened, revealing an older maid in cap and apron. "Yes?"

"Inspector Stokes, Scotland Yard. I'd like to speak with Mr. Alert."

The maid frowned. "There's no Mr. Alert here—you must have the wrong address." Eyeing the small crowd gathered on the pavement with open disapproval, she started to close the door.

"One moment." Stokes's tone halted her. "I'll need to speak with your employer. Please fetch him."

The maid eyed the rabble behind him—and turned up her nose. "Her. And it's far too early. It's barely eight—hardly a decent hour—"

She broke off, staring at Stokes and the notebook he'd hauled from his greatcoat pocket.

He glanced up at her, pencil poised. "Your name, miss?"

She primmed her lips, then, "Very well. Wait here—I'll fetch Miss Walker."

She turned and shut the door, allowing Stokes a small smile.

Barnaby joined him on the steps; they leaned on the railings to either side of the porch. "Ten minutes," Barnaby said. "At least."

Stokes shrugged. "She might make it in five."

Eight minutes later the door opened again, but as the vision revealed was rather scantily clad in a lacy robe, Barnaby felt he'd been closer to the mark. The woman's face was fashionably pale, but there were dark smudges under her eyes. She took in Stokes—slowly—then looked her fill at Barnaby before returning her gaze to Stokes's face. "Yes?"

"You're the mistress here?" Stokes colored faintly; judging by the woman's attire, the question stood an excellent chance of being ambiguous.

She raised impressively arched brows, but nodded. "I am."

When she volunteered nothing more, just looked at him expectantly, Stokes went on, "I'm looking for a Mr. Alert."

The woman didn't reply, waiting for Stokes to explain a connection, then realizing, she said, "There's no one of that name here. Indeed, I can't say I've ever heard the name."

From Grimsby came a muttered, "Strewth. Knew I should never have trusted the shifty beggar even that much."

Stokes glanced back at Grimsby. "If you're still certain this is the house…?" When Grimsby gave an emphatic nod and grumbled "I am," Stokes went on, "Then we're still left with one question."

Turning, he looked at Miss Walker; her maid had reappeared, peering over her shoulder. "A gentleman calling himself Mr. Alert has been using your back parlor to meet with this man"—he waved at Grimsby—"and one other, on a number of occasions in recent weeks. I would like to know how that came to be."

The confusion on Miss Walker's face was clearly genuine. "Well, I'm sure I don't know how that could be." She glanced at her maid. "We haven't had any…incidents, have we? No instances of the parlor garden doors being left unlocked?"

The maid shook her head, but she was now frowning.

Barnaby and Stokes both saw it. Stokes asked, "What is it?"

The maid glanced at her mistress, then said, "The armchair by the hearth in the back parlor. Someone's been sitting there, on and off. I straighten the parlor before I leave at nights, and sometimes the cushion is dented the next morning."

Stokes looked his puzzlement. "But Miss Walker…?"

Miss Walker turned an interesting shade of pink. "I…ah…" She darted a glance at her maid, then confessed, "I'm usually in bed by the time Hannah leaves, and I sleep rather heavily."

Hannah nodded. " Very heavily." There was disapproval in her eyes, but no hint of prevarication.

Barnaby understood, as did Stokes, that they were telling them that Miss Walker was, as many like her were, addicted to laudanum. Once in bed, dosed, she wouldn't hear an artillery shell exploding in the street.

"Perhaps," Barnaby suggested, "this man, Mr. Alert, might be known to your…benefactor."

Stokes took the hint. "Who owns this house, Miss Walker?"

But Miss Walker was now alarmed. She tilted her chin. "I'm sure that's none of your business. He isn't here, and you don't need to bother him over a matter like this."

"He may be able to help us," Stokes stated. "And this is a matter of murder."

Barnaby inwardly groaned. Mentioning murder predictably didn't help. Miss Walker and the maid were now thoroughly frightened and refused point-blank to reveal anything at all.

There was a shuffling on the pavement, then Griselda joined them; she tugged Stokes's sleeve.

When he looked at her, she said, "Riggs. The gentleman who owns this house is the Honorable Carlton Riggs." She glanced past Stokes. "He comes into the shop sometimes to buy bonnets and gloves for Miss Walker."

Stokes looked back at Miss Walker and raised a brow. She colored, but then nodded. "Yes. Carlton Riggs owns this house—he has for years, for longer than I've known him."

Stokes inclined his head. "And where is Mr. Riggs now?"

Miss Walker blinked at him, then glanced at Barnaby. She clearly recognized him as one of the ton. "Well, he's on holidays, isn't he?" She looked back at Stokes. "It's the off-season for town. He went up north to his family's house three weeks ago."

The cemetery that ran alongside the St. John's Wood church was a dark and gloomy place at the best of times. At eleven o'clock on a foggy November night, the moldering monuments interspersed with old gnarled trees cast more than enough shadow to conceal two men.

Smythe stood under the biggest tree, in the middle of the plot, and watched Alert stroll casually, with the aura of an eccentric gentleman out to take the air, toward him.

He had to give the man points; he was cool under fire. As was their custom, Smythe had left a message with the bartender at the Crown and Anchor in Fleet Street, but this time his message had been rather more than his usual few words. He'd asked for an urgent and immediate meeting, and warned Alert in no uncertain terms against going to their usual place—the parlor in number 32, St. John's Wood Terrace, a few blocks to the north—nominating the cemetery instead.

As he'd expected, Alert had been intelligent enough to heed his warning. As he'd also anticipated, he wasn't happy about it.

Halting before Smythe, Alert snapped, "You'd better have a damned good reason for asking for this meeting."

"I have," Smythe growled.

Alert glanced across the cemetery. "And why the devil can't we meet at the house?"

"Because the house, in fact the whole street, is crawling with rozzers just waiting for you and me to show our faces."

Despite the poor light, Smythe sensed Alert's start, but he didn't immediately respond.

When he did, his voice was even, flat—deadly. "What happened?"

Smythe told him what he knew—that Grimsby's school had been raided and they'd lost Grimsby, Wally, and five of the boys. Smythe was quietly furious on his own account—the opportunity to pull off a whole string of burglaries of the caliber Alert had described didn't come around but once in a lifetime; quite aside from the money, he would have made his name, which would have kept him in good standing for the rest of his life. He was angry, but his fury was nothing compared to Alert's.

Not that Alert did anything more than take two paces away and rest a fist on the edge of a gravestone. It was the rage that screamed in every line of his body, in the stiff, brittle tension that rode him, the violence he contained, that he battled to suppress, that set the very air—and Smythe's instincts—quivering.

And set him thinking. Such fury suggested Alert was quite possibly desperate to have the buglaries done.

Which, in Smythe's view, augered well. For him.

He couldn't do the burglaries without the information Alert had thus far withheld, but perhaps Alert would now be more amenable to running the enterprise Smythe's way.

"Do you have any idea who—" Fury vibrated through Alert's voice; he cut himself off and drew a huge breath. "No. That doesn't matter. We can't allow ourselves to be distracted—"

Again he broke off. Swinging around, he took three strides in another direction, then halted, lifted his head and breathed deeply again, then he swung to face Smythe. "Yes, it does matter. Or might matter. Do you have any idea who or what brought the police down on Grimsby's head?"

"Could've been anyone. Remember that notice? We were on borrowed time as it was."

Alert grimaced. "I didn't realize it might happen so fast. We only needed another week." He fell to pacing again, but this time with less heat. "Were you there when they grabbed Grimsby?"

"For a bit. I didn't hang around, especially as I had two of the boys with me. I got there just after the rozzers had gone in—I only stayed long enough to be certain what was happening. I left before they brought Grimsby out."

Alert frowned. "Was there anyone else there with the police?"

"I didn't see anyone…well, except for the lady from the Foundling House. I expect she was there for the boys."

"Lady?" The man known as Alert halted. "Describe her."

Smythe was observant; his quick description was enough to identify the lady. Who was indeed a lady. Penelope Ashford. Damn that meddling shrew! Her brother should have sent her to a convent years ago.

But Calverton hadn't, which had left her free to interfere with his grand plan. To jeopardize it. He certainly wouldn't put it past the infernal female to have been behind the raid on Grimsby's school.

His earlier fury tugged at his mind, along with the fear that fueled it. He'd had another visit from his cent-per-cent, but this time, rather than catch him at one of his haunts, the damned usurer had come to the house! To his place of work!

The message couldn't have been plainer; if he didn't clear his debt as promised, he'd be ruined. And the depth, breadth, and completeness of that ruin had now assumed epic proportions.

Under the tree, Smythe shifted, drawing his attention. "Like I said, I've two of the boys with me—or rather I've left them locked up tight. As it happens, they're the best two by far, even though they're the ones Grimsby had for the least time. They're nimble and quick, and I can keep them in line well enough. I'll need to teach them more—much more if we want to use them to do your jobs—because now we'll need to get them clean away every time."

Their original plan had involved leaving the boy used for each house inside the house once he'd passed out the lifted item; the boy would have orders to wait for an hour before attempting to leave—usually the most dangerous stage and the one where the boys were most likely to be caught—but by then Smythe, Alert, and the liberated items would be long gone.

Alert grimaced; Smythe had explained his procedures well enough for him to understand that with only two boys they couldn't afford to lose them. He grunted. "I suppose, with only two, if you lose one, the other—seeing his own fate demonstrated—would run away rather than keep working."

"Precisely. The boys need to be clever or they're no use to me, but if they are…" Smythe shrugged. "These two are clever, but at heart they're still East End boys. They'll do what I tell them, as long as they feel safe enough."

Alert paced. "How long will you need to train them well enough to use?"

"Now I've only got the two to concentrate on…four days."

"Once they're fully trained, will you be able to do the eight houses all on one night, as we'd planned?"

"No. No chance. Even four in one night is pushing it with only two boys. They get tired, they make mistakes, and you lose all your work."

Alert thought it over, balancing Smythe's concerns against his own knowledge of how the police would react once they learned of the burglaries. Any of the burglaries, the thefts he'd planned.

Drawing in a huge breath, he stopped pacing and faced Smythe. "Two nights. We can't stretch it over more. Four houses on each of two nights. We can order the houses so the more difficult are at the end of the list. That way your boys can grow more experienced with the easier houses before having to face the more demanding—we're less likely to lose them that way, and if we do, it'll be toward the end of our game."

Smythe considered, weighing the pros and cons—the most weighty being that he wanted to do the jobs—then nodded. "All right. We'll do the eight over two nights."

"Good." Alert paused, then said, "We'll meet here, three nights from now. Until then, keep yourself and those boys out of sight."

An entirely unnecessary reminder; Smythe suppressed his instinctive reaction and evenly said, "That might not work, depending on when you want to do the jobs." When Alert frowned, he continued, "I told you before—I need at least three days to study the houses. Given we're doing so many, even if they're in the same area, I'd prefer longer, but if I have to I'll do the scouting in three days. But I won't go in unless I've had at least that long."

Alert hesitated, then his hand went to his pocket. Smythe stilled, but it was only a piece of paper Alert pulled out.

He looked at it, then held it out. "These are the houses, but the families are still in residence. Once they leave, and we're ready to do the job, I'll give you the list of the items we need to lift from each house, as well as details of where in each house the item to be lifted is located."

Taking the list, Smythe glanced at it, but it was too dark to make out the words. Folding it, he put it in his pocket. "Still just the one item from each house?"

"Yes." Alert's gaze sharpened on his face. "As I explained at the outset, with these particular items, one from each house is all we need. You'll be rich beyond your wildest imaginings with just one—eight items all told. And"—his voice lowered, becoming more steely, more threatening—"there are reasons why, in these instances, only that one item must be taken. To indiscriminately filch anything else will risk…the entire game."

Smythe shrugged. "Whatever you say. I'll check out these houses and train the boys—then once the coast is clear, just give me your list of items and we'll do the deed."

Alert studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. I'll see you here three nights from now."

With that, he turned and walked out of the cemetery.

Smythe remained under the tree and watched until Alert disappeared among the monuments. Smiling to himself, Smythe set off in a different direction.

He patted his pocket, reassured by the crackle of paper inside. He'd been waiting to get something on Alert—something that would identify the man; he didn't like doing business with people he didn't know, especially when they were toffs. When things went wrong, toffs had a habit of pointing at the lower orders and claiming complete innocence. Not that Smythe expected to be caught, but having a little something up his sleeve to either ensure Alert's silence, or alternatively to trade if things got sticky, was always reassuring.

Now he had the list of houses—houses Alert knew contained a very valuable item, and more, that he knew well enough to describe that item and where it was located in detail.

"And how would you know that, my fine gentleman?" Grinning, Smythe answered the question. "Because you're a regular visitor to every one of those houses."

Eight houses. If he ever needed to identify Alert, a list of eight houses with which the man was intimately familiar would, Smythe felt sure, do the trick.