Stokes looked grim, but nodded. “Mary’s and Horry’s safety comes first. What happened? Start at the beginning.”
Joe glanced at Mary.
She looked up at him, perched on the arm of her chair, then reached out and patted his hand. “You tell it, dearie.”
Joe nodded and faced them. “Ted and me were here keeping watch. Ted saw them coming—saw the way they looked around as they came. So he and I took Horry out back”—with his head he indicated a curtained doorway—“and listened and watched from there.”
“They knocked,” Mary put in, “polite as you please. Said they were from the bailiff.”
“There were two of them?” Stokes clarified.
Mary nodded. “One was a big bruiser, the other just your average bloke.”
Barnaby caught Stokes’s eye; the description fitted the pair who’d taken Jemmie.
Mary went on, “Asked about me health, and about Horry, where he was. I got annoyed—well, anyone would—and told them they ought to leave. But they didn’t. The big one picked up that cushion there, and…” Her gaze on the cushion, her voice faded away.
Joe put his arm around Mary’s shoulders. He looked at Stokes. “He was going to smother Mary with the cushion. Held it in his hands and came toward her. That’s when we came out.”
Mary sniffed. “A right to-do it was, wrestling, crashing about.”
Stokes frowned. He looked at Joe and his brother. “How did they get away? There’s two of you, and three bobbies were outside.”
Joe looked sheepish. “We thought they’d fight. That they’d try to get through us to Mary and Horry. Only they didn’t. The instant they realized we were set on protecting them, and Horry blew the whistle you gave him, they scarpered. And Smythe’s a big man—you’d need more than two to hold him. He shook us off, pushed the other bloke out, and then went through your bobbies like ninepins.”
“Smythe.” Barnaby couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “You know him?”
Joe nodded. “That’s why I wasn’t all that bothered about him getting away. Least we know who he is.”
“What’s he like, this Smythe?” Stokes asked.
“He’s a cracksman by trade, and word is he’s not a man to cross.” Joe frowned. “Never heard tell that he was one to get blood on his hands—cracksmen generally don’t—but he sure as eggs was going to snuff out Mary.”
“By cracksman, you mean burglar,” Barnaby said. “Does he use boys?”
Joe nodded. “High-class burglar—he definitely uses boys.”
“Do you know where he gets them from?”
Joe shook his head. “Smythe’s a loner—most of the best cracksmen are. He gets his boys from schoolmasters in the slums, but he’ll take them from whoever’s got them. I’ve heard tell he’s right fussy about his boys, but again, good cracksmen are. What makes them good, I suppose.”
Ted, his brother, shifted. When everyone looked at him, he colored and ducked his head. Glancing at his brother, he said, “The other bloke—he works for Grimsby. Most like Smythe’s getting his boys from ole Grimsby, else why’d he have Grimsby’s lad with him to do the snatching?”
Joe was as stunned as the rest of them. “You know the bloke?”
Ted nodded. “Wally. Works for Grimsby.”
Joe shook his head. He looked at Stokes. “I wouldn’t know the geezer again if I saw him.”
Grim-faced, Stokes nodded. “We’ve heard he’s like that—ordinary.”
“Aye, he’s that,” Ted said. “He’s not all that clever, but he knows to follow orders. Been with Grimsby for years.”
“Well—there you are then.” Joe looked at them all. “It’s Grimsby you’re after—everyone knows he runs schools now and then.”
“Where,” Stokes asked, the intensity of the hunt in his voice, “can we find Grimsby?”
“More to the point”—Penelope spoke for the first time—“where can we find his school?”
