17
For 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.”
