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 canguess,” 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.
