His smile was as cynical as her tone. “In the normal way of things, you would unfortunately be correct. However, Stokes and I go back a long way. And at this stage all I’ll do is alert him to the situation and ask for his opinion.” He paused, then went on, “Once he’s heard what we know…”
If Stokes, like Barnaby, felt his instincts pricking…
But he didn’t need to share such thoughts with Penelope Ashford.
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
He returned Penelope to the Foundling House, then took the hackney on to Scotland Yard. Entering the bland and unremarkable building that now housed the Metropolitan Police Force, he made his way to Stokes’s office unchallenged; most in the building knew him by sight, and by reputation.
Stokes’s office was on the first floor. When Barnaby reached it, the door stood open. He paused just outside, looking in, a slow grin lifting his lips at the sight of his friend, coat off, sleeves rolled up, laboriously writing reports.
If there was one thing Stokes did not appreciate about his increasing success and status, it was the inevitable report writing.
Sensing a presence, Stokes glanced up, saw him, and smiled. Delightedly. He laid down his pen, pushed aside the stack of papers, and sat back. “Well, well—what brings you here?”
Anticipation rang in his tone.
With a laugh, Barnaby walked into the office—not tiny, thankfully, but of a size just large enough to accommodate four people at a pinch. Set before the window, the desk with its chair faced the door. A cupboard stood against one wall, packed with files. Stokes’s greatcoat hung from the coat hook on the wall. Slipping the buttons of his own elegant overcoat free, Barnaby let it fall open as he sank into one of the two chairs before the desk.
He met Stokes’s slate-gray eyes. Of similar height and build to Barnaby, dark-haired, with rather saturnine features, Stokes was peculiarly classless. His father had been a merchant, not a gentleman, but courtesy of his maternal grandfather, Stokes had been well educated. Because of that, Stokes had a better grasp of the ways of the ton, and therefore a better chance of dealing with the denizens of that elite world, than any other inspector presently on Peel’s force.
In Barnaby’s opinion, the force was lucky to have Stokes. Aside from all else, he was intelligent and used his brain. Which in part was why they’d become close friends.
Which in turn was why Stokes was eyeing him with such undisguised eagerness; he hoped Barnaby was about to save him from his reports.
Barnaby grinned. “I have a case that, while not in our usual way of things, might just pique your interest.”
“At present that wouldn’t be hard.” Stokes’s voice was deep, rather gravelly, a contrast to Barnaby’s well-modulated tones. “All our villains have gone on holiday early this year, or else they’ve retired to the country because we’ve made it too warm for them here. Either way, I’m all ears.”
“In that case…I’ve been asked by the administrator of the Foundling House in Bloomsbury to look into the disappearance of four boys.”
Succinctly, Barnaby outlined all he’d learned from Penelope, from his observations at the house, and during their trip to Clerkenwell. As he did, a gravity he hadn’t allowed Penelope to see infused his voice and his expression.
By the time he concluded with, “The most pertinent fact is that it was the same man who whisked each of the four boys away,” he looked and felt distinctly grim.
Stokes’s face had hardened. His eyes had narrowed, darkening. “You want my opinion?” Barnaby nodded. “I don’t like the sound of it any more than you do.”
Sitting back in his chair, Stokes tapped one spatulate fingertip on his desk. “Let’s consider—what use could someone make of four—at least four—seven-to ten-year-old boys, all from the East End?” Without pause, Stokes answered the question. “Brothels. Cabin boys. Chimney sweeps. Burglars’ boys. Just to cite the more obvious.”
Barnaby grimaced; folding his hands over his waistcoat, he looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not so sure of the brothels, thank heaven. Surely they wouldn’t restrict themselves to the East End for such prey.”
“We don’t know how widespread this is. We might have heard about the East End cases simply because it’s the administrator at the Foundling House who called you in—and they deal mostly with the East End.”
“True.” Lowering his gaze, Barnaby fixed it on Stokes. “So what do you think?”
Stokes’s gaze grew distant. Barnaby let the silence stretch, having a fairly good idea of the issues with which Stokes was wrestling.
Eventually, a slow, predatory smile curved Stokes’s thin lips. He refocused on Barnaby. “As you know, normally we’d have no chance of getting permission to put any real effort into this—into finding four pauper boys. However, those possible uses we mentioned—none of them are good. All are, in themselves, crimes worthy of attention. It occurs to me, what with the way your recent success in dealing with tonnish villains has played out politically, and given the governors are so constantly exhorting us to be seen to be evenhanded in our efforts, that perhaps I might present this case as an opportunity to demonstrate that the force is not solely interested in crimes affecting the nobs, but equally prepared to act to protect innocents from the lower walks of life.”
“You might point out that at present, crime among the nobs is at a seasonal low.” Tilting his head, Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So, do you think you can get permission to work on this?”
A moment passed, then Stokes’s lips firmed. “I believe I can make this play into their prejudices. And their politics.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“You might drop a line to your father, just to shore up support in case of need, but other than that…I believe I’ll manage.”
“Good.” Barnaby sat up. “Does that mean you, specifically, will be joining in?”
