“Obviously.” Seeing a hackney approaching, Barnaby hailed it; the driver acknowledged him with a wave of his whip. While they waited for the carriage to tack through the press of traffic, he asked, “Tell me about this official bag. Is that how the orders get sent out to the different watch houses?”
Stokes nodded. “The orders associated with any major crime come from the officer in charge of the case at the Yard. Any officer has a stack of the forms—there’s a stack in a drawer of my desk.”
“So laying hands on a form wouldn’t be difficult.”
“No. Once filled out and signed, the forms get put in official dispatch pouches—leather satchels that hang in the dispatch office. There’s one for each watch house.”
“So this business of the fake order takes Alert’s connection with the police one step further—he has to be someone with access to Scotland Yard, who knows the ropes well enough to fake an order and get it sent out with no one the wiser.”
Stokes grunted as the hackney rocked to a halt before them. “There’s one thing more—the dispatch office is never unmanned. There’s always at least a sergeant there, and usually one or more runners ready to take urgent orders out.”
“Oh-ho! So Alert is someone the dispatch sergeants are used to seeing put orders into the bags—he has to be someone who has access in the normal way of things. It has to be part of his usual job.”
“Exactly.” Stokes opened the hackney door. “Which is why we’re heading straight to the dispatch office.”
Barnaby climbed into the carriage. Stokes looked up at the jarvey. “Scotland Yard. As fast as you can.”
While Barnaby and Stokes rattled through the traffic, at the Foundling House Penelope was applying herself to ensuring that in the aftermath of the police raid, everything was once again running smoothly.
Mrs. Keggs and the staff had rallied magnificently; even Miss Marsh, normally so timid, looked determined and resolute as she tidied the files the constables had disarranged.
“Ham-fisted louts.” She clucked her tongue as Penelope swept through the anteroom. “Couldn’t even leave things in order.”
Penelope felt her lips twitch. She continued into her office. She was impressed by how strongly the staff, and even the older children, had reacted to the implied threat of the police raid. How firmly they’d stood against any panic, and refused to believe anything ill of the place—more, had strongly resented the implication that anything whatever was wrong with how the house—and she as its administrator—conducted its business.
Sinking into her chair, she entirely unexpectedly felt some good had come from the raid. The house had been in existence for five years; clearly in those five years they’d succeeded in becoming the sort of institution that those who worked in, and those who lived within, valued—enough to fight for.
She wouldn’t have known that—how much the staff and the children valued what they’d achieved—if it hadn’t been for the raid.
And now that everything was back to normal, all was calm and peaceful in this part of her world. All it lacked was Dick and Jemmie. Once she had them back, her life—this aspect of it—would be full and complete.
Whole.
Sitting back in her chair, she swiveled it and stared out at the gray day. A fine drizzle had set in; the children had stayed inside, warm and dry in the dining hall.
Her life—the question of its wholeness, its completeness—filled her mind. All she felt, all she thought, was progressively leading her down one particular path, one she’d never thought she’d tread. Mostyn’s unexpected revelations added another layer—raised another question.
While she was increasingly certain of what she was thinking, what was Barnaby thinking?
She’d thought—assumed—she’d known, but in light of Mostyn’s more informed observations, she was no longer so sure.
Of one thing shewascertain: Barnaby Adair was every bit as intelligent, as quick-witted and clever as she. He’d proved surprisingly insightful when it came to her thoughts, her reactions. On more than one occasion he’d responded to her wishes without her making them known—sometimes even before she’d consciously been aware of them.
But…regardless of all she sensed between them, did she truly want to accept the risk inherent in following the path her instincts even more than her thoughts were pushing her down?
She stared out at the gray day as the minutes stretched, then with a sigh, turned back to her desk and forced her mind to business.
Despite all, she had reservations—questions to which she didn’t yet have answers, and didn’t, yet, know how to get them. Despite the compulsion of instincts and feelings, and even rational thought, her careful, logical side felt uncomfortable—unable to go on until those questions had been resolved.
How to resolve them was the issue.
Pulling a stack of official guardianship papers onto her blotter, she picked up the first and started to read.
The Dispatch Office in Scotland Yard was located on the ground floor, off a corridor from the front foyer heading toward the rear. Barnaby followed Stokes through the swinging double doors.
Pausing in the center of the room, he looked around and saw what Stokes meant; the dispatch sergeant, seated behind a long counter that filled the wall opposite the doors, and his minions working at raised desks behind him, couldn’t miss seeing anyone who entered.
The walls to either side were lined with wooden pegs four rows high; a leather satchel hung from each peg. Above each peg was a plaque inscribed with the name of one of the London watch houses. Following Stokes to the counter, Barnaby noted there were even dispatch satchels for Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool—all the major towns across England.
