The man nodded. “I’ll need to go over it with you.” He tipped his head toward the carriage. “Climb in. I’ll drive to somewhere we can talk.”
Smythe nudged the boys back and opened the carriage door. “Get in.” Once the boys had scrambled up, he joined them. Jemmie squished himself into the far corner of the seat; Dick did the same on the seat opposite. Smythe shut the door and dropped onto the seat beside Jemmie. The instant he did, the coach shifted and rolled off.
The driver drove slowly, as if his horse were plodding home. They left the big houses behind, then large trees appeared outside, enveloping the carriage in even deeper gloom.
A little way along, the carriage slowed, then halted. Smythe reached for the door handle, then paused; through the dimness he studied them. They heard the sounds of the driver climbing down. “Stay there,” Smythe growled.
He climbed out, shutting the door behind him.
Jemmie looked at Dick, then they both sat up and peered out of the windows beside them. The scene that met their eyes wasn’t encouraging; the trees the carriage had stopped beneath bordered a wide vista of open space. They’d left the worst of the fog behind; here it was little more than a veil, letting moonlight bathe the expanse, leaving them with nowhere to hide. To two urchins born and bred in the slums, the wide-open spaces weren’t comforting. If they ran, Smythe would hear them leave the carriage. He’d be able to see them, and run them down. He’d catch them for certain.
Disappointed, Jemmie looked across at Dick. Lips tight, he shook his head. Swallowing his fear, he looked at the windows on the other side of the carriage; through them, he could see Smythe’s shoulders, and those of the gentleman. They’d heard him speak; they knew he was a nob.
The pair had moved a few steps from the carriage; heads bent, their backs to the carriage, they were poring over something, presumably the list they’d wanted to discuss.
Exchanging another glance with Dick, Jemmie slid noiselessly from his seat and crept to that side of the carriage, ducking down by the door so he couldn’t be seen. A second later, Dick joined him.
Heads resting against the door panel, they heard the gentleman explaining where a particular statue would be. From what followed, it seemed they were to burgle more houses the next night. At one point, Dick, eyes wide, looked at Jemmie and mouthed, “Four more?”
Jemmie nodded. Then they heard Smythe ask, “What about the police?”
The gentleman replied. His voice was lower, more mellow; they couldn’t catch all his words. They did hear him say, “If any of your thefts tonight are reported, there might be more police on the streets tomorrow night. However, I’ll know where they’ll be, and they won’t be near the houses we’re interested in. Don’t worry. You’ll have a clear field. And as I said, those most interested in our activities will be distracted.”
The man listened to Smythe’s answering growl, then said, “If you pull off your end of things as well as you did tonight, all will go perfectly.”
Hearing the note of finality in that cultured voice, the boys flashed each other frightened looks and scurried back to their corners, wedging themselves into their former positions as Smythe yanked open the door.
He surveyed them, then snarled, “Come out—we’re leaving.”
The boys scrambled out of the carriage. The instant they did, Smythe snagged a leading rein through a harness loop on the rope holding up each boy’s baggy pants. Once both were secure, he shook the reins. “Come on—let’s go.”
They set off walking. Neither boy was silly enough to turn his head and look back at the carriage. They trudged on, over the open expanse, into the chilly night.
“I can’t believe it!” Stokes paced back and forth in his office at Scotland Yard.
From his position lounging against the side of Stokes’s desk, Barnaby watched him. Sergeant Miller hovered in the open doorway.
“There’s no way to tell who else has been burgled!” Stokes flung up his hands. “Damn it—it’s going to be hard enough to prove they’ve been burgled at all”—he flung a hand toward the door—“even when the staff are sure they have been.”
Barnaby cocked a brow at Miller. “The old butler is sure the urn was there?”
Miller nodded.
“But,”Stokes said, his tone vicious, “he can’t be certain his master hasn’t sold it. He—the old butler-cum-caretaker—knows it was a fabulously valuable piece that many others had admired, so it’s possible his master sold it the day before leaving town and forgot to mention it. So we’re going to have to check with the marquess first, before we put out any hue and cry for a thief. And the marquess is currently in Scotland for the shooting.”
Halting, Stokes drew in a huge breath, struggling to master his temper.
Impassively, Barnaby stated the obvious to spare Stokes the aggravation. “It’ll be days, more like a week, before we know.”
Stokes nodded tersely, his features like stone. “And by then…we’ll have no chance at all of recovering even such an identifiable piece.” Rounding his desk, he dropped into his chair. He stared across the room. “The truth is, if the caretaker hadn’t been the ex-butler, it’s unlikely he’d have known anything was gone. The marquess would have returned in February or March, andthenwe’d have heard about it.”
Relinquishing his position against the desk, Barnaby moved to one of the chairs facing it. He glanced at Miller. “The caretaker didn’t see anything useful?”
Miller shook his head. “He lives in the basement rather than the attics, or he wouldn’t have known anything at all. He’s old and sleeps poorly. He heard light footsteps pattering overhead, so he went up to look. He saw nothing amiss, but then thought he may as well check the windows. He found one unlocked, yet he’s sure he’d locked it. He didn’t worry because the window was barred, so he relocked it and headed back to bed. But he passed his master’s study on the way. He leaves the doors open when he’s in the house alone, so he can glance into rooms easily. When he looked in tonight, he knew something was wrong. Took him a while to realize that the holland cover on the table was lying flat where it should have been peaked over this Chinese urn that as far as he knows should have been there, but isn’t anymore.”
Stokes groaned. He stared at his desk. After a moment, he asked without looking up, “Has the superintendent sent that note to the marquess yet?”
His voice had lowered. Barnaby looked around, and saw Miller glance along the corridor.
