Now, with so many avenues exhausted or closed to them for one reason or another, a species of frustration laced with dread rode her, consuming her mind.
They had to—simply had to—find and rescue Jemmie and Dick.
Yet rack her brain though she might, she couldn’t think of anything they could do, couldn’t see any way forward.
“Any news of those two boys, ma’am?”
She looked up, finding a smile, albeit a brief one, for Mrs. Keggs. “Unfortunately not.”
That redoubtable matron sighed and shook her gray head. “It’s a worry—two innocents like that in the hands of a murderer.”
“Indeed.” Knowing she had to for the sake of staff morale, Penelope summoned a confident expression. “We—myself, Mr. Adair, Inspector Stokes, and others—are doing all we can to locate Dick and Jemmie.”
“Aye, and it’s a relief to know they haven’t been forgotten.” Mrs. Keggs clasped her hands. “We’ll all be praying you succeed, and soon.”
With a nod, Mrs. Keggs departed.
All confidence fading, Penelope grimaced at the empty doorway. “As will I, Keggs. As will I.” Praying, it seemed, was all she could do.
“I can’t think of anything.” Stokes, pacing across his office, shot a sharp glance at Barnaby, perched once again on the edge of his desk. “Can you?”
Barnaby shook his head. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Smythe has the boys, and unless the Almighty decides to take a hand we’ve no prospect of locating him in the short term.”
“And the short term is all we’ve got.”
“Indeed. Alert…now we have a better feeling for the game he’s playing, I’m more confident we’ll identify him—in time.” Barnaby’s voice hardened. “Again, it’s ‘in time.’ Montague sent a message this morning—he’s checked enough to learn that every one of our eleven gentlemen suspects is in debt to some degree. Given their ages, and that they’re all bachelors, that’s not particularly surprising. However, how significant that debt might be will depend on their individual circumstances, and that Montague hasn’t yet had time to assess. He says that’ll take days, at least.”
Stokes grimaced. “None of my contacts has come up with any hint of any of the eleven being involved in shady dealings.”
Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t think Alert will have stooped to petty crime, or even associated with criminals in the past. He’s clever and careful, even if he is growing increasingly cocky.”
Stokes grunted, still pacing. “He has the right to feel cocky. So far, he’s trumped us at every turn.”
Barnaby made no reply. For the first time in his investigative career he was truly stumped, at least on the subject of locating the boys. Alert he would pursue and eventually catch, but rescuing the boys…
He’d made a promise to Jemmie’s mother, and to the boy himself. Losing Jemmie—having the boy snatched away so that he couldn’t fulfill his promises—lay like a leaden weight on his soul, on his honor.
On top of that, the loss of Dick and Jemmie was making Penelope fret, more than he’d dreamed possible.
Like him, she didn’t deal well with failure.
And this time failure was staring them in the face.
Stokes continued to pace. For all of them, being forced to wait without anything to do, knowing the boys were out there somewhere, was eating at their nerves. And time was running out. Now the boys had burgled houses alongside Smythe, he, knowing they were being looked for, might well view them as potential threats.
Now that Alert had executed his plan and pulled off his burglaries, even if they’d only learned of one…
Abruptly Barnaby refocused on Stokes. “Could Smythe have done eight burglaries in one night?”
Halting, Stokes blinked at him. “With two boys? No.”
“No? Definitely no?”
Stokes saw what he meant. His face lit. “No, damn it—it’s not physically possible. Which means if Alert is adhering to his original series of eight burglaries—”
“And why wouldn’t he be, given his scheme appears to be working perfectly?”
Stokes nodded. “Then he has…at least three more burglaries to do.”
