Stokes wasn’t surprised when Smythe didn’t immediately answer his question—Smythe was still thinking, his head bowed to his chest.
What surprised them both was Jemmie’s reply. “He’s a gentl’man—a nob. He’s the one as planned all the burglaries. And he took all the things we stole from the houses.”
Stokes turned to Jemmie; even Smythe lifted his head and looked at him. “You saw him?”
Jemmie squirmed. “Not to reckernize—it was always dark, and he wore a hat and muffler, pretending to be a coachman.”
“The coachman!” Penelope sat up. “That’s it!” She looked at Stokes. “I saw a carriage rolling slowly along while we were walking—I saw the same carriagethree timestonight. The last time was as we started back down Bolton Street with the boys and Smythe—the carriage rolled along behind us, along Curzon Street. I couldn’t get the sight of it out of my mind—there was something odd about it—and now I know what. I know what coachmen look like when they’re on the box—they hunch a little. This man sat bolt upright. He was dressed like a coachman, but he wasn’t a coachman—he was a gentleman pretending to be a coachman.”
She looked at Jemmie and Dick. “Was that where the things you took from the other houses tonight went—into that carriage?”
Both boys nodded. “That’s how it was set up,” Jemmie said. “After we left every house, the carriage and Mr. Alert were waiting at the corner to take the thing from us.”
Dick piped up, “Alert would give Smythe a purse, a down payment they called it, after we put each thing in the carriage’s boot.”
“Smythe was supposed to get more money later,” Jemmie added. “After Alert sold the things.”
Stokes glanced at Smythe, and could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. If he waited much longer, the boys might divulge enough for them to guess Alert’s identity, leaving him with nothing to bargain with.
Smythe felt Stokes’s gaze and looked back at him.
Stokes arched a brow. “Any thoughts?” When Smythe hesitated, he went on, “At present, you’ll be charged with burglary, murder, and attempted murder. You’re going to hang, Smythe, all because of your association with Alert and his schemes. As matters stand, he’s got all except one of the items he wanted, and he looks set to get clean away, leaving you to face the wrath of the courts when it’s finally realized just what you stole.”
Smythe shifted. “I might have stolen things, but it was on Alert’s behalf. Pretty obvious it’s not my normal job—whoever heard of taking just one thing once you get in a house?” He looked down. “And I didn’t murder anyone.”
Stokes studied him, then asked, “What about Mrs. Carter?”
Smythe didn’t look up. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Be that as it may”—Stokes’s tone was granite hard—“we have witnesses aplenty that you tried to kill Mary Bushel in Black Lion Yard.”
Smythe snorted. “But I didn’t, did I?” He paused, then went on, still talking to Stokes’s boots, “Murdering people’s not what I’m good at. I’m an ace cracksman. If it hadn’t been for bloody Alert insisting on doing this caper—all eight houses—hisway, I’d never have even thought of murder.”
Stokes let the silence stretch, then prompted, “So?”
Smythe finally looked up at Stokes. “If I give you all I know about Alert—and it’s enough for you to identify him—what’ll my charges be?”
After another long moment, Stokes replied, “If what you give us proves enough to identify Alert, and you agree to testify against him if need be, we’ll keep the charges at burglary and attempted murder. If we could prove murder, you’d go to the gallows. Without it, and a recommendation on the grounds of cooperation, it’ll be transportation.” Stokes paused, then said, “Your choice.”
Smythe snorted. “I’ll take transportation.”
“So who is Alert?”
Smythe glanced down. “There’s a hidden pocket in this coat—in the lining off the left side seam, thigh level.” Stokes crouched down, feeling through the coat. “There’s three lists in there.”
Stokes found the folded papers and drew them out. Rising, he smoothed them, then held them up to read. Leaving the hearth, Barnaby joined him.
“Those are the lists Alert gave me. The first is a list of the houses…” Smythe talked them through Alert’s plan, describing their meetings, recounting what they’d said. As he went through the burglaries, the four of the previous night as well as the three they’d completed that night, Stokes and Barnaby cross-referenced the lists—the street addresses of the houses burgled and the items taken.
At one point Barnaby stopped and swore.
Stokes glanced at him. Smythe stopped speaking.
“What?” Stokes asked.
Grimly, Barnaby pointed to one address—that of the first house burgled that night. “That’s Cothelstone House.”
“Your father’s house?”
