A mumble of voices came from beyond the curtain, drawing nearer. He locked his gaze on the curtain as it parted—and a vision every bit as lovely as he recalled walked through.
Griselda Martin was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor slender. She had a round face with pleasant features—large cornflower-blue eyes framed by lush black lashes, a wide brow, an upturned nose across which a band of freckles marched, rosy cheeks, and rosebud lips. Her thick, sable hair, secured in a knot at the back of her neck, framed her face. Although her style was a far cry from tonnish beauty, she was, to Stokes, perfect in every way.
Her eyes were the sort that should have been twinkling, but when she looked at him they were serious, careful—a trifle wary. “Mr. Stokes?”
She, too, avoided using his title. He inclined his head. “Miss Martin, I wonder if you could spare me a moment—I’d like to discuss a business matter.”
She appreciated his sensitivity in not mentioning the police before her staff. She thawed slightly; after a second’s consideration, she turned to her assistants. “Imogen, Jane—you can take the deliveries around now.”
Both girls, who’d been listening and watching avidly, looked deflated. But, “Yes, Miss Martin,” they chorused, and set aside their work.
“If you’ll wait just a moment,” Griselda murmured to Stokes.
He nodded and moved to one side, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, not easy given he was over six feet tall and broad shouldered to boot. He watched as the girls assembled various parcels and hatboxes, then donned cloaks and hats. Sharing their bundles, they headed for the door, glancing at him curiously as they passed.
The instant the door shut behind them, Griselda asked, “Is this about that business in Petticoat Lane?”
Anxiety threaded through her voice; Stokes hurried to reassure her. “No, not at all. The villain was transported, so you have nothing to fear from him.”
She exhaled. “Good.” Banked curiosity appeared in her eyes. She tilted her head slightly. “To what, then, do I owe this visit, Inspector?”
To the fact that I can’t get you out of my head.Stokes cleared his throat. “As I mentioned before, the force, and I, were very grateful for your assistance in the matter of the Petticoat Lane attack.” She—along with a host of others—had seen a man beat a woman nearly to death. Of all the onlookers, only she and an old, almost blind crone had been willing to stand witness to the crime; without Griselda’s testimony, the case would have been impossible to prosecute. “That, however, isn’t the matter that brought me here.”
Putting his hands behind his back, he crossed his fingers. “When I saw your statement about Petticoat Lane, I learned that, although you live and work in this area now, you grew up in the East End. Your father still lives there, and you yourself are widely known, at least within a certain pocket.”
She frowned. “I might have improved my speech to better deal with my customers, but I’ve never hidden my origins.”
“No—which in part is what has brought me here.” He glanced at the front of the shop, confirming they were not about to be disturbed by any customers, then turned back to her. “I have a case involving boys disappearing from the East End. Young boys, seven to ten years old, born and bred in that area. These boys are newly made orphans. On the morning after their parent or guardian dies, some man has been appearing, saying he’s been sent by the authorities to fetch the boy. In the cases we know of, the parent or guardian had made arrangements for the orphan to be admitted to the Foundling House, so the neighbors have been handing the boys over, only to discover mere hours later, when the Foundling House people arrive, that the man has no connection with them.”
Frown deepening, she nodded, encouraging him to continue.
He drew breath, battling an odd constriction banding his chest. “I don’t have any contacts in the East End. The police force there is not well established. I wondered…I know it’s asking a lot of you—I do understand how the authorities are viewed—but…I wondered if you would be willing to lend your aid, in whatever way you felt able to. We believe these boys are being snatched to be trained for use as burglars’ boys.”
Her eyes widened. “A burglary school?” From her tone she knew precisely what that was.
He nodded. “I need to find someone who can tell me whether there’s been any talk of some particular villain setting up a school recently.”
Folding her arms, she softly snorted. “Well, there’s no point asking your rozzers. They’d be the last to know.”
“Indeed. And please believe that I don’t intend to imply that you would know, either, but I hoped that you might know someone who might know a name, or an address.”
She studied him, her blue gaze steady and candid. He fell silent, feeling that if he pushed she would refuse.
Griselda felt torn. She did know the East End; that was why she’d been so determined—and worked so long and hard—to leave it. She’d completed an arduous apprenticeship, then slaved, scrimped, and saved to be able to rent her own premises, and then she’d worked all but around the clock to establish herself.
She’d been successful, and had largely left the East End behind. Now here was this handsome police inspector asking if she was willing to go back into the stews. For him and his case.
No, she corrected herself—he wasn’t asking for himself. He was trying to help four young boys who hailed from the same slums she’d left. She knew of the Foundling House by reputation; those boys would have had a chance to better themselves if they’d gone there, as their dying relatives had arranged.
Four young boys’ futures. That was what was at stake here.
She no longer had brothers; she’d lost all three in the wars years ago. The oldest had been twenty when he’d died; they’d never truly had a chance to live their lives.
Eyes narrowing, she asked, “These four lads. How long ago were they taken?”
“It’s been happening over the past few weeks, but the last was only two days ago.”
So there was a chance they might be saved. “You’re sure it’s a burglary school?”
