“Yes, that’s right.” She pulled up a chair and sat, taking one of her father’s hands in hers. “But if you’ll let me explain why he’s here—”
“Actually,” Stokes cut in. “It might be better, sir, if I explain why I’ve prevailed on your daughter to arrange this meeting.”
She glanced at Stokes, but he was looking at her father.
Who grumped, but nodded. “Aye—all right. What’s this about then?”
Stokes told him, simply, directly, without any embellishment.
At one point her father cut him off to wave him to a stool. “Sit down—you’re so damned tall you’re giving me a crick.”
She caught the flash of Stokes’s smile as he complied, then continued his tale. By the time he’d completed it, her father had lost all suspicions of this rozzer at least. He and Stokes were soon engrossed in evaluating the likely local villains.
Feeling unexpectedly redundant, Griselda rose. Stokes glanced up, but her father reclaimed his attention. Nevertheless, as she left the room, she felt the weight of Stokes’s attention. In the cramped lean-to kitchen, she raddled the stove, then boiled the kettle and made tea. Returning to the front room, she extracted the biscuits she’d remembered to stuff in her bag, then laid them out on a clean plate.
Arranging the teapot, three mugs, and the plate on a wooden tray, she carried it into the small bedroom. Her father brightened at the sight of the biscuits; she felt her heart constrict when Stokes noticed, reached over, lifted the plate, and offered it to him. Delighted, her father helped himself, then returned to their discussion.
After handing out the mugs, Griselda sat. She didn’t listen, but instead let the cadence of her father’s voice wash over her, watched his face, more animated than she’d seen it in years—and silently gave thanks that she’d agreed to bring Stokes to see him.
Having an interest in life kept old people living; she wasn’t yet ready to let her father go.
They finished their tea, and the biscuits. She rose, tidied the tray, and carried it back to the kitchen. She returned in time to see Stokes get to his feet, tucking his black notebook into his pocket while he thanked her father for his time.
“And your help.” Stokes smiled easily; he had, she’d noticed, a smile that, although he didn’t flash it often, inspired confidences. “Your information is exactly what I needed.” His gaze locked with her father’s, his smile grew wry. “I know assisting the rozzers with their inquiries isn’t something that’s encouraged around here, so I doubly value your help.”
Her father, she could tell, was inwardly preening, but he hid it behind a manly nod and a gruff, “You just find those boys and get them back.”
“If there’s any justice in this world, with your help, we will.” Stokes glanced at her.
She went to her father and fussed, straightening the blanket over his legs, reminding him that Mrs. Pickles next door would bring his dinner in an hour, then she kissed him on the cheek and bade him good-bye. He was settling down for a nap, an unusually contented smile on his face, when she joined Stokes in the tiny front room. Picking up her bag, she led the way to the door.
Stokes held it for her, then followed her out, making sure the latch caught behind them.
They were walking up the street when he asked, “Is he your only family?”
She nodded. Hesitated, then added, “My three brothers were killed in the wars. My mother died when we were young.”
Stokes nodded.
He said nothing more, merely strode along by her side, yet within a few paces she felt compelled to add, “I wanted him to move to St. John’s Wood with me.” She gestured about them. “There’s no call for a milliner around here. But he was born in this street, too, and this place is his home, with all his friends around, so here he’ll stay.”
She felt Stokes’s glance, sharper, more assessing, but even now not judgmental. “So you come and visit him often.”
Not a question, but she nodded. “I come as often as I can, but that’s usually only once a week. Still, he has others—like Mrs. Pickles and the doctor—to keep an eye on him, and they all know how to reach me if there’s any need.”
He nodded again, but said nothing more. The obvious question leapt to her tongue; she bit it, then decided there was no reason she should. “Do you have any family living?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. She was wondering if she’d stepped over some invisible line when he replied, “Yes. My father’s a merchant in Colchester. I haven’t seen him…not for a while. Like you, my mother died some time ago, but I was an only child.”
He said no more, but she got the impression that he hadn’t just been an only, but also a lonely child.
The jarvey was where they’d left him. When they were in the hackney heading back to St. John’s Wood, she asked, “So what now with your investigation?”
Stokes glanced at her; his hesitation suggested he was considering whether he should tell her or not, but then he said, “Your father gave me eight names of possible schoolmasters. He had directions for some, but not all. I’ll need to check each one to see if they might be the villain behind our lads’ disappearances, but any inquiries will have to be made very carefully. The last thing we want is for the schoolmaster, whoever he is, to realize we’re taking an interest. Once he does, he’ll up stakes and disappear into the slums, taking the boys with him—we’ll never catch him and we’ll have scuppered our chance to rescue the boys.”
She nodded. After a moment she said, “You can’t just wander in and ask, you know.” Catching his eye, she wondered why she was doing this—why she was about to get further involved in a police investigation. “The locals will know who—and what—you are. No matter what disguise you put on, you’ll still not be ‘one of us.’”
He grimaced. “There’s little option beyond using the local rozzers, and they—”
