The bell downstairs jangled. Griselda rose, then cocked her head, listening. Stokes got to his feet.
Griselda glanced at him. “Miss Ashford and Adair.”
She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. “Yes, Imogen, I know. Please tell them to come up—they know the way.”
A moment later Penelope appeared, followed by Barnaby.
Penelope’s eyes widened when she saw Stokes. “There you are! We called at Scotland Yard, but you were out.”
Stokes colored faintly. “I spent longer than I expected at Liverpool Street.” He glanced at Barnaby. “We’ve put out an alert to all the watch houses in London, giving Jemmie’s description. Soon everyone in the force will know we want him—if he’s seen on the streets, there’s a chance he’ll be picked up.”
Barnaby grimaced. “Unfortunately, if he’s been snatched for a burglary school he may not be on the streets—not until he’s sent out to work.”
And once a boy participated in a crime, disentangling him from the legal system would become problematic.
Griselda waved them to sit. They did, all sober, not to say deflated.
Barnaby looked at Stokes. “We spoke with everyone up and down the street. We had one stroke of luck.” He explained what Jenks had seen.
Stokes nodded. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. That fits with the time the doctor thinks she was killed, so they most likely are the villains responsible.” He thought, then added, “I’ll stop by Liverpool Street on my way back and get them to send that description out, too. Neither man may be all that recognizable on his own, but together…the description might be more useful than it sounds.”
“True,” Barnaby said, “but finding the boys is becoming urgent. They have five that we know of, but there may be more—boys we haven’t heard about. We can’t just wait for information to come in.”
“Exactly the point I was making when you arrived.” Griselda leaned forward. “I was intending to visit my father tomorrow to see if he’d heard anything more about the five names still on our list. I’ll do that first thing, then depending on what he’s heard, I’ll ask around and see if I can learn anything definite.” She looked at Stokes. “If I think I’ve found the school’s location, I’ll send word.”
“You won’t have to send word—I’ll be with you.” When Griselda opened her mouth, Stokes held up a staying hand. “As I told you before, if you’re going out on police business and there’s any risk attached—which there definitely is—then I have to be there, too.”
Griselda narrowed her eyes, but then inclined her head. “Very well.”
“We’ll come, too.” Penelope pushed up from the depths of the sofa. “We’ll get through looking much quicker—”
“No.” Barnaby laid a hand on her arm. When she looked at him, he met her eyes. “You have another avenue to pursue.” When she looked puzzled, he said, “The files, remember?”
She blinked. “Oh. Yes.” She looked at Stokes. “I’d forgotten.”
Stokes frowned. “What files?”
“At the Foundling House,” Barnaby said. “Remember our earlier thought about setting a trap using some boy who was the right sort and whose guardian was about to die?” When Stokes nodded, he continued, “That plan fell by the wayside because the only boy like that in the files was Jemmie, and it transpired his mother wasn’t likely to die for months.
“However”—his tone hardened—“given what’s happened with Jemmie, that suggests their need for boys is urgent, enough for them not to blink at bringing ailing guardians’ lives to a premature end.”
Stokes’s expression sharpened. “So if you can find another boy of the right physical sort, with an ailing guardian who’s expected to die at some date, there’s a chance…” He paused, looking inward, then he focused on Penelope. “If you can find a boy like that in the East End, I’ll guarantee the police will keep him safe. We’ll have a constant watch placed on him—if these villains come calling, we’ll have them. Even if I have to do the watching myself.”
Penelope saw the commitment blazing in Stokes’s eyes; she glanced at Griselda, saw a quieter version infusing her, and suddenly felt a great deal better. She was even prepared to leave the searching to them and Barnaby while she plowed through the mountains of files.
Barnaby sighed. “How many files are there?”
She glanced at him. “You saw the last lot—multiply by ten.”
He looked at Stokes. “It might be a better division of labor if I helped Penelope go through the files. If we find a likely candidate, I’ll send word.”
Stokes met his eyes; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll search on the ground, you two search the files.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes, first on Stokes, then on Barnaby, and wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that there’d been some other communication in that exchange, one that had run beneath their words.
Regardless, they now had their appointed tasks; leaving Stokes and Griselda making arrangements about where to meet, she and Barnaby went downstairs and out onto the street.
Again they had to walk around the church to find a hackney. As they passed the spot where they’d had their previous afternoon’s altercation—and he’d kissed her—a wave of consciousness swept her. It felt like tingles spreading under her skin, leaving her nerve endings tantalized, sensitized.
