infected Stokes. His gaze drifted as he thought, then pinned Barnaby. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, but let’s assume we’re right. Why four? Why in the space of a few weeks snatch four boys for training?”
Barnaby grinned wolfishly. “Because this group is planning a succession of robberies—or has more than one burglar who’s planning to be active over the coming months.”
“While the ton is away from London.” His features hardening, Stokes murmured, “It could be worth it. Worth the effort they’ve already invested to identify four likely lads—and there might be more—and organize to whisk them away.”
A moment passed, with both men following their thoughts, then Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “This could be big—a lot bigger than it appears at present.”
Stokes nodded. “I spoke to the commissioner earlier. He gave me leave to investigate appropriately—the emphasis being on appropriately.” Stokes’s dark smile curved his lips. “I’ll speak with him again tomorrow, and tell him what we now think. I believe I can guarantee having a free hand after that.”
Barnaby smiled cynically. “So what’s our next step? Finding this school?”
“It’s most likely in the East End, somewhere not far from where the boys lived. You said it’s unlikely the boys were identified as potential scholars by any of the Foundling House’s staff. If so, then the most likely explanation for how our ‘schoolmaster’ heard of the four, and more, knew exactly when and how to send a man to fetch them, is that the schoolmaster and his team are locals themselves.”
“The neighbors were certain the man who fetched the boys was from the East End, and that he was merely an errand boy—someonetrained in what to say to convince them to surrender the orphans to him.”
“Exactly. These villains know the local ropes well because they’re locals.”
Barnaby grimaced. “I have no idea how to go about searching for a burglary school in the East End. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Looking for anything in the East End isn’t easy, and I’m no more familiar with the area than you.”
“The local force?” Barnaby suggested.
“I’ll notify them, but I don’t expect to get much direct help. The force is in its infancy and predictably not well established in that area.” A minute passed, Stokes tapping one finger on the desktop, then he seemed to come to a decision. He pushed back from the desk. “Leave it with me. There’s someone I know who knows the East End. If I can get them interested in the case, they might consent to help us.” He rose.
Barnaby rose, too. He turned to the door. Stokes came around the desk, snagged his greatcoat from its hook, and followed.
Barnaby paused in the corridor; Stokes halted beside him. “I’ll go off and rack my brains to see if there’s some other way to advance our cause.”
Stokes nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll see the commissioner and tell him our news. And I’ll see my contact. I’ll send word if they’re willing to help.”
They parted. Barnaby went outside into the gathering dusk. Again he paused on the building’s steps to take stock.
Stokes had something to do—an avenue to pursue. He, on the other hand…
The compulsion to act—to not simply sit waiting for Stokes to send word—rode like a goblin on his shoulders. Whispering in his ear.
If he spoke with Penelope Ashford again, now he had some idea of their direction, he might winkle more useful information from her. He had little doubt her brain was crammed with potentially pertinent facts. And he had more or less promised to let her know what Stokes thought.
Pushy female.
Difficult female…with lush, ripe lips.
Distracting lips.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he continued down the steps. The one problem with speaking with Penelope Ashford that night was that to do so he would have to meet her somewhere in the ton.
Evening had come, and with it Penelope had been
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