Where The Heart Leads (14 page)

Griselda glanced at the men again, then looked at Stokes. “I know one of them. I think he’ll talk to me. Don’t interrupt, or even look across. He’s a leery sort, but he’s known me and my family all my life.”

Stokes hesitated, then, features hardening, nodded. He went to the bench and slid along it, opposite Barnaby, leaving the position at the end, closest to the men in question, for Griselda.

Both she and Penelope sat.

Griselda glanced around as she settled her skirts, as if checking who was at her back. She started to turn back, but then stopped.
Leaning to the side, she openly peered around the man directly behind her at the older man sitting opposite. “Uncle Charlie?”

The man she’d addressed stared at her for a moment, then his face creased in a smile. “Young Grizzy, ain’t it? Haven’t seen you in a good long while. Heard tell you’d moved up town and taken up making hats for the nobs.” Shrewd eyes took in her less-than-prosperous attire. “Not doing so well these days?”

Griselda grimaced. “Fashions come and go. Turned out it wasn’t such a good lark as I’d thought.”

“So you’re back home, then. How’s yer da? Heard he’s not so well these days.”

“He’s so-so. Doing well enough.” Smiling easily, she asked after his family—the perfect way to ease into the world of local crime. The other men joined in, throwing information her way when she explained she’d only recently returned to the area; talking about crime was a local sport.

She bided her time; if at all possible, she didn’t want to ask about Jessup directly. Remembering the man’s reputation, his status among local criminals, and the fact they’d mentioned him at all, she eventually ventured, “So have there been any changes among the bigger villains recently?”

Charlie scrunched up his face as if thinking. “Only recent change would be Jessup. You’ll remember him. Used to be big in burglary and such like. Taken himself off to Tothill Fields, he has, and set himself up in the usual trade.” The “usual trade” in Tothill Fields meant prostitution.

It required no effort to look suitably interested. Especially as the information allowed her to say, “That must leave a bit of a hole hereabouts. Any word on who’s filling it?”

Charlie laughed. “You’re right about the hole, but there’s no word of anyone rushing in to take advantage. Then again, it’s the off-season. No doubt there’ll be more activity come next year.”

Stokes, beside her, roughly nudged her. Without looking around, he growled, “You’d best get to this, if you want any.”

She shot him a glance, realized he was telling her to stop her questioning. Turning back to Uncle Charlie and the other three men, she smiled. “I’d best eat, or I’ll miss out.”

They all chuckled and bobbed their heads in farewell.

Still smiling, Griselda swiveled back to face the others. “Well,” she said, “that was interesting.”

“Eat.” Stokes pushed the plate of steaming mussels and whelks toward her.

She glanced at him, aware of the dark tension still gripping his large frame, curious over what had caused it. But there was nothing—no clue—to be found in his face. With a mental shrug, she reached for a mussel. Lifting her spoon, she deftly opened the shell and scooped the mollusk in its warm juices into her mouth.

From across the table, Penelope watched, through narrowed eyes, admiring Griselda’s confident wielding of the spoon. If anyone had told her, survivor of countless ton dinner parties that she was, accustomed to dealing with courses and cutlery of every conceivable type, that one day she’d be defeated by a simple spoon and a shell, she’d have scoffed.

But so it had proved.

Her fingers just didn’t seem large enough, or strong enough, to hold the shell and insert and twist the spoon, at least not simultaneously.

She’d been reduced to accepting food from Barnaby’s hand—a fact he, and Stokes, found amusing. They hadn’t actually grinned, but she’d detected the expressions in their eyes, and she knew. Men!

Holding out her hand palm up, she waited until Barnaby set another opened mussel into it. Gripping the shell, she had to concentrate to scoop the flesh up and into her mouth without disaster, but that, at least, she could manage; if she’d had to let Barnaby feed her with a spoon, she would have lost her appetite.

Which would have been a pity. She’d never eaten such fare in her life—never sat outside in a crowded street to dine—but the little morsels of seafood were delicious, and she’d discovered she was seriously hungry.

She’d only taken a tiny sip of the ale; to her it tasted very bitter. Barnaby and Stokes, however, between them drained the jug.

Griselda quickly accounted for her share of the mussels and whelks. There were no napkins; Penelope noted the others wiped their mouths with their cuffs. Tugging the cuff of her shirt down so she could grip it, she did the same.

“You missed a drop.”

She glanced around, and found Barnaby studying her face. Before she could ask where, he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth.

The frisson that raced through her shocked her. Had she been standing, it would have brought her to her knees.

“There.” His eyes slowly rose and met hers. There was heat in the blue orbs, more than enough to steal her breath.

He held her gaze for a moment, and there was nothing remotely soft or gentle in his eyes.

Then his lids lowered; he smiled and eased back. With a wave, he encouraged her off the bench and to her feet.

She found herself upright, blinking, trying to get her bearings in what suddenly seemed a shifting landscape.

Stokes and Griselda—who glanced back and waved at her uncle Charlie and his mates—led the way up the street; his hand burning her back, then sliding around to rest possessively at her hip, Barnaby steered her in their wake.

She reminded herself that he was only doing it—all those unnerving, disconcerting touches—to make her regret insisting on participating in the day’s events.

Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t diminish the effect of said actions on her nerves, her senses.

They wended their way through Brick Lane market in much the same manner as in Petticoat Lane, but while the cheery stallholders in Petticoat Lane had offered a wide variety of wares for sale, fabrics and leather goods predominating, the Brick Lane stalls were peopled by sly-eyed characters, and fully half their goods remained concealed beneath the counter. Said goods were mostly ornaments or jewelry, or tatty furniture and bric-a-brac. Many of the trestles set out on the pavement were intended to lure customers into the gloomy sheds behind. Curious, Penelope ventured into one, and found it piled to the rafters with what appeared to be generations of musty old furniture, none of which would fare well in the light of day.

The owner, spotting her, came hurrying toward her, unctuously smiling. Looming at her shoulder, Barnaby scowled, grabbed her arm, and hauled her away.

It was Griselda who learned more of Joe Gannon, confirming that his present business premises were located in a building on Spital
Street. He apparently specialized in “selling old stuff.” He was the last of the four sure to be known by those in the markets; although they kept their ears peeled, and Griselda did ask, they learned nothing of the other five men on Stokes’s list.

The afternoon was waning when they regrouped at the north end of Brick Lane.

Stokes looked at Barnaby. “We’ve learned all we can from around here.” He tipped his head to the east. “Spital Street’s not far. I’m going to go and check that address we have for Gannon. He might be there. He might have moved.” Stokes shrugged. “I’ll go and see.”

“I’ll come with you.” Griselda waited for Stokes to meet her eyes. “We can see what the place is like—if it’s a shop it’ll be easy enough to walk in and look around.”

“I’ll come, too,” Penelope stated. “If there’s any chance the missing boys are there, I should be present.”

She looked not at Stokes but at Barnaby. His expression hard, lips compressed, he met her gaze. He wanted to argue, but recognized the futility. Curtly, he nodded, then looked at Stokes. “We’ll all go.”

They turned off Brick Lane into narrower streets that were more like passages with the upper stories of the buildings frequently meeting overhead. Reaching Spital Street, they walked along, Stokes with Griselda, her arm linked with his, in front, Penelope and Barnaby, his arm around her shoulders, following a few yards behind.

The directions they’d been given led them to an old wooden house. Narrow, its timbers faded, the windows shuttered, it fronted directly onto the street. There were two rickety stories and an attic above, no basement; an alley, just wide enough to allow a man to pass, ran down one side. There was no sign declaring it a shop of any kind, but the door was wedged ajar.

They strolled past, but saw no signs of life.

Stokes halted farther on. He and Griselda spoke, then he waited for Barnaby and Penelope to reach them. “We’ll go inside. Why don’t you two wait out here, just in case our inquiries lead to any action.”

Barnaby nodded. He moved to lounge against a nearby wall, taking Penelope with him, his hand gripping her waist, anchoring her beside him. She rolled her eyes, but forbore to comment.

Stokes and Griselda crossed the street and disappeared into the house.

A minute ticked past. Penelope shifted her weight from one foot to the other—and immediately decided not to do so again. The movement had rubbed her hip against Barnaby’s thigh. She studiously ignored the resultant wash of heat beneath her skin, and sternly lectured her witless senses to stop swooning.

They stood directly opposite the alleyway alongside the building. Staring down the length of the side wall, she noticed an irregularity.

She stepped forward. “There’s a side door.”

Whether she’d surprised Barnaby, or had simply broken his grip, his hand slipped from her waist. Taking advantage, she hurried across the lane and plunged into the alley. She heard him swear as he followed her. But the alley was clearly empty; she was patently not rushing into danger, so while he quickly closed the gap between them, he didn’t try to catch her and pull her back.

Nearing the side door, she slowed, wondering if it led into the shop, or was another premises entirely. Caution had already laid its hand on her spine when the door cracked open, then quietly swung wide enough to allow a man to slip out. His back was to them. Peering into the building, he started to shut the door, easing it closed.

“Mr. Gannon?”

The man jumped and swore. He whirled around, flattening himself against the side of the house.

Penelope frowned at him. “I take it you are Mr. Joe Gannon, and that being so, we have some questions for you.”

Gannon blinked. He looked at Penelope, and regained some of his color. But then he looked past her at Barnaby, looming at her shoulder, and transparently didn’t know what to think. Warily, he asked, “Oo might be asking?”

Penelope replied without hesitation, “I’m asking with the full weight of the Metropolitan Police.”

Gannon’s eyes went wide. “The perlice?” He tried to see past them, then glanced the other way, to the other end of the alley. “’Ere—I ain’t done nuthin’.”

“That would be physically impossible.” Penelope planted her hands on her hips; she’d dropped her disguise, and was now very much the haughty, demanding, commanding lady, which was what was confusing Gannon so much. “Don’t lie to me, sir.” Leaning for
ward, she all but wagged her finger in his face. “What do you know of Dick Monger?”

Gannon blinked, thoroughly rattled. “Oo?”

“He’s about this tall”—Penelope held a hand at shoulder height—“a towheaded lad. Do you have him in your employ?”

She rapped the question out; Gannon all but recoiled.

“No! Only lad I got is me sister’s—me nevvy. Right layabout he is, too. What would I want wif another? ’Specially if he’s wanted by the rozzers.” Clearly out of his depth, Gannon looked to Barnaby as if he were a lifeline. “’Ere—if you’re one of them rozzers in disguise, you shouldn’t let a female like this loose. She’s dangerous.”

Barnaby had been thinking much the same; the sheer fear that had spiked through him in the instant before he’d realized Gannon was no threat—that instant when Penelope had been between him and the man—was something he never wanted to experience again. However…“Just answer her questions, and we—and the police—will leave you alone. Do you know, or have you heard, anything at all about a lad like she described?”

Eager to cooperate with the voice of reason, Gannon frowned and gave the matter due thought, but eventually he shook his head. “Ain’t seen any tyke like that about ’ere. And I ain’t ’eard nothing, either—not about ’im, or any other.” A certain craftiness lit his eyes. “If you and the lady are after a lad that’s been snitched, and yer imagining I might be using his services as a burglar’s boy, I’ll ’ave you know I ’aven’t been on that gamble fer over two years now, not since my last stretch in the nick.”

Truth rang in his voice. Barnaby glanced at Penelope, and saw she’d heard it, too. She nodded, and the stiffness of battle went out of her slight frame. “Very well,” she said to Gannon, and there was still a latent warning in her tone. “I believe you. Take care you stay on the right side of the law from now on.”

With that, she swung around. Coming face-to-face with Barnaby’s chest. He stepped aside and let her through.

She marched off, back up the alley.

He glanced at Gannon; the man’s expression stated very clearly he’d be happy never to meet such a disconcerting and disturbing female again.

With a last warning look, Barnaby swung around. In a few paces he was at Penelope’s heels. A tension unlike any he’d previously experienced was riding him; bending his head so he could speak in her ear, he quietly stated, “Don’t ever race into an alley ahead of me again.”

His tone was flat, his diction precise.

She glanced up and back at him, puzzled. “It was empty. I wasn’t in any danger.” She faced forward. “And at least we now know we can cross Gannon off our list.”

Emerging from the alley, she paused on the pavement. Taking note of the gathering dusk, she sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to leave the other five names until tomorrow.”