Where the Heart Leads (Casebook of Barnaby Adair #1)

23

Who is Alert?”

Stokes paced slowly before the chair on which Smythe sat slumped. They’d brought him to Barnaby’s rooms; not only had Jermyn Street been a lot nearer than Scotland Yard, but as Barnaby had been quick to point out, with Alert, whoever he was, connected with the police force, it was far preferable to keep the cards that had at long last fallen into their hands very close to their chests.

Even if Alert knew that something had gone wrong, even if he knew they had Smythe, the less he knew of what they learned from Smythe, the better.

They’d tied Smythe to the chair. He couldn’t break free, and wasn’t trying to. He’d tested his bonds once; finding them secure, he hadn’t wasted effort trying to break them again.

He might be a massive hulk, a burglar and very likely a murderer, too, but he wasn’t stupid; Stokes had every confidence Smythe would eventually tell them all he knew. He’d want something in return, but he had nothing to gain by keeping Alert’s secrets.

They’d set Smythe’s chair in the center of the room, facing the hearth; Stokes paced in the clear space before it. Penelope and Griselda were seated in the armchairs to either side of the now brightly burning fire. Barnaby stood beside Penelope’s chair, one arm braced on the mantelshelf.

Dick and Jemmie were seated at a small table along one wall, wolfing down huge sandwiches Mostyn had produced. Mostyn hovered beside them, as interested as they in the scene being enacted in the room’s center.

Stokes wasn’t surprised when Smythe didn’t immediately answer his question—Smythe was still thinking, his head bowed to his chest.

What surprised them both was Jemmie’s reply. “He’s a gentl’man—a nob. He’s the one as planned all the burglaries. And he took all the things we stole from the houses.”

Stokes turned to Jemmie; even Smythe lifted his head and looked at him. “You saw him?”

Jemmie squirmed. “Not to reckernize—it was always dark, and he wore a hat and muffler, pretending to be a coachman.”

“The coachman!”

Penelope sat up. “That’s it!”

She looked at Stokes. “I saw a carriage rolling slowly along while we were walking—I saw the same carriage three times tonight. The last time was as we started back down Bolton Street with the boys and Smythe—the carriage rolled along behind us, along Curzon Street. I couldn’t get the sight of it out of my mind—there was something odd about it—and now I know what. I know what coachmen look like when they’re on the box—they hunch a little. This man sat bolt upright. He was dressed like a coachman, but he wasn’t a coachman—he was a gentleman pretending to be a coachman.”

She looked at Jemmie and Dick. “Was that where the things you took from the other houses tonight went—into that carriage?”

Both boys nodded. “That’s how it was set up,”

Jemmie said. “After we left every house, the carriage and Mr. Alert were waiting at the corner to take the thing from us.”

Dick piped up, “Alert would give Smythe a purse, a down payment they called it, after we put each thing in the carriage’s boot.”

“Smythe was supposed to get more money later,”

Jemmie added. “After Alert sold the things.”

Stokes glanced at Smythe, and could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. If he waited much longer, the boys might divulge enough for them to guess Alert’s identity, leaving him with nothing to bargain with.

Smythe felt Stokes’s gaze and looked back at him.

Stokes arched a brow. “Any thoughts?”

When Smythe hesitated, he went on, “At present, you’ll be charged with burglary, murder, and attempted murder. You’re going to hang, Smythe, all because of your association with Alert and his schemes. As matters stand, he’s got all except one of the items he wanted, and he looks set to get clean away, leaving you to face the wrath of the courts when it’s finally realized just what you stole.”

Smythe shifted. “I might have stolen things, but it was on Alert’s behalf. Pretty obvious it’s not my normal job—whoever heard of taking just one thing once you get in a house?”

He looked down. “And I didn’t murder anyone.”

Stokes studied him, then asked, “What about Mrs. Carter?”

Smythe didn’t look up. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Be that as it may”—Stokes’s tone was granite hard—“we have witnesses aplenty that you tried to kill Mary Bushel in Black Lion Yard.”

Smythe snorted. “But I didn’t, did I?”

He paused, then went on, still talking to Stokes’s boots, “Murdering people’s not what I’m good at. I’m an ace cracksman. If it hadn’t been for bloody Alert insisting on doing this caper—all eight houses— his way, I’d never have even thought of murder.”

Stokes let the silence stretch, then prompted, “So?”

Smythe finally looked up at Stokes. “If I give you all I know about Alert—and it’s enough for you to identify him—what’ll my charges be?”

After another long moment, Stokes replied, “If what you give us proves enough to identify Alert, and you agree to testify against him if need be, we’ll keep the charges at burglary and attempted murder. If we could prove murder, you’d go to the gallows. Without it, and a recommendation on the grounds of cooperation, it’ll be transportation.”

Stokes paused, then said, “Your choice.”

Smythe snorted. “I’ll take transportation.”

“So who is Alert?”

Smythe glanced down. “There’s a hidden pocket in this coat—in the lining off the left side seam, thigh level.”

Stokes crouched down, feeling through the coat. “There’s three lists in there.”

Stokes found the folded papers and drew them out. Rising, he smoothed them, then held them up to read. Leaving the hearth, Barnaby joined him.

“Those are the lists Alert gave me. The first is a list of the houses…”

Smythe talked them through Alert’s plan, describing their meetings, recounting what they’d said. As he went through the burglaries, the four of the previous night as well as the three they’d com pleted that night, Stokes and Barnaby cross-referenced the lists—the street addresses of the houses burgled and the items taken.

At one point Barnaby stopped and swore.

Stokes glanced at him. Smythe stopped speaking.

“What?”

Stokes asked.

Grimly, Barnaby pointed to one address—that of the first house burgled that night. “That’s Cothelstone House.”

“Your father’s house?”

Barnaby nodded. He took the descriptions of items to be filched and located the relevant entry. “Silver figurine of lady on the table in the library window…good Lord!”

He met Stokes’s eyes.

Stokes raised a brow. “It’s valuable, I take it. How much are we talking about?”

Barnaby shook his head. “It’s worth…I have no clue of the figure. The word generally used in reference to that statue is ‘priceless.’ Literally priceless.”

He looked again through the items listed. “We’re not talking a small fortune here. If these other items are of the same caliber, Alert is setting himself up to rival the richest in the land.”

Stokes shook his head. “You’re telling me this statue—in the house of one of the peers overseeing the police, in a house you regularly visit—was sitting there on a table just waiting for some enterprising thief to make off with it?”

Barnaby glanced at him, then shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with m’mother, but I warn you you’re unlikely to have much success. God knows the pater’s been after her to lock it away for years—he gave up decades ago. As Penelope pointed out, these things have been around us since birth, and we don’t even notice them all that much anymore.”

“Until someone nicks them.”

Stokes looked disgusted. He turned back to Smythe. “So everything went smoothly, Alert picking up each piece in the carriage after every house, until the last. What went wrong?”

Smythe scowled and looked at the boys. “I’m not clear on that myself. Best you ask them.”

Stokes turned to Dick and Jemmie. “The last house. What happened—how did you two break away?”

The boys exchanged glances, then Jemmie said, “The first night, Smythe didn’t tell us where in the houses we had to go until we got to each house. So we couldn’t plan when to make our move. But later that night, after the first four houses, Alert took us up in his carriage, all three of us, and then stopped at a park somewhere to talk to Smythe about tonight’s houses. They left Dick and me in the carriage, but we listened.”

“We heard that one of us would have to go through the kitchen at the third house—that turned out to be me,”

Dick said. “We arranged that whichever of us it was, we’d pick up a knife sharp enough to saw through the reins.”

He nodded to the reins Smythe had been carrying, which now hobbled the big man’s feet. “He used them to keep hold of us when we were going between houses, and if one of us was left outside, he’d tie us to a fence or a post with them.”

“We also heard that the last house tonight would be only one of us,”

Jemmie went on. “We was supposed to take a small picture off the wall in an upstairs room. Smythe put me in the scullery window at the back, and waited there for me to come out. Because I had to go upstairs, I knew he’d wait a while before getting suspicious—I went out the front door instead. But the front door bolt screeched.”

“I was nearly done cutting through the reins when he came out,”

Dick said. “But Smythe heard the screech and guessed what it was. Jemmie helped me get free, but then we saw Smythe coming up the side of the house. We ran.”

“You did very well,”

Penelope said, approval and admiration in her tone.

Smythe grunted. He looked back at Stokes. “So that’s it—all I can tell you. You find a gent who knows all those houses, enough to know all the details written down there—where the things were and exactly how to get to them—you bring him to me, and I’ll tell you if he’s your man.”

Stokes studied Smythe for a long moment. “You’ll recognize him, but then it’s your word against his. Is there anyone else who knows him?”

“Grimsby,”

Smythe said. “He’s seen him more than I have.”

Stokes grimaced. “Unfortunately, gaol didn’t agree with Grimsby. He had a heart attack. He’s dead. He can’t help us.”

Smythe glanced down and softly swore. Then he looked across at the boys.

Stokes, following his gaze, asked, “Boys, think hard—did you see Alert, anything about him, well enough to recognize if you saw him again?”

Both boys screwed up their faces, but then shook their heads.

Stokes sighed. He was turning back to Smythe when Jemmie said, “We heard him well enough to know him again, though.”

Penelope beamed at them. “Excellent!”

She caught Stokes’s eye. “That’s good enough, isn’t it?”

He thought, then nodded. “It should be.”

“So”—Barnaby had been concentrating on the lists—“all we need now—”

He broke off at the sound of someone rapping on the door.

It was a polite rat-a-tat-tat . Barnaby looked at Mostyn, who with a bow went to answer it.

Mostyn left the parlor door ajar. Nobody spoke, the adults waiting to see who it was, the boys too busy polishing off their sandwiches to care.

The latch on the front door clicked; a second later, a rumbling voice, too indistinct to make out, greeted Mostyn.

Mostyn’s reply was clearer. “My lord! We…er, weren’t expecting you.”

“I daresay, Mostyn, but here I am,”

an urbane voice declared. “And here’s my hat, too. Now where is that son of mine?”

The parlor door swung open and the Earl of Cothelstone calmly walked in. He surveyed the company, and smiled benignly. “Barnaby, dear boy—you seem to have quite a gathering here.”

Barnaby blinked. “Papa…”

He broke off, frowning. “I thought you’d gone north.”

“So did I.”

The earl sighed. “Unfortunately your mother decided I’d left something in London she was set on me bringing home, so she dispatched me back to fetch it.”

The light in the earl’s eyes as they rested on his son informed everyone what the countess’s “something” was.

Smiling genially, the earl turned his attention to the others in the room, then raised his brows at Barnaby.

“Ah…”

Barnaby had a sense of matters spinning out of his control. “You know Stokes, of course.”

The earl exchanged a nod with Stokes, whom he knew quite well. Barnaby turned to Penelope. “Allow me to present Miss Penelope Ashford.”

Penelope rose, bobbed a curtsy, then shook hands with the earl. “My lord. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, my dear. And you.”

Clasping her hand between both of his, the earl patted it. He smiled delightedly upon her. “I’m acquainted with your brother. He often mentions you.”

Penelope smiled and returned a polite reply.

A sinking feeling assailed Barnaby. His father knew. How, he didn’t know, but if his father knew…so did his mother. He inwardly swore. He managed to breathe a trifle easier when his father—at long last—released Penelope and turned to Griselda.

Barnaby made the introduction, then steered his father to the boys, giving him enough of their story to explain their presence.

“Brave lads!”

The earl nodded approvingly, then turned to survey Smythe. “And this is our villain, I take it?”

“More his henchman.”

Eager to keep his father’s attention away from Penelope, Barnaby handed him one of Alert’s lists. He was about to explain what it was when Penelope touched his arm.

With a nod, she directed his attention to the boys, both yawning. “Perhaps Mostyn can take them to the kitchen for some milk, and then find them some beds. I can take them to the Foundling House tomorrow.”

Mostyn nodded his understanding. Gathering up the boys, he herded them from the room.

Barnaby turned back to his father, to find him frowning at the list.

“What are you doing with one of Cameron’s infernal lists?”

His father looked at him. “What’s this about?”

For one instant, Barnaby felt sure he’d misheard. “ Cameron ’s list?”

His father shook the list he’d given him—the one of the houses to be burgled. “This. I know Cameron wrote it.”

He looked at the sheet again. “It might be block capitals, but I’d recognize his style anywhere. As Huntingdon’s secretary, Cameron writes up our agendas and minutes, all neatly laid out just like this.”

Puzzled, the earl looked at Barnaby. “What is this? I recognize our address, of course, and the others—this looks like one of Huntingdon’s rounds.”

Recalled from exchanging a stunned look with Stokes, Barnaby frowned. “Huntingdon’s rounds?”

The earl snorted. “You need to pay more attention to politics. Huntingdon is extremely conscientious and regularly visits the power brokers in the party in his parliamentary capacity. Very dedicated, Huntingdon.”

“And Cameron goes with him?”

Stokes asked.

The earl shrugged. “Not every time but often, yes. If there’s any business to be discussed, Cameron would be there to take notes.”

Stokes caught Barnaby’s eye. “All the stolen items were from libraries or studies—did you notice?”

Barnaby nodded.

The earl lost patience. “ What stolen items?”

Barnaby handed him the rest of the sheets. “These items—the ones our principal villain arranged for Smythe to collect for him.”

The earl took the papers and studied them. It didn’t take him long to see the implications, especially when he came to the object stolen from his own house. “Your mother’s great-aunt’s statue?”

He looked up at Barnaby, who nodded. “Along with everything else.”

There was nothing at all genial about the earl now. “He got them all?”

“All except the last, but he hasn’t yet had time to dispose of them. And now, thanks to you and Smythe combined, we know who he is.”

The earl smiled, this time predatorially. “Excellent.”

It was Penelope who asked the most pertinent question. “Where does Cameron live?”

The earl knew. “He lives with his lordship at Huntingdon House.”

Assured by the earl that Lord Huntingdon would still be up and about to receive them even though it was close to two o’clock, they all trooped around to Huntingdon House, which was luckily situated in nearby Dover Street.

Stokes pulled two constables from their patrol in St. James and put them in charge of Smythe, who Lord Cothelstone declared needed to come, too, so it was quite a procession that marched through the doors of Huntingdon House. But Huntingdon’s butler drew himself up, and handled the matter with aplomb. Leaving the earl, a frequent visitor, to see himself and Barnaby into Lord Huntingdon’s presence in his study, the butler bowed Penelope, Griselda, and Stokes into the drawing room, then whisked the boys, Mostyn, the constables, and Smythe to a set of straight-backed chairs lined up along the corridor leading from the front hall.

Within five minutes the butler was back, to conduct them all into his master’s sanctum.

Huntingdon, a large, heavyset gentleman, was no fool. He listened without emotion as Barnaby and Stokes outlined the case as they knew it against the man Smythe and the boys had known as Mr. Alert, now believed to be his lordship’s private secretary, Douglas Cameron.

When told that Smythe and the boys could identify Alert, Smythe by sight, the boys by his voice, Huntingdon studied all three carefully, then nodded. “Very well. Your story otherwise strains belief, but those lists are damning. That is his hand, and those are houses he has visited frequently in my train. I see no reason not to put Cameron to the test. If by some twist of fate he’s innocent, no harm will be done.”

Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

“However”—Huntingdon held up one finger—“we will do this correctly.”

So saying, his lordship made his dispositions, directing everyone as to where they should stand, and what they should do.

Two doors, one on either side of the long study, led to adjoining rooms; a large oriental screen stood before each door. Huntingdon sent the two constables and Smythe to stand behind one screen. He dispatched Penelope, Griselda, and both boys to the room beyond the other screen.

“I want you to bring the boys out only when you receive word from me. Adair’s man will stand by the main door here, and when I give him the signal, he’ll go out into the hall and around to tell you to enter. I want you to keep the boys behind the screen, where they can hear us, but not see us.”

Huntingdon fixed Penelope with his weighty gaze. “I rely on you, Miss Ashford, to tell me if the boys correctly identify Cameron as the man they heard giving Smythe instructions. You’ll know from my lead when to step out and tell me.”

Penelope nodded. “Yes, sir.”

She gathered the boys; together with Griselda they went into the next room.

When everything was arranged to Huntingdon’s liking, with the earl and Barnaby standing behind the desk to his right, and Stokes by the wall to his left, Huntingdon rang for his butler and instructed him to fetch Cameron. “And Fergus—no word to him regarding who is here.”

The butler looked offended. “Naturally not, my lord.”

Huntingdon glanced at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “Gentlemen, while I appreciate your interest in this, I will conduct this interview. I would take it kindly if, regardless of whatever Cameron may say, you maintain your silence.”

Stokes looked unhappy, but nodded. Barnaby agreed more readily; he approved of his lordship’s tactics, and saw no reason not to leave the interrogation in his clearly capable hands.

A minute ticked by, then the door opened and Cameron entered.

Barnaby studied him. His hair, an average brown, fashionably cut, was slightly ruffled, and there was a faint flush on his pale cheeks; Huntingdon had earlier stated that he hadn’t asked Cameron to hold himself available that evening, and Fergus had confirmed that Cameron had been out since nine, returning only recently.

He was as well dressed as usual, not a cuff out of place; after an infinitesimal hesitation, excusable given the unexpected company, he closed the door and walked forward, surveying them with his usual arrogant air, significantly more deferential when it came to Barnaby’s father and Huntingdon.

Barnaby noted that, along with Cameron’s more evenhanded attitude toward himself. The man was supremely conscious of the lines of class; he treated everyone he considered beneath him with dismissive arrogance, all those above him—like Huntingdon and the earl—with toadying deference, while those he considered his equals—such as Barnaby—he acknowledged with an unruffled air. In Barnaby’s experience, only those not secure in their place in the world expended so much effort reinforcing it.

Cameron halted a pace before the desk. Like any good secretary, his expression revealed nothing, not even curiosity. “Yes, my lord?”

“Cameron.”

Clasping his large hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed him with a level look. “These gentlemen have come to me with a disturbing tale. It seems they believe you have been involved…”

Huntingdon gave an expert summary of their case, omitting all unnecessary details, concentrating on the outcomes and conclusions.

Watching Cameron carefully, Barnaby thought he paled at mention of the lists, but that might have simply been his flush slowly fading.

Regardless, Barnaby—and he was quite sure Stokes, his father, and Huntingdon, too—had Cameron’s guilt confirmed within minutes.

The man didn’t react; even though Huntingdon’s initial statement had told him he was suspected of being behind the crimes Huntingdon subsequently described, Cameron maintained his aloof composure. An innocent man, no matter his control, would have at least shown some sign of surprise, shock—at least perturbation—on being informed he was suspected of such acts.

Instead, Cameron simply waited patiently until Huntingdon reached the end of his recitation, concluding with, “Well, sir? Can you enlighten us as to the accuracy of this tale?”

Then Cameron smiled, an easy, gentlemanly smile inviting his lordship, and the earl, too, to join him in the joke. “My lord, this entire tale is nothing more than fabrication, at least as regards my supposed involvement.”

A wave of his hand dismissed the notion, along with the lists lying by Huntingdon’s blotter. “I have no idea why suspicion has fallen on me, but I assure you I had nothing whatever to do with this…series of burglaries.”

He made the last words sound like an act he couldn’t conceivably have been thought to perform—like cleaning out a fireplace.

With that, he simply stood there, the expectation, the absolute belief that Huntingdon would accept his word and dismiss the charges evident in his expression, his stance, his whole attitude.

Barnaby suddenly understood. Cameron, driving the coach, had seen them with Smythe, but he hadn’t, even then, imagined they’d identify him. He hadn’t remembered the lists, or hadn’t thought anyone who might see them would recognize his style. He’d come to the study prepared to face down the worst accusations he’d thought might eventuate—vague ones not backed by any strong evidence—placing complete, overweening confidence in his position among the ton being sufficient to deflect any such charges.

Things weren’t as he’d assumed, but now he was there all he could do was play out his scripted role. He had no other defense.

Looking down, Barnaby murmured, “It’s a performance. He thinks he knows the rules.”

He’d spoken quietly, but his father and Huntingdon would have heard, and they’d know what rules he meant.

Huntingdon studied Cameron, then unclasped his hands and eased back in his chair. “Come now, Cameron. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Anger flashed through Cameron’s eyes. He was used to reading his employer; he now saw that, contrary to his expectations, Huntingdon wasn’t going to join him in waving away the “fanciful”

tale, let alone close ranks, gentleman siding with gentleman. “My lord.”