Chapter 13 #2
“There is.” It was Montague who spoke. When all eyes turned his way, he met their gazes gravely.
“We haven’t dwelled on it, but all of us can guess what ‘items’ the villain is selling.
” He looked at Griselda. “You saw one at the window—a young, desperate girl. According to my analysis of the sums he’s cleared every month, he’ll have at least four others in that house, very possibly more.
” Montague swept the group with his steady hazel gaze.
“And none of us have to think too hard to guess to whom he’s selling such wares. ”
Stokes’s face slowly transformed into a mask of almost vicious, delighted triumph. “That’s perfect,” he growled. All but springing to his feet, he looked around at the others. “I’ll go to the Yard and—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Rising, Penelope waved her hands.
“We need to work out a plan first.” Hunting in a pocket, she drew out a crumpled sheet.
Smoothing it, she shifted to show it to Stokes.
Barnaby rose and looked over her other shoulder.
“This,” Penelope explained, “is a map Griselda, Violet, and I drew of The Laurels—as much as we could deduce from what we could see of the house and the immediately surrounding areas. See”—she pointed—“there are thick woods on this side, which should be useful, and—”
Ten minutes later, with the plan for the raid on the late Lady Halstead’s country house fully detailed and defined, Stokes shrugged into his greatcoat and left to summon the commissioners, to lay out his case, gain their approval, and gather his constables, leaving Montague and Barnaby to arrange transportation for the rest of their company to the agreed rendezvous in the woods alongside The Laurels.
Waiting in the front hall for the carriages to be brought around, Penelope all but jigged with happiness. Not one of the men—not even Montague—had made any attempt to dissuade the ladies from attending, much less questioned their right to do so.
Their new investigating team was well on the way to becoming a fully functioning reality.
It was a cool night in Essex. A pale sliver of moon showed fleetingly through the canopy, concealed, then fitfully revealed by the low clouds scudding across the sky and the restlessly shifting branches of the tall trees in the wood.
Although the majority of leaves had yet to fall, enough already had to provide a soft carpet underfoot, sufficiently thick to deaden the clomp of heavy boots as Stokes issued whispered orders and his men spread out, circling the house as silently as they could, as far as possible keeping under cover.
Violet wasn’t sure such caution was truly necessary.
As arranged, they’d gathered in the wood at half past nine—the six of them, plus Penelope and Barnaby’s two coachmen and four grooms and footmen, as well as a good score and more of Scotland Yard’s finest. From what Violet had made out from the earlier whispered exchanges, several of the young Turks on the detective side of the force, all of whom clearly held Stokes in some awe, had volunteered to assist him.
Stokes had organized his force into smaller groups, assigning two detectives to a cohort of constables; he was presently engaged in dispatching the groups to positions around the house.
As far as Violet could see, no one in the house was watching, was in any way on guard; no one was expecting any interruptions to their proceedings, whatever those were.
Their force had assembled before any carriages had appeared, but even then all the curtains in the house, on both upper and lower floors, had already been drawn.
Light shone through them, softer lamplight upstairs, while the downstairs rooms appeared to be ablaze—exactly as if a major social gathering was underway.
The carriages, all black and heavily curtained, had started to arrive at ten minutes before the hour; by ten o’clock, nine had pulled up, had disgorged their passengers, then been drawn to a halt along one side of the drive.
The coachmen, all of them, had tied up their teams and gone inside, too, somewhat unexpectedly following their masters through the front door.
The door had opened to every coachman’s knock but was always swiftly closed after every admittance.
After ten minutes passed and no further coaches had rattled along the lane and in at the gate, Stokes had started sending his men out from the cover of the wood.
From her vantage point perched on a sturdy branch high enough to see over the wall, more or less in line with the front porch, Violet, along with Penelope, Griselda, and Montague, all similarly clinging to branches and tree trunks, had studied the “guests” who had arrived in the nine carriages.
Both men and women, roughly an equal number of each; all had climbed down and walked quickly but not hurriedly inside, sparing not so much as a glance at their surroundings.
Although the light was poor, all the attendees had appeared fashionably, even elegantly, dressed. The ladies had worn dark gowns; some had carried shawls and reticules. Most of the males had sported coats and cravats, and some had carried canes and fashionable hats.
The confidence, the assurance, with which each had approached and entered the house was, Violet thought, telling.
Leaning closer to the trunk of the tree, closer to Montague, standing on a lower branch on the tree’s opposite side, she whispered, “All of those who arrived have been here before—probably many times.”
Through the dark shadows, Montague met her gaze; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He glanced back at the house. “Anyone who was new to the place would have glanced around, at the very least shown some sign of hesitation, of taking stock. None of them did.”
“Nor did their coachmen,” Penelope whispered from the next tree. She started wriggling along her branch, clearly intending to jump down. “Whoever they are, they’re all a part of this—there’s no innocent bystanders in that lot.”
Griselda humphed an agreement as she carefully stepped down, branch by sturdy branch, from her perch.
“Wait!” Montague hissed as Penelope prepared to jump.
When she stopped and looked at him, he hesitated for only a second before saying, “You might slip and twist your ankle, and then you’d have to stay here and miss all the excitement.”
Penelope studied him for a moment, then softly laughed. “Oh, you are good. You, Montague, are a very welcome addition to our band of investigators. All right. I’ll wait.”
Montague clambered down, and Penelope allowed him to lift her down from her perch.
Violet, meanwhile, had edged to the trunk, but before she could start to climb down by herself, Montague returned and, with no more than a glance by way of requesting permission, reached up and lifted her down.
Somewhat to her surprise, her lungs stopped working—seized up in a most peculiar way in response to the feel of his hands about her waist, to the sense of strength as he so easily lifted her down and gently set her feet on the leaves.
He hesitated for a second, a telltale moment in the dark of the woods when he stood and looked down at her, their shadowed gazes locked even though, in the poor light, they couldn’t see—but they could sense, and they did, then he drew breath, and, sliding his hands from her waist, he stepped aside, out of her way. But he remained close beside her.
Stokes and Barnaby had been overseeing the disposition of their troops; they returned, two rather large shadows moving surprisingly silently, weaving through the trees.
Joining them, Stokes nodded. “We’re ready.
” A flash of teeth in the darkness was a sharklike smile.
“Our group will go in via the front door.” A contingent of the burliest constables, as well as the six men from Penelope and Barnaby’s staff, waited a few feet away.
“Although I’ve got a warrant, I want Montague to lead the way using his letter of authority—the more confusion we can create over what exactly is going on, the better, and the easier it will be to break up the group inside and take everyone into custody. ”
Stokes’s gaze shifted to Penelope, Griselda, and Violet.
“I want you three, along with your coachmen, grooms, and footmen, to follow us through the gates and take up position on the lawn directly opposite the front porch.” He paused, his shadowed gaze touching each of their faces in turn.
“If this business is as we suspect, I want to be able to get the girls out of there as quickly as we can. I’ve told our men that they’ll be able to steer the girls out of the front door and they’ll be able to see you from there.
” Stokes tipped his head to the coachmen, grooms, and footmen.
“Your men will stay with you, and help shepherd the girls from the front door to you. I don’t want to risk any of the blackguards inside thinking to take hostages—not of any sort. ”
Even Penelope saw the sense in Stokes’s plan. They all nodded and murmured agreement.
Stokes lifted his head. “Right then.” He glanced at his men. “Let’s get this raid underway.”
They followed Stokes out of the wood, into the lane, and, falling into the requested formation, marched through the gates, presently set wide, and up the gravel drive. Violet had to admit it was a stirring moment; the crunch of so many heavy booted feet sounded like a drumbeat—the march of justice.
On reaching the area before the porch, their small party diverged from the rear and took up their appointed positions.
Montague, she saw, fearlessly led the way up the steps. Halting before the front door, he nodded to Stokes, who pulled the dangling chain. Montague waited for a heartbeat, then raised his fist and thundered on the door.
When the door failed to open, at Stokes’s nod, Montague knocked heavily again.
Half a minute passed, then the door eased open.