Before setting off with Jeremy to call on Mrs. Grummidge, I had telephoned the clerk at The Times. In short order, he rang back with the information I had requested: Mrs. Crofton’s maiden name. Much to my disappointment, however, Mrs. Grummidge insisted that she knew no one called Mabel Walding and that she had never been acquainted with either of the Croftons.
“I’m more sorry than I can say to be of so little use.” She squirmed in her chair, next to the fireplace in her snug parlor. “Are you quite certain you won’t take tea?”
“I should love a cup,” Jeremy said. He rose to his feet and crossed toward her, resting his arm on the mantel. “You’ve made a most comfortable home here, Mrs. Grummidge. I hope I can manage to find a wife who can create such a cozy nest.”
“I’m sure your home is too grand to ever be cozy, your grace.” She blushed as she spoke.
“Too right,” he replied. “Did you grow up nearby?”
“Not far away,” she said. “After my adoptive parents took me in, that is. I spent my early years in an orphanage.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“There’s no need to apologize. There were some there who were kind,” she said, “and once the Athertons chose me, I was very happily settled. They picked me because I’d taught myself to read. Their house was full of kindness and love. I was far luckier than most of the other children I knew.”
“Like Lizzie?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Grummidge said.
“Who else were you close to growing up?” I asked, certain the clue to the murderer’s identity lay somewhere in Mrs. Grummidge’s past.
“Oh, there were loads of children around. Most of them had to work, and none of us went to school, but there was still time to play.”
“Ned Traddles was one of them?” I asked.
“Yes, and his friend Gilbert. And there was a boy called Rodney whom Ned and Gil all but worshipped.”
“Can you recall their surnames?”
“Gil Barton. I knew him well. But Rodney was not someone my parents wanted me to associate with. Like Ned, he ran with the King’s Boys and was always organizing confidence games. He was quite a big man in the gang. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wound up running the whole thing. That was always his goal.”
“What about Gil?” Jeremy asked.
“Oh, yes, he was a King’s Boy, too, and an orphan like me. No one wanted to adopt him, though,” she said. “He never knew what happened to his parents, but one day they never came home. I think he was four years old. A chimney sweep found him wandering the streets in search of food and took him in. He was awfully skinny, Gil. Could squirm down the narrowest spaces. That’s why the sweep wanted him, of course, but when he grew too big, the man abandoned him. The King’s Boys were like a new family to him.”
“A criminal family,” Jeremy said.
“Yes, I suppose you could describe it as such,” Mrs. Grummidge said. “But what else was a boy in his position to do? He hated the orphanage—only stayed there for a few weeks, and then went out on his own. I never did know where he lived. Lizzie and I suspected he drifted from place to place and slept on the street. His clothes were always in tatters.”
“And Rodney?” I asked.
“I never knew him well. He was older than us and not interested in silly girls who made lace.”
“Did you make all this?” I had noticed the lace doilies and tablecloths the first time I’d come into Mrs. Grummidge’s parlor. The work was exquisite.
“I did,” she said. “My mother taught me. She thought it would give me an occupation that would keep me inside and out of trouble. Our neighborhood, as you already know, was not the best. A ladylike skill, she always said, helps make a lady.”
“Quite right.” I smiled at her. A picture had begun to form in my mind, of a group of youngsters being pulled in different directions, each of them trying in their way to rise above their circumstances. Lizzie had not escaped the squalor around her. Ned had, but had still died a horrible death. Violet, who had appeared to have a comfortable life, had married a man who battered her. What had become of Gil? And how did Rodney factor in with the rest? Violet may not have known him well, but Lizzie could have.
Most important, I decided, was the continuing mentions of the King’s Boys. It will have escaped no one’s notice that a gang with such a name was no doubt run by a person who considered himself a king. I no longer believed Bertie to be in the slightest danger, but as for the odious individual who lured boys into lives of crime? He should not be resting easy.
Realizing I had stopped paying attention to the conversation between Jeremy and Mrs. Grummidge, I shook myself back to the present. The young widow was blossoming under my friend’s attention. Her husband had most likely never been kind without expecting something in return, and his notice had brought her more pain than happiness. She was not flirting with Jeremy, but her relief at speaking to a gentleman who would not hurt her was palpable. I hoped her future would contain no more violence.
“It’s astonishing how quickly she started to trust you,” I said, after we had left the house and were back in the motorcar. “Given her past experience, I should have thought she would despise all men. Yet with you…”
“It’s the dukedom, Em,” he said. “All the ladies trust in it.”
“You can be glib all you like, but it’s not that. There’s something about you that inspires … well, not confidence precisely—”
“I should hope not!”
“But trust,” I finished. “You may pretend to be useless, but you cannot hide your decency.”
“I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” He pulled the lever next to him, stomped on a pedal, and our speed increased. “I’m a profligate wastrel.”
I studied his face. There was no denying he was attractive—not breathtakingly handsome like Colin, but his well-formed features, bright eyes, and easy smile were appealing. He did his best to appear useless and fast, but I knew his heart was kind and true. Never before had I felt such a strong urge to play matchmaker. Jeremy deserved to find someone who would recognize the golden character hidden beneath his well-curated foppish exterior.
He glanced over at me. “I don’t like the way you are looking at me, Em. Either you’re considering kissing me, which seems unlikely in the extreme, or you’re thinking about trying to marry me off. I recognize the signs all too well. Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those wretched matrons bent on ensuring the girl of her choice will provide me with a suitable heir.”
“How on earth could you know?”
“In my not inconsiderable experience, those are the only two explanations for a lady pulling such a face. I much prefer the former and have, on occasion, taken brash action in an attempt to keep from having to deal with the latter. Even old matrons like a good kiss now and again, and it generally keeps them from being too keen on marrying off a chap.”
“Good heavens, Jeremy, you can’t tell me that you’ve been going around—”
“Kissing mothers who want me to marry their daughters?” He laughed. “No, not quite. I only kiss the ones who don’t have daughters. To do otherwise could bring nothing but disaster.”
I stared at him, my mouth open.
“Rendered you speechless, have I?” He grinned. “Now promise me you won’t start searching for a suitable duchess for me or I’ll have to kiss you. Hargreaves would not be happy and I’d rather not have to meet him with pistols at dawn. I object on principle to all appointments before noon.”
This absurd statement deserved no reply. He dropped me in front of my house, making a great show first of helping me down from the motorcar and then of kissing my hand. As he leapt back into the driver’s seat, there was an exuberance about him I had not seen for some time, and I resolved to abandon all thoughts of marrying him off. He enjoyed being the Bachelor Duke too much.
Colin was not home, so I asked Davis to telephone Inspector Pickering. Once my butler had passed the handset to me, I made a simple request of my new colleague: bring me everything he could find that relates to the King’s Boys. He did not question what I asked, and promised to come to me within two hours. I passed the time reading The Infidel and wondered if our heroine, now that her mortal soul was saved, would abandon the deathbed promise she had made the night of her marriage. When, at last, the inspector arrived, I hardly heard him, so caught up in the story was I. He was carrying a file box, tall enough that I could hardly see his face above it. He swayed, and I feared he might drop it, but he steadied himself, deposited it onto my desk, and took the seat I offered.
“I brought everything,” he said, “so you can read for yourself, but I am also prepared to offer what I hope is a thorough summary of what I have learned. The King’s Boys is a notorious gang, as you already know. They have been a presence in the East End since the middle of the last century. Like so many others, their leaders recruit children—primarily young boys—and train them as pickpockets. When they’re too big for that, they move onto other targets, like the tills in West End shops. They also run a far-reaching protection racket, but we’ve never been able to hold them accountable for it.”
“Who are the leaders?” I asked.
The young man pushed up his spectacles, which had begun their usual descent down his narrow nose. “We don’t know. Other gangs are not so reticent about their organizations. It’s considered a position of honor to be a captain or junior officer, as some of them call themselves, and we keep close tabs on a number of individuals we know to be at the top. But the King’s Boys never refer to their master, if I may use the word, as anything other than The King.”
“I encountered a number of them when I went to the Black Swan,” I said. The color drained from his face; he pushed his spectacles up again and opened his mouth to speak. I stopped him before he could. “I shall brook no criticism from you, Inspector, for the way I choose to handle my investigation. I shall not be put off from finding the truth simply because doing so involves visiting a brothel.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Emily,” he said. “I meant no criticism. It was just that, as you spoke, your tone reminded me so very much of my late mother, it was almost as if I were standing before a ghost.”
I was not sure I liked a man of his age comparing me to his mother. I was not, after all, nearly so old as she would be now, had she lived. Deciding the best course of action was to ignore his explanation, I continued. “The boys I saw were all wearing emerald green scarves around their necks. Does that serve to mark them as members of the King’s Boys?”
“Yes, quite,” he replied. “They call them stooks. Most unruly youths wear white ones, but not the King’s Boys. I found the file on Gilbert Barton, but none that references anyone who could be our Rodney. Barton has been in and out of jail more times than I can count, but his record ends about five years ago. I have not been able to find an address for him.”
“How long do I have to read the files?” I asked.
“I’ll need to return them by tomorrow morning before eight o’clock.”
“Then I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?” I smiled at him and gave him my thanks. He kept glancing surreptitiously at the door, and I knew he was hoping to see Colin. “I don’t expect Mr. Hargreaves back for some time, but if you’d like to stay and help me go through these, I would welcome the assistance.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Emily. Where would you like me to set up shop?”
I directed him to one of the long tables parallel to the library’s bookcases and gave him a blank notebook and a pencil. We divided the files—all of which, presumably, he had already read—and set to work. I admit the task was disheartening. Page after page of crimes committed by boys too young to be out of the nursery. As they got older, they became more brazen, their acts more and more audacious. A group of three of them had descended upon a respectable lady in Hyde Park and managed to make off with her watch and handbag before anyone could come to her aid.
As Inspector Pickering had said, they all seemed to be in and out of jail with a dizzying frequency, and not one of them ever gave the name of the man—or men—at the head of their organization. Their loyalty to their king appeared to know no bounds. Fascinating—and horrifying—though it all was, I found nothing that shed further light on the murders except that I took it as further evidence that Edward VII was not the target of our killer’s ire. Growing frustrated, I started to pace—a habit I had picked up from my husband—and soon had drifted over to the table at which the inspector sat. One of the files next to him caught my eye. I reached for it and started to leaf through.
“Here!” I said, my voice full of building excitement. “I should have thought to ask this before, when you told me about Ned Traddles. Look—the man who did not press charges when the boy was arrested—Prentice Hancock!”
“I’m afraid the name means nothing to me,” Inspector Pickering said. “Ought it?”
“Yes, well, no, you weren’t at the church. Prentice Hancock came to Lizzie Hopman’s funeral, you see. He grew up in the East End and has done all he can to improve conditions there. He knew Lizzie and obviously did what he could to set Ned on a better path—”
“No, no, Lady Emily.” My colleague was growing excited now, too. His spectacles fell right off as his face glowed with enlightenment. “He didn’t want the boy on a better path, he wanted him in his control—”
“Of course. What better way to lure a vulnerable child into his clutches? How could I be so foolish not to have thought of it myself?”
“It is a credit to you that you did not,” he said.
“Mr. Hancock didn’t give Ned a second chance, he recruited him,” I said. “Which means that Mr. Hancock could be the so-called king—”
Inspector Pickering rose to his feet. “If you are correct, he is in a great deal of danger.” I half expected him to rush off in search of the man and realized I ought to rein in his enthusiasm.
“It is too soon for us to draw any firm conclusions. We don’t know for sure what Mr. Hancock’s motives were. It is entirely possible that he was engaged in nothing nefarious, but we need to interview him as soon as possible and can start by going to the address he gave after Ned picked his pocket.”
“Ought we wait for Mr. Hargreaves? I wouldn’t want him to think I had led you into danger.”
“Mr. Hargreaves knows better than to try to keep me out of danger,” I said. I led my companion back into the hall and asked Davis for our coats and hats. “And at any rate, we have no reason to think Mr. Hancock will view us as a threat, should he prove to be a criminal mastermind. He asked me for my assistance in his charitable work after Lizzie’s funeral. We shall let him think my enthusiasm for his cause has got the better of me.” I raced down the steps and hailed a cab in Park Lane. My young friend matched my pace, but the look on his face betrayed his emotions. He was very, very concerned at taking his idol’s wife into a rough part of town.