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shoulder. Bit heavier round the middle. Stocky like.”
    “Did you notice his hands, by any chance?”
    Trug looked surprised, then his expression turned thoughtful. “Didn’t look to be a bruiser, now I think on it. And not a navvy or anything like—his hands weren’t callused. Shopworker or…well, like he said. Worked for the authorities.”
    Barnaby nodded. “Clothing?”
    “Heavy coat—nothing special. Cloth cap, the usual. Work boots like we all wear round here.”
    Barnaby didn’t follow Trug’s gaze as it lowered to his polished Hessians. “What about his speech—his accent?”
    Looking up again, Trug blinked. “Accent? Well…” Trug blinked again, then looked at Penelope. “Stap me, but I hadn’t thought of that. He came from round here. East End. No question.”
    Penelope looked at Barnaby.
    He met her gaze, then turned to Trug. “Is your son in?”
    “Aye.” Trug lumbered around to head inside. “He’s back here—I’ll fetch him.”
    The son verified all his father had said. When asked for a guess as to the man’s age, he pursed his lips, then opined, “Not old. Maybe about me own age—twenty-seven that’d be.”
    He grinned at Penelope. From the corner of his eye, Barnaby saw her eyes narrow, her dark gaze turn flinty.
    “Thank you.” He nodded to both Trugs and stepped back.
    “Aye, well.” Trug senior settled back behind his bench. “I know Monger wanted young Dick to go with the lady, so don’t seem right this other bloke should steal him. Who knows what he’s got in mind for him—he’ll be forcing the poor little beggar up a chimney, like as not.”
    Penelope paled, but her expression only grew more determined. She, too, nodded to the Trugs. “Thank you for your help.”
    Turning, she joined Barnaby. She waved at the tiny house on the other side of Dick’s father’s abode. “We should talk to Mrs. Waters. Dick spent the night with her, so she saw and spoke to the man, too.”
    Summoned by a bell hanging beside her door, Mrs. Waters emerged from the depths of her cramped home. A large, motherly woman with a florid complexion and limp gray hair, she confirmed the Trugs’ description. “Aye, twenty-five years old, I’d say, and he was from round here somewheres, but not close. I know most on the nearby streets, and he’s not a local, so to say, but yes, he’d be an East Ender born and bred, the way he spoke.”
    “So he was too young to be a bailiff or anything like that.” Penelope glanced at Barnaby.
    Mrs. Waters snorted. “Not him—he wasn’t a leader of anything, nor in charge of anything, I’ll take my oath.”
    Barnaby was struck by her certainty. “Why do you say that?”
    Mrs. Waters’s brow furrowed in thought, then she said, “Because he wasn’t even in charge of what he was doing. He was careful spoken. Really careful—like someone had taught him what to say, and how to say it.”
    “So you think he’d been sent here to do a job—he was an errand boy, as it were.”
    “That’s it.” Mrs. Waters nodded. “Someone had sent him to fetch Dick, and that’s what he did.” Her face clouded; she looked up at Barnaby. “You find that beggar and get Dick back. A good boy he was, never any trouble, no malice in him at all. He don’t deserve whatever those bastards”—she glanced at Penelope—“begging your pardon, miss, are planning for him.”
    Barnaby inclined his head. “I’ll do my best. Thank you for your help.” He held out his hand to Penelope. “Miss Ashford?”
    She didn’t take his hand, but after thanking Mrs. Waters, she walked by his side back to the hackney. She had to take his hand to climb into the carriage. After instructing the driver to return to the Foundling House, Barnaby joined her and shut the door.
    Slumping on the seat, he ran through what they’d learned, trying to see what it suggested.
    She broke into his thoughts. “So it’s possible Dick is not all that far away.” Eyes narrowed, she stared apparently