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W hen the investigators gathered the following morning in Albemarle Street, together with Jordan and Ruth, Penelope found herself hanging on Barnaby’s and Stokes’s every word as they described the events of the previous night.

She hadn’t heard the details before. She’d been sound asleep when Barnaby had returned, and this morning, given that they expected to be out for most of the day, they’d devoted their breakfast hours to the children.

Stokes ended the recitation with the unexpectedly glum admission, “However, when I mentioned Thomas and his death, Chesterton plainly had no idea who I was talking about.”

Barnaby glanced at Ruth. “He truly didn’t seem to know who Thomas was.”

“Let alone how Thomas’s death led us to him and the warehouse,” Stokes said. “Chesterton couldn’t figure out how we’d rumbled his scheme. He was genuinely puzzled and confused.”

“Well, then.” Penelope sat straighter and looked at Ruth and Jordan. “I, for one, am keen to view Chesterton for myself and try my hand at teasing more information from him.”

Everyone was of similar mind, and in short order, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes were in the carriage and rolling over the cobbles, with Jordan and Ruth following in a hackney.

They arrived at Scotland Yard and congregated in the foyer while Stokes arranged to have Chesterton brought up from the cells to one of the ground-floor interview rooms. Once Chesterton had been installed, Stokes returned and escorted their small group through the corridors to a door toward the end of one wing. Stokes opened the door and led them in.

Penelope followed, eager to get her first view of Chesterton. Her gaze fell on the ruddy-faced man in a rumpled suit who was seated in the lone chair on the opposite side of the simple table. The man’s features were fleshy, and his suit was made of plaid in a bilious shade of mustard.

Her eyes widening, Penelope stared as she trailed Stokes to the line of chairs set along the table’s nearer side.

Stokes and Barnaby had described Chesterton as being in early middle age, stocky and solidly built, and he was definitely all that, but what neither had mentioned was Chesterton’s shock of wiry carroty-red hair.

Bountiful orange curls, thick and dense, covered his head, and it was instantly apparent that no hat could ever be made to sit securely upon such a springy cushion.

Chesterton had been sitting slumped, his gaze on his manacled hands, but as they entered, he heaved a sigh and glanced up and was clearly surprised to see Penelope and, behind her, Barnaby, Ruth, and Jordan.

As they all filed in and claimed seats, Chesterton sat back and stared. Once they’d settled, a puzzled frown in his eyes, he asked, “What’s all this, then?”

Stokes replied, “The Yard has several consultants assisting us with this case.” He then proceeded to read out the charges the Crown intended bringing against Chesterton, namely gun running and smuggling.

Stokes fixed Chesterton with a direct look.

“We caught you red-handed with the guns and, what’s more, attempting to move them on.

We also have your accomplices in the cells, and they’ve informed us that they’re willing to trade information for leniency. ”

Chesterton made a sound of disgust, but from his expression, it was clear he didn’t doubt Stokes’s assertion.

“Now,” Stokes continued, “as to the reason for our consultants being present this morning, they’re here because the brother of one of your unsuspecting dupes—the three you paid to keep quiet about you using the warehouse—was murdered on Tuesday morning, and our information is that the killing happened shortly after he—the brother—followed you from the Fox to the warehouse and, apparently, discovered what you were storing there.

It seems the brother worked out what you were doing and planned to take steps to bring the matter to the authorities’ attention. ”

Chesterton’s confusion had only grown as he attempted to follow Stokes’s reasoning. “You think that the brother was murdered because he’d learned about the guns?” He frowned. “But…by whom?”

Stokes looked at him pointedly. “We were assuming by you.”

Chesterton’s jaw dropped, then he snapped it shut and blustered, “Me? I don’t even know who this geezer is! How could I have killed him?”

Barnaby asked, “You didn’t see him following you from the Fox or, later, slipping inside the warehouse and finding the guns and think to follow him home?”

“No!” Chesterton paused, then grudgingly added, “I had no idea anyone had followed me back to the warehouse. I didn’t have a clue that anyone who shouldn’t have known had learned about the guns.

” He stared at them as if trying to force them to believe him, then his face cleared.

“Well, obviously, I had no clue, because if I had, I would have moved the guns straightaway, and I wouldn’t have walked so blindly into your trap last evening, would I? ”

Studying Chesterton, Barnaby said, “You might have left the guns where they were if you thought you’d killed the man before he’d had a chance to pass on the information.”

Chesterton swore beneath his breath. “You’ve got that wrong—I never even knew someone had rumbled my patch.”

A moment passed, then Chesterton transferred his gaze to Stokes.

“Look. My business runs on secrecy. That means the fewer people who know anything about what I’m doing, the better.

That’s why I paid off those three likely lads.

They were easy to appease and never asked difficult questions—dupes, just like you called them.

But killing anyone, no matter what threat they might pose, is guaranteed to bring the rozzers sniffing around, and that’s the last thing I’d ever want.

Like I said, if I’d known someone had found the warehouse and the guns, I would’ve moved the lot quick smart and set up somewhere else.

I wouldn’t have wasted time trying to hunt down some geezer I’d never met.

” He glanced curiously at Jordan and Ruth.

“I don’t even know which of the likely lads’ families this brother belonged to. ”

To Penelope, Chesterton sounded a touch desperate, but his arguments were reasonable and, therefore, convincing. And to her eyes, at least, he was never going to be confused with a gentleman, and with that shock of hair, he’d never be able to wear a top hat, let alone pull off a disguise.

To drive home the point, she asked, “Do you wear a hat? Ever?”

Chesterton started to raise a hand to his curls, then was reminded of the manacles and stopped. “No. No hats for me. They just won’t stay on my head.”

Penelope glanced at Barnaby, then at Stokes. Both faintly grimaced. Regardless of his involvement in the gun-running scheme, Chesterton wasn’t Thomas Cardwell’s murderer.

Jordan leaned forward and asked, “You say you value secrecy highly, so think back to Sunday evening. If someone in the Fox had been watching you interact with those three likely lads, could that someone later have followed you to the warehouse?”

From Chesterton’s expression, it was plain to all that he—or rather, his pride—wished he could dismiss the suggestion.

Eventually, however, he admitted, “I suppose it’s possible.

I hadn’t thought that anyone might follow me from the Fox.

The clientele there generally keeps its nose out of other people’s business, so I wasn’t on guard.

I’d had a few pints as well, so…” He shrugged.

“I can’t say that couldn’t have happened. ”

Jordan glanced at Stokes, then sat back.

Penelope judged that, all in all, Chesterton had been truthful, at least in what he’d put into words.

Apparently thinking they’d learned all they would, Stokes asked Chesterton, “Is there anything more you’d like to tell us?”

Chesterton regarded Stokes levelly, then stated, “You’ve got me to rights with the gun running and smuggling.

I even gave you the ship’s name, not that I meant to, but still.

All that admitted to, I swear on my mother’s grave that I’ve never killed anyone.

” His gaze flicked to Jordan and Ruth. “And I never met this brother who was killed, either.”

Stokes studied Chesterton for a moment, then nodded. “Duly noted.” He signaled to the constables that they could take Chesterton back to the cells, then rose and led their small band out of the room.

Stokes paused in the corridor and, once they’d all come through the door, suggested, “Let’s go upstairs to a more congenial setting and decide what to try next.”

Minutes later, they settled into chairs in Stokes’s office.

“First,” Penelope said, “can we all agree that Chesterton is definitely not our unknown gentleman-cum-murderer?”

Barnaby grimaced. “Not with that riot of hair. It wasn’t as evident last night, in the poor light.”

“Let alone that he wouldn’t easily pass for a gentleman,” Stokes said. “His posture, the way he walks and talks—that observant baker wouldn’t have mistaken him for a gentleman, even if he’d donned the right sort of coat.”

“And,” Jordan added, “Thomas might have recognized Chesterton, but he wouldn’t have readily unlocked his office door and invited him inside.”

Stokes tipped his head, conceding the point. “I also can’t see Chesterton being in a position to hire an assassin who would pass for a gentleman, either.”

“I thought,” Barnaby said, “that he made a convincing argument that if he had known someone had learned about the guns, then the first thing he would have done was move them.” He looked at the others. “The guns must represent a considerable amount of money to Chesterton.”