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Jordan nodded. “Even if he later thought to kill Thomas, however he could bring that about—which isn’t easy to see—regardless, he would have moved the guns.

They wouldn’t have been in the warehouse for us to find.

I can’t see any self-respecting smuggler leaving his goods sitting in a hidey-hole after he suspected someone unexpected had learned they were there. ”

Stokes grunted in agreement. “So where does that leave us on this gray March morning?” He looked at the others expectantly.

Penelope stated, “It all comes back to our unknown man—our suspected murderer. Who is he?” She looked around the circle of faces. “If not Gibson or Chesterton, who else could he be?”

Jordan grimaced. “Theoretically, our murderer could be Harrison or Josh.” He glanced at Ruth. “Thomas knew both, I take it?”

She nodded. “Thomas was a year behind them at King Edward’s, so they all knew each other from their years there, and of course, they were Gibson’s friends, so Thomas met them when they occasionally visited with Gibson.”

“So,” Stokes mused, “if it had been one of them, Thomas would have readily invited them into his office.”

Penelope wrinkled her nose. “I really can’t see it being either of them.”

“I can’t, either,” Ruth said. “From all I saw, Harrison and Josh were always quite friendly toward Thomas.” She paused, then added, “I think that, like Gibson, they were a bit in awe of Thomas, in that he was a year younger but had established a successful business, and they hadn’t yet accomplished anything in that vein. ”

Stokes huffed. “Let’s not overcomplicate things. We have an unknown gentleman and have yet to discover who he is. All we actually know is that Thomas appeared to recognize him well enough to invite him into his office.”

Jordan was frowning. “I think we should accept that the coat and hat weren’t any sort of disguise. Our unknown man didn’t enter Thomas’s office expecting to kill him. He used Thomas’s letter knife to do the deed. He hadn’t come prepared with a knife of his own.”

Barnaby nodded. “An excellent point. Our unknown man isn’t any type of hired killer. However, he is a gentleman—that much is certain.”

“So what other gentleman could be involved in this case?” Penelope asked.

No one leapt to answer, then Ruth cleared her throat and said, “I did wonder… Well, I realized Gibson had more money than I could account for and told Thomas, and he went looking—” She broke off, drew in a breath, then went on, “What if Harrison’s or Josh’s mother or father realized the same thing—that their son was spending more than he should have had? ”

“Another excellent point.” Stokes pulled out his notebook. “Do you happen to know who Moubray’s and Keeble’s parents are and where they live?”

“Sir Ulysses Moubray is Harrison’s father,” Ruth said. “He and his wife live in a house in Frederick Street—number twelve, I think. And Josh’s father is Mr. Earnest Keeble. He’s a widower and has a house on the north side of Myddleton Square.”

Both addresses were of gentry areas of similar social status to Finsbury Circus.

“Thank you.” Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope.

“You two are unquestionably our best choice for interviewing the Moubrays and Mr. Keeble. You might use the pretext of informing them of their sons’ apparently unwitting involvement in the gun-running scheme.

You can assure them that their sons are not suspects and are viewed as innocent dupes in the matter, but we felt that they should be informed, just in case the news sheets inadvertently learn of the incident.

That should give you an opening to gauge their reactions to the news. ”

Penelope was nodding. “And get some idea whether the existence of the warehouse and the guns is, in fact, news to them.”

“Indeed.” Stokes added, “No need to mention Thomas’s murder unless it suits you.”

Barnaby said, “Even if one of the families had learned about the guns, it’s difficult to see why that would lead either father to—in an impulsive act—kill Thomas. Both Harrison and Josh denied ever mentioning the scheme to their parents, and having once been a younger gentleman, I believe them.”

Beneath her breath, Penelope muttered, “You were never that young.”

Fleetingly, Barnaby smiled, then went on, “However, I agree it’s best that we’re thorough and investigate all possibilities.”

“Especially as,” Stokes grumped, “in this case, we seem to have so few of them.” He glanced at the others. “I’m going to be tied up here for several hours—probably the rest of the day—dealing with Chesterton and his associates and the ensuing reports.”

Penelope stated, “We’ll interview the Moubrays and Keeble, then head back to Albemarle Street.”

“Meanwhile”—Stokes looked at Ruth and Jordan—“can I leave you two to inform the Cardwells of the current situation? You can tell Mrs. Cardwell that I believe that our three dupes are unlikely to be named in court, but as with the Moubrays and Keeble, the family needs to be aware of the potential exposure and be prepared to weather it.”

Ruth nodded and glanced at Jordan.

He met her gaze, then turned to Stokes. “I’ll help Ruth with the explanations, then”—he switched his gaze to Barnaby and Penelope—“I’ll drop by Albemarle Street to learn how your interviews played out.”

Barnaby and Penelope nodded.

Stokes shut his notebook. “Right, then. I’ll be around there as soon as I get free. I, too, am curious as to what you might learn, and by then, I’ll be sorely in need of some light relief.”

Penelope stood beside Barnaby as he rapped the handsome brass knocker that hung on the door of the Moubray residence. It was one of a row of terrace houses in a style common to the area. Every house in the row was neat and well-kept, and the front stoops were scrupulously scrubbed.

A small weeping tree graced the handkerchief-sized plot between the wrought-iron fence and the front door. The short, paved path that led from gate to door looked freshly scrubbed as well.

The door was opened by a footman in standard attire. “Yes, sir?”

Barnaby replied, “Mr. and Mrs. Adair. We’re assisting the Metropolitan Police with a particular case and would like to speak with Sir Ulysses and Mrs. Moubray.”

Understandably, the footman blinked. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door wider. “Please, come into the drawing room, and I’ll inform Sir Ulysses and the mistress that you’re here.”

Good. They’re at home. Penelope looked about her with unfettered interest as they were shown into a slightly fussy drawing room where the upholstery was all flowered chintz.

At least, Penelope thought, it was in one pattern only, and the apricot and peach hues blended well with the warm tones of the woodwork.

A vase on a small round table placed before the window held a profusion of daffodils and other early blooms.

All in all, the room gave the impression of being sunny and airy despite not being well-endowed with windows.

She sat on the sofa, and Barnaby took up a stance before the fireplace, and the footman whisked off to notify his employers of their arrival.

Three minutes later—long enough to appear not to have leapt to respond—Sir Ulysses Moubray walked into the room.

An imposing older gentleman of fifty-something summers, he possessed an impressive mane of steel-gray hair and a harsh-featured face with a distinctly square jaw.

From beneath wiry beetling brows, shrewd blue eyes regarded Barnaby and Penelope with curiosity and a touch of suspicion.

Sir Ulysses’s military past showed in his bearing, in the way he held his shoulders and kept his spine ramrod straight regardless of his age and the natural tendency in one so tall to stoop.

He was dressed in a fashion best described as studiously conservative—expensive attire that sought to never draw attention to the wearer.

The same attitude of seeking to blend into the background might, with accuracy, have been applied to his wife.

A short, slightly dumpy lady with mousy-colored curls and soft features, she entered at Sir Ulysses’s heels.

As she was garbed in a gown of muted peach twill, it would have been easy to overlook her presence, but after taking in the lady’s bright brown eyes and wide-awake expression, Penelope had to wonder if Mrs. Moubray going unnoticed was more by design than accident.

The notion piqued Penelope’s interest, but she had no time to further dwell on it as Sir Ulysses came to a halt before them and stated, “I’m Moubray. You’re the Adairs, I take it.”

Barnaby gracefully inclined his head and introduced them and explained their connection to Scotland Yard and Stokes.

Penelope added, “We assist in investigations that require a broader understanding of society.” She shifted her gaze to Mrs. Moubray, and as if reminded, Sir Ulysses gruffly introduced his wife.

Penelope offered her hand, and she and Mrs. Moubray pressed fingers.

Retrieving her hand, Mrs. Moubray waved at the sofa and armchairs. “Please, do sit.”

Penelope sank onto the sofa, and Mrs. Moubray claimed the other end while Barnaby and Sir Ulysses settled in the twin armchairs.

“Now,” Sir Ulysses commanded in a sergeant-major bark, “what’s this about, heh?”

“Somewhat indirectly,” Barnaby replied, “we’re here in relation to the murder of Thomas Cardwell.”

Along with Barnaby, Penelope took in the shocked expressions on the Moubrays’ faces.

A hand rising to her throat, in a horrified whisper, Mrs. Moubray asked, “Gibson’s brother?” She looked at her husband. “You remember, dear. We met Thomas at various school functions. He was a year younger than Gibson, Harrison, and Joseph.”

A frown had taken up residence on Sir Ulysses’s face. Slowly, he nodded. “I thought he—Thomas—was the sensible one.” He looked at Barnaby. “Went into business as an agent, as I recall.”

Barnaby said, “He was killed in his office last Tuesday morning.”

“Good Lord!” Sir Ulysses’s expression darkened. “What is the world coming to?”