Page 27

L ater that afternoon, after returning to Albemarle Street and consuming a leisurely luncheon, Barnaby escorted Penelope up the short path that led from the front gate of the Keeble residence to the house’s front door.

The house was one in a line of detached two-story dwellings that filled the north side of Myddleton Square.

The square played host to St. Mark’s Church, which faced the western boundary, with the rest of the area within the square’s wrought-iron fence given over to trees and lawns with the occasional stone bench inviting pedestrians to sit and rest in the quiet and shade.

Myddleton Square lay to the west of the Moubrays’ house and was considered to be a desirable address for the upper gentry.

On reaching the black-painted door, Barnaby lifted the knocker and beat a commanding rat-a-tat-tat .

A minute later, the door was opened by a footman. “Yes?”

“The Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair and Mrs. Adair to see Mr. Keeble.” Barnaby didn’t feel any need to say more, and sure enough, the footman showed them into the drawing room and left them there while he consulted his master.

A quick survey of the room—leather sofa and armchairs with gentlemen’s sporting periodicals scattered on the low table between—found no evidence of a woman’s touch.

Penelope murmured, “Definitely a widower’s house.”

To Barnaby’s eyes, it wasn’t simply a gentlemen-only abode. Every included feature—like the thermidor half full of fat cigars and the well-stocked tantalus by one wall—appeared to signal wealth and the ability to indulge expensive tastes.

Before he could comment, the footman returned and conducted them to Keeble’s study.

With an expression of hopeful curiosity infusing his face, Keeble rose from behind a large ostentatious mahogany desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Adair. What brings you to my door?”

Barnaby inclined his head. “Mr. Keeble.”

Keeble was a stocky, rather rotund man of average height, with a paunch that pulled his coat tight across his body.

He was garbed in a brown suit of conservative cut, the hue of which matched his wavy brown hair, now amply streaked with gray.

His features were undistinguished and unremarkable, and his round brown eyes regarded them from beneath straight brows.

His complexion was faintly ruddy, and his hands were soft, the short fingers pudgy.

On hearing the study door shut behind them, Barnaby continued, “My wife and I occasionally act as official consultants to Scotland Yard in cases where a broader experience of society is desirable.”

Keeble’s eyes widened. “Indeed?” After a fractional hesitation, he waved Barnaby and Penelope to the twin velvet-upholstered armchairs facing the desk. “Please sit and tell me how I may assist you.”

“As to that,” Penelope said, drawing in her skirts and sinking onto one chair, “the shoe is somewhat on the other foot.”

Having resumed his seat in the chair behind the desk and set his clasped hands on his blotter, Keeble faintly frowned. “How so?”

“First, if we may,” Penelope continued, “we understand that your son, Joseph, shares a flat with two friends—Gibson Cardwell and Harrison Moubray—both of whom he met while at King Edward’s Grammar School. Is that correct?”

Clearly puzzled by her direction, Keeble affirmed, “That’s right. I made sure Joseph had every advantage to move up in the world. His mother would have wanted that. She hailed from a very good family, you see, and I believe it’s incumbent on me to ensure Joseph lives up to her expectations.”

Penelope had told Barnaby that Sir Ulysses considered that, having risen from humbler beginnings, Keeble and his son were socially inferior to the Moubrays and Cardwells.

Consequently, Barnaby wasn’t surprised when his wife baldly asked Keeble, “What are your thoughts on Joseph’s choice of friends? ”

The unexpected question made Keeble blink.

“Well…” He drew out the word, then collected himself and replied, “I’ve always encouraged Joseph’s connections with the Moubrays and the Cardwells.

Both families are established in society, and I was and continue to be pleased that Joseph has chosen his intimates so well. ”

Keeble’s statements held the ring of a devoted social climber, which was, very likely, what had most ruffled Sir Ulysses’s feathers.

Penelope nodded as if Keeble’s answer was entirely satisfactory and glanced at Barnaby, passing the metaphorical baton to him.

Accepting it, he stated, “As to why we are here, Keeble, we regret to inform you that Joseph has unwittingly been caught up in a gun-running scheme that was recently uncovered by the police. Harrison Moubray and Gibson Cardwell were also unsuspecting dupes in the matter. The details will be of little interest to you, but of greater significance is the likelihood that Thomas Cardwell, Gibson’s brother, had, we believe, stumbled upon the scheme and was on the point of contacting the authorities when, last Tuesday morning, he was killed. ”

Keeble’s eyes had widened, and his face had paled to a ghastly hue. “Good gracious me!” He swallowed. “Killed, you say?” His voice rose to a near squeak. “How? Where?”

“As to where,” Penelope stated, “he was attacked in his office, and as to how, he was stabbed with his own letter knife.”

“Oh, dear me!” Keeble looked quite ill. “And Joseph is somehow caught up in this?”

“No,” Barnaby was quick to reassure him. “Joseph—and Harrison and Gibson—are not considered suspects in the murder investigation.”

“And in the matter of the gun-running scheme, the authorities view the three as more unwitting victims than perpetrators,” Penelope added.

“No charges will be laid against them. Indeed, our purpose in calling on you is to inform you that, at present, the police do not expect any of the three gentlemen to be named in open court. However, of course, there is always the risk of some news sheet getting hold of the information and seeking to scandalize the public with some extravagant story.”

Keeble continued to look shocked and almost panicked.

To further reassure him, Barnaby explained, “That said, it’s unlikely your son’s involvement will ever become public knowledge, and even if it does, the story will be cast as Joseph and his friends having assisted the police in apprehending the villains involved.”

That seemed to do the trick, and the tension in Keeble’s shoulders started to ease, notch by notch.

“From the three young men’s point of view,” Penelope went on, “very likely nothing more will come of the situation, but the police felt that you and the Moubrays needed to be forewarned in case some connection to the scheme is inadvertently made.”

Instantly, Keeble’s worried frown returned. “Inadvertently made?”

Penelope gestured vaguely. “Via the news sheets discovering the link, but again, that’s highly unlikely.”

Judging by Keeble’s expression, relief only slowly overcame his apprehension. Eventually, however, he nodded. “Yes. I see. Thank you for the warning. It’s reassuring to know that the police are satisfied that the three young men were innocent and merely misled.”

Penelope smiled. “Is Joseph your only child?”

“Yes.” Keeble’s pride in his offspring was evident. “He did exceptionally well at King Edward’s, and I hope that, in time, he’ll find a suitable calling. Perhaps he’ll join me in my firm. I handle the finances of several large investors.”

Penelope widened her eyes. “I see. Have you had any thoughts of steering Joseph toward marriage?”

Keeble’s faint frown made it clear he had considered the question. “Not yet, I think. In my opinion, he and the other two have some maturing to do before being ready for that commitment.”

From what they’d seen of the three younger men, neither Barnaby nor Penelope would dispute that conclusion.

Of more interest was Keeble’s lack of urgency in pushing his son toward the altar.

That suggested that while Keeble was a social climber, he was a cautious and sensible one.

He would go step by sure step up the social ladder, rather than leap for the top.

Considering that Penelope had gained sufficient information regarding Keeble’s social aspirations, Barnaby asked, “Had you met Thomas Cardwell? He was a year younger than Gibson and also attended King Edward’s Grammar.”

Keeble nodded. “Yes, I believe I met him several times during school events.” Unexpectedly, he added, “I’m aware his office is in Broad Street. It would be hard to miss as, being a financier, I’m often in that area.”

“Did you ever interact with Cardwell professionally?” Barnaby asked.

“Oh no!” Keeble smiled and spread his hands. “Well, why would I? As a financier with my own office—and if I do say so myself, I’ve done rather well over the years—I have no reason to engage the services of another man-of-business.”

Barnaby inclined his head in understanding and glanced questioningly at Penelope, but it seemed his wife had learned enough. At least for now.

She smiled at Keeble and rose. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

Springing to his feet, Keeble assured her, “No, no, dear lady. It is I who must be thanking you and your husband for calling and informing me of the current situation. And, of course, of the grave news of Cardwell’s death.” He paused, then shook his head. “Such a waste. He was still so young.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby extended his hand, and Keeble promptly grasped and shook it, the courtesy clearly pleasing the man.

“Come.” Keeble waved them to the door. “I’ll see you out.”

Penelope made an effort to project a patience she didn’t feel while she waited with Barnaby in the drawing room for their coinvestigators to join them.

She’d had Mostyn bring in the tea tray and endeavored to distract herself by pouring cups of tea for herself and Barnaby and sampling Cook’s freshly made scones and her latest batch of blackberry jam.