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W hen Barnaby returned to his house, he found Penelope entertaining Stokes and Jordan in the drawing room. A late tea tray bearing a platter of Cook’s buttered crumpets had been brought in, and with small plates in their hands, Stokes and Jordan were looking distinctly replete and content.

Penelope smiled at Barnaby and leaned forward to pour him a cup of tea.

Barnaby claimed his usual position beside her on one of the long sofas, and she handed him the cup.

He’d just taken his first sip when the doorbell pealed, and half a minute later, Mostyn opened the drawing-room door and ushered Ruth Cardwell in.

The men rose, and smiling rather nervously, Ruth approached. “I pray you’ll excuse the intrusion, but I came hoping to learn if you’ve made any progress in the case.” She hesitated, then added, “The family are keen to know.”

“Of course.” Penelope waved Ruth to the opposite sofa. “Do sit down and let me pour you some tea.” She shifted to do so. “Barnaby’s just arrived, and we were about to review what we know to this point and plan our next moves, so your arrival is opportune.”

Once Ruth sank onto the sofa, the men resumed their seats.

“It’s entirely reasonable for the family to seek updates,” Barnaby assured her.

“Indeed.” Stokes set aside his empty teacup and, for Ruth’s benefit, briskly recapped. “This morning, we reinterviewed Chesterton and subsequently identified, arrested, and interrogated his backers, of which there were three.”

“Three gentlemen of the ton,” Penelope interjected.

Stokes went on, “While the three will be charged over their part in the gun-running scheme, we do not believe they had anything to do with your brother’s murder.”

“They didn’t even know who Thomas was,” Jordan put in.

“However,” Stokes continued, “we then learned that, in the same way as Thomas had followed Chesterton on Sunday night, on Monday night, some other gentleman, presently unknown to us, surreptitiously observed Chesterton’s meeting with Harrison, Gibson, and Josh and subsequently followed Chesterton from the Fox, presumably to the warehouse. ”

“We have to assume that the as-yet-unidentified gentleman also learned about the guns,” Penelope said.

“Also,” Barnaby added, “that he, too, had some reason to find out what Chesterton was up to, presumably linked to the reason that took him to the Fox in the first place.”

“And he wore a disguise,” Jordan said. “And on the Monday evening, after the delivery had been completed, the warehouse would have been full of guns.”

“Just as we found it on Thursday.” Stokes paused, then went on, “Now we know that some other gentleman had also learned of the guns and, it seems, Harrison’s, Josh’s and Gibson’s involvement in Chesterton’s scheme, our attention has, unsurprisingly, turned to the two gentlemen who, it could be argued, had a vested interest in whether information concerning the gun-running scheme was conveyed to the authorities. ”

Ruth had been following their revelations closely. She frowned. “You mean Sir Ulysses and Mr. Keeble?”

“Exactly.” Penelope focused on Ruth. “Are you acquainted with them?”

“I wouldn’t say acquainted,” Ruth replied. “We’ve only ever met at ceremonies or events at King Edward’s Grammar, and even then, it was only in passing.” She met Penelope’s eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything specific about either man.”

Jordan shifted. “Would Thomas have recognized Sir Ulysses or Keeble Senior?”

“Oh yes.” Ruth was clearly confident about that. “Thomas was only a year younger than Gibson, so Thomas knew Harrison and Josh at school and definitely knew who their fathers were, certainly well enough to recognize them.”

“Hmm,” Penelope said. “We had interviewed Sir Ulysses and Mr. Keeble earlier, but we reinterviewed them this afternoon, seeking to establish if either or both had alibis for the time of your brother’s murder. Sadly, neither did.”

“Well, not satisfactory alibis, at any rate,” Stokes explained. “Both were out walking at the time.”

“We’re hoping,” Barnaby said, “that informants on the ground will help us verify where both men were over the critical period.”

“That,” Stokes declared, glancing at his fellow investigators, “has to be the first task on our revised list—confirming the whereabouts of Sir Ulysses and Keeble Senior between seven-thirty and eight-thirty on Tuesday morning.”

Brisk footsteps in the hall ended with a rap on the door, and when Barnaby called, “Come,” Mostyn walked in. The majordomo halted and, to Barnaby, reported, “One of the lads—Julian—is here with information regarding your recent inquiry.”

Jordan blinked. “That was quick.”

Barnaby smiled. “Our network can be surprisingly effective.” He nodded to Mostyn. “Send Julian in.”

Mostyn retreated and, mere seconds later, ushered in a young lad of about thirteen.

He was dressed neatly enough and, by his cap, presently grasped tightly in his hands, was one of the errand boys who haunted the city’s streets, looking to serve those who wished to send messages faster than the penny post.

Smiling, Barnaby leaned forward and beckoned the lad closer. “Julian. Mostyn says you have news?”

Clearly overawed by the company, Julian shuffled a trifle closer and stiffly bowed.

Then he fixed his bright eyes on Barnaby’s encouraging face and said in a rush, “That cove you wanted to know about—Sir Ulysses. He always takes a stroll around the streets every morning. Regular as clockwork, he is. I live not far away, and I often see him of a morning. I was curious, so I took note—as you always say as might be helpful. I know he leaves his house at seven-forty-five on the dot, then he goes across to Regent’s Square and walks around it, always clockwise, and he looks at the trees.

He walks slowly all the way around, then he returns to his house, and he’s going in the door at eight-thirty.

Every day, even Sundays, unless it’s raining cats and dogs.

You could set your watch by him—he’s as good as listening to the bells. ”

Stokes was busy jotting. “And Sir Ulysses—how do you know the man you see every morning is him?”

“That head o’ hair,” Julian replied. “And he struts like an old military man, and he lives in a house halfway down Frederick Street.”

Stokes nodded. “And Sir Ulysses was definitely out walking his usual route on Tuesday last?”

“Yessir.” Julian bobbed his head. “It was fine all the mornings this week, and I know he was there because I’d’ve noticed if he wasn’t, if you take my meaning.” Julian paused, then said, “I know I saw him every morning this past week, if that helps?”

Stokes grinned, raised his gaze to Julian’s face, and nodded. “It does, yes. Thank you. You’ve done excellently well.”

Julian’s chest puffed up, and his smile grew wide.

Barnaby smiled approvingly. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Julian.” He tipped his head toward Mostyn, who had waited by the door. “Go with Mostyn, and he’ll give you your reward. You’ve earned it.”

Thoroughly chuffed, Julian bowed again, then turned and went to Mostyn, who ushered the boy out and shut the door.

Deeply impressed, Jordan turned to Barnaby. “Your Lads’ Network is inspired. I’m definitely stealing the idea.”

Barnaby laughed. “By all means.”

Penelope looked at Stokes. “It seems Sir Ulysses is struck off our list.”

Barnaby leaned back against the sofa. “That means our trail of evidence leaves us looking at Keeble Senior as the murderer.”

Stokes grunted. “Agreed.” He looked around the circle of faces. “Now how can we prove it? Knowing he could have committed the murder isn’t enough. We need evidence that he did.”

The company fell silent, everyone going over what they knew and what they didn’t.

Eventually, Stokes said, “We can see if the barman and barmaid of the Fox can identify Keeble as the second man who followed Chesterton on Monday night.”

Barnaby nodded. “That’s one point in the chain of events that we should make every effort to nail down.”

“Keeble had to have learned about the guns,” Jordan said, “or the rest—killing Thomas—doesn’t make sense.”

Penelope shifted on the sofa. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Given Keeble’s social ambitions, I’ll eat my best bonnet if he doesn’t attend the church in Myddleton Square. He’s so careful of his image, he’s sure to be at the service.”

“The rest of the square,” Barnaby said, “well, at least beneath the trees, is more or less open ground.” He looked at Stokes.

“If we can get the barman and barmaid up from the Fox, we should be able to set up a viewing.” Imagining it, he arched his brows.

“Most likely at the conclusion of the service when the congregation files slowly out of the church.”

Stokes nodded. “I’ll send Morgan and Walsh to use their best efforts to bring the barman and barmaid up to town.

Assuming they succeed—and as it’s Sunday and the Fox will be shut, there’s a decent chance they will—we can arrange to have the pair there, at the right time and in position to view Keeble as he exits the church. ”

Jordan had been mulling over something. He looked up and said, “The killer must have—or have had—a dun-colored coat and a black top hat.”

Penelope perked up. “An excellent point!” Bright-eyed, she regarded Jordan.

“I propose that, tomorrow morning, once Keeble leaves his house for the church”—she shifted her gaze to Ruth and smiled encouragingly—“Ruth, Jordan, and I should call at the Keeble residence and ask his staff about his wardrobe.”

Jordan was nodding. “The staff struck me as pragmatic people and not the sort to be blindly loyal.”

“I don’t think Keeble Senior is the sort to inspire blind loyalty,” Penelope observed.

Jordan said to Ruth, “There are four staff members all told. A cook, a maid, a tweeny, and one footman.”