Page 44

T he next morning, at a few minutes after nine o’clock, Barnaby stood beside Penelope in an alley off White Cross Street.

The group intending to support Stokes and his men in searching for Keeble’s motive had agreed to gather in that spot prior to approaching Keeble’s office, which lay opposite the end of the alley on White Cross Street itself.

Keeble had arrived ten minutes before, opened the office door, and gone inside. No one else had appeared, and the office seemed too small to accommodate more than one desk.

Barnaby and Penelope had been joined by Jordan and Ruth, which had been no surprise, as they’d arranged the rendezvous at the steak house the previous day.

What did make Barnaby’s eyes widen was the foursome who suddenly turned in to the alley and, smiling broadly, walked to where they stood.

Penelope, too, stared. “This,” she murmured to Barnaby, “is going to be quite a crowd for that small office to accommodate.”

“Don’t worry,” Roscoe said, bending to buss her cheek. “We’ll leave Mudd and Rawlings outside. They can glower and steer away anyone who finds our activities interesting.”

Miranda clasped fingers and touched cheeks with Penelope. “Jordan told us the whole story, and we want to help.” After greeting Barnaby, she shifted to stand beside Penelope. “And if it’s accounts you have to pore over, the more educated eyes the better.”

Penelope inclined her head. “Very true.” She knew Miranda’s talents in that sphere were equal to her own. “We have no idea how many clients, ledgers, and account books Keeble has in there. Who knows how long our search will take?”

The steady tromp of footsteps neared, then another two couples abruptly turned into the alley.

Amazed to see Montague, Violet, Thomas, and Rose, Barnaby and Penelope laughed.

Taking in the crowd now thronging the narrow alley, the four newcomers looked a trifle sheepish, but assuming his most haughty tones, Thomas declared, “We didn’t feel it was fair that you had all the fun.”

Penelope laughed again, and smiling, Barnaby shook his head. “Only you four would describe the chore of poring over an untold number of ledgers and accounts as fun.”

Most there knew each other well enough to mingle without any introductions, the sole exception being Ruth, who Jordan quickly made known to those she hadn’t previously met.

Then heavy, regimented footsteps approached the alley, and Stokes, backed by O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh, turned in to the alley mouth and came to an abrupt halt.

Stokes took in the waiting company, then met Barnaby’s eyes and shook his head. “Keeble won’t know what’s hit him.”

“That, I suspect,” Roscoe said, “will be to your advantage.”

Stokes inclined his head. “One can hope. Now”—he surveyed the crowd—“as to where we are at present.” Briskly, aided by Barnaby, Stokes went over the case against Keeble as it currently stood and elaborated on what they hoped—and needed—to find in Keeble’s office.

“Without a clear and believable motive, we’re going to be relying solely on the physical evidence,” Stokes said, “and while that’s damning enough in our eyes, any good solicitor is going to protest that even the gloves belong to someone else and Keeble was never anywhere near Thomas Cardwell’s office last Tuesday morning. ”

“As Keeble’s appearance in coat and hat is indistinguishable from half the ton’s gentlemen,” Penelope said, “we’re never going to be able to place him at the scene of the crime via any witness.”

Thomas nodded. “So you need to find the evidence that ties everything together—the reason Keeble killed Cardwell—and that will, of necessity, be something weighty and compelling.”

“Exactly.” Stokes glanced at Penelope. “As instructed, we called at Keeble’s house after he’d left and confirmed that there are no ledgers or accounts kept there. We searched his monstrosity of a desk, and the drawers were next to empty. Not even a diary.”

Penelope nodded. “I thought the surface was too neat for it to be a working desk.”

Violet, who served as Penelope’s occasional secretary, smiled at her fondly. “And as to that, you would know.”

Penelope’s lips twitched as she nodded decisively. “Indeed.”

Stokes glanced around the company one last time. “Right, then.” He tipped his head across the street. “Let’s go.” He turned and led the way. “O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh—you’re to remain outside and keep a general watch on the place. The rear as well.”

From a few people behind Stokes, Roscoe said, “Rawlings and Mudd will join your men, Stokes. Neither has any head for figures.”

“Good with our fists, good with our eyes,” Mudd rumbled. “We’ll keep watch, too.”

Stokes dipped his head in agreement and continued across the street.

White Cross Street was not as close to the financial hub of the City as Broad Street, and overall, Keeble’s office was considerably less impressive than Thomas’s. That said, the row of shops and offices in which Keeble’s office was located was neat and respectable and altogether unremarkable.

Penelope, who was trailing Barnaby, who, in turn, was following Stokes, poked Barnaby’s arm. “There’s not much of a sign. Just his name in small letters on the glass of the door.”

“True.” Barnaby considered the facade. “For someone so desperate to be recognized, that’s strangely self-effacing.”

Keeble’s office was wider than Thomas’s, with a larger bay window facing the street, but on entering the premises through the single door located to the left of the window, Barnaby saw that Keeble’s workplace was less deep.

However, the ceiling was significantly higher, and the number of ledgers, account books, and file boxes stacked on shelves that rose all the way to that elevated ceiling was nothing short of daunting.

Barnaby darted a glance at Penelope, at his shoulder, and saw her grimace at the sight.

Keeble had been sitting behind a decent-sized and predictably ostentatious desk. “Empire-style,” Penelope whispered. “Shades of Napoleon.”

To Barnaby’s eyes, there were other touches of wealth readily detectable in the quality of the two client chairs set before the desk and the lamps and implements Keeble had artfully displayed on the desk and on the deep windowsill.

At the tinkling of the bell above the door, Keeble had looked up with a welcoming smile, but on taking in Stokes and those who followed him inside, Keeble slowly rose, his features shifting as he tried to decide on the most appropriate reaction.

Barnaby thought he saw a flicker of fear pass through Keeble’s eyes.

Then Keeble plastered on a polite but faintly surprised expression and inquired, “Yes, Inspector?” Keeble’s gaze shifted to the stream of people coming in through his door, and his eyes fractionally widened. “What can I do for you…and your friends?”

Stokes glanced back and confirmed that Roscoe, bringing up the rear of their company, had closed the door and flipped the small sign on it to Closed.

Stokes returned his gaze to Keeble. “Earnest Keeble,” Stokes intoned in his most formal voice, “I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Thomas Cardwell.”

Keeble’s face drained of all color.

To Barnaby’s eyes, the reaction was as good as a confession. Keeble didn’t look surprised, shocked, or confused. Instead, he looked…frightened. Shaken and deeply scared.

Stokes rolled on, “The Crown will attest that on the morning of Tuesday last, you were waiting for Cardwell when he arrived at his office, that you accompanied him inside and subsequently seized his letter knife and stabbed him through the heart. You left him dead and exited the office through the rear door.”

While Stokes had been speaking, Keeble’s attention had wandered to the people now filling his office.

Most, he didn’t recognize and didn’t know why they were there, but the situation of having a well-heeled audience jolted him back into his usual persona.

As soon as Stokes paused, Keeble blustered, “What nonsense! That’s ridiculous!

” He glimpsed Ruth, standing beside Penelope, and faltered for a second, but then he spread his hands and, with increasing fervor, protested, “Why on earth would I kill Thomas Cardwell?”

Stokes bestowed on Keeble his most shark-like smile. “That, Keeble, is what we’re here to find out.”

Stokes glanced at the others, then shifted his gaze to the walls—to the ledgers, account books, and file boxes. “Have at it.”

Penelope, Ruth, Jordan, and Miranda put their heads together, and a second later, they were joined by Violet, Montague, Thomas, and Rose.

While they planned how best to tackle the task before them, Stokes, Barnaby, and Roscoe circled the desk, dragged chairs around, and corralled Keeble into one corner.

All but pushed into his chair, Keeble spluttered, “This is an outrage!” But his gaze was fixed on those advancing on his records, determination in their faces.

Noting that, Stokes grunted and sat in the chair directly opposite Keeble. “The thing is, Keeble, we know you did it. What we’ve yet to understand is why.”

From his position in the chair on Stokes’s right, Roscoe suggested, “It would be best all around—for you as well as us—if you simply told us why you killed Cardwell.”

Watching Penelope direct the searchers, Barnaby added, “It would certainly be less fraught all around.” He returned his gaze to Keeble and met the man’s bulging eyes. “They will find it, you know. When it comes to accounts—of all stripes—the collective knowledge in this room is second to none.”

Keeble looked faintly horrified, but no matter how Stokes, Barnaby, and Roscoe framed their questions, Keeble refused to engage. Indeed, he appeared almost paralyzed as he watched the ruthlessly thorough inspection of his files unfold.

They tried subtle threats as well as encouragement, but increasingly, Keeble barely heard them. He sat with his gaze locked on the searchers as if praying they wouldn’t find what they were looking for and, at the same time, terrified they would.